Nina said, “What do you think about the lightning-and-thunder business? I added it to the script myself.”
“What was it before—something about whales, right?”
“Porpoises, Joe. A school of friendly porpoises leaped and frolicked in the water while we made love. Our animal cries only seemed to arouse them.”
Nina had a wonderful voice, Winder had to admit. “I like the new stuff better,” he agreed. “The storm idea is good—you wrote that yourself?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” She asked him how his day had gone, and he told her about the stolen voles.
Nina said, “See? And you thought you were going to be bored.”
“I am bored. Most of the time.”
“Joe, it’s never going to be like the old days.”
He wasn’t in the mood to hear it. He said, “How’s it going with you?”
“Slow,” Nina said. “Beverly went home early. It’s just me and Miriam.”
“Any creeps call in?” Of course creeps had called—who else would bother?
“The usual jack-off artists,” Nina reported. “They’re harmless, Joe, don’t worry. I just give a straight read, no moans or groans, and still they get off in about thirty seconds. I had one guy fall asleep afterwards. Snoring like a baby.”
Sometimes she talked about her job as if it were a social service, like UNICEF or Meals on Wheels.
“When will you be home?” Winder asked.
The usual, Nina said, meaning four in the morning. “Want me to wake you up?”
“Sure.” She had loads of energy, this girl. Winder needed somebody with energy, to help him use up his own. One of the drawbacks of his high-paying bullshit PR job was that it took absolutely nothing out of him, except his pride.
Hurriedly Nina said, “Joe, I got another call waiting.”
“Make it short and sweet.”
“I’ll deal with you later, sailor boy.”
And then she hung up.
Winder couldn’t sleep, so he put a Warren Zevon tape in the stereo and made himself a runny cheese omelet. He ate in the living room, near the speakers, and sat on a box because there were no chairs in the apartment. The box was filled with old newspaper clippings, his own, as well as plaques and certificates from various journalism awards that he had received over the years. The only important journalism award that wasn’t in the box was the single one that impressed anybody—the Pulitzer Prize, which Joe Winder had never won.
When he was first interviewed for the publicity-writing job at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills, Joe Winder had been asked if he’d ever gotten a Pulitzer. When he answered no, Charles Chelsea had threatened to put him on the polygraph machine.
“I never won,” Winder insisted. “You can look it up.” And Charles Chelsea did. A Pulitzer on the wall would have disqualified Joe Winder from the PR job just as surely as flunking a urinalysis for drugs,
“We’re not in the market for aggressive, hard-bitten newshounds,” Chelsea had warned him. “We’re looking for writers with a pleasing, easygoing style. We’re looking for a certain attitude.”
“I’m flexible,” Joe Winder had said. “Especially my attitude.”
Chelsea had grilled him about the other journalism awards, then about the length of his hair, then about the thin pink scar along his jawline.
Eyeing Winder’s face at close range, the publicity man had said, “You look like a bar fighter. Did you get that scar in a fight?”
“Car accident,” Joe Winder had lied, figuring what the hell, Chelsea must’ve known the truth. One phone call to the newspaper, and any number of people would’ve been happy to drop the dime.
But Chelsea never said another word about the scar, never gave a hint that he’d even picked up the rumor. It was Joe Winder’s journalism achievements that seemed to disturb the publicity man, although these concerns were ultimately outweighed by the discovery that Winder had been born and raised in Florida. The Publicity Department at the Amazing Kingdom was desperate for native talent, somebody who understood the mentality of tourists and crackers alike.
The Disney stint hadn’t hurt Joe Winder’s chances, either; he had worked among the enemy, and learned many of their professional secrets. So Charles Chelsea had set aside his doubts and hired him.