Brady bent the wire into a circle.
"Trespass."
"You've got to be kidding, Brady. Her father's a lawyer. He sent her to me. I can't come up with a Mickey Mouse."
"I'll discuss second degree with my client."
"Thank you. Oh by the way, Brady, are you acting for the superientendent?"
"No."
"Know who is?"
"Nah. He said something about Legal Aid."
"I have a feeling, Brady, that the super didn't know what Koslak was letting him in for."
"You kidding? Koslak told me that guy bangs half the women in that block. It's better than being a milkman."
"If he gets all that ass without much hassle, what'd he want to rape the Widmer woman for? Or was he just going along for what he thought was another free ride?"
"What're you up to, Thomassy? You don't have to think of using him as a witness. I told you I'm talking to Koslak to cop a plea."
"That was the last thing on my mind, Brady. I had another idea."
Outside, I stretched my arms, pleased with myself. Francine wouldn't have to go through with the mess. And I wouldn't have to burn on the sidelines in court, watching Lefkowitz bumble. All I had to do was get Francine out of that apartment for good. The American system of justice is a lovely way to kill two birds with one stone.
Forty-one
Francine
X was right. Butterball had not been told that I was substituting for X until he arrived at the studio Tuesday night. For a minute there was some confusion because Butterball thought Thomassy was the substitute guest. The host, Colin Chapman, thought Butterball was going to walk. The instant panic proved unnecessary. Butterball could not resist any opportunity to talk to the public, especially when it couldn't talk back, and he settled down to the proffered coffee and to another dose of the American rudeness that had put him up against a mere girl. He didn't say any of those things, but it was as clear as if he had. And it stimulated me to the best twenty minutes I have ever had out of bed. With George ensconced behind the glass next to the engineer, Colin Chapman chatted us up, then got the signal, and we were on. He introduced the subject and deferred almost immediately to Butterball, who launched into a spiel about how just two days ago he had been home for a visit and with just an eight-hour flight (first class, of course!) he had been transported from emerging Africa to New York, and since then he had talked no fewer than six times by phone to this minister and that minister back home. Colin Chapman tried to butt in a couple of times to make it a dialogue, but the only thing that worked was when I said "Mr. Ambassador" in my best stentorian contralto and put my hand over the microphone. He had to let me talk.
In fact, that was when Butterball first took notice of me.
"Mr. Ambassador," I repeated, "I have a very different idea of the shrinking world. We have seen," I said, "in recent decades, a proliferation of countries in the continent the Ambassador calls home, and in each new country, we have witnessed a growth of government agencies, a burgeoning of offices and duties and jobs where none existed, an unchecked growth of one of the most insidious forces in the modern world."
I looked up at the glass booth to make sure George was wide awake and following.
"Which is?" asked Colin Chapman brightly.
"Bureaucracy," I said, stopping and gesturing with my palm toward Butterball.
"The lady," said Butterball, "chooses to use a pejorative term for administration, the necessary functions of government if it is to keep things running."
"The lady," I said, "has a name, Mr. Ambassador."
"Francine Widmer," Colin Chapman supplied.
"Africa," said Butterball, "has found itself."
"What does that mean, Mr. Ambassador? Does it mean Africa has been found dividing itself into smaller and smaller constituencies, each with its own administrative offices, to the point where we will soon see a return in that shrinking world to the tribalism of yesteryear, except each tribe will have its own postage stamps?"
Behind the glass, George was having a good time. Butterball was trying to check his anger.
"Mr. Chapman," he said to our host, "the great leaders of emerging Africa…"
"Amin?" I asked.
"What did you say?"
"Amin?"
"I heard you."
"Are you including General Amin among the great leaders of emerging Africa?"
Butterball was fumbling his debits and credits. Privately he was reputed to despise Amin, but I had him boxed in.
He decided to ignore me and addressed Chapman. "Mr. Chapman," he said, "the announced subject of this broadcast was the shrinking world, and I do not see the necessity—"
"Of evasion," I said.
Chapman was loving it. In his job he had to play host to a multitude of horses' asses during the course of a year, and he obviously relished this one's discomfort.
Within five minutes I got Butterball admitting that his government actually had more government agencies than did the preceding colonialist government, that the rolls of government employees had increased by more than three hundred percent in the last two years because three semicompetents were needed to do the work of one bureaucrat who had the wrong color skin, and best of all, that he fully expected to be the subject of a forthcoming postage stamp. Behind the glass, George looked like a kid at a baseball game.
Toward the end, Butterball was panicking. "I am surprised," he said, "that the United Nations would employ a person so divisive, so intent to reverse progress, so intolerant of the change that is revolutionizing the world."
"Frankly," I answered, "I'm surprised, too. Perhaps I am like the Soviet dissenters, needles in a haystack, an almost invisible presence that cannot be ignored."
"Thank you," said Colin Chapman, "thank you both, but we've run out of time."
While Chapman was winding up, Butterball stoood, his chair making an awkward noise that went over the air. I stood and put out my hand. He had to shake it.
As soon as Butterball was out the door. Chapman said, "Lady, if I may call you lady, you were terrific. What a pleasant surprise. Whenever we get a substitution, it's usually a downhill omen. You gave us a fine program on a dull subject. I'd love to hear you give a speech at the U.N."
"Sorry," I said. "I'm not an ambassador. All I do is prepare some stuff for other people's speeches. They usually take the stingers out first."
By this time, George had come around to the studio and I introduced him to Chapman, who said, "This young lady of yours ought to be in broadcasting instead of over there with the fuddy-duddies." He stopped when he saw the man in the banker-striped suit come in the studio door.
"I agree," said the man. "My name is Straws. I'm glad I was in the building. I didn't catch all of it, but enough. You were splendid."
Straws shook hands all around.
"I'd like you to come and see me, if you would," he said, handing me a card. I glanced at it. He was general manager of programming.
"Let's go," said George.
I hadn't realized how restless he'd gotten, but the remark was rude under the circumstances.
"You couch things well," Straws said to me, "but under the camouflage a killer instinct is clearly visible. I can think of a dozen people I'd love to see you decimate."
Chapman wasn't happy either. Suddenly I had gone from being a good guest to potential competition.
"I'd be delighted to come and see you," I said to Straws. "I'll call your secretary for an appointment."
Come on, said George's eyes.
The engineer behind the glass opened his mike. "That was a very interesting program, Miss Widmer."
"Thank you," I said. I was ready to hand out autographs.
"Don't pay any attention to Art," said Chapman, gesturing at the engineer, "he's always buttering up potential hosts. He loves to work talk shows."