Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

David knew he was going to be fired. He had known it from the moment Sam Martin first pressed that stud. He ducked out of the sponsor’s booth as soon as the can exploded and the audience disintegrated, laughing for a full two minutes at the sponsor’s product. He went down the iron-runged steps to the street, and he lighted a cigarette outside the building and he thought, It’s happened again, and then he began walking toward Columbus Avenue, wondering what he should do, thinking, I don’t want to lose this job, why does it always happen to me?

When he saw the candy store, he entered it immediately and called Gillian. She listened quietly and patiently while he told her what had happened. When he was finished, she said, “Don’t lose the job, David.”

There was a curious note of command in her voice. He was silent for a moment.

“They’ll say it was my fault.”

“It was Martin’s fault. You did your job.”

“But he’s the star of the show!”

“Show them he was wrong, David.”

“But how? What can I—?”

“I don’t care how. Lie, if you have to. Cheat. Steal. I don’t care. Don’t lose the job.” She paused. “Where are you now?”

“In a candy store on Columbus Avenue.”

“You shouldn’t have run. Go back to the studio, David. Go back and tell them whatever you want to, whatever you have to, but make it good. And call me. I’ll be waiting for your call. Don’t lose the job ,” she said, and hung up.

He walked back to the building on West Sixty-eighth. He paused outside the street entrance, and then he pulled open the door, and wet his lips, and walked upstairs to the studio. He was trembling. The sponsor had paid thousands of dollars for a one-minute spot, and Sam Martin had blown the thing sky-high before a network audience. It was David’s job to make sure things like that didn’t happen. That was why they paid him two hundred dollars a week. Damn it, he did not want to lose that income! Damn it, he liked this job! Should he go to Martin and plead with him, ask to be taken off the hook? But he had done his job, he had told Martin about the goddamn cap, so how...?

I don’t care how. Lie, if you have to. Cheat. Steal. I don’t care. Tell them whatever you want to, whatever you have to, but make it good .

Whatever you have to, and an undertone of desperation in Gillian’s voice, something he had never heard there before. He suddenly felt he was about to lose more than his job.

He found the typewriter in one of the empty offices. He locked the door to the office, and he sat at the machine, and he thought, Suppose this backfires? Suppose it only gets him sore? No. There had been so much confusion today, he won’t remember. He’ll back down. He’ll take the blame and smooth it over with the sponsor. They can raise hell with a two-hundred-dollar watchdog, but they can’t put Sam Martin, star of our show, on the carpet. He took a deep breath and began typing:

FROM: David Regan

TO: Sam Martin

In re new product BEARDS AWAY! Specific instructions from the Coast warn against trying to release lather before removing nozzle cap. This is a simple screw-type cap, easily removed with thumb and forefinger. It is essential to show this on camera before pressing the stud on the top of the can. Failure to remove cap will result in malfunction of the can. It’s a good new product and deserves the full treatment, Sam. So, at the risk of sounding redundant, please REMOVE NOZZLE CAP BEFORE PRESSING RELEASE STUD.

He looked over the memo. He put the original in an ash tray and set fire to it with a match. He emptied the ashes into a trash basket, folded the carbon of the memo three times, and stuck it into his inside jacket pocket together with his electric bill and a letter from his mother, and some cards he dug out of his wallet. Then he took another deep breath and left the office.

Curt Sonderman said, “Where the hell have you been, David?”

“Downstairs having a smoke,” David said. “Why? What’s the matter?” His heart was pounding. He fought to keep his eyes from blinking. His lips felt parched, but he would not wet them.

“What’s the matter? ” Sonderman said. “Didn’t you see what happened with the shaving cream? The damn thing went off all over the stage!”

Calmly, smiling, David said, “Come on, don’t kid me.”

“If you think I’m kidding, you should have taken that call from Los Angeles. Now, what happened?”

“I don’t understand,” David said. “You mean the can exploded?”

“Yes, the can... no, it didn’t actually explode. It just... look, why didn’t you explain the operation to Martin?”

“Pressing the button? Why it’s so simple a child can—”

“Don’t give me the ‘child can do it’ routine. Sam Martin had to do it, not a child. Why didn’t you tell him to take that cap off the nozzle?”

“Cap off the...?” David stopped and looked at Sonderman skeptically. “You are kidding,” he said. “I told him about that cap at least a half-dozen times. You don’t... hey, wait a minute! What are you saying? He left the cap on? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!”

“But how could... Curt, I told him about that cap personally five times during rehearsal. The last time I told him, there were three people standing there listening to us, a girl from Wardrobe, and the make-up man, and a designer. I got specific orders from the Coast on this. Do you think I’d let him go on without knowing about it? Give me a little more credit than that, Curt!”

“If you told him about it, why’d he leave the cap on?”

“How do I know? You saw the confusion this afternoon. It’s a wonder he remembered his own name. Do you think I’m lying? Are you telling me I’m lying?”

“No, but...”

“I told him about that cap, Curt!” David said angrily. “I told him at least... wait, wait a minute! I even wrote him a memo about it. I handed him the memo personally when he walked in today.”

“What memo?”

“About the... just a minute, maybe I kept a copy. Hold on, now.” He dug into his jacket pocket and began leafing through the stuff there, finally coming upon the folded carbon copy of the memo he’d just typed. “Sure, here it is,” he said. “Here. Take a look at it.” He handed the sheet of paper to Sonderman.

Sonderman read it silently. Then he shrugged.

“What the hell,” he said. “You can’t ask for more than that. You did your job, David. What the hell.” He shrugged again. “It was Sam’s goof. I’ll ask him to square it.”

Sam Martin admitted that he’d been in something of a mad rush that afternoon during rehearsal, and anything was possible. Maybe David had handed him a memo, maybe he had been reminded about that nozzle cap a half-dozen times. The wardrobe girl and the makeup man and the designer certainly seemed positive they had heard David deliver at least one reminder. “Okay, I goofed,” Martin said affably, and he agreed to call the Coast.

The next day, he made a big spiel about the shaving cream, telling his audience a new lather had exploded on the scene (Laughter), a lather so anxious to shave you, it practically bursts out of the can (Laughter). “This is the way you really work this,” Martin said, and he carefully unscrewed the nozzle cap. “If you leave the cap on, the stuff definitely will not spill or leak out of the can unless you throw it across the studio at a lousy orchestra leader.” (Laughter) “If you want to throw things at musicians, I suggest you use rocks. But if you want a good close shave that leaves you feeling refreshed and clean, I suggest you try Beards Away! It works like this.” He pressed the stud on the can’s top, and a puff of rich creamy lather foamed onto the palm of his hand. The studio audience burst into spontaneous applause. “It looks good enough to eat, don’t it?” Martin said. He winked at the camera. “It’s good stuff, folks,” he said sincerely. “Try it.”