Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

The passenger, naturally, was very pleased when he finished reading the letter from the president of the airline. Beaming, he figured he had wrongly judged that fine company, and he was determined to fly with no one else in the future. But as he was putting the president’s letter back into the envelope, a small slip of paper fluttered to the floor. He picked it up. It was a memorandum from the president, obviously intended for his secretary. It read: SEND THIS SON OF A BITCH THE COCKROACH LETTER.

David and Martha had heard the story together and roared convulsively when the punch line was delivered. And from that day on, any conciliatory letter, any letter of placation or apology, any letter designed to smooth the ruffled feathers of anyone Out There, was immediately referred to by both of them as The Cockroach Letter. MCA, who had complained about last night’s credit crawl, would receive a cockroach letter in the morning. David smiled again. Your place or mine? he thought. Now or later? Martha Wilkins. He liked her.

A knock sounded on his door.

“Come in,” he said.

Martha entered first, swinging the door wide.

“Mr. Harrigan is here, sir,” she said.

“Thank you, Martha,” David answered, and he rose and walked around his desk, extending his hand to the bulky man who entered the office.

“Mr. Regan?” the man said, taking his hand.

“Yes, sir. How do you do?”

“Fine, thank you.”

Martha winked at David as she went out of the office. David indicated a chair alongside his desk, and Harrigan sat in it. He was a heavy-set man in his middle fifties with gray hair and dark-blue eyes. He wore a pencil-stripe suit, double-breasted, and he carried a dark-gray topcoat over his arm, a black Homburg in his left hand. He sat as soon as the chair was offered, pulling his trousers up slightly as he bent to sit, preserving the creases. He was from California, and his voice showed it.

“I hope you had a nice trip,” David said.

“I did,” Harrigan answered.

“Did you fly in?”

“I don’t trust airplanes,” Harrigan said. “I took the train.”

“That’s a long trip.”

“Yes, it is.”

“What brings you to New York, Mr. Harrigan?”

Harrigan looked surprised. He put his Homburg down. “You,” he said.

“Me?”

“At least I understand you’re the man who produces our show,” Harrigan said.

“Yes, I am,” David answered, puzzled.

He had received a call from the advertising agency the day before, telling him that Mr. Harrigan would be in New York and would like to see David, and would David please extend every courtesy to him since Harrigan did represent the company who sponsored the Thursday-night hour-long dramatic show. David had no idea what sort of courtesies were expected of him. In some cases, “every courtesy” meant dinner, tickets to a show, and a little discreet female companionship. But the agency had been somewhat vague about Harrigan’s visit, and now it seemed he had come to New York specifically to see David, and this puzzled him, and also worried him a bit. The show they packaged for Thursday-night viewing was a big one. It had been sponsored by Harrigan’s firm ever since it went on the air the season before. David produced the show, and the ratings were high, and he’d thought the sponsor was pleased with what he was doing. But if that was the case, why would Harrigan... now, wait a minute, he told himself. Let’s not push the panic button. He offered Harrigan a cigarette.

“Thank you,” Harrigan said. “I don’t smoke.”

“Mind if I do?”

“It’s your funeral.”

David lighted a cigarette, mulling over Harrigan’s last words, beginning to get even more worried. “You said you’d come to New York to see me , Mr. Harrigan?”

“Yes. About our show.”

“We’ve been getting some very high ratings,” David said casually. “Last night, we even outpulled—”

“Yes, the ratings are fine,” Harrigan said. “We’re very pleased.”

David smiled a trifle uneasily. If the ratings pleased Harrigan, then what was it that bothered him? He took a deep breath and said, “I think the quality of the show, as a whole—”

“Well, quality is a very nice thing to have,” Harrigan said, “but not unless it sells tickets.”

“It’s selling tickets for you people,” David said, grinning. “I understand sales are up some fifteen per cent since the show went—”

“Yes, that’s true. And we want to keep selling tickets. I’ve heard a theory about television shows, Mr. Regan. I’ve heard that when a show is too good, when the people are too absorbed in what’s happening on that screen, they resent the intrusion of the sponsor’s message, actually build up a resistance to the product. This theory holds that the duller the show is, the better it is for the product.”

“Well, I don’t know how valid—”

“Naturally, we’re not interested in dull shows,” Harrigan said. “It’s the business of the advertising agency we hire to make our commercials interesting enough to compete with the liveliest dramatic presentation.”

“And they’ve been doing a fine job,” David said, figuring a plug for the ad agency wouldn’t hurt at all.

“Yes, and they’re happy with the package you’re giving them, too.”

“Then I guess everyone’s happy all around,” David said, beginning to relax a little. “We’ve got a good show, with a Trendex topping—”

“Yes, and we want to stay happy,” Harrigan said. “As you know, it’s not our policy to interfere in the selection of dramatic material for the show.”

“You’ve certainly given us all the latitude—”

“Yes, we usually see only a synopsis of the script, and aside from certain very minor objections, we’ve been very tolerant of your choice of material and your manner of presentation. I think you’re a bunch of smart creative people up here at Sonderman, Mr. Regan. We are, in fact, thinking of asking you to work up another package for us.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir.”

“Yes, but that’s all in the future, and what we’ve got to talk about now is a script called ‘The Brothers.’”

“‘The Bro—’ oh, yes. That’s two weeks away, sir. Goes into rehearsal next Friday.”

“Yes, I know. I saw a synopsis of the script a little while ago, and I asked our advertising agency to get me a copy of the completed teleplay, and they sent me one last week, and that was when I decided I had better come to New York.”

“We’re getting a judge to introduce that show, you know. We think it’ll add another dimension to it, and point up the allegory.”

“Yes, that’s very interesting. It’s always good to do allegories, especially if they’re clear. And this happens to be an unusually fine script, Mr. Regan, make no mistake about it. I’d like you to get more material from this same writer in the future.”

“That’s easy enough,” David said, smiling.

“Yes, the allegory is very plain, and very fine, especially in these trying days of world tension. A wonderful script. I understand you’ve got two excellent actors for the parts.”

“We were very lucky, Mr. Harrigan. A Broadway show folded last week, and the actors—”

“Yes, and I understand you’ll be doing a chase scene right on the streets, by remote pickup, is that right?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“Yes, it sounds wonderful. A magnificent show.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But we can’t do it, of course.”

“Sir?”

“I said we can’t do it.”

“You said...” David hesitated. He stubbed out his cigarette. “What did you say, sir?”

“Impossible, Mr. Regan. Believe me, I’ve gone over it thoroughly. I’ve even considered a rewrite, but the entire framework is based on—”