Reinhart's Women (37 page)

“I hope you have fully recovered,” Reinhart said, in a ritualistic expression.

Grace went on: “I had neglected to put your number on my wheel, so my secretary couldn’t help—”

“Yes, Grace. Go on.” The fact was that his “employment” had been merely her private project, a feature of the cajolery of Winona. “But what did they want?”

“Only to say that you were sensational, old boy!”

“Pardon?”

“You were the hit of the show, Carl, and they got tons of calls and letters asking for more. All raves, buddy.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s your image, Carl: knowledgeable, but all wool and a yard wide. You’re plain folks. You don’t talk down to anybody, but you have your specialty down cold. That’s what they’re saying over at Channel Five! See, when it conies to food, everybody’s got to eat. You become too partisan about a certain kind, though, you lose a lot of people, or if you get too fancy-pants. On the other hand, as a nation we’ve passed beyond the simple meat-and-potatoes phase. Well, that was my idea in bringing your expertise into Epicon in some way, except that for a little while I couldn’t figure out just the right way to maximize what either one of us, or the firm, would get from it—”

“Did they, the people at the
Eye Opener Show,
have any plans to put me on again?”

“That’s the whole point, mister! They want to give you a regular daily spot to cook up something on the air! You’re on the threshold of stardom, Carl. Now here’s our idea—mine, just now, but the rest of the board will go along with me, I can promise you that. To have our own man on television every day, who would turn that down?”

“You mean Epicon will sponsor me?”

“That’s the most popular of the wake-up shows in the local markets, outdrawing even the network programs of the same type. They get a damned stiff commercial rate, but hell, you’ll use our food products, clearly marked, and I’m getting us into cook-ware these days. Did you use that copper-clad fry pan I sent over to the studio the other day? Unfortunately I couldn’t catch the show.”

“That skillet was junk, Grace. The copper’s just for aesthetics: so thin it looks as if applied with a paintbrush. That’s the kind of thing I disapprove of, along with bottled hollandaise sauce.” He got out of bed. “And if I do this show, I won’t be bound by an obligation to use anything Epicon sells. Most of your line is crap, Grace, whether you know it or not.”

“Come on, Carl,” said Grace, with no diminution of enthusiasm. “I don’t mean for a minute that you would be standing by with your finger in your ear while everybody else collected the bucks. You’d be an integral part of it, on a percentage of the increase in sales, et cetera. We wouldn’t be asking you to do charity work, big fellow.”

Her style was remarkably reminiscent of several male con men with whom Reinhart had been associated in past commercial ventures; beginning with Claude Humbold the frenetic realtor in whose office, so many years before, he had met Genevieve. A practice of them all had been to talk money incessantly while never delivering a cent.

“Apparently that’s what I’ve been doing thus far, Grace.”

“Now, Carl, you know I’ve been under the weather. I’m back now and full of beans. You’ll be paid well for these one or two little things, of course, but what I’m talking now is big bucks.”

“I’ll have to speak to the
Eye Opener
people first.”

“I think we ought to make our deal before you go to them,” Grace said. “I really do, Carl. I don’t want to lean on you, but after all it really was me who saw your potential. As I recall, you practically had to be dragged out of your home kitchen. I mean, if you’re going to make a
career
of it, don’t you think I should get a
little
credit?”

“It’s true that at one time I would have thought that way,” said Reinhart. “But now I don’t.” And as if that were not blunt enough, he added: “You’ve got enough from me. Think about my chili suggestion. I can always take it elsewhere.”

Grace whistled low and said: “I’ll tell Win she’s a chip off the old block. Don’t go away mad, Carl. I think we can do business. If you insist, though, call Billy Burchenal at Five. He’s the producer of
Eye Opener.
He’ll be at his office till noon.” She gave the number.

Reinhart took his pajamas off and nakedly crossed the hall to the bathroom, having learned that trick from Mercer. But it
was
one of the advantages in living alone. After showering, he had some coffee and toast. He should have been ravenous the morning after dining on peanut butter, but he was too excited to be hungry.

At last the time reached a decent hour to call Burchenal, he hoped.

The producer answered his own line, perhaps because it was Saturday.

“My name is Carl Reinhart. I was supposed—”

“Carl, hi. You’re a hard man to find. Could you possibly zoom over here this morning, say by eleven, and we can get this deal wrapped?”

Reinhart chuckled to relieve his nervousness. “You don’t waste time, do you, Mr. Burchenal?”

“‘Burch,’ please. Sixth floor, six-oh-two. I’ll give your name to Security downstairs.” He hung up.

A quarter-hour later Winona called her father.

“Daddy, you’re going on TV? Isn’t that great?” She giggled.

“It might be,” said Reinhart. It helped to have someone else’s enthusiasm to play off. “I don’t know, though. I’m not a professional cook, let alone a performer.” He waited for and got Winona’s loving protests. “We’ll see. I haven’t talked to them yet. I’m going over there this morning.”

“That reminds me,” said Winona. “This is a thing I know something about. You’ve got to get yourself an agent to do the negotiating of the deal.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A show-business person, though, not the kind of agency I have, which is for models.”

“Shouldn’t I wait until I get a little farther along in my career—if in fact I have a TV career?” Yet this talk was thrilling to him.

“Noo,” his daughter said forcefully.
“Now
is the time to set the pattern: you wanna talk turkey from the beginning. Otherwise they’ll try to screw you.”

Reinhart wet his lips. “Really, Winona...”

“Sorry, Dad. That just slipped out.”

“Huh? Oh. No, I meant, gee, the whole idea of my being a television performer is so startling if I think about it, that I’d probably do it for a while for no payment whatever.” He did not add that he had performed a few jobs for Grace in that fashion, including even one TV appearance. “Let me just go and talk to the producer first and hear his proposition. I’ll consult with you on the deal I’m offered, I promise.”

“Some of the models here have done some acting work. One of them has a small part in
Song of Norway
at the dinner theater in the Lemburg Mall.”

“Jack Buxton was in that, wasn’t he? The actor who died the other day?”

“Gee, I couldn’t say,” said Winona.

“Didn’t we ever watch him together in old movies on TV when you were a kid?” Reinhart asked, softening in nostalgia. “We had some good times, didn’t we, baby? Remember the popcorn I used to rush out to make at commercials? And those enormous Dagwood sandwiches we’d eat?”

Winona took in air. “I can’t even listen to that kind of talk without going up one size.” She sighed out. “I gave up a lot for my career.”

“Is that right? You mean you still have to discipline yourself?” He couldn’t believe it; she was sweetly trying to make him feel good. He adored his daughter. He changed the subject. “Don’t tell me you are working today too.”

“Not me,” said she. “Grace went to her office, but I’m still in bed.”

He regretted having asked the question, but within a trice recovered when Winona added: “My room is practically soundproof, and anyway you know what a heavy sleeper I am. I didn’t hear her go out, but she just called me now with the good news.”

“Blaine came over not long after you were here yesterday and got the boys,” said Reinhart. “He refuses to acknowledge that anything is wrong with Mercer. What can I do? I don’t want to interfere, but I’m worried about the boys’ being neglected.”

Winona cleared her throat. “I’ve talked this thing over with Grace.” She waited for his objection: he understood that, but none would be forthcoming. Did not Grace by now have the status of an in-law?

“And?”

“First, the shrink I told you about is a prerequisite. Don’t blame me, Dad! I didn’t say it!”

“Look, Winona, I’m not against anything that works.”

“Then Grace thinks she might find something for her at Epicon.”

“A job?”

“Maybe part-time anyway.”

“You know, that’s a damned fine idea,” Reinhart said. He saw no reason to add that it would probably be unpaid unless Mercer spoke up. The fact was that he did think it a splendid thing to try on for size: his daughter-in-law
was
a college graduate after all, which was more than he could say for himself. Given a certain kind of employment, she might even learn to spell most common words.

“Do you miss me, Daddy?”

“You know I do. But I also recognize that this is a transitional time, Winona. Besides, we probably know all there is to know about each other at close quarters. Now there’s a whole new perspective for us both, looking back and forth across town.”

“Who can say where you might be living a year from now if this TV thing pays off as I think it might? Heck, you might be picked up by one of the big networks and go to New York or the Coast.”

“I’m trying not to have delusions of grandeur,” said her father. “I used to be addicted to such fantasies while not bothering to see whether there was any solid ground beneath me when I came down. No, Winona, I’m the sort of guy who does better by looking at the eggs in hand rather than at the soufflé to come. I’m a cook and not a waiter: I’m better at making things and letting someone else take over from there. I’m going to try to remember that if I do get on TV regularly, and keep from being too much of a ham.”

“I beg to differ with you, Dad!” Winona protested. “I think I know something about an allied field. Modeling after all is performing too. You have to have
presence.
You can’t think first of what would be your natural good taste. I worry only that you might be too modest!”

“My, oh, my,” said Reinhart, “but aren’t we anticipating?”

After some endearments he hung up. He had used the phone more in the current week than in the previous twelvemonth. No doubt the practice would continue if he went into show biz. He must cultivate the quick, sure style of Billy Burchenal....

Who, an hour later, turned out to be a tall thin man of indeterminate age: i.e., his tight, curly hair was very light gray, yet his face, with a synthetic-looking orangey tan (but which must have been real, for why would a producer wear make-up?), looked hardly more than thirty-five. He wore a tieless blue shirt with epaulets and sat behind a desk that was strangely, but for two telephones, bare. The blue walls of his office, however, were crowded with certificates: awards apparently; citations of merit for public service, and the like.

“Hope you don’t mind ruining your Saturday morning,” Burchenal said. “I come in then to get a little work done without being interrupted by
that.”
He pointed at the nearer phone. “Brainwork, I mean. I’ve been sitting here now trying to come up with a name for your spot, a catchy name for Debbie and Shep to say. You’d be surprised at how effective a name can be. We’ve always called it the Cook Spot, but that’s when it was the guest chefs. We need something to call attention to your unique contribution.”

He had neither shaken Reinhart’s hand nor asked him to sit down. Burchenal himself was standing behind his desk.

Reinhart said: “You know my real first name is not Carl, but Carlo.”

“For God’s sake,” said Burchenal. “That’s perfect:
Chef Carlo Cooks.
What a perfect name! It’s foreign, but you’re all-American in looks. You won’t scare anybody. That’s what the viewers loved about you the other day—show you the letters if my secretary were here—you made it clear, and you made it look easy. They thank you for that. They know it isn’t really easy, but they are grateful to you for letting them lie to themselves. This can be a big first step for you, Carlo. There’s a tremendous turnover here. Faces change week by week. Most of them go on to bigger things. We’re monitored incessantly by the big networks. Despite what you might hear, the youngsters are a drug on the market. An older personality, who is furthermore a new face, can attract! There’s no doubt about it.”

Burchenal’s style in person was notably different from his speedy, bare-details manner on the phone. Suddenly he made a humorless smile and flattened both hands on the desk top. “Now what we can pay, with a restricted budget of the kind we have, is—we don’t get prime-time commercial money, obviously, and the craft unions are ferocious. I mean, Carlo, you have to revise downward any idea of getting rich that early in the morning.” He ran a finger under his nose and looked sternly at Reinhart, this time meeting his eyes, though actually looking through them. “We can pay fifty per spot, and we’ll give you a spot every day unless exceptional circumstances arise: you know, like the Pope coming to town and we get him exclusively, or something.”

Reinhart grunted.

Burchenal said: “I talked to Greenwood this morning. I’m afraid nowadays you can’t get away with the kind of blatant promotion she would like, for example using a lot of things that are boldly labeled with trade names, and if the spot becomes a permanent feature, you’ll have to sever your official connection with Epicon: we can leave that in the gray area to begin with. We’ll see how things go.”

“Then I’ll be only trying out at first?”

Burchenal showed his palms. “That’s true of everybody, including me. No, I’m
with
you, Carlo, all the way, but think of life: nobody lives forever. That’s also true, in condensed form, of television. I think you’ve got tremendous potential, but I have to be careful. We’ll try you for a couple of weeks to start, O.K.?” Now and only now did he sit down.

“My daughter told me to get an agent before I agreed to anything,” said Reinhart. He half expected Burchenal to be offended by this statement, and added, apologetically: “She’s a professional model.”