Benevolent Association
He was putting a flat Beretta M-84, .380 Auto pistol in his shoulder holster. "We've got a date with Madison right away."
"Is that for Madison?" I said and instantly started checking the Colt Python .357 Magnum-.38 Special I was now carrying.
"No, no!" said Bury. "There isn't an ounce of violence in him. This is for the Slime-Tripe Magazine Building across the way. Dangerous place: they always have people they have featured, hanging around killing editors! Come on. That's where we meet Madison!"
He rushed out with me following him.
We didn't have any distance to go at all. The forty-eight-story building was right across the way from the Octopus Building. We crossed a two-tone terrazzo pavement set with fountains. The building reared in limestone, aluminum and glass splendor. We entered a huge lobby done in polished and dulled stainless steel.
We stood before an enormous abstract mural, entered an elevator and shot skyward. It spilled us into an enormous room.
A huge ladder of signs confronted us. The top one said:
Owner-Publisher Inspiration Floor
It was followed with the list of magazines published in the building: Slime, Tripe, Riffraff, Dirt Illustrated and Misfortune.
The atmosphere of the room was hazy thick. It smelled like marijuana and opium smoke. There were some people moving about: they were wearing blindfolds, being led by people wearing blindfolds.
We went further into the vast room. I saw numerous posted signs:
All the News That Gives You Fits Unreality Is the Only Reality
Slime, the Magazine That Doesn't Lie or Cheat Anyone but Its Public
Always Check Your Facts in the Cloakroom and Then Write Your Story
They Want Blood, Give It to Them—Even If It Is Your Own
There were some doors opening off: Libeller in Chief, Scurrility Editor, and Head Pervert.
But we were not heading for any of these. Parting the clouds of smoke, we went to a mammoth door at the end of the room. It said:
Owner-Publisher Private Sacred
Bury barged right on in.
Where the desk should be, there was a couch. There was no one on it.
I became aware of lights flashing on the wall over to my right. I saw that there was an organist seated at a huge console organ. It was a woman of middle age in a tail-coated suit—complete, male, white-tie evening dress. She was playing with elaborate gestures on the organ keys. But there was no music!
I noticed that the vast panorama of pictures on the wall were flashing on and mingling in rhythm. She was playing the pictures!
I looked at them. One had to stand back, they were so big. It was a flowing, flashing montage in full color. The pictures were of dead bodies, train wrecks, aircraft crashes, murdered children and graves. And through it all flowed, rhythmically, decay and blood. A symphony of disaster. Rather appealing, I thought.
Bury walked over to the woman. He said, "Get out."
She protested, aghast. "But how can you dream up imaginary news if you don't have substance before you?"
"Beat it," said Bury.
She picked up her baton and top hat, very miffed, muttering about people who did not have a true reporter's soul. But a final look at Bury's face took her out the door quickly.
"Are we here to meet the owner-publisher?" I said.
"Oh, no," said Bury. "He's an LSD addict and always off having an affair with his male psychiatrist. It's always empty, so I use it for meetings."
"Then we own this place?"
"What? And inherit all its libel suits? I should say not. Sit down, Inkswitch, and I'll fill you in."
There was no place to sit but the color-montage organ bench. I sat on it. I accidentally touched a key and a nude body being strangled flashed on the wall. Not a bad looking girl, I thought.
Bury was pacing about restlessly. "We don't have to own any newspapers or magazines. It's done this way: they're all in debt; they and their TV and radio stations are into the banks for billions. So when they want to renew or borrow, the banks tell them they have to put a bank-selected director or six on their boards of directors. And they do it in order to get the money. Then, whatever we want to appear in the press, we simply pass it to a director and he tells the editors and they tell the reporters and they (bleep) well print whatever they're told."
How wise, I thought. Lombar would be fascinated.
But there was more: "Then, if the government gets out of hand, we release stories into the press to embarrass them or get them kicked out. So the government always releases the press releases that we tell them to. It's a very tight system. We control all the banks, you see."
Oho! Lombar indeed would be interested. A masterful system! Closed-circuit propaganda! The truth couldn't even get into it edgewise! So that was how the Rockecenters had remained in control so long and now owned so much! That and chicanery, of course. Totally controlled free enterprise!
I tried to play "Saint James Infirmary" on the organ with one finger. I got a series of Japanese movie monsters smashing and gobbling people. Then I found one good key: when you tremoloed it, rivers of blood gushed down the wall in rhythmic waves.
The door opened.
It was Madison!
I had not gotten a good look at him in his car last night under the mercury-vapor highway lights and all.
I was amazed!
Here was a clean-looking, rather handsome young man. He was impeccably dressed, quite conservatively. He had brown hair and very appealing brown eyes. He might well have been a model for a shirt ad. He seemed quiet, well-mannered, totally presentable.
He said, "Social notices. Madison arrived late and was deeply apologetic. Unquote."
Bury, I noticed, backed up a bit as though talking to a bomb. "Did you get your credentials?" he said.
"Oh, yes. Today, Madison received the supreme award of the very best credentials of a Slime-Tripe reporter. Deeply honored, he expressed his gratitude...."
"And you are now on special independent assignment?" asked Bury.
"Quote Credentials Department Unaccountably Pleased that no Direct Assignment Contemplated. News spread rapidly throughout buildings. Thousands cheered...."
Bury said, "This is Smith, John. You will be receiving tips from him. Give him your mother's phone number and that of the F.F.B.O. office."
Madison bowed and then walked over and gave me the most sincere and genuine handshake I have ever had. Then he got out a notebook, wrote the numbers on a page and gave them over.
Then Madison walked over toward Bury—who stepped back—and looked at the attorney with appealing courtesy. "What am I supposed to do?"
Bury reached into his pocket. He took out one of the passport pictures of Wister. He handed it over.
Madison took it and gazed upon it in a friendly way. "He looks like a very nice fellow."
"He is, he is," said Bury. "His name is Jerome Terrance Wister."
Bury glanced toward me. I took my cue. "He has an office in the Empire State Building." I gave him the number. "He has developed a new fuel. He will try to get it known through racing."
"And?" said Madison.
Bury spoke. "You will act in the capacity of a Slime-Tripe reporter on special assignment. Actually, he is a modest man. He would not hire a PR directly. But as his friends, we know he needs one to help him on his way. Really, he would not accept our help so we must be nameless. It is a charitable way to contribute to this great society, to have this fellow and his invention helped. Do you understand, Madison? That is your sole assignment."
Instantly Madison became ecstatic. "You mean I am to really, truly help him?"
"Indeed so," said Bury. "Make his name a household word, make him immortal!"
"Oh," said Madison. "Glorious, Stupendous and Gala! Mr. Bury," he said with eyes glowing, "I can make him the most immortal man you ever heard of! One way or another his name will be known forever!" He could not contain himself for joy. He walked around the room, almost bouncing.