J. P. Flagrant went white. “Oh, my God, no, Mr. Bury!”
“I insist!” hissed Bury, looking deadly.
Flagrant got down on his knees. The young man got down on his knees. The secretary got down on her knees.
All three of them raised their hands in supplication. They said in chorus, “NOT J. WARBLER MADMAN!”
Out of the side of his mouth, Bury said to me. “We’ve got to have the man. He’s an artist beyond compare.” He stamped his foot.
I dived my hand into my coat as though I were about to draw a gun.
They screamed!
Pounding feet in the hall.
A huge, portly man in a purple pinstripe suit came rushing into the room. “What’s going on here?” he roared. He saw Bury. He flinched.
“These idiots,” said Bury, in a thin, acid voice, “are refusing the Rockecenter account. And, to you, Mr. Buhlshot, as chairman of FFBO, that should serve as Exhibit A!”
Mr. Buhlshot got down on his knees in an attitude of prayer. “Please, God, don’t cost us that account! Please, Mr. Bury!”
Flagrant wailed to Mr. Buhlshot, “He’s demanding we put J. Walter Madison on it!”
“Oh, my God,” said Mr. Buhlshot. He was wringing his hands in desperation. “Please don’t do that to us, Mr. Bury! On his last job for you, he wrecked all the international PR of the Republic of Patagonia! He caused a revolution! Every scrap of Octopus property was seized and nationalized! The president committed suicide! And J. Walter Madison did it all himself!”
Bury said out of the corner of his mouth to me. “It’s not working. Step back to the wall and cover me with your gun. This could get rough.”
I did what he said. They all screamed! Doors in the hall could be heard being slammed and hastily locked.
Bury said in a deadly voice, “You will not accede to these reasonable demands, Buhlshot?”
“No, my God, Bury! Have a heart! You could cost FFBO its reputation!”
“You will not let us have J. Walter Madison?”
Mr. Buhlshot, on his knees, hitched himself forward, bent over and began to lick Mr. Bury’s shoes. Bury stepped back. “You leave me only one alternative, Mr. Buhlshot.”
Bury stepped to the phone. He picked it up. He said, “Get me the Grabbe-Manhattan Bank.”
The four kneeling on the floor stared at him, unbelieving.
“Bury here. Put Mr. Caesar of the Delinquent Loan Department on please.”
Buhlshot screamed! “Oh, my God, Bury. Don’t call in the loans of FFBO! We’re in a cash deficiency!”
Bury was calmly waiting on the line for Mr. Caesar. I suddenly grasped the scene. Rockecenter owns Grabbe-Manhattan Bank! One of the biggest banks in the world! And it controls most of the other banks! What a ploy! I swelled with pride at being part of such an efficient colossus! But I kept my gun on them.
Buhlshot suddenly howled, “But all our loans aren’t delinquent!”
“They will be shortly,” said Bury.
“Wait! Wait! Wait!” said Buhlshot. “You’ve reached market saturation!”
Bury covered the phone mouthpiece with his hand.
“I’ll try to get him!” said Buhlshot.
The young man and the secretary prevented Flagrant from trying to open the window and jump out.
Buhlshot rushed off.
He came back in thirty seconds. He looked haggard. “Nobody knows where he is!”
A loudspeaker was calling all staff, all floors. It said, “An immediate inspiration conference is called in Hall Five!”
Staff began to crowd into the hall. An excited buzz of voices. Looks of shock when they heard the name J. Warbler Madman.
Buhlshot rushed among them. “I need an instant response! Where is J. Walter Madison? Come up with a slogan and you get a month’s paid vacation in the Bahamas!”
Bury was still holding his hand over the phone. He looked my way, slit-eyed. “I told you it might get rough,” he said. “But we’ve got to have that man!”
They were barking instant responses. “Death to Madison!” “(Bleep) Madison.” “Loan Madison five bucks today and lose your girl tomorrow!” “Position Madison as Number One above the Four Horsemen.” “Show Madison sitting laughing on a world in flames.” “Montage Madison killing his mother, but I think it’s been done.” “Two Madisons in the furnace is better than one in the fist.”
A high, clear voice cried, “Miss Dicey might know where he is!”
There was a rush. They got Miss Dicey out of a mop closet where she had been hiding and, passing her over the tops of their heads, dropped her into Flagrant’s office.
She was a frail-looking brunette, mostly eyes, and they stared at us in terror.
Buhlshot towered over her. “Miss Dicey! They say you were the last model to be used by J. Walter Madison. Where is he?”
She was shaking with fear.
“An all-expense tour to the top of the Washington Monument if you tell us,” wheedled Buhlshot.
Miss Dicey was trying to shrink into the floor and wasn’t making it.
“You’ll be fired unless you tell me this minute,” said Buhlshot.
“I promised not to!” screamed Miss Dicey, terror making her voice crack. “He knows you want to kill him and if I tell, he’ll come back and PR me! I know it! Even his ghost would be dangerous!”
Buhlshot snapped his fingers. Two young account executives in bright yellow afternoon dress stepped in. One picked up Miss Dicey’s wrists. The other picked up her ankles. They stretched her out horizontally between them. A third account executive went to the window and opened it wide. Fifty stories of space gaped. I went giddy.
The two account executives at her head and feet began to swing her back and forth, ready to sail her out into space when they got the arc going high enough.
“Wait! Wait!” said Buhlshot. “The lighting is all wrong! Get me a director from the Commercials Film Department!”
There was a scurry. A middle-aged man in a beret elbowed through the crowd. He was carrying a small megaphone. Somebody brought him a chair. It had Director across the back. A gaffer came in carrying lights. He set them up with rapidity and decision.
Buhlshot said to the girl, “Are you going to tell us where he is?”
She shook her head. “There is no fate worse than J. Walter Madison,” she said. Although she was frail and frightened, she meant it.
“Over to you, Lemley,” said Buhlshot to the director.
“All right,” said Director Lemley. “This is MOS—Middout Sound. I want violins!”
A violinist appeared and began to play “Hearts and Flowers.”
“Now, what I want here,” said Lemley, through his little megaphone, “is cool, detached naturalness. This isn’t Hollywood, you know. No mugging. And that goes for you, Miss Dicey. I want you to look perfectly natural and smile. The public has to WANT to buy the product. All right. Let’s make this a cut and print the first time. Film costs the Earth. All set? Lights! Camera!”
Somebody rushed in with a clapboard and said very rapidly, “JELO Ad. Shot One. Take One!” They slapped the top of the board and dashed out. Confusing as there was no camera.
“ACTION!” cried Mr. Lemley.
The two young men began to swing Miss Dicey back and forth in wider and wider arcs, glancing toward the window at the end of each swing toward it.
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” said Lemley. “Jesus Christ, Dicey, keep your god (bleeped) eyes open. How can you register with your eyes shut!”
“She fainted,” said one of the young men.
Buhlshot rose to the occasion. “Where the hell is a props man!”
A props man rushed in. He picked up the champagne bucket. He upended it, ice, 1650 Vintage Raire Champagne, tongs and all over Miss Dicey’s face.
Miss Dicey came around.
“Retake,” said Lemley. “Now, this time, the models holding her head and wrists should keep their faces toward the camera. Smile. Look pleased. Got it? All right! Here w
e go. Lights! Camera!”
Somebody rushed in with the clapboard. “JELO Ad. Final Shot One, Take Two!” The clapper banged.
“Action!” cried Lemley.
“I’ll tell! I’ll tell!” shouted Dicey. “My makeup is too ruined for a shot! What would my public think!”
“Cut!” said Lemley. “Ad lib dialogue. Not in the script.”
“Take five!” shouted Buhlshot. And everyone rushed off to take their five-minute break. He sternly stopped Dicey from going out the door.
“Do I get a trip to China?” said Miss Dicey.
“Yes,” said Buhlshot.
“And attached thereafter to offices behind the Iron Curtain?” said Dicey.
“Yes,” said Buhlshot.
“All right. He’s hiding out at Pier Ninety-two. It’s the new Free Zone and he’s outside territorial limits. He’s sleeping in his car and it’s in a box marked ‘Export.’ His mother is feeding him every night at nine o’clock. Now let me out of here. I’ve got to pack my bag!”
Bury hung up the phone. He gave me a thin, pessimistic nod. I put away my gun.
Buhlshot said, “Flagrant, you’re fired for risking the Rockecenter account!”
“You’re not out of the woods,” Bury whispered to me. “We’ve got to capture him now. We will handle it as it’s a matter of international law.”
As we left, the two violinists walked beside us playing mood music, the flower girls tossed small paper goodbye banners across our way. The two uniformed ushers rolled the red carpet up behind us.
Buhlshot, in the hall, was mopping his face with a purple, silk handkerchief. He said, “Jesus, what it takes to salvage some accounts!”
PART TWENTY-SEVEN
Chapter 4
The second we emerged into the street, I knew we were in trouble. Rush hour! The advertising district was rushing home! We were buffeted by torrents of people. There were no cabs.
“Oh, dear!” said Bury. He looked at his watch. “We have so little time! Only four hours to 9:00 PM! Inkswitch, we’ve got to have Madison, no matter what the cost or difficulties.”
We hurried down the avenue. We couldn’t do much else as it was like being caught in an avalanche of people.
“We’re up against international legalities,” he worried as we were swept along. “It just shows you what a cunning (bleepard) Madison is: he’s got himself down there on Pier Ninety-two in the Free Trade end of the shed! Right out at the end! He’s beyond the territorial jurisdiction of the United States authorities.”
We dodged a liquor store delivery boy who was bashing through the crowd on a delivery tricycle. I reached back and with my foot upended the vehicle.
The smashing of bottles seemed to make Bury feel better. “Hatchetheimer!” he said. “If this were simply a legal problem, I would know what to do. But it’s military, Inkswitch. Raw force! Hatchetheimer is the last surviving officer of Hitler’s general staff. He was a mere child then. He must be pushing ninety now. I’ve got to contact Hatchetheimer and get his advice. A telephone. I’ve got to get to a telephone. It’s absolutely vital we get Madison: we have no other appeals left!”
The nearest thing was a Jewish delicatessen. It was jammed with people. But that wasn’t all that was wrong with it: a score of Ku Klux Klan members in white robes and hoods were picketing the place, marching back and forth with poles which bore signs:
DOWN WITH THE JEWS
“You can’t pass a picket line,” said Bury. “We own the unions. There! The subway station!”
Just beyond the Klansmen, steps led down through the walk. With Bury leading anxiously, we plowed through the crowd.
The underground platform was a milling turmoil. Bury, an accomplished New Yorker, elbowed his way through them. I saw a young black man decorating the white tile with graffiti. He had two spray cans, red and blue. He was drawing an American flag with (Bleep) You across it. I thought Bury was heading for him, perhaps to correct the drawing, and then I saw Bury’s target was an underground telephone kiosk.
There was a woman in it, using the phone. Bury banged on the glass door. The woman glared at him ferociously and went on with her conversation.
“Look, Inkswitch,” said Bury. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep this area clear while I’m phoning. I will be on that phone some time and people bang on the glass the way I am doing.”
I said I’d try.
“Do you have some dimes?” said Bury. “I don’t seem to have any change.”
I didn’t either. But I was thinking fast on the other problem of keeping this area clear. Bury started off toward the subway change booth.
I raced up the stairs. The KKK was still picketing. Their placards! I had to have a couple of those placards! “Make do with whatever is to hand,” the Apparatus professors used to drum into us. Now was the time to apply that advice.
At the top of my lungs, I screamed, “Cheese it! The New York Tactical Police Force is coming!”
I drew my gun and fired twice!
The Klansmen ran frantically away!
The two I had winged dropped their placards.
I picked the picketing signs up and rushed back down the stairs.
Bury was just leaving the back door of the change booth. He had a huge sack of change in his hand. “It all takes so much time!” he mourned. “They didn’t believe at first that we owned the subway!” He plunged his hand into the bag and stuffed change in his overcoat pocket. He handed me the rest of the bag. “Hold on to this. We’ll have to turn the balance in to the IRT Subway accountants!”
He rushed over to the phone booth. The woman was just finishing. He banged on the glass anyway.
Quickly, I went over behind the young man. I swung the bag of change expertly. It came down on his head. He collapsed. I grabbed the two spray cans and got to work.
I ripped the placard off one pole and reversed it to the unused side. I quickly and neatly sprayed, in blue, CIA MAN. I looked around on the platform, found some used chewing gum and plastered it to the underside.
I took the other placard and changed the writing on it to DOWN WITH THE CIA!
The woman was calling Bury names. I could see what he meant about the dangers of a kiosk being undefended.
The woman left. As Bury started to go into the kiosk, I slapped the CIA MAN sign on his back. He didn’t notice.
“My God, it stinks in here!” said Bury. “She must have been chewing garlic!” He left the door open.
I began to parade up and down with my placard, DOWN WITH THE CIA! People veered off sharply.
Bury put coins in the phone. He said, “Operator? Get me the Chief Operator of the New York Telephone Company at once. . . . Chief Operator? This is Bury of Swindle and Crouch. Patch this pay phone, LExington 2394-9721, into Unlimited International WATS Line Number One. . . . Of course, I know it is a secret line. I ought to: We own the phone company. . . . What is your name, please? Goog?”
He was writing in his little notebook on the ledge. “G-O-O-G. Thank you, Miss Goog. . . . My phone credit card number is IT&T Number One. . . . Yes, we do own the phone company, Miss Goog. . . . All right. Now, patch this pay phone into the WATS line. You stay on this line personally to shift connections. Keep this line open. Keep all other calls off this pay phone. Clear any and all calls off the board if they get in your way.”
He listened for a moment. Then he underscored Miss Goog’s name in his little notebook. “No, Miss Goog. I don’t care if the president is talking on it, clear him off the line. . . .”
The crowd was staying very clear of us. I marched up and down with my placard, DOWN WITH THE CIA!
Bury said to himself, “Dumb (bleepch). Trying to plug me into the hot line. Who the hell wants to talk to the president at a time like this?” He was fanning the kiosk door open and shut. “My God, it stinks in here!” He suddenly gave his attention to the phone. “All right, Miss Goog. Now connect me, direct line, to the Senior Monitoring Officer, National Security Agency. . . . Yes, Miss
Goog, I know it is a secret government line. . . . Hello. Who is this? Peeksnoop? Ah, how are you, Peeksnoop? This is Bury of Swindle and Crouch. . . . Yes, the wife is fine. . . . Listen, Peeksnoop, are you monitoring calls made by General Hatchetheimer? . . . Ah, that is fine. You verify that. . . .”
A train pulled in. The passengers saw the signs and stayed on.
Bury said to me, “We’re in luck. Hatchetheimer is heading a terrorist group in Cairo and they think he’s planning to blow up the US Embassy there tomorrow morning. He’s confirming the satellite connections. Hatchetheimer is pretty agile for a man his . . . Ah, Peeksnoop. Well, reverse the surveillance monitor system and patch me into Hatchetheimer’s phone. Just ring it. That’s a good fellow.”
The crowd was very clear of us. I marched a bit with my placard. Bury fanned the door and left it open.
He went back on the phone. “Hatchetheimer? Ah, there you are. This is Bury. . . . Yes, I’m fine. . . . He’s fine, too. . . . Oh, dear, you don’t tell me. . . . Well, I’m sorry about that. I faithfully promise to see that the defective firebombs are replaced right away. Yes, you have my word on it. . . . Now, listen, General. I have a military problem I need your advice on. Down at Pier Ninety-two . . .”
A train came in. The doors opened. Passengers started to get off, saw the signs and stayed aboard. Passengers trying to get on jammed the cars. The doors clanged shut and the train roared on.
I could hear Bury again. “. . . oh, not the New York police. God, no. . . . We save the New York National Guard for real emergencies. . . . The US Army would use it to up their defense budget. Listen, General . . . Yes. International Zone at the end of Pier Ninety-two. It’s an international problem. . . .”
The young black man was coming around, probably from being stepped on. He got up groggily, saw his paint spray cans, came over and picked them up and got back to work on his graffiti.
Bury was saying, “Oh, yes, that is splendid, General. And I do thank you for your time. Good luck on the embassy.” He jiggled the phone hook. He looked at me. “There’s hope. Hatchetheimer is a brilliant man.”
The phone rang suddenly. He put the receiver to his ear. He listened, then he spoke. “No, (bleep) it, this is not the Horseburger Delicatessen! . . . No, I will not send you three Ponies Supreme!” He jiggled the hook agitatedly. “Miss Goog! God (bleep) it, keep this line clear! All right. I’m glad you are sorry. Now connect me to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Washington, Strategic Duty Officer. . . . Yes, I know it is a secret line, Miss Goog. Connect the god (bleeped) connection!” He sighed deeply and then fanned the door. “I hate garlic!”