There was a pleasurable stir of excitement in Farrell’s office the following morning. Weinberg’s thinking on Atlas refrigerators had struck a spark of interest from the client. The idea had been pitched up in a casual-seeming memo which had been chiseled out with great care by Sam Mellon, the agency’s copy chief — a memo suggesting merely that the idea was worth exploring. The advertising director at Atlas had agreed, and the wheels were turning. There were prospects of additional billing, and the smell of money mingled inevitably with the aroma of sour grapes.
Farrell lunched with a copywriter named Rawlings.
“The kitchen, the heart of the home,” Rawlings said, shaking his head. He lit a cigarette and tasted his Martini. “Why didn’t we think of that? I guess it’s biological illiteracy on my part. I always figured the heart of the home for a more central spot. Around the second floor, maybe. Definitely above the first floor, at any rate.” Rawlings was short and sturdy with pink cheeks and a tic which gave him the look of a worried confidence man. “What’s the matter? You seem low.”
“Seasonal decline, I suppose. Moulting.” Farrell tried to get his mind off his own problems. “Well, where do you imagine the kidneys of a home would be? In the bar, eh?”
“Hey!” Rawlings said. “This marches bien. Weinberg didn’t see the potential. We can use his idea on damn near any account. Where’s the stomach of the home? The basement, eh? Keep your canned goods there, naturally. And the roof? It’s your home’s poor old bald head. Put a toupee on it by reshingling.”
“Well, he’s got a good idea,” Farrell said.
“That’s why I’m mad, for Christ’s sake. Let’s have another drink and face the fact we re not really creative.”
There was a plans session at four and Colby, the supervisor on Atlas, asked Farrell to sit in. He had little to do but listen and make an occasional note. Weinberg was near the head of the long table, tense and stimulated by success, amplifying his concept for the benefit of several people from the client’s advertising staff. Layouts and photographs were passed around and Farrell found himself looking at a glossy picture of a colonial kitchen. In the middle of the clean, old pine floor stood a tall Atlas refrigerator, its doors open to display an immense assortment of plastic containers and stacks of packaged vegetables and meats. A mother was looking into the icebox. She was smiling, a hand on her hip, one foot cocked back on a spiky heel. Slim and pretty in a flaring skirt and cocktail apron, she was considering the array of food and drink crammed into the shelves and storage compartments of the refrigerator.
On the right a father relaxed in a pine rocker before a great stone fireplace. He was pointing a pipe at another dad, and a boy sat between them dreaming into the fire. A couple stood apart from this group with drinks in their hands, smiles on their faces. They were admiring an antique coffee-grinder on the mantelpiece.
Farrell said it was effective and passed it along. He lit another cigarette. The room was crowded and noisy, swirling with smoke. He rested his eyes briefly by looking out at the fine span of bridge he could see through the wide clean windows.
Weinberg was talking about oral satisfactions: breast feeding, kissing, drinking, eating, tying them all into the heart-of-the-home theme. At one point he said: “You could argue — using a pretty long bow, I’ll admit — that the kitchen is really the sexiest room in the house.” He mentioned Ceres and grain and fertility, and something about Egypt which Farrell didn’t catch.
The picture took shape, and it was a pleasant one. Smiling, substantial people, the men in tweeds, the women in toreador pants and ballet slippers, congregating for the essentials of life in the heart of the home — in large, tile- or brick-floored kitchens, with firelight and drinks to soften and mellow their moods. And close at hand, Farrell thought, was the icebox full of eternal verities, the steaks and cold beer.
Someone made the point that the campaign might tie in effectively with summer living patterns. The beach cottage, the cabin at the lake or mountains, this was stripped-down living, clean and functional. People came back from sailing or swimming or golf wanting the basics of life — food and drink. “Which they get...” it was Rawlings speaking, Farrell noticed with some amusement, “in perfect condition from the jet-cooled Atlas, the Iceberg of Refrigerators — nine-tenths of your food is out of sight.” Rawlings intoned the company’s slogan earnestly, but the tic in his eye made it appear as if he might be winking at the whole idea.
Farrell’s thoughts drifted as he looked at the graceful webbing of the bridge. Duke had said last night that the people in Faircrest were a gang — sticking together, fighting together, dangerous. It had seemed a twisted rationalization to Farrell. Still — where would Duke and his pals fit into the scenes that were being dreamed up in a session like this? Would they fit in at all? The cute people in these layouts and photographs were damn well organized; they had entrance requirements, taboos, special values, the blackball. The crowd on the veranda with the tall, cool drinks, the clean-limbed people on water-skis, the sailors and golfers and clubmen, the plump old rogue who knew brandy and the woman who loved nice things — they were a gang all right! And they wouldn’t want Duke around, Farrell decided; not until he made some dough, at any rate. But there was nothing wrong with that. The world didn’t owe Duke yachts and convertibles. He had to get out and scratch for them. That was the system. But how about Enrique? Would money get him into the classy gangs? Probably not. Even if he cornered the switchblade concession in Central Park and made a million bucks. It was chic to be southern, but only up to a point.
The trouble was, Farrell thought, there were a hell of a lot of Dukes and Enriques around who would probably never get into the big, beautiful gangs they saw living it up in the magazine ads and TV commercials. It was just possible that there were more Dukes and Enriques than there were brandy-bibbers and backyard chefs and mothers looking cutely into stuffed iceboxes.
The telephone beside Colby rang and a secretary picked it up quickly, hushed and discreet in the great cave of the winds. She glanced down at Farrell. “It’s for you, Mr. Farrell. It’s a Lieutenant Jameson.”
“I’ll take it in my office,” Farrell said. “Excuse me.”
Colby said, “If you want, take it in here. Maybe you can keep half an ear on what’s going on.”
“All right then,” Farrell said. There was a small cold knot in his stomach. The phone was on a long extension cord and he carried it to a sofa a dozen feet from the conference table. “This is Farrell,” he said, fumbling for his cigarettes. Everyone in the room was talking again and he raised his voice and said: “What’s up, Lieutenant?”
“Sorry to bother you at work, Mr. Farrell.”
“That’s all right. What’s the matter?”
The lieutenant’s voice was dry and hard. “One of the boys who belong to the Chiefs got worked over pretty thoroughly last night — early this morning rather. Does this come as a complete surprise to you?”
“Of course it does. What do you mean by that crack?”
“Slow down. I’m not suggesting you’re involved. What I meant was this: have you heard any of your friends talking about this sort of thing?”
Farrell hesitated. “There’s been talk, sure. That’s a normal reaction.”
“And you’re sure this talk was just talk?”