19
Jack Bein called to say Jeff had news and wanted a meeting at seven the next morning. "That's not too early for you, is it?" Nick told him that in Washington, too, business started early.
"I spoke with everyone involved in Sector Six," Jeff said, sipping on a cup of ginseng tea. "I told them what we wanted, and," he smiled cynically to let Nick know that their response had come as no surprise, "they told me what they want, which is a lot of money. An amount of money that," he chuckled smoothly, "surprised even me. And I like to think that I do not surprise easily."
"How big an amount of money?" Nick asked.
"This is a movie about outer space. The sum of money is appropriately astronomical, you might say."
"Well," Nick said, "my industry does forty-eight billion a year, so I'm probably not going to faint. So what are we talking about?"
"For Mace to smoke, ten. For Fiona and Mace to smoke, twenty-five. I said to them, wait a minute, so where's this extra five coming from? Usually when you buy two of something, there's a discount. They said it was for the synergy. These are not dumb people. They got it right away: Mace and Fiona lighting up after some cosmic fucking in the bubble suite is going to sell a lot of cigarettes."
Twenty… five? "We only want to rent their lungs for two hours," Nick said. "We're not asking them to get cancer."
"That's funny," Jack Bein said.
"I wouldn't take these numbers as being set in concrete," Jeff said. "The point is, they want to play. This is a very expensive film, even with the additional financing. I shouldn't be telling you this, but the Sultan of Glutan is looking to expand his presence in this country, and is getting into the film business."
"Getting into it is right," Jack said.
"The reason I mention this, in the strictest confidence," Jeff went on, "is that I wanted to ascertain if you'd have any problem being financially co-involved with the sultan."
So that's why he's telling me all this, thought Nick. Jeff Megall did not make small talk, or lightly breach confidences. The sultan had been in the news lately. They had discovered more oil on one of the more remote islands in his archipelago. It was inhabited by several thousand primitive tribesmen who quaintly thought the oil drillers were raping their earth-mother by sinking their shafts into her, and so, logically, hacked them to pieces. The sultan, being the richest man on earth and therefore impatient with inconvenience, responded by ordering his air force to bomb the island until nothing remained alive on it but the especially hardy species of lizard, Komodo terribilis. The U.N. had denounced the action, and world opinion was strongly against him; so much so, in fact, that a half-dozen international celebrities had cancelled out of his annual yacht party in Costa Splendida that year.
"Let me add," Jeff said, "that the sultan's participation in the financing will be completely anonymous. We're doing it through one of his off-off-shore corporations." He spread his hands, palms up, in the international gesture of helplessness. "As for the controversy, that's not for me to say. I try very hard not to get involved in politics."
"Speaking of which," Jack said, "have you decided whether you're going to his birthday, yet?"
This would be the President's birthday, thought Nick. Heather had mentioned it. A big affair, on the South Lawn of the White House. It was being done as a benefit, of course, for homeless children. These days you couldn't just throw a party for yourself.
"I don't know," Jeff said with an air of exhaustion. "I don't know yet. I just don't."
"It's tomorrow, Jeff."
"Yes it is. Maybe I'll be there. I don't know. The whole thing to me is very… sad." Once again — Nick was dazzled. The death of thousands of Glutanese had been displaced by a discussion of whether Jeff was going to attend a party for a President who had disappointed him by not staying as a guest at his house, all because the press was making a thing out of how he was star-struck by Hollywood. Yet clearly Jeff was a man of sensitivity: he had extended to Nick the professional courtesy of asking one mass murderer if he had any objection to co-sponsoring a movie with another mass murderer. In a crazy, mixed-up world, Nick reflected, it amounted to manners.
"So," Jeff said, "would that be a problem for you?"
BLOODY SULTAN AND TOBACCO COMPANIES TEAM UP IN MOVIE DEAL.
Nick sighed. "I'd better run it by my people."
"Of course," Jeff said, sounding disappointed.
Nick sensed that he was not used to being told, I'll get back to you.
"And those numbers," Jeff said, setting down his cup of ginseng. "You'll want to run those by your people too," in a tone of mild, but unmistakable disparagement.
It was time, Nick reckoned, for some counter-pecker flexing. A forty-eight-billion-dollar industry had no apologies to make for the size of its penis.
"Of course," Nick smiled, "those numbers are completely out of line. Especially in light of the fact that we're being asked to participate in the venture with someone who's being called the Hitler of the South Pacific. Not that we get involved in politics, either."
Jeff stared. Jack finally broke the silence. "There's a lot that didn't come out in the press. He did offer to relocate them, first. And what did they do? Stuck a spear through his emissary. My understanding is that if you're a sultan, you just can't let that kind of behavior happen, cause pretty soon everybody's going to be in your face. It's not like being governor of, I don't know, Kansas."
"I think we're getting a little off the track here," Jeff said. "I personally can say that in my dealings with the sultan, he's been a very reasonable and sensitive individual. As for those numbers, we can get them down. We're all looking for comfort. At the same time, Nick, we have to be realistic. We're talking about two of the hottest stars in the business, supernovas. And some technical considerations. Like why they don't blow themselves up when they light up in a spaceship. We're still going to be talking serious money."
"Uh-huh," Nick said. "Of course we'll want everything all spelled out, contractually. Script approval. Brand of cigarettes, number of cigarettes smoked, spoken references to the cigarettes, specifically to how enjoyable they are to smoke. And so forth. In fact, for this kind of money, I'm certain that we'll want it specified how many puffs they take off each cigarette. Can Mace McQuade blow smoke rings?"
"I don't know," Jeff said. "I don't have that information."
"For this kind of money, we'd want smoke rings."
Jack said, "He learned how to scuba dive for Kraken. I don't see a problem learning to do smoke rings."
"Good," Nick said. "Because for the kind of money we seem to be talking about, my people would expect some very serious smoking in Sector Six."
"Let's see what we can work out," Jeff said. "We'll be in touch."
This time, Jack Bein remained behind with Jeff. Stepping across the fish pond, Nick felt like one of the people in the James Bond movies who, having displeased Number One, are dropped through the trapdoor into the shark pool; but he made it to the elevators without being nibbled to death by expensive carp.
Back at the Encomium, there were urgent messages from the Captain, BR, Heather, Polly, Jeannette, and Jack Bein. He wasn't sure whose to return first, but with phone messages, as with life, it's always prudent to give priority to the person paying your salary.
The Captain was out of the hospital, but sounded as though he should be back in it. He was not in a good way.
"I assume you heard this… grotesque news," he said. Nick said he'd been in a meeting all morning with Jeff Megall. The Captain didn't even ask how that was going.
"Finisterre?"
"Means end of the earth, in French," the Captain said, pausing to swallow something. Nitroglycerin? "That's appropriate. Gomez O'Neal reported in last night. One of his Senate people finally dug it out. Wasn't easy, or cheap. The son of a bitch is going to introduce a bill by the end of the week mandating that cigarette packages carry a skull and crossbones."
"Ouch," Nick said. Of course — the Hispanic housekeeper. A war
ning that even non-English speakers could understand. Should have been able to see it coming a mile away. Was he losing his touch?
"We're going to look like rat poison," the Captain said. "You better get back on the first flight home."
He called BR. He wasn't taking the news as emotionally as the Captain, but he was on edge. There was a definite smell of paranoia in the air. The first thing he asked was if Nick was on cellular. Even after Nick assured him that he was on a ground line, BR refused to reveal how, precisely, Gomez had come by this gruesome intelligence, but he did say that it was solid. Furthermore, he told Nick, Finisterre had gotten Representative Lamont C. King of Texas — one of the more conservative boll weevils in the Congress — to co-sponsor the bill in the House. An odd couple. King loathed Finisterre; but Finisterre sat on the Military Base Closings Commission.
"We did a quick and dirty whip count," BR said, "showing the bill will pass. Don Stookey is predicting a twenty-five percent drop in all tobacco stocks within a week."
"Ouch," Nick said.
"It's going to get pretty hairy," BR said. "You better get back on the next flight."
Nick called Heather. He hoped she hadn't called about this. She hadn't.
"Two FBI agents were here to see me," she said in a strange tone of voice. "They were asking questions."
"That's what FBI agents do," Nick said. "It's their job. They're trying to find the people who tried to kill me."
"They wanted to know how well I knew you."
"Oh?"
"They stopped just short of asking if we'd slept together. Exactly how well do you know Mr. Naylor? There were two of them. A good cop and a bad cop. The bad cop did most of the talking. Monmaney. Handsome, if your taste runs to wolves. He wanted to know quote what sort of person unquote you are."
"Well," Nick said, "I suppose there's nothing too unusual in that."
"He asked if you were especially ambitious."
"Ambitious?"
"Uh-huh. They also wanted to know if I thought you were still quote psychologically grappling unquote with having told the world that the President was dead. Hello?"
"What did you tell them?"
"Obviously, I refused to tell them anything."
"You refused? Why?"
"Because, I'm a reporter. Reporters don't divulge things to FBI agents."
"Divulge? What's to divulge? They were just asking routine questions."
"You call those routine?"
"But now they're going to think you're protecting me."
"I'm not protecting you. I'm protecting a principle."
"But why couldn't you just tell them the truth? That's a principle, isn't it?"
"Listen to Mr. There's No Link Between Smoking and Disease. Honestly. Hello?"
"I'm here," Nick sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
"Why are you getting so worked up? You sound…"
"What?"
"Guilty."
"Guilty? Guilty of what? Covering myself with nicotine patches? I almost died!"
"Calm down. They're just fishing. They don't have anything." Pause. "Do they?"
"Heather," Nick said, "what are you talking about?"
"Hey, I don't know why the FBI is asking questions like these."
"Well you might be a little more skeptical. Jesus, most reporters I know are so skeptical they don't believe in anything. Except Mother Teresa, and some I know think she's on the take."
"Hold on. How did Mother Teresa enter into a conversation about the outraged principles of a tobacco lobbyist?"
"Thank you," Nick said sullenly. "You're really being tremendously supportive today."
"I’m going to help. By writing about this."
Nick said, "You're what?"
"We'll put the FBI on the defensive. Let them explain why they're harassing kidnap victims. Politically Correct persecution. Escalation in the continuing vilification of tobacco. Tobacco as the new evil empire. I'm surprised you hadn't thought of that. It's a great story."
"You want to write about this?"
"I have to write about this."
"And tell everyone that I'm,… I'm,… I'm under suspicion by the FBI? Uh-uh. No thank you. I think not. Hello? Heather? Heather, this conversation is off the record. Heather?"
"Stop being so paranoid. This will be very positive for your side. Now, have they approached you directly yet? Hello?"
He called Polly. She sounded alarmed.
"Nick," she said, "thank God. I've been trying to reach you. Uh, you're not on cellular are you? Good, because the FBI came to see me yesterday. They… "
… had asked her the same questions as Heather. Now Nick was paranoid. He knew the FBI was good, but how did they know about Heather, and Polly? How did they know all this personal stuff?
"Don't worry," Polly said. "I didn't tell them anything."
"What do you mean?"
"Is there anything I can do? Marty Berlin says the lawyer to have is Geoff Aronow. He's at Arnold and Porter. Expensive, but really good."
"Polly…" But Nick was too morally exhausted to proclaim his innocence twice in an hour. Then it occurred to him that if the FBI was listening in on this conversation — and God knows they were able to listen in on ground lines, too — he'd better at least go through the motions of being outraged. Yet Polly, dear Polly, only made it worse by continuing to say that she didn't care, it didn't matter, she was behind him 110 percent. If there was a phrase to titillate the tappers, surely it was that, from a woman: I'm behind you 110 percent.
Jeannette hadn't been questioned by the FBI, thank God. She'd called because she'd wanted to "do a quick mind-meld" with him on the Finisterre bombshell. She was wondering if it wouldn't make sense to leak it themselves ahead of Finisterre's announcement, so that they could give it their own spin: Pitiful, isn't it, that Senator Finisterre, in order to get people's minds off the fact that he's getting divorced yet again, is grandstanding with this hysterical nonsense, and in the process, insulting the intelligence of the American people by treating them like illiterate rats? Not bad, Nick thought. Smart, Jeannette. He complimented her. She purred, "I have a good mentor."
"By the way," he said, sounding suavely casual — no sense in BR freaking out at a time like this over one of his employees being under suspicion—"the FBI is apparently poking around asking dumb personal questions."
"What jerks," she said.
"Yeah, but do me a favor. If they come to you, tell them everything."
"Everything?" she laughed.
"Well," Nick said, "by way of the facts. I don't have anything to hide from them."
"Get an early flight back," she sizzled. "I want you."
Nick was zipping up his garment bag when Jack Bein called, aggrieved that nearly an hour had gone by without Nick's having returned his call. In a city where everything took forever, forty-five minutes was an eternity.
"Jeff thought the meeting went really well, and," Jack said, with the air of announcing the winner of a lottery, "he wants you to come to dinner tonight at his home. Normally, Jeff doesn't invite new clients to eat with him at home. He's a very private person. It's a sign of how much he respects you. It'll be just you, Fiona, and Mace. Plus Jerry Gornick and Voltan Zeig, the producers. He's serving something very special. I can never get the name of it straight, I'm not very good at Japanese — I better get better, right? — but it's transparent sushi. They bring it all the way up from the bottom of the Mariana Trench. From like thousands of feet down, where the really strange creatures are. Jurassic squid. You know, those things with eyeballs on the end of their antennae? Frankly I'm not so crazy for it. Personally, I like fish you can't see through, but it's incredibly rare, and you cannot get this stuff in even the best restaurants. Jeff has a connection through Sumitashi International, which you didn't hear from me about. Usually, Jeff only serves it if like Ovitz or Eisner are coming, so it's a terrific tribute to his feelings for you."
Nick explained that, hono
red as he was, he'd just been called back to Washington on urgent business. There was a long pause. Jack sounded mortally wounded. "Nick, I don't know how to put this, but what could be more important than this?"
The bellman was knocking on the door. His flight left in — Jesus— fifty-five minutes. "Trust me, Jack, it's big. I'll call you later, from my coast."
20
The conversation over the table by the fake fireplace at Bert's was strictly sotto voce today. Nick, Polly, and Bobby Jay hunched inward, like revolutionaries discussing bombs in a Paris cafe.
Bobby Jay was livid over this news about Finisterre. When he was governor of Vermont, Finisterre had pushed through a very tough anti-handgun bill — as far as SAFETY was concerned — requiring a forty-eight-hour waiting period and limiting purchases to one per week. Now that he'd bought himself a Senate seat with family money, he could inflict his Neo-Puritanism on the national scene.
"There's nothing wrong," Bobby Jay said, crunching into a large Italian pepper, squirting a bit of fiery green juice onto Polly's dress, "with that little buck-toothed son of a bitch that a hundred grains of soft lead couldn't set right."
Much as it did Nick's heart good to get such sympathy, Bobby Jay's reaction seemed a tad extreme, especially for a born-again Christian.
"Do you have any ideas for me," Nick said, "short of assassinating him?" Nick pulled the carnation out of the vase and examined it closely.
"What are you doing?" Polly said.
"Checking for bugs. As long as we're discussing shooting U.S. senators."
Bobby Jay took the flower and spoke into it. "I have the highest regard for Senator Ortolan K. Finisterre."
"He's just in a bad mood," Polly said, "because another mail carrier went berserk this week and turned a post office into a slaughterhouse. By the way, I meant to ask you — how was he able to legally purchase a grenade launcher?"
"Do I get on your case every time some drunk teenager runs over a Nobel laureate?" Bobby Jay said. "And by the way, pepper juice doesn't come out."
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