Heller said, “Bang-Bang, those people are crazy!”
“So, hell, what’s news? Everybody knows that. Where we going now?”
“If there’s nothing more up here, I better get to the office.”
“Heigh-ho, Silver!” said Bang-Bang and rushed the cab perilously out into the traffic. It made me kind of giddy watching the viewscreen, streets and signs and trucks flashing about.
I tried to concentrate on the interview. There must be a lot there to be learned. But actually, I myself was far too sick at heart about myself to concentrate.
PART TWENTY-ONE
Chapter 2
Heller was not paying any attention to Bang-Bang’s driving. He reached into a rucksack and pulled out a textbook. It was a paper-covered text and on the top of it was written in pencil:
You asked what Marketing was. This simplified text is recommended.
Izzy
What was a combat engineer doing going off into a subject like marketing? One more thread in the crazy pattern he was weaving!
Evidently, he had already almost finished the book, for there was a marker near the end. He opened it up and while, as seen in his peripheral vision, Bang-Bang sought to separate nurses from their baby carriages and massive trailers from their cabs, Heller demolished the remainder of the text.
There was one page at the end. It only had one thing on it: a paragraph. It said, To integrate his grasp of the subject, the student must now do a complete marketing project, getting a specific product wanted and accepted by consumers.
Heller sat there looking out. His eyes were picking out advertising signs. He watched quite a few go by.
Then his eyes unfocused, a thing I had seen him do before when he was thinking deeply. To himself he said, “Beans? Bootleg whiskey? Seagulls? Shoes? Bunion powder? No, no, no. Oh, a survey! I haven’t done a consumer survey.”
He leaned forward and yelled through the mainly closed partition, “Bang-Bang! If you were a consumer, what would you really want to consume the most of?”
Bang-Bang skidded with screeching tires around a street-under-repair obstruction as he yelled back. “I’ll let you in on something if you promise not to spread it around.” He mounted a curb and got around a produce truck. “Everybody thinks I’m called Bang-Bang because of explosives. That ain’t so.” He careened past a firetruck. “Cherubino can tell you. I been called Bang-Bang since I was fourteen.” He leaped the cab lightly over an open manhole cover. “The reason I’m called Bang-Bang is because of girls. If Babe knew I was going in and out of the Gracious Palms, she’d have a fit!”
“So the answer to the question of what you’d consume the most of is girls.”
“And girls and girls!” Bang-Bang yelled back, narrowly missing one on a crosswalk to prove his point.
Heller sat back. “Girls. Hmm.” He made a note on the inside back leaf of the marketing book, “Survey done. Item: girls.”
After that harrowing ride that violated all laws of traffic and nature, Bang-Bang let Heller out at the main entrance of the Empire State Building with a yell that he’d put the taxi in their parking lot as he drove away.
Heller looked up. It made me dizzy: the building, even though you couldn’t see the top from the street or even a quarter of its height, seemed like it was going into the clouds.
He threaded his way through the hurrying throngs. He walked past the ranks of express and other kinds of elevators and entered the one that, apparently, had its first stop on his floor. No one paid him any attention.
He got out. Their hall had changed. It had more brass plates and it had palms at intervals. I had not remembered how really vast that half a floor of theirs was!
He found Izzy in the communications room. “Hi, Izzy!” he said above the roar and chatter of teletype machines. “How’s it?”
Izzy smiled at him wanly, probably the most smile Izzy could manage. He was still in a Salvation Army Good Will suit. His horn-rimmed glasses accentuated his beak of a nose. “I hoped you wouldn’t be in until things were better,” said Izzy. He held up a sheet. “We just lost on the ruble exchange with Italy. It’s an awful strain. We can’t seem to get the hundred thousand up above a half million. Conditions are so uncertain.”
“Well, we’re paying the rent,” said Heller.
“Oh, we’re not just here to pay rent,” said Izzy. “If corporations are to take over governments, we ought to be thinking in acceptable sums like trillions.”
“We will,” said Heller cheerfully. “Now, what was so urgent?”
“Oh, dear,” said Izzy. “I’m afraid I’m not ready for that, either.”
Heller was beckoning. They went out and walked and walked past doors and doors with different nameplates. It gave me a melancholy pleasure to see that several girls, obviously their own employees—possibly students working part time, from their appearance—didn’t even say hello to Heller but hurried on by on their errands with their burdens.
They had stopped before a door. The sign said:
Maysabongo Eastern United States Legation
Republic of Maysabongo
Long Live Dictator Ahmed Allah!
Izzy was fumbling in his case for keys. He must be carrying ten pounds of them. He opened the door, threw on the lights.
The decor was bamboo. Sets of vicious-looking swords adorned the otherwise bare white plaster walls. The obvious coat of arms—crossed assault rifles—was sitting against a desk.
“You got the vice-consular appointments, didn’t you?” said Heller.
“Yes, Mr. Jet. They’re there on the desk. Here’s Bang-Bang’s; here’s mine. Ah, yes. And here is yours.”
Heller took his and glanced at it. It made him a Consul of Maysabongo but I couldn’t see the rest of it. He put it in his pocket.
“And you got the company formed,” said Heller.
“Oh, yes. Wonderful Oil for Maysabongo, Limited, incorporated in Maysabongo, registered to do business, etc. But you aren’t a director, Mr. Jet. They have to be Abie Cohen and his wife. You see, I must be firm, as I’m responsible for you, that you have no connection with any of these corporations. Not even anything a Justice Department black-bag job can find. That attorney Mr. Bury is pretty vicious, and Rockecenter controls the Justice Department, amongst everything else. A frightening man.”
“I don’t see the problem.”
“Well, it’s the mural. The deputy delegate is demanding that it should be a portrait of Harlotta.”
“I think I can get her to pose.”
“It isn’t the model, Mr. Jet. The model problem we have is the Tahiti mural. And we do have other model problems despite this local agency here. No, the problem, Mr. Jet, is the painters!”
“I thought you had some.”
“I don’t think you’ll approve. I have some waiting and the samples are in your office but . . . but . . .”
Heller told him to lock the legation back up and walked off down a long, long, long hall past doors, doors, doors, toward his office.
Izzy was trotting along beside Heller. “I really don’t think I’m ready to show you their work.”
“You found some artists, didn’t you?” said Jet.
“Yes. But they have a nonconventional style. They’re antiestablishment, which should win friends. But they’re total nonconformists. They barely squeaked through art school at Empire: their professors hated them. They tried to take up residence in Soho, the new New York art colony, and they were ostracized and ordered out.
“They won’t prostitute their art by working for advertising companies, so they are starving and have no place to go.”
“Prostitute their art,” said Heller. “Hmm. Well, what’s this art style that’s so bad?”
“It’s called ‘neorealism.’ When they paint a sailboat, it looks like a sailboat. It’s pretty revolutionary! And very daring, very much into the teeth of all modern trends. Their people look like people!”
They were into Heller’s office now. It looked like h
alf an acre of white shag. Heller went over and opened an air vent. The view of lower Manhattan was brilliant in the September sun.
“Sure smells of paint,” said Heller. He turned. And there, all lined up against the entrance-door wall, were dozens of canvases.
Heller looked at them. He went nearer. “But they’re gorgeous!”
Actually, they were not up to Voltarian standards. But they were a lot better than most art seen on the planet.
Izzy said, “Well, technically they are quite good. But they went astray after studying pictures by Rembrandt and Vermeer and Michelangelo. They went totally out of step with the art world. One even refused to run a tricycle over paint tubes and call it a picture in spite of a handsome commission. And the others stood up for him. It’s sort of a pathetic case. They’re hunted now and scorned.”
Heller picked up a large canvas. It was a flesh-colored girl with a red shawl about her shoulders, balancing an orange pottery jug on her head. If I’d been in a better mood, I would have called it very arousing. He picked up another. It was a painting of a beautiful girl on a sofa, naked, holding a cat up in the air with her two hands. By some trick, even on my two-dimensional screen, it looked a bit three-dimensional. He took another: it was a girl in profile biting a rose off a live-looking rose bush—just her face, her teeth and the rose.
“Where are these guys?” said Heller.
“There’re eight of them. They’re down in my anteroom having kittens! But Mr. Jet, I must point out. This art is not in the mode! That cat looks like a cat! Those girls look like girls! I don’t . . .”
“I agree we should think this over,” said Heller.
“Oh, thank heavens.”
Heller sat down at his desk. “You got the school things all arranged.”
“Oh, yes,” said Izzy, offendedly. “You are answering all roll calls. Your quizzes are being handed in. All your lab work is being done. And we don’t have to take any more notes or recordings. All of last year’s lectures to those same classes are there in mimeograph form in your top file cabinet. You are even taking gym. Bang-Bang is doing well on ROTC. And here is a beeper to wear in case you are suddenly summoned.” He handed it over. “I hope this is easier for you now.”
“Great way to go to college,” said Heller. “I handled the psychiatric interview this morning, but Miss Simmons will be riding my tail next semester.”
“I am so sorry I can’t help you there. I strongly advise against violence. It’s really so unbusinesslike. Can she be bought off?”
“Not a chance,” said Heller.
“So you may fail after all.”
Bang-Bang came in.
Heller said, “Well, I’ve decided. Bang-Bang, will our cab hold eleven?”
“Yikes!” said Bang-Bang.
“It’s illegal,” said Izzy.
“And all these canvases?” said Jet.
“We’ll try,” said Bang-Bang.
“Collect your painters,” said Heller to Izzy. “Bring them and these canvases down front.”
“Where we going?” said Izzy, in dismay.
“Marketing,” said Heller. “We’re going marketing.”
“Look,” said Izzy. “I can buy anything you need. I can get it for you wholesale.”
“Not that kind of marketing. We’re going marketing marketing.”
“Oh, the book I got you,” said Izzy. “What are we going to market?”
“The survey said ‘girls.’”
“But that’s illegal!” said Izzy.
“You have to do class assignments honestly,” said Heller. “And that’s what the survey said. So, wouldn’t it be illegal to try to get an illegal pass on a subject?”
“That’s very true,” said Izzy. “You have no choice! If the survey said girls, it will have to be girls.”
A few minutes later, the canvases were lashed to the carrying rack on top and the mob somehow squeezed into the old cab.
They went rocketing up Fifth Avenue.
PART TWENTY-ONE
Chapter 3
Now, gentlemen,” said Heller to the paint-smocked mass, which was nine people in a space meant for five—Izzy and Bang-Bang were up front—“I don’t want you to look on this as prostituting your art.”
A nearby, bearded face drew back as much as it could. A real flinch. “We refuse to change off from neorealism!”
“For Heavens’ sake, don’t!” said Heller. “But you’ll see what I mean shortly.”
They went roaring into the garage at the Gracious Palms. They jammed into the elevator.
Heller walked into Vantagio’s office. Vantagio was sitting at his desk. He obviously had a bit of a hangover. He frowned at the mob he saw coming in behind Heller.
“We want to paint Minette,” said Heller.
This was a little bit direct for Vantagio at this hour. “Good morning, kid. Would you like to introduce your friends?”
Heller did. Then he said, “We have a bare wall and it needs a bare girl. We deal only in the authentic. It’s for the Beautiful Tahiti Gilt-Edged Beaches Wonder Corporation. Minette is the only beautiful Tahitian I know of.”
“Well, take her along, kid. The UN session doesn’t start until next week so we’re not peak load. I’m sure Minette will do what you tell her so take her along to the Empire State.”
“No,” said Heller. “Izzy here,” and he glanced at Izzy who obviously didn’t know where he was or what was coming, “has a great idea. Come along.”
Heller went out in the lobby. He opened a closet and rolled out a little platform they must use for something. He began to push it across the lobby. A houseman instantly jumped to help him. Heller put it in the far corner, near the street door.
Then he went and got a painter. He stood him near the platform. Then he got an easel from their gear and stood it up in front of the painter, who, seeing an easel, promptly put a framed blank canvas on it.
Heller and the houseman moved a couple of palms in pots up on the platform to the back.
Heller went to the phone and hit some numbers.
“Who ees thees?” Minette’s voice. “I am not dress’. It ees too earlee!”
“You sure you got no clothes on?” said Heller.
“Oh, ’ello, Pretty Boy. I come right een!”
“No,” said Heller. “Grab your grass skirt and some flowers for your hair and come down in the lobby!”
“Ze lobby? You mos’ be jokeeng. Vantagio . . .”
Heller handed Vantagio the phone. Vantagio said, “The kid is changing the decor, Minette. Anything is liable to happen. Come down.”
A couple of diplomats were leaving in somewhat tousled condition. They saw the painter standing there with a blank canvas. They stopped.
An early-day demander, a big black man, walked in the front door. He saw the blank canvas and stopped.
A limousine drew up and spilled out three Moroccans. They entered, saw the blank canvas and stopped.
Minette arrived. She was wearing a grass skirt and had hibiscus in her hair. Heller put her on the platform. The painter posed her. He began to paint.
“Allah forbids the rendition of live figures,” said a Moroccan. But he stood closer to get a better look.
A cab drew up and two diplomats got out. They started to walk to the desk but stopped and watched the painting.
Heller beckoned to Vantagio, Izzy and the other painters. He drew them back into Vantagio’s office.
“You’re going to cost us a fortune if you stop everybody who comes in that door,” said Vantagio.
“Ah,” said Heller, and he waved his hands just like an Italian, “think of the word of mouth. The advertising!”
“Maybe you better tell me this idea,” said Vantagio, sitting down at his desk.
“Well,” said Heller. “Izzy figured it this way. Now, this is strictly between you and Izzy but I will outline it. I told him I thought it was great.
“It goes like this. The UN is just going into session. We put an artist, easel
and platform in the lobby.” He turned to the painters. “How long does it take you to paint a really good, big portrait?”
They disagreed. But it seemed like anything from twelve hours to a week.
“Now, every night,” Heller told Vantagio, “for one whole week, a good artist will be there in the lobby painting a nude. And every week, the painting and the nude will change. We will choose the girls who epitomize the beauty of each country. And each week, you feature a different country.”
Vantagio sat up straight. Then he got up and began to pace, a bit excited.
“It has political advantages! Bargaining power!” said Vantagio. “They will push and prod to get their country featured early in the program! They will want to have a part in conceiving the subject matter.”
Heller made an Italian gesture. “Ah, there you have it, Vantagio. Depend on you to grasp the nuance! This is a marketing program aimed at expansion and penetration. Your products will become known in every land. It puts a Gracious Palms commercial in every one of the top offices of every nation. And they will pay handsomely to exhibit the commercial itself! What the Gracious Palms needs is more penetration. Consumer desire will be aroused in every country on the planet and you will have a better market projection into your resources!”
Vantagio peeked out into the lobby. Heller stepped behind him. Minette, on the platform, had assumed pose after pose, despite the painter’s pleas and was now exhibiting one whole leg while she cupped her breasts and smiled lasciviously at the crowd. The original ones who had paused were now feverishly signing up at the desk. Another was on the phone loudly telling his chief delegate he should drop whatever he was doing and rush over. The crowd around the easel had swelled.
“You see,” said Heller, “it makes it all refined. It puts it in the world of art. The positioning of the Gracious Palms is upgraded to number one instead of just a horizontal graph. It will be on top!”
Vantagio went back into his office. He began to pace up and down excitedly. Then he stopped and made an expansive Italian gesture. With glowing, visionary eyes, he said, “I can see it now! We’ve been taking it lying down! We’ve been guilty of practicing seasonal interruptus. We can spread this climax into a more bilateral approach, even multilateral. We’ve been practicing nonintervention! We have been underprivileging certain elite minorities!” Vantagio pounded a fist into his palm. “We need a wider spread internationally! And it will give us more consumer flow! They’ll lap it up!”