Thank You for Smoking

BR sighed. 'Let's do a three-sixty. This guy' — he hooked a thumb in the direction of the White House, a few blocks away—'is calling for a four-buck-a-pack excise tax, his wife is calling for free nicotine patches for anyone who wants them, the SG is pushing through an outright advertising ban, Bob Smoot tells me we're going to lose the Heffeman case, and lose it big, which is going to mean hundreds, maybe thousands more liability cases a year, the EPA's slapped us with a Class A carcinogen classification, Pete Larue tells me NIH has some horror story about to come out about smoking and blindness, for Chrissake, Lou Willis tells me he's having problems with the Ag Committee with next year's crop insurance appropriations. There is zero good news on our horizon.'

'Fun, ain't it, tobacco,' Nick said companionably.

'I like a challenge as much as the next guy. More than the next guy, if you want the honest truth.'

Yes, BR, I want the honest truth.

'Which is what I told the Captain when he begged me to take this on.' BR stood up, perhaps to remind Nick that he was taller than him, and looked out his window onto K Street. 'He gave me carte blanche, you know. Said, 'Do what you have to do, whatever it takes, just turn it around.' '

BR was being elliptical this morning.

'How much are we paying you, Nick?'

'One-oh-five,' Nick said. He added, 'Before tax.'

'Uh-huh,' BR said, 'well, you tell me. Are we getting our money's worth?'

It made for a nice fantasy: Nick coming over BR's desk with his World War I trench knife. Unfortunately, it was followed by a quick-fade to a different fantasy, Nick trying to get a second mortgage on the house.

'I don't know, BR. You tell me. Are you getting your money's worth?'

'Let's be professional about this. I'm not packing a heavy agenda. I'm putting it to you straight, guy-to-guy: how are we doing out there? I get this sense of… defeatism from your shop. All I see is white flags.'

Nick strained to cool his rapidly boiling blood. 'White flags?'

'Yeah, like that stupid proposal you floated last month suggesting we admit that there's a health problem. What was that all about, for Chrissake?'

'Actually,' Nick said, 'I still think it was a pretty bold proposal. Let's face it, BR, no one appears to be buying into our contention that smoking isn't bad for you. So why not come out and say, 'All right, in some cases, sure, smoking's bad for you. So's driving a car for some people. Or drinking, or flying in airplanes, or crossing the street, or eating too much dairy product. But it's a legitimate, pleasurable activity that, done moderately, probably isn't that much more dangerous than… I don't know… life itself.' I think a lot of people would think, 'Hey, they're not such liars after all.' '

'Stupidest idea I ever heard,' BR said with asperity. 'Stupid and expensive. I had to have every copy of that memo burned. Can you imagine what would happen if it turned up in one of these goddamn liability trials? An internal document admitting that we know smoking is bad for you? Jesus Christ on a toasted bagel — do you have any idea what a disaster that would be?'

'Okay,' Nick shrugged, 'let's go on pretending there's no proof that it's bad for you. Since that's working so well…'

'See what I mean,' BR shook his head, 'defeatism.' Nick sighed. 'BR, I'm putting in the hours. This is the first time in six years that my dedication has been called into question.'

'Maybe you're burned out. Happens.'

Jeannette walked in without knocking. 'Whoops,' she said, 'sorry to interrupt. Here's that Nexis search you wanted on 'sick building syndrome.' '

She was attractive, all right, though a tad severe-looking for Nick's taste, business suit and clickety-click heels, icy blond hair pulled back into a tight bun, plucked eyebrows, high cheekbones, eager-beaver black eyes, and dimples that managed to make her even more menacing, somehow, though dimples weren't supposed to do that. She apparently went horseback riding in Virginia on weekends. This made perfect sense to Nick. Put a riding crop in her hand and she was the very picture of a yuppie dominatrix.

'Thanks,' BR said. Jeannette walked out, shutting the door behind her with a firm click.

'Since we're talking 'guy-to-guy,' ' Nick said, picking up where they'd left off, 'you want to just give it to me straight?'

'Okay,' said BR, tapping a pencil on his desk. 'For one-oh-five a year, I think we could do better.'

'I don't think I'm going to end up talking the surgeon general into deciding that smoking is good for you. I think we're past that point, frankly, BR.'

'That's your whole problem! Don't think about what you can't do. Think about what you can do. You're spending your whole time stamping out wastebasket fires when you ought to be out there setting forest fires.'

Forest fires?

'You're stuck in a reactive mode. You need to think proactive. Don't just sit behind your desk waiting for your phone to ring every time someone out there spits up some lung. You're supposed to be our communications guy. Communicate. Come up with a plan. Today's what?'

'Friday,' Nick said glumly.

'Okay, Monday. Let me see something Monday.' BR looked at his appointment book. 'Whaddya know?' he grinned. It was the first time Nick had seen him do this. 'My six-thirty a.m. slot is wide open.'

2

Here Nick could be himself. Here he was among his own.

The Mod Squad met for lunch at Bert's every Wednesday, or Friday, or Tuesday, or whenever. In their line of work, things — disasters, generally — tended to come up at the last minute, so planning ahead presented a problem. But if they went much longer than a week without a lunch or dinner together, they would get nervous. They needed each other the way people in support groups do: between them there were no illusions. They could count on each other.

The name Mod Squad was not a reference to the 1960s TV show about a trio of hip, racially and sexually integrated undercover cops, but an acronym for 'Merchants of Death.' Since they consisted of the chief spokespeople for the tobacco, alcohol, and firearms industries, it seemed to fit. Nick said that they might as well call themselves that since it was surely the name the press would give them if they ever got wind of their little circle.

They were: Nick, Bobby Jay, and Polly. Besides having in common the fact that they all worked for despised organizations, they were also at that age in life — late thirties, early forties — where the thrill of having a high- profile job has worn off and the challenge of keeping it has set in.

Bobby Jay Bliss worked for SAFETY, the Society for the Advancement of Firearms and Effective Training of Youth, formerly NRBAC, the National Right to Bear Arms Committee.

Bobby Jay was a soft-speaking, curly-headed 220-pounder from Loober, Mississippi, population 235, where his father had been sheriff, mayor, and the principal collector of tax revenue by virtue of arresting every third driver who went through Loober, regardless of how fast he was going. He kept a variety of speed-limit signs, which could be changed on the spot as required. Bobby Jay, whom he had first deputized at age eight, instilling in his son a lifelong regard for law enforcement (and handguns), would hide in the bushes and change the signs depending on how fast the person had been going while his father pulled him over and berated him for driving so recklessly through downtown, despite the fact that there really was no downtown, per se, in Loober, Mississippi.

Following the Kent State shootings, Bobby Jay, then seventeen, hitchhiked all the way into Meridian in order to sign up for the National Guard, in order that he too could shoot college students; but the National Guard recruiter