Robin Elk hung up the phone and looked across his desk at his visitors. “That was Fritz Waterman, my attorney. He’s not a Constitutional scholar, but he thinks we’re shielded by the First Amendment; a distinct improvement, I must say, over our Official Secrets Act back home.”
“That’s what Henry Miller’s lawyer said.” Phil Scarpetti put out a cigarette in the stand next to his chair. “It didn’t stop the Coast Guard from dumping an entire shipment of Tropic of Capricorn into the harbor last year. We’ve come a long way since the Boston Tea Party.”
“Forgive me, Phil, but why are you here? Mrs. St. John made no mention of artists in her address.”
“Moral support,” said Jacob.
Scarpetti shook his head. “Sorry, Jake, but I learned in the can not to stick my neck out for anybody but yours truly. It’s just a matter of time before she gets around to me. It’s the covers that got her attention. Politicians only read summaries written by aides. Why wade halfway through Down by the Docks to get to the brothel scene when it’s right up front?”
Jacob winced. “That scene ran a page and a half, and the nudity was only implied.”
“You can’t imply in oils. I’m the one who found the bondage theme in Jane Eyre, don’t forget.”
“In retrospect, I regret approving that design,” said Elk. “The Brontës were my favorite when I was at school.”
“When was the last time any of them sold forty thousand copies?”
“How serious is this threat?” Jacob said. “How many of these freshman representatives have any real power?”
“I’m not sure if ‘freshman’ is the proper term in this case; but we’re not here to discuss gender.” The publisher looked at the pad he’d scribbled on during the phone consultation. “Fritz did his homework. She’s thirty-six, a widowed mother of two children in elementary school. Her public service is rather in the way of an inheritance. The Honorable Conrad St. John was running for re-election when he suffered a fatal stroke. She took up the reins; and as it seems to be a challenge for voters in the Corn Belt to embrace a new player from out of nowhere, the good people of Nebraska cast their ballots for the surname.”
Jacob said, “I grew up in the Midwest. We vote like everyone else, hoping the next one isn’t worse than the last. What I want to know is can she do what she says?”
“As you indicated, few in Congress make much of an impression during their first term. What bills they manage to introduce perish in committee. However, if they stumble upon an issue that resonates beyond their own constituency—well, I’m sure you’re aware of what’s been happening in the motion picture industry.”
“That’s about Communism.” Scarpetti lit another cigarette. “I’m not a Red. Jake’s a Republican, so he’s in the clear. What about you, Elk? You a Robin red-breast?”
“Who said I was a Republican?” Jacob put in.
“You don’t like Truman.”
“Who does, including Bess?”
Elk broke in. “In answer to your question, no, I’m not a Communist. I doubt Mrs. St. John would know Joe Stalin from Joe McCarthy, nor care. As a PTA mother she’s more concerned with the corruption of our nation’s youth through the glamorization of sex and violence. She threw in sedition merely to draw support from across the aisle.”
“Sex is pretty damn glamorous without our help,” Scarpetti said. “As for violence, Jake blew up his guy in The Fence and plopped his severed arm smack dab in the middle of Columbus Circle. If we’re doing anything, we’re turning kids against violence by showing it for what it is; not like in movies, where they spray bullets like Flit and guys grab their chests and fall over without bleeding.”
“There’s been grumbling about that as well, at least where television is concerned. The crusaders keep count of the corpses that spill into the nation’s living rooms every evening; but that may be to our benefit, if it draws the fire away from us. And let’s not overlook the collateral effect. When TV Guide called Lash Logan, Private Eye ‘a sadistic feast,’ sales of Hank Stratton’s books doubled. He doesn’t even have anything to do with the series creatively.” Elk sat back, twirling the crook of his cane.
“That doesn’t let me off the hook,” said Jacob. “This could kill the Hollywood deal.”
“No need for concern. You have a contract, and Blue Devil has agreed to issue a new edition of The Fence with the star’s likeness on the cover, whomever he turns out to be. The book will sell tickets and the movie will sell books. Our rustic congresswoman would have to have a great deal in her bag of tricks to overcome that. Gentlemen, this is a feather in the breeze. At all events, Blue Devil is in your corner. We share the same risks.”
Scarpetti’s grin was bitter. “The U.S. v. Blue Devil Books. I want to paint the cover.”
The Goliath Typewriter Mart had more machines on display than he’d ever seen in one place, including the offices of the Clock: They lined shelves in every make and model, some tagged for repair, others on sale new and used, and the odor of ink, oil, and solvent was a physical presence. The new International Business Machines electric had its own pedestal, with a printed card listing its price and features. It was mostly motor and as big as a mangle.
A dusty window in the partition in back looked into a mechanical charnel-house: naked chassis, sprung springs, broken cogs, and spools of tattered ribbon spread out like entrails. A graybeard in a smeared apron bent over a bench, dismantling a McKinley-era Oliver with a screwdriver.
The counterman, ten years younger than Jacob and wearing a white lab coat, frowned at Jacob’s Remington, lifted the occasional key with the eraser end of an unsharpened pencil, pressed a thumbnail into the rubber sheathing the platen, and let out a whistle.
“How long have you had this machine?”
“Four years.”
“You sure gave it a workout. These portables aren’t designed for heavy use.”
The finish was as glossy as ever, but he’d worn most of the lettering off the keys. Lately his copy had begun to look like a ransom note, letters wandering above and below the line and some barely leaving an impression. The machine worked as hard and as reliably as always, but the results weren’t the same. Seabiscuit was turning into a milk horse.
“It hasn’t failed me in two hundred thousand words.”
“What are you, a stenographer?”
“Worse. Writer.”
“Would I know your stuff?”
“I doubt it.”
“E. B. White came in just last month. Stuart Little? Turned out all he needed was a good cleaning.”
“Can you fix the strikers?”
The bright eagerness went out of the clerk’s face. Jacob thought maybe he should have asked him something about E. B. White. “You need a new platen.”
“I asked about the strikers.”
“The platen’s what threw them out of line. The rubber gets hard and loses its flexibility. We can realign the strikers, but without a new platen, they’ll be back out of line again in no time.”
“How much for the realignment?”
“They need to be pried loose and resoldered; that’s a time-eater. Cost you forty. Platen’ll run another ten.”
“I could get a new typewriter for that.” He seemed to have had this conversation before.
“I would. Something else is bound to break, probably the space-bar mechanism, which is a pain to replace. That IBM’s a steal at three hundred, and it’ll still be going after ten of these relics have gone to scrap.”
“I don’t know anything about electrics.”
“They’re the future.”
“The present’s fine with me. I don’t write science fiction.”
“Let’s give it a try.”
One of the hard-sell boys; there was a commission in it for him. Jacob wanted to walk out, but he’d been to three places already and the prognosis hadn’t changed.
The mechanism seemed simple enough, but the young man insisted on coming around the counter anyway. He cranked in two sheets and flipped a switch. The motor made a whirring noise like a tank engine. “Needs to warm up.”
“My Remington doesn’t.”
“Go ahead, take it for a test drive.”
He frowned at the square keys, touched a key. The machine chattered, typing jjjjjjjjj across the page. He jerked back his hand as if a snake had struck at it.
“I don’t need that many j’s to write my name.”
“You’re not letting the machine do the work. All you have to do is touch it. Here.” He tapped a different key; the carriage swooshed all the way to the right and stopped with a clunk at the left margin, one line down. He flicked a key. Jacob looked at the sheet.
“That’s a j, all right. Can I see a manual?”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“At least I’m making them one at a time.”
He left with a slightly used Smith-Corona standard on sale for twenty-five dollars; the clerk allowed him five bucks in trade on the Remington for replacement parts. It took a different ribbon, so he bought a spare for six bits. He felt sick leaving behind the machine that had jump-started his life. It was as if he’d brought a faithful old dog to the vet for a worming, then put him down instead.
And he couldn’t shake the uneasy sensation that his luck was about to change for the worse.