Spellbinder

by Collin Wilcox

  Flournoy nodded curtly. “If you put it like that, then—yes—that’s my vote.”

  Also nodding—still smiling—Holloway turned to Reynolds. “What, about you, Clifton? How do you vote?” Asking the question, Holloway watched his publicity chief steal a quick, covert glance at Flournoy. The two were remarkably similar: lean and hungry men, cold-eyed disciples of the Great God Success, Mammon in modern dress. If Caesar had his Cassius and his Brutus, then Austin Holloway must surely have Flournoy and Reynolds.

  Because, most certainly, they served him faithfully only so long as his words and his images generated the money by which they measured their success—Flournoy with his stock portfolio, Reynolds with his expensive tastes in women, and cars, and sailboats and clothes.

  After a final look of subtle defiance cast at his counterpart across the table, Reynolds said quietly, “I agree with you, Austin. It’s a gamble. But I say let’s do it. Let’s take the chance.”

  Holloway paused a last long, grave moment, as if deciding how to break the tie. Then, finally, he nodded. It was a bogus bit of business, calculated to save Flournoy’s face. Now, gravely, he leaned forward and drew the contract to him, at the same time taking a golden desk pen from its crystal holder, placed at his right hand especially for this small ceremony. He turned to the last page, signed quickly, then pushed the contract toward Flournoy.

  “You set it up, Howard. They want to get on with it, I’m told. They’ve waited for two weeks, to see how much interest the China Crusade is generating. Now they’re ready to go. As I understand it, Clayton Brill himself will do the interview.”

  “Clayton Brill!” Pleasantly surprised, Reynolds nodded, smugly pleased. “Wonderful.”

  Ignoring the remark, still speaking to Flournoy, Holloway said, “They were talking about tomorrow afternoon. Here, in my office. If so, it’s agreeable to me. Tell them that I’ll only wax eloquent on the subject of the China Crusade. Which is, as I said, what interests them. And tell them also that my schedule doesn’t permit more than just the one time slot, at just the one place—my office. Be sure and stress that.”

  Gathering the contract together, coldly ignoring Reynolds’ smug self-satisfaction, Flournoy said, “Why just your office?”

  “Because,” Holloway answered, “that’s the big thing I learned the last time they interviewed me. They got me unsettled, moving me all around, hither and thither, with them calling the shots, and us just going along, willy-nilly. It got me off balance, and I never quite got my equilibrium—never quite got my feet under me, so to speak. This time, it’ll be different.” Careful to include both men equally in his smile, he lifted his hands in easy, graceful benediction. “I’ll promise you, here and now, that it’ll be different this time. You’ll see.”

  “I’m not quite sure I understand your question, sir.” As if puzzled, Holloway frowned down at the desk, at the same time stealing a glance at the small glass-and-gold desk clock, the gift from Billy Graham. They’d been talking for more than an hour. The final tape would edit down to eighteen minutes, according to the contract. Yet Clayton Brill showed no signs of winding down. With the door closed and the lights glaring, the office was stifling, even though the air conditioning had been running constantly. Under his shirt, Holloway could feel sweat stick on his skin. His arms were aching. His chest was tightening. His heart was protesting, rousing the demon within, his constant enemy.

  “Let me rephrase the question, then,” Clayton Brill said, smiling as he slightly lifted his chin, presenting his profile for camera one. “What I’d like to know, Mr. Holloway, is precisely how this, ah, crusade will be organized. Will it be a media blitz of the kind you use so successfully in America? Or will it be a grass roots effort, similar to your efforts in Africa? In other words, the question I’m asking is how you view your, ah—” A short, ironic pause. Then: “—your, ah, marketing problem, in China.” As he spoke, Brill’s easy smile twisted to a subtle smirk.

  Once more, Holloway dropped his eyes to the desk. The time for their final efforts had come—the contest’s last, decisive phase. So far, they’d fought to a draw. But now, perhaps sensing that his opponent was tiring, Brill was coming on stronger. His smile was more obviously malicious, his Ivy League voice was more plainly derisive. In the final minutes, Brill was trying for a knockout.

  Lifting his own chin, Holloway let a moment of silence pass while he stared straight into Brill’s clear blue eyes. Then, beginning slowly, pitching his voice to a deep, solemn register, he said, “In the first place, sir, I should like to take the liberty of correcting your Choice of words, if I may.” Still staring into his opponent’s eyes, he let another moment of silence gravely pass. It was a ritual pause, a prelude to his final effort, winner take all. In response, acknowledging the challenge, Brill mockingly inclined his head in courtly acceptance, then raised his eyes once more to camera level. Now the other man was projecting an air of faintly amused contempt.

  “When you say ‘marketing problem,’” he continued, “you give the impression that we’re engaged in some kind of a public relations effort, instead of a crusade to spread the teachings of Christ throughout the world. ‘Media blitz,’ I’m sorry to say, conveys the same impression. But the fact is—the truth is, Mr. Brill—that missionary work has been going forward in China for hundreds and hundreds of years. Many, many men and women of all the Christian faiths have united to bring the word of God to the Chinese. And their efforts have been successful. There are millions of Chinese Christians. But that’s not enough, Mr. Brill. We want hundreds of millions. God wants hundreds of millions of Christians. He wants a world full of Christians, Mr. Brill. And that’s the reason God gave us the wisdom to create the electronic miracle of TV, of which we, right this moment, are availing ourselves. Because God knows, Mr. Brill, just as you and I know—and all the millions who are seeing us, right now—we all know that, until we succeed in our efforts to make the whole world Christian, we’ll never be free from wars, and pestilence, and starvation. Because wars are caused by the have-nots in this world. Wars are caused by the undernourished, underpaid masses of men and women without hope, who covet what Christians have. And that’s the reason, Mr. Brill, that God has commanded me to take His word to the far corners of the world, including China. And that is why—” He turned toward camera one, staring solemnly into the lens, “That is why I shall obey His command.”

  With the small, sardonic smile still teasing the corners of his mouth, Brill said, “I’m not precisely sure that I agree with your view of history, Mr. Holloway. If I remember correctly, World War II was started by Germany and Japan. I’d hardly call them undernourished nations.”

  “I wouldn’t either, Mr. Brill. But I would call them Godless nations. Nazism was a heathen, pagan creed whose first mission was to destroy the Christian church in Germany. And Japan, of course, is Shinto.”

  As if he were tolerantly amused, Clayton Brill smiled. “That’s probably something of an oversimplification, Mr. Holloway. As I read history, it seems to me that—”

  “If I may interrupt you, sir, I should like to state that, yes, it’s probably an oversimplification. You’re right. Because that’s my job, Mr. Brill. That’s the work the Lord has marked out for me. I try to make things simple, so that ordinary people can understand what it is that God means them to understand. I try to help ordinary people find faith and strength and dignity.

  “You, on the other hand, have chosen to make things more complicated. Your trade is asking questions, Mr. Brill. You ask the questions; and you leave others—like me—to help ordinary, everyday people find the answers.”

  For a moment Clayton Brill sat motionless, still with his chin lifted, still posing for the camera. Then, slowly, he began to smile—a wry, good-humored twisting of his handsome mouth. He turned to the director, and drew a forefinger across his throat. The director repeated the gesture, and a moment later the small red lights under the three cameras winked out. The big white TV lights mercifully died.

/>   Letting himself sink slowly back into his leather armchair, Holloway closed his eyes and brought his hands up to his temples. Thank God, it was ended. Thank God and thank Clayton Brill. In the sudden bustling babble of voices, he heard Brill speaking again. Opening his eyes with great effort, he saw the commentator still smiling. It was an off-camera smile, genially amused.

  “In the vernacular, Mr. Holloway, you are something else. Honest to God, I’ve crossed swords with some of the greatest orators around, but there isn’t one that can top you. I mean it. I’m a fan.” Now the other man paused as his expression turned quizzical, his smile more familiar, man-to-man. “I would like to know, though—between us—whether you really believe all that—that stuff.”

  Gathering himself, pushing himself more securely straight in his chair, he decided not to return the smile. Instead, speaking slowly and somberly, he said, “Thank you, Mr. Brill. I’m a fan of yours, too. If I can help it, I never miss Sixty Minutes. Even though—” Now he permitted a small smile, calculated for its gentle smugness. “Even though you broadcast on Sunday.”

  As he spoke, he saw Elton, Flournoy and Reynolds pushing through the press of technicians and equipment that crowded the office. Once more he closed his eyes, sinking back in his chair. With the battle done, and the laurels won, his faithful squires were coming to bear him from the field.

  “I’ve got to admit,” Flournoy said, “that I was wrong. You did it, Austin. You beat him at his own game. If they air at least part of that last segment, we’ve got a winner.”

  “This afternoon,” Reynolds said, “I’ll call Brill’s producer. I’ll tell him that we’re expecting them to air at least part of the last segment, and that I’m sending him a letter to that effect. There are FCC regulations governing proportional content, and if they don’t run at least part of the segment, I think we’d have something actionable.”

  “Don’t get their backs up, though,” Flournoy cautioned. “Don’t mention the FCC. Not directly.”

  Impatiently, Reynolds shook his head. “Naturally. But, nevertheless, the implication is there.”

  “I thought,” Elton said, “that Clayton Brill actually seemed very nice. Very generous, really, there at the end. Didn’t you, Dad?”

  Holloway sat silently, staring at his son’s heavily jowled moon face with its eyes like raisins pressed into white, pudgy dough. For someone so devious and so suspicious, Elton could sometimes be naive. Stupid, and naive.

  For a moment Holloway didn’t reply, but instead sat staring at the ruins of the lunch they’d finished. Finally, sighing as he propped his elbows on the table, he said quietly, “Brill’s a professional, Elton. Just like me. He gives credit for a job well done—just like me. But that doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t’ve chopped me up into little bitty pieces, if he could have pulled it off. He was out for my scalp, no question. And I suppose he might lift it yet, depending on how they edit the tape.”

  “Maybe they’ll let us see the final cut,” Reynolds said, pushing himself away from the table. “I’m going to make that call now, I think, rather than wait. If they decide to air it this Sunday, which is a possibility, they’ve probably already seen the video tape.” Standing now, he nodded to Holloway. “As soon as I get something, I’ll get back to you, Austin. Where’ll you be?”

  “In my office, for a couple of hours.”

  “Shall I leave a message with Marge, then?”

  “Leave the message,” Holloway said, “in case I’m taking a nap. Which is what I intend to do.”

  Fatuously, Reynolds nodded. “Good idea. After that performance, you should rest. A well-deserved rest, I might add.” He nodded again, smiled a little too brightly, and turned to the door of the executive dining room.

  “I’d better go, too,” Elton said, also rising. “I’m auditioning a new group, for a guest shot. They’re all black, right out of the Deep South. Their lead singer has a voice like Diana Ross—and looks to match.”

  “Just make sure they’re not too hot,” Holloway cautioned. “We’ve got to strike a balance, remember. We want to appeal to the young people, without stirring the old people up. That’s important. It’s vital, in fact.”

  “And if you think you want to use them,” Flournoy said, “be sure to tell them that we choose their costumes. That’s important, too.”

  Annoyed, Elton frowned. “Of course. Naturally.” He turned and abruptly left the dining room. Slowly, Holloway allowed his head to sink in his hands, eyes closed. Across the table, he could hear Flournoy shifting in his chair. It was easy to imagine Flournoy’s expression: watchful, calculating, concerned. Because every time his heart faltered—every time he allowed himself to reveal the exhaustion that could so suddenly overcome him—Flournoy saw his own future cloud over.

  Now he heard Flournoy softly, tentatively clear his throat. Flournoy had lingered until they were alone because he had something on his mind—something that, to Flournoy, was important. Meaning, probably, that some financial decision must be made.

  “Austin? Are you feeling all right?”

  Meaning, did he feel up to discussing business.

  He drew a deep breath, opened his eyes and raised his head. “I’m just tired, that’s all. I’m all right. What is it?”

  “I—ah—” Flournoy momentarily hesitated, deciding how to make his point. Then, speaking crisply and decisively, he said, “I wanted to talk to you about something that’s been bothering Mitchell. Did he talk to you about it?”

  What’s bothering him? Is it money? Does he want a raise?”

  Flournoy permitted himself a small, frosty smile. “No, it’s not money. I’m sure you could pay Mitchell nothing whatever, and he’d still be working for you.”

  “Is it Katherine?”

  “No.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Well—” Flournoy frowned. “Well, it’s probably nothing. Probably nothing at all. Which is the reason I decided to sit on it, until after this Sixty Minutes thing was over.”

  “What is it, Howard?” he asked quietly. “Never mind the preamble. Just tell me what it is.”

  “Well, it seems that there’s someone who’s been—harassing us.”

  “Harassing us?”

  “Yes. It started three days ago, Mitchell says. It seems that there’s a man—a young man, Mitchell thinks, judging by his voice—who’s been calling three or four times a day, demanding to see you. Or, at least, talk to you.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a problem. People are always trying to see me. You should know that.”

  “I do know that. But usually they want to kiss the hem of the robe.” Plainly pleased with his metaphor, Flournoy smiled again. Then: “But this is different, according to Mitchell. And I agree. The last time he called—just this morning—Mitchell put him through to me.” As he spoke, Flournoy drew a miniature cassette player from his attaché case and placed it on the table. “Since I was forewarned, I was able to record the conversation. Do you want to hear it?”

  Aware of a sudden emptiness in his solar plexus, Holloway realized that he was unconsciously bracing himself against the table, leaning away from the cassette player, as if the machine could harm him.

  Because, in truth, the machine might menace him. In the modern world, constantly monitored, danger was first perceived by electronic devices. First came the beep, then the disembodied voice from a tape. Then the fear began—as it was beginning now.

  With an effort, he nodded, then gestured across the table. “Go ahead. Play it.”

  Momentarily Flournoy hesitated, as if the response concerned him. Then, diffidently, he pressed a button. A whirring began, followed by Flournoy’s voice:

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. Who’s this?”

  “This is Howard Flournoy. Who am I talking to, please?”

  “My name doesn’t matter, Mr. Flournoy. I could give you a name, but it wouldn’t be the right one. So why bother?”

  “Just as you like. What can I do for you?”<
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  “I want to talk with Austin Holloway. I understand that you can arrange that.”

  “Possibly. But first I have to know why you want to talk to him.”

  “It’s a private matter. A very private matter.”

  “If you won’t leave your name, and you won’t state your business, you can’t expect me to help you. Mr. Holloway is a very famous man. And he’s a very busy man. People are constantly trying to get through to him. If we let it happen, Mr. Holloway wouldn’t have time for anything else.”

  A brief silence. Then: “The information I have is worth a lot of money to Mr. Holloway. A lot of money. Tell him that. And tell him that, when he knows what the information is, he’ll be glad I didn’t talk to anyone but him. Understand?”

  Another silence, longer this time. Finally: “What you’re really saying is that you’re trying to blackmail Mr. Holloway. This is a blackmail attempt. Am I right?”

  “Yes, Mr. Flournoy, that’s exactly right. You’ve got it.”

  “Are you aware that you’re committing a crime?”

  “Yes, Mr. Flournoy. I’m aware of that.”

  “It doesn’t bother you—doesn’t concern you?”

  “No, Mr. Flournoy it doesn’t. Not at all.”

  “Then you’re a fool.”

  “No, Mr. Flournoy. You’re the fool, if you don’t take this seriously, and tell Mr. Holloway to talk with me. Because my patience is running out.”

  “How should he get in touch with you?”

  “He can’t get in touch with me. I’ll call you, tomorrow. And you’ll put me through to Holloway—or else.”

  “You’ll have to give me a name—something that I can pass on to Aus—to Mr. Holloway. Otherwise, you’re simply wasting your time and mine.”

  Another silence. Then, softly, the voice said, “Just tell him that James will be calling.”

  The line clicked dead.

  Holloway watched Flournoy lean forward, switch off the cassette player and return it to his attaché case. During the half minute of silence, Flournoy kept his eyes averted. It was a characteristically diplomatic touch, the product of all the years they’d spent facing each other across so many different tables, in so many different rooms. Flournoy was, after all, an employee. Should it become necessary, he must allow his employer to save face—to compose himself in the face of adversity, or even defeat, without scrutiny from a subordinate.