Thank You for Smoking

21

He picked up Jeannette in the greenroom after the show. There were other people milling around, mostly trying to get her phone number. She was looking very sleek tonight. With Nick she was the soul of cool professionalism, confining herself to complimenting him on having made "some very important points." Then when they were alone in the elevator, she grabbed him by the neck and put a kiss on him like a NASA air lock.

"You were incredible. I'm going to make you moan."

Jeannette sure knew how to make a guy feel like he'd done an honest day's work. She kept attacking him in the car on the way back to Nick's place. Disinformation was certainly an aphrodisiac to Jeannette. They tumbled through the door and onto the bed. As usual, the lights stayed out and Jeannette did her kinky latex number with the gloves and condoms.

Just as things were getting truly sweaty, the phone rang. Polly's voice came over the answering-machine speaker. It was distracting, making love to one woman while listening to another.

"Killer cheese?" Polly laughed. "Well done. Finisterre looked like he was having an outbreak of shingles. Bobby Jay said to tell you that you did the Mod Squad proud tonight. Congratulations. Give me a call when you get back. I have to do a panel tomorrow, so I'm cramming about the effects of alcohol on neural function. Did you know that alcohol actually strengthens the flow of ions through the GABAA ion channel and produces a calming effect, much like Valium? In moderate doses of course, but I can fudge that. If it's one thing the Moderation Council hates, it's moderation. Anyway, kiddo, you were really great. You made my ion channels hum. Bye."

"Who was that?" Jeannette said.

"Don't stop. Oh."

"She sounded kind of friendly."

"Polly Bailey. Just a friend."

"What's the Mod Squad?"

"Merchants of Death. We do lunch. Oh, yes, definitely. Ohhh."

The phone rang again. "Hi Nick, it's Heather. Cheese? I gotta hand it to you. You could make the Serbs sound like humanitarians. Give me a call, okay? We need to talk about this piece. Can you do dinner tomorrow night?"

"Was that Heather Holloway?"

"Ohhhhhhhhh. Yeah."

"Aha. I knew you were her Deep Throat. Naughty boy. You should be spanked. Do you want me to spank you?"

"No."

"So, are you fucking her?"

"Who?"

"Heather Holloway."

"Can we talk about this later? Ow! Hey!"

The next call was from the Captain. "Nick, son. You were magnificent! That buck-tooth, pimply-assed son of a bitch looked like he was going to shit his britches. In fact I think I heard him do just that. Well done, sir. You're the only good thing's happened to tobacco in the last ten years. And don't you think I don't plan to show my appreciation."

"Was that — the Captain?"

"Oh, oh, oh, oh…"

"Nick."

"What? Yes."

"He certainly sounded happy."

"Mrrmph. Baby, baby—"

"What did he mean by showing his appreciation?"

"Rrmmm. Oo, oo, oo. Yesyesyesyesssssss."

She was gone, as usual, by the time he woke up, and once again had cleaned up, sparing him having to dispense with nookie detritus. Very orderly woman, Jeannette. Probably went with the S&M fetish. What a littered scene it would have been this morning, boxes, wrappers, little limp love zeppelins lying all over the floor. Five times! Reassuring, in your forties, to know that the old cobra could still stand up and hiss five times in one night.

The phone rang. It was Gazelle, panicking because it was 9:15—he hadn't gotten to sleep until after four — and his phone was already in meltdown from outraged calls, mostly from Vermont, including from the governor's office. "You better tell those dykes they got protecting you to look sharp," she said, " 'cause these people sound like they're going to drive down here in their cheese trucks and park them on top of your ass."

When he got to the office, it was high-fives in the hallway and hurrahs for the conquering hero. Tobacco might be going down in flames, but its paladin was wielding a sharp lance.

BR was a tad subdued. A tad cool, even. "I just got off the phone with the Governor of Vermont," he said. "I would not describe him as a happy camper."

"That'll teach him to ban smoking in his prisons." Nick shrugged, pouring himself some coffee. After intense internal debate, the Academy of Tobacco Studies had decided not to go to court on behalf of the smoking rights of the Green Mountain State's murderers, rapists, and thieves.

"Legal Affairs says that we're going to be sued by every cheddar cheese manufacturer in the state," BR said. " 'Tragic role of cheese'?"

"Let them sue." Nick said. "Let cheese take the witness stand for a change. For the first time since I can recall, we're on the attack instead of circling the wagons."

"We are that. I only wish we were attacking on better ground than cheese."

"Such as? Health?"

BR frowned.

"I thought you wanted a challenge. We're going to need to get our research ducks lined up. You better get Issues Intelligence cranking. You know what we're looking for."

"Cheese fatalities?"

"Atherosclerosis rates in Vermont. No reason we can't correlate Vermont cheddar production with heart disease, nationally. Any cholesterol injuries will do. Hell, we can probably attribute every heart attack in the country to Vermont cheddar cheese. Get Erhardt on the case. Erhardt could make oat bran sound lethal."

"I wouldn't plan on doing any leaf-peeping in Vermont this fall unless you put on a fake beard and register under an assumed name."

"Yeah, well, there's always New Hampshire," Nick said, turning to go.

"Nick," BR said uncomfortably, "something's come up that I need to talk with you about. Those two FBI agents, Monmaney and Allman, came in to see me yesterday late afternoon and, well, why don't we say that you and I never had this conversation."

"What's the problem?"

"They want to see your phone records."

"Uh-huh," Nick said. "And why would they want to do that?"

"I don't know. But it was pretty clear that if I didn't volunteer your phone records, they'll come back with a subpoena. I don't think either of us wants that. But I wanted to talk with you first." He gave Nick a pained look. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'm not sure I'm tracking here, BR. Am I under suspicion of something?"

"I asked them just that."

"And?"

"They gave me some bullshit boilerplate non answer out of the G-man's training manual. Made me madder than a hornet and I gave it to them, believe me. But obviously, yeah, they seem to be… curious about you at this point."

"What do they think happened? I kidnapped and almost killed myself with, with, with nicotine patches?"

"I suppose for the same reason that it occurred to me. All the great press we got afterward. At the time, you'll recall I told you I wished I'd thought of kidnapping you. The same motive seems to have occurred to them."

"Let them have my phone records. I don't have anything to hide. They can have my dry cleaning bill, too."

"Nick," BR said in a parental tone, "I think it's time you had some representation. Just… in the event."

"In the event of what? I didn't do it. It's the one thing in my life about which I can say, with actual conviction — I am innocent."

"Nick, you don't have to convince me. I'm on your side. But let's at least do this thing right."

"Great, tobacco spokesman hires lawyer."

BR winced. "I see your point. But if this goes any further, I'm calling Steve Carlinsky."

"Steve Carlinsky? Who defended whatsisname, the Dip 'n' Glow guy, Scarparillo?"

"He's the best. And he got him off, which, considering he was facing fifteen to twenty-five for selling repackaged radioactive waste as furniture stripper, was something of a legal triumph. Tom Salley told me it was the most brilliant defense he's ever seen, and he worked for Edward Bennett Williams. Where are you going?"

"To blow up the Holland Tunnel."

"What?"

"If I'm going to be arrested by the FBI," Nick said with asperity, "I might as well have some fun."

Nick was sitting in his office staring at the poster of the Lucky Strike doctor, stewing, when Jack Bein called. "Nick! You were tremendous."

"You saw it?" Nick said, surprised. Jack didn't strike him as a Nightline-watching type.

"Not personally. But you were fabulous. And I voted for the guy's uncle, so you know where I'm coming from. You know, I can't eat cheese. Gives me a headache. Listen, I was just with Jeff, and by the way, there's no hurt feelings about the dinner, so put it out of your mind."

"A great relief," Nick said.

"Now we've got some incredible news. Jerry and Voltan — the producers — have agreed to come down on their percentage of Mace and Fiona's product placement compensation, so that means Mace and Fiona will have to come down."

"Well there's certainly a lot of room for improvement, Jack. I gave my people those numbers and they went into cardiac arrest."

"Nick, Jeff wants this to happen, so it's going to happen. Don't worry about the numbers. We'll make the numbers fit. Now, Jeff met with Mace and Fiona's reps and here's the situation vis a vis them…."

* * *

Nick stared into Bert's fireplace and watched the rotating purple and yellow light pretending to be flames. Bobby Jay had not found out anything from his FBI contacts. And Polly thought he ought to hire Steve Carlinsky right away, which annoyed Nick so much he changed the subject.

"Mace McQuade and Fiona Fontaine have quote qualms unquote about quote glorifying smoking unquote."

Bobby Jay shook his head as he stirred his coffee with his steel hook, a custom Polly found uncouth. "Qualms," he snorted, "from people who make their livelihood glorifying sex and violence."

"What about your Durk Fraser ad campaign?" Polly said. "He made his millions playing a savage policeman, and now he's your poster boy. 'I'm on SAFETY.' "

"Durk Fraser is a highly moral human being," Bobby Jay said, "who always stood up for what was right and fine."

"Right, while torturing confessions out of minorities."

"That was one movie, and the fact is that most crime is committed by minorities, a point that some bleeding heart liberals find difficult to admit."

"Just because I find Durk Fraser repellent—and a bad actor— doesn't make me a liberal."

"Durk Fraser," Bobby Jay said, "is five times the actor Mace McQuade is, and he never had to wiggle his bare butt on the screen. If I were Nick, I'd tell that boy and his agent to go straight to hell and don't even stop to clean the bugs off the windshield. And as for that Rahab… "

"Who?"

"The painted whore of Babylon." Two espressos and Bobby Jay became a flame-snorting Old Testament moralist. "I am familiar with the complete oovre of Fiona Fontaine, and while I do not deny that the Lord endowed her with natural beauty — which she defiled by having her tits pumped full of plastic — I do not frankly see what all the fuss is about. Not wearing underpants does not make you an actress."

"So," Polly said, "does this mean no smoking in Sector Six?"

"Oh no," Nick said, "two million dollars — each — goes a long way toward qualm abatement. I have to hand it to Jeff Megall; for a guy who eats transparent sushi, he's very smart. He came up with a brilliant solution: shooting duplicate scenes, in which Mace and Fiona smoke, but only for foreign distribution. This way no one here at home will see them smoking. Just billions of Asians, who want to be just like Mace and Fiona. Jeff calls it 'product-smart placement.' Like the bombs."

"That is smart. So Mace and Fiona don't mind quote glorifying smoking unquote as long as it's for the benefit of… "

"Gooks," Bobby Jay said.

"I hate that word," Polly said.

Bobby Jay held up his hook. "I left twenty pints of blood and half an arm over there," he said, "so I suppose I can call them anything I please."

"He's got a point," Nick said. "Megall came up with even another idea: shooting the scenes with blank cigarette packs, then they can digitalize in different brand names, according to country."

"Wow," Polly marveled.

"So in the movie print that goes to Japan, they're smoking a Japanese brand, in the one that goes to Indonesia, Indonesian, and in the Hungarian print, a Hungarian brand like Throatscraper. An actual name. In Eastern Europe they want more tar and nicotine."

"Smart."

"Actually," Nick said, "I don't know why we didn't think of it. It's already being done abroad, using transponders to superimpose logos on satellite TV transmissions. So the Madonna concert in Spain becomes the Salem Madonna concert in Hong Kong. You can do things over there you just can't here. Laura Branigan, Tiffany, Stevie Wonder, Roberta Flack, Huey Lewis, Luciano Pavarotti, Tom Berenger, Roger Moore, James Coburn, Jimmy Connors, and John McEnroe have all endorsed cigarettes overseas, either directly or indirectly. And they don't get any grief about it here, because nobody sees it."

"But what about here? The whole idea was to promote the product here, wasn't it?"

"Jeff says no problem. It's only the big actors who pull down eight, ten million a picture who can afford the luxury of quote qualms unquote. He says we'll be in three Christmas movies. By this Christmas."

"How would I go about getting in touch with Jeff Megall?" Polly said.

Under the circumstances, Nick thought it made sense to meet Heather not at Il Peccatore but at a more out-of-the-way place, so he picked the River Cafe in Foggy Bottom. He got there first. It had been a trying day, listening to threats by the governor of Vermont, among others. He ordered a vodka negroni on the rocks, but reminded himself, as it massaged its way up his brain stem, of the need for mental clarity. On tonight's agenda was not how to get Heather into the sack, but how to keep Heather from getting him sacked. At this point, she seemed hotter to impress her prospective employers at the Sun than she was for him.

She arrived, right on time, all smiles, and in a dress that surely had been put on after work, for his benefit. It would have created havoc in any newsroom.

"Hi!" she said. "Am I late? I came right from work."

They started with a little small talk, then moved on to major media gossip — who was going to replace Morton Kondracke on The McLaughlin Group. Boy, Nick thought, the things we care about in Washington.

Finally, after they'd both refused dessert and settled in with their decaf cappuccinos, Heather ventured: "You know, the more I think about the FBI investigating you, the more burned I get."

"Appalling, isn't it?"

"That's why I think it's so important to get it out there. Your tax dollars at work. I think they'll back off the moment this sees print."

"Is this seeing print?"

"Yes," she said nervously, "I was able to confirm independently that they're looking into you. So I wouldn't be violating any confidence."

Nick suppressed the urge to congratulate her on having sunk to his own chthonic ethical level. He merely nodded. "Fair enough."

Heather seemed surprised by his compliance. "You're not pissed?"

"No. Actually, I think you're right. I think they probably would back off. Write as you will. Though I'd certainly appreciate it if you didn't quote me."

"No, of course. You're sure?"

"Sure. In fact," he leaned forward in his best revolutionary hunch and whispered, "completely, utterly, and totally off the record, that would be kind of… for the best."

"Oh?"

The hook was in.

"Let's get out of here," Nick said.

They walked down I Street toward the Watergate. An appropriate direction, given what he was up to. Heather said, "What did you mean, 'for the best'?"

"Well," Nick laughed, "would you want the FBI going through your drawers?"

"Nick, are you trying to tell me something?"

Nick grinned. "Only that people will do amazing things if the stakes are high enough."

"You did kidnap yourself?"

"I didn't say that."

He dropped Heather off at her front door with a chaste kiss, confident that there would be no story. She would now have her eyes set on a much bigger story, and there wasn't one. She'd end up stuck in gridlock.