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 1. Take 1!" 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 we go. Lights! Camera!"
Somebody rushed in with the clapboard. "JELO Ad. final Shot 1, Take 2!" 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 92. 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!"
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 P.M.! Ink-switch, 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 92 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 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!"