5:45 to Suburbia Page 8

  “Yes. Quite vividly.”

  “The point is, all through the article the information has been handled more as a hint than as a fact we state conclusively. I mean, we’ve used words like ‘alleged’ often, and ‘said to be.’ That can make all the difference in a courtroom on this type of story.”

  “He won’t take it to court, believe me.”

  “But, Elliot, it isn’t our business to concern ourselves with whether or not a subject will take us to court. We just have to be darn certain that, should we find ourselves there, we’ll come out the winners.”

  “All right … what’s the problem?”

  “Now, in every instance we’ve been able to verify the facts we have presented, but in the college incident we can’t even come close to verifying it. And remember, it involves a specific fraternity.”

  “That can be deleted.”

  “Right, but I think the whole incident should be deleted.”

  “Then,” Basescu said, “we aren’t as well documented. Besides, it kills a lot of the suspense.”

  “But we don’t even know the name of the boy he did this to.”

  “Don’t we?”

  “Well, I don’t,” Cadence said. “Where’d you dig the fact up, anyway?”

  Basescu smiled at his cigarette in a preoccupied way.

  “Well, you don’t have to tell me, because I’m quite sure I’m going to delete it.”

  “I think it’ll ruin the story,” Basescu said.

  “When are you due back in St. Louis?”

  “A few days.”

  “Then you’ll have time to rewrite?”

  “Are you going to insist?”

  “I think so, Elliot.”

  “It’s a mistake.” Basescu ground out his cigarette as though he were squashing a bug. “It’s a mistake.”

  “Elliot, sometimes I think you have a personal gripe against him.”

  “The dinner hour will be quieter all over America.”

  “Yes,” Cadence said, “but I’m afraid I don’t get very much of a kick when I think about it. That’s the dirty side to this. A man’s bread snatched out from under him because we need to sell magazines.”

  “Maybe he won’t be fired because of it.”

  “Oh, Elliot, face up. The man is sponsored by a soap company and soap is used in the home. It’s associated with cleanliness. And, after all, Otto Avery is always associated with current events. Nobody wants a sodomist reading off the news from the Pope or Princess Margaret or the cold-war fronts, much less at the dinner hour.”

  “He really isn’t a very pleasant person. If you knew how unpleasant he was, you wouldn’t think twice.”

  “You knew him well, hmm?”

  “Yes,” Basescu said, “and I knew the boy in the fraternity house quite well too. He was a nice boy; a serious student, a rather shy boy, not as worldly as Avery. Avery corrupted him. Literally corrupted him, ruined his life. If it weren’t for Avery, he might have been a very great scholar, or a literary figure of some sort.”

  Cadence shook his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know. It’s my own opinion that nobody corrupts someone else, not that way. And the boy did take money.”

  “He was very poor,” Basescu said. “His family struggled to put him through college.”

  “Well, we’re going to delete that section, Elliot. Just take it and delete it, and try to fill in with some of the minor facts we struck out on the earlier version.”

  Basescu shrugged and lit another cigarette, sucking the smoke into his lungs, meditating. Bruce Cadence couldn’t avoid staring at the man’s filthy fingernails, at the general unwashed look of him.

  Basescu said, “There’s something else.”

  “Yes?”

  “This Gibson. Has he read this yet?”

  “Charlie? He’ll read it today.”

  “You see, he knew Avery too. He hated him as much as — ” Basescu paused and looked at his cigarette. “He went to college with him, too. He didn’t like him any more than anyone did, but still — ”

  “Did you know Charlie, Elliot?”

  “I knew him. Very vaguely … I’d rather he didn’t know that I wrote this piece. Wally assured me there’d be no reason for him to know.”

  “You’re using a pseudonym.”

  “That’s correct. I just want to be sure. Just in case there should be any — well, reaction on the part of Gibson.”

  “Yes,” Cadence said thoughtfuly, “there may well be … This sort of thing doesn’t set well with Charlie. I didn’t know he knew Avery personally.”

  “He hated him. Avery pulled a rather disagreeable trick on him at one time. Surprised him with a young lady, flagrante delicto.”

  “You all knew each other fairly well, hmm?”

  Basescu said, “Not truly. But a story like that circulates on a campus.”

  “Would Charlie know about Avery paying this boy?”

  “I doubt it,” Basescu said. “Very few people knew about it.”

  Bruce Cadence rose and stood by his desk, in the perfunctory gesture of the executive calling the interview to a close.

  There was something about Elliot Basescu that made Cadence uncomfortable; uncomfortable in the same way one is when eating a sandwich at a soda fountain manned by an acne-faced fellow in a soiled white apron. Yet there was more to it than simply the revulsion at the physical appearance of Basescu; there was a feeling about him, an aversion much like the one Sandy had suggested to Bruce Cadence when she had first encountered the man. Cadence felt it throughout their interview, and in some remote fashion he felt that he was allied with the man — and not simply in this despicable scheme to expose the newscaster; having entered into that business alliance, he was automatically an ally of Basescu’s in all ways. He experienced an uncanny wave of self-disgust, one which came upon him so suddenly that his voice snapped as he said, “That’ll be all, Elliot.”

  Basescu noticed the tone. He raised an eyebrow, regarding Cadence momentarily, as though he understood. Then, tamping out his cigarette, he stood up.

  He said, “Have you decided on a name for the magazine yet?”

  “We call it Vile in dummy form,” Cadence answered.

  A grim smile moved Basescu’s lips. “Very amusing,” he said, “and so it is. But it would be even more vile to go hungry, don’t you think? Of course, money isn’t everything. But then, who wants everything?’’

  He stood picking at his fingernails for a slow second.

  Then he spoke again: “And it is even more vile,” he said, “to imagine that the fear of poverty could be so overwhelming in the mind of a young boy, that he would accept a degenerate’s immoral proposition. And by accepting it — ” he snapped his short, knobby fingers — ”ruin his life.”

  Bruce Cadence looked squarely at Basescu, uncertain of the insight Basescu’s words had lent him suddenly. But sure in his tone, he said: “I don’t think I feel sorry for that boy.”

  “Oh?”

  “Anyway,” and Cadence was curt, “I want it out of the story.”

  “The fact still remains,” Elliot Basescu answered, turning to go, “but it’s your magazine.” He made a mock salute to his forehead with his finger. “So anything you say. Good day.”

  “Good-by.”

  Cadence stood woodenly for a moment. Then, impulsively, he flicked back the button of his intercom. His voice was angry, and his hands knotted the rubber cord as he spoke. “Haven’t we got any kind of reaction at all from Gibson on that memo yet, Sandy?” he said.

  “No, Mr. Cadence.”

  “Well, what the hell is this! What’s Charlie doing down there?”

  “Shall I call him for you, sir?”

  “Yes,” Bruce Cadence said. “Yes!” Then, “No … no … never mind. No, Sandy. See if Wally’s back from the doctor, will you?”

  “Anything you say,” Sandra Scott replied.

  It sounded just the way Elliot Basescu had said it. “… so anything you say. Good day.”

/>   MARCH 6, 1957

  CHAPTER NINE

  AT TEN minutes to twelve, Charlie Gibson sat at his desk, holding the memo he had just read: “… that in view of these facts, it is necessary for Cadence Publications to take definite action with regard to Miss Mann.” The words kept running through his mind — the words and a host of flash memories, helter-skelter ones, the burnt-out end of bygone days that spanned what seemed like years and years:

  1942 — At the Oak Room, in the Plaza, drinking stingers.

  “Wasn’t it awful about the fire, papa-doodle?” she said. “Who’d ever thought The Cocoanut Grove would just — phfft — burn down like that. Huh? … Papa-doodle?”

  “Don’t have any more to drink, Marge.”

  “I know, papa-doodle, it’s a very solemn time. The Nazis are riding up and down in Eiffel Tower, and little ole Charlie’s gonna go over there an’ make ‘em stop, huh?”

  “I tried to tell her. What could I tell her? Could I say, ‘Look, I’m going to war, but I’m not coming back to you or Janie. There’s somebody else.’ Could I say that?”

  “Mercy, no, papa-doodle! Hunt-uh! You just go off and get those Nazis off that tower, ‘n, then come back and tell her. After she waited for you.”

  “Marge, I love you. I love you. I don’t love Joan. I never realized how much I love you until the morning my orders came through. I knew, but I didn’t know how much. I just sat at my desk thinking: I can’t leave Marge. My God, I can’t leave her. That’s honestly what I thought … Not Joan. I thought, I can’t leave Marge.”

  “Or little sweet dimple-kneed Janie, huh, papa-doodle?”

  “I love Janie.”

  “Me and Janie oughtta have a club. A lots-a-luck club.”

  “But I can’t just tell Joan now. Don’t you see? What good would it do?”

  “We could have our week up in Vermont, papa-doodle.”

  “We can have that anyway. I’ll see to it.”

  “Thanks, papa-doodle. That’s all it’ll take. A big ole week in Vermont, and little Margie will wait and wait and wait and wait for Charlie to come back from that tower. I want another stinger.”

  “Please, don’t have another.”

  “Order Joan around, not me, papa-doodle. I’m strictly a free-lancer, you know.”

  “I love you, Marge. I mean it about asking Joan for the divorce. When I come home, I swear I will.”

  “When Charlie comes marching home again … Hurrah, hurrah! I’ll have a stinger while I’m waiting, papa-doodle.”

  1939 — At the entrance to The Southgate Apartments.

  “… and I want you to believe one thing, Charlie: I think you’re doing the right thing. With all my heart, I believe that.”

  “I knew you’d take it this way. God you’re a good person, Marge. You’ve done so much for me. I hate to end it like this but — ”

  “Charlie, let’s get one thing straight. I didn’t do anything for you. Not a thing. You used to think you got your ideas from me, remember? Well, you know better now. They weren’t mine. You’re quick, and you’re bright, and you’re young. I used to sit across from you in a restaurant when we were talking shop, and I’d see those wheels turning. I was with you, yes. But it was Charlie Gibson doing the brain work. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I guess so,” Charlie said.

  “You’re one hell of a guy, Charlie. We’ve had a fabulous time. I think I want to leave it at that. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Charlie said. “‘By now.”

  Charlie said, “Good-by, Marge.”

  1944

  Dear Charlie,

  I’m a little confused, papa-doodle. I thought it was G.I. Joe who was supposed to get the “Dear John” routine. Never occurred to me it was G. D. Marge … So it’s ‘just one of those things’ now, hmmm? And when Captain Gibson takes to mufti again, Marge goes on the shelf.

  Glad to hear war’s made you “think things through realistically,” as you put it, my darling. Wonder if in this wave of realism it ever occurred to you that brain-pickers, when they start trying to figure things out for themselves, have the same luck cripples do minus the crutches. Not that you’re a brain-picker, papa-doodle, but how come you just fell flat on your face?

  Good luck learning to walk. Hope you can stay in step at Cadence upon your return. If you need help, doubtless you’ll think of,

  Your Margie.

  1942 — In the Eagle Room, at The Montpelier Tavern, Vermont

  “Charlie, do you feel like finishing dinner?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s not.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love being Mrs. Charles Johnston. You know, Charlie, I’ll settle for this. For this week. I don’t want anything more — except for you to come home safely.”

  “I love you, Marge.”

  “Pay the check, Mr. Johnston. I’ll get the room key.”

  1945 — Waiting for the elevator in the lobby of the Cadence Building.

  “Bless my soul! Charlie!”

  “Hi, Marge.”

  “Charlie! Well, welcome home, mister.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I guess I can call you mister now, hmm?”

  “That’s right.”

  “All ready to go back to the grind?”

  “You bet!”

  “Good to have you back.”

  “Good to be back.”

  “See you.”

  “Righto.”

  1940-12th floor, Apartment 1201, Southgate Apartments.

  “I’m going to tell Joan tomorrow.”

  “You mean you’re going to ask her, darling. You don’t tell a wife you want a divorce, you ask her.”

  “Turn toward me a minute.”

  “That better?”

  “That’s wonderful. Ummmm.”

  1946 — Over lunch, at the Algonquin.

  “I’m glad we’re friends, Charlie. I’m glad it all worked out this way.”

  “I am, too.”

  “It could have been messy. Very messy. But the way it was, Joan never knew. And we knew the best of each other.”

  “And the worst, I guess. Or at least you knew the worst.”

  “I can’t remember anything about us but the good things, Charlie. I try to remember the bad times, but I can’t. I can only remember that we were always laughing.”

  “You’re right. We had a lot of laughs.”

  “Here’s mud in your eye.”

  “Health, Charlie. Health, wealth, and happiness.”

  1956 — Outside the Cadence Building.

  “I hear you’re going to the hospital.”

  “That’s right, Charlie. Tomorrow.”

  “It’s nothing serious?”

  “Not much more than a check-up. Besides, you know my resilient nature. Always bounce back.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. See you.”

  1943 — From San Francisco.

  Dear Marge, I’ve decided to ask Joan for a divorce. Darling, as soon as you get this letter, put in a call to me. It’s important that you call before the 23rd, which should give you ample time. I want you to agree with everything I am going to say in this letter, before I write Joan; and I want to explain it to you fully.

  I can’t go on any longer without you. I want to marry you. It isn’t fair to deceive Joan any longer. I’ll be shipping out most any day after the above date. Joan can arrange for the divorce, and that will mean I must give up custody of Janie. That’s going to hurt. But when I come home, you and I, Marge will …

  1943 — From San Francisco.

  MISS MARGE MANN

  SOUTHGATE APARTMENTS

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  IGNORE LETTER STOP CONFUSED STOP WILL

  WRITE IN DETAIL LOVE CHARLIE.

  1943-From New York.

  CAPTAIN CHARLES GIBSON

  APO (7) 96

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  WHAT LETTER STOP LOVE MARGE

  1943 — Top-of-The-Mark, San Fr
ancisco

  “I’m telling you, Dave, that’s the way she took it. Just pretended she never even got it. She’s one hell of a mature woman.”

  “Maybe she didn’t get it, Charlie.”

  “No, she got it. It was over a week after I sent the letter when I wired her. I just knew I couldn’t dissolve my marriage with Joan. I just walked in and sent the wire.”

  “She’s a sport.”

  “I’ll say, Dave. I’m not even going to mention the matter when I write her in the future. I think somehow time will find the right thing for all of us, me and Joan and Marge.”

  “Drink up, Captain, and get the waiter’s eye.”

  1956 — By the elevators in the Cadence Building, after lunch.

  “Hi, papa-doodle. Goin’ up?”

  “Oh-oh, how many’ve you had?”

  “A good many, papa-doodle. Don’t you know I’m a lush lately. Of late, papa-doodle.”

  “How about a walk around the block, Marge. Seriously.”

  “Hell with it, papa-doodle. I’m strictly free-lance, remember? So hell with it. Leggo my arm.”

  March 6, 1957

  MEMO FROM BRUCE CADENCE

  To: Charlie Gibson

  cc: Wally Keene

  It has been called to my attention that the Editor of our shelter magazine has been a source of conspicuous public embarrassment to Cadence Publications by appearing in an inebriated condition at numerous functions which she attended as our official representative.

  In addition, I have received reports that she has been drinking in her office from time to time; and that more often she does not report to work until after lunch, and then, not infrequently, she appears in a state of near intoxication.

  Furthermore, I have been greatly displeased with the quality of YOUR HOME in the past year. We have lagged way behind the other shelter books.

  For example:

  YOUR HOME was the very last to indulge the new consumer’s craze, “do-it-yourself”; and then, for its initial article along these lines chose a “do-it-yourself” den — specifically, for the man of the house. Since our product is directed at the young homemaker, the den idea seems inconsistent. Young homemakers, newlyweds and the like, if they have any surplus rooms in their ranch house, bungalow, or apartment (I felt that the designation “ranch house” was over-reaching our consumer) would undoubtedly be more interested in a nursery or playroom. Dens are for middle-aged consumers, or consumers out of the “watch-the-budget” class. A sad beginning for “do-it-yourself” in YOUR HOME, I felt.