Naked Came the Stranger (19 page)

"Yes, sir," Taylor said. "We photographed that, just as you
suggested. It was all ready to go and it was killed."

"And who may I ask had the temerity…?"

"The old lady," Taylor said. "She said she thought the other one,
the 'Tonight's-the-night' business, was… she said it was
sinful. That was her word, Baron. She said we should bear in mind
that Smellwell was a product of modern science, a scientifically
manufactured deodorant, and not some aphrodisiac used by
Italians."

"She said
that
, Taylor?"

"You were down on the ranch," Taylor was relaxing now, "and we
didn't think you should be bothered by something that could be fixed
on the spot."

"In the future," the Baron said, "call me. If anyone ever changes
something I've assumed creative responsibility for, you call me. And
if, by any chance, you cannot reach me, you tell the lady – or
any client – that we don't need their business."

"Yes, sir," Taylor said.

"And Taylor, while you're at it," the Baron went on, "I want you
to draft a letter to Vivian. To Vivian Garland. I want you to explain
to her why this happened. You may tell her, just as you told me, that
the decision was yours and that I was not consulted. The letter will
be on my desk, with your signature, by tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Baron, of course."

"Taylor, how long have you been back from lunch?"

"Oh, some time now," he said. "Although, it was a long lunch. I
had a meeting at lunch with…" – he tried to think of a
name, any name – "with Mrs. Belcher, Mrs. Grace Belcher of
Roslyn. Planned Parenthood. Fine woman. They're planning big things
over there."

"A fine woman," the Baron said. "I suggested she call you. But
anything you do for them, Taylor, you're on your own time." He rolled
his wheelchair a foot backward, then a foot forward, warming up for
the takeoff. "And at the conference tomorrow morning, Taylor, be
prepared to tell me about the Honest ad. I will find time tonight to
examine it. Be prepared to defend whatever action you decided to
take. Good evening, Taylor."

A spin on the left wheel turned the chair around, a thrust. with
the right hand sent it forward. And now, both hands pumping, the
Baron was headed through Taylor Hawkes's glass door and out into the
arena of business machines, picking up speed. Taylor watched the back
of the Baron's little silver round head.

"Godamighty," Taylor said, "won't that old bastard ever die?"

Actually, he liked the Baron, got along with him well many days,
respected the sharpness of the old man's mind, even when he was
wrong, Baron Edward Osborne Morgan… one hundred and four years
old… in a wheelchair since he was thrown playing polo at age
seventy-one… fifty times, and more, a millionaire from
investments and full owner of Morgan Advertising… but…
but, and this was the part that always got Taylor Hawkes: Taylor's
wife, Sarah, was the Baron's great-grandniece, his only living
relative, and would Taylor be executive vice president of the agency
today, if this was not the case?

Taylor didn't know. He thought so. He always told himself he would
have made it anyway. He had beaten his way up through a string of
southern agencies, had entered a Madison Avenue firm and made his way
up through copy editing to account executive and, hell, all this was
before
he married Sarah, great-grandniece and the favorite
person in all the world of Baron Edward Osborne Morgan. Hell, he had
made it that far, he would have made it to the top, to a partnership,
because he understood advertising. He understood the business and he
understood the bullshit. You're damn right he would have. But
executive vice president? If he hadn't married Sarah, would
he…?

Taylor Hawkes watched the little round silver head nearing the far
end of the room, then saw the hard pump of the right hand and the
wheelchair turning out into the corridor that would take the Baron to
his own office at the end of the building.

The buzzer. He reached for the phone.

"Taylor, I'm coming in right now," Gillian said, "ready or
not."

"Sure, Gillian," he said. "I've been waiting for you." Taylor
lifted the sunglasses from the bridge of his nose, squinted, rubbed
his eyes, put the glasses on again. He wouldn't put on his coat.
Standing, he sucked in his stomach and waited, watching as Emily
guided Gillian Blake into the room.

She looks damn good, he thought. Not the greatest body in the
world, but something there. Like she was proud of it. Would make you
know it, too… crack your back with those good legs.

What does she want? Last week at the station's cocktail party,
Taylor hadn't been sure. She had touched his hand when he lighted her
cigarette, steadying his hand with her own, but a lot of women do
that. And later she had backed that nice round behind against his
forearm, hadn't hurried to move it either, he thought, but maybe that
was because he had put his arm in a good place to get it backed
into.

Still….

Well, Taylor hadn't been sure. If he'd been sure, he would have
thought of a way before now to see her. He'd been considering a
casual way, safe, where if he had been wrong it would only look like
the courtesy an ad man might show one of the people he was
responsible for sponsoring. And the fact that they were neighbors in
King's Neck was almost enough reason in itself. But, hell, who would
believe that?

She was at the glass door, coming in, Emily stepping back.

"Hello, Gilly," he said.

"God, don't call me that," she said. "It sounds like some Lake
Michigan fish."

"You use it on the radio," Taylor said.

"Well,
you
don't have to use it," she said. "You pay me
pretty well to use a name like that on the radio. I'm on my own time
now."

On your own time, Taylor….

"Sit down," he said. "You want some coffee?"

Still standing, Gillian reached into her bag and pulled out a copy
of the
New York Times.
She thrust it at him in much the manner
of the Baron with the
Ladies Home Journal
.

"Have you read this?" she said.

"Sure," Taylor said. "Sure I've read it. What part?"

"
This
part," she said. "This part where their smart-assed
critic rips me up."

"I didn't get that far," Taylor said.

"Pablum for breakfast," she said. "The worst show on morning
radio. Makes you strangle on your coffee it's so bad."

"Hmmmm." Taylor said.

"Hmmmmm hell," Gillian said. "Do you advertise in this paper?"

"Gillian, everyone advertises in this paper."

"No more," she said. "I don't want you to put any more advertising
in the
Times
until that critic loses his job."

"Well, now," Taylor said. "That may not be too easy. No one tells
the critics what to write."

"Then, I suppose" – Gillian was still standing – "I'd
better go see Baron Morgan directly."

"Well, now," Taylor said. "There's no need to bother him today. My
don't you just sit down and have some coffee? Let's us talk about
it."

Gillian sat down, crossing her legs, her sand-colored dress riding
up, showing Taylor a nice three inches above those good knees.

"I've been meaning to call you," Taylor Hawkes said.

"You should have," Gillian said.

"About tennis … about playing tennis. I couldn't remember
whether your husband played."

"No," Gillian said. "No, he's stopped. A bad back… or a bad
knee or a bad wrist or a bad something. I forget exactly which. He's
stopped almost everything." She looked directly at Taylor. "But I
still play."

"Fine," Taylor said. "We'll play."

"Fine," Gillian said.

Her eyes left Taylor. She was looking over his shoulder, through
the secretaries' office and toward the front driveway.

"What are they doing?" she asked. "That car, the
back…."

Taylor looked out. "Oh, they're rollin' him in. You've never seen
the Baron's car?"

Taylor had watched it a hundred times; hell, a thousand times;
he'd watched it so many times he wasn't even aware any more that he
was watching it. Louie, the Baron's chauffeur, was out there now, the
same as always, letting down the back of the custom-built car. It
dropped down just like the tailgate of a truck, except that it
reached the pavement, making a ramp. The Baron, in his wheelchair,
was back about twenty feet, getting ready to roll, getting ready to
build up the speed that would take him into the car. And Old Lady
Minnie, the Baron's secretary for forty-one years, was out there,
same as always, her arms waving like an out-of-control kite, trying
to help roll the Baron and he was waving back, same as always,
saying, if you were out there so you could hear him, "Get back,
Minnie! Get back, Louie!" Nobody rolled Baron Edward Osborne Morgan;
he could make it himself.

"My God," Gillian said. "He almost sailed through the front
seat."

"Naw," Taylor said. "He can stop it on a dime. That old bastard
can really roll. He's just got to get up that speed to make the ramp.
That's his special big-wheeled, high-speed chair."

"God," Gillian said.

"He's got about five wheelchairs," Taylor said. "Got a black one
over at the estate. And a silver one for parties. And a couple around
here. Got a little business wheelchair… comes down here in
it…. I swear to God that's the fastest little wheelchair I
ever saw in my whole life."

Gillian tapped a cigarette on her long left thumbnail and Taylor
stood up. As he extended a match, she cupped her hand on his, letting
her hand linger, he thought, after he had blown out the flame. He
looked out into the big room and saw that three of the girls had
turned around and were watching him.

"You're kin to the Baron, aren't you?" Gillian said.

"No," Taylor said. He looked out again at the room.

"No, it's my wife. She's his great-grandniece."

"Oh, yes," Gillian said. "I remember that. I met your wife at the
station. I can't remember her name."

"Sarah."

"Oh, yes," Gillian said. "I knew it was something from the Bible.
She seemed nice."

"Thanks," Taylor said.

"Yes, I remember all of it now," Gillian said.

"Somebody… a woman… she'd been drinking an awful
lot… said the Baron just adores Sarah and that you wouldn't be
where you are unless…."

"Well, that's a bunch of…", Taylor cut himself off.
"I… ah, the hell with those bitches."

"Why, it made you mad," Gillian said. "I'm sorry. I thought it was
funny."

"Yeah," Taylor said. "Funny."

Gillian stood up and walked around Taylor's desk. Her arm coming
up slowly, her fingertips brushing across Taylor's jaw.

"I
am
sorry," she said. "It did make you mad." She stepped
back and looked at him. "Well, I've done enough. I won't bother
anyone about this smart-assed critic. Call me."

"No," Taylor said. "I mean, no, don't go. We'll talk about it." He
stood, fumbling for a cigarette, trying to think of something.
"Gillian, could we… Gillian… walk down to the Baron's
office?" He indicated his own three walls of glass. "Quieter there.
Great pictures, too. The Baron in the Spanish-American War and World
War I and playing polo. And some of his most successful
campaigns."

"Fine," Gillian said. "Only I have the strangest feeling you're
going to show me those computers before we're finished."

They walked through the door of Taylor's office. Taylor paused at
Emily's desk.

"I'm not expecting any calls, Emily," he said.

"Yes, Mr. Hawkes" – she always called him Mr. Hawkes in
front of outsiders.

Not a way in the damn world except to go right through the middle
of the room, Taylor thought. Together they started. Pointing to the
adding machines, Taylor said, "The adding machines." And, further on,
"Account executives' offices." Trying to walk not fast, but not slow,
and make it casual. Feeling eyes fixed on his back as they passed
girl after girl, and seeing the ones still in front of them and
knowing that they were waiting for him to pass with Gillian Blake so
they could stare, too. And the account executives peering out of
their cubbyholes. Those eyes must be eating up the backs of Gillian's
calves and eating up those good muscles of hers under the
sand-colored skirt, rolling a little, flexing gently, as Taylor knew
those muscles would be.

"Lots of various campaigns being mapped out here," Taylor said.
"Lots of various campaigns." He motioned.

"This way." They were out of the room and into the hallway and now
were standing, together, in front of the locked doors to the Baron's
office.

Reaching into his pocket, Taylor brought out a chain and fumbled
through the keys to every part of his life: front door of home,
ignition key of station wagon, office key, trunk key of Buick, garage
door, office desk, safe deposit box, ignition key of Buick….
Somehow, he was afraid that Gillian Blake was going to say, Ah, the
hell with it, Taylor, don't bother… and then he found, and
inserted into the lock, the key to the Baron's office.

"There you go," he said, opening the door, stepping aside, then
quickly shutting the door behind them. He pointed. "Those are the
pictures I told you about."

"Yes," Gillian Blake said. "And that's a wall and that's a chair
and that's a rug." She looked at him. "My, you're nervous,
Taylor."

"Well, I wanted you to see the pictures," Taylor said.

"There's the Baron in the Spanish-American War… and there
he is on his hundredth birthday, when we shot off a cannon on the
front lawn… and there's… well, there're lots of them.
And the big campaigns."

He reached over her, pointing, his arm across her shoulders.

"My, God, you're a countryman," Gillian said, turning, facing him,
standing so close that her breasts touched his chest. "Isn't there
anything else you wanted to show me, Taylor?"