“You have a new movie idea in the works?”
“Naw, I’m working out a foolproof way to get the money Macho owes me.”
The very next day I was stuck back on the SoyHammy account. That’s about the only account in the shop, as you may recall, that I don’t really enjoy. But this was a full-scale emergency and I had to fly to Chicago the same afternoon. It seems the head of SoyHammy’s own advertising department had just been killed in a freak accident. He’d been having a drink at one of those revolving bars in a penthouse night club when the darn thing started to revolve three or four times faster than it was supposed to. When it suddenly stopped, he was flung clean off the terrace and fell to the street thirteen stories below.
His employers at SoyHammy had come up with the idea of giving his remains a lavish funeral, and since he had been associated with SoyHammy for many years, they figured it would be a nice touch to have all six pallbearers in pigsuits like the one the announcer wore on our SoyHammy commercials. To halt that before anybody in the media got wind of it, I was speeded eastward.
Talking all concerned out of the pigsuits and then sitting in while they interviewed candidates to fill the deceased’s job consumed over two weeks. That spell in Chicago coincided exactly with Norbert’s execution of his plan to get what he felt was owed to him.
Since I only spoke to Norbert once, very briefly on the phone, most of the details of his caper are what I got from the newspapers and television. Not that any of them knew who was really behind the scheme. He really was a good planner and the whole deal went smoothly.
What Norbert did was to kidnap Macho Sweeze. He then convinced Maktab Al-barid that the snatch was the work of Zaytian terrorists from his homeland and that unless the ex-king came up with $55,000 in cash for the Zayt Liberation Fund, he’d start receiving packages containing various choice cuts of his favorite author. That extra $1000, by the way, was to cover the expenses of the snatch itself. Norbert wore built-up shoes, a padded coat, and a stocking mask when he grabbed Macho, and even his rival author didn’t recognize him.
“He was a tall skinny guy, must’ve been an Englishman from the way he talked,” Macho told the police and the F.B.I. later.
Norbert gave Macho a shot of horse tranquilizer, something he’d swiped from the location of a Western film, and that kept him out cold for most of the twenty-seven hours that Norbert held on to him. In a way I contributed — unwittingly, to be sure — to Norbert’s final plan. He took Macho out of the parking lot behind that Country-and-Western club in Ventura where Frilly Jonah appeared now and then.
Maktab Al-barid was warned not to go to the law or Macho would be treated exactly as the Blind Butcher treated gangsters and subversives in the novels. To the ex-king, of course, $55,000 was nothing at all and he was even a bit puzzled as to why the fanatics asked for so little. It was a small price to pay for the safe return of one of his dear friends, and he paid it readily.
Once Macho was returned, his agent gave out the story. It was terrific publicity for the upcoming movie. There had already been a few small mentions in the trade papers about the movie, some of which had even mentioned that Macho Sweeze was Dan X. Spear. Now, however, the whole country was talking about the Blind Butcher and his brilliant creator, about how life had imitated art, and what a narrow escape he’d had. You could never really trust terrorists — they might well have taken the $55,000 and butchered Macho anyway.
The kidnaping made a celebrity of Macho. He began to show up on local talk shows, to get his picture in the magazines and the papers. The last time I ever spoke to Norbert was the afternoon the issue of Persons hit the area newsstands, with Macho’s dark, roughly handsome face beaming from the cover.
“Did you see it?” Norbert asked.
I was fresh back from Chicago, suffering jet lag and what I suspect was a serious allergic reaction to nearly two solid weeks of Soy-Hammy for breakfast. My head was throbbing, my eyes were watering, and I didn’t really respond very sympathetically.
“See what?”
“That smug leering face on the cover of Persons. Gosh, it’s disgusting. When writers of real talent can’t even get their pictures on a roll of—”
“Macho’s had a lot of publicity lately,” I reminded him, careful of what I said over the phone. Sometimes they listened at the switchboard. “Thanks, I imagine, to you — that was your touch I noted, wasn’t it?”
“Who else?” I could almost hear his broad satisfied grin. “You going to inform on me?”
“None of my affair.” I surveyed the pile of stuff that had gathered on my desk top in my absence; there was even a 9-pound SoyHammy. “Norbert, I have a lot of—”
“I’m back with Glorious,” he told me.
“Good. I guess. Where are you living?”
“New place in Malibu. Very classy. Used to belong to Honey and Hank.”
“So things are pretty much going okay for you again?”
“I have some bucks for the nonce, yeah. But I am not being bothered by the sound of eager producers pounding at my door to demand scripts. The only nibble I’ve had is from some guy who claims he’s bought the rights to revive Death Valley Days on the tube,” said Norbert, the momentary joy fading from his voice. “Boy, if I could’ve gotten all that publicity that Macho grabbed. After all, I wrote the books. Not him.”
“Macho’s new fame is a side effect of — well, of what happened to him,” I said. “Look on the bright side. You and Glorious are back togeth—”
“That’ll last about six minutes longer than my supply of loot.”
“Still you ought to—”
“He’s going to appear on the Mack Nay dell Show tomorrow morning, live from FishWorld in Laguna.”
“That’s one of the fastest rising talk shows in the country.” I pressed my temple to try and control the throb. “But now, Norbert, I ought—”
“You bet it’s a hot show. Naydell’s going to knock Douglas, Carson, Donahue, Davidson, and Arends right out of the box any day now.” Enthusiasm had returned to his voice. “They’ve been running teaser spots all day about Macho’s appearance manana.”
“Don’t watch, it’ll only—”
“Remember that the Mack Naydell show is done absolutely live,” he said. “Meaning they can’t edit it for most of their markets. I prevailed on one of my few remaining chums in Hollywood and got a ducat for the broadcast.”
“You’ll only upset yourself.”
“Ah, tune in and see,” chuckled Norbert.
Macho Sweeze appeared as scheduled the next morning. The show was broadcast live from the big outdoor amphitheater at FishWorld. The day was clear, smogless, bright blue. There were some five hundred people circling the open-air stage where the prematurely gray Mark Naydell chatted with his famous guests. A very handsome setting the show had — the tree-filled hills around the outdoor theater framed it nicely.
Up in the forest, stretched out among the tall trees, was Fritz Momand. He had one of his high-powered hunting rifles with him, equipped with a telescopic sight. He also had a small battery-operated TV set, the earphone to his ear. Anything said down there on the stage he’d hear.
Frilly, early that morning, admitted she had indeed been having an affair with the man who had written the Blind Butcher novels. Fritz knocked her cold before she got to give him many more details. He left her sprawled, still in one of her fringe-trimmed cowgirl suits, on the living-room floor and took off for Laguna with his favorite rifle. He was a violent man who believed there was only one just punishment for a man who took advantage of his wife.
I watched the show from one of the screening rooms at the agency. My secretary was with me so I could dictate letters while I watched.