James Cain - The Institute

“Private? Cut what off? I don’t understand.”

“Well, isn’t it? It’s my money.”

“It’s your money, but you’re claiming exemption from taxes. That makes it public.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“As far as Mrs. Garrett goes, I don’t believe for one second that she minded very much, that she really minded at all, the things that came out in the papers, especially the pictures. In plain English, she loved it. This idea you seem to have, of cheating her out of her big moment, strikes me as somewhat silly.”

“Well, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What’s your idea about it?”

“My idea is: maybe the press isn’t perfect, but they’re the only press we have, so if we can’t lick ’em, let’s join ’em. They’re there, and it’s up to us whether they tell it our way or some other cockeyed way that needn’t have happened at all, if we’d just got with it and played our cards right.”

“You mean, stacked the deck?”

“Okay, what’s wrong with stacking it?”

“How do we stack it, then?”

“The announcement, the brochure, and the mailing list are fine as far as they go. Count on me to fix up the style. But we should also get out a press release, a Xerox job that we write up ourselves, with names, dates, places, and a release date — all complete.”

“What names, besides my wife’s?”

“Our governing board, for one thing.”

“It hasn’t even been appointed.”

“No, but I’ve picked the nominees.” I took out my list of historians, biographers, librarians, university department heads, and financial bigwigs, and passed it over to him. “They should be queried,” I said. “And when we have their acceptances—”

“They’re probably on vacation now.”

“They can be reached by phone — or rather, most of them can.”

“Okay, I’ll begin calling today.”

“I’ll begin calling today.”

“What’s your objection to me?”

He seemed startled, so I told him: “I’m the director. Or am I?”

“Of course you are, Lloyd.”

“Then I’ll call.”

“Fine.”

He stared for a moment and then asked: “And what places?”

“The location of the press conference you should hold, as the host graciously answering any questions that may come up.”

“That’s more up my wife’s alley.”

“I was going to suggest that you ask her to arrange it.”

“All right, what else?”

“That’s all I can think of right now.”

Hortense arranged it at one of Washington’s big hotels, with me sitting in as a sort of advisor, but not until she had “a few minutes alone with Monsieur Pierre, Dr. Palmer.” That seemed to mean money was going to change hands. By the time I got back, Monsieur Pierre was purring out loud. He was a sleek-looking guy with an accent I didn’t quite place. He set it up exactly as she wanted — for Conference Room A, with counter, bar, and buffet at one end, telephones at the other, and chairs in the middle. The only hitch came over the canapes. When she mentioned them to him, Monsieur Pierre frowned, but she told him emphatically: “I know they’re a lot of trouble and that hotels hate to fool with them. But these will be newspaper people who are not only chronic freeloaders but will have their hands full of pencils, papers, cameras, tape recorders, and all sorts of things — and to expect them to scoop up dip with potato chips or spear lobster tails with a fork is not being realistic. I want to make it easy for them — dips, shrimp, lobster tails, and potato salad of course, but also, if you could stretch a point, Monsieur Pierre—”

It turned out that he could.

For my two cents worth I asked for three armchairs — “with a mike beside each — one for Mrs. Garrett, one for Mr. Garrett, and one for me, facing the rows of folding chairs. Since they will be shooting pictures of us, we should be in comfortable positions. Also, in addition to your counter, bar, and buffet, I want a decent-sized table to hold the printed matter we’ll have on hand to give out. I want it put at one side near the door, so if any reporter forgets something, he can grab it on the way out.”

Monsieur Pierre made a note.

She had come down in a cab. When we were through I suggested: “Why don’t you come out with me? Then in the morning I’ll drive you in, and—”

“I can’t, Lloyd; Mother’s here,”

“Oh. Then invite me out. I’d like to meet her.”

“That thought crossed my mind, but for some reason, I shied off.”

“Okay, no use pushing our luck.”

“With her, there will be plenty of time.”

By the day of the news conference, stacks of material had been delivered to the apartment, not only the announcements, brochures, and releases but a couple of dozen copies of our application to I.R.S., in case some reporter wanted to cover us thoroughly. In addition, there were Xeroxed capsule biographies, mainly taken from Who’s Who in America, of the dozen people or so I had been able to reach and invite to join the board. I didn’t get any turndowns. Their names were important for advance release to the press.

The entire mass of material filled two suitcases which were heavy. Because I didn’t want to make my entrance at the hotel, carrying them from the parking lot, I called Student Aid at the university and asked them to send someone over, telling them that the student would get a whole afternoon’s work because he would have to stand by at a press conference I was attending and possibly run some errands for me.

Around one o’clock miss Nettie called from downstairs and said: “There’s a Teddy Rodriguez here, Dr. Palmer. Says she’s from Student Aid. Shall I send her up?”

“Says she’s from Student Aid? Good God, I asked for a he.”

“Well, it looks like a she to me.”

It was a she, all right, nicely formed and very pretty, in faded denim hot pants, chopped-off short, blouse, and sandals. She looked vaguely familiar.

“Surprise, surprise!” she crowed. “I’ll bet you expected a boy. But summertime, you know. You have to take what you can get. I just happened to be there.”

“Teddy, do I know you?”

“I was in your English poetry class, Dr. Palmer. I’m the one who sat on the end, showing her beautiful legs and making eyes at you.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

“Aren’t you thrilled?”

“Well, I would be, of course, except that I’m afraid you won’t do. It’s kind of a packhorse job and—”

By this time she was inside, pointing to the suitcases which were in the hall outside by bedroom door. “Them? They’re nothing.” She skipped up the hall, grabbed them, and carried them to the alcove. “What’s in them?” she said. “Bricks?”

“Pamphlets, press releases.”

“I’m strong as a bull. Cheerleader during football season.” She cartwheeled into the living room and then came back to me, walking on her hands. “See?” she chirped gaily, getting on her feet again. “Nothing to it.”

“Then... you asked for this job.”

“It’s not the money — it’s you.”

“That’s enough about me. Now, about lunch—”

“I had lunch. But I cook, too, as well as I do handsprings. If you want me to fix you some—”

“No, I had a late breakfast.”

By then we were in the living room. She was looking at the pictures and I was wondering what to do with her, since the news conference didn’t begin until four.

“O.K.,” I said, “we’re going to have some dead air, so sit down, make yourself at home, and help yourself to those magazines. Time, Newsweek, and The New Yorker are there on the cocktail table. While you’re looking at them, I’ll be boning up for the reporters.”