God be with him, I thought in my sleep, and I listened to the Brahms symphony, which was coming from a record booth at University Music—booth number three, behind which I had so often changed the toilet paper rolls in the bathroom, as part of my job, so many years ago. And yet he had been here just now, his firm hand gripping my shoulder with affection. In farewell.
At Progressive Records we had begun taping sessions on the new LP—the catalog item into which Aramchek’s subliminal information would be fed, track by track. I had gotten permission from the company brass to give my material to the Playthings to cut; the Playthings were our hottest new group. The only part that worried me was the possible reprisals to them, once the authorities became aware of the subliminal material. It would be necessary to set up machinery in advance to exonerate them. Them, and everyone else at Progressive.
I therefore made extensive memos showing that the decision regarding their material lay entirely in my hands, that I had obtained and prepared the lyrics, that the recording group itself lacked any authority to remove or alter the lyrics—it took me almost two weeks of precious time to ensure their safety, but this was essential; both Sadassa and I agreed. The reprisals, when they began, would be great. I hated to involve the Playthings at all; they were an amiable group, with malice toward none; but someone had to cut the LP tracks, someone who was a hot property. By the time I had completed the documentation, including signed letters from the Playthings protesting vigorously against the lyrics as not being suited to them, I was reasonably sure of their ultimate survival.
One day as I sat in my office listening to some preliminary takes for the album—to be called Let’s Play!—my intercom came to life.
“A young lady to see you, Mr. Brady.”
Assuming it was a performer asking about an audition, I told the secretary in the front office to send her in.
A girl with short black hair and green eyes entered, smiling at me. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” I said, shutting off the takes of Let’s Play! To the girl I said, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Vivian Kaplan,” the girl said, seating herself. I now noted the FAP armband and recognized her; this was the FAPer my friend Phil had told me about, the one who had wanted him to write a political loyalty report on me. What was she doing here? On my desk, on the portable Ampex tape recorder, was the reel of takes from Let’s Play! in plain sight of the girl. But fortunately off.
Seating herself, Vivian Kaplan arranged her skirt, then brought out a note pad and pen. “You have a girlfriend named Sadassa Aramchek,” she said. “There is also the subversive organization calling itself Aramchek. And the extraterrestrial slave satellite which the Soviets just blew up has sometimes been called the ‘Aramchek satellite.’ ” She glanced at me, writing a few words with her pen. “Doesn’t that seem to you an astonishing coincidence, Mr. Brady?”
I said nothing.
“Do you wish to make a voluntary statement?” Vivian Kaplan said.
“Am I under arrest?” I said.
“No, not at all. I tried without success to get a statement of political loyalty about you from your friends, but none of them cared enough about you to comply. In investigating you we came across this anomaly, the word ‘Aramchek’ showing up repeatedly in relation to you—”
“The only one that’s related to me,” I broke in, “is Sadassa’s maiden name.”
“You have no relationship to the organization Aramchek or the satellite?”
“No,” I said.
“How did you happen to meet Ms. Aramchek?”
I said, “I don’t have to answer these questions.”
“Oh, yes, you do.” From her purse Vivian Kaplan got a black flatpack of identification; I gazed at it, seeing that she was a bona fide police agent. “You can talk to me here in your office or you can come downtown with me. Which do you prefer?”
“Can I call my attorney?”
“No.” Vivian Kaplan shook her head. “This is not that kind of investigation—yet. You haven’t been charged with any crime. Please tell me how you met Sadassa Aramchek.”
“She came here looking for a job.”
“Why did you hire her?”
“I felt sorry for her, because of her recent bout with cancer.”
Vivian Kaplan wrote that down. “Did you know her actual name to be Aramchek? She goes under the name Silvia.”
“The name she gave me was Mrs. Silvia.” That certainly was true.
“Would you have hired her if you knew her true name?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so; I’m not sure.”
“Do you have a personal relationship with her as well as a business one?”
“No,” I said. “I’m married and I have a child.”
“You were seen together at Del Rey’s Restaurant and at the La Paz Bar, both in Fullerton; once at Del Rey’s and six times at the La Paz Bar, all recently.”
“They serve the best margaritas in Orange County,” I said.
“What do you two talk about when you go to the La Paz Bar?” Vivian Kaplan asked.
“Various things. Sadassa Silvia—”
“Aramchek.”
“Sadassa is a devout Episcopalian. She’s been trying to convert me into going to her church. She tells me all the church gossip, though, and that turns me off.” This was true too.
“We taped your last conversation at the La Paz Bar,” Vivian Kaplan said.
“Oh?” I said with fear, trying to remember what we had said.
Vivian Kaplan said, “What is this record you are going to be bringing out? There was a good deal of emphasis on it. A new LP by the Playthings.”
“That’s going to be our new hit record,” I said; I could feel the sweat standing out on my forehead, and my pulse racing. “Everybody
