The best things about the building were not visible on the outside. One of them was the offices on the floor above, where Danny did things that he did not want to do in public. The other was the private staircase on the outside, so he could get from any part of the building to any other without passing go. It meant going out of the air-conditioning, but the heat wasn't as bad as the last week, the Santa Ana was dying down, the weather report promised something in the Pacific bringing a change. All the same, Danny was glad to scuttle down the steps and into the blast of cold air in the newspaper office, where his secretary Anna-Livia was waiting for him. "I'm just writing it up, Danny," she said quickly, looking up from her typewriter. "I already interviewed them, and they're waiting outside your office."
"What 'them'? Dennis Siroca I was expecting, not some 'them'."
"He brought a black fellow named Saunders Robinson. He didn't say why, Danny. You want to hear what I got from them? There's more than two hundred people in the movement. They're going to open the new ashram next week."
"Say two thousand, and make sure you get the address of the what-do-you-call-it up big." He left by the front door, mostly so the people in the other offices would see him pass by the wide windows and know he was on the prowl.
Deere House had a book value of three-quarters of a million dollars, but didn't look it. It didn't reflect the magnitude of Danny Deere Enterprises, either. The real- estate firm alone had done sixty-two million dollars in business the previous year, for a gross commission of four million plus, a big chunk of that Danny's own. None of the other companies threw off that kind of profit. But they all paid their way, took little time or thought away from Danny's own personal schedule, and had occasional fringe benefits. When an airline or a hotel decided to compliment its travel agents with a free week in Moorea or Kenya, Danny and one of his girls was glad to accept. It gave him a feeling of pleasure to pass from the simple front door, up the winding but well carpeted steps, and into the little hall that led to his private office.
Two-twenty-five, and they had been waiting since two. Danny poured himself a drink and signaled Joel de Lawrence to bring them in. He didn't waste time with hellos. "Who's he?" he barked, staring at the young black man with Dennis Siroca. He let him stand there with his hand offered while Dennis explained that Robinson was an old buddy who had been through five or six street groups, and after all Danny had told him to hire an assistant.
"No. I told you to find one. / do the hiring. Tell me why I ought to hire you, Robinson."
The black man had a fluid poise that allowed him to draw his hand back without looking rejected. "Because I got background old Dennis don't, Mr. Deere," he said easily. "I been through black, I been through Hare Krishna, I been through Watts community drives."
"You been through jail, too?"
Robinson didn't even shrug. He simply said, "Yes, I been through jail, too. "
"You owe any time?"
Robinson smiled gently. "If I did, would I tell you?"
"No," Danny said, "you wouldn't, but I'd find out. And then I'd burn your ass." He circled his desk and sat down. "See what the gentlemen'll drink," he ordered Joel de Lawrence, hovering in the door, and picked up his clipboard of notes. He didn't like Saunders Robinson. He felt strongly that the black man was likely to be treacherous, probably lazy, sure to fuck up if not watched every minute, and generally a troublemaker. There wasn't any bigotry in Danny's opinion. He didn't like most other people either, for the same reasons. Robinson, however, might work out. There was something about his eyes that made him stand out—soft, large, unwinking as they gazed at him. If Robinson had been a woman, or gay, Danny would have understood an invitation, but there was nothing sexual about it. He debated asking the black man what he had been in for, but discarded the thought; there was no point in it, and anyway, he could find out for himself. The first thing was to deliver his little set speech, and he got it over with fast:
"You probably got some questions, so I'll answer them first. One, why am I interested in your crappy little bunch? Because I'm worried about this Jupiter stuff. Two, why don't I go through official channels? Because those assholes can't make up their minds; one says it's going to happen, the other says it's a load of crap. Three, what can I do for you? I can put money in, and then I can show you how to get more. Any questions?"
Dennis Siroca opened his mild eyes wide and said, "I got no questions, Mr. Deere. " Robinson didn't stir. Satisfied, Danny went on.
"So here's what you're going to do," he said. "You got to get your shit together. One thing. Jupiter. Nothing else. All that ERA and natural food stuff has to go. You just diffuse your impact."
"Well, Mr. Deere, some of our people feel that the preservatives in commercial food—"
"Kid," said Danny, "shut up." He waited for an argument, but Dennis only smiled sadly. "You stick to one thing, catastrophe. Scare them. That's all. No boycott the lettuce growers or down with the C.I.A. or save the whale, understand? Now, to get that across you got to have a slogan. Here it is." He paused for effect, and then chanted: "Let the world know—it's over!"
"Let the world know it's over?"
"Oh, Jesus, that's the words, but you don't get the music. 'Let the world know—it's over.' Get the rhythm. Dumpty-dum-dum, dee dah-dah."
Dennis repeated, "Dumpty-dum-dum—"
"Kid," Danny said dangerously, "when I say something you take it serious. Say it right."
"Let the world know . . . it's OHver."
"That's it. And that's all of it. No other words at all, not about anything. No one, two, three, four, we don't want your fucking war, no spur of the moment improvisations, no politics, no religion. Nothing but let the world know it's over. You just keep chanting that until it takes hold, and don't worry, it will. Next thing. You guys look like shit. You need some kind of special outfit, or way to look. I been thinking of shaving your heads—"
"Hey, no, man!"
"—but the Hare Krishnas have got that already. They've got a really good act, the yellow robes, the little dance step, the war paint on their faces. You can learn a lot from them."
Saunders Robinson said softly, "The guys might go for robes. Something silk or satin, maybe? With a bright red lining?"
"Oh, God, you know what silk robes would cost? I was thinking more something like paper bags over your heads, like the Iranian students used to."
The chauffeur stirred in the corner of the room. "Danny? Blacken their faces."
Danny glared, but de Lawrence persisted, "Blacken their faces. Danny. It's what the Indians used to do when they just gave up on the world. When things were so bad there wasn't any way out. And there's plenty of minstel-show makeup around."
Danny sank back, drumming his fingers on the desk top. At last he said, "Yeah, that could work. Find out what the makeup costs, how often you have to replace it, all that. All right. Next thing." He consulted his notes. "Right. When you're standing there on the street, don't just stand there. You want to do a little step, like the Hare Krishnas. I got one worked out. Let me show you."
He hopped up and moved before the desk, changing. "Let the world know—" step to the right, crossover, hands pressed together and pointing to the left—"it's over." Step back, crossover, hands pointed down. "Let the world know—" same step to the right—"it's over!" And back to the center. "Do it," he said, perching on the edge of the desk to watch. They both caught it quickly, but Danny rehearsed them like a director with a chorus line until he was satisfied.