“The stuff. No buyers.”
“No buyers? Hop down, father, and jest me not! I’m in no mood for...”
“Bible, Van, so help me. I’ve been shagging since God only. The market’s dim.”
“Then you haven’t been shagging hard enough. What the hell’s the matter with you, Jo? The stuff I’ve got is the hottest you can get today.”
“Maybe.”
“Listen, shoot it to me straight.”
“All right.” Jo began ticking the points off on his fingers.
“Item A: three hundred shares Sappho Stereos. Dead ducks.”
“How so?”
“No buyers. Hold it, Van, don’t blowtop. I tried everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Something’s in the wind.”
“What?”
“Who knows? Fear. You can read it in their eyes.”
“What kind of horse are you peddling? Fear? What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know, Van; just an impression. You know what I mean?”
“No.”
“Well anyway, there were no buyers. I couldn’t even sell them for a fifty percent loss.”
“You mean you offered that?”
“As a last resort. Van, the market is tighter than a Ree’s necktie.”
“More, father.”
“Item B: twenty-two shares Arbac Press. Dead ducks. I shopped all over town. No one’s interested.”
“That’s impossible! Arbac is one of the best paback outfits in the field. You sure this isn’t a gag, Jo?”
“I never kid where it concerns money,” Houston said seriously.
“All right. Read it.”
“Item C: fifty-seven shares Dale Cosmetics. I got rid of twenty. You know what you can do with the other thirty-seven.”
“What’d you raise?”
“One.”
“A thousand? For twenty shares of Dale? Jo, are you losing your marbles?”
“I didn’t say a thousand. I said ‘one.’ One hundred, Van. One clam. Count it.”
“One clam! Look, Jo...”
“I’m lucky I got that. You’ve got no idea what it’s like, Van. So help me. I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like it? You don’t like it? It’s only my money you’re throwing around, that’s all. It’s only...”
“Cool, Van.”
“Cool my big keester! Listen, Jo, you’re paid to handle my affairs. If I ever made a deal like that for one of my clients, I’d be hanged in Times Square the next day. What the hell do you think this is, Parchesi?”
“Van, I tell you...”
“You tell me, horse! I’m telling you, goddamnit. And you’d damn well better listen. I’ve got stock worth at least eighteen hundred gee. All I want is nine hundred gee, and a good man should be able to raise that. If you’re not a good man, you’re not the man for me. There are approximately eight thousand accountants in this city, Jo, and...”
“Easy, Van, easy. I’m...”
“Easy, nothing. I’ll give you until tomorrow; that’s Wednesday. If you can’t produce by then, you can close out my account and go back to filing income tax returns at fifty cents a throw!”
“That’s not fair, Van...”
“It may not be fair, but that’s the way it reads. I want at least five hundred gee by tomorrow. If you get that much, I’ll give you ’til Saturday to get the rest. If you can’t, good-bye Jo; it’s been, but it ain’t no mo.”
“Van...”
Brant clicked off before Houston could protest further, and then he went over to the bar and shot up a booster vial. When the buzzer on his desk sounded, he nearly tore off the switch answering. “Yes!” he shouted.
“Oouch!” Lizbeth said.
“What is it, Liz?” he answered harshly.
Her voice was surprised. “I did something, Van?”
“You did naught. You buzzing to be sociable, or have you got something on your mind?”
“Van...”
“Come on, Liz, I haven’t got all day.”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice was shocked now, and a little hurt. “You asked me to remind you about marketing at 1215. It’s 1225 now.”
“What about marketing?”
“There’s some stuff back; I thought you might want to remarket it.”
“Bring it in,” he snapped.
He walked to the window, thinking of the preposterous manner in which Jo was handling a simple thing like...
“Mr. Brant?”
Van whirled from the window. “Don’t be so damned formal. My name is still Van.”
“Sorry,” Liz said. She put a pile of manuscripts in thin plexoid folders on the desk. He walked over to them quickly, lifting the first script from the pile.
“This dog bounce again? Send it over to Arbac. Tell these illidges I own stock there, and they’d damn well better buy a few of these, or...”
“You really want me to say that?”
“Of course not; give them the usual pitch. If that one sells, I’ll eat it.”
He picked up the next manuscript. “What’s this?”
“Returned from Specialties, Inc. Bark Addams called on it. Said there wasn’t enough sex.”
“Listen, let this damned stuff wait for later; I’m not in the mood. Get me Lana Davis. Walt gave her the zero sign and I want to hold her foot.”
“All right,” Liz said. She walked toward the door, still obviously hurt by Van’s brusque treatment.
“Hey,” he called after her.
She turned. “Yes?”
“Take this junk with you. I don’t like a cluttered desk when I’m on the Vid. It looks sloppy. You should know that by now.”
“I’m sorry,” Liz said coldly. “It slipped my mind.”
She scooped up the manuscripts and walked stiffly to the door. Van sat at his desk, and in a few moments, Liz buzzed.
“I’ve got Miss Davis on six.”
“Thank you.”
Van clicked on and focused. Lana’s heart-shapped face filled the screen.
“Van, my God, do you know what Walt did, and right in the middle of a goddamned production who the hell does he think he’s dealing with some crumb who’s never been in the big city be...”
“Hold it, honey.”
Lana subsided, her breasts quivering with rage. “You’d better make it good, Van.”
Brant shrugged. “The guy’s a delegate for the hatch. I’ve got a better scribe for you.”
“Who?” Lana asked suspiciously.
“Clark Talbot.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Can I help it if you’re illiterate? You ever hear of Stolen Desire?”
“Vaguely.”
“He wrote it. I’ll send him up later. You talk to him. He’s a good man.”
“He’d better be. You hand me another lemon like Walt, and I’ll...”
“Cool it, hon. I’ll send him up. 1500 all right?”
“All right.”
“Fine. So long.”
“So long.”
Brant clicked off and began pacing the rug. He was still thinking of Houston’s blunder. “How the hell was a man supposed to get anything done when he was surrounded by idiots? Imagine selling twenty shares of Dale for a clam. A clam! And Jo called himself an accountant. A shoe shine boy could have gotten at least five, and...”
The buzzer sounded, and he reached for the instrument viciously.
“Yes!”
“There’s someone to see you, Van.”
“I’m not in.”
“She said it was important.”
“I’m still not in.”
“Sir, she...”
“Listen, Liz, do I have to send a diagram with everything I say? I’m not in! That goes for this chick, and the President, and even Dino Pelazi. I’m not in; I’m out. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine, fine. I’m glad I still speak English.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that all?”
“Y...”
“All right. Don’t disturb me for the next hour or so.”
He clicked off angrily. Of all the stupid things. First Jo with his admission of gross incompetence, and then a secretary who couldn’t keep an unwanted visitor away from her boss when he didn’t want company. And a man was supposed to conduct a business this way. A man was supposed to pretend everything was grooved, just blithely sail along until his nose smashed into...