Two violinists in Hungarian costume walked along with us playing seductive melodies.
"I hate these (bleeped) advertising formalities," said Bury.
"Do they always do this?"
"No. Only for me. They know I despise it."
We went down a long hall. Two young men with herald's trumpets blew a blast, then made an arch of their trumpets.
A girl in a lamb's costume prettily opened a door that said on it:
J. P. Flagrant
Vice-President
Foreign Public Relations Department
The office was banked with flowers.
A rather fat man in a scarlet tuxedo was bowing and scrubbing his hands. "I am J. P. Flagrant, Mr. Bury. Welcome. Welcome. Welcome."
Three little girls raised their angelic faces on the other side of the room and began to sing:
Happy welcome to you,
Happy welcome to you.
Happy welcome, dear Mr. Bury,
JELO scrubs and rinses, too.
They bowed and tripped prettily out, throwing kisses and doing a shuffle-off-to-Buffalo at the same time. Difficult.
Flagrant scrubbed his hands some more. "Now what would you like, Mr. Bury and guest? A Havana Havana Havana cigar? Some 1650 Vintage Raire Champagne? Or perhaps a nice, ripe secretary to refresh you? That door leads to a bedroom and there's one in there now all waiting in JELO!"
"If you will tell this court to recess," said Bury acidly, "we can get down to business."
Flagrant slapped his fat hands together and, still beaming, made shooing motions. The violin music stopped. People in the hall scattered frantically in all directions.
Bury picked a flower petal off his dark suit as though it were smut. He dropped it on the floor and cleaned his fingers on his handkerchief. He said, "We are here to retain you as a public relations account. But we demand the right to select our own public relations man."
"Oh, my goodness, Mr. Bury. We are honored. Anyone from the Rockecenter interests has only to command us and we will do anything, anything, anything at all to be of total satisfactory and agreeable service number one position to you."
He swatted his hands together.
A secretary raced in with her notebook ready for dictation in one hand and a bag of contraceptives in the other.
Flagrant swatted his hands three times. A young man in a severely cut Ivy League suit raced in holding an enormous book. At Flagrant's command, the young man, holding the book to us, began to show us smiling photographs of PR men with graphs and biographies.
Bury coughed.
On cue, instantly, I looked my toughest.
"We want, on this case," said Bury, "no other than J. Walter Madison."
The young man flinched.
The secretary flinched.
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. Buhl-shot, as chairman of F.F.B.O., 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 F.F.B.O. 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 F.F.B.O.! 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 jumping 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!"