Cujo - By Stephen King Page 0,79

shakes in its shoes—”

“Don’t get on that,” Vie said, laughing a little. “My wife’s got a Pinto. I got problems enough.”

“All I’m saying is that getting the Sharp Cereal Professor to do another spot seems about as shrewd to me as having Richard Nixon do an encore State of the Union address. He’s compromised, Vic, he’s totally blown!” He paused, looking at Vie. Vie looked back at him gravely. “What do you want him to say?”

“That he’s sorry.”

Roger blinked at him glassily for a moment. Then he threw back his head and cackled. “That he’s sorry. Sorry? Oh, dear, that’s wonderful. Was that your great idea?”

“Hold on, Rog. You’re not even giving me a chance. That’s not like you.”

“No,” Roger said. “I guess it’s not. Tell me what you mean. But I can’t believe you’re—”

“Serious? I’m serious, all right. You took the courses. What’s the basis of all successful advertising? Why bother to advertise at all?”

“The basis of all successful advertising is that people want to believe. That people sell themselves.”

“Yeah. When the Maytag Repairman says he’s the loneliest guy in town, people want to believe that there really is such a guy someplace, not doing anything but listening to the radio and maybe jacking off once in a while. People want to believe that their Maytags will never need repairs. When Joe DiMaggio comes on and says Mr. Coffee saves coffee, saves money, people want to believe that. If—”

“But isn’t that why we’ve got our asses in a crack? They wanted to believe the Sharp Cereal Professor and he let them down. Just like they wanted to believe in Nixon, and he—”

“Nixon, Nixon, Nixon!” Vie said, surprised by his own angry vehemence. “You’re getting blinded by that particular comparison, I’ve heard you make it two hundred times since this thing blew, and it doesn’t fit!”

Roger was looking at him, stunned.

“Nixon was a crook, he knew he was a crook, and he said he wasn’t a crook. The Sharp Cereal Professor said there was nothing wrong with Red Razberry Zingers and there was something wrong, but he didn’t know it.” Vie leaned forward and pushed his finger gently against Roger’s arm, emphasizing. “There was no breach of faith. He has to say that, Rog. He has to get up in front of the American people and tell them there was no breach of faith. What there was, there was a mistake made by a company which manufactures food dye. The mistake was not made by the Sharp Company. He has to say that. And most important of all, he has to say that he’s sorry that mistake happened and that, although no one was hurt, he’s sorry people were frightened.”

Roger nodded, then shrugged. “Yes, I see the thrust of it. But neither the old man or the kid will go for it, Vic. They want to bury the b—”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Vic cried, actually making Roger flinch. He jumped to his feet and began to walk jerkily up and down the screening room’s short aisle. “Sure they do, and they’re right, he’s dead and he has to be buried, the Sharp Cereal Professor has to be buried, Zingers has already been buried. But the thing we’ve got to make them see is that it can’t be a midnight burial. That’s the exact point! Their impulse is to go at this thing like a Mafia button man . . . or a scared relative burying a cholera victim.”

He leaned over Roger, so close that their noses were almost touching.

“Our job is to make them understand that the Cereal Professor will never rest easy unless he’s interred in broad daylight. And I’d like to make the whole country mourners at his burial.”

“You’re cr—” Roger began . . . then closed his mouth with a snap.

At long last Vic saw that scared, vague expression go out of his partner’s eyes. A sudden sharpening happened in Roger’s face, and the scared expression was replaced by a slightly mad one. Roger began to grin. Vic was so relieved to see that grin that he forgot about Donna and what had happened with her for the first time since he had gotten Kemp’s note. The job took over completely, and it was only later that he would wonder, slightly dumbfounded, how long it had been since he had felt that pure, trippy, wonderful feeling of being fully involved with something he was good at.

“On the surface, we just want him to repeat the things Sharp has

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