Kill and Tell

by William Kienzle

  “Well,” Hoffman was warming to his story, “the driver panicked. He figured everyone would think it was his fault the Vikings were late. So he opened his window and shouted to a traffic cop, ‘Hey! I’ve got the Vikings!’ And the cop yelled back, ‘I’ve got the Lions and six!’”

  Al laughed uproariously. It was a funny story, although perhaps not that funny.

  “Easy, Al,” Hoffman cautioned, “we don’t want to attract attention.”

  Instantly, Al reduced the volume of his laughter, but maintained an appreciative chuckle.

  Experience had proven to Hoffman that one of the more perfect places for a clandestine meeting was this small restaurant almost across the street from The Building. Employees of The Company, at least those who worked in The Building, would never dream of eating here. There were too many satisfying places to eat housed in The Building.

  And if one wanted to dine outside The Building, there were many quality restaurants nearby, among them Fisher 666 and Topinka’s. No one from The Company ever ate here. Hoffman counted on this. He wanted no one from The Company to be aware of this meeting.

  “By the way, Al,” Hoffman said, after Al retrieved control of himself, “how are you fixed for tickets for Sunday’s game?”

  “We’re sort of praying it will be a sellout and they’ll televise it locally,” Al replied with a touch of humility.

  “Nonsense! Take mine.”

  “Oh, sir, I couldn’t—”

  “Of course you can. You’ll like them. They’re just beneath Billy Ford’s box. I’ll have my secretary get them to you later today.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you, sir.”

  Hoffman could have been the author of the paraphrase, “There is no such thing as a free game.” In fact, he was about to collect for it.

  “Speaking of later today,” Hoffman came to the point, “is everything set up for your meeting with Chase?”

  “Yes, sir.” Al appeared confident.

  “What’s the agenda?”

  “The same two principal topics that will be considered at next week’s general board meeting: the Lemon Laws and our prime demographic target.”

  “Good! And you’ve got the stats I sent you?”

  “Yes, sir. I have those and a few supporting statistics I was able to dig up myself.”

  “Good man! Who else will be at the meeting?”

  “Just my associate, Clem—”

  “Are you sure you can keep him in line? We can’t have anything—anything—go wrong at this meeting. It will be hard enough to convince Chase to adopt this position even in the face of a united front. One dissenting voice, and—”

  “You have absolutely nothing to be concerned about, sir.” Al very seldom interrupted a superior but, he judged, this interruption would be both justified and appreciated. “Clem and I have worked together on similar projects before. And I’ve been over this with him exhaustively. He’ll follow my lead. No doubt of it. Clem’s a good Company man and he . . . uh . . . knows his place.”

  Hoffman smiled. “Good! Anybody who knows his place in The Company should live to see that place constantly upgraded.”

  Hoffman briefly contrasted the young man who had so rashly won a small victory in this morning’s racquetball match and Al here, who seemed to have learned well the art of playing the proper supportive role. The latter was sure to follow Hoffman up the corporate ladder. While the former was likely to experience a stagnating career. No matter how much high pot he had exhibited to the recruiters.

  “Anybody else scheduled for the meeting?”

  Al hesitated. “Clem and I are all we really need. We’ll have the stats, and together we should be able to handle any argument he might raise.”

  “I don’t like it!”

  In which case, Al didn’t like it either.

  “Chase may object that the two of you represent only one department. He may demand, in effect, a second opinion from someone other than your department.”

  “But sir, our department is the only one involved in the policy decisions of both those questions.”

  “No,” Hoffman said thoughtfully, “we’ve got to anticipate that possibility. If we provide another—still supportive—opinion, that may just be the final nail in the coffin. But who . . .?”

  There followed a pregnant silence during which both men sipped at their coffee.

  “How about someone from P.R.?” Al offered.

  “No. It’s too late to try to find just the right one. And almost anyone in P.R. is just as likely to raise objections as Chase is. No, that won’t do.”

  Having failed once, Al decided he’d better retire from this game with only one strike. It was his preferred stratagem. Never chance striking out with a superior. If one try proved a failure, wait for word from the boss and then support that word for all you’re worth.

  “What about that guy from the ad agency? The one that services our Cheetah division?” Hoffman searched for a name. “You know: The guy who is such a complete horse’s ass . . . the one who spends all his time with jocks.”

  Al brightened. “Zaleski! Ziggy Zaleski!”

  “That’s it! That’s the one. No preparation needed with him. Just make sure you and Clem get the ball rolling.”

  “I know. I know. Once he sees the direction of the momentum,” Al began to anticipate the sports jargon, “Ziggy will be sure to go with the flow.”

  They laughed.

  “Just one final thought, sir.” Al grew grave. “Do you think we have set this up sufficiently? I mean, this will be the most serious and far-reaching decision for Mr. Chase in his entire time with The Company so far. Do you think he trusts me well enough to follow my advice? I mean, this is going to be a big step for him to take.”

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  The waitress deposited the check for two coffees. Hoffman ignored it. It would be Al’s privilege to once more clean up after Hoffman.

  “You’re top man in your department,” Hoffman continued. “I made sure Chase saw your file when I recommended you to him. And since then, you have served him well and, in most instances, even though they were comparatively insignificant matters, given him good reliable advice. No doubt about it: He is set up for the sting.

  “And you don’t have to be concerned about covering your ass. When the shit hits the fan after next week’s board meeting, I’ll make sure none of it soils you.”

  Hoffman picked up his briefcase and slid out of the booth. “After your meeting with Chase, be sure to report to me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Al left a quarter tip and took the check to the cash register. He would wait till Hoffman was well inside The Building before following him.

  As Hoffman crossed Grand Boulevard, he shivered. Damn! It was that blasted racquetball match followed by the chill he’d gotten driving to work. By God, if he came down with something, that young shit would pay a suffer price than he already owed for beating his superior!

  8.

  You’re not Buffalo Bill, for crissakes! You’re not Chief Sitting Bull! You’re not Frank Butler! And you’re not Wild Bill Hickok! Hell, you’re not even Charlie Davenport! Which is who you’re supposed to be! So tell me, willya: Whatinhell are you doin’ in Annie Get Your Gun?”

  Nate Goodman, theatrical agent for, among others, Angie Mercury, was almost shouting.

  “Calm down, Nate,” said Mercury, “or you’ll throw an embolism.”

  “What show is that from?”

  “What?”

  “‘Embolism!’ What kind of word is that? That you should know from an embolism! It must have come from some show!”

  Mercury smiled. “‘General Hospital.’ I was on it a few years back. I was a doctor.”

  “A doctor, maybe. Charlie Davenport, never!”

  They were in the ample auditorium of the Community House in Birmingham, one of Detroit’s many affluent suburbs. There was a break in this early rehearsal of Annie Get Your Gun. Most of the cast was scattered about
the auditorium, sipping coffee, smoking, silently going over the script. Mercury was seated in the front row. Nate, who had arrived only a short time before, was at his side.

  “It’s work,” Mercury said, almost apologetically.

  “What, work! A hundred a performance and two weekends open-ended? That’s not work! That’s a benefit!”

  Mercury shook his head. “Nate, what makes you so sore? That I got this gig myself, or that you’re getting 15 percent of a hundred bucks?”

  “Both! Plus, you are stooping to what is, in essence, an amateur production!”

  “C’mon, Nate. These kids are equity. You know as well as I that I couldn’t be in it if it weren’t a professional production.”

  “Professional! Look about you: These people are still fighting acne!”

  “Check their union cards, Nate: They’re pros.”

  “I know what they look like, with or without their cards. And so do the producers around town. Angie, this is so bad I don’t even want to see it in your file. Can’t I get it through that pancake makeup of yours that mere work is not always good? In this business, you’re either going up or down. And Annie Get Your Gun in Birmingham’s Community House is not your stairway to paradise!”

  “You don’t understand, Nate.” How, thought Mercury, could he understand? “I have another source of income that hasn’t got anything to do with this business. But to get that dough, or to keep peace around the house—or both, I don’t know—I’ve got to keep working. This money comes in, I got to be able to give chapter and verse of what I’m in, what I’m rehearsing, and my fond hopes for a rosy future. I don’t do that and it’s not so much the money stops as there’s just the devil to pay. Believe me, Nate, I’ve got to keep my hand in, accepting whatever comes along. I got no choice.”

  Goodman slumped even further in his seat. “All I know is you’re not doing you, me, or your career any favors!”

  The director reentered the auditorium. “OK, gang! Let’s take it from where we left off. And please, please, let’s see if we can get through this alive!”

  Mercury grinned and leaned toward Goodman. He spoke just loudly enough to be heard at close range. “You wouldn’t believe this rehearsal, Nate. Murphy’s Law has been overactive.”

  “I could believe it,” Goodman said glumly.

  “In one scene,” Mercury went on in spite of, or perhaps because of, Goodman’s dourness, “Annie Oakley is supposed to perform a brand new trick in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. It’s all done offstage, of course. But she’s supposed to ride around on a motorcycle balancing on her head and shooting eggs off poodles’ heads.”

  “I think I would prefer that onstage,” Goodman said to no one.

  “So, behind the flats, Buffalo Bill announces this feat and yells, ‘Annie Oakley, are you ready?’ She yells back, ‘Ready!’

  “‘Then, Go!’ yells Bill. The sound effects gal hits the tape switch—and we hear, ‘Chug-a-chug-a-chug—wooh-wooh!’ It’s a train effect!” Mercury doubled up with laughter.

  Goodman’s lip curled. “I could give you a better example? You see, it’s like I been telling you all along: amateurs!”

  “OK, gang! We’re going to start from where Annie’s little brother and sisters are on stage.”

  There was a scramble as three fully grown, but extremely young-looking adults clambered on stage. The man—boy—wore a scruffy shirt and jeans. The girls wore what appeared to be loose-fitting potato sacks.

  “OK, now,” the director instructed, “you’re locking Annie’s rifle case. The two girls try to keep the keys inside their dresses. When the keys fall to the floor the second time, Little Jake puts them in his pocket. And,” he cued Little Jake, “you say: ‘I’ll keep ’em. I got pockets.’”

  Little Jake recited with little emotion.

  “And then, they fall to the floor again . . . you do have a hole in your pocket, don’t you, Little Jake?”

  Little Jake, bored, nodded.

  “And then, Dolly makes her entrance and sees the keys.

  “Everybody ready?”

  The three actors began to be busy working with an imaginary guncase with a real set of keys.

  “I’ll keep the keys!” declared the first girl, tossing them down the neckline of her potato sack dress. The keys fell noisily to the floor.

  The second girl scooped up the fallen keys. “I’ll keep ’em,” she recited, “you’re too flat-chested!” She tossed them into her décolletage.

  And there they stayed.

  Everyone but the director virtually collapsed in laughter.

  The girl with the keys fixed firmly in her bosom performed a sort of wild disco dance until the keys finally dislodged and fell to the floor.

  “That’s what happens when you send a woman to do a girl’s job,” snickered Mercury.

  The director threw up his hands in a helpless gesture. “Some days you can’t make a nickel. This seems to be our day for coming up empty.

  “OK, everybody, let’s break for today. Be here at ten tomorrow morning. And Shirley: See if you can flatten your chest overnight.”

  Some of the cast left immediately; others milled about.

  “Sound engineer doesn’t know a bike from a train,” Goodman groused. “Girl with keys stuck in her shelf! This isn’t for you, Angie. You’re an actor! You’re a pro!”

  “And as for you, Nate,” Mercury said, in a rare show of assertiveness, “let’s keep things straight: You’re my agent! You work for me! I don’t work for you! Your job is not to tell me where I can’t work! Your job is to find me so many roles I’ll have a hard time trying to decide which one to accept!”

  “OK,” Goodman responded after a slight pause during which he appeared to have been taken aback. “What’s with the aggressive? It ain’t you, Angie. You don’t even play it good. Where’d you get it?”

  Mercury smiled and shrugged. Found out again. “West of Waco—just a B western—’59,1 think. I played the sheriff.”

  “Angie,” Goodman sighed, “I’ve seen actors and I’ve seen actors . . . but you take the cake. You’re the only guy I know who lives his entire life as written by somebody else.

  “But,” he hitched up his trousers over a pronounced pot belly, “you’ve got a point. Nay, you have motivated me. I’ll find you a better vehicle than Annie Get Your Gun or my name ain’t Swifty Lazar!”

  “That’s the spirit, Swifty!” Mercury slapped Goodman on the rump after the fashion of a coach with a footballer entering the fray. “Get out there and win one for Charlie Davenport!”

  Together, they walked across the street to the metered parking lot.

  “Whatcha driving?” Goodman scanned the lot for his car.

  “That Panther over there.” Mercury gestured toward a sleek black sports coupe.

  Goodman whistled. “Whatever ‘other source of income’ you got must be something! Since I get a slice of what you make in the business, I know if you bought a Panther with that income, you wouldn’t eat the rest of the year!”

  “Don’t try to figure it, Nate. You’ll only hurt your head.” Mercury waved and trotted toward his car.

  As he drove down Southfield toward Dearborn Heights, for a change—for a major change—Mercury did not turn on the radio. Instead, he became obsessed with the purposely lost racquetball games, the purposely lost card games, the generous check that came in each month, this damn luxury car.

  Damn! That guy permeates my life. Cindy and I might just as well be on welfare—high class welfare, but the dole nonetheless. Frank Hoffman is the reason I have to drag myself out of bed any morning he wants and play racquetball—no, lose at racquetball—when I’d rather be going slowly through the paper and having several leisurely cups of coffee.

  Hoffman is the reason I’m driving a car so big I can barely afford gas for it. Hoffman is the reason I have to look for and accept any acting job I can get, instead of waiting for the right role. It’s bad enough having to accept money from him without having to admit, u
nder his regular scrutiny, that I haven’t got any job at all.

  He swung off the Southfield Freeway onto Ford Road. Only a few miles from home.

  If it weren’t for Cindy, I’d never do it. How I yearn to beat that bastard at racquetball; beat him at poker; tear that damn check into shreds and throw it in his face; get rid of this damn gas guzzler—wouldn’t you know it had to be a product of The Company, and a none-too-gracious gift from Hoffman! A new car every year, always from The Company, courtesy of Frank Hoffman. A car we could never finance. A car so extravagant we couldn’t even keep it in gas without that damnable check! How could a certified bastard like Frank Hoffman have a sister as sweet as Cindy?

  Mercury pulled into his driveway. Cindy was raking leaves in the front yard.

  Mercury had always thought his wife to be one of the most attractive women he’d ever known. And, in his business, he had met some of the most beautiful women in the world. Even after twenty years of marriage, his opinion had not changed. His opinion, of course, was not entirely unbiased. But most students of feminine beauty would have agreed with him.

  Mercury had the relatively rare distinction in his field of never having been unfaithful to his wife. Undoubtedly if he had been, his brother-in-law probably would have had his legs broken. But that motivation was irrelevant and of no more importance than a further third-party annoyance. Mercury was faithful merely because he loved his wife and no one else in any comparable way. And he firmly believed that there had to be love or sex was meaningless.

  He left the Panther in the drive and walked deliberately toward Cindy. She had on gray slacks and a loose-fitting wool sweater. He admired her figure as he approached from the rear.

  Though the phrase meant nothing, hers was a figure that was classically described as “legs that don’t quit.” At five feet eight, she was only a couple of inches shorter than he. She maintained her trimness not by spa visits or exotic diets, but simply by eating abstemiously and getting a lot of healthy exercise in and around the house and lawn.