Who He? - (10)

"Oh God! Don't tell me I've asked for crossed cameras again."
    "No. It's Sachs. He's got an idea for a trick shot on the Nolan."
    "Something fresh and different, no doubt. What?"
    "He wants to fly the 3. Hang it from the grid over the stage and shoot straight down on the courtroom scene."
    "Damn him! It isn't a bad idea."
    "Sure, but can we shoot the rest of the show with two cameras?"
    "How do you mean?"
    "It'll take an hour to fly the 3. It'll take another hour to get it down."
    "Why so long?"
    "The grid is practically inaccessible at the Venice. You have to go up a ladder from the fly-gallery, and there's no catwalk on the grid bars."
    "I see."
    "So do you want to immobilize the 3 for one shot? You want to shoot the rest of the show with two?"
    "We can't do it."
    "Tell Sachs."
    "Can we get an extra camera for the shot?"
    Eggleston shook his head. "The network hasn't enough to go round as it is. Talk Sachs out of it."
    "We've got the meeting for the January 22nd show this afternoon. I'll do my best, but there's no arguing with Sachs. He's got a talent nobody else has. He's never wrong."
    Eggleston wheezed cryptically.
    "Wait a minute, Sol. Here's a gimmick. If the network did give us an extra camera, how much would it cost the budget?"
    "About a yard and a half."
    "Then don't worry. Blinky'll talk Sachs out of it. Still, I have to hand it to him. It's a nice idea."
    Avery Borden of Borden, Olson and Mardine (nicknamed Borden's Oleomargarine by the business) arrived with disastrous news. The client had decided to go institutional for the New Year's day broadcast and eliminate the product commercials. Mode Shoes would content itself with wishing a Happy New Year to the American Way of Life in a single middle break, which now threw the entire show out of kilter. It added an extra three minutes to entertainment time, necessitating the insertion of a new number, and worse, it threw out the first and last commercials. Shows are carefully framed around the commercials in terms of tempo and climax, and the break is as essential as punctuation in a sentence.
    It was for emergencies of this sort that the weekly show conference was held on Thursdays. The staff was able to cope with immediate problems as well as post-mortem the previous week's show and plan the one coming up in four weeks' time. They all met in the brain room of Grabinett's office. Presiding was Raeburn Sachs, taking notes was Mrs. Sachs. Present were: The Star, his agent, the producer, his budget, the writer, his partner, the dance director and the music director.
    They post-mortemed the Christmas show. The client, Grabinett reported, was pleased but with two reservations. First: When Oliver Stacy handed each contestant his or her lovely pair of Mode Shoes as a gift for appearing on the show, it was requested that he use a French accent in naming the shoe style. The client felt that Stacy's accent was not sufficiently Parisian.
    Second, Grabinett continued, the matter of prizes. The difficulty over the Grand Prize on the Christmas show made the client wonder if the questions weren't too difficult.
    "Too difficult!" Lennox protested. "For God's sake! We're setting those questions at the kindergarten level now. How dumb do you have to be to win a prize?"
    "It's not as if we're giving away big prizes," Grabinett blinked apologetically. "Aeroplanes and trips to Europe and islands in Canada. For big prizes you got the right to ask tough questions."
    "How small is five hundred dollars?" Lennox demanded. "That's what our prizes average. And it's a lot of money. We don't have to give it by forced feeding, do we?"
    "A man in public is fifty percent dumber than the same man in private," Ned Bacon drawled cynically. "We did a story about that on 'The People Against--'. We--"
    "What about the prize hassle from last Sunday?" Tooky Ween rumbled.
    "We took the heat off," Lennox told him. "It's all over except for one little thing. Mig'll have to say something about it next Sunday."
    "Say what?"
    "Oh, a little apology for the mistake."
    "Not me! I'm not going to apologize for anything," Mason cried. "I didn't make any mistake. Don't turn me into the fall-guy."
    "You want to ruin my property's fan relations?" Ween asked.
    "It was the operator who loused it," Mason said. "That girl on the phone. She got me all mixed up."
    "All right," Lennox said in exasperation. "So blame it on Patsy. Next Sunday announce that the contestant gave the right answer, but the girl made a mistake. Will you buy that?"
    "She's been lousing the phone call every week," Mason yelled. "Every week she's got me worried when I should be thinking about myself. The girl has got to go."
    "Leave her alone, Mig. Will you make the announcement?"
    "If the girl goes."
    "She goes," Grabinett broke in. "She's fired."
    "The hell she is!" Lennox exploded. "That's a damned dirty trick."
    "She goes." Grabinett glared at Lennox. "You want a law suit?"
    "Contestants can make a lot of trouble," Bacon drawled. "We had a Case on 'The People Against--' when--"
    "Listen," Ween interrupted. "My boy makes the announcement if he can say that the girl loused the prize and she's been fired. That's the conditions. We got to keep faith with the public trust."
    "Then let's do it another way," Lennox pleaded. "Leave the girl out of it. I'll take the rap. The writer pulled the boner. Damn it, I'll get on camera and apologize myself."
    "What are you doing, representing her?" Ween rumbled. "No. It's got to be the girl."
    "Be reasonable, Tooky. Patsy's a--"
    "Will you shut up!" Grabinett blinked angrily. "Jesus Almighty Galahad! What do you care about a lousy telephone girl?"
    "I want a fair shake for everybody. That's all."
    "Then go join the boy scouts. The girl's fired. Make the announcement, Mig. We're out of the law suit. Next?"
    They discussed the extra three minutes' entertainment time. Mason wanted to add it to his comedy spot. He was supported by Ween. The staff pointed out that it would overbalance the show. Furthermore, the client had expressed a desire to have Mason's spot kept to six minutes maximum. The problem was how to fake a quick novelty without disrupting the existing show. The entire cast was tightly fitted into the program with barely enough time for costume changes. It would be impossible to hire a good outside specialty act on such short notice.
    "I could let you have our two leads from 'The People Against--'," Bacon suggested. No one was interested.
    "We need something fresh," Sachs murmured wearily. "A different Weber & Fields."
    "Here's a gimmick," Lennox said. "Sam Cooper's tune is turning into a hit. Mig brought it out on the show two months ago."
    "Great! Sensational!" Mason said. "Diggy and I'll do a reprise."
    "You're already doing a duet," Lennox answered. "You can't do two. Besides, you need that three minutes to change. Here's my gimmick. Let Sam do the duet with one of the dancers. We'll introduce Sam as the rehearsal pianist on the show who wrote the tune that Mig made famous. Then let 'em guess Sam's name for a hundred bucks."
    "That stinks!" Mason snarled.
    "Why? It's cute. It's in the family, and it's great promotion for everybody. What do you think, Tooky?"
    "We'll take it under advisement," Ween answered.
    Which was tantamount to an okay. Lennox nodded to Ween, then turned to Grabinett. "Mel, can you budget us for fifteen hundred extra Sunday?"
    "A yard and a half extra!" Grabinett blinked in horror.
    "Ray's got a sensational idea for the Nolan. Tell him about flying the 3."
    Sachs told Grabinett, first demonstrating the shot from the overhead grid and then from the stage underneath. His genius was defeated by the budget and the overhead camera disposed of.
    "If that finishes next Sunday, let's get on to the twenty-second," Grabinett said.
    "One more thing about Sunday," Lennox said. "The most important.... The letters."
    "Jesus Almighty!"
    "I want to make a last appeal. You all know about the threats for the New Year's show. I've been around to see each of you and shown you the threats."
    "Y-Your police f-friend's been around t-too," Johnny Plummer stammered softly.
    "Fink? The detective? What'd he ask?"
    "Lambkin, it was about the stage hands and camera crews mostly," Charlie Hansel said, "Fink's a deep one, he is."
    "He's the smartest shamus in plainclothes," Bacon told them. "We did his biography on 'The People Against--'."
    "Well that proves this isn't for laughs," Lennox said. "I think we're in for trouble. Bad trouble. I want to appeal to all of you for the last time. If you know anything about this ... anything at all that can help us out ... please don't cover up. We'll be discreet. We'll keep it quiet. But at least give us a fair shake. Help us protect you and protect the show."
    "Discreet will we!" Grabinett shouted. "I'll fire the lousy crook. I'll kick the Judas out so fast he won't feel it on his Almighty pants. And I can do it. I got moral conduct clauses in every contract."
    "Mel! Please!"
    "I ain't gonna have the name of Melvin Grabinett associated with the louse who's let us in for this trouble. And I'll sue. I got indemnifying clauses in every contract."
    "That's lovely. Lovely. That's the sure way to make a man admit he's in trouble and needs help."
    "I don't want to help him. I'm warning him. This goes for anybody. If you're gonna make trouble for the show, out you go." Grabinett blinked passionately and then continued in the same hysterical voice. "Now let's get going on the 22nd. Just remember what I tell you every week. The client wants a family show. A sweet show that makes a family feel better after they've seen it."
    Out came the portfolios, the briefcases, the pads and notes. Lennox took out his gimmick book and began turning the pages looking for the ideas underlined in red pencil, which were those earmarked for "Who He?." He had production numbers, drama spots, song spots, novelty questions and various related gimmicks neatly listed in his meticulous handwriting. At a distance one of his pages looked like a leaf from a Gothic bible.
    "I've got a tentative program worked out for the 22nd," Lennox said. "It's in the envelope with the finished script for the 15th, Ray. On your desk."
    Sachs handed the envelope to his wife who opened it and handed him Jake's program. Sachs read it, frowned, and shook his head.
    "No," he said. "No. It's all off-trail, Jake."
    "I was expecting that," Lennox growled. "And I'm just nervous enough about next Sunday to throw it in your teeth."
    The others looked up, startled at Jake's anger.
    "I've kept a record of our show discussions for the past thirteen weeks," he went on, flipping the pages of his gimmick book. "Ten out of those thirteen you started out rejecting every one of my suggestions and ended up suggesting them as your own idea. Why don't you relax, mastermind? Who are you auditioning for? Or do you want to think you're the only man on the show who can--"
    Suddenly Lennox stopped and stared at his gimmick book. His face turned white and the deep lines on it showed up grey. He swallowed once or twice, then closed the book and returned it to his pocket.
    "Excuse it, please. I've got to take five," he muttered. "I'll be in the john."
    He left the brain room and locked himself in the office john. He took out the gimmick book and with trembling fingers opened it and turned the pages until he found what he had seen at the meeting. In a large space between two neat paragraphs, a stranger had written a message to him in a familiar hysterical hand. The line was:
    "Be killing you New Year's. Knott."
    CHAPTER VIII
    A head-shrinker once explained to me that people confronted with a crisis act exactly like a J-walker about to be run down by a car. They do one of three things. Either they dodge back to the curb, or stand helpless, or turn on full steam and sprint ahead. Lennox was the third type. When the evidence in his gimmick book finally convinced him that he was next Sunday's victim, he refused to retreat or submit. He turned on full steam and sprinted toward disaster.
    He returned to the show conference and forced himself to participate until it was over. He issued blanket invitations for the party at Rox Studios, left Grabinett's office and called Sergeant Fink from a phone booth. Fink was not at the precinct. Lennox said he would call again, went out and consulted the phone directory. There were a dozen Knotts in the Manhattan book. There were many more in Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx. None of the names looked even faintly familiar. Lennox got back into the booth and called one at random. A man answered the phone.
    "Is Mr. Knott there, please?"
    "This is Knott. Who's calling?"
    "Jordan Lennox."
    "Who?"
    "Jordan Lennox."
    "What number are you calling?"
    Lennox gave the number.
    "You got the right number, Mister, but I think you got the wrong party."
    "You don't know me?"
    "No. Should I?"
    "If you've been writing me letters, you should. You--" Lennox stopped. The man had hung up. Lennox started to dial another Knott and then quit. "Am I crazy?" he asked himself. "I can't get anywhere this way."
    He left the phone booth, went out into the street and realized that he felt steady and solid as rocks. The uncertainty was ended. Lennox walked a few blocks while he examined himself in his new role of victim, then went over to Houseways, Inc. and picked up Gabby Valentine. He chattered exuberantly during the cab ride to Rox, concealing the discovery he had just made and the driving resolution it had brought about in him. He was not ready to reveal the crisis to Gabby until he had lived with it a little longer.
    Rox Studios on West 50th Street occupied the top floor of an ancient loft building. It was decorated in Industrial Modern with aerial photomurals, phallic light fixtures, and blond functional furniture. There were offices, recording studios, stock rooms, and an impressive reception room which had been taken over by a catering company. Over the bar and hors-d'oeuvre tables were hung giant blow-ups of the great hit records of the past. "We're The Most" was also prominent. Cameramen were arranging celebrities in groups. Flash bulbs were flaring.
    On the surface, all cocktail parties are alike. You find the conventional percentages of pretty girls, pretty boys, big wheels, nobodys, name-droppers, and the ubiquitous scrawny woman who drinks too much, insults too much, throws up too much and has to be taken home. It's the lower levels that distinguish one party from another, but on The Rock the lower levels are exposed, and consequently the percentages turn into the deludeds, the hostiles, the compulsives, the persecuteds, the insecures and the harassed.
    If your eye is trained you can see their frantic gyrations as they jostle and balance on their tightropes over their chasms. If your ear is sharp you can hear their bedevilments through the brittle glitter of the talk ... whispering with ghost voices like a badly tuned radio.
    In the midst of all this, Cooper, who was usually so casual and carefree, stood rigid with terror. He was learning the bitter lesson that is taught on The Rock ... that ambition besets us with many dangers to be fought and survived, and one of the greatest dangers is success. It's dangerous because it focuses attention, and the successful man becomes a new target for the attacking pirates.
    As a nobody on The Rock, Cooper had been living in happy obscurity, ignored by the poison eaters. Now he was spotlighted and they declared open season on him. The Ned Bacons cut him down to their size. The Mig Masons resented his claim on their exclusively owned limelight. The pretty girls took hold to climb over him to fresh heights. The pretty boys saw in him another celebrated name to drop and to bitch. The property owners marked him for future possession. And all this took place under the surface of the congratulations and compliments, like a poison ring inside a Borgia hand-clasp.
    The first opportunity he had after the formal congratulations, Lennox whispered: "Sam, I'd never bring it up at this time, but I've got to work fast. I've found out the letters were written to me."
    "Letters?" Cooper was bewildered.
    "The threats. You recognized the writing. Have you remembered who it is yet?"
    Cooper passed his hands over his face. "No, Jake. No. I.... No."
    "Listen. I know who's writing them. Knott. The Quaker, the blonde and the knot. Remember? Knott's the name of the writer. Does that ring a bell?"
    Cooper shook his head. He didn't appear to be understanding Lennox.
    "Between the name and the writing we ought to be able to find him, Sam. Not now, of course, but maybe...."
    "Jake. Leave me alone, will you. I can't help you. I'm in a bad way."
    "Sure. I'm sorry. Enjoy yourself, boy. I'm cheering in your corner."
    Cooper laughed pointlessly and a trifle hysterically. He was so completely unstrung that his first conversation with Gabby hardly made any sense at all. She had waited for a break in the ring around him and then came up to him with outstretched hand. Cooper at once took her to a corner and stared at her distractedly.
    "Do you trust me?" he asked suddenly.
    "Of course," Gabby answered. "I like to trust people."
    He looked into her dark eyes. "Yes. You're one of the honest ones, aren't you. Inside-outside girls."
    "I think you've been drinking too much, Sam."
    "I like the way you say Sam. No, I'm not drunk. I'm possessed. I meant your inside and outside match. Both beautiful."
    "Oh. Yes, my plumbing is the envy of all the doctors."
    "Are you in love with Jake?"
    "I don't know. It's too violent yet."
    "He's violent." Cooper nodded emphatically. "Dangerous. Do you think it'll be love after the frenzy?"
    "I want it to be. Very much."
    "Can I call you Gabby?"
    "Please."
    "Listen to me, Gabby. Go away. Get out of Jake's life. Run like hell."
    She looked at him steadily without answering.
    "Maybe you can come back another time, but now, keep away from him."
    "I think you'd better say more, Sam."
    "I can't."
    "Then you should have said less."
    "Are you offended?"
    "A little. You don't approve of me."
    "It isn't that."
    "Then you'd better explain what you mean."
    "How can I? This is something that has to be between Jake and me."
    "You don't like me," Gabby said with conviction. "Are you jealous? Aren't you willing to share him with me?"
    "Will you share him with himself?"
    "I really think you've been drinking too much, Sam. You aren't making sense."
    "How can I make sense? Look at me. Somebody threw me into the water. I'm trying to learn how to swim before I drown. I've got just enough breath left to shout a warning to you. I'm shouting, Gabby."
    Suidi, Le Jazz Hot, came up to get Cooper. As he led him away to be photographed again, Cooper called over his shoulder: "I'm shouting, Gabby. Listen to me."
    "What's he shouting?" Lennox asked, appearing out of the crush with canapes.
    "A long locomotive for Lennox. He admires you, Jordan."
    "You talked him into it. He's just the tool of a beautiful dame."
    "Yes, I am rather fatal. It's a dreadful responsibility. Who's the little man who told me he married eighteen feet of wives?"
    "Ned Bacon, my partner."
    "Did he really?"
    "Yep. Three six foot show girls, one after the other."
    "What an extensive married life. Who's the dark quiet man who stammers?"
    "Johnny Plummer."
    "And the bald man who sounds like a subway train? The one who's been pestering Sam."
    "Tooky Ween, Mason's agent. He wants Sam to sign with him."
    "They're all very nice," Gabby said. "But they all seem self-conscious. Like Roy. They live in the third person."
    "Live in the third person?"
    "Haven't you noticed? It was never 'I'm doing this' or 'I'd like that' with Roy. It was always 'Roy Audibon is getting an idea' or 'Roy Audibon would like a drink.' He was his own audience. What was the matter with you in the taxi, Jordan?"
    She took the wind out of him. He could never accustom himself to the sudden corners in her conversation. Each time he imagined he had concealed something from her, she waited patiently and then came around a corner unexpectedly into the heart of the concealment.
    "Was it anything to do with the enemies you were talking about?" she asked.
    "Yes," he said. "That's it exactly."
    "Do you want to talk about it now?"
    "Let's find a place."
    They pushed through the crowd. The party was getting high and many men laid loving hands on Gabby. When she gently disengaged herself, they persisted in following her, offering drinks, cigarettes, canapes, conversation, or any other service she required. Lennox was annoyed and reminded of the three men at the McVeagh party who had offered to take the drunken professor home for her. Gabby couldn't help acquiring a coterie of men anxious to make themselves useful.
    Suidi's private office was jammed. Le Jazz Hot goggled at Lennox and waved to him, excitedly trying to thank him. Lennox shook his head in warning and left. He and Gabby tried the stock rooms. They were all occupied. In a wrapping room stacked with acetate blanks were Cooper and Tooky Ween. Cooper was flustered and almost incoherent. Ween was aggressive.
    As Lennox was about to withdraw, he heard Ween say: "Then we got to work up some other kind of financial arrangement on our tune." Jake stopped and squeezed Gabby's elbow in warning.
    "What was that line.... 'Our tune'?" he asked.
    "I just been talking sense to your friend," Ween rumbled. "Only he can't count the fingers in front of his eyes."
    "I'm in no condition to sign with anybody," Cooper pleaded. "Don't be mad, Tooky. Let it go at that."
    "I ain't mad, boy, but you need handling. It's handling that makes the difference between a property and a non-property."
    "I don't want to be property. I don't want any part of this crazy hassle. Now leave me alone, will you Tooky? I'm wrung out."
    "I'm trying to do this so nobody hollers for a lawyer letter," Ween said. "If your friend--"
    "His name is Cooper. Sam Cooper."
    "If your friend'll let me do some good for him, then it's all in the family and no hard feelings."
    "What's in the family?"
    "Our tune."
    "What means 'Our tune'?"
    "He says Mason collaborated with me," Cooper burst out.
    "Oh. I see. You want a piece of the hit, is that it, Tooky?"
    "It ain't what I want. It's what's right. My boy helped your friend write the tune. We're entitled to a piece. Now if your friend wants to come into the family, then everything's cozy."
    "Sure. You cut in for your fifteen percent. What makes you think Mason collaborated on the tune?"
    "I asked him about it."
    "When you smelled money."
    "He told me it was his idea from the start and he made at least a dozen contributions when they was working it up in the rehearsal. Out of a total hundred percent, at least thirty nine and a half percent was my boy's ideas."
    "Your boy suffers from starmania. He thinks everything is his idea. Ask him sometime. You'll find out he thinks he invented you."
    "Oh, for God's sake! Let him have his piece of the tune," Cooper exclaimed in disgust. "We did do it in rehearsal. I admit Mig made suggestions. Maybe he did contribute as much as Tooky says. I want to be honest about this and I'm sick of--"
    "Shut your mouth!" Lennox interrupted violently. "Do you want to give it away to the chiselers?"
    "Keep out of this, Jake. Let me handle it."
    "You're not fit to handle anything. You'll sell yourself out."
    "Maybe that's the best thing for me. Leave me alone."
    "What are you trying to do, escape? I will like hell leave you alone." Lennox turned on Ween. "Listen to me, you shyster. 'We're The Most' is Sam's tune. One hundred out of one hundred percent. How do I know? Because I heard him compose it in our house one month before your boy rehearsed it for the show."