He stopped, "Quote Labor Negotiations Today Hit Snag. It was learned from unimpeachable sources that Madison wished to know what budget..."
"The sky is the limit," said Bury. "Within reason, of course."
Madison glowed. "Oh, I can see it now! Immortal! His name known everywhere by everyone forever!" Joy and enthusiasm leaped out of every pore. He couldn't stand still. Had he been wearing a hat, he would have thrown it in the air!
Bury pulled me out of the room. We waded through the clouds of marijuana smoke and stench of opium. We held steady as reporters bumped into us. We got to the elevator.
Bury looked around for any snipers as we left. He got us safely outside the building. We stood beside a tinkling fountain and breathed deeply to get rid of the stench.
He tucked his Beretta more securely into its holster. "Inkswitch, it's all in your hands now. If you lose his number, you'll find his mother in the phone book. He is on his way. I've got to go off for a few days—the Governor General of Canada is being balky about carrying out genocide on the French population there and we simply have to clear out Nova Scotia to take over the new oil fields: it has a lot of legal angles. But I'll be back well before the fireworks begin in case stronger measures are needed. You just feed Madison a tip or two as you think best. Give him his head. And we'll be rid of Wister! Good luck to you."
He hurried off upon his busy duties.
Beside the splashing fountain, in that quiet place, I was a little bit troubled.
This Madison was obviously the nicest fellow you ever wanted to meet. He seemed even naive, taking a liking to Heller at once.
I wondered if Bury hadn't exaggerated the dangers in this fine young man. Maybe he would make Heller famous and successful after all!
That evening was no time to be out-of-doors. With sunset, a drizzle had begun that gave an acid rain. If it got on your clothes, it ate holes in them. A nasty night: the low clouds masked even the penthouse terrace at the Bentley Bucks Deluxe. Autumn was upon New York like a polluted sponge.
Accordingly, I was careful to go nowhere and instead phoned Senator Twiddle. I told him how much Rockecenter thought of him and he was certainly pleased.
I had just laid down the phone when it rang again. An operator's voice, in that curious sing-song they use, said, "Mr. Smith? This is Manhattan Air Terminal Telephone Exchange. A man has just come to the desk and handed me a slip of paper with your name on it, indicating I should call. Here is your PARty."
The line clicked. Then something said, "Mmmmmfffff."
I said, "Speak up. I do not understand you."
"Mmmmmfffff."
I hung up in disgust. But I was puzzled too. I did not know a soul in New York named "Mmmmmfffff." Hungarian?
I busied myself ordering a splendid dinner. Utanc was not around as usual. I hoped the rain wouldn't burn her beautiful face if she was prancing around in it.
The phone rang. A voice said, "Mmmmmfffff."
"Who are you?" I demanded. "I don't know a single Mmmmmfffff anywhere."
A more distant voice on the phone said, "You hold it to my ear and I'll talk." The voice became abruptly louder. "You, sir, this is us. Raht tried to phone you earlier but he still has the wires in his jaws. (Hold the phone closer.) My arms are still in casts. The doctor refused to take out the wires or break off the casts or release us for another two weeks."
"Phaugh!" I said. "Loaf, loaf, loaf! Anything to get a little more time off!"
"Well, sir, we knew how anxious you were about a certain thing. So Raht sneaked by the nurses and the desk. I couldn't go because my arms are still in casts and it's conspicuous and I can't climb. But Raht's jaws are the only thing he has that is still immobilized. ..."
"What in Hells are you trying to tell me?" I snapped.
"(Hold the phone closer.) But he had to wait until the guards and sightseeing guides left for the night. The weather is so bad both the lower and upper towers were closed, fortunately. So Raht climbed up the TV mast as best he could. It was awfully slippery because of the rain. We'll have to get him new pajamas because of the acid eating through. But it was awfully windy and he skinned his shins...."
"My Gods!" I said. "Come to the point!"
"Well, he turned it off, sir. And we wanted to tell you we can't get back on the job for another two weeks. The doctor refuses...."
"You two will do anything, anything to loaf! Believe me, I'll make sure your pay is docked!"
I hung up. I was so exasperated at the flimsy pretext
they were using that, for a moment, the import of the news did not sink in.
The 831 Relayer! It was off! I could once more see what Heller was doing! And in the nick of time, too. Madison would need this information!
I quickly broke out and set up my viewer and equipment. I turned it on.
It worked!
A dinner party!
It was in some private dining room in some restaurant. It was very posh. It was made to look like an old English inn with dark oak, mounted boars' heads, a log fire. The waiters were in red hunting coats.
But what was this? I really didn't recognize the people! They all had on flat mortarboard hats and black gowns! All of them!
They were apparently just finishing a roast beef dinner with plum pudding and chatting away.
As Heller glanced around, speaking to this one and that or answering or laughing at some joke, I tried to identify the people.
Bang-Bang! What was he doing in a mortarboard and black gown? He hadn't graduated from anything. And there was Vantagio! He had long since graduated. And there was the leading painter and several other painters all in mortarboard hats and gowns.
Izzy was there, sort of shrunk back. He was dressed like the rest.
They were finished with the main dinner now. Suddenly the far doors opened and eight waiters came in, four on one side and four on the other, bearing a huge cake in a peculiar way.
Everyone cheered.
They sang:
Happy doctorate to you,
Happy doctorate to you.
Happy doctorate, dear Izzy,
Your dream has come true.
The waiters put the cake down. It was in the shape of a coffin! On the top it said "Here lies DOCTOR IZZY EPSTEIN."
"Oh, dear," said Izzy.
"It's just like you wanted it," said Vantagio.
"Speech! Speech!" the others were shouting.
Heller forced Izzy to stand up.
Izzy, squirming with embarrassment, cleared his throat several times, adjusted his glasses and said, "My good and tolerant friends, it is true that this is a lucky day. My thesis was at last accepted after three horrible years. At the graduation ceremony, thanks to your moral support, I did not trip on my gown going down the aisle. When I accepted my diploma from the president, no snake jumped out of it. I even found my seat once more, thanks to your forming ranks so I couldn't miss it.
"But I must tell you that it is very unlucky to have such good luck. Fate always lurks with sharpened teeth and can strike most unexpectedly.
"As I can now devote my full time to the corporations, any market and financial analyst can predict with ease that they will surely crash.
"You are unwise to have any confidence in me. It could bring you bad luck too. I thank you."
He sat down. They all applauded. They made him cut the coffin with a provided spade.
After a while, after his third piece of cake, Heller said, "I hope this rain goes away by tomorrow. I want to take the Caddy to Spreeport, Long Island, and do a few turns on the track."
Izzy said, "Oh, dear. I wish you wouldn't do such dangerous things. I'm still responsible for you, you know."
"Well, this isn't very dangerous, Izzy. The speedway there is quite new. I'm not trying out the carburetor. I'm just breaking the Caddy in. The engine is still stiff."
"Mr. Jet, please don't connect any racing activity or your name with the corporations. Please. I have an awful feeling about it. Fate can be pretty treacherous." Heller laughed.
But so did I. Izzy could be righter than he knew, I hoped.
I had all I needed to know. I instantly phoned J. Walter Madison.
"This is Smith. Wister will be at the Spreeport, Long Island, Speedway tomorrow if the rain stops. You can begin to work him over."
"Work him over?" said Madison. "That is a strange way to put it, Mr. Smith."
"I mean, do what you do," I corrected.
"Mr. Smith, I hope you don't think I mean anything but good for this fine young man. Please don't insist that I use anything but the most standard PR on him."
"And what is that?" I said.
"Well," said Madison, delight creeping into his voice, "first is CONFIDENCE. One must go to any lengths to build up the client's Confidence in one. You see, clients do not know the skills of PR and they often get strange ideas and balk and know best and all that. One has to be VERY careful they do not put their foot in it and get off on the wrong track.
"The next is COVERAGE. One has to get maximum exposure. This gives name-awareness to the public. And one simply gets Coverage, Coverage, Coverage! One has to achieve saturation of all media and publicity channels."
The enthusiasm of the true professional was giving his voice a lilting tone. "Then third is CONTROVERSY. The public and media will not print or touch anything that does not have Controversy in it. To get the press or TV to accept the simplest story, it must imply conflict."
"Sounds pretty straightforward to me," I said a bit dubiously. If Madison did just those things, Heller might succeed. He hadn't mentioned any shooting at all. I had my doubts. Bury must have a personal bias against this sincere and dedicated public relations expert.
"Oh, it IS straightforward," said Madison. "You will see. I will do nothing, absolutely nothing shady or underhanded. My personal ethics won't allow it. I will simply build up Wister's Confidence in me, get him maximum Coverage and make sure the press gets their Controversy. The three C's, Mr. Smith. Standard PR to standard press. You'll see. Oh, Wister will win on this one. But really, I must ring off. I see right now I have some other calls to make. I do appreciate your help. Leave the professionalism to me. I won't let you down."
He hung up. I sat there quite a while. The three C's. It did sound awfully standard. I began to worry. Maybe Heller really was going to win! Awful thought!