They’re not jumping on anybody,” Ray pointed out. “It’s news. They like to sell papers. Of course—it would be much nicer if they’d sort of print a little item in the back pages and forget it.”
Louis was nodding. The white-haired, durable looking patriarch sat up and looked interested at what he had over-heard.
Ray went on, “And that’s where I come in.” He chuckled the comradely, man-to-man chuckle. “You might say it’s why I came in the hard way, to reach you before it was too late. Now, may I sit down and show you something?”
Louis nodded, his face still lined in thought.
Ray moved one of the high-backed chairs into the charmed circle around the desk. It seemed like sacrilege, disturbing the room’s precise appointments. He sat down. Louis was still in meditation.
Ray coughed suggestively. “I don’t believe I have met these gentlemen.”
Louis looked up. “Oh, yes.” He waved a hand first at the white-haired man. “Herman Botsch, one of our associates.” They shook hands. “And Stiles Abbott.” Abbott had the firmest grip, a Union League front, tanned golfer’s skin—Ray would find out later that he was expelled from the fifth grade and weathered his skin with eight years on a fishing boat. Both men had one thing in common, they were alert, quick types at figuring an angle.
Ray repeated his name in case they had missed it, smiled the real, genuine smile, and sat down again in the sturdy chair with more contentment than he had felt up to now. He had his foot in the door!
He inserted his hand in the briefcase at his side, drew out four copies of a press release, and passed one to each of the men, retaining the last for himself.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “let me read this release to you for your approval. There are two releases, actually, but they are written on one sheet for our convenience.”
Their eyes went down to the copy. He held his own sheet primly erect and business-like, showing the undetectably false diamond that sparkled from his little finger, careful not to flash it.
“For immediate release,” he read. “Young vandals damage warehouse. Intruders, believed to be teen-agers because of candy wrappers and pop bottles left behind, invaded the Acme Produce Company’s Bergen warehouse between 4 and 5 o’clock Tuesday morning. Police are investigating.” He paused to let it sink in. The silence was complete. He thought, I hope this is what they mean by that golden silence. He said, “Here’s the other one. Burglars miss cash, ruin merchandise. Apparently angry because they were unable to find cash, two spiteful thieves ruined a quantity of merchandise valued at $3000 at Hencher Clothing Company’s Seventh Avenue office. Police who are investigating believe they were amateurs.”
Herman Botsch spoke in a deep, gravelly, bullfrog voice. “I get it. Sounds good. Throw ‘em off the trail.”
Russ looked at his white-haired associate. “What trail?”
Herman shrugged like a Roman senator bored by a question.
Stiles Abbott leaned forward. He tried to speak like a well educated man, and did quite a good imitation, except when he hurried and the words fell slurringly together. “Let’s not kid ourselves. The more we can play this down the better off we’ll be till we can find out what goes on. Things have been nice and peaceful for a long time. I’d like to see ‘em stay that way.” He looked at Ray. “Just what’s your angle? You can’t get ‘em to print your stuff, can you?”
“Oh, no,” Ray explained, with an effort to seem very modest and frank. “Publications rarely print releases just as they come. They don’t even like us to write their leads, the way I always do, anyway.” He grinned bashfully, watched Abbott’s impassive stare remain fixed, but Botsch clucked and nodded. “They’ll follow the ideas we give them, especially when they come through the right channels, with a little present. And there’s one thing I can almost promise—not for sure—but I’ve never missed yet—”
Ray was talking to Botsch, aware that the man liked his approach. Louis Russ opened his mouth, but Botsch boomed ahead of him, “What’s that?”
“I can kill those headlines and perhaps the stories. You understand that I don’t control the editors or publishers of the papers, but—” He made it sound as if he did control the papers from wood pulp to wrapping the garbage. “My contacts can exercise certain influence. Space can be suddenly needed for another story. A headline can be unsatisfactory. A shrewd comment on the poor quality or approach of a certain bit of copy, and the substitution of another—”
Russ asked suddenly, “How much?”
“How much for what?” Ray asked blandly.
“To help us kill that stuff the papers are going to put out. To get this in instead.” He waved the release. “And let the damn stuff die as soon as possible.”
Ray shrugged pleasantly and side-stepped. It could be a trap. “A small fee would cover the cost of our handling this matter—but I’d like to discuss a more important project with you. You need public relations counsel. This incident proves it.”
Russ said: “I’ve got an advertising manager. He handles that newspaper stuff.”
“I’m sure he does. Perhaps he can handle this matter, let us talk to him. You can save the cost of our services.”
Watching Russ, Ray knew that he didn’t have much confidence in the ability of his advertising man to handle the situation that Ray had built up. It was likely that Russ’s man knew little of the real ramifications and history of Russcorp, its alliances, and the syndicate. Of course, rumors and gossip would have filled in some of the story, but the man probably kept his mouth shut and spent the advertising budget and collected his salary.
“He’s busy,” Russ said abruptly. “How much if you handle it?”
“Gentlemen,” Ray proclaimed earnestly. “I don’t want to handle just this matter for you—although of course I will if you wish—I want to show you how you can make more money, be mentally at ease, with your public contacts handled properly.”
He paused to let their imaginations operate, then addressed Russ: “I know a good deal about Russcorp, its financial set-up, operations, history. I understand your connections with Big Tom Keenan, the syndicate, Congressman Tiles, Seehout in Florida, Greenberg in New Orleans and his brother-in-law on the Coast. I can almost draw a diagram of the wire hook-up from memory, give you fair estimates of the book takes and the ice paid out in the big areas.”
He stopped because they were staring at him, Russ and Abbott scowling, Botsch on the verge of another laugh.
Ray laughed to ease the tension. “Don’t look so surprised, gentlemen. Any good crew of reporters or investigators could assemble the same facts. I’ve been gathering them for months, so that I can make a presentation to get your business. Perhaps that’s another reason why you need our services—we’ll be watching for others who show too much interest in the activities of our member firms.”
Abbott forgot to flavor his speech with culture. “I’ll be a fish eatin’ bastard. What if that commission gets hold of this guy?”
Ray pretended to be bored, a little impatient. “I think I’ve explained that my business is helping clients, not hindering them. Of course, if we can’t get together for some reason that I don’t know about . . .”
He started to rise. Russ held up a hand. “Take it easy, Hitchcock. Let’s have your proposition. Don’t those newspapers have a deadline or something?” He glanced at his watch.
They certainly do,” Ray answered. “All I ask is a chance to present my plans for your public relations activities and, because I think I can be of real service, my suggestions for your advertising operations. Give me a fair hearing—and, of course, no obligation on either side.”
Botsch grunted comfortably, as if things were settled to his liking. “Sounds square, Louis.”
Russ glanced at Abbott, “O.K. with you, Stiles?”
“Won’t hurt to listen.”
Russ looked at Ray. The black-haired man had started to perspire, his forehead glistening where the hairline had retreated, his mouth heavy and moist
, beads of sweat dotting his upper lip. “Looks like you sold something.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Ray proclaimed, mixing the gratitude, respect, and confidence in careful proportions. “Mister Russ, if you’ll just tell your advertising man that I’d like to talk to him tomorrow morning, and that he may give me figures and general planning on the advertising budgets, well get started.”
Russ frowned. “Figures?”
Ray gestured the perfect motion for helpless, dignified impatience. “We must work with facts in this business. We keep every morsel of information in strictest confidence. Please try and remember that we work for you.”
The words momentarily overwhelmed Russ. “All right, all right. Let me know how you make out on the papers.’
“We do better than that. Tomorrow morning you’ll have a small brochure showing you exactly what has happened.” He stood up. “Oh, yes. Please tell your petty cash cashier to give our messenger two-thousand dollars in cash. For now, enter it under promotional expense for bookkeeping and taxes.”
Abbott said: “Petty cash! Two-thousand bucks!”
Russ asked, “What’s that for?”
Ray explained so patiently, so sincerely: “We don’t worry how much you owe us on our service bills—but we never use our money for ice.” He halted, smiled confidentially. “Ice, gentlemen, to cool off the presses.”
“Jeez,” Russ complained. “Those scribblers come high.”
“It may have to spread over eight or ten people,” Ray pointed out. “And again—most of it may come back to you. We present strict accounts for every penny of your money that we handle.”
“O.K.,” Russ growled. “It’ll be ready.”
Ray shook hands all around, giving Botsch the special, thank-you-sir-and-friend grip. He said good-by and went quietly out.
As the door closed on the younger man’s perfectly tailored back, Louis looked questioningly at Abbott and Botsch. “Either that guy can give us a lot of help over this bump—or we’ve been sold a helluva bill of goods.”
Abbott shrugged. “If he ain’t on the level, he’ll be sorry he ever poked his face in here.”
Botsch chuckled his deep, musical croak. “What’s the difference, Louis? I think he’s one of these young hucksters. We can use him. He had some good dope there, about expanding the good news for the public and smothering the bad stuff. And if he’s a phony—” He puffed out his fat cheeks and made a very final sound with his lips, like a tire suddenly gone flat.
Chapter 4
Ray burst into the meager offices of the barely born and thinly capitalized Hitchcock Public Relations and Advertising Agency like a star salesman returning from a trip on which every call had meant an order, every order for a million. Fancy and Silvia were sitting in the inner room, and he paused in the doorway, enveloping them in his smile, shaking his briefcase like a trophy.
“In the bag, kiddies. Deal number one. Sealed and delivered.”
“Nice going,” Fancy exclaimed.
“Congratulations, Mister Hitchcock,” Silvia said politely.
“Honey child,” Ray said to Silvia. “As a member of Hitchcock’s from its inception, you can call me Ray when no strangers are around. We’re on our way, and you’ll have plenty of work to do before long. You’ll wish you were back loafing and reading those magazines.”
“Thank you.” She smiled, where some girls of her age might have giggled. “I’ll be glad to see the work. It makes one feel that business is good—and the job will last—and maybe there’ll be raises and bonuses someday.”
Ray chuckled as he put down the case. That was quite a bit of reasoning for nineteen and very brief experience. How had she guessed he was broke? He had paid her promptly. Just chance intuition, probably. They certainly didn’t look wealthy. He said: “I want you to do an errand. Listen carefully.”
The trim black hair looked like a silky cap as she nodded eagerly. Enthusiasm glowed in her dark eyes. There would be a lot of steam and speed in this little chick for some lad. Now, if tonight . . . He reprimanded himself and said, “Go to the cashier of Russcorp. Here’s the address and carfare.” He gave her the slip of paper and a dollar bill. “Just say that you’re Mister Hitchcock’s secretary, and you’ve come for the expense money from the cashier. Miss Sanderson is the receptionist. She’ll probably show you right in. Got it?”
“Yes. That’s easy.”
“One thing that won’t be so easy. You’ve got to keep your mouth shut. People will ask you questions, I imagine even Miss Sanderson will try and pump you. Can you be completely reserved? Say nothing but that you’re my secretary and you’ve come on an errand, get the money and get out?”
“Why, of course.” Silvia was slightly indignant. “I’d never tell them anything, anyway.”
“Sure. But now you know enough to remember not to, in case they slip you a fast one. Hit the bricks, honey.”
Fancy watched the small buttocks until the door closed behind her. “Neat number,” he said. “We were getting along great.”
“Don’t foul up the help,” Ray told him.
Fancy shrugged. “I’ll be careful.”
Ray removed the horn-rimmed glasses with the very slight prescription in the lenses that he really did not need, the optometrist had had to work hard to find a trace of far-sightedness when Ray told him that he wanted glasses, and not just plain glass lenses, either. He took off the titanium “diamond” and replaced the sleek Homburg with his dark gray snap-brim Lee.
“Fancy, go out and get two copies of all the papers, and all the different editions that happen to be on the stands nearby. Search ‘em for any items about last night—or this morning, rather, and mark the pages for me. Don’t get stuck with the city editions, only the latest runs will start to show any copy on it. You may not find any at all, but keep searching ‘em.”
“O.K.” Fancy started to leave, but Ray stopped him. “No hurry. Wait until Silvia gets back. Look in the first Journals and Posts. They may have got it. I’ll be back right after lunch.”
Fancy sagged back in his chair and Ray flipped his hand to him with a cocky wink and went out. Oh, they were on their way! And he knew where he was going! Hang on people, and ride with Ray!
* * *
The saloon frequented by the editorial staff of the Gazette was only average, like the paper whose employees gave it the steady business that kept it alive. Ray didn’t mind—it would be easier to handle his contact than if the man were wired to a colossus like the Times.
He ordered a rye setup and when the affable bartender returned the change from his dollar, he shoved the nickel and the dime away from him and pulled the quarter next to his glass. The bartender took the coins and said, “Thanks, Mac.”
“The name is Ray—Ray Hitchcock. I’m a friend of Liney Talbot. Know him?
“Liney? Sure. He comes in regular. Probably over in the office now.”
Ray thanked him and went to the telephone booths in the rear, called the Gazette, and asked for Mister Talbot. A moment later, a man’s husky voice said, “Hello. Talbot talking.”
“Hiyuh, Liney,” Ray made it sound gay. “I’m Ray Hitchcock, friend of Tip Finney’s. Tip’s on the Chicago Tribune, and I just got in from the Windy City. Told Tip I’d look you up and buy you a drink.”
“Yeah?” Talbot sounded interested. Tip Finney, after many drinks at Ray’s expense, had said that Liney was a lush and had a hand for a fast buck.
“Sure,” Ray said. “I’m down in the inkwell now. C’mon down.”
“I can’t right now.” Talbot sounded regretful. “Soon’s this edition goes to bed, I’ll see you.”
“Come down for a quick one first,” Ray urged. “Right now. I got something that may be good news for you. Money news.”
Talbot was sold. “O.K. Gotta make this one fast, though.”
Ray was on his second highball when Talbot came through the door and hurried down the bar with questioning looks at the scattering of men before it. He carried his m
outh slightly open and with an expression of weak truculence, the stamp of a man who dislikes to listen to advice or suggestion. When he saw Ray, he said: “Hiyuh, you Hitchcock? I’m Talbot.”
Ray turned on the warm smile and said, “Yeah—But before he could carry out the friendship pitch Talbot had turned to the bar and had his hand around a highball glass which the bartender produced as if Talbot and the drink were speeding railroad trains scheduled to make a positive meet.
Talbot’s head swiveled once to say, “Pleased to meet yuh.” He drank half the amber contents of the glass. Ray judged the drink to be a double with a little soda, it was too dark for an ordinary highball. Ray put a five dollar bill on the bar and waved his hand at their glasses.
He said rapidly: “Look, Talbot, I know you’re in a hurry, but this is business. A nice cut for you. Pick up the new drink and c’mon over to a booth.”
“Sure.” Talbot finished the first drink, picked up the two new ones and followed Ray. “How’s Tip?” he asked, taking a sip of the new drink and fumbling out cigarettes with grimy hands. His gaze flew around the saloon as he talked, showing that he had no real interest in the welfare of his Chicago acquaintance.
“O.K.” Ray pulled out his wallet. Damn it! It was like trying to make a deal with an illiterate grasshopper. He had heard that Liney was a good reporter and rewrite man. He would never have guessed it. He took ten five dollar bills out of the leather folder and fanned them slightly, fluffing them into an impressive lump, like an old con man. “Look, Liney. These are yours if you do a little favor for me. And there’s lots more behind these.”
Liney’s drifting eyes slid back into the booth, fastened on the money, and narrowed. The weak mouth closed, the lips worked as the tongue ran behind them, and he leaned toward Ray. “Interesting, Ray. Interesting. What’s the angle?”
Ray pulled the press release from his inside pocket, careful not to obscure the bundle of fives. “Here’s a couple of little items. Unimportant. Don’t mean a thing except to concerns I represent. You may have a little copy on these happenings upstairs—maybe not. They don’t amount to much. I want you to write a couple of squibs, following these heads and story line, and get em into the paper. Any edition will do. And you can kill ‘em as soon as you want once they’re in print.”
The Heel Page 4