Dirt

board of Galaxy Media. Dick Hickock sat at his desk in his shirtsleeves, his necktie undone, the Wall Street Journal open before him, eating a huge sandwich.

“Hello, Dick, darling!” Amanda enthused, walking behind the desk and planting a kiss on his cheek, leaving a smear of cerise.

Hickock had just taken a large bite out of his sandwich, and he struggled to get it chewed and swallowed so that he could speak. By the time he had, Amanda and her lawyer were seated in a pair of chairs to his right.

“You know Bill Eggers, don’t you?” Amanda asked.

Hickock nodded and washed down food with a glass of beer.

“Amanda, what the hell…” he began.

“I do apologize for interrupting your lunch, Dick,” Amanda said contritely, “but I hope you will understand that this just won’t wait.”

“Amanda,” Hickock said, shaking his head in disbelief, “there’s a thirty-eight in my desk drawer, and I would have used it on anybody who walked in here like that.” He smiled benevolently. “Anybody but you. Now what can I do for you?” He nodded at the sandwich. “My Milton Berle is waiting.”

“What’s in a Milton Berle, Dick?” Amanda asked, apparently fascinated.

“Corned beef and chopped liver with Russian dressing on pumpernickel, and this.” He held up a huge pickle. “The reference to Berle,” he said, grinning.

Amanda blushed. “Oh, Dick! You are awful!”

“It’s true,” Hickock said to Eggers. “I am awful.”

“It’s about our contract proposal,” Amanda said without further ado.

“Amanda, your contract has another three months to run,” Hickock replied. “What’s your rush?”

“Oh, it’s not me, darling, it’s SI Newhouse.”

Hickock’s face instantly became expressionless. “SI who?” he asked disingenuously, his eyes narrowing.

“Dick, it’s been awful; I’ve spent the whole weekend fending him off. Somehow, he got my phone number, and he would not be put off.”

“Don’t listen to a word he says,” Hickock said.

“Oh, I’ve tried not to – he’s such an awful flatterer – but I must admit, when he started throwing numbers around…”

“That absolute shit,” Hickock said, almost to himself.

“Oh, I don’t want to go with SI, Dick; that’s why I came to see you. He’s practically forced me to have a drink with him later today – God knows, I don’t want to alienate him – and I’m planning to tell him, as sweetly as I possibly can, to go away.”

“Right, my dear,” Hickock said, smiling. “That’s exactly what you should do.”

“But I can’t, Dick darling, not with things just… hanging the way they are with my contract.”

“Just say no, Amanda.”

“Well, I can’t very well do that, if I don’t know for sure that I have a deal with you, can I? I mean, my God, I don’t want to leave Galaxy, but when he’s dangling all that money in front of me and all those perks…”

“Perks?” Hickock asked, looking alarmed.

“Oh, you know how lavish SI can be when he really wants somebody.”

“Amanda, it’s wrong of you to press me like this.”

“Dick, my darling, I’m not pressing; I’m the soul of patience. SI, unfortunately, is not.”

Hickock rummaged in his desk and came out with the contract proposal that Eggers had sent him. He put on his reading glasses and began leafing through it. “You really think you’re worth this sort of money, Amanda?”

Eggers jumped in. “Her numbers support everything in that proposal,” the lawyer said.

“You want five percent more of the syndication?”

“Syndication income is way up,” Eggers said.

Hickock seemed to be collecting himself, Amanda thought.

“Tell you what, Amanda, my legal guy is back from vacation next Monday; we’ll get back to you the end of next week, all right?”

Amanda stood up and smoothed her skirt. “Dick, my darling, I can’t tell you how sad this makes me,” she said, dabbing at the corner of an eye, where an actual tear had appeared. “I had so wanted it to work out. I want you to know that I have no hard feelings whatsoever.” She turned and started toward the door, with Eggers at her heels, then stopped. “Oh, can you and Glynnis come to dinner on Friday? Just a small dinner, we’ll only be eight, but it’s a good crowd.”

Hickock was on his feet. “Now, Amanda, come back and sit down.”

Amanda and Eggers returned to their chairs. “I’m sitting, Dick,” she said.

Hickock was reading the proposal again. “A Mercedes Six Hundred? What’s the matter with the Five Hundred? Or, come to that, with the Four-twenty? The Six Hundred is a hundred-and-thirty- seven-thousand-dollar car, for Christ’s sake!”

“Oh, that’s right, you drive one, don’t you, Dick? Isn’t it such a wonderful car? I mean, the Six Hundred has the burled walnut and the separate air conditioner for the back seat. You know how warm-natured I am.”

“Amanda, be reasonable.”

“Dick, I despise cheapness in a man, I really do.”

“Oh, all right, you have a deal,” Hickock said. “We’ll sign something when my legal guy gets back.”

Eggers instantly produced a small stack of documents. “I’ve prepared a deal memo,” he said. “We’ll work out the final language when your man gets home.”

Hickock read the document quickly and signed all four copies. Amanda signed them, and Eggers left two with the publisher.

Amanda stood up. “I’m so thrilled that we’re going to be together for another four years, darling,” she said. She met him halfway around the desk, and they embraced. “And don’t forget dinner, Friday, at seven.” She turned to Eggers. “Can I give you a lift, Bill?” She took his arm and steered him toward the door. At the threshold she turned and looked at Hickock, who was gazing at his sandwich. “Oh, Dick, they have just the car I want at that Mercedes showroom on Park Avenue.” She returned to the desk and laid a card on it. “The man said they could deliver it at five; all it takes is a phone call from you.”

“We’ll be trading your Cadillac, right?” Hickock asked.

“Oh, Dick, you are funny; I’ve already sold it.” She swept out of the office.

In the car, Bill Eggers wiped his brow. “Amanda, I don’t know why you need me at all,” he said.

Amanda patted his hand. “Somebody has to do the boilerplate, dear.”

Chapter 3

Richard Hickock left his office at four o’clock, stopping briefly at his secretary’s desk. “Anybody calls, tell them I’m in the building somewhere for a meeting, you don’t know where, and I won’t be back at my desk by the end of the day.”

“Yes, sir,” the woman replied.

Hickock took his private elevator to the basement garage, where his white Mercedes S600 was waiting. “Ralph, I think I’ll take a walk in the park,” he said to his chauffeur.

“Of course, Mr. Hickock,” the chauffeur replied. “You’ve been walking in the park a lot lately. Good for the heart.”

“Right,” Hickock said, taking one of his magazines, not his favorite, from the leather pocket on the back of the front seat. He leafed idly through it, making mental notes, one of them to fire the magazine’s art director. He wasn’t seeing enough tits in the book these days, and the man had ignored his request for more.

Presently, the car stopped at an entrance to Central Park on Fifth Avenue in the sixties. Hickock opened his own door. “Hover around here, and pick me up in an hour and ten minutes.” He knew from experience exactly how long