There was a large sign taped to the long side of the convertible with Dick Gibson’s name painted on it in bold red letters, so that as he drove along he looked like the grand marshal of his own parade. In DeLand, Florida, where they stopped for gas, he forgot it was there and tore the sign in half when he opened the door on the driver’s side. They repaired it with scotch tape and drove the rest of the way up to Gainesville.
The station had booked three rooms for them at the Hotel Pick- Gainesville and they checked in at about six thirty on Friday evening. Tired from the long drive, Dick decided to have dinner sent to his room and then go to bed until it was time to do the show that night.
They had rented the facilities of WGSV, using the phone company’s carrier line to take the signal back to Miami. This affected the sound quality, but worse was that the station didn’t have the sophisticated phone setup WMIA did, so the program’s mechanics that night were very clumsy. All the incoming calls had to be handled through the receptionist’s switchboard and shunted by extension phone to the studio. Since the station ran an all-night record request show, naturally the girl at the switchboard fell behind and when Dick finished a conversation there was not always another caller on the line. Nor did he have any notion where a call was coming from and found it difficult to recognize his listeners’ voices. The occasion of the picnic and its publicity had reassured many of the old Mail Baggers that the program was being returned to them, inspiring them to call the show again, but it must have been clear to even the least astute that they’d been forgotten. Much air time was wasted in sly maneuvering between Dick and his callers, the caller wanting Dick to say his name and Dick trying to get the caller to do it for him. Though it was a dull program, it was a very hard night’s work for him. It was dull, hard work, but there was something pleasant about it too. It was like the old days, the very old days, before they knew each other too well, and had had to take everything slowly and carefully, offering each other gentle, civilized banalities.
Still, by sign-off, he was exhausted. This may have been one reason he was so unresponsive at the picnic the next morning. He had not actually slept before Friday’s show. From promotional considerations given the Pick-Gainesville in return for free accommodations, many Mail Baggers knew what hotel Dick was at, and at least half a dozen had called the room to invite him for drinks. By the time he told the desk to put no more calls through, he wasn’t sleepy, and he watched television until it was time to go down to the station. Even afterward, tired though he was, he found it difficult to sleep, finally dropping off for two hours before he was awakened for the picnic. Those people who wrote the management afterward to complain of his “distance” either were poor readers of mood or had never been exhausted. After all, he was no chicken, he was pushing fifty. This, at any rate, was what he told the station manager when asked to explain the large amount of critical mail that had poured into the station following the picnic. And if these explanations were not frank, it was not the first time he had not been entirely open with the management about the picnic. Good as they were, his reasons for not wanting the station executives in Gainesville had nothing to do with anything as remote as the program’s “image.”
It was Behr-Bleibtreau. He was convinced that something savage would happen. The man had once tried to strangle him. He hadn’t known his reasons then and he didn’t know them now, and though he felt the Mail Baggers would protect him from violence, he really believed the savagery would take some other form. He needed strength and concentration; the presence of his employers would have been deflective. If he was to put on a show—The Dick Gibson Show—it must be for his poor callers.
At 10 A.M. they entered Gainesville’s Emma Shulding Memorial Park and drove onto the broad expanse of contiguous athletic fields in the open convertible. The motorcycle policeman escorting them turned onto a green outfield and guided them past second base toward home plate. They toured slowly, giving as many of the Mail Baggers as felt like it an opportunity to approach the car. Dick, perched on the back seat, leaned down to shake their hands, scrutinizing their nametags in the few seconds they walked along beside the car, and whispered questions to them about their families. It surprised him that he knew so little about them. A man extended condolences on the death of Mrs. Dormer. It was the first confirmation he’d had of this.
“Then she is dead,” he said sadly.
Bob Orchard drove around behind the screen at home plate and the three of them got out. There was some difficulty with the public- address equipment, so Dick dispatched Bob Orchard to look at it. When his engineer got it working there were a few remarks and announcements by the president of the Cordelle County, Georgia, Listening Post. Then she introduced Bob Orchard and Lawrence Leprese, who both said a few words to the crowd. Leprese did little more than stand before them in the Bermuda shorts and loud sports shirt that Dick Gibson had bought. “How do you like ’em?” he asked. The Mail Baggers laughed and applauded.
Dick was introduced. He told them how glad he was to be there and that it looked like an even bigger turnout than last year’s. It wasn’t— the cop who conducted them across the playing field said later that there couldn’t be more than six or seven hundred people there—but Dick wasn’t trying to con them. He’d been looking for Behr-Bleibtreau, not sure he would recognize him—it had been ten years— studying each face, doubling back over groups he had already considered, losing track, beginning again, like someone trying to count spilled pennies on a rug. It was partly his distracted air that made him seem absent to the people who wrote the station to criticize him. Actually, he had never felt so keen, and though his words may have seemed bland, he experienced a genuine affection for his listeners, his special knowledge feeding his tenderness and making him protective as a statesman, fond as a champion. His ordeal would be theirs as well.
He publicly thanked the wonderful men and women of the Cordelle County, Georgia, Listening Post for the marvelous work they had done—he meant this sincerely, but our words are sometimes flattest when we are most deeply moved—and told the crowd that he would be out to meet as many of them personally as time would permit. Then he walked out to the raised pitcher’s mound, and there he remained for most of the day, choosing the spot not as the malcontents had it because he was showboating but because he wanted always to be within clear view of the crowd. Until lunchtime there were always four or five Mail Baggers around him, but after eating with the Cordelle County chapter, when he returned to the pitcher’s mound few people followed, and those who came up soon walked off. He continued to watch out for Behr-Bleibtreau, of course, and not until he had left the park did he begin to have doubts that it was Behr-Bleibtreau’s voice he had heard that night.
On the whole it was a pleasant day. The food was excellent and plentiful and they had good weather. His enemy never came.
If he failed to participate in the games it wasn’t because he felt superior or was a bad sport, but because he was worn out. After all, he was pushing fifty.
7
There was time for one more call.
“Night Letters—go ahead please.”
It was a woman, earnest and angry. “Well, thank God,” she said. “I thought the program would be over and done with before I reached you.”
“As a matter of fact, we haven’t much time. What did you want to talk about?”
“Listen, I’m a little flustered. I really didn’t think I was going to get through to you. I’ve never called one of these shows before.”
“I’d like to tell you to take your time, but the old clock on the wall—”
“I’m sorry. Well.” She took a deep breath. “I saw something today which makes me hopping mad. All I have to do is think about it and I can’t see straight.”
“What’s it all about, ma’m?”
“I called the Better Business Bureau and they say there’s nothing they can do about it, and I called the postal authorities and they tell me it has nothing to do with them, so I thought the only
thing left was to try to arouse public opinion.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Dick Gibson said cheerfully.
“I have a twelve-year-old boy. I was cleaning his room today—well yesterday afternoon now—and I found something in one of his drawers. I tell you, I was never so shocked in my life.”
“Pornography,” Dick said.
“No, not pornography. I’m not a narrow-minded woman, Mr. Gibson. My son’s almost thirteen and I suppose he has a natural curiosity about the opposite sex. We don’t take Playboy, but I suppose he sees it often enough, and a lot of those other so-called men’s magazines too, probably. That’s just part of growing up and I accept it, but this is something else. No, not pornography. More obscene than pornography.”
“Look, ma’m, I hate to rush you, but this sounds like it might be something with a lot of pros and cons to it, and right now we just haven’t the time to—”
“I’m sorry. I’m a little nervous, and as I say, this thing has upset me so I guess I’m not really making much sense. Somebody’s got to do something about it. Somebody’s got to.”
“Well, you know, ma’m, Night Letters isn’t really that kind of talk show. We’re not a controversy program.”
“It was in a comic book.”
“We were off the track there for a while, but we’ve been trying to—”
“There was this ad.”
“Look, if it’s a commercial product, the FCC won’t—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mr. Gibson!”
“We’re not allowed to—”
“Listen to me, will you? Something’s got to be done about this. Children mustn’t—”
“Even if this is a war-toys thing I couldn’t—”
“It’s an ad. You mail in two dollars. They send pamphlets. They tell you how to do things. How to put together a zip gun and make your own bullets. ‘How to coat the blade of an ordinary pocket knife with one of the deadliest poisons known to man.’ I’m quoting from the ad. This is intended for children, Mr. Gibson. Do you have children? Just listen to this part. ‘Our instruction booklet—’”
“I have no chil—”
“‘—teaches you the secret of preparing an acid from ingredients normally available on your own front lawn. This acid, commonly known as eye acid, is from a formula long known only to the Seminole Indians, the only tribe in the United States never to sign a peace treaty with the American government. If so much as a single drop of this potent substance were to come into contact with the eye, vision would be permanently destroyed. Seeks out and destroys the optic nerve on contact! The fumes alone can impair vision for periods of up to ten years. Only your enemies need worry! Included in the booklet are simple directions for the mild antidote which completely protects you from the acid yourself. This is but one of the many exciting poisons described in our simple-to-follow manual. Never an offer like it! The directions are so clear that if you have ever baked a cake or even read a recipe you can make any one of the thirty deadly acids and poisons thoroughly and completely explained in this guide. Be as powerful as the cruelest murderers in history! The secrets of the Borgias! Know nature’s other face, unlock the awful powers of chemistry! For mere pennies we can show you how to concoct a poison so toxic that just one cupful thrown into the water supply is enough to debilitate a community of 100,000 persons. The powers of epidemic in your hands! Useful for the destruction of pesky animals! Protect your loved ones!’ That’s only part of it. Shall I go on? There’s worse, if you can imagine.”
Dick was excited, but something urged him to be prudent; he had to seem detached. He understood that his discretion had nothing at all to do with the new policy of the program, that it was important and useful to him personally.
He had to hear more, however. “Well, you know, dear,” he said mildly, “that’s kind of a wild ad, but I don’t really think our kids will be very interested in that sort of thing. They’re a pretty sensible bunch, most of them. Gosh, for every kid who goes wrong that you read about in the papers there must be ten thousand minding their own business and trying to get good grades.”
“Mr. Gibson, this is vicious. I’ve never heard of anything so vicious.”
“Oh, well,” he said, “we’ve got another few minutes, I suppose. If you want to tell us some of the rest, I guess we can cut a minute or so out of the theme music.” He spoke lazily and blandly, conscious that a tape recorder was taking down everything he said.
“Listen to this,” she said, “tell me there’s nothing wrong with a world where this sort of thing can get printed. I’m quoting: ‘In addition to the pamphlet on poisons we have prepared a useful handbook on the assembly of handguns, small bombs and the infamous Molotov Cocktail, together with a section on how to make volatile powders and explosives in the privacy of your own home from chemicals sold over the counter for pennies. For those who send in their money now we will include at no extra charge an additional booklet, the top-secret Commandos’ Bible, an indispensable guide to the deadly methods of the heroic commandos of World War II. Be prepared! Available nowhere else! Fully illustrated, as are all the pamphlets in this exciting new series! THE VIOLENT DEVICES THAT HELPED TO WIN THE WAR REVEALED AND EXPLAINED: the garrote, napalm, the plastic bomb, along with the new silent time bomb impossible to detect. This light (two pounds), lethal instrument can be slipped into the luggage of an unsuspecting traveler and preset to go off anywhere from forty-five minutes to three hours after his plane has taken off or his train has left the station. No ticking! Totally silent! When you discover the secret of how it’s done you’ll laugh that no one ever thought of it before.’ It’s all like that, Mr. Gibson. It makes me sick just to read it. And it’s so anonymous. You don’t even know who’s behind it. They just give a post-office box number.”
“I’ve got to admit,” Dick Gibson said, “it sounds a lot worse than the B-B guns they used to advertise in those books when I was a kid. I’m no expert, and this is just a lay opinion, mind you, but off the top of my head I don’t see how it can be legal.”
“They’ve got this disclaimer.”
“Oh? They’ve got a disclaimer, do they?”
“At the bottom of the ad.”
“Oh?”
“‘For educational purposes only. Not responsible for any bodily injury which may occur.’”
“Say,” Dick said, “that’s pretty clever. That’s how they get around it, is it? Whoops, I see we’ve just about run out of time.”
His director put the theme music on, and while the first few bars were playing Dick took her off the air and spoke casually into the phone. “Say,” he said, “I’d like to see a copy of that ad. Why don’t you send it to me? I’ve got this friend on the Attorney General’s staff in Tallahassee. I’ll look it over and if it seems as bad as you make it sound I’ll see that he gets a copy of it with my personal letter. What do you say?” His hands were trembling. “Will you send it to me?”
“Yes,” she said, “that’s a good idea. I’ll put it in the mail today.”
“Good deal,” he said. “Got to run now. Got to sign this ole program off the air.”
His thought was that here at last was something he could do. There was too much suffering. Too much went wrong; victims were everywhere. That was your real population explosion. There was mindless obsession, concentration without point, offs and ups, long life’s niggling fractions, its Dow-Jones concern with itself. What had his own life been, his interminable apprenticeship which he saw now he could never end? And everyone blameless as himself, everyone doing his best but maddened at last, all, all zealous, all with explanations ready at hand and serving an ideal of truth or beauty or health or grace. Everyone—everyone. It did no good to change policy or fiddle with format. The world pressed in. It opened your windows. All one could hope for was to find his scapegoat, to wait for him, lurking in alleys, pressed flat against walls, crouched behind doors while the key jiggles in the lock, taking all the melodramatic postures of revenge. To be there in clo
sets when the enemy comes for his hat, or to surprise him with guns in swivel chairs, your legs dapperly crossed when you turn to face him, to pin him down on hillsides or pounce on him from trees as he rides by, to meet him on the roofs of trains roaring on trestles, or leap at him while he stops at red lights, to struggle with him on the smooth faces of cliffs, national monuments, chasing him round Liberty’s torch, or up girders of bridges, or across the enormous features of stone presidents. To pitch him from ski lifts and roller coasters, to Normandy his ass and guerrilla his soul. To be always in ambush at the turnings in tunnels, or wrestle him under the tides of the seas. Gestures, gestures, saving gestures, life-giving and meaningless and sweet as appetite, delivered by gestures and redeemed by symbols, by necessities of your own making and a destiny dreamed in a dream. To be free—yes, existential and generous.
To feed him his own poisons, to blind him with his acids, pickle him in his vicious, zany juices, catch him in his traps and explode him with his bombs.
He made up his mind to kill the man responsible for the ad.
The earnest woman was as good as her word. In two days the comic book was in his hands. As she had said, there was no way to identify who had placed the ad; all he had to go on was the name of the company—“Top Secret!”—and the address, a post-office box number in Latrobe, Pennsylvania. He clipped the coupon, signed it with a false name and sent it in with his two dollars. For a return address he gave a post office box of his own which he rented for the purpose.
The Dick Gibson Show Page 40
