“We can discuss that later, at a full meeting.”
Whitehall looked worried. He said: “If you’re interested in the account, Hitchcock, I don’t see what you intend to do with it. It’s a big one. Requires an extensive organization. And, of course, a rating.”
Ray’s tones were silky. “Wouldn’t you say, Whitehall, that if I get the account, I can have almost any agency I please at my command—including the outfit you work for?”
The buzzard face showed both worry and gloom, but Ray did not relax. Men like Whitehall did not last in the New York account executive ranks unless there was some of the hawk and eagle in them as well as buzzard. Whitehall commented: “You’re quite a newcomer, Hitchcock. No credit rating—no references that I could find—no, er, organization.”
“You haven’t any organization, either, Whitehall.” It was a guess, but not a hard one, unless Whitehall owned a piece of Burwell, Tones, Anderson and Mullikine, and that was impossible. “The only office you own is under your hat.”
Whitehall colored at the blunt remark. “True, but I represent one of the largest in the world.”
“Sure—and as I told you, if I get the Russcorp account, I’ll represent them if I want to. And if you haven’t got some other good accounts under your hat you’ll be pounding the pavement. So let’s stop waving our gloves at each other.”
Maynard drummed on the table like a one-handed snare Russcorp account,
“. . . and I think I have something to say about whether you get it. I represent the firm.”
Ray smiled blandly. “Sure you do. But maybe you won’t have much to say about whether or not I get the account.”
Maynard looked as if he had found a worm in an apple. Ray’s confident, aggressive manner disturbed him. It looked as if this stranger had the inside track with the big boys, to be so cocky. He said: “Look here, Hitchcock, I don’t want anything upset. Suppose you and I come to an agreement. How would you like to work for me? Say, as a senior copywriter. At ten thousand.”
Ray chuckled. “Peanuts for the pigeons.”
Maynard drummed on the table like a one-handed snare drummer. “Twenty thousand, as an assistant advertising manager. And that’s all I can do.”
“I imagine it is all you can do. Mister Russ and I can reach a much more satisfactory arrangement.”
Maynard opened his hand and slapped the palm down, an angry gesture. “I happen to be the advertising manager. Any agreement will go through me. I won’t have this underhanded sort of thing going on.”
“No?” Ray asked. “What will you do, quit? I doubt it. You probably got the job because you sold Russ and Company a phony bill of goods as they were getting started. Since then all you’ve had to do is sit on your tail, look wise, and spend the budget. From now on you’re going to give the firm its money’s worth or there’ll be some changes made.”
Maynard’s eyes opened like those of a middle weight who has suddenly found himself in the ring with Ezzard Charles. Looking past him, Ray saw Fancy grin and punch one fist soundlessly against his palm.
Whitehall cleared his throat. “It’s as I told you, Ralph. Hitchcock is working closely with Russ, perhaps already has the account committed.” He looked at Ray. “Now I want to tell you something. We’ve had a good working agreement, Ralph and I, for three years. I don’t want it disturbed. I know more about Russcorp than I think Ralph does, and if things get too rough—I know who to talk to.”
Ray asked casually, “You mean the law?”
“I mean just that.”
Ray put out his left hand like a striking snake, pulled the nose-piece of the rimless glasses down until they popped off Whitehall’s nose, and slammed his open right hand against the man’s head. It was a stiff-arm jolt—a bone shaker.
“Uuh!” The grunt was banged out of Whitehall. He fell sideways out of the chair, overbalanced, and crashed onto the floor. There was as much shock in Ray’s slap as a left jab to the jaw, the blow had the power of his arm and back and body in it, right down to his feet braced on the floor.
Maynard gasped: “Stop! What . . .”
He twisted his head from the man on the floor to Ray and back again, like one of the mechanical figures in a window display. He started to get up. Ray put one big hand over the five-dollar tie and rammed him back into the chair.
“Sit there and stay out of trouble.”
Whitehall pulled himself up, holding onto the desk, cursing fluently.
Chapter 6
Whitehall spread his legs and swayed back and forth, facing Ray. The blow had shaken him badly, his eyes were fogged, and some of his oaths were unintelligible mutterings as he gathered his senses. The brown hair, which had been so precisely combed, stuck out in all directions, as if he had been riding in a fast car with the top down.
Maynard found his tongue. “Let’s call the police, Bob.”
“Sure,” Ray encouraged loudly, to penetrate Whitehall’s mind. “Go ahead and call ‘em. Use our phone. Then I want to get Louis down to hear the complaint you make. I want to tell him how you darlings said you would rat on him. The outfit will be interested. The syndicate will love you.”
“Here, now!” Maynard squawked. “I didn’t say anything like that.”
“Whitehall did, and you’re in it with him. There are two of us as witnesses. It’s our word against yours. And we won’t have to prove it—the big fellows can’t take chances. Hell, you won’t have to worry about losing your job. You’ll wind up in the bay in a metal box.”
Whitehall took a deep breath. “Goddamnn you, Hitchcock!”
“Watch your language,” Ray growled. “If you want action I’ll give you some more right here. Or I’ll take you out in the alley and let you take the first free punch before I break you in two.”
Whitehall was not a coward, but the blunt offer made him pause. He earned almost fifty-thousand dollars a year. He had to look well to call on his very proper clients. Even a black eye would interfere with his business for weeks. And he was slightly confused. There was very little violence in his usual activities.
Ray said matter-of-factly: “Sit down, Whitehall. Here are your glasses. Let’s not have any more cracks about you talking to the law. The firm just wouldn’t stand for it. And don’t start crying before you lose the business.”
Whitehall slid into the chair, scowling. The way Ray identified himself with Russcorp gave him further pause. If this lad was as solid as he seemed, he might displace Maynard. Whitehall said: “I was excited. Of course I’d never do anything to hurt a client.”
Ray shrugged at the emphasis on client. He said softly: “If I were you, I’d never cross these outfits, period. If you know as much about ‘em as you say you do, you know they don’t have to stand for cutting up. They’re not squeamish, and they have the connections. Some gentlemen in Chicago just found that out with a bang-bang. An example was needed. Others have just disappeared.”
Most of Maynard’s arrogance evaporated when Whitehall sat down, smoothing his hair back and just nodding when Ray pointed out the recent excitement in Chicago. Maynard said: “I repeat, Hitchcock, I made no mention of talking to the police. Of course I wouldn’t do a thing like that. I’m very surprised at Bob.”
Ray lit one of his own cigarettes. “We’ll worry about that later, if we have to. Louis wouldn’t like it if you even thought of bleating.”
“But I wouldn’t.”
“O.K. Think we’ll have to get rid of Whitehall after what he said?”
Maynard was trapped. Ray had complete command of the offensive. The advertising manager looked helplessly at Whitehall.
“I guess you don’t want to do that,” Ray went on soothingly. “Whatever your arrangement has been, I guess it must be pretty satisfactory. Tell me, how much do you spend with the agency in a year?”
Maynard looked coy. You could almost see the wheels spinning in his head. Ray advised, “Don’t lie, I’m going to see the figures tomorrow anyway.”
“Well—about seve
n hundred thousand.”
“Space, production costs, and all?”
“Yes.”
“You must be spending most of your budget through them, eh?”
“Yes. Their services are excellent.”
They should be. What’s your kickback?”
Maynard glanced at Whitehall, who tried to look impassive but could not erase all the worry and suspicion from his countenance. “I don’t understand you,” Maynard declared.
“Oh, come on,” Ray scoffed. “You gentlemen aren’t babes in the wood any more than I am. I suppose you won’t tell me, so I’ll tell you. You’re getting eight or ten grand. Maybe you’re on the payroll at the agency to ease your conscience. Maybe Whitehall just feeds out the cash and it goes on his account as promotional expense.”
Maynard started to bluster an objection. “I’d never stand for such . . .”
“—but you’re a piker,” Ray interrupted ruthlessly. “You should be getting back about seven-and-a-half percent of their take. If Whitehall hasn’t been giving you about twenty-two grand, you’ve been gypped.”
Ray caught the look Maynard flashed at Whitehall. As a student of human nature from Kelly pool to high stake bridge, stud poker to ten-dollar-a-hole golf, Ray decided that he would bet his bankroll that his guesses had been very, very close.
“You’re being very unfair, Hitchcock,” Whitehall said. “Our agency would never stand for such a thing.”
“If they won’t, there are plenty who will, in spite of all the fancy platitudes in the agreements. You know it and I know it. Twenty-five thousand profit is less than fifty, sure, but it’s a hell of a lot more than nothing at all.”
Whitehall shook his head distastefully. He knew Ray was right, but the matters were always handled much more delicately.
Ray leaned back in the worn chair. “If you have nothing more to discuss, boys . . . it’s late, I have a lot of things to attend to, and I haven’t had dinner yet.”
From habit, Whitehall offered: “Have dinner with me. We can all go up to Twenty-One. Might take in a show, if we hurry.”
“No thanks,” Ray declined. The proposal amused him—you could beat their brains out, but if they think you’re passing out the potatoes, they’d take it and keep on soaping you. “I’ll take a rain check on that. I’ve got too much to do.’
“But what about tomorrow?” Maynard complained.
“Well see about that,” Ray replied smoothly, with a significant pause, “tomorrow.”
Maynard and Whitehall said good-by and left, acting like real estate operators who have just been turned down by a bank. Fancy walked over and lounged against Ray’s desk. “Gee, that was something. Do you think we’ve got ‘em hooked?”
“We’re getting there. Always remember, in case I need your story to back me up, that Whitehall threatened to holler copper, and Maynard went right along with the idea.” That’s right. Russcorp will blow their stack.”
“Let’s hope we never have to tell ‘em.”
“Why? It ought to put us in like Flynn.”
“A rock in your hand is a threat. Throw it—and you’re in tough shape if you miss. The less fuss we have to stir up, the better for everybody.”
Ray stretched and yawned. “Cut out all the clippings on the Acme and Hencher cases and paste ‘em in that fancy folder you’ve got in your drawer. And put the set of full pages with ‘em for me to take in the morning.”
“O.K., Ray.”
“I’ve got to see a certain party.” He stood up and took the snap-brim hat from the tree. “Fix up that folder, very neat and professional looking. I’ll see you at the hotel, later.’
“O.K.”
Ray did not actually have to see anyone. He had lied to Fancy because he felt tired and depressed, that sudden, dreary descent from elation that made every passing minute a little leaden ball, added to the blue weight pressing on his senses. He paced north, turned west through dark streets, then north again on Fourth Avenue, fighting the emotional roller-coaster that claimed him again, although he struggled against the unwanted ride.
He approached a bar that summoned him with an illusion of warmth and cheer, and his legs carried him in, obeying the false promise of the colored lights and music. He drank three highballs, ordered a hot corned beef sandwich and ate it, and began to drink steadily, finishing each mixture in eight or ten minutes, staring impassively at himself in the polished mirror.
Why should he feel like this when The Plan was in motion? The pay-off was just around the corner.
The bartender asked, “Another?”
Ray said, “Yes,” without focusing his eyes. He was going up the last hill, and he felt just as lousy as he sometimes had hustling the marks and rolling the gay boys around the Loop and wondering where his next meal was coming from when things went badly. It didn’t make sense. After he had it made, he’d see one of the mind doctors and see what clicked.
“Have you a match?”
A girl’s voice, coming out of space.
He wrenched his eyes from the depths in the mirror, pulled himself out of the spiral of introversion that bound him to the endless circle of anxieties like one of the wire puzzles in the novelty stores, and looked at the girl on the stool to his right.
“Have you a match, please?”
He grinned wryly and lit her cigarette, betting with himself that she had two packs of matches and a lighter in the dark leather purse beside her.
She exhaled and said, ‘Thanks,” with a slight smile.
“You’re welcome.” He looked her over. Dress and accessories in good taste and fairly expensive, like those of an upper bracket working girl. She had brown hair and good skin, but her eyes gave her away. She had a warm smile, a friendly expression, the kind of a girl you’d like to talk to, but the eyes were dull, their corners motionless, the brows quiet.
He asked, “You working tonight?”
“How’s that?” The brows moved upward as if in surprise.
He shrugged, not knowing it was a gesture of complete, almost helpless weariness. “Don’t play games with me, honey. I’m kind of tired tonight. But I’m not a casper and I’m not a dick. If you’re working, how much? If you’re going to be coy, have a drink and forget I asked.”
“I’ll have scotch and water,” she said slowly. “You look awful beat-out and worried about something.”
“Maybe I am. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No. I’m just tired, I guess. Haven’t had much sleep for a couple of days. Been working hard, too.”
“Why don t we go back in one of the booths? Maybe you could rest a little.”
They sat in the shadows in a booth near the back, and the girl sat close to him but she didn’t sprawl. And she didn’t use cheap perfume, either, like some of them. It had been a long time since he had had a woman. Maybe she would turn out to be worth talking to, might get his mind out of this hellish rut.
But he should get some sleep. There was a lot to do tomorrow. He ought to get the suit on a hanger and check it over—the one good suit he had for the front.
The waiter brought the drinks and when he paid him he had to lean over the girl. Her breast was soft and comforting, even against his arm, and the smell of her was enticing, light perfume and some alcohol and much woman.
There was no time for preliminaries, he decided, feeling again the weariness. “What’s the answer, honey? You working?”
“Just what do you mean?”
“Oh, hell. Let me up.”
“Wait.” She studied him. “You look square. I’m working. Twenty bucks.”
He chuckled, relieved that everything was clear—he had no energy for sparring. “You must be gold-plated. For all night?”
“Of course not.”
“Forget it.”
She sipped her drink, said plaintively: “It might be worth it. Some people think I’m quite special.”
He shrugged, and the gesture nearly made him fall sideways. With a jol
t he realized that his eyes were closed. He snapped them open, and they smarted in the smoky air of the room.
“You look like a nice guy,” she was saying. “But you’re either awful drunk or plenty tired.’’
“Do I look drunk?”
“No. You don’t act like it.”
“I told you . . . I’m just all beat out.”
“O.K., then.”
“O.K. What?”
“You can stay all night. You sure need sleep.”
“Thanks. What’s your name?”
“Agnes.”
“Thanks, Agnes.” He turned to her, put his arm around her and drew her to him. She kissed very well, not coarsely in the beginning, as some of them did. Her lips were firm and surprisingly cool, pliant and active but not lasciviously mobile. Good girl, he thought, save some for an encore. She kisses something like Silvia . . . now isn’t that a surprise! He was very comfortable, warm and contented. Her breath was clean and fresh, except for the liquor. Poor little hustler. He felt sorry for her. Just a dame. She’d never get anywhere because she didn’t have the old drive and push, the old fast head. But Lord, she was soft and comfortable. That last drink was hitting him hard. So nice and soft . . .
“Wake up!”
He wondered where he was.
“Wake up.” He opened his eyes and saw Agnes shaking him, genuine concern in her expression.
“Hey. How long have I been asleep?”
“About five minutes. You passed out right in my arms. Don’t tell me I make you do that.”
He grinned at her. “No. Matter of fact you’re pretty special.” He said the right thing from habit. When he tried to sit up straight he felt the dead weariness in his body as it cried for rest.
“Oof,” he grunted. “I’m all beat out, Agnes. I’m going home. I’ll see you some night soon. Right here.”
He took out his wallet, checked the bills to make sure he had not been rolled, and after an instant’s hesitation, gave the girl a five-dollar bill. “For your time, honey. Buy yourself a pair of stockings.”
She went with him out into the cooler air, where he felt better, and it was she who captured a cab at the far corner and brought it to him.
The Heel Page 6