Each of the vice presidents and account executives had his own empire of account executives, assistant account executives, and so on through the hierarchy, under him.
Miss Sage knew more than just about any other copywriter about the upper echelons of the "APP Family" for the same reason that she had had very little trouble getting herself hired by JWT. That was not, as the vice president, creative personnel had publicly announced, because she had proved herself to be a very bright girl, indeed, by coming out of Sarah Lawrence with a summa cum laude degree (BA, English), just the kind of person JWT was always on the lookout for. Rather it was because the grandson of the founder of American Personal Pharmaceuticals (Ezekiel Handley, M.D., whose first product was "Dr. Handley's Female Elixir") was now chairman of the board and chief executive officer. His name was Ernest Sage, and he was Ernie's father.
This is not to suggest that Ernie Sage regarded her job as a sort of hobby, a socially acceptable, even chic, way to pass the time until she made a suitable marriage and took her proper place in society. She had decided in her freshman year at Sarah Lawrence that she wanted to make (as opposed to inherit) a lot of money. And after an investigation of the means to do that open to females, she had decided the way to do it was in advertising.
She had learned as much about the business as she could while in college, and she had taken courses she thought would be of value to that end. When she graduated, she had two choices. The summa cum laude would have been enough to get her a job on Madison Avenue if her name hadn't been Sage. But she decided two things about JWT. First, that they were arguably the best and biggest of all the large agencies and would thus offer her the opportunity to learn all facets of the business; and, second, with APP as their next-to-largest client, she would have certain privileges, while learning her chosen profession, that she would not have elsewhere.
It was her intention-once she felt secure, once she had learned the way things worked in the real world, once she had a portfolio of work she had done-to open her own agency. Just her, and an artist, and a secretary. She would find some small manufacturer of something who was bright enough to figure out that he wasn't getting JWT's full attention with billings under a hundred thou and convince him that she could give him more for his money than he would get elsewhere. She would build on that; she grew more and more convinced that she could.
Everything had gone according to plan, including the exercise of special privilege. She had almost bluntly told the vice president and account executive, APP Personal Products, that, substantial jump in pay or not, promotion to senior copywriter or not, she would not want to "move over into his shop" and put her now-demonstrated talents to work there.
There were a number of nice things about being rich, she told herself, and one of them was not needing a job so badly that she would have to spend her time thinking up appealing ways to sell Kotex-by-another-name and rubbers.
And then Ken McCoy had come along. And the best-laid plans of mice and men, et cetera.
The call she was taking from her father right now came about as a result of a call he had made to her the day after Thanksgiving. You were not supposed to make or receive personal calls at JWT, and rumor had it that there was official eavesdropping to make sure the rule was obeyed. No one had ever said anything to Ernie Sage about her personal calls.
"Honey, am I interrupting anything?" he'd said that Thanksgiving Friday.
"Actually, I'm flying paper airplanes out the window," she'd told him, truthfully. The way the air currents moved outside her window, paper airplanes would fly for astonishingly long periods of time.
"Has Pick called?"
"Any reason he should?" she'd replied. "I didn't even know he was in town."
Malcolm "Pick" Pickering had grown up calling her father "Uncle Ernie." Ernie Sage knew that sometimes her father wished she had been born a boy, since there was to be only one child. But since she was a girl, there was little secret that everybody concerned would be thrilled to death if Pick suddenly looked at her like Clark Gable had looked at Scarlett before carrying her up the stairs.
"He is," Ernest Sage had said. "He's at the Foster Park."
"He called you?" she had asked.
"He left a message on the bulletin board at the Harvard Club," her father had said.
"Why didn't he just call?" she had asked. "Wouldn't that have been easier?"
"He didn't leave a message for me," her father had said, as realization dawned that he was having his leg pulled. "Don't be such a wise-ass. Nobody likes a wise-ass in skirts."
"Sorry," she'd laughed.
"He's having a party."
"I thought he was in Virginia playing Marine," she'd replied.
"I don't think he's playing Marine," her father had said, more than a little sharply.
"Sorry," she'd said again, this time meaning it.
"He's giving a party," her father had said. "Cocktails. I think you should go."
"I haven't been invited," she'd replied, simply.
"The thing on the bulletin board said 'all friends and acquaintances.' You would seem to qualify."
"If Pick wanted me, he knows my phone number," she'd said.
"I just thought you might be interested," her father had said, and from the tone of his voice and the swiftness of his getting off the line, she knew that she had hurt his feelings. Again.
Several hours later, sitting in the Oak Room of the Plaza Hotel with two girls and three young then as they debated the monumental decision where to have dinner and go afterward, she had remembered both Pick's party and her father's disappointment. And the Foster Park Hotel was only a block away.
Doing her duty, she had taken the others there. Penthouse C, overlooking Central Park, had been crowded with people, among them Ken McCoy, in a uniform like Pick's. He'd been sitting on a low brick wall on the patio, twenty-six floors above Fifty-ninth Street, looking as if he was making a valiant effort not to spit over the side.
That had turned into a very interesting evening, far more interesting than it had first promised to be. Instead of catching a cab uptown to some absolutely fascinating restaurant Billy had discovered, she'd ridden the subway downtown with Platoon Leader Candidate, McCoy, K. After he had taken her to a tiny Chinese restaurant on the third floor of a building on a Chinatown alley, she had taken him to her apartment, where she gave him a drink and her virtue.
Quite willingly. This was all the more astonishing because she had ridden downtown on the subway a virgin. More than willingly given it to him, she subsequently considered quite often; she'd done everything but put a red ribbon on it and hand it to him on a silver platter.
And he had not been humbly grateful, either. He'd been astonished and then angry, and she'd thought for a moment that he was about to march out of the apartment in high moral outrage. He didn't in the end. He stayed.
But as he and Pick drove back to Quantico, Pick had told him about her family. Until Pick opened his fat mouth, Ken McCoy had thought she lived in the small apartment in the Village because that was all she could afford.
The result was that her letters to him had gone unanswered. And when she sent him a registered letter, it had came back marked REFUSED. At the time, she'd been firmly convinced he was ignoring her because he was a Marine officer, and Marine officers do not enter into long-term relationships with young women who enthusiastically bestow upon them their pearl of great price two hours after meeting them.
"Wham, bang, thank you, Ma'am," of course. But nothing enduring. The Marine Corps equivalent of "We must lunch sometime. I'll call you."
At first she'd been angry, then ashamed, then angry and ashamed, and then shameless. And on The Day That Will Live In Infamy, after hearing from her mother, who'd heard it from Pick's mother, that Pick had been commissioned and was in Washington, she'd gone down there to ask Pick to help.
There Pick had explained that it was not her freedom with her sexual favors that was bothering Ken McCoy; it was her money.
; "What's that got to do with anything?"
"After a lot of solemn thought," Pick had replied, "I have concluded that he is afraid that you regard him as an interesting way to pass an otherwise dull evening."
"That's just not so!"
"That the minute he lets his guard down, you're going to make a fool of him. There was a woman in China who did a pretty good job on his ego."
"A Chinese woman?"
"An American. Missionary's wife. He had it pretty bad for her, the proof being that he was going to get out of the Marine Corps to marry her. For him, the supreme sacrifice."
"What happened? What did she do to him?"
"What he's afraid you're going to do to him," Pick told her. "Humiliate him."
"Goddamn her," Ernie had said. And then: "Pick, it's not that way with me. I've got to see him."
"It'll be a little difficult at the moment," Pick had said. "He's in Hawaii right now, on his way to the Philippines."
"Oh, God!" she'd waited.
"But he'll be back," Pick had said. "He's a courier. Sort of a Marine Corps mailman."
"When?"
"A week, maybe. Ten days."
"You'll let me know when he's back?"
"I will even arrange a chance meeting under the best possible circumstances," Pick had said. "Here. He's living here with me. You can be waiting for him, soaked in perfume, wearing something transparent, with violin music on the phonograph."
"You tell me when," she'd said. Things were looking up.
When she'd walked through the lobby of the hotel, on her way to the station, NBC was broadcasting the bulletin that the Japanese had attacked the U.S. Naval Station at Pearl Harbor.
And a week after that, Pick had called her and told her that there had been word from the Philippines that Second Lieutenant Kenneth J. McCoy, USMCR, was missing in action and presumed dead.
Ernestine Sage's reaction to that was not what she would have thought. She had not screamed and moaned and torn her hair. She hadn't even cried. She'd just died inside. Gone completely numb.
And then, a week later, Pick had called again, his voice breaking. "I thought you might like to know that our boy just called from San Francisco. As Mark Twain said, the report of his death is somewhat exaggerated."
She'd been waiting in Pick's suite at the Foster Lafayette Hotel when McCoy returned. Not soaked in My Sin, or wearing a black negligee, which had been her intention; but, because he was an hour early, she was in a cotton bathrobe with soap in her ears and her hair shower-plastered to her head.
He hadn't seemed to notice. They'd turned the Louis XIV bedroom into the Garden of Eden, and she'd wept with joy when she felt him in her. And as perverse as it sounded, with joy again when she'd changed his bandages, for it seemed proof that she was a woman who had found her mate and was caring for him.
That had been the result of her father's phone call on Thanksgiving Friday. Now he was on the line again, and there was no doubt in Miss Ernestine Sage's mind that he had on his mind now the relationship between his daughter and her Marine officer; her mother had gone to him and told him that she knew for a fact that their daughter had left her own bed in the middle of the night so that she could get in bed with Ken McCoy.
"Are you free for lunch?" Ernest Sage asked his daughter.
"Sure," she said.
"Could you come here?" he asked. "It would be better for me."
She wondered how he meant that; was his schedule tight? Or did he just want to have his little talk with her on his own ground?
He picked up on her hesitation.
"Anywhere would be fine, honey," her father said.
"Twelve- fifteen?" Ernie Sage said.
"Would you like anything in particular?" her father asked. "I think Juan's making medallions of veal."
"That'll be fine, Daddy," she said.
"Look forward to it," he said, and hung up.
The hell you do. Daddy.
At five minutes to twelve, Miss Ernestine Sage put on her overcoat and galoshes and left her office. She walked the two blocks from JWT to Madison Avenue and then the half block to the American Personal Pharmaceutical Products Building. This was a nearly new (1939) fifty-nine-story, sandstone-sheathed structure, the upper twenty floors of which housed the executive offices of APP.
She walked across the marble floor and entered an elevator.
"Fifty- six," she told the operator.
The APP building's top formed a four-sided cone, with each floor from fifty-nine down to fifty-two somewhat smaller than the floor below, from which point the walls descended straight to the street level. The fifty-sixth floor was the highest office floor, the top three floors being dedicated to various operating functions for the building itself.
Her father's office was on fifty-five. Fifty-six was the Executive Dining Room, something of a misnomer as there were actually four dining rooms on that floor, plus the kitchen and a bar. APP, like JWT, had a hierarchy. Individuals attaining certain upper levels of responsibility received with their promotions permission to take their lunch on fifty-six, on the company, or to stop by fifty-six for a little nip, also on the company, at the end of the business day.
Fully two-thirds of the floor was occupied by the Executive Dining Room itself. That establishment looked like any good restaurant in a club. And then, in addition to the Executive Dining Room, there were Dining Rooms A, B, and C. Of these, Dining Room C was the smallest, containing but one table and a small serving bar. Its use was controlled by Mrs. Zoe Fegelbinder, executive secretary to the chairman of the board of APP. And it was reserved for special occasions.
When Ernie Sage got off the elevator, the maitre d'hotel spotted her right away and walked quickly to her.
"Good afternoon, Miss Sage," he said. "How nice to see you again. You're in 'C.'"
She was not surprised. This was a special occasion. The chairman of the board of APP did not want to show off his daughter in the Executive Dining Room today.
Today, the chairman of the board wanted to be alone with his daughter, so that he could talk to her about her screwing a Marine, or words to that effect.
As the maitre d' ushered her across the lobby, a path was made for her and people smiled, and she heard herself being identified. She had often thought that it must be like this for Princess Elizabeth; for around here, she was sort of like royalty.
Her father was not in 'C,' but Juan was, in his chef's whites.
"Hallo, Miss Ernie," he said, smiling, apparently genuinely pleased to see her.
"Hello, Juan," she said.
She remembered now that Juan was a Filipino. As in invaded by the Japanese. As in the place where Japanese artillery had damned near killed Ken.
"Your poppa say veal medallions," Juan said. "But I think maybe you really like a little steak… with marchand de vins sauce?"
"Yes, I would," she said. "Thank you, Juan."
"Pommes frites? Haricots verts? And I find a place sells American Camembert, not bad. You try for dessert?"
"Sounds fine," she said.
"You wanna little glass wine, while you wait? Got a real nice Cal'fornia Cabernet sauvignon?"
What I really would like to have is a triple shot of cognac.
"Thank you, Juan," she said, smiling at him. "That sounds fine."
He opened the bottle and poured a glass for her.
"You wanna try?" he asked, as he gave it to her.
She took a healthy sip.
"Fine," she said. "Thank you."
"You think your poppa want a steak, too?" Juan asked.
"I thought we were having medallions of veal," Ernest Sage said, as he walked into the room.
He was a tall and heavyset man, with a full head of curly black hair, gray only at the temples. Her father, Ernie Sage often thought, looked like a chairman of the board is supposed to look, and seldom does.
"Miss Ernie," Juan said, "really wanna steak. You wanna steak, too?"
"I'll have the veal, thank you, Juan," Ernest S
age said, "with green beans and oven-roasted potatoes, if you have them. And a sliced tomato."
"Yes, sair," Juan said, and left the room.
Ernest Sage looked at his daughter as if he was going to say something, and then changed his mind. He flashed her a smile, somewhat nervously, Ernie thought, and then picked up the telephone on the table.
"No calls," he announced. "I don't care who it is."
"Said the hangman, as he began to knot the rope," Ernie Sage said.
Her father looked at her, and smiled. "Conscience bothering you?"
"Not at all," Ernie said.
"What are you drinking?" he asked.
She walked to him and handed her glass. When he'd taken a sip and nodded his approval, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.
"So what's new in advertising?" he asked.
She poured him a glass of wine.
"Everyone is all agog with 'Lucky Strike Green Has Gone to War,'" Ernie said.
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing, that's why everyone is all agog," she said.
"Not that I really give a damn, but you've aroused my curiosity."
"They changed the color on the package," she said. "It used to be predominantly green. Now it's white, with the red Lucky Strike ball in the middle. The pitch is, with appropriate trumpets and martial drums, 'Lucky Strike Green Has Gone to War.'"
"Why'd they do that?"
"Maybe they wanted a new image. Maybe they wanted to save the price of the green ink. Who knows?"
"What's that got to do with the war?"
"Nothing," she said. "That's why everyone is all agog. It's regarded as a move right up there with 'Twice as Much for a Nickel Too, Pepsi-Cola Is the Drink for You,' which was the jingle Pepsi-Cola came onto the market with. Better even. Pure genius. It makes smoking Lucky Strike seem to be your patriotic duty."
The Corps II - CALL TO ARMS Page 12
