"Forgive me. I seem to have this tendency since the operation to get . . . exercised. By the way, never get sick in California. Least nothing that requires surgery. They don't know the first
thing
about surgery. There was nothing wrong with me that a little bicarbonate of soda would not have rectified."
They discussed the hypocrisy and villainy of Region 11 politicians. Almost all the anti-smoking ordinances came out of Region 11, California, Reichland of the Health Nazis. What j
ustice was possible when Californ
ians were allowed to determine national health standards?
"You know who Lucy Page Gaston was?" the Captain asked with one of his penetrating, interrogatory stares.
No, Nick did not know who Lucy Page Gaston was.
"She came out of the Temperance Union movement in the 1890s looking for more souls to save. She had six hundred cigarette vendors in Chicago arrested for selling to minors. Founded the Anti-Cigarette League. In 1913 she and some doctor started a clinic where they dragged in poor newspaper boys off the street and swabbed their throats with silver nitrate and told 'em to chew on gentian root whenever they got the urge. Now we got these damned patches. In 1919 she wrote Queen Mary and President Harding and asked them to stop smoking. What crust! Announced she was running for President. In 1924 she was struck down by a streetcar in Chicago coming out of an anti-cigarette meeting. She survived. She died eight months later. Do you know
what
she died of, Nick?"
"No, sir."
The Captain smiled. "Throat cancer. Do you know what that proves, Nick? It proves that there is a God."
Outside the Club the Captain declared that since it was such a fine spring day he felt like strolling. So they strolled, with the Captain's car following slowly along.
"Tell me," he asked, "what is your
opinion
of BR?" He added, "Just 'tween us girls."
Suddenly the sidewalk was strewn with large banana peels. "BR," said Nick, "is . . . my boss."
The Captain gave a little bemused grunt. "Well, I like to think that
I'm
your boss, son."
Son?
"But I do admire loyalty in a man. I
esteem
loyalty. I can forgive almost anything in a man if he's loyal." They walked along. He stopped to examine some vines. "We should have the wisteria in three weeks. There's no smell like it. I imagine heaven smells like wisteria. BR's got this notion we ought to start bribing producers in
Hollywood to make their actors smoke. Interesting notion. Year from now we may have a total advertising ban. He thinks this is the way around it. Cheaper, too, probably. We're spending almost a billion dollars a year in advertising now as it is. What do you think?"
"Interesting notion," Nick said simmeringly.
"Yes, I like it
quite
a bit. Smart man, BR."
"Oh yes. And loyal."
"Glad to hear it. He comes from vending machines, you know. Rough part of our business. You need someone like BR these days. He's good with the Japs.
Tough.
The Far East is going to be increasingly important to us in the years ahead. That's why I made him an offer would've made Croesus blush. Not that anyone in corporate America has the capacity to blush these days. I
did
hate to let old JJ go. But, he's got his condominium down in Tarpon Springs right on the eighteenth hole. I suppose they'll be putting
me
out to stud soon enough. On the other hand," he grunted, "when you own twenty-eight percent of the stock you have the luxury of setting your
own
timetable. Still, I'm not getting any younger. Sometimes I feel like a
Tyrannosaurus rex
stumbling through the swamp one step ahead of the glaciers. Do you know," he said with an air of incredulity, "that the scientists are now saying that the dinosaurs died on account of their own
flatulence?"
"No," Nick said.
"They're saying all those dinosaur farts going up into the atmosphere created a kind of global warming effect that caused the ice cap to melt." He shook his head. "How do they
know
such things?"
"Where are the data?"
"That's right. That's right! Do you remember what Finisterre said?"
"Wake up, boys, it's Good Friday, let's go have a few beers?"
"Not that Finisterre. Romulus K. Finisterre. The president. You do remember
him?
He said, 'The torch is passed to a new generation.' He was talking about my generation. And now the time is coming to pass it to your generation. Are you ready to accept the torch, Nick?"
"Torch?"
"It won't be easy. It's a hostile world out there. I look around and all I see is muzzle flashes. What's more, I see muzzle flashes coming from where our
friends
sit. I had Jordan in to see me the other day.
That old
whore,
we put so much money into his campaigns over the years he put his children through college on the surplus. Hell, I couldn't even use my own corporate jet during his last campaign he was so busy using it. And what does he have the crust to tell me, in my own office, if you please? That he has to go along with this excise tax or the White House is going to shut down LaGroan Air Force Base."
Nick had to agree: it was a sorry situatio
n indeed when the Honorable Gentl
eman from North Carolina, Chairman of the Senate Agriculture Committee, was casting his vote in favor of a two-dollar-a-pack cigarette tax.
"Sometimes I feel like a Colombian
drug
dealer. The other day, my seven-year-old granddaughter, flesh of flesh of my own loins, says to me, 'Granddaddy, is it true cigarettes are
bad
for you?' My own granddaughter, whose private education, and horse and everything else is being
handsomely
provided for by cigarette money!"
The Captain stopped and said, "We got to do something. Something big, smart, and fast. This Hollywood project of BR's. I want you to work on it. And report to me, dire
ctly
."
"It
was
BR's idea," Nick said. "I wouldn't want to offend him by taking over his brainstorm."
"Don't you worry about that. I'll handle BR. He seemed to think this gal Jeannette was the person to do it. Thinks the sun rises and sets on her. But I think you're our man." He put his hand on Nick's shoulder. "And I am
seldom
wrong."
He signaled his driver. They got in. "HQ, Elmore," the Captain told him. "Then take Mr. Naylor here to the airport."
"I need to pick up my bags at the hotel."
"That's already been taken care of, sir," Elmore said. The Captain smiled. "Tobacco takes care of its own."
They pulled up in front of Agglomerated Tobacco. There had been no mention of Nick's five-million-dollar monkey wrench. Nick asked him about it.
The Captain nodded to himself thoughtfully. "That's a significant amount of money, of course. I must say that you do seem to have a penchant for causing extremely
large
sums of money to be spent." His face darkened, as if a severe emotional system were moving in over it, and for a moment or two Nick thought all bets might be off and he was headed for the unemployment line after all. But then the thunderclouds headed off. The old man chuckled, "Well I don't suppose five million dollars is going to
bankrupt
us. However, I do not expect to be swept off my feet by the persuasiveness of this particular advertising campaign." He extended his hand. "Thank you for taking the time to visit with me. I will be in touch."
At the airport a chain-link fence automatically parted at the car's approach. The plane, a sleek Gulfstream 5, was waiting, engines whining, with a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue—quality stewardess smiling at the foot of the stairs. No wonder the chairman of the Senate Finance Committee had developed a thing for it.
"Hello,"
the stewardess said, "pleasure to have you aboahd!" Nick climbed up. His feet sank softly into lush carpeting. There were oil paintings on the bulkheads, the overhead was quilted, the chairs were enormous, like BarcaLoungers, upholstered in creamy leather that absorbed Nick as he sat down. "The Captain says that's his
favorite
chair in the whole world," said the stewardess. There was fresh fruit on the table next to it, five newspapers that looked like they'd been ironed, and a heavy-stock card that said,
welcome aboard, mr. nick naylor of ats
, and gave the flight time to Washington along with the airspeed, planned altitude, weather conditions, the temperature in Washington. She leaned over, affording Nick an unavoidable peek into the soft crevasse between her creamy bosoms, from which wafted the most delicate perfume. "If there's anything I can do to make your flight more pleasant, you be
sure
to let me know, now."
7
F
light okay?" BR asked. "Fine," Nick said.
"What flight
were
you on? The four-fifteen doesn't get in until five-twenty, and it's only five."
"Actually, I came up on the plane."
"Of course you came up on a
plane,
for Chrissakes."
"The Captain's plane." He hadn't really decided how to handle his new status, but he felt like a spotted owl flitting about the office of the head of the Weyerhaeuser lumber company—protected.
BR stared. "That was certainly . . . gracious of him."
"Yes," Nick said, enjoying himself. "That's quite some plane, isn't it?"
"I wouldn't know." "Oh?"
"Yet. I was on the old one. I practically lived on it. The Captain's invited me on the new one a dozen times, but I just haven't been able to fit it in."
"Well, with your schedule. I can certainly see why Senator Jordan likes it. Ashley, the stewardess—very nice person—told me it's quite an improvement over the G-4, in terms of range."
"Um-huh. What did he say about your five-million-dollar anti-smoking campaign?"
"Said do it. But he doesn't want to be blown away."
BR's face fell. It was visible, like a glacier melting, only faster.
Funny thing, life, thought Nick: thirty-six hours ago he was sitting
here in this same office being denied caffeine and told he was finished. Now it was BR whose jaw muscles were twitching and looked like he needed a session with Dr. Wheat. Maybe he should give BR Dr. Wheat's card.
Dr. Wheat
, D.O.
Osteopathic Manipulation.
Relax . . .
crrrrack.
"I thought I'd give it to BMG, that new firm I told you about out in Minneapolis. Unless you have any objection."
"No. Whatever."
"By the way, BR, the Captain
really
liked your idea about trying to get movie actors to smoke more."
BR blushed. "That was your idea. He must have gotten it mixed up."
"Of course. With all he has on his mind."
"At his age." Nick could almost see the thought-bubble rising above BR's head.
He won't be around much longer, Naylor, and ten seconds after they pronounce him DOA, your ass is mine.
"Yes," Nick said, "but he seems incredibly sharp. Doesn't miss a thing, does he?"
"He directed," BR slid a piece of paper across his desk, "that you get this."
It was a Salary Increase form. At first Nick thought it must be a typo. From one-oh-five to . . . two-oh-oh? "Well," Nick said, "thank you." "Don't," BR said sincerely, "thank me."
People he passed in the hallways didn't know whether to greet him as a leper or a hero. The air was thick with rumors. Nick was out. But here was Nick with this radioactive smile, so how out could he be? He must be in.
"Hey, Nick, great going on Oprah."
"I thought Goode was going to strangle you."
"Nick, we really spending five mil on anti-kidsmoking?"
Gazelle was waiting for him, looking va
stly
relieved over having a boss who still had a job. The boards from BMG had arrived, which was timely. Not a moment to lose there.
"Let's have a look."
She propped them up on his couch as Nick studied them. People started to gather around his open door, peering in. What's happening? What's Nick up to? Palpable buzz. Suddenly Nick's office was the
red-hot center of things at the Academy. And here came Jeannette, smiling like a cobra in a very fetching suit and tie.
"Nick," she said, making her entrance, "you were
fabulous
on Oprah. We're getting amazing feedback."
"You seen these death threats?" Gazelle said, holding up a fistful of
WHILE YOU WERE OUT.
"You wrote death threats down on message slips?"
"I wouldn't pay any attention to those," Jeannette said, brushing Gazelle aside. "Give them to Car
lton." Carlton handled the Acad
emy's security.