Ed said to her, “How do you like this new Homespun Look fashion, Dolly?”
Most of the masculine elements of the staff had been working the girls over in regard to their new getup. Dolly had evidently expected Ed Wonder to head the list of tormentors, but there wasn’t that in his voice.
She said, “Well, gosh, Little Ed, it’s just like any other style. It comes in, pretty soon it’ll go out. I don’t especially either like it or dislike it.”
He said, his voice low, “Listen, have you tried putting on makeup at all these last couple of days?”
She frowned, puzzlement there. “Well… yes, a couple of times.”
“And?”
She hesitated, her pert nose wrinkled. “Well, darn it, I felt itchy. You know, something like when you’ve had a bad sunburn and the skin starts peeling off.”
Ed Wonder shook his head. He said, “Listen, Dolly, get me Buzz De Kemp, over on the Times-Tribune, will you? That is, if he’s still at the Times-Tribune. I’ve got to talk to somebody.”
She bent on him the strange look he deserved and went about the chore. Ed Wonder went back to his own desk and took the call.
He said, “Hello, Buzzo. I didn’t know if you’d still be working there or not.”
The other’s voice said cheerily, “Not only here but basking in the warmth of a raise, Little Ed, old chum. It seems that some twitchy right wing outfit put in a beef to the editor about some of my articles. Wanted me fired. So Old Ulcers says the kind of pieces that’ll start enough controversy to have beefs coming in just might possibly pry a few dimwits off their TV sets long enough to read the paper. So I got a raise.”
Ed closed his eyes in sorrow at the workings of the world. “All right,” he said. “I’ve got to see you. How about the Old Coffee House in fifteen minutes? The coffee’s on me.”
“You talked me into it,” De Kemp said, his voice beaming. “It’s a date. And I think you’re beautiful, even with that queer mustache.”
Ed hung up and headed for the elevator.
He had hurried his way over, but by the time he arrived the newspaperman was already there. The Coffee Shop was practically empty. Ed suggested to Buzz that they retire to a booth.
They took places across from each other in a booth as far from the TV set and juke box as it was possible to get, and Ed looked gloomily at the reporter. He said finally, “I saw that article you did on gimmicked up style changes.”
Buzz De Kemp brought an eight inch long stogie from his jacket pocket and lit it. “Great stuff, eh? Actually…”
“No,” Ed said, completely ignored.
“…the practice goes back to the early sixties, when hovers were in their infancy. You know where I got that dope? From the old boy we were talking about the other night. He’s got more statistics on how our present affluent welfare state economic system is lousing up the nation…”
“Tubber!” Ed said.
“Sure, sure. Some of his data is dated a bit. Got a lot of it together back a decade ago. But it’s even more valid now than then. The last time I heard him talk he was on the country wasting its resources with disposables. Steaks and other meats that came in disposable frying pans. Muffins and biscuits in disposable baking tins. A throw away aluminium mousetrap; you don’t have to fool around with the mouse, you never even see it. You just throw away the whole unit. And plastic razors with the blade built in; use it once and throw it away.” Buzz laughed and drew on his stogie.
“Listen, all this aside. I heard him sounding off the same way the night Helen and I attended his meeting. But what I want to know is, did you ever hear him lay on a spell?”
The reporter scowled at him. “Do what?”
“Make with a curse. A hex. Put a spell on somebody.”
“Hey, the old boy’s not crazy. He’s just an old duck who’s viewing with alarm. Warning about the deluge to come. He wouldn’t really believe in curses, and even if he did, he certainly wouldn’t curse anybody.”
Ed finished his coffee. “Curse anybody ? The fact is he’s evidently cursed everybody. At least half of everybody. All women.”
Buzz De Kemp took his stogie from his mouth and pointed it at Ed Wonder. “Little Ed, you’re potted. Stoned. Swacked. Besides that, you don’t make sense. No sense.”
Ed Wonder had made up his mind to tell him. He had to tell somebody and he couldn’t think of anybody better. “All right,” he said. “Listen for a minute.”
It took more than a minute. During the process, Buzz De Kemp had ordered more coffee, but otherwise didn’t interrupt.
When Ed Wonder finally went silent, the newspaperman’s stogie had gone out. He lit it again. He thought about it, while Ed worked away at his coffee.
Buzz said finally, “It makes one beautiful story. We’ll exploit it together.”
“What?”
Buzz leaned over the table, pointing happily with the stogie. “It’s the Father Divine story all over again. Remember me telling you about Father Divine the other night?”
“What the devil has this got…”
“No, listen. Back in the early thirties, Father Divine was just one more evangelist picking up a scrubby living in Harlem. He only had maybe a hundred or so followers. So one day there was a knifing or something in his heaven and he was arrested and the judge gave him a mild sentence. However, a couple of reporters heard several of Father Divine’s followers say that the judge was flying into the face of disaster. That Father Divine would strike him dead. A day or so later the judge died of a heart attack. The reporters, seeing a story, went to interview the evangelist in his cell He played it straight, saying simply, ‘I hated to do it.’ Chum, believe me, when Father Divine came out of that jail, all Harlem was there on the street waiting for him.”
Ed demanded impatiently, “What in the devil…” Then he stopped short.
“Sure,” Buzz said urgently. “Don’t you get it? Old Tubber curses the vanity of women. Puts a hex on cosmetics and fancy styles in clothes. That sort of thing. And what happens the next day? The Homespun Look fad hits. Coincidence, of course, but what a coincidence.”
It was obvious now. “Yeah,” Ed said slowly, then, “but what did you mean about us exploiting it?”
The stogie was pointing for emphasis again. “Don’t be a kook. This is your chance of a lifetime. Up until now, on this offbeat program of yours you’ve had a bunch of freaks. Twitches who claim to have ridden in flying saucers, spiritualists who don’t have any luck raising spirits for you, faith healers who couldn’t take off a waft. But this time you’ve got it made. Go over and latch onto old man Tubber for your next show. He laid a hex on vanity and it worked. get it? It worked. And what’s more, he’s got witnesses. You witnessed it, Helen Fontaine witnessed it. Tubber’s daughter was there and a bunch of his followers. He’s got genuine bona fide witnesses that he cursed the vanity of women and the next day the Homespun Look took over. Can’t you see a story when it falls into your lap.”
“Holy smokes,” Ed said in awe.
“I’ll give you full coverage in the Times-Tribune. First build up to the program and then do a really good spread with lots of art, afterward. Maybe in the Sunday supplement.”
“Art?”
“Photographs, photographs—of Tubber and his tent, and his daughter. Tubber in the pose he assumes when he’s laying a hex on something. The works.”
He was carrying Ed Wonder away. With this sort of a show he might even get enough publicity to interest some sponsor. Why, he might even get his TV spot for it.