And then there ought to be a stunt—a good, big stunt with pix possibilities. Girls, or violence, or both. Maybe a model demonstrating an escape hatch or something at a trade show, something goes wrong, a heroic I.S.U. member in good standing who happens to be nearby dashes in—
He was feeling quite himself again.
The switchboard girl must have been listening in on the New York call. As Farwell stepped from his office he felt electricity in the air; the word had been passed already. He studied the anteroom, trying to see it through Greenhough’s eyes.
“Grace,” he told the switchboard girl, “get your handbag off the PBX and stick it in a drawer somewhere. Straighten that picture. And put on your bolero—you have nice shoulders and we all appreciate them, but the office is air-conditioned.”
She tried to look surprised as he went on into Art.
Holoway didn’t bother to pretend. “What time’s he getting in?” he asked worriedly. “Can I get a shave?”
“They didn’t tell me,” said Farwell. “Your shave’s all right. Get things picked up and get ties on the boys.” The warning light was off; he looked into the darkroom. “A filthy mess!” he snapped. “How can you get any work done in a litter like that? Clean it up.”
“Right away, J. F.,” Holloway said, hurt.
Copy was in better shape; McGuffy had a taut hand.
“Greenhough’s coming in today, I don’t know what time. Your boys here look good.” ‘
“I can housebreak anything, J. F. Even Angelo. He bought a new suit!”
Farwell allowed a slight puzzled look to cross his face. “Angelo? Oh, the Libonari boy. How’s he doing?”
“No complaints. H^ll never be an accounts man if I’m any judge, but I’ve been giving him letters to write the past couple weeks. I don’t know how you spotted it, but he’s got talent. I have to hand it to you for digging him up, J. F.”
Farwell saw the boy now at the last desk on the window-less side of the room, writing earnestly in longhand. Two months on a fair-enough salary hadn’t filled him out as much as Farwell expected, but he did have a new suit on his back.
“It was just a gamble,” he told McGuffy and went back to his office.
He had pretended not to remember the kid. Actually he’d been in his thoughts off and on since he hired him. There had been no trouble with Angelo since his grim little interview with the boy. Farwell hoped, rather sentimentally, he knew, that the interview had launched him on a decent career, turned him aside from the rocky Bohemian road and its pitfalls. As he had been turned aside himself. The nonsensical “really creative synthesis of Pinero and Shaw” pattered through his head again and he winced, thoroughly sick of it. For the past week the thought of visiting a psychiatrist had pattered after Pinero and Shaw every time, each time to be dismissed as silly.
His phone buzzed and he mechanically said, “Jim Farwell.”
“Farwell, why didn’t you check with me?” rasped Green-hough’s voice.
“I don’t understand, Mr. Greenhough. Where are you calling from?”
“The Hotel Greybaradown the street, of course! I’ve been sitting here for an hour waiting for your call.”
“Mr. Greenhough, all they told me from New York was that you were coming to Chicago.”
“Nonsense. I gave the instructions myself.”
“I’m sorry about the mixup—I must have misunderstood. Are you going to have a look at the office?”
“No. Why should I do anything like that? I’ll call you back.” Greenhough hung up.
Farwell leaned back, cursing whoever in New York had crossed up the message. It had probably been done deliberately, he decided—Pete Messier, the New York office manager trying to make him look bad.
He tried to work on an account or two, but nervously put them aside to wait for Greenhough’s call. At 5 he tried to reach Greenhough to tell him he was going home and give him his home number. Greenhough’s room didn’t answer the call or his next four, so he phoned a drugstore to send up a sandwich and coffee.
Before he could get started on the sandwich Greenhough phoned again to invite him to dinner at the Mars Room. He was jovial as could be: “Get myself some of that famous Chicago hospitality, hey, Jim? You know I’m just a hick from Colorado, don’t you?” He went on to give Farwell about ten minutes of chuckling reminiscence and then hung up without confirming the dinner date. It turned out that it didn’t matter. As Farwell was leaving the deserted office his phone buzzed again. It was Greenhough abruptly calling off the Mars Room. He told Farwell: “I’ve got somebody important to talk to this evening.”