‘You make it sound very inviting, Mr. Remo, Let me call you back. But don’t get your hopes up. We don’t handle political campaigns.’
‘You’ll handle this one,’ said Remo, confidently, ‘particularly if you meet our candidate. To meet him is to love him.’
‘And he’s a politician?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sounds unbelievable.’
‘He’s an unbelievable man,’ Remo said.
‘I’m beginning to think so are you. You’ve almost made me interested.’
‘Call me back soon,’ Remo said.
Remo hung up and sprawled out on his couch to await the return call. Less than two miles away, Dorothy Walker hung up the telephone, left her luxurious cabin and walked to the bow of the ship where her father, Marshal Dworshansky, sat in the sun.
He was very interested in her caller, as she had known he would be. ‘He offered you one hundred thousand dollars?’
‘Yes. But I stalled him.’
Marshal Dworshansky clapped his hands in glee. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘This is the man we’ve been waiting for, and now he is delivering himself right into our hands. Marvellous,’ he chortled. ‘Marvellous. Take it.’
‘But how will I handle it?’ his daughter said. ‘One week to do a political campaign?’
‘My dear, I know you believe in the power of advertising and public opinion. However, in this case, the only opinion that counts is mine. The campaign is over. Nothing can stop Mayor Cartwright from winning. So do whatever you want for this Mr. Remo.’
‘Why bother if he’s no threat?’
‘Because he is the enemy, and it is good to know what the enemy plans.’
Minutes later, Dorothy Walker was back in her stateroom calling Remo.
‘We’ve decided—’ she began.
‘We?’
‘I’ve decided it’s about time that Walker, Handleman and Daser moved into politics. This will be a great campaign in which to practice our new theories of communication. The idea of maximum message carrying to maximum quanta of people at…’
‘At maximum cost,’ Remo interrupted. ‘Look, you and I have gotten along fine by talking English. Let’s continue that way, all right? You just do whatever it is you people do, and don’t tell me about it.’
‘As you wish,’ Dorothy Walker said, and then, because she was interested in her father’s enemy, she added: ‘Perhaps we could discuss the financial arrangements tonight. At dinner?’
‘Okay,’ Remo said. ‘Pick someplace where you have credit. You’re supposed to wine and dine us wealthy eccentric clients, aren’t you?’
‘De rigueur,’ she said.
Remo had had enough experience with newspaper photos not to expect too much of Dorothy Walker in person. He would not have been shocked if she had shown up looking like Maria Ouspenskaya, fresh off a gypsy wagon.
But he was not prepared for what showed up at the Ritz Hotel, where he waited in the massive dining room, sipping water.
First came Dorothy Walker, stunningly blonde and tan, a fortyish beauty who looked twenty. And with her was a twenty-year-old blonde carbon copy who seemed to have the look of having tantalized men for forty years. They wore matching aqua cocktail dresses.
A sound meter could have charted their progress along the aisle of the dining room, because each table stilled in succession as they walked by, following the maître d’, whose show of attention let it be known that they were very important people indeed.
‘Mister Remo?’ the older woman asked when she arrived at his table.
Remo stood up. ‘Miss Walker?’
‘Mrs. Walker. And this is my daughter, Teri.’
The waiter seated them, and Dorothy Walker said, ‘Well, what do you want us to do for all that money?’
‘If I told you, you’d have me arrested.’
‘One never knows,’ she laughed. ‘One never knows.’
They ate baked stuffed clams, sizzling in melted butter, and while Remo toyed with a piece of celery, he and Mrs. Walker reached agreement on the deal. One hundred thousand dollars for one week’s work, with Remo to pay all additional costs, including newspaper space, air time, and production costs.
‘Should I have my lawyer draw a contract?’ Mrs. Walker asked.
‘I deal in handshakes,’ Remo said. ‘I trust you.’
‘I trust you too, but even though we’ve never done political campaigns, I know something about them.’ Dorothy Walker said. ‘All payment must be in advance because, God forbid, a candidate should lose—they never pay.’
‘That’s called incentive to make sure your candidates never lose,’ Remo said. He moved a hand toward his inside jacket pocket. ‘You want the money now?’
‘No hurry. Tomorrow will be fine.’
The women ate escarole salad with Roquefort dressing, as Remo munched on a radish.
‘Teri will handle the campaign for you,’ Dorothy Walker said. ‘Because of my position, I can’t take it publicly. But having Teri means that you’ll have me.’ Her eyes smiled at Remo. He wondered if she had meant anything more than business by that sentence. ‘You understand?’
‘Of course,’ Remo said. ‘You want to be able to take credit if we win, but you don’t want to be tagged personally with a loser.’
Mrs. Walker laughed. ‘That’s right. By the way, I’ve checked around. There is no way your Mr. Mac Polaney can win. He is regarded as the quintessential nut in a town of quintessential nuts.’
‘There are more things happening in heaven and earth than are dreamed of on Madison Avenue,’ Remo said.
The women had veal cordon bleu and Remo had rice, which Mrs. Walker pretended not to notice but which Teri Walker found exciting.
‘Why just rice?’ she said.
‘Zen,’ Remo said.
‘Wow.’
‘We want total artistic control,’ Dorothy Walker said. ‘We won’t work any other way.’
‘That means you decide on commercials and advertising and slogans?’ Remo asked.
She nodded.
‘Well, of course,’ Remo said. ‘Why would I hire you if I wanted to do things myself?’
‘You’d be surprised at how many clients don’t feel that way,’ Dorothy Walker said.
During coffee, Mrs. Walker excused herself for the ladies’ room.
Remo watched Teri Walker closely as she drank her coffee, her fine, tanned young muscles moving sleekly as she moved slightly in her chair.
She bubbled at him with conversation about his goals for urban government, the nature of Mac Polaney, and about something which she called ‘the handle we have to get on this campaign.’
‘Your first campaign?’ Remo asked.
She nodded.
‘Mine too,’ he said. ‘We’ll learn together.’
She finished the last sip of her coffee and asked Remo, ‘By the way, why’d you pick us?’
‘Somebody told me you and your mother had great boobs. I figured I might as well enjoy looking at the campaign staff.’
Teri Walker laughed, loud and full throated.
‘Grandpa will just love you,’ she said.
Willard Farger had rented a suite of six connecting rooms in the Maya Motel. He called it campaign headquarters and staffed it with three girls who looked as if they had last campaigned in a Las Vegas chorus line.
'They’re secretaries,’ Farger insisted to Remo. ‘Somebody’s got to type and answer phones and things.’
‘I see,’ Remo said. ‘Where are the phones and typewriters and things?’
Farger snapped his fingers. ‘I knew there was something I forgot.’
Remo beckoned Farger with a crooked finger and led him into one of the back rooms. He locked the door behind them. ‘Sit down,’ he growled and tossed Farger into a chair. Remo sat on the bed, facing him.