Thank You for Smoking

'That the FBI has been taking a very active interest in you. I've gone ahead and retained Steve Carlinsky for you—'

'Oh.'

'Look, Nick, the FBI was in here today, again. People are talking. I think at this point we all need some counsel.'

'What did the FBI want this time?'

'Nick, I don't think I'm in a position to discuss that with you.'

'What?'

'It's for your protection. But, clearly, I have a responsibility to think about the Academy's position.'

Nick buzzed for the flight attendant. 'Do you know to make a vodka negroni?'

'I sure don't!' she said brightly.

'What I don't understand,' Steve Carlinsky said the next morning in his office, the walls of which were taken up with many photographs of famous people posing with him, 'is why you waited until now to call me.'

Carlinsky was tall and gaunt with close-set eyes that had a look of permanent astonishment. Everything about him was gray, except for a splash of floppy silk bow tie that, in his universe, amounted to almost raffishness. His only passion, aside from billable hours, was said to be wine, which he didn't drink but only collected.

'People make the same mistake with lawyers,' he continued, 'that they do with doctors. They wait too long. And by then the tumor has… '

'I didn't call you,' Nick said. 'And how did tumors get into this?'

'I apologize. That was insensitive. In your business, I'm sure you hear more than you want to about tumors. Now, tell me everything. The more I know, the more I can help you.'

It was a bit like therapy, only at $450 an hour, more expensive. Carlinsky was a perfect Freudian analyst. He said nothing. When Nick had finished, Carlinsky said, 'Though I never would have allowed you to let FBI agents onto your premises without a search warrant, in a way I'm glad you did, because we can use that against them when the time comes.'

'When what time comes?' Nick said.

'For a rainy day. Would you like to smoke? I have no objection. Though I never smoked myself, candidly, I think the anti-smoking lobby has accumulated far too much power.'

'I haven't been able to smoke since the incident,' Nick said.

'We can use that, too. In your line, that's a disability. Now I want you to go back to work, forget about all this, and if the FBI shows up again, would you do me a personal favor and call me? In the meantime, let me make a few calls and see what I can find out.'

That wasn't so bad, Nick reflected as he walked the three blocks from Carlinsky's office to the Academy. A perfectly decent fellow, and sensitive.

When he arrived back at ATS, Gazelle came rushing up to him with a phone slip. It said, 'Heather Holloway, Moon, URGENT!!!'

'Heather? Nick.'

'Nick, can you hold? Okay, I understand you've hired Steve Carlinsky? Hello?'

'I'm here.'

'I need a comment. Nick.'

'Still here.'

'That's not a comment.'

Think, man. 'What gives you that idea?' Oh, brilliant. 'You just spent an hour with him at his office.' Self-promoting swine. 'Yes,' Nick said, reeling, 'in fact I did, but we were discussing a private ATS matter and I'm hardly at liberty to discuss that.' He heard the sound of fingers — fingers that should have been doing other things — taking it all down.

'You mean,' she said, 'pertaining to the FBI's investigation of you?'

'You're referring to their so far inconclusive investigation into my torture-kidnapping?' Clickety clack.

'You deny, then, that Steve Carlinsky has been retained to act on your behalf in connection with the FBI investigation of your recent disappearance and reappearance on the Mall, covered with nicotine patches?'

'That's an artfully crafted question, I must say.'

'Come on, Nick, it's me.'

'I assume Ortolan Finisterre is behind this?'

'What?'

'Frankly,' Nick said, in a world-weary voice, 'I didn't think he'd stoop quite this low.'

'What on earth are you talking about?'

'Using the FBI to pursue his private vilification agenda, in order to get everyone's mind off the real problem, which is his cheese. I find it very sad. A sad day for Vermont, a sad day for the U.S. Senate, and a sad day for the truth.'

Nick was staring at the Lucky Strike doctor, trying to wonder how that canard was going to play when Sven arrived with the designs for the new warning label. He was grateful for the distraction.

'This was a challenge,' Sven said, unzipping a snappy black and burgundy suede portfolio. 'But we like a challenge. You all right? You look a little pale.'

'Fine. What do you have for me?'

'Let's start with our base line.' Sven pulled out a large photo of a package of Death cigarettes. 'As you say, a brilliant concept. And prescient. I doubt the makers of Death cigarettes are sweating out this Finisterre bill. Okay. We tried a couple of different approaches, taking into account the size requirements specified in the bill, positioning on the packs, etc., etc. To keep each one straight, we gave them nicknames. This first one we call 'Jolly Green Roger.' ' Sven revealed a pack of Marlboros with lime-green skull and bones on the side. 'Our PCT people tell us —'

'Who?'

'Psychological Color Theory. They swing a big dick these days. Anyway, we know that green registers as soothing — lawns, money, mint, pool tables—'

'Surgical garb, pus. '

'The specifications in Finisterre's bill don't say what color the skulls have to be, so we'd be okay, legally speaking. We did a quick and dirty focus group on all of these, and the Jolly Green Roger did pretty okay. Only forty percent said, 'I would not under any circumstances smoke if this was on the pack.' '

Nick sighed. 'Forty percent?'

'That leaves sixty percent. What do you think?'

'I think it looks like a green skull and bones.'

'This next one,' Sven said, 'is 'Have a Nice Death.' Basically, we took the Have a Nice Day face, made the eyes bigger, added teeth, contoured the jaw, and made the bones look like crossed arms across his chest.'

'Jesus. It's awful. It's frightening.'

'That's what the focus group told us, too. Very high negatives. But now, check out… this.'

Nick wasn't sure what it was, other than a smiling skull. And yet the longer he looked at it, the more gentle it seemed. Almost… friendly.

'Who,' Sven said, 'is the nicest person in the world?'

'I don't know any nice people,' Nick said.

'Then say hello to your new friend, 'Mr. Death's Neighborhood.' '

Nick stared at the skull. It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor, will you be mine? 'That's his skull?'

'In the flesh. Actually, without the flesh. The computer gives you a perfect image of what his skull looks like underneath. It's basically just a reverse of a program they developed for forensic anthropologists who're trying to figure out who the bones that just turned up in someone's basement belonged to.'

'Wow.'

'The program's called KCIROY. Yorick, you know, the skull in Hamlet, spelled backward.'