Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,55

fast," Emily said., "Real fast."

"He sure to God is," Taylor said. He felt perspiration at the back of his neck. "That ol' bastard can really roll."

"Mrs. Gillian Blake?" Emily said.

"Yeh," Taylor said. "Hold her, Emily. Get her some coffee. Show her the new computer setup or something. Hold her until I get the Baron out of here."

The Baron was about a third of the way through the huge room, rolling now, as Emily said, fast, real fast. He spun the wheelchair deftly down the narrow lane between the account executives' alcoves and the adding machine girls, picking up speed in the wide stretch between Taylor's office and the first row of girls.

"He ain't stopping," Taylor said to himself. "He's coming on."

Trouble now. Copy of the Ladies Home Journal on the Baron's lap, bouncing on his lap, while he rolled with both hands in his wheel chair. The old skinny arms, pumping, pumping in his black suit, and the little silver round head pointed right straight at Taylor's office, and rolling on, the old skinny arms and the old little silver round head, rolling on.

"Old sonofabitch," Taylor said.

Can't get to my coat, he thought, no use trying to put it on. Straightening tie, smoothing papers on the desk. Take off the sunglasses, he see my eyes. Leave sunglasses on, he think I'm drunk? Phone buzzing.

"Yeh?"

"Taylor" – it was Emily – "Mrs. Blake doesn't want coffee. Doesn't want to see the computers. She wants to see you. She…."

"Jesus, Emily, tell her… tell her…" The Baron fifteen feet out now, slackening speed, rolling for Taylor's glass door. "Just hold her, Emily."

"Taylor, she…."

Then, another voice, this one in Taylor's ear.

"Taylor," Gillian said, "I'm not just another ordinary, dissatisfied customer. You know, dear…."

And another voice, in front of Taylor.

"You've seen this, Taylor?" The Baron was holding up the magazine. "This is your idea of a small joke?"

The Baron's voice, very sharp. And on the phone, Gillian - "Taylor, if I want to see a computer deck, I'd go over to IBM."

"No sir, Baron." Taylor said. "I haven't seen the magazine yet. However, if it's the Honest ad, I can explain –" He had the phone out in front of him, shoulder high, it was breaking his arm, he could feel his hand clamped on it, knuckles splitting. "Gillian, please look at the computers…. I'm sorry, Baron, but the Cigaret Advertising Board said that business about the microfilters couldn't go…. Mrs. Blake, yes, you'll find the computers fascinating….."

Knuckles splitting and the phone hanging out there like a big black airplane between him and the Baron.

"Gillian… Mrs. Blake… please look at the computers. Call you right back." Phone down, finally, and hand still cramped, knuckles going to split wide open.

"Mrs. William Blake?" the Baron said.

"Yes, sir," Taylor Hawkes said. "Lives out there in King's Neck."

"I know," the Baron said. "You seem to forget, the Blakes are my customers. My customers."

"Yes, sir," Taylor said.

"And I haven't even seen the Honest ad yet," the Baron said. "I'm talking about the Smellwell ad. Two pages in color, Taylor, and what do I see? Well?"

"You see the Smellwell research laboratories," Taylor said.

"That is what I see," the Baron said. "I see six men in white robes fussing, Taylor, fussing with test tubes. What I do not see is Vivian. I do not see Vivian Garland on a gondola in Venice. I do not see the slogan that I take personal credit for – 'Tonight's the night, Vivian, with Smellwell.' Perhaps this refreshes your memory."

"Yes, sir," Taylor said. "We photographed that, just as you suggested. It was all ready to go and it was killed."

"And who may I ask had the temerity…?"

"The old lady," Taylor said. "She said she thought the other one, the 'Tonight's-the-night' business, was… she said it was sinful. That was her word, Baron. She said we should bear in mind that Smellwell was a product of modern science, a scientifically manufactured deodorant, and not some aphrodisiac used by Italians."

"She said that, Taylor?"

"You were down on the ranch," Taylor was relaxing now, "and we didn't think you should be bothered by something that could be fixed on the spot."

"In the future," the Baron said, "call me. If anyone ever changes something I've assumed creative responsibility for, you call me. And if, by any chance, you cannot reach me, you tell the lady – or any client – that we don't need their business."

"Yes, sir," Taylor said.

"And Taylor, while you're at it," the Baron went on, "I want you to