Thank You for Smoking

'If we let terrorists dictate what we do not say, then we are as good as letting them dictate what we do say. And when we do that, we are finished as a civilized people.'

'Nicely put,' Nick said. 'Still, I must insist that you not mention tobacco. You don't want to get these people mad. I don't know about the IRA, I know they're bad news bears and all — and that was a terrible thing they did to your dogs — but things can get pretty nasty in America.'

The color rose in Lady Bent. She stood, signaling that their interview was at an end, and proffered her hand. She said tersely and without smiling, 'Good to see you,' and with the viceroy following, walked out of the room, whose doors opened as if by magic.

Two days later, back in Washington, Nick was getting ready for his trip out to California when BR called him in.

'You see this?' he said, tossing him The Wall Street Journal.

Nick hadn't. He read:

After the dinner at the Pierre, Lady Bent spoke for an hour and twenty-five minutes, lengthy even by her standards. The theme of her speech was free enterprise in the post — Cold War era. It surprised no one at the dinner, consisting largely of business and international commerce officials, to hear the former British Prime Minister issue a ringing defense of open trade and a stinging attack on protectionism; she also included an unusually passionate endorsement of the right of American and British cigarette companies to compete in Asian markets.

Lady Bent serves on the board of Agglomerated Tobacco, which has been especially aggressive in trying to break down Pacific Rim trade barriers to U.S. tobacco products. In an informal exchange with a reporter after the dinner, Lady Bent said that her remarks on tobacco were unrelated to her connection with Agglomerated. 'My views on the tobacco business are the same as my views on the ice cream business,' she said, 'and they have been consistent throughout my career.' She went on to rebuke the anti-smoking movement for being 'anti-business.'

'I don't know what you told her,' BR said, 'but it sure worked. I've been instructed to give you another raise. To two-five-oh.' Nick ran into Jeannette in the hallway. She was all smiles. 'We still never talked about Inhale!' she said.

'I have to go to California tomorrow.'

17

He flew First Class, which BR had okayed since he was carrying an attache case containing a half million dollars in fifty- and hundred-dollar bills. Lorne Lutch's hush money. It was a strange sensation, carrying all that money. It made him feel like a drug dealer or a Watergate bag man. Going through the X-ray machine at Dulles, the eyes of the guy monitoring the screen went buggy when he saw all that cash. No law against carrying around money, but there was a minor scene when his three women bodyguards declared their 9-millimeters. But once he was seated up in First and hovered over by stewards dispensing hot towels and Bloody Marys, he began to relax. Nick liked airplanes, even if the airlines were circulating less fresh air in the cabins to make more money. In a way, he mused, he and they were in the same business.

First Class was full. There was a lot of traffic back and forth between D.C. and L.A. these days. He recognized Barbra Streisand's issues person, whom he'd read had flown in to brief the National Security Council on Barbra's position on the developing Syrian situation. Richard Dreyfuss's issues person was also on board, having given a presentation to the cabinet on Richard's feelings about health reform.

It wasn't until two hours into the flight that Nick realized that the woman sitting next to him, underneath Jackie O — sized dark glasses, was Tarleena Tamm, the television producer friend of the First Family. Nick didn't introduce himself, knowing how celebrities, especially controversial ones, value their privacy in the air. But then he became aware that she was sneaking furtive glances at him. When their eyes connected for the third, embarrassing time, he smiled at her. She said, 'Aren't you the tobacco person who was kidnapped?'

'Yes,' Nick said, flattered at being approached by a celebrity. He was about to reciprocate when she set her jaw and said, 'I know a lot of people who died of lung cancer. Good people.'

Nick said to her, 'No bad people?'

She gave him a fierce look, craned about to see if there was an empty seat, and finding none, went back to angrily marking up the script on her large lap with a big, angry red pen. Some screenwriter would pay for Nick's insolence.

Nick loved L.A. Arriving there always made it feel like Friday, even in the middle of a week facing a full workload. He felt exhilarated walking off the plane and imagined himself at the wheel of the sporty red Mustang he'd had Gazelle rent for him, driving along Mulholland Drive at night and looking down on all the lights of the city, spreading out as far as the eye could see. Too bad Heather or Jeannette wasn't here. Maybe he could entice Heather to fly out. Or Jeannette.

Shattering this pleasant reverie was the sight of a Middle Eastern-looking chauffeur with a hundred-dollar haircut waiting for him at the gate holding up one of those signs: mr. naylor. When he innocently reached for Nick's attache case, Nick's bodyguards nearly wrenched his arm out of its socket. The chauffeur apologetically introduced himself as Mahmoud and said that he'd been sent by Mr. Jack Bein, of Associated Creative Talent, and handed Nick an envelope with a note inside from Bein asking Nick to call him immediately.

Nick was sorrier still for his canceled Mustang when he saw Mahmoud's vehicle, a white stretch limousine the length of a lap pool. People standing on the curb nearby waiting for the shuttle bus saw Nick with his entourage and Moby Dick limousine and demanded his autograph, which made the bodyguards nervous. Nick signed one and the person who'd asked for it examined it, frowned, and said, 'It's not him.' The small crowd dispersed.

It was cool and cavernous inside and lit with scores of tiny Christmas tree lights. A huge TV screen in front displayed computerized fireworks that formed the words 'Welcome to Los Angeles, Mr. Naylor.' A microwave oven beeped open with a bowl of hot towels; a wet bar opened with four kinds of freshly squeezed juice, as well as liquor. On the seats were fresh copies of the L.A. Times, Variety, and Asahi Shinbum. So where, Nick wondered, was the terry cloth bathrobe?

Suddenly the fireworks display vanished from the screen and was replaced with a huge face: deeply tanned, teeth so white they hurt to look at, eyes masked by tinted aviator glasses. Nick was trying to figure why the TV had gone on and what game show host this was when the face said: 'Nick!'

Nick started.

'Jack Bein. Is everything okay?'

It was asked with urgency, with fear, as if he expected Nick to tell him, No, everything is not okay, Jack. Things are very un-okay. And you, your family, and your dog are going to suffer for it.

'Yes,' Nick said, recovering his composure. 'Fine. Thank you.'

'I can't believe I'm not there to greet you personally.' Nick was left to interpret this as he chose. 'Jeff is really looking forward to meeting you. I'll pick you up at the hotel first thing. Here's my home number, call me anytime, in the middle of the night, whenever. Whatever you need. I mean that, okay?'

'Okay,' Nick said.

A half hour later they pulled up in front of a hotel. It was not the Peninsula, where Gazelle had made reservations, but the Encomium, very palmy, open, and grand, with an enormous Yitzak McClellan fountain bleu outside. An assistant manager was waiting for him at the curb.

'Yes, Mr. Naylor, we've been expecting you. The manager asked me to relay his sincere regrets that he couldn't be here to greet you personally. Are these,' he said, regarding the three brutish women surrounding Nick, 'ladies in your party?' Nick said that they were.

'Will you all be staying together?'

'No, no,' Nick said.

'If you'd follow me, please.'

Nick's bags were whisked away. Check-in formalities were dispensed with. The assistant manager handed