Liney took the release, said, “Jeez, I don’t run that paper, you know,” and read the items.
“I know that, but you’re on the inside. If you can’t plant ‘em you know the guy who can. Slip him a little of this lettuce.”
Liney read the sheet in about eight seconds, his eyes scanning the fines without traversing. “What if stories on this stuff have already gone through the mill?”
“Not likely. Only happened this morning.”
“Who wrote this stuff?”
“I did.”
“Is it true?”
“Of course. I just want to make sure my client’s publicity is handled quickly, and right.”
Liney’s eyes were narrow and shrewd over his glass as he drained it. “Why not just ask me to kill the stories?”
Ray flipped a hand at a waiter. “I’m doing this. My way. If you can’t handle it, there are some other papers in this town I can reach.” That was just for effect—Liney was Ray’s only quick link to the local newspapers, but you had to put the pressure on just right.
Liney reached for the bills. Ray drew them back, peeled five from the wad, and gave them to him. “That’s enough for grease if you need it. I’ll meet you here same time tomorrow. If you’ve made good, I’ll pay off. And there’s more coming up. All nice small stuff like this, that you can handle with one hand.”
Liney took the money. “It ain’t as easy as you think, but I’ll see what I can do.”
The waiter brought two more drinks. Liney gulped his, said, “See yuh,” and hurried out. Ray shrugged distastefully, paid the check, and went back to the office.
Silvia and Fancy were poring over the newspapers, their heads close together over her desk in the outer chamber. Ray greeted them breezily, slapping Fancy lightly on the back.
He felt great, omnipotent, the drinks on an empty stomach and the knowledge that everything was going so smoothly prodding his spirits aloft like kites zooming in a squall. “Hiyuh, people. What’s in the news?”
Fancy frowned. “Not a thing. I can’t find any mention of the troubles at Hencher or Acme.”
Ray glanced at a couple of mastheads. “This stuff is too early. Don’t worry about it. Throw these in the wastebasket and pick up the next editions.”
He asked Silvia, “Get that money?”
She took a long brown envelope out of a drawer and handed it to him. In the left hand corner was printed Russcorp, Inc., in balloon bold type. “I wonder if they’d be shocked if I told ‘em to kill that damn name,” he remarked.
He ripped open the envelope and surveyed the thick stack of fifties and twenties. “Happy days are here again,” he chortled. “Business is picking up.”
He saw Silvia’s dark eyes watching him curiously, and curbed his elation to declare solemnly, “This is the beginning of a new enterprise, because you can’t say you’re in business until you’ve got some business. From here on in, we’ll be just as prosperous and successful as the amounts of hard work, honesty, ability, and ingenuity we put into our efforts.”
Silvia relaxed and smiled at him. He saw admiration in her expression, and took a slow breath as he drew his eyes over the jutting young breasts with a glance that seemed to slide by her and fix on the money in his hands. The memory of that one kiss stirred him with the strange, rich and deep emotional power of a timeless sexual embrace in a dream, remembered upon awakening. The kid was going to be beautiful some day. Would be now with a little treatment and the right services and ornaments. That fresh, innocent look! And that figure, like a child just over the hill to woman-size No! He rebuked himself . . . no more around the office. You’ve got plenty of time.
Fancy looked through the door and grinned at him as he repeated: “I like that. Hard work, honesty, and ability—we ought to write it down for a campaign.”
Ray winked at him. “Never mind. I’ve got hits more.”
Chapter 5
Francois Peller and Silvia Nuss never forgot that May afternoon and evening. Although later events of smashing impact were of greater importance, they remembered the intense, almost ferocious attack of talent on work. There was only one typewriter in the office, and before long Ray sent Fancy out to rent another to supplement the second-hand Underwood on Silvia’s desk. While Fancy was gone, he dictated like a talking machine to the girl, fast, precise sentences in which he pronounced every word clearly, inserted every punctuation mark, spelled out difficult passages, and rarely had to pause or delete a phrase. He had outlined a complete campaign for Arctic Fairy Frosted Foods, one of Russcorp’s subsidiaries which he knew was mushrooming with new business, by the time Fancy returned lugging a Remington standard rental machine.
“Put that mill on my desk,” Ray told him. He was pacing back and forth in the short aisle between the two offices, his coat off, tie loosened. He said to Silvia: “New paragraph. When you step into a spaceship for your first excursion to a far planet, you can be certain that you’ll dine enroute on the finest, health-guarding foods obtainable. Arctic Fairy Frosted Foods will decorate your plate and delicatize your palate.” He spelled out delicatize. “But don’t wait that long. Get a triple-package today. Arctic Fairy’s tempting, quick to cook, special steak and two vegetable combination—at your grocer’s.”
He paused, rubbing his hands together. “Finish that page right there, Silvia. You should have four manuscript pages. Double spaced. Head it, copy for rocket ship sequence television show. Arctic Fairy account. Start a file for it.”
Fancy stood in the doorway watching them. “Fancy,” Ray ordered. “Go down and get three chicken and three steak sandwiches. Three coffees and three milks. Go to a good joint and order the best.” He grinned at Silvia. “No fifty-cent lunch for you today. We’ll put it on the office expense as sort of a celebration.”
“That’s nice,” she answered.
Fancy went out. Ray opened fire again.
His voice droned on, painting pictures in words, jabbing psychological needles into unknown but predictable individuals, instilling confidence, urging action. Silvia’s pencil flew. She enjoyed it. This was real business!
When Fancy returned with the food, they sat around the outer desk, Silvia and Fancy cheerful and garrulous, commenting on the excellent club sandwiches, congratulating Ray on his first account, but Ray’s mood had changed. He ate silently, churning over the details of advertising programs for the long list of firms outlined in his file labeled Russcorp and allied operations. He knew that the compiled facts were dynamite, a credit to his thoroughness. A Senate commission would have gathered little more.
Silvia and Fancy stopped chattering after a while, and they finished the meal in silence. “Let’s go.” Ray picked up his container of coffee and went into his office, talking to them through the door. “Silvia, type up the stuff I gave you. Original and one on everything. Fancy, take this dope covering the Happy Day dry-cleaning chain and work up a campaign. Newspaper is your media, with some four-page full color leaflets boosting specials and the quality of service. The details of their set-up are all in here.”
Fancy went back to his desk and Ray inserted an experimental sheet in the Remington, checking himself out on the action, margins, and touch, like an F-80 pilot with a new burner. He started to write, sporadically at first, then hammering out long bursts of copy with the cadence of burp guns in the hands of experts. General program—outline-questions—newspaper copy—radio copy—suggestions for layouts—the white sheets and yellow carbons flowed in and out of his machine like paper through a press. His heart beat faster, his breath shortened, there was a dew of perspiration on his upper lip, and at times his head and shoulders jerked in nervous spasms. He didn’t mind, it was always like this, real copy work was far more tiring than digging ditches. The ashtray at arm’s length filled with half-smoked, untasted cigarettes. Fancy switched on the office lights as the day darkened, but Ray did not notice them until Silvia came to the doorway and said, “You’re very fast. Faster than most regular typists. Were you ever .
. . ?” She stopped and flushed. The question had come out before she could think it through. It didn’t seem quite proper to ask the boss if he had ever been a stenographer.
He looked up and laughed at her. “You were going to ask me if I ever worked at it? Not exactly, honey. I was once a telegrapher and then a high-speed radio code man. That training breeds the best if you go at it right. No money in it, though. I lasted three years, one of ‘em in the Air Force.”
She said, “Oh.” It was nice of him to cover up her embarrassment. “It’s ten minutes of five. Don’t you want some coffee or something?”
He looked at his watch, exclaimed, “Wow! Yeah, honey, go down and get three containers. Call your home, if you want to, and tell ‘em you’re going to work one hour late. I’ve got just three pages here with penciled corrections. Retype ‘em and you’re done.”
It was characteristic of him not to ask her if she could stay. He was pretty sure she’d stay with him half the night if he asked her to. She confirmed his reasoning. “O.K. I can stay longer if you want me to.”
“No,” he told her. “Just clean up the sheets with errors. I can get the rest out flying my own typewriter.”
When she left, he went back to the typewriter and began to peck out copy with four fingers. It was for a concern called Princess Patricia Lingerie, one of the larger concerns supposedly owned by a textile man who had gone broke and was fronting for Russcorp, operating at least six concerns for the outfit, at a generous salary. Ray had spent over thirty dollars getting High Pockets Wanone drunk in order to gather the information.
He wrote—Quarter-page layout, local papers. Art work of woman wearing new button-in-front removable strap item. No name yet? Call it the King Catcher. Main heading—Brassieres For Men! Sub-heading—Certainly, For Men! And especially for the man you want to look your loveliest for. Copy. You can wear a bra that’s tailored for individual comfort, and attracts . . .
Silvia came in with his coffee and he stopped typing. “Hi, honey.” He looked at her speculatively as he removed the cardboard top and peeled the paper wrappers from the lumps of sugar. “You wear falsies?”
She flushed, the dark eyes attractive in anger. “No. Of course not. I wouldn’t—
He interrupted her. “What’s the most important things a woman looks for in brassieres?”
She thought that she should reprimand him, but he was so matter-of-fact, sounded impersonal—even too impersonal. She looked down at the desk, and he admired the sleek lines of the dark hair. “Appearance, I think. And comfort.”
“That’s what I thought. I’m not trying to kid you, honey. I’m writing a bra ad.”
“Oh.” She smiled warmly. “You sort of startled me.”
“I don’t believe it. An intelligent girl like you? Never. And anyway, you’d be a good advertisement for these items.”
She had been standing very straight, her young breasts jutting sharply against the thin fabric of the white blouse. Her shoulders came forward for an instant, then went back again almost defiantly.
“Thata girl,” he laughed at her. “Don’t let me scare you.”
Her olive skin was still flushed, the rich tones warm on the sharp, photogenic planes of her features. “I was a bit surprised. But—thank you.”
He said soothingly: “I’m serious about that. I think you’d make a good model. Have you ever done any commercial posing?”
“No.”
“Think you’d like to?”
“Most girls want to. I’m no exception.”
He appreciated the deft way she took some of the discussion away from him, attempting, woman-like, to dominate. “O.K. If this account clicks, maybe you can pick up some extra money. I’ll tell the layout man to use you for art or photos.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at him and went back to her desk. It won’t be too hard, Ray thought, and she’d be a nice—Easy boy, not around the office, he ordered himself. Plenty on the outside.
He was finishing the Princess Patricia Lingerie outlines when the telephone on Silvia’s desk rang. He had not ordered the second telephone—they might move before it was installed.
Silvia covered the mouthpiece with her hand and called softly: “A Mister Ralph Maynard. Advertising manager for Russcorp. He wants to talk to you.”
Ray said, “O.K.,” and went quietly into the outer room. He flipped the dial of the telephone lightly, so that the caller would think the call had been switched.
When he said hello, a sharp, crisp voice asked: “Is this Raymond Hitchcock? Mister Hitchcock personally?”
“Yes, speaking.” He made it very business-like, almost prim in its correctness.
“This is Ralph Maynard. I’m the ad manager at Russcorp. Mister Russ said you were coming in to see me in the morning, but I’d like to talk to you before then.”
“Well,” Ray answered. “I’d like to see you, but it’s rather late. And I’ll be tied up all evening.”
“Will you be in your office for a little while?”
Ray said, “Yes.” And then wished he had the word back He didn’t particularly want to talk to Maynard now, and he didn’t want the man to see the shabby office.
It was too late. The man said, “We’ll be right down,” and hung up before Ray could object or ask who we might be.
He put the telephone in its cradle, thought for a moment, then told Silvia: “Honey, there’s company coming. This place won’t have enough room to hold us. You run along now. You can do that stuff in the morning.”
She nodded and began tidying her desk. Ray said to Fancy: “Secure that material you’re working on. Get your coat on and look prosperous. Go pick up the newspaper late editions while you’re waiting.”
When they went out Ray arranged the papers and folders on the desks, carried his typewriter out and placed it at Fancy’s position, and washed his hands and face. While he used a towel he surveyed the office—it still looked like a fly-by-night operation or a desk-space joint.
“They’ll take it and like it,” he muttered with a grimace of distaste. He adjusted his tie in the small mirror, replaced the battered screen to hide the wash basin, put on his coat, and sat down.
Fancy returned with the papers, and they began to go through them. Ray took the Gazette, and suddenly slapped the paper onto his desk with both hands, a gesture of jubilant power. “Hey, boy,” he exclaimed. “We’re in. That guy I greased at the Gazette got both of those items in practically the way I wrote them.”
Fancy came in and studied the insertions. “Nice going,” he congratulated. “That’ll show ‘em we know our business. Maybe we ought to bust up a few more of their joints and plant stories.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to. We’re almost in. And anyway, they’ll have a bunch of thugs on the lookout. They’re popping their buttons now, trying to figure which faction or what outside mob is sawing the legs off their easy chairs.”
Fancy returned to his desk, to call a few minutes later. “Nothing in the Times. Little item in the Trib. Small mention in the News and Post.”
“Great. Cut out the whole pages to save the datelines. Tomorrow morning, you stop by the big stand at Times Square and pick up all the Jersey papers. They may have a little something on the Acme deal.”
“O.K.”
Ray was reading about a madman who chased his wife with a baseball bat when someone knocked briskly on the door.
Ray called, “Come in,” and stepped to the partition, facing the corridor door. Two men entered, the first one, a tall, impeccably dressed individual, looking about him with a tight mouth and rather supercilious air.
He moved aside to let the other man into the narrow space, then said, “Good evening.” He looked at Fancy, shifted cold eyes to Ray, selected him as his target, and asked, “Are you Mister Hitchcock?”
Ray answered, “Yes.”
“I’m Ralph Maynard.” He put out a hand and Ray shook it, gripped the palm of the other man as Maynard continued, “This is Bob Whitehall, the account
man for Russcorp from Burwell, Jones, Anderson, and Mullikine.”
Ray looked at Whitehall. “Glad to meet you. I’ve seen some nice work by your agency.”
Whitehall nodded as if it didn’t matter, although he tried to fasten a cordial expression on his face. He wore rimless glasses, and his beaked nose and pursed, hostile mouth made him look like a broad-faced buzzard. A plump, high income buzzard.
Ray did not offer to introduce Fancy. “Come in and sit down. Take your coats off if this will be a long session.”
Maynard replied, “Thanks.” He removed his expensive topcoat as if he regretted exposing himself to his environment. They placed their coats across the reception desk when Ray did not offer to take them, entered the cramped inner office, and sat in the chairs on either side of the desk. Whitehall took out a silver cigarette case and made a ceremony of passing it around. Ray took one—a fancy, tipped brand.
Maynard puffed lightly and gave a slight, affected cough. He said: “Mr. Russ called me this morning and said that you were doing a public relations job for the firm. He also said that you would call on me tomorrow to discuss some matters concerning advertising.”
“That’s correct,” Ray answered smoothly. “He should have told you that I’d like to see budget figures, projects and programs, and samples of current material. Any discussion of advertising per se, will come later.” He liked that per se. A lawyer he had met in a bar had told him it meant as a unit.
Maynard drummed his fingers on the desk, a nervous reflex. “Would you like to tell me just what your plans are, Mister Hitchcock? Our advertising program is very extensive, and any new arrangements this late in the year may prove extremely difficult.”
The Heel Page 5