"Cherubino can tell you. I been called Bang-Bang since I was fourteen." He leaped the cab lightly over an open manhole cover. "The reason I'm called Bang-Bang is because of girls. If Babe knew I was going in and out of the Gracious Palms, she'd have a fit!"
"So the answer to the question of what you'd consume the most of is girls."
"And girls and girls!" Bang-Bang yelled back, narrowly missing one on a crosswalk to prove his point.
Heller sat back. "Girls. Hm." He made a note on the inside back leaf of the marketing book, "Survey done. Item: girls."
After that harrowing ride that violated all laws of traffic and nature, Bang-Bang let Heller out at the main entrance of the Empire State Building with a yell that he'd put the taxi in their parking lot as he drove away.
Heller looked up. It made me dizzy: the building, even though you couldn't see the top from the street or even a quarter of its height, seemed like it was going into the clouds.
He threaded his way through the hurrying throngs. He walked past the ranks of express and other kinds of elevators and entered the one that, apparently, had its first stop on his floor. No one paid him any attention.
He got out. Their hall had changed. It had more brass plates and it had palms at intervals. I had not remembered how really vast that half a floor of theirs was!
He found Izzy in the communications room. "Hi, Izzy!" he said above the roar and chatter of teletype machines. "How's it?"
Izzy smiled at him wanly, probably the most smile Izzy could manage. He was still in a Salvation Army Good Will suit. His horn-rimmed glasses accentuated his beak of a nose. "I hoped you wouldn't be in until things were better," said Izzy. He held up a sheet. "We just lost on the ruble exchange with Italy. It's an awful strain. We can't seem to get the hundred thousand up above a half million. Conditions are so uncertain."
"Well, we're paying the rent," said Heller.
"Oh, we're not just here to pay rent," said Izzy. "If corporations are to take over governments, we ought to be thinking in acceptable sums like trillions."
"We will," said Heller cheerfully. "Now, what was so urgent?"
"Oh, dear," said Izzy. "I'm afraid I'm not ready for that, either."
Heller was beckoning. They went out and walked and walked past doors and doors with different name-plates. It gave me a melancholy pleasure to see that several girls, obviously their own employees—possibly students working part time, from their appearance– didn't even say hello to Heller but hurried on by on their errands with their burdens.
They had stopped before a door. The sign said:
Maysabongo Eastern United States Legation
Republic of Maysabongo Long Live Dictator Ahmed Allah!
Izzy was fumbling in his case for keys. He must be carrying ten pounds of them. He opened the door, threw on the lights.
The decor was bamboo. Sets of vicious-looking swords adorned the otherwise bare white plaster walls. The obvious coat of arms—crossed assault rifles—was sitting against a desk.
"You got the vice-consular appointments, didn't you?" said Heller.
"Yes, Mr. Jet. They're there on the desk. Here's Bang-Bang's; here's mine. Ah, yes. And here is yours."
Heller took his and glanced at it. It made him a Consul of Maysabongo but I couldn't see the rest of it. He put it in his pocket.
"And you got the company formed," said Heller.
"Oh, yes. Wonderful Oil for Maysabongo, Limited, incorporated in Maysabongo, registered to do business, etc. But you aren't a director, Mr. Jet. They have to be Abie Cohen and his wife. You see, I must be firm, as I'm responsible for you, that you have no connection with any of these corporations. Not even anything a Justice Department black-bag job can find. That attorney Mr. Bury is pretty vicious, and Rockecenter controls the
Justice Department, amongst everything else. A frightening man."
"I don't see the problem."
"Well, it's the mural. The deputy delegate is demanding that it should be a portrait of
"So the answer to the question of what you'd consume the most of is girls."
"And girls and girls!" Bang-Bang yelled back, narrowly missing one on a crosswalk to prove his point.
Heller sat back. "Girls. Hm." He made a note on the inside back leaf of the marketing book, "Survey done. Item: girls."
After that harrowing ride that violated all laws of traffic and nature, Bang-Bang let Heller out at the main entrance of the Empire State Building with a yell that he'd put the taxi in their parking lot as he drove away.
Heller looked up. It made me dizzy: the building, even though you couldn't see the top from the street or even a quarter of its height, seemed like it was going into the clouds.
He threaded his way through the hurrying throngs. He walked past the ranks of express and other kinds of elevators and entered the one that, apparently, had its first stop on his floor. No one paid him any attention.
He got out. Their hall had changed. It had more brass plates and it had palms at intervals. I had not remembered how really vast that half a floor of theirs was!
He found Izzy in the communications room. "Hi, Izzy!" he said above the roar and chatter of teletype machines. "How's it?"
Izzy smiled at him wanly, probably the most smile Izzy could manage. He was still in a Salvation Army Good Will suit. His horn-rimmed glasses accentuated his beak of a nose. "I hoped you wouldn't be in until things were better," said Izzy. He held up a sheet. "We just lost on the ruble exchange with Italy. It's an awful strain. We can't seem to get the hundred thousand up above a half million. Conditions are so uncertain."
"Well, we're paying the rent," said Heller.
"Oh, we're not just here to pay rent," said Izzy. "If corporations are to take over governments, we ought to be thinking in acceptable sums like trillions."
"We will," said Heller cheerfully. "Now, what was so urgent?"
"Oh, dear," said Izzy. "I'm afraid I'm not ready for that, either."
Heller was beckoning. They went out and walked and walked past doors and doors with different name-plates. It gave me a melancholy pleasure to see that several girls, obviously their own employees—possibly students working part time, from their appearance– didn't even say hello to Heller but hurried on by on their errands with their burdens.
They had stopped before a door. The sign said:
Maysabongo Eastern United States Legation
Republic of Maysabongo Long Live Dictator Ahmed Allah!
Izzy was fumbling in his case for keys. He must be carrying ten pounds of them. He opened the door, threw on the lights.
The decor was bamboo. Sets of vicious-looking swords adorned the otherwise bare white plaster walls. The obvious coat of arms—crossed assault rifles—was sitting against a desk.
"You got the vice-consular appointments, didn't you?" said Heller.
"Yes, Mr. Jet. They're there on the desk. Here's Bang-Bang's; here's mine. Ah, yes. And here is yours."
Heller took his and glanced at it. It made him a Consul of Maysabongo but I couldn't see the rest of it. He put it in his pocket.
"And you got the company formed," said Heller.
"Oh, yes. Wonderful Oil for Maysabongo, Limited, incorporated in Maysabongo, registered to do business, etc. But you aren't a director, Mr. Jet. They have to be Abie Cohen and his wife. You see, I must be firm, as I'm responsible for you, that you have no connection with any of these corporations. Not even anything a Justice Department black-bag job can find. That attorney Mr. Bury is pretty vicious, and Rockecenter controls the
Justice Department, amongst everything else. A frightening man."
"I don't see the problem."
"Well, it's the mural. The deputy delegate is demanding that it should be a portrait of
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