The offices of the Pauker, Hatton & Underwood advertising agency occupied an entire floor in a brand-new building on Wilshire Boulevard on the edge of Beverly Hills. The senior meeting room was done up in extreme art deco style and everything in it was either stark white or dense black.
When I got there, about fifteen minutes late, three of the eight black chairs around the white oval table were already occupied. Jape Griffin, the large wide sunbrown account man on the Orem Bros. Coffee account, sat at the head of the table. Warren Stander, a small weary man in his fifties, was a vice president for programming at the Nationwide Broadcasting Network and had placed himself as far from Jape as possible. Jape’s secretary—I was pretty sure her first name was either Betty or Betsy but had no notion as to her last name—was seated at her boss’s right hand. There was a copy of the latest draft of my radio script at each place and as a centerpiece a pyramid rose, made of ten of the familiar gold and blue Orem Bros. Coffee cans.
“You must think you’re Groucho,” observed Jape as I sat down.
“Hm?”
“You’re fourteen minutes late,” said the account executive. “Of course, he’s not here yet.”
Pointing at one of the windows, I explained, “I got tangled in traffic.”
Making a grunting noise, Jape picked up his copy of the script. “The client, that’s Junior Orem, isn’t completely happy about the title of our proposed show, Frank.”
“What’s he unhappy about? And how come a guy who’s near seventy is still known as Junior?”
“He feels that Groucho Marx, Master Detective is too bland.”
“It’s supposed to be ironic.”
“Irony doesn’t sell coffee.” He patted his blond secretary on the arm. “Betsy.”
She smiled across at me and flipped open her steno book. “Mr. Orem suggests Groucho Marx, Silly Detective. Groucho Marx, Screwball Detective. Groucho Marx of the Famous Marx Bros. Joins Forces with Deeply Satisfying Orem Bros. Coffee to Bring You Goofy Mysteries Every Week.”
“Oh, I love that last one,” I said, slumping in my black chair and producing a believable groan. “It has zing and is, furthermore, streamlined. Jesus, Jape.”
“You’re eventually going to have to capitulate to the client’s wishes.”
“Yeah, but it’ll take fifteen minutes just to read that damned title. Leaving only fifteen for the whole show and the commercials.”
“If I were a writer—which, praise be, I’m not—I’d sit up and pay attention when a client told me my title was dull and drab,” Jape told me.
“You’re thinking of my laundry, not my script. And it isn’t dull and drab—not since I switched to Rinso.” I held up both hands. “And I got rid of my dishpan hands, too.”
Jape patted his secretary’s arm again.
She turned to a new page in the steno book. “The client is also perturbed by the suspicion that both the proposed writer and the proposed star of the radio show are making snide remarks about him behind his back. Furthermore—”
“Did I miss the sermon?” A middle-sized man with an impressive tennis court tan came rushing into the meeting room, crouching slightly. He was wearing a checked sport coat, a tan polo shirt and slacks of a russet hue.
“Sit down, Groucho,” suggested Jape. “This concerns you.”
Groucho Marx gazed around the black and white room. “Too bad you couldn’t afford Technicolor.” Circling the white oval table, he stopped next to Betsy and tugged a small purplish bouquet from inside his coat. “Orchids for you, my pet.”
She, reluctantly, accepted the flowers, nose wrinkling. “These aren’t orchids, Mr. Marx. They look like petunias to me.”
“I thought two bouquets for a quarter was too good a price for South American orchids.” He continued around and dropped into the seat next to me. “Have you been defending our honor, Rollo?”
“To the best of my ability, sir.”
Stander spoke now. His voice was dry and rasping. “Can we assume that the clowning is over and we can get down to business at last?”
Groucho checked his gold wristwatch. “Actually, Warren, the clowning isn’t scheduled to commence for another half hour yet,” he explained. “What you’ve been enjoying up to now has been the overture as rendered by an all male choir—and that should tickle your fancy. What have they been bitching about, Franklin?”
“The title of our radio show,” I told him. “Seems the client finds it dull and dingy.”
“The title,” said Groucho, standing up and pointing a finger at the white ceiling, “happens to be the best title I have ever heard for a radio show. It brings tears to the eyes—or maybe that’s just the onions you had for breakfast, Warren. Be that as it may, the title is terrific.” He sat down again, tugged a second bouquet from out of his coat and tossed it across to Betsy. “And keep in mind, Jape dear, that I’ve worked with some of the most brilliant writers of the century. George Kaufman, Arthur Sheekman, Morrie Ryskind, Sid Perelman, George Bernard Shaw, Harry Ruby and—”
“When the hell did you work with George Bernard Shaw?” inquired Jape.
“Oh, that’s right,” said Groucho, “he never finished the script he was working on for us. His whiskers kept getting tangled up in the typewriter keys. Broke his heart and caused him to become a vegetarian. If the title goes, we go.” He settled back in the chair and produced a cigar out of his breast pocket.
“There are,” put in the NBN executive, “other problems.”
“Give us an example, Little Eva,” invited Groucho, as he lit his cigar with a wood match.
“We’re not going to be able to okay the name you’ve chosen for the detective you’re going to play on this show.”
“Why, pray tell?”
“It’s lewd and lowbrow. J. Hawkshaw Transom.” Stander tapped thin fingers on the script. “Suggestive of cheap hotels and smutty assignations.”
“Gee, I never caught that until now.” He exhaled smoke and nudged me. “That’s what I get for working with this youthful offender here.” Suddenly he lunged and grabbed one of the Orem Bros. Coffee cans from the bottom row. “Here’s something else I never noticed until just now.”
The pyramid of cans went toppling. One rolled into Betsy’s lap, another sailed over the edge of the white table and thunked onto the black carpeting.
“One of the Orem boys has a glass eye.” Groucho had the can close to his face and was frowning at the engraved portraits of the three founding Orem brothers. “Doesn’t match the other one at all. And just think, Rollo, I’ve been swilling down this stuff every morn for—what is it? three weeks now—and never spotted this.” He tapped the can. “What this is is one of those glass eyes they use in stuffing chipmunks.” He thrust the can toward me. “See?”
“I’d say it’s a squirrel eye.”
“You think so? No, squirrels usually look smarter and more honest than that.”
Jape put in, “Groucho, we’re supposed to go on the air with your new radio show in less than two weeks. If we can’t get together with the client and the network on these minor changes—well, we may have to drop the project.”
“That’s okay by me. I have an offer to work as a prioress down in Tijuana. Pays better than this halfwit show and I don’t have to drink anybody’s vile coffee.” He popped to his feet, took a few slouching steps toward the door. Then he halted, smacked his forehead and returned. Scowling down at the white table, he said, “The last time I saw a table like this, there was somebody being dissected on top of it.” He put a paternal hand on my shoulder. “I just realized I can’t leave this poor lad in the lurch—especially since his lurch is in such pathetic shape. All rusty and covered with those odd little bumps.”
“Can we,” requested Jape, “get back to the script?”
“The script is perfect as it is.” Groucho sat, took a puff of his cigar. “I might go so far as to say it is the most brilliant and hilarious script I have ever had the pleasure to read. I might even go so far as Pasadena if my folks will let me borrow the car tonight.” Leaning closer to me, he whispered, “The rewrite is okay, isn’t it? I haven’t had time to look at it.”
“You were right the first time,” I assured him. “It is brilliant.”
“Then screw these bastards. We’ll stand our ground. Although J. Hawkshaw Transom is a lousy name.”
“Not lousy, mediocre at worst. But in the tradition of most of your movie names,” I reminded him. “Dr. Hugo Z. Hackenbush, Otis B. Driftwood, Waldorf J. Flywheel, etc.”
“True,” he admitted. “By the way, Rollo, you look strangely elated this morning—it can’t be this godawful get-together.”
“I’m pretty sure I fell head over heels in love about an hour and a half ago.”
Smiling, Groucho leaned back, exhaled smoke and rubbed his hands together. “Ah, splendid,” he said, “I’ll do my best to screw that up for you.”