He sat down in a chair flanking Olson’s desk, lit a cigarette, and regarded the man who was about his own age, but looked worn and tired, as if he carried a weight of cares on his shoulders. He judged Olson to be one of those men who work themselves to death for a cause or corporation, making up in spent energy what they lacked in perspective and ability. They were like horses who ran themselves to death and left the oats for their stablemates.
Olson squirmed uncomfortably under Ray’s calm gaze. “I don’t understand all this,” he complained. “Mister Maynard left so suddenly, and Mister Russ said you’d be in, but he didn’t say that you would take Maynard’s place.”
Ray leaned back, blew smoke at the ceiling like a man without a worry in the world. “Tell me, Charles, how long have you been with us?”
“Four years. You can get all that from the personnel file.”
“Never mind.” Ray cut him off. “Maynard said you are a good man. Well soon see. Maybe—” He pretended to study Olson with friendly calculation. “Maybe—you’ll qualify for Maynard’s shoes. Think you can?”
He shot the last three words like a bank president questioning an office boy on a quiet morning, when he had plenty of time and wanted to massage his own ego.
“Why . . . I think so.”
“All right. Now take the top paper or problem on that pile and shoot it to me in a few words.”
“Well, Force Printing has been holding the plates on a catalog they did for us last year. A garment line. We had thought of reprinting, or using some of the cuts and type in a new—”
“Kill it. Junk ‘em.” Ray broke in. “Next.”
“The sales manager for Acme wants some new displays. We bought two hundred and they’re all gone. He—”
“Buy one hundred and send ‘em to him.”
“But the budget won’t stand it.”
“I’ll take care of that. What’s next?”
“Here’s an agency proof. On a campaign for our hotels. We’ll make mats and send ‘em out.”
Ray was checking the illustration and copy while Olson finished talking. It was mediocre. A man and a pretty girl, probably honeymooners, according to the art department’s idea that all honeymooners looked simple and silly, were saying, “We’ll always stop at a hotel—for real comfort.” There was more copy in blocks under the illustration.
“Tell ‘em to make it up,” Ray said. “And tell ‘em to kill the rest of the project. We’re writing a new one.”
In twenty minutes the papers on Olson’s desk were a pile in his outgoing box, with penciled notations as to their disposition. Ray made decisions, spent money, accepted or rejected ideas, ordered materials, sent strong suggestions to sales managers, as if he had sat in Maynard’s chair for ten years.
And ninety percent of his decisions would be absolutely satisfactory, the balance could be caught or changed later. Ray had something that Olson did not, and would never have. Some might call it executive ability, but it was more than that, for executive ability can be learned; executive talent comes from the individual; a part of his personality, the willingness to weigh the situation and gamble on one’s reasoning powers, the keen sensing of a course to follow, and giving the direction with confidence and forgetting about it until guidance is needed again.
The mere knowledge of their general situation was an example. Ray knew that Maynard had been an independent operator in most things, for officials like Russ and Botsch and Abbott would know little and care less as long as the wheels seemed to go around satisfactorily and the mill ground out its gold. Olson thought of his superiors as all-knowing genie, to whom all problems should be taken, lest wrath and reproof fall on his head.
“Throw this back at the art agency and tell ‘em this truck and driver look like something that was drawn five years ago.” He was studying a piece of art work on an easel, a display for the chain of fuel oil suppliers. ‘Tell ‘em to give us a truck that will be built in a couple of years. A handsome driver to appeal to housewives.”
He sat down again. “That’s all you’ve got, eh?”
“Yes. Except that the agency men are outside, and some of the printers. I guess I can handle them, if you don’t want to take the time.”
“No, I’ll see them all. You get busy on that stuff we just cleared up. Get the letters out. I’ll go in Maynard’s office and see them in there.” He stood up. “For the present, I’ll be here every day from ten to one. Have people call then. Well go over your stuff just as we did today.”
“All right.” Olson was relieved.
“And, Charley . . .” Ray paused almost tenderly.
“Yes?”
“Don’t worry so much. You’re doing your job right. Once we get things rolling around here, I’m going to groom you for Maynard’s spot.”
“Thank you, Mister Hitchcock.” Olson was beaming.
Ray nodded encouragingly and went through the connecting door to Maynard s office, taking his hat and briefcase. He looked around as the door closed behind him. Not bad—not bad. He hadn’t checked the appointments too carefully during his last visit, but on closer scrutiny, he approved. Of course, it wasn’t a small palace like Russ’s chamber, but it would do. The main desk was bare. He imagined that Olson had collected Maynard’s current correspondence, and it had been among the matters they had just handled. He sat down and pressed the button on the intercom. The dislikable woman who was trying to appear friendly since Ray’s fortunes had ascended, came in.
Ray regarded her without expression. “You know that I’m Ray Hitchcock. What is your name, please?”
“I’m Miss Granger.” She wanted to say more, hold a conversation, but his calm, business-like manner stopped her.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ll be checking on the advertising department for some time.”
He was not pleased, but you had to make the best of it, and he carefully avoided saying that he was in charge of advertising, that would be a fact soon enough.
She gave him a smile meant to be warm, but the felinity showed through. “Mister Russ said you would be in. Are you taking Mister Maynard’s place?”
He sidestepped the pitfall, ignored her question. “Please start sending in the callers who are waiting. The gentlemen from the agency first, then the rest as fast as others come out.”
He pulled open a drawer, looking for paper and pencils, and she went out.
The representatives for Burwell, Jones, Anderson, and Mullikine were eager beavers, anxious to fill Whitehall’s shoes. Ray told them to complete programs already started or contracted for, and return in a week to discuss new business. They wanted to talk a lot more, but he firmly dismissed them. He felt willing to bet that one or more of the partners would call on him next, anxious to cement their contacts when the account executives reported that the new Russcorp man was no pushover. It was certain that Burwell, Jones, Anderson, or Mullikine—he called them the Jamb Boys in his mind—would know Russ, Botsch, or Abbott, and start working quickly from the top down. He’d handle that when he came to it.
The parade of salesmen drifted through the office, and Ray talked to them briefly, straight from the shoulder, with an air of authority and just enough condescension, as if the position of advertising director for Russcorp was his forever and he was welded to the office like an executive who has married the daughter of the chairman of the board. He referred to Maynard’s list to check those who were kicking back, and made his position clear to them. “I know all about Maynard’s personal arrangements with you. Shall we continue on the same basis?”
Each and every one of the back-door partners smiled with relief and heartily agreed, promptly insisting that he have lunch, dinner, or go out on the town for an evening with suggestions that it could be a week-end. Would he like tickets to the best shows? Could he get away for three days on a yacht? Did he want a season box at Yankee Stadium? Would he like to meet some charming girls? Could he use a case of Haig and Haig? When would he be able to spend a week-end on
Long Island—or Westchester—or up in Connecticut?
The well-fed, well-dressed representatives of the big suppliers made their pitches according to their custom and facilities. All jolly fellows, good trenchermen and tankard hoisters, at the top of their trade because they could make friends and keep them, pass out expensive favors with tact, entertain like diplomats, and pay bribes in an almost limitless number of artful ways and convince the recipient with scruples that he was receiving a commission.
They saw in Ray a simple man, who would take his cut in cash, requiring no complicated and fanciful illusion to rationalize the deal. They liked him for it, even though he declined all immediate favors with thanks, saying the press of business in his new capacity was too heavy, promising a social evening later.
The salesmen who were not spilling some of the gravy to hold the business, he dismissed cordially, but with brutal swiftness and a vague reference to future orders. The single exception was a representative who enjoyed a monopoly on a special printing process which Russcorp required.
By noon he had seen all the callers. He said good-by to Olson, advised Miss Granger that he would hold audience again tomorrow at ten, and went back to his own office.
* * *
Fancy greeted him enthusiastically. “Say, Ray, Maynard called up this morning early. He’s got hold of a swell suite of offices on Fifth. Nicest layout I ever saw. All newly decorated. Real class.”
Ray looked at him curiously. “You went up to look at them?”
“Well, yes.” Fancy was worried for a moment by Ray’s sharp glance. “He said we had to get ‘em fast. Bunch of lawyers after ‘em.”
“I see. Describe them.”
“Beautiful. Green carpets, mahogany furniture that looks like new. Lots of antiques. Vases and stuff.”
“Sounds like a museum.”
“Oh, no—very good taste. And the other half of the floor is occupied by a brokerage outfit. All very dignified and quiet. No conflict with us.”
Ray disposed of his hat and briefcase, called to Silvia, “Go down and get the lunch basket, honey.” He sat down and looked at Fancy who was leaning against the partition at the doorway. “Describe the layout.”
“When you get out of the express elevator, it’s the fourteenth floor, you turn right. About forty feet down a hall, with an archway and plenty of room for people to wait, is the reception alcove and switchboard. Same girl runs ‘em. All glass enclosed. There’s three offices behind her, a conference room to the right, and one office that you sort of turn and make a left turn backward to get to.”
“Is the conference room big enough for a bull pen?”
“Sure. There’s a bunch of book shelves in it now, and some law books. Lawyers had the place.”
“The reception hall furnished, too?”
“Yes. Real nice chairs and a lounge and a table.”
Ray had closed his eyes. He formed a mental image of the suite. If lawyers had had it, they must have been prosperous to afford the address. If another group wanted to get in, it must be worth having. It looked good in his imagination—the facts said it must be good. “Tell Maynard to rent it.”
“O.K. They’re asking—”
“To hell with the details,” Ray interrupted. “Get the best lease you can. Pay as little as you can. Don’t bother me with it. All I want to know is how soon we can move in.”
Fancy backed away. “O.K., Ray.”
Ray leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. He had been too short with Fancy. He’d soap him up a little later, salve his feelings. But why did everyone expect him to carry the whole load? Initiative, that’s what most people seemed to lack. A good thing he had enough for them all. A good thing people like Charles Olson and Ralph Maynard and even Louis Russ didn’t have too much. Probably a block they held over from childhood—mustn’t do—mustn’t do wrong, or you’ll get punished.
He took out the Happy Day project and put Fancy to work on the revision, tackling radio copy for Botsch’s linen service himself. When Silvia returned with the steak sandwich and containers of milk and coffee, he glanced at her as she opened them and placed them neatly in front of him with a domestic touch. He watched with interest as she opened the containers, asked him how many lumps of sugar for the coffee.
He said: “Three lumps in the coffee. You all set for tonight?”
“Yes.” She smiled at him as she said it. She seemed alive with anticipation, eager to please him.
“O.K. Go home about four, so you’ll have plenty of time. Write out your address for me.”
“All right, Mister Hitchcock.”
“Ray, honey. Make it Ray when we’re alone. You’re practically a charter member of the firm.”
“All right—Ray.”
He watched her walk away, noting again the clean lines of her young figure, the way the low-heeled shoes made her buttocks look sturdy, earthy, less artificial than the conventional lines. Now and then he glanced covertly at her as he ate. What a junior miss! Smart, too. He’d have to do more about that—he could keep it separate from business—she was too delicious to watch and not want. You only live once. Don’t throw anything over your shoulder. Why should he be so steamy after the night with Charlotte? Perhaps success and virility fed each other. He would talk to her tonight, plan his approach carefully.
He finished the coffee, told Fancy and Silvia he would be back in an hour, and went out. The store he had observed with the sign Dress Suits—Tuxedos—To Rent was two blocks north. He walked toward it, pausing once to confirm that the detective agency man, Sam Foxe, still followed him. Inside the store he turned to watch Foxe take up an observation post across the street.
A bored clerk approached him. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah.” He took two singles and pressed them into the man’s hand. “Put those away. They’re yours if I get a good tux, with a modern cut. I’ll pay the tailor a bonus to fix it right.”
“The boss is out,” the clerk said, bored no longer. “You can have anything in the joint.”
Ray settled for a 42-long, an almost new garment that fitted him quite well, requiring only a few touches by a gnome-like little tailor so small that the tape measure around his neck dragged on the floor. Ray gave the tailor two singles and asked, “When will a good man like you have it ready?”
“For you—in an hour.”
“O.K. Check her over carefully, will you? No loose buttons or dragging threads.”
“I’ll inspect it as if I was going to wear it myself.”
“Thanks.” He turned to the clerk. “Give me a dress shirt, size 16, arm 34. And a black tie and socks.”
He was given the articles. The clerk asked: “How about shoes and a hat? You can get ‘em around the corner—I’ll give you a card so you’ll get a good buy.”
“Sorry,” Ray said, grinning as he looked at the man. “You can’t pick up any more commissions from me. I’ve got the shoes and hat. But I’ll be back some day for some more shirts.”
He arranged to pick up the tuxedo at five o’clock, and left. Tomorrow, he would order a tux and perhaps two or three new suits, but it was quicker to hire one for the night than to take a chance on getting alterations completed on a new one. He paused to light a cigarette in front of the store, glanced at Foxe standing beside a hydrant across the street, and then walked quickly across to confront the man, but making it look casual, as if they were both waiting for a cab.
“Hello, Sammy,” Ray said. “You’re still on the job, eh?”
“Yeah—yeah. Hey, we better not be seen talking like this.”
“O.K. Follow me.”
Ray went down the street and into a lunchroom, a greasy smelling horror with a soiled white front. He sat at the counter near the back, ordered coffee, and in a Moment Sam Foxe joined him.
“How’d it go at the office?” Ray asked.
Foxe kept his eyes straight ahead, talking from the corner of his sallow cheek, the lip scarcely moving, like an old con. “How d’ya mean, ho
w’d it go?”
“What came in from Chicago?”
“They said you were an advertising man out there. Worked for two outfits they named.”
“That all?”
“Yeah, except some junk they threw in to make it look as if they were doing a good job. But they’re still checking.”
“Why?”
“Sullivan is still paying. He called last night. Said to keep digging—and to keep trailing you.”
Ray chuckled. “You don’t mind that, do you Sam? Now that we’re buddies.”
Foxe squirmed uncomfortably, looked down at his coffee. “I hope nobody finds out. I could get in a jam. Lose my papers, too.”
“You won’t get in any jam,” Ray said soothingly. “That is, unless you get ideas. Even if you figure out a way to foul me up, Sam, some of the boys would come around to see you. You couldn’t win.” He talked easily, the only threat in the meaning of the words themselves. You didn’t want to push these little guys beyond the point where their egos stopped stretching. “So you just play along with me, Sam. That fifty you got yesterday was just a starter. I’ll have another present for you next week. Or you can earn one sooner . . .”
Foxe took the lead. “How?”
“If you tell me anything I ought to know. Keep an eye out for what comes in from Chicago. Let me know if Sullivan says anything or makes a move.”
“Maybe I’ll get something. I’ll see.”
“Attaboy. So long.” Ray put a quarter on the grimy counter and sauntered out.
Maynard was in the office when he returned, his expression sweet and self-satisfied, like a boy who expects lavish compliments for a good deed. “Hello, Ray,” he said. “I have those offices. Mister Rosenberg is a good friend of mine. I gave him a hundred I happened to have. We’ll sign the papers tomorrow. He gave me a real break on it—four hundred a month.”
“He must have,” Ray commented wryly. “O.K. Silvia will give you a check for five hundred. Cash it and pay this friend of yours yourself. Stall him if he wants more cash. We’ll have all the money we need in six weeks, but right now I’m deep in the market.”
The Heel Page 12