Paul pointed dramatically to Hastings. “Him! He took me to a meeting in Laguna last year. I was sold the first time. I got the message.”
There was a hush as we were allowed to contemplate this awesome information. Then, smiling in a fashion which he doubtless would have called “wry,” the publicist continued: “I knew this was it. I contacted Cave immediately and found we talked the same language. He was all for the idea and so we incorporated. He said he wasn’t interested in the organizational end and left that to us with Iris sort of representing him, though of course we all do since we’re all Cavites. This thing is big and we’re part of it.” He almost smacked his lips. I listened, fascinated. “Anyway he’s going to do the preaching part and we’re going to handle the sales end, if you get what I mean. We’re selling something which nobody else ever sold before and you know what that is?” He paused dramatically and we stared at him, a little stupidly. “Truth!” His voice was triumphant. “We’re selling the truth about life and that’s something that nobody, but nobody, has got.”
Clarissa broke the silence which had absorbed his last words. “You’re simply out of this world, Paul! If I hadn’t heard you, I’d never have believed it. But you don’t have to sell us, dear; we’re in on it too. Besides, I have to catch a plane.” She looked at her watch. She stood up and we did too. She thanked Hastings for lunch and then, before she left the patio on his arm, she said: “Now you boys get on together and remember what I’ve told you. Gene must be used, and right away. Get him to write something dignified, for a magazine.” We murmured assent. Clarissa said good-by and left the patio with Hastings. Her voice, shrill and hard, could be heard even after she left. “The truth about life! Oh, it’s going to be priceless!”
I looked quickly at Paul to see if he had heard but, if he had, he didn’t betray the fact. He was looking at me intently, speculatively. “I think we’re going to get along fine, Gene, just fine.” Leaving me only a fumbled word or two of polite corroboration with which to express my sincere antipathy; then we went our separate ways.
3
I met Paul the next day at his office for a drink and not for lunch since, at the last minute, his secretary called me to say he was tied up and could I possibly come at five. I said that I could. I did.
His offices occupied an entire floor of a small sky-scraper on the edge of Beverly Hills. I was shown through a series of rooms done in natural wood and beige with indirect lighting and the soft sound of Strauss waltzes piped in from all directions: the employees responded best to three-four time according to the current efficiency reports.
Beneath an expensive but standard mobile, Paul stood, waiting for me in his office. His desk, a tiny affair of white marble on slender iron legs had been rolled off to one side and the office gave, as had been intended, the impression of being a small drawing room rather than a place of intense business. I was greeted warmly. My hand was shaken firmly. My eyes were met squarely for the regulation-length of time. Then we sat down on a couch which was like the open furry mouth of some great soft beast and his secretary rolled a portable bar toward us.
“Name your poison,” said the publicist genially. We agreed on a cocktail which he mixed with the usual comments one expects from a regular fellow.
Lulled by the alcohol, by the room, disarmed by the familiar patter in which one made all the correct responses, our conversation as ritualistic as that of a French dinner party, I was not prepared for the abrupt: “You don’t like me, do you, Gene?”