Christopher Buckley - Thank You for Smoking

"And those numbers," Jeff said, setting down his cup of ginseng. "You'll want to run those by your people too," in a tone of mild, but unmistakable disparagement.

It was time, Nick reckoned, for some counter-pecker flexing. A forty-eight-billion-dollar industry had no apologies to make for the size of its penis.

"Of course," Nick smiled, "those numbers are completely out of line. Especially in light of the fact that we're being asked to participate in the venture with someone who's being called the Hitler of the South Pacific. Not that we get involved in politics, either."

Jeff stared. Jack finally broke the silence. "There's a lot that didn't come out in the press. He did offer to relocate them, first. And what did they do? Stuck a spear through his emissary. My understanding is that if you're a sultan, you just can't let that kind of behavior happen, cause pretty soon everybody's going to be in your face. It's not like being governor of, I don't know, Kansas."

"I think we're getting a little off the track here," Jeff said. "I personally can say that in my dealings with the sultan, he's been a very reasonable and sensitive individual. As for those numbers, we can get them down. We're all looking for comfort. At the same time, Nick, we have to be realistic. We're talking about two of the hottest stars in the business, supernovas. And some technical considerations. Like why they don't blow themselves up when they light up in a spaceship. We're still going to be talking serious money."

"Uh-huh," Nick said. "Of course we'll want everything all spelled out, contractually. Script approval. Brand of cigarettes, number of cigarettes smoked, spoken references to the cigarettes, specifically to how enjoyable they are to smoke. And so forth. In fact, for this kind of money, I'm certain that we'll want it specified how many puffs they take off each cigarette. Can Mace McQuade blow smoke rings?"

"I don't know," Jeff said. "I don't have that information."

"For this kind of money, we'd want smoke rings."

Jack said, "He learned how to scuba dive for Kraken. I don't see a problem learning to do smoke rings."

"Good," Nick said. "Because for the kind of money we seem to be talking about, my people would expect some very serious smoking in Sector Six."

"Let's see what we can work out," Jeff said. "We'll be in touch."

This time, Jack Bein remained behind with Jeff. Stepping across the fish pond, Nick felt like one of the people in the James Bond movies who, having displeased Number One, are dropped through the trapdoor into the shark pool; but he made it to the elevators without being nibbled to death by expensive carp.

Back at the Encomium, there were urgent messages from the Captain, BR, Heather, Polly, Jeannette, and Jack Bein. He wasn't sure whose to return first, but with phone messages, as with life, it's always prudent to give priority to the person paying your salary.

The Captain was out of the hospital, but sounded as though he should be back in it. He was not in a good way.

"I assume you heard this. grotesque news," he said. Nick said he'd been in a meeting all morning with Jeff Megall. The Captain didn't even ask how that was going.

"Finisterre?"

"Means end of the earth, in French," the Captain said, pausing to swallow something. Nitroglycerin? "That's appropriate. Gomez O'Neal reported in last night. One of his Senate people finally dug it out. Wasn't easy, or cheap. The son of a bitch is going to introduce a bill by the end of the week mandating that cigarette packages carry a skull and crossbones."

"Ouch," Nick said. Of course — the Hispanic housekeeper. A warning that even non-English speakers could understand. Shouldhave been able to see it coming a mile away. Was he losing his touch?

"We're going to look like rat poison," the Captain said. "You better get back on the first flight home."

He called BR. He wasn't taking the news as emotionally as the Captain, but he was on edge. There was a definite smell of paranoia in the air. The first thing he asked was if Nick was on cellular. Even after Nick assured him that he was on a ground line, BR refused to reveal how, precisely, Gomez had come by this gruesome intelligence, but he did say that it was solid. Furthermore, he told Nick, Finisterre had gotten Representative Lamont C. King of Texas — one of the more conservative boll weevils in the Congress — to co-sponsor the bill in the House. An odd couple. King loathed Finisterre; but Finisterre sat on the Military Base Closings Commission.

"We did a quick and dirty whip count," BR said, "showing the bill will pass. Don Stookey is predicting a twenty-five percent drop in all tobacco stocks within a week."

"Ouch," Nick said.

"It's going to get pretty hairy," BR said. "You better get back on the next flight."

Nick called Heather. He hoped she hadn't called about this. She hadn't.

"Two FBI agents were here to see me," she said in a strange tone of voice. "They were asking questions."

"That's what FBI agents do," Nick said. "It's their job. They're trying to find the people who tried to kill me."

"They wanted to know how well I knew you."

"Oh?"

"They stopped just short of asking if we'd slept together. Exactly how well do you know Mr. Naylor? There were two of them. A good cop and a bad cop. The bad cop did most of the talking. Monmaney. Handsome, if your taste runs to wolves. He wanted to know quote what sort of person unquote you are."

"Well," Nick said, "I suppose there's nothing too unusual in that."

"He asked if you were especially ambitious."

"Ambitious?"

"Uh-huh. They also wanted to know if I thought you were still quote psychologically grappling unquote with having told the world that the President was dead. Hello?"

"What did you tell them?"

"Obviously, I refused to tell them anything." "You refused? Why?"

"Because, I'm a reporter. Reporters don't divulge things to FBI agents."

"Divulge? What's to divulge? They were just asking routine questions."

"You call those routine?"

"But now they're going to think you're protecting me." "I'm not protecting you. I'm protecting a principle." "But why couldn't you just tell them the truth? That's a principle, isn't it?"

"Listen to Mr. There's No Link Between Smoking and Disease. Honestly. Hello?"

"I'm here," Nick sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Why are you getting so worked up? You sound…"

"What?"

"Guilty."

"Guilty? Guilty of what? Covering myself with nicotine patches? I almost died!"

"Calm down. They're just fishing. They don't have anything." Pause. "Do they?"

"Heather," Nick said, "what are you talking about?"

"Hey, I don't know why the FBI is asking questions like these."

"Well you might be a little more skeptical. Jesus, most reporters I know are so skeptical they don't believe in anything. Except Mother Teresa, and some I know think she's on the take."

"Hold on. How did Mother Teresa enter into a conversation about the outraged principles of a tobacco lobbyist?"

"Thank you," Nick said sullenly. "You're really being tremendously supportive today."

"I’mgoing to help. By writing about this."

Nick said, "You're what?"

"We'll put the FBI on the defensive. Let them explain why they're harassing kidnap victims. Politically Correct persecution. Escalation in the continuing vilification of tobacco. Tobacco as the new evil empire. I'm surprised you hadn't thought of that. It's a great story."

"You want to write about this?" "I have to write about this."

"And tell everyone that I'm,… I'm,… I'm under suspicion by the FBI? Uh-uh. No thank you. I think not. Hello? Heather? Heather, this conversation is off the record. Heather?"