Thank You for Smoking (26 page)

"Uh-huh." Silence. She was too good a reporter to swallow that. The Senate gearing up to something big, and you're in L.A., for no good reason? "What are you really doing?"

"Off the record?"

"Okay." She sounded a little offended.

"I'm out here to bribe the Tumbleweed Man, who is dying of lung cancer, to stop attacking us in the media."

Heather laughed. "You know, I wouldn't put it past you."

It left Nick a little unsettled that she hadn't believed him. Polly was annoyed at having been put on hold for five minutes.

"I was talking to a reporter," Nick said, invoking a reliable Mod Squad dispensation.

"Heather Holloway?" said Polly.

"No," said Nick, "Just
...
a reporter."

'A reporter'?"

"I'm not sure I even remember her name."

Why, he wondered, after getting off, was he lying about Heather to Polly?

The Lutch avocado spread was a modest one called Fault-Line Farm, a name that made sense when Nick saw a gaping crevasse across the scrubby field in front of the house, rimmed by a tangle of dead avocado trees.

He took the attache case from his bodyguards and ordered them to stay in their car. They argued about letting him disappear behind enemy lines without protection. Mame, the detail commander, made a persuasive case that Lutch had very little to lose by shooting Nick. Nick considered bringing her along for a moment, but then contemplated the headline,
tumbleweed man slain in shoot-out with tobacco spokesman's security guard
and decided it would be good to avoid that, so he put his foot down and started up the steps alone. A large Rhodesian Ridgeback lazed in the heat on the porch, barely looking up at Nick as he approached. There were a number of steel bottles on the porch labeled
oxygen.

Nick took a deep breath and banged on the screen door. Today, he said to himself, you will earn your salary.

He felt a poke in his back, and heard a croaky voice say, "Don't move or I'll blow a hole the size of a grapefruit in you. Now raise your hands and keep 'em where I can see 'em."

Nick did as instructed.

"Now turn around.
Slow."

Nick slowly rotated and found himself facing
Lorne
Lutch himself. He was still recognizable as the Tumbleweed Man, even fifty pounds lighter and with yellow skin. He was in a bathrobe and slippers and wouldn't have looked at all threatening without the shotgun that was aimed at Nick's stomach.

He peered at Nick. "You're Nick Naylor, aren't you?"

"Yes sir. I was just . . ." Passing through, carrying half a million dollars in cash. "Do you, could I, do y
ou have a minute? If it's incon
venient, I could, uh, come back."

Lutch said suspiciously, "What do you want here?"

"Just
...
to talk."

"All right," he said, lowering the shotgun. He pushed open the screen door with the muzzle. They sat. "Didn't mean to startle you," he said. "But someone's been following me."

Gomez?

He croaked, "Roberta, company." It made him cough. And cough, and cough.

Mrs. Lutch entered, took one look at Nick, and went cold as a bucket of liquid nitrogen. Lutch continued to cough, leaving Nick to stand there waiting for it to subside so that he could be introduced. It was awkward, frankly. When
Lorne
's coughing showed no sign of subsiding, Nick mouthed a "Hello."

"What do
you
want?" she glowered with such intensity that Nick almost regretted leaving his Praetorians outside in the car. He hadn't counted on being shot by the
wife.

"Now now, Roberta," Lutch wheezed, wiping his mouth, "let's not be rude to our guest. I don't suppose he's come all the way out here for no good reason. Remember he's the one talked the company out of suing me for breach of contract."

"I'd as soon feed him to the hogs as have him in my house." Fixing Nick with one last copper-jacketed shot of eyeball, she turned her back and started to leave. On her way out, she stopped and said, "You want some more morphine, hon?"

"No thanks,"
Lorne
said, "I'm doing just fine. But maybe our guest would like something."

"Some morphine would be fine, thank you," Nick said. Mrs. Lutch disappeared, probably to mix Drano in with Nick's morphine.

"I'll tell you,"
Lorne said, settl
ing back into a big, torn armchair, "about the only
nice
thing about dying of cancer is the dope. The
dreams
I've been having . . . and in technicolor."

"Must be amazing," Nick said.

"Do you know what the word 'heroin' comes from? It's German. It was the Krauts who first come up with it, back in the nineteenth century; nicest thing Germany's ever done for the world, let me tell you.
Heroisches.
That's what it made people feel like. Heroic. Do you know, when I first started in on the chemotherapy, people for miles around here started bringing me marijuana brownies. Keeps the nausea down. You can get it in pi
ll form, but they make you jump
through flaming hoops for it and then they put it in sesame seed oil so you won't get high. Don't you love that? God forbid people dying in pain should have a little pleasure on the way out. Anyhow, I got about ten pounds of pot brownies in the freezer."

Nick thought: wouldn't Gomez love to know that,
tumbleweed
man arrested on drug charges.

"Reckon I must have enough to get me sent away for the rest of my life," Lutch said. "You want one?"

"No, thanks," Nick said. "Just the morphine. I better not mix."

Lutch laughed, which made him cough again. This one went on longer than the last. Mrs. Lutch came running out with a nebulizer.

"Excuse
me," Lutch said, recovering finally. "Do you smoke?"

"No," Nick said. "Since the kidnapping, I haven't been able to."

"I read about that. Saw you on—weren't you on the Larry King show? Roberta said you were on same night as me. Funny we didn't run into each other in the studio."

"Yeah," Nick said.

"That must've been something. My doctor said you were one lucky son of a bitch." Lutch chuckled. "Said a few other things, too, I won't share with you. You know, doctors used to
promote
cigarettes."

"That's right," Nick said, "twenty thousand six hundred seventy-nine physicians say, 'Luckies are less irritating.' "

"I wonder how
they're
doing?" Lutch said caustically. "Strange business. In the early fifties, they had the first cancer scare, so they started making filter cigarettes. Then they got worried that men would think filter-tips were for pussies. That's where I came in."

"You were great," Nick said. "I used to want to be you. I mean, when I was growing up. We all wanted to grow up and be cowboys."

"Don't I know it. You know a song by George Jones, 'Hell Stays Open All Night Long'? I listen to it over and over."

"You're being kind of tough on yourself, aren't you?"

"Last year, after I got diagnosed, I flew East to attend the annual stockholders' meeting of Total Tobacco. And I stood up and told them that they at least ought to limit their advertising. And do you know what the president said to me?"

Nick did know, but he shook his head.

"He said, 'We're certainly sorry to hear about your medical problem. Without knowing your medical history, I don't think I can comment further.' Then they tried to pretend I never worked for them. I couldn't believe it. Even when I showed reporters my pay stubs, the company went on saying it wasn't me in those photographs. Then when I kept on making a fuss, they told me they were going to sue me—for breach of contract! I guess you were the one to put a halt to that."

"Yeah," Nick said. "I told them it was a pretty dumb idea. Well, they can be assholes, there's no doubt about that."

"Tell you something else. I never even
smoked
Tumbleweeds. I smoked Kools."

Nick laughed.

"You look like a nice enough fellah. What are you doing working for these assholes?"

Somehow the usual business about needing to pay the mortgage didn't seem appropriate here. Nick looked about at the things on
Lorne
's wall—rodeo trophies, stuffed trout, family photographs mounted on brightly lacquered wood—and said, "I'm good at it. I'm better at doing this than I ever was at doing anything else."

"Well hell, son, I was good at shooting Koreans, but I didn't make it a
career."

Nick laughed. Lutch looked at him for what felt like a long time, and said, "I suppose we all got to pay the mortgage somehow." Nick could have kissed him.

"I was good at playing my role. People used to recognize me and ask me for my autograph. I don't know how much that's going to count for at the Pearly Gates, but I was just a dumb cowboy who wanted to be in pictures, whereas
you,"
he smiled slyly, "look like about twenty thousand dollars' worth of college education." The smile was gone. "So why'd you come all the way out here for?"

"Good question," Nick said, staring balefully at the attache case.

"You here to talk me into shutting up? Is that what's in that case of yours?"

"Yes, basically," Nick said. "No, not basically. That's exactly it." Lutch gave him a steely stare. "Look here," he said, "my dignity ain't for sale."

"No," Nick said, "it's more complicated than that."
"How do you mean?"

"This is supposed to be an outright gift, no strings attached. The taxes have all been paid. You get to keep it no matter what you do. You're free to go bad-mouthing us. The idea is that you'll feel so guilty about trashing us that you might just say no the next time a producer for Oprah calls."

Lutch stared at Nick. "Were you supposed to tell me all this?"

"No. Just apologize, give you the money, and leave."

"Then why are you telling me this?"

"I don't really know," Nick said. "Not for reasons you might think. I don't believe in the Pearly Gates, or an open-twenty-four-hours hell. I like the guy I work for, the one who cooked up this idea, even though I told him we ought to just leave you alone. He's just freaked out, like the rest of them. And, I'll probably go on doing what I do. So I don't know why I'm doing it. Beats me."

"You're a strange fellah, Nick."

"I know people who'd agree with that. No," Nick said, "I should be honest, for once. I know why I told you." "Why?"

"Because this way, you'll take the money." "Why would I do that?"

"Because you're mad. The first thing you'll do is call the
L.A. Times,
KBLA and tell them to get out here right away." "You're damn right about that."

"By the way, don't forget CNN. And
insist
on Bonnie Dalton, their top L.A. person. Do you remember her from the cracks in Hoover Dam story last year? She's got the perfect touch for something like this. She does very good controlled outrage without going overboard. Also, she's good-looking. Bonnie Dalton. Tell them no Bonnie, no story, they can watch it on KBLA."

"Okay," Lutch said. "Bonnie Dalton."

"Now if I were you, I'd open up the case and dump all the cash out onto the floor." "Why?"

"It'll look much more effective. Here, look." Nick dumped the money out. "And shake it like this to get the last bundle out. Also, it would be great if you could cough while you're doing it. The whole time you're dumping, you should be denouncing, sort of
build up to
the last piece of silver. You might even call it that. You know, as in the thirty pieces of silver, from the Bible, the Judas payoff. Then you tell them what you're going to do with it." "What
am
I going to do with it?"

"You're going to give it to the cancer ranch. Of course."

"Well, I do have a family. . . ."

"Whoa,
Lorne
. You can't
keep
the money."

"Why the hell not?"

"How's that going to look? Denouncing us and then keeping it? It's blood money. Look at it." They both stared at the bundles of hundred-dollar bills on the floor. Lot of money.

"I'm going to have to talk this over with Roberta," Lutch said, shifting uneasily in his seat.

Nick drove back to L.A. fast. He got pulled over for going ninety-two miles an hour. The cop wrote him up for the full amount. Nick didn't argue.

The next morning Gomez O'Neal called Nick at the Encomium. "We just heard that
Lorne
Lutch canceled out of a local TV talk show for next week. Nice going."

The Captain called five minutes later. "Gomez O'Neal tells me it worked. I knew it would. Good
work,
son."