Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

The (Deadly) Ad-Man by Hayes Rabon

Well, it was an idea. He’d run it up the flag-pole and see how it waved.

The letter opener hit the desk top with a dull thud. Ralph Thomas nervously pushed it aside and for the third time picked up the pink slip notifying him to call Arthur Smith. He studied the note. Mary, in her neat secretarial hand, had written, ‘call Arthur Smith as soon as possible.’

He pushed back from his desk and began pacing the large office containing the long table lined with chairs, and the tall cabinet where the advertising accounts were kept, and the red-leather sofa on which he catnapped when he could. When he stopped at the end window to stare out at the hazy New York skyline, he tossed the damp, crumpled reminder into an ashtray.

Nothing had been right all day, it seemed to Thomas. He had overslept — the party the night before had lasted until 3 a.m. — and he had not reached the office until 11:30. He had a headache and had smoked too many cigarettes. He had missed a meeting at 10; a meeting he should have attended. And then the note.

‘Call Arthur Smith as soon as possible.’ Arthur Smith. Thomas could see his pale, frightened face floating before him. But why is he frightened, Thomas wondered. I’m the one that should be frightened. He has nothing to lose, really. I’ve got the ad agency, and if that goes, I go... house, car, club... maybe even Phyllis. Ah, I should never have let Art talk me into leaving Atkins, Moore and Dunn and taking the Greater Airlines account with me. But Art should have... well, hell, he couldn’t foresee a crash. What a mess.

Thomas looked at his watch... 12:10... and walked to his desk. Slowly he dialed Smith’s number.

“Why in the hell,” Smith bellowed when they were connected, “didn’t you call earlier?”

“I was tied up, Art, until just a few minutes ago. I’ve been out of the office,” Thomas said, rubbing his head. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

“Bad, hell,” Smith said. “That’s not the word for it. It’s diaster, that’s what it is. One month... that’s all we have. One... O-N-E... month.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Thomas said. “They can’t, they don’t dare do this to us. I expected one year, but just one month?”

“Well, maybe they can’t,” Smith said, “but they have.” There was a long pause. “I tried to get more time, but I couldn’t. I told them just six months would be long enough. I explained that the passenger loss after the crash wouldn’t last over six months, and that the crash shouldn’t be a factor in their advertising. But they wouldn’t listen. We only have one month to get those passengers back, or we lose the Greater account.”

“It’s impossible to show any results in one month,” Thomas said. “We’ve already tried everything. We’re overspent by almost...”

Breaking in, Smith said, “You think I don’t know? Good god almighty. I told them. I begged them. But they just don’t realize. Who am I to give them advice, let me ask you. Since when do they listen to their vice president in charge of advertising? They think we should be able to convince people to ride Greater Airlines. That’s why they spend good, green cash for all that ad space, isn’t it?”

If Thomas had not known Smith better, he would have sworn he was about to cry.

“Well,” Thomas said softly, “there’s nothing we can do, except wait. By some miracle, we might get those passengers back before the month is up. But it’ll take a miracle.”

There was a long pause, then Smith said, “God, I feel awful.”

“Look, Art, let’s get together in the morning. I’ll think about what we can do tonight and then first thing in the morning we’ll go over it and see what we can come up with. There might be an out, an answer, somewhere. At least it’ll help to talk about it.”

“Says who?” Smith sounded tired, beaten. “But I won’t argue. I’ll see you about 10.”

Thomas placed the phone gently back on the cradle. He stared at his desk, cluttered with a variety of objects which bore no relation whatever to the advertising business: dirty assortment of pipes and three cans of tobacco, Ian Fleming’s “Goldfinger,” the letter opener...

Well, he thought, I never expected anything like this to happen, not to me. If only we had had a year, we would have had enough accounts so it wouldn’t matter. But six months? Who would have thought that it would all end in just six months?

He reached down and pulled up his sock, then pushed the intercom button. “Mary, hold all calls. I’ll be back around three.”

He came back much earlier, shortly before two, and had Mary call Bill Phillips.

“He was at the party last night,” Thomas explained. “I think he lives in the Riverside Apartments.”

He walked into his office and sat down at this desk. What a mess, he thought, and rubbed his eyes. When the phone buzzed he stared at it for several seconds before picking it up.

“Hello Bill,” Thomas said. “How are you feeling today?” After a pause, he said, “Yeah, I’m a little hungover too. What I wanted to find out is when you’re going to Miami?... Tonight?... A Southern Lines flight? I didn’t realize it was so soon. I wanted to ask you if you would do me a favor?... That’s right. It’s for my sister. She’s been living there for five months now... That’s right. Look, how about having dinner with us before you leave? I can pick you up after work and then I can drive you to the airport... Fine, I’ll pick you up about six... Bye.”

Thomas sat for a long time, staring at the telephone as if it could give him the answer he needed. Finally he sighed and walked out of the office.

“Mary,” he said, “I won’t be back today. If anything comes up and you need to contact me, call Phyllis. I’ll be home after seven.”

No one else had arrived when Thomas came to work the next morning, looking as if he hadn’t slept in days: his suit was wrinkled, he needed a shave and his eyes were red. He walked quickly into his office and without taking off his coat and hat spread several morning newspapers out on his desk and looked at the bold, black headlines:

His hands shook as he read the story. He ran his fingers through his hair, then laughed softly. Well, he thought, they said a crash was a factor in advertising. Let’s see how big a factor it really is.

Thomas sat down at his typewriter and typed out a note for Mary: “Get Walter Adams for me. He works at Potter, Potter and Potter. He’s an old friend of mine and I understand he’s going to California sometime next week on a Continental Airlines flight.”