Arch Riker beckoned to him. "Stick around," the feature editor said. "Percy's calling a meeting at ten thirty. Probably wants to discuss that ridiculous w in your name. Have you seen the first edition?" He pushed a newspaper across the desk and pointed to a major headline: Judge Qwits Bench After Graft Qwiz.
Riker said: "No one caught the error until the papers were on the street. You've got the whole staff confused." "It's a good Scottish name," Qwilleran said in defense. Then he leaned over Riker's desk, and said: "I've been getting some interesting vibrations this morning. I think Percy's giving me a new assignment." "If he is, it's news to me." "For six months I've been journalism's most ludicrous figure — a crime writer assigned to the art beat." "You didn't have to take the job if it didn't appeal to you." "I needed the money. You know that. And I was promised a desk in the City Room as soon as there was an opening." "Lots of luck," Riker said in a minor key.
"I think something's about to break. And whatever it is, everyone knows it but you and me." The feature editor leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "It's axiomatic in the communications industry," he said, "that the persons most directly concerned are the last ones to know." When the signal came from the City Room, Riker and Qwilleran filed into the managing editor's office, saying, "Morning, Harold." The boss was called Percy only behind his back.
The advertising director was there, shooting his cuffs. The photo chief was there, looking bored. The women's editor was there, wearing a brave hat of zebra fur and giving Qwilleran a prolonged friendly stare that embarrassed him. Fran Unger had a syrupy charm that he distrusted. He was wary of women executives. He had been married to one once.
Someone closed the door, and the managing editor swiveled his chair to face Qwilleran.
"Qwill, I owe you an apology," he said. "I should have discussed this with you ten days ago. You've probably been hearing rumors, and it was unfair of me to leave you in the dark. I'm sorry. I've been involved with the mayor's Civilian Committee on Crime, but that is no excuse per se." He's really not a bad guy, Qwilleran thought, as he wriggled anxiously in his chair.
"We promised you another assignment when the right opportunity presented itself," the editor went on, "and now we have a real challenge for you! We are about to launch a project of significance to the entire newspaper industry and, I might add, a bonanza for the Daily Fluxion per se." Qwilleran began to realize why everyone called the boss Percy.
The editor continued: "This city has been selected for an experiment to determine if national advertising ordinarily carried in magazines can be diverted to daily papers in major cities." The advertising director said, "If it works, our linage will double. The revenue for the experimental year alone will be upward of a million dollars." "The Morning Rampage also will be making a bid for this plum," said the editor, "but with our new presses and our color reproduction process, we can produce a superior product." Qwilleran stroked his moustache nervously. "It will be your job, Qwill, to produce a special Sunday supplement for fifty-two weeks — in magazine format, with plenty of color!" Qwilleran's mind raced ahead to the possibilities. He pictured great court trials, election campaigns, political exposes, sports spectaculars, perhaps overseas coverage. He cleared his throat, and said, "This new magazine — I suppose it will be general interest?" "General interest in its approach," said Percy, "but specific in content.. We want you to publish a weekly magazine on interior design." "On what?" Qwilleran said in an unintended falsetto.
"On interior decorating. The experiment is being conducted by the home-furnishings industry." "Interior decorating!" Qwilleran felt a chill in the roots of his moustache. "I should think you'd want a woman to handle it." Fran Unger spoke up sweetly. "The Women's Department wanted the assignment very badly, Qwill, but Harold feels a great many men are interested in the home today. He wants to avoid the women's slant and attract general readership to the Gracious Abodes magazine." Qwilleran's throat felt as if it had swallowed his moustache. "Gracious Abodes? Is that the name of the thing?" Percy nodded. "I think it conveys the right message: charm, livability, taste! You can do stories on luxury homes, high-rent apartments, residential status symbols, and the Upper Ten Percent and how they live." Qwilleran fingered his frayed tie.
"You'll love this assignment, Qwill," the women's editor assured him. "You'll be working with decorators, and they're delightful people." Qwilleran leaned toward the managing editor earnestly. "Harold, are you sure you want me for this beat? You know my background! I don't know the first thing about decorating." "You did an outstanding job on the art beat without knowing the first thing about art," said Percy. "In our business, expertise can be a draw- back. What this new job needs is nothing more nor less than a seasoned newsman, creative and resourceful. If you have any trouble at the start, Fran will be glad to lend a hand, I'm sure." Qwilleran squirmed in his chair. "Yes, of course," said the women's editor. "We can work together, Qwill, and I can steer you in the right direction." Ignoring Qwilleran's bleak reaction, she went on. "For example, you could start with the Sorbonne Studio; they do society work. Then Lyke and Starkweather; they're the largest decorating firm in town." She made a swooning gesture. "David Lyke is absolutely adorable!" "I'll bet he is," said Qwilleran in a sullen growl. He had his private opinion of decorators, both male and female.
"There's also Mrs. Middy, who does cozy Early American interiors. And there's a new studio called PLUG. It specializes in Planned Ugliness." Then Percy made a remark that cast a new light on the proposal. "This assignment will carry more responsibility," he said to Qwilleran, "and naturally your classification will be adjusted. You will be advanced from senior writer to junior editor." Qwilleran made a quick computation and came up with a figure that would finance a decent place to live and payoff some old debts. He tugged at his moustache. "I suppose I could give it a try," he said. "How soon would you want me to start?" "Yesterday! We happen to know that the Morning Rampage is breaking with their supplement on October first. We'd like to beat them to the wire." That turned the trick. The prospect of scoring a beat on the competition stirred the ink in Qwilleran's veins. His first horrified reaction to Gracious Abodes dissolved into a sudden sense of proprietorship. And when Fran Unger gave him a chummy smile and said, "We'll have fun with this assignment, Qwill," he felt like saying, Sister, just keep your hands off my magazine.
That day, during the lunch hour, Qwilleran went out and celebrated the raise in salary. He bought a can of crabmeat for Koko and a new tie for himself. Another red wool plaid.
2
Wearing his new tie and the better of his two suits, Qwilleran set forth with some apprehension for his first visit to a decorating studio, bracing himself for an overdose of the precious and the esoteric.
He found the firm of Lyke and Starkweather in an exclusive shopping area, surrounded by specialty shops, art galleries, and tearooms. The entrance was impressive. Huge double doors of exotically grained wood had silver door handles as big as baseball bats.
The interior displayed furniture in room settings, and Qwilleran was pleased to find one room wallpapered in a red plaid that matched his tie. Moose antlers were mounted above a fireplace made of wormeaten driftwood, and there was a sofa covered in distressed pigskin, like the hides of retired footballs. A slender young man approached him, and the newsman asked to see Mr. Lyke or Mr. Starkweather. After a delay that seemed inauspicious, a gray-haired man appeared from behind an Oriental screen at the rear of the shop. He had a bland appearance and a bland manner.