Who He? - (7)

His heart constricted. "No. For God's sake. No. I--" He looked around. People were staring. Behind them, a chef at a window grill was gaping through the plate glass. There was no taxi in sight; no hiding place. There was an empty delivery truck parked at the curb. Lennox took Gabby across the sidewalk, opened the truck door and forced her into the driving cab. He got in himself and slammed the door. Gabby was crying without control. He was shamed and elated.
    "Gabby...."
    "Go away."
    "Listen...."
    "Be quiet. Go away."
    "Not now. Not when you're like this."
    "I never hit anybody in my life. I never wanted to hit anybody ... ever. I'm cheap and...."
    "No."
    "I'm so ashamed. My God! How you can fill me with shame."
    "I know. I warned you, didn't I!"
    She didn't answer. Lennox waited, then he said: "Look at it my way. I'm having a rough time this week. I don't know how I'm going to get through Sunday. That's why I'm acting like this. I said last night I wanted you to see me at my best. This is my worst."
    "It can't be just this week. It--"
    "Yes it is. And I thought: Thank God for Gabrielle. I'm in the worst hassle of my life, but I've found her when I needed her most. I can depend on her forever. I've got someone sane and beautiful to hold on to in this rotten war."
    "Well? Well?"
    "And then Audibon was sprung on me. 'My wife.' Bang."
    "Which meant you couldn't depend on me. Is that it?"
    "I don't know. I was scared. Maybe I'm jealous. I was afraid I was losing you."
    "Jordan--"
    "No. Let me finish." He took a deep breath. "I did everything wrong. But I couldn't help myself. I think I knew I was doing everything wrong. But I couldn't stop myself. You know how dangerous a drowning man is? He'll clutch at you and drown you too if you don't hit him. That's what happened. I was drowning.... You hit me.... I'm grateful...."
    Gabby turned to him, her dark eyes searching his face. He met her gaze steadily. Her expression slowly changed from anguish to compassion, and she reached out and touched his mouth gently. Lennox smiled a peace-offering, and it was answered. He pulled her to him and kissed her until the kiss was returned. Then they sat quietly, allowing the silence to speak for them and heal the quarrel.
    Suddenly the truck door was wrenched open and a burly man bawled: "What the hell are you doing in there?"
    "Listen," Lennox snapped. "We're from the phone company. Why the hell don't you pay your bill?"
    Gabby burst out laughing. Lennox helped her out of the truck and glared at the astounded driver. "This is your last warning, cheapskate. Next time we take the truck away."
    They scampered off down the street and flagged a cab. As they got in, Lennox exclaimed: "Jesus! Me mackinaws."
    "Jesus, me job!" Gabby said.
    "What about lunch? I loused your steak."
    "I'll have something sent up."
    They sat close together in comforting silence all the way to Houseways, Inc. At the office door Lennox took her shoulders in his hands for a moment, then asked: "Forgiven?"
    Gabby nodded.
    "See you tonight, please?"
    "Tonight."
    "Don't spring another husband."
    She shook her head.
    "You'd better divorce him. I've got serious-type intentions."
    "I can't."
    "Why not?"
    "He won't let me. He wants to own me too."
    "How can he stop you?"
    "Not now, Jordan. Some other time. But ... I've got problems too."
    She ran into the office. Lennox stood watching her and grinding his teeth on Audibon's name. Then he looked up and down the street, located a restaurant, went in and bought a lunch and had it sent up to Gabby.
    "This is Monday," he muttered. "Six more days. Christ, stand by me. Gabrielle, stand by me."
    He returned to Sabatini's, claimed his overcoats, and went home. Cooper was in the kitchen piling canned goods on the shelves while the Siamese climbed on him and begged shamelessly for food. There was a rigid law in the house that neither man ever questioned the other about his private life, but Cooper's face wore such an expression of blank dismay that Lennox was startled into breaking the rule.
    "Sam! What's the matter?"
    Cooper opened his mouth, then closed it.
    "Where were you last night? Has anything happened? Speak."
    "I'm famous."
    "What?"
    Cooper nodded, "You remember last month Mason wanted a song spot with the dummy? Comedy duet."
    "Sure. I couldn't come up with a suggestion and you cooked up a tune. 'We're The Most.' So?"
    "They released it last week. It.... So help me, it's turning into a hit. Suidi took me down for a disc-jockey interview last night."
    "Suidi? Who he?"
    "The ambassador's son."
    "Le Jazz Hot? Goggle-eyed guy?"
    "That's him. He owns a record company. They make race records mostly, but he took a chance on 'We're The Most' and it.... You should have heard them rave last night."
    "This is sensational, Sam. Man, this is the Most!"
    "It's an outrage," Cooper said. He was angry and perplexed.
    "What's burning you?"
    "I spend years writing tunes. I drudge like a sincere-type writer. A veritable Irving Beethoven. And what happens? Nothing. But a lousy little novelty I work up in half an hour during rehearsal.... It's a trappisty."
    "Lay there and bleed, long-hair. This is great. Can I shake the hand that shook the hand of Irving B. Cooper, author of 'We're The Most' and countless other hit tunes which their names are legion?" Lennox pumped Cooper's limp hand and dragged him into the living room. "This needs a drink. We'll all have a drink, by God. Bring out the skunk."
    He filled glasses and thrust one into Cooper's fist. "We'll plug it on the show. Maybe we can get Mason to use it for his theme. Tell me about last night. Why the hell didn't you say Le Jazz Hot was your publish--" Lennox did a take. "Hold the phone. You mean you were supposed to meet him at Alice McVeagh's party? It was a business date?"
    "Well...." Cooper began.
    "And you were supposed to go down for the interview afterwards. Yes or no?"
    "Not exactly, Jake...."
    "But you didn't tell me. No. You let me bellyache and offered to go looking for the gimmick book, and you would have too, you liar. You'd have given up the interview, you perjurer. Wouldn't you?"
    Cooper was flustered. "How about the book? Did you locate it?"
    "All taken care of. I figured out the Quaker and the blonde. I'll tell you later."
    "What about the knot?"
    Lennox flinched. "That's still hanging over me. I haven't remembered everything yet." He swallowed and tried to regain his enthusiasm. "To hell with it. Kit went down and rescued the book. Here it is. Now let's have your story."
    He pulled out his notebook to display it. The photostats came out with it and scattered on the floor. Cooper looked down at the white writing on the black background.
    "What's this?"
    "The letters we've been getting. To hell with them too. I want to hear about you." As Lennox picked up the photostats, Cooper took one and examined it curiously. "Forget the letters, Sam. I've worried enough today. Let me have a few jollies. How much money are you going to make? Will you hit the jukeboxes?"
    "I've seen this writing before," Cooper said.
    Lennox froze. "What?"
    "I've seen this handwriting before."
    "Sure?"
    "Positive."
    "Don't put me on, Sam. This is serious."
    "I am serious."
    "Where did you see the writing?"
    "I can't remember."
    "Whose is it?"
    "I don't know."
    "Sam. For God's sake! Everything hangs on this. You--"
    "Shut up a minute."
    Lennox sat down slowly and chafed while Cooper studied the photostats. Finally Cooper looked up and shook his head.
    "I'm sorry, Jake. I know I've seen it before, but that's all I can remember. It's like you and the knot. We're both stuck."
    "Holy Mother on Mike!" Lennox surged up from his chair and paced the room furiously. He noticed the drink in his hand and hurled it into the fireplace. As it smashed, he turned to Cooper.
    "But you'll remember, won't you?" he said. "We've got six days to Sunday. You'll remember."
    "I'll try."
    "And you'll do it. We'll lick it, won't we, Sam? We'll both fight it, and we'll come out on top Sunday."
    "I don't know, Jake. Fight what? Where's top? Fill me in, boy. So far I'm just a bystander."
    Lennox poured it out; the whole story up to that moment. He was discreet about Gabby. He merely indicated and let Cooper figure out the details for himself. Cooper listened in silence. When it was all finished, he looked at Lennox strangely. Then he exploded.
    "You God damned stupid idiot! Ass! Imbecile! Lennox, the Thinker. Why the hell can't you stop thinking? You haven't got what to think with ... Agency Man!"
    Lennox quailed before the storm.
    "What the hell is the matter with you? You've been tearing around looking for the villain in the piece like a soap opera hack. You want to find the villain who's writing the letters. You want to find the villain who's getting them. You want to find the villain who's threatening your career. Damn you, you're the villain. Can't you see that, dunderhead?"
    "Me!" Lennox was amazed.
    "Natch, you. You're the one who's making all the trouble for yourself. You insulted Ned Bacon. You insulted Tooky Ween and Blinky and Mason. You picked a fight with Roy Audibon. With Audibon! The one man who can ruin you in this business."
    "But...."
    "You've been fighting with this Gabby girl who sounds like one of the angel-type innocents. That's despicable. It's shooting a sitting duck. You even tried to pick a fight with me. You're so busy fighting the invisible villain you don't realize you're him ... he ... it.... To hell with the grammar. You're the only villain in the piece, Lennox. Face it."
    "Jesus." Lennox sat down aghast. "Me?"
    "Wake up, writer! Villains are for books. Only a Square thinks you find them in real life."
    "But the letters...."
    "Somebody sick in the head is writing them. You're in a nasty hassle right now. Admitted. But you're the villain who's making it worse. You're the one who's building it into a crisis."
    "I can't help myself, Sam. You said it's nasty. And I'm scared."
    "Like friend Fink said, it's smart to be scared. But don't turn Square. Squares think there are Good Guys and Bad Guys. But we know we're all Good Guys and Bad Guys inside ourselves. Half the time we build ourselves up, and the other half we're knocking ourselves down. When a Square knocks himself down he starts looking for a Bad Guy to blame. That's what you've been doing. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
    After a long pause, Lennox said: "You're right. You're always right, damn you. I'm a noodnick."
    "Hear, hear!"
    "But I'm going to reform."
    "Don't start any reform routine. Every time you make up your mind to do something, we have to take to the hills. Just sit tight and behave."
    "I can't sit tight, Sam. I've got problems to buck and I know how to do it. I'm going to do it."
    "Oh God! Is there no mercy?"
    "Now don't worry. I'm going to keep on fighting, but like a goddamned Galahad."
    "Are we friends?" Cooper shouted.
    "Yes." Lennox was startled.
    "Will you listen to a friend?"
    "I'm listening."
    "Leave it alone. Will you do that for me?"
    "I can't."
    "Here's my last warning. If you go through with this ... if you attack it and fight it, no matter how ... you'll regret it for the rest of your life. Now, for the last time: Will you quit?"
    "No."
    "Then you're dead, Lennox. You're dead."
    CHAPTER VI
    When I was a kid on the Rock, one of my friends turned racketeer and went into the bicycle-stealing business. He put the heist on six bikes which he hid in the Indian Caves in Isham Park where the Hessian deserters holed up during the Revolutionary War. We used to dig for musket balls and flint arrow heads up there, just a few blocks from the spot where they found a dead-type dinosaur.
    Anyway, my thief friend was too dumb or too honest to sell the bikes, and the first time he tried to ride one around our neighborhood he got caught with the stolen goods. He made his getaway and hid in the caves until dark. Then he sneaked out to make amends and return the rest of the loot to the rightful owners. This was up at the north end of The Rock where there were still private homes. Nobody could sleep that night for the crash of stolen bikes being thrown over fences into backyards.
    Likewise, for the next few days nobody in the business could sleep for the crash of Lennox switching from the Bad Guys to the Good Guys. He had a formidable list of antagonists to pacify. He had his Poison Pen Test to spring without creating any additional hostility. Lennox made an exuberant try. If he was villainous at times, as Cooper suggested, he could be heroic when he tried to combat his own villainy. Here are the highlights of his fight.
    *       *       *       *       *
    He phoned Rox Records, the offices of Suidi, Le Jazz Hot, prepared to do battle with the aid of a French dictionary. He was saved by a Bronx speaking secretary.
    "I think we ought to promote Sam Cooper's hit," Lennox explained. "My idea is a professional party for Sam. A big name party on Wednesday or Thursday. You invite your big wheels. I'll invite ours. I've got a gimmick in mind that might be a natural for publicity. Say you're celebrating the history of song hits ... starting with someone as far back as Handy and bringing it down to Cooper. If you could get enough names there it ought to be worth a double-truck in any magazine."
    Rox Records admitted that it certainly ought.
    "I want to finance this myself, but don't let Sam know."
    They kicked it around enthusiastically and agreed that Lennox would be permitted to finance a cocktail party for Cooper at the studios of Rox Records on West 50th Street Thursday next.
    *       *       *       *       *
    Lennox hired a network photographer and took him up to Mason's apartment on the west side, which is the unfashionable side of The Rock.
    The apartment was in a building that had never had a celebrated tenant from the entertainment business. As a result, the staff was stage-struck and dying to get into the act. The doorman cultivated a Low Dutch dialect. His eager expression informed Lennox that he was ready for Discovery. The elevator man had worked up a comedy monologue in Irish, Cockney and Chinese. He also was ready. At the top floor, Lennox rang Mason's doorbell, opened the door and entered with the photographer. The apartment was never locked.
    They came into a bare foyer, the size of a boxing ring. It was ankle deep in wall-to-wall blue carpeting. Lennox called: "Mig? It's Jake Lennox." No answer. They went through an archway into a bare living room the size of a tennis court. It was naked except for wall-to-wall grey carpeting. "Mig!" Lennox called again. No answer. They peeked into the dining room and two of the bedrooms, all empty and bare except for wall-to-wall carpeting.
    "Must be out buying furniture," the photographer said.
    Lennox shouted again, then listened. He heard the faint sound of music. They followed it and found Mason in the study. It was the size of a study with wall-to-wall green carpeting. It was empty except for a giant TV set with a thirty inch screen in the corner. A silver plate on it proclaimed that it was the gift of the network to their well-beloved Mig Mason & Diggy Dixon. Before the set was a bridge table at which Mason and his wife were seated, silently eating canned hamburgers and watching the screen.
    Mason glanced up. "The Thinker," he said morosely and turned back to the screen.
    "The Thinker," Irma said.
    "Bon appetit. French for it smells good," Lennox answered cheerfully. "Mig, I haven't had a chance to congratulate you. You were great Christmas night. Sensational. It was a great show. Sensational. Your timing was great. Your gags were sensational. It's great working with you, Mig. You make any writer look sensational."
    "Thanks, Jake." Mason looked modest.
    "Thanks," Irma said,
    "Was it St. Nicholas?" Mason asked abruptly.
    "Of course it was St. Nicholas."
    "Then I was right. It was that phone girl that loused me."
    "Of course you were right."
    "Why didn't you say so?" Mason demanded. "You're all trying to louse me."
    "Did I say you were wrong?"
    "You didn't say I was right."
    "Because I work for Grabinett. Have a heart, Mig. You're a great star. You can tell anybody off. But I haven't got your sensational talent. I have to work for a living. Be kind to the hired help."
    The scowl disappeared from Mason's face. It also disappeared from Irma's face.
    "I've brought a photographer for some pictures," Lennox continued briskly. "We're nominating you for Comedian of The Year, and by God you're going to be elected."
    Mason brightened.
    "Not in those clothes," Irma said. "He's got to get dressed up."
    "Never mind the clothes," Mason complained. "What about the background? There's no furniture in the house."
    "There's no furniture in the house," Irma told Lennox. A moment later she added: "It's all being custom built."
    "To hell with the furniture," Lennox said. "We don't want formal pictures. We want behind the scenes shots. What makes a talent great. Mig in his workshop with the dummy. How he builds Diggy.... How he paints him.... The tricks he invented.... All that sensational stuff you showed me, Mig."
    "Great! Sensational!" Mason leaped up, delighted. He was prouder of his mechanical ability than anything else. He led the way into another enormous room, carpeted from wall to wall, containing a long carpenter's bench cluttered with tools. Various portions of Diggy Dixon were scattered on the bench; heads, legs, arms, bodies, eyes. An open closet was hung with the dummy's wardrobe. Mason's three gag writers were seated on camp chairs in a tight circle bitching their competitors.
    Lennox greeted them perfunctorily. He had long ago given up all attempts to communicate with them. Gag writers are alien creatures and even a casual "Hello" can lead to complications. Their entire lives boil down to a single-minded search for jokes and it's impossible to conduct a coherent conversation with them. In thirty-nine weeks Lennox had never been introduced to the gagmen by Mason, and although he finally discovered their names, he still identified them as the Sourball, the Post-Nasal Drip and the Monk. Incidentally, it was the Sourball who later turned spy.
    "Got a sweetheart of a gag, Mig baby," the Monk beamed.
    "It stinks," Sourball snapped.
    "Try it on him, just for size." The Drip began snuffling in anticipation: "Hnkhhh...."
    "It's a sweetheart, baby. Diggy says to you: 'How's your wife, Mig?'"
    "I'll have you know my wife's an angel," Sourball snapped.
    "You're lucky! Hnkhhh.... My wife's still living."
    Mason looked at them nervously. The truth was, he didn't know a good gag from a bad one, and was always apprehensive.
    "I'm afraid of it, fellas," he said. "Diggy's a wholesome American boy. He wouldn't make fun of marriage."
    He dragged the photographer to the bench. There he demonstrated the inner workings of his genius ... the dummy's weighted eyes, the carefully fitted mouth and jaw, the regular body with right-hand controls for the head, and an extra body with left-hand controls; for dummies, like baseball gloves, must be fitted to the hand. Mason would have been in great difficulties last September, he explained, when he had rheumatism in his working hand, if he hadn't had a left-hand dummy to switch to.
    "Not rheumatism. Neuritis." Sourball said.
    "Wait a minute. Room. Attic. Hnkhhh.... Diggy's a poet working in an attic. Mig's the landlord. He asks Diggy where he could work better, in a room or attic, and Diggy says: 'That's why I'm bent over my desk. Rheumatics.'"
    "Switch it to neuritis," Sourball snapped. "Diggy's an editor. Mig's the poet. Mig's sore because Diggy says his poem is old fashioned."
    "Right. Right. Hnkhhh.... Mig says: 'Which is better, the old writers or the new writers?'"
    "That's it, sweetheart." The Monk took up the running. "So Diggy answers: My brother's got that."
    "Got what?"
    "Hnkhhh.... Neuritis!"
    They beamed at their employer.
    "I don't know, fellas," Mason said dubiously. "Diggy's a wholesome American boy. He wouldn't make fun of disease."
    Lennox ignored all this and concentrated on the photography business. There is nothing so sunny as the twinkle of flash bulbs, and by the time the photographer departed, Mason was suffering from 3rd degree burns and smiling happily. Lennox felt the time was right for the attack. He asked for a private conference and Mason sent his writers into the study. Then he began tinkering with a new head on the bench and told Lennox to go ahead. Lennox took the photostats out of his pocket. "Hit him hard," he thought. "Knock him off balance."
    "Read these letters," he said in an ominous voice.
    Mason took the photostats and read them one by one. Lennox watched him intently, searching for a give-away expression, a gesture, a sign. Mason handed the photostats back indifferently and picked up the dummy head.
    "Crazy," he said. "They write like that in subway johns. What do you think, Jake? Does Diggy's new face look wholesome?"
    "Mig! Don't you understand? These are threatening letters. I think they're written to you. You're in danger."
    "Me?" Mason was fascinated. "Me? I never...." He put the dummy down and stared at Lennox.
    "Yes, you. Did you read that last one? There's going to be dynamite Sunday. I'm here to help you. I want to do all I can. Who's writing them to you, Mig? Do you know?"
    "Sure they're to me. Sure. I should of realized." Mason nodded with growing conviction. "Stars always get anonymous letters. Like presidents." He began to get excited. "It hits the fan on the Sunday show, huh? This is sensational, Jake. Can we have a couple of reporters there?"
    "Reporters!"
    "Wait a minute. Wait a minute." Mason grabbed the photostats and ran through them again. "I just thought of something. Yeah. Here. You better not let the reporters see this one, Jake. Number three."
    "Don't let the reporters see...." Lennox echoed faintly.
    "Uh-huh. Keep it back. They'll know I'm not getting the letters if they see this one, but I ought to be getting them. That Spanish faker was getting blackmailed every night when he worked The Chert Room and I got twice his billing."
    "You're not getting the letters?"
    "Sure I'm getting the letters. Except Number three. Here's the line. 'You east-side so-and-so.' See? This one can't be to me. I live on the west side. But the reporters don't have to know. Hold that one out on them." Mason clapped Lennox on the shoulder appreciatively. "If I ever made a crack about you thinking, Jake, it was only for laughs. You got a head on you I admire. We'll get a spread out of this if we get any action Sunday. I tell you what. Let's be smart. Hire a guy. I bet you thought of that already, huh, Thinker?"
    "Hire a guy? For what?"
    "In case this one don't show up. Write a little script for him and we'll have him stand by in the house. If we don't get any action by the final comedy spot you can cue him in and he'll give us a production." Mason began to laugh. "I just thought of a great ad lib for Diggy when this guy starts the fuss. Diggy says--"
    "Mig! For God's sake! This is serious. The letters are legitimate. The threat's legitimate too. Don't you understand?"
    "Great, Sensational. Then we won't have to use the stand-in. But have him there anyway. Jake, I love ya!"
    Lennox made his escape. He was thunderstruck by Mason's reaction, then indignant, finally amused.
    "One down. Five to go," he muttered and continued the campaign.
    *       *       *       *       *
    He phoned Tooky Ween and made peace.