As much as Chelsea feared and distrusted Winder, he respected his creative skills: the vocabulary, so rich in adjectives; the glib turn of an alliterative phrase—and, of course, the speed. Joe Winder was the fastest writer that Chelsea had ever seen.
Now it was just the two of them: Winder, holed up God knows where, hammering out inflammatory libels as fast as his fingers could fly. And on the other end, Chelsea himself, waiting to catch these malicious grenades and smother them. The alternative—meaning, to tell the truth—was unthinkable. To admit a hoaxster was loose, forging demented fantasies on Amazing Kingdom letterhead…what a story that would make. In their excitement the media would come all over themselves. Even worse, each publicity announcement from the theme park would be scrutinized severely by reporters and editors, whose careers are seldom enhanced by getting duped into print. One thing that Charles Chelsea (or any PR flack) didn’t need was a more toxic level of skepticism and suspicion among the journalists he was supposed to manipulate.
So telling the truth about Joe Winder was out of the question. Whatever revolting fable Winder concocted next, Chelsea would be ready to extinguish it with press releases that were both calm and plausible. One pack of lies softening another.
It was going to be one roaring hell of a battle.
As the Publicity Department’s fax machines were launching Chelsea’s counterattack against the hepatitis scare, Moe Strickland arrived to bitch about sick pay and what the almighty Screen Actors Guild would say.
He lit up a cigar and said, “The union would go nuts.”
“We don’t recognize the union,” Chelsea said coolly. “I really don’t understand your objections, Moe. Most people would kill for two weeks off.”
Moe Strickland protested with a wet cough. “You’re docking us sick days, that’s the objection. Because we’re not really sick.”
“That’s something to be taken up with Personnel. It’s simply not my bailiwick.” Charles Chelsea waved his hands to clear the rancid smoke. The office was starting to smell like dead mice.
“I don’t see why they can’t just give us two weeks paid,” said Moe Strickland, “and leave us our sick days. Whatever happened, it’s sure not our fault.”
“No, it’s not,” Chelsea agreed. “Listen to me, Moe. Uncle Ely and the Elves are on vacation, all right? They went to Ireland. That’s the official story.”
“For Christ’s sake—Ireland? Does Ely sound like an Irish name?” Moe Strickland sneered in contempt.
“I’m not here to argue,” Chelsea said. “But I do wish to caution you against speaking to the media. All interview requests are to be routed through me, understand?”
“You mean like the newspapers.”
“Newspapers, television, anybody asking questions about a cruise. You tell them to call me. And make sure the elves do the same.”
“What, now you don’t trust us?”
“No interviews, Moe. The order comes straight from Mr. X.”
“Figures,” said Moe Strickland. “What’s the name of that disease? Tell me again.”
“Viral hepatitis.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“It’s a nasty one,” Chelsea conceded.
“Who in hell would make up a story like that?” The actor smacked on the soggy stump of cigar. “What kind of sick bastard would say such a thing?”
Chelsea did not reply. He was watching a string of brown drool make its way down Moe Strickland’s snowy beard.
“I feel like suing the sonofabitch,” Moe Strickland remarked.
Chelsea said, “Don’t take it personally. It’s got nothing to do with you.”
“I never had hepatitis. Is it some kind of dick disease? Because if it is, we’re definitely suing the bastard. The boys’re as clean as a whistle down there and they can sure prove it.”
“Moe,” said Chelsea, “please settle down.”
“Does this mean we can’t march in the Jubilee?”
“Not as Uncle Ely and the Elves. We’ll get you some other costumes—gunslingers, how about that?”
“Oh great, midget gunslingers. No thanks.” On his way out the door, Moe Strickland spit something heavy into Charles Chelsea’s wastebasket.
That night, Channel 7 devoted forty seconds to the hepatitis scare, closing the piece with a sound-bite from Charles Chelsea, cool in a crisp blue oxford shirt and tortoiseshell eyeglasses. The glasses were a new touch. Not bad, thought Joe Winder, if you like the George Will look.