Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (42 page)

“I’ll tell you, Ralph,” a tall but rather paunchy man with the oddly apt name of Potkin said. “Like it or not, live shows are going out. In another ten years, the whole television business will be right here. You ought to be thinking in terms of moving your whole operation.
If you don’t, it’s not going to be long before the tail out here starts wagging the dog in New York.”

“I’m not convinced of that yet,” Hopkins said. “And that’s not the only consideration involved in setting up a subsidiary company. There are some legal angles to this. . . .”

On and on the conversation went. It was nine o’clock in the evening before it was over. “Come on over to my house for a drink,” Potkin said.

“No,” Hopkins replied. “I’m a little tired. I think I’d better go back to the hotel and get some rest. Want to come, Tom?”

“Sure,” Tom said.

A taxi took them to the hotel. In the elevator Hopkins said, “Want to stop in for a nightcap before you turn in?”

“That would be fine,” Tom replied.

When they entered Hopkins’ suite, Tom saw that someone in the company’s Hollywood office had made all the arrangements he had made at Atlantic City the month before. On a table was a large vase of long-stemmed roses, and in the bedroom was an electric refrigerator and a cabinet holding a small bar. Tom suspected suddenly that Hopkins had never asked for such elaborate fixings, that they were all the idea of Ogden or someone else trying to please him, and that Hopkins was simply too polite to object. He wished he could find out, but there didn’t seem to be any way to ask. Hopkins fixed two glasses of bourbon on the rocks and sprawled out on a sofa the way he had the night he and Tom had talked in his apartment. To his increasing discomfort, Tom found that Hopkins was staring at him again. There was the same mixture of tiredness and kindness on his face, the same steady gaze. Tom sipped his drink nervously.

“Well, what do you think?” Hopkins asked suddenly.

“About what?”

“About this whole operation we’ve been talking about. Do you think we ought to set up a separate but affiliated organization?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “There’s so much involved. . . .”

“Of course–we can’t make a decision yet. How would you like to move out here and work on this end of things for a year or so?”

“What?” Tom asked in astonishment.

“You could work with Potkin. He’s right about one thing–this end of the business is going to get increasingly important. If you
put in a year or two on it, I think you might pick up a lot that would be useful when you came back to New York.”

Several thoughts immediately flamed up in Tom’s mind. This is his way of getting rid of me, he suddenly knew–this personal assistant business is making him as uncomfortable as it’s made me. But he’s still trying to do something for me–now he just wants to do it at a distance, by remote control. It’s a great opportunity, he thought, but what would happen to our housing project? He was suddenly filled with the confusion of moving, putting his grandmother’s house on the market to sell the quickest way possible, and looking for a place to live in Hollywood. Out of this welter of impressions came one word: no. He didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “Gosh, that’s a pretty big step. . . .”

“Don’t you like the idea?”

Wait a minute, Tom thought. If I say no, he’s going to wonder what the devil to do with me in New York. I’ll be upsetting his whole scheme. If I buck him, he’s liable to turn on me. This is like petting a tiger. “I don’t know,” he said carefully. “I’d like to have a little time to think it over.”

“Don’t you want to learn the business?” Hopkins asked quietly, but with obvious import.

“Of course . . .” Tom began. Then he paused and took a sip of his drink. The hell with it, he thought. There’s no point in pretending. I’ve played it straight with him so far, and I might as well keep on. Anyway, he’s a guy who can’t be fooled. He glanced up and saw that Hopkins was smiling at him with great friendliness. Here goes nothing, Tom thought, and the words came with a rush. “Look, Ralph,” he said, using the first name unconsciously, “I don’t think I do want to learn the business. I don’t think I’m the kind of guy who should try to be a big executive. I’ll say it frankly: I don’t think I have the willingness to make the sacrifices. I don’t want to give up the time. I’m trying to be honest about this. I want the money. Nobody likes money better than I do. But I’m just not the kind of guy who can work evenings and week ends and all the rest of it forever. I guess there’s even more to it than that. I’m not the kind of person who can get all wrapped up in a job–I can’t get myself convinced that my work is the most important thing in the world. I’ve been through one war. Maybe another one’s coming. If one is, I want to be able to look back and figure I spent the time between wars with
my family, the way it should have been spent. Regardless of war, I want to get the most out of the years I’ve got left. Maybe that sounds silly. It’s just that if I have to bury myself in a job every minute of my life, I don’t see any point to it. And I know that to do the kind of job you want me to do, I’d have to be willing to bury myself in it, and, well, I just don’t want to.”

He paused, out of breath, half afraid to look at Hopkins. And then it happened–Hopkins gave a funny, high, indescribable little laugh which rose in the air and was cut off immediately. It was a laugh Tom never forgot, and it was followed by a moment of complete silence. Then Hopkins said in a low voice, “I’m glad you’re honest. I’ve always appreciated that quality in you.”

It was Tom’s turn to laugh nervously. “Well, there it is,” he said. “I don’t know what I do now. Do you still want me to work for you?”

“Of course,” Hopkins said kindly, getting up and pouring himself another drink. “There are plenty of good positions where it’s not necessary for a man to put in an unusual amount of work. Now it’s just a matter of finding the right spot for you.”

“I’m willing to look at it straight,” Tom said. “There are a lot of contradictions in my own thinking I’ve got to face. In spite of everything I’ve said, I’m still ambitious. I want to get ahead as far as I possibly can without sacrificing my entire personal life.”

Hopkins stood with his back toward Tom, and when he spoke, his voice sounded curiously remote. “I think we can find something for you,” he said. “How would you like to go back to the mental-health committee? That will be developing into a small, permanent organization. I’m thinking of giving my house in South Bay to be its headquarters. That would be quite nice for you–you wouldn’t even have any commuting. How would you like to be director of the outfit? That job would pay pretty well. I’d like to think I had a man with your integrity there, and I’ll be making all the major decisions.”

“I’d be grateful,” Tom said in a low voice.

Suddenly Hopkins whirled and faced him. “
Somebody has to do the big jobs!
” he said passionately. “This world was built by men like me! To really do a job, you have to live it, body and soul! You people who just give half your mind to your work are riding on our backs!”

“I know it,” Tom said.

Almost immediately Hopkins regained control of himself. A somewhat
forced smile spread over his face. “Really, I don’t know why we’re taking all this so seriously,” he said. “I think you’ve made a good decision. You don’t have to worry about being stuck with a foundation job all your life. I’ll be starting other projects. We need men like you–I guess we need a few men who keep a sense of proportion.”

“Thanks,” Tom said.

Hopkins smiled again, this time with complete spontaneity. “Now if you’ll pardon me, I think I’ll go to bed,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Hopkins was friendly, but brisk and a little distant. “Good morning, Tom!” he said when they met for breakfast. “I find that I’ve got to stay out here a little longer than I thought. There’s no reason why I should hold you up, though–you can fly back to New York any time you want.”

“Thanks,” Tom said. “I guess I might as well take the first plane I can.”

“Certainly!” Hopkins replied, “and thanks so much for coming out with me. Don’t worry about anything. In a couple of months we’ll have that mental-health committee set up, and I’m sure we can work out something good. I really meant it when I said we can use a man like you. I won’t keep you on the mental-health committee more than a few years–we’ll work out lots of new and exciting projects. I think the two of us will make a good team.”

“I’m grateful,” Tom said.

“By the way,” Hopkins concluded, handing him a large manila envelope. “Give this to Bill Ogden when you get back, will you? It’s just a few notes I’ve made on some projects he has underway, and I know he’s waiting to get my reaction.”

“Sure,” Tom said. “Glad to. See you later, Ralph–see you when you get back to New York.”

Tom went to his room to pack. He glanced at the telephone. Half
the night he had lain awake wanting to call Betsy to tell her about his conversation with Hopkins. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to wait any longer. Without knowing whether she would be disappointed or glad, or even whether she’d understand what had happened at all, he had an intense urge to communicate with her. On impulse, he picked up the receiver and placed the call.

“It’ll be a few minutes,” the operator said. “I’ll ring you.”

He sat down on the bed and waited. In a shorter time than he had expected, the telephone rang. “I have your call to Connecticut,” the operator said. “Go ahead, please.”

“Betsy?”

“Yes!” she replied, sounding marvelously close. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I’m flying home today.”

“Today? That’s wonderful! But why?”

“Something’s happened,” he said. “I had a really frank talk with Ralph and I’m going back to work on the mental-health committee. I’m going to be its director, at least for a while. Then I’ll probably go onto something else with Ralph.”

“Are you glad about it?” she asked, sounding bewildered.

“Yes. I think it’s going to work out fine. Ralph is a good guy, Betsy–an awfully good guy. Guys like that never get appreciated enough. I’m going to go on working with him, but he understands that I’m not built the way he is. You and I will have plenty of time to ourselves. No more working every week end.”

“It sounds grand,” she said. “Tell me all about it when you get home. And hurry back. I miss you.”

“I’ll hurry,” he said.

To his disappointment, he found he couldn’t get a plane until evening. He was tired, and after sending a wire to Betsy to say he wouldn’t be home until the next morning, he spent most of the day sleeping in his hotel room. As a result, he had difficulty sleeping on the plane. It was not a direct flight, and every few hours they landed at some big airport. During the night Tom had four cups of coffee in four different states. The plane wasn’t due in La Guardia until six-thirty in the morning, and head winds made it an hour late. Tom shaved with an electric razor provided by the stewardess. It would be almost nine o’clock by the time he got to Grand Central Station, he figured, and he’d better stop at the office at least long
enough to give Hopkins’ envelope to Ogden before doing what he wanted to do, which was to rush home.

Ogden seemed surprised to see him, but accepted the envelope without comment. Tom stopped at his desk in Hopkins’ office to see if there were any calls for him. Miss MacDonald also seemed surprised to see him. “There’s a message on your desk,” she said. “I didn’t expect you back until the end of the week.”

Tom went to his desk. There was a typewritten memorandum from Miss MacDonald with yesterday’s date. “A Mr. Gardella called,” she had written. “He said it was important and asked me to have you call him as soon as you returned.” Caesar’s telephone number followed. Tom dialed it.

“Hello,” a woman with an Italian accent answered.

“Is Mr. Gardella there?”

“Just a minute,” the woman said, and Tom heard her calling, “Caesar! Caesar! Telephone for you!” She added something in Italian. There was a moment of silence, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the telephone. “Hello,” Caesar said in his deep voice.

“This is Tom Rath. Did you call me?”

“Yes, Mr. Rath. I heard from Maria. I’d like to see you.”

“Is she all right?”

“Things aren’t very good, Mr. Rath. Louis is dead. They went to Milan, just as I figured, and he got killed there, only a couple of weeks after he found a job. They had a strike in the plant where he was working. They’ve got a lot of Commies in Milan, and they make a lot of trouble–there was a riot, and Louis got killed. With that leg of his, he couldn’t fight and he couldn’t run.”

There was a pause. “Did you hear me, Mr. Rath?” Caesar asked.

“I heard. I’m very sorry that Louis died. Are Maria and the boy all right?”

“They’re back in Rome with Gina’s folks. They need help bad, Mr. Rath. I’d like to see you and kind of talk it over. Gina and I do what we can to help, but you know how it is. We’ve got three kids of our own. We’d all sure appreciate it if you could do something.”

There was a moment of silence before Tom said, “When can I see you?”

“How about lunch today?”

“I’ll meet you here in the lobby by the information booth, where
we met last time,” Tom said. “Twelve-thirty for lunch. Will that be okay?”