CHAPTER SIX

From the start, Grace had in her favor one trait without which there would be no good salesmen and no good press agents. She had little consciousness of the unexpressed rights, wishes, and emotions of other people. Her personality was like a huge shadow going before her. She kept her eyes straight on it and never noticed what it encompassed in its circumference. An obstacle had to be very definite before she would see that the shadow suddenly ended, that it had been interfered with.

This trait helped her to seem competent and poised during the next few days, while all the time her mind was busily sorting her experiences into some sort of order for future guidance. She and Al had to "plant," that is to insinuate, as many items about Annabella's opening as possible into the dramatic columns of the papers for Monday. For Tuesday they had to get more and bigger stories; for Wednesday even more and even bigger stories. On Thursday, the day of the opening, the guns had to blaze full blast. The time before Annabella's debut was the time of most strenuous effort for them. If Annabella "made a hit," a certain amount of notice would thereafter come to her naturally and accumulate with slighter aid from the press agents. Otherwise, they would have to redouble their ingenuity to keep her name green during the latter period of her engagement. It was earnestly to be hoped that Annabella would be a success.

At the same time, they had to "plant the time stuff," that is, arrange for pictures and notices in weeklies and in Sunday sections which were made up long ahead. Grace had been instructed in some of the ramifications of Harry Strauss's business. He was not only Annabella's press agent, he was also her agent and would have to find work for her in future. He handled the publicity for the night club, too, Grace learned. This made their task more difficult, since they had to be sure to get the name of the club used in papers where it would do the most good, in papers read by people who presumably had money to spend on night clubs--and these were the very papers which pretended to be above them.

From her former vantage point on the Brooklyn _Press_, Grace had thought the work of press agents (publicity representatives they liked to call themselves, and soon, no doubt, they would be "publicists") easy and well paid. She had supposed that she would sit at a desk and telephone and send stories down by messenger or through the mail, as other of her press-agent acquaintances did. But Mr. Strauss made it a cautious rule to expect the impossible of his employees. Grace and Al had to go from paper to paper with folders of pictures and sheaves of stories, peddling their wares. Although Mr. Strauss had instructed them to work apart, they "made the rounds" together. Al insisted, and Grace, at first, thought he might be a help.

Standing in the outer rooms of the more formal editorial offices, where a boy transmitted their names, it appeared that Al had contacts everywhere, knew everyone--very well. He called everybody of importance on the papers by his or her first name. By his account, he had roomed with this one, played poker with that one, stayed up drinking half the night with someone else; had found a job for one, lent money to another. When, however, they finally arrived before the desk of the particular dramatic editor with whom Al had been so intimate, Al's face seemed to return to the editor's mind in a haze of the most indistinct recognition.

Grace, too, had met most of the people, but in their offices they seemed more hurried, more preoccupied, than they had seemed outside. Al might have been the cause. Some were curt with him.

Walking out of one office, he grabbed Grace's arm and made as if to spit. He relieved his feelings: "Y'd think he was Jesus Christ! The lousy bastard! And y'know how much that guy makes? Sixty dollars a week!"

They went from Vesey Street into the mold and under-elevated darkness of Church, turned down a street near the river, sunny, broken up with low, sagging structures, smelling of markets and horse dung and wagonloads of vegetables. A truckman clucked to his horses in front of the old _Globe_ building, which had been a car barn. A sense of hollow, dusty wood, steeped in years of grime, a strong, sour odor, followed them up stairs which were not too solid under their feet. Al wanted to place a feature story here for Monday.

Between editions, the city room drowsed among its tatters. Even the A.P. and City News machines clicked sleepily near a circle of copy desk where men were busy with blue pencils and pieces of paper. A mild copy boy waited till they accosted him and then jerked his finger toward a desk. A young man with a face from which he had ejected all emotion rose and looked over their heads. He was in shirt sleeves and wore his hat. There exists no combination more hard-boiled.

Al's eyes became pools of yearning truth, his manner gentle, good-humored, even faintly rueful, but persistent. He edged up to the man. He began to explain.

"... Of course, it sounds like a press-agent yarn. But Annabella Arden says that she feels her husband's presence sort of always in the air with her. [Gestures] No--no ouija board, no spiritualism, but just his spirit around her."

Grace squirmed.

After a moment, the man said expressionlessly that he might be able to use an interview with Annabella in the early edition Monday. He would see about it in the morning. He sat down. He fastened his eyes to a length of white paper.

They were so astonished that they had reached the door before Al came to with a great start. He stopped a copy boy, demanded the hard-boiled one's name. They made a special trip back. Al took out a card and put it before the man. He fervently held out his hand. The hard-boiled one shook it. "I want you to meet Miss Kline, Mr. Wodehard."

As they went out, Al's face was serene with duty performed. He had made another contact.

"He's a good chap to know. Assistant city editor."

"Do you think he'll actually use the story?" said Grace.

"Why not? I betcha he sends a reporter up to-morrow. Why not? They gotta have something to fill up the paper Monday mornings. We gotta remind him, of course. I tell you when I get a hunch, Grace----"

Grace didn't believe it. She fancied there had been a gleam of shared amusement in the hard-boiled one's eyes when they had met her own. She would not have approached him like that.

She wondered why Mr. Strauss had made such a point of dividing the papers. To try her out? Would Al attempt to take all the credit for the notices which they were thus placing together?

"Now listen, Grace," Al assured her, "you can tell Harry you did it all by yourself! I wouldn't care. Say, I been working for Harry since he started out by himself. I got a ten per cent interest in the business. Harry's a hard guy to work for but I can get along with him. Every so often he gets a grouch on and lets out at me, but I got an interest in the business, so before he goes home he calls me in and we kiss and make up. Harry pays me $110 a week besides my profit--I guess I get more than you. Harry's told me what he pays you, and believe me you're earning every cent you get."

He looked at her acutely. She was about to say that she made only forty a week--the glance seemed to demand it--but saved herself in time. She did not yet know whether or not to believe Al.

After her silence he said, with some disappointment, "You don't talk much, do you?"

She made up her mind not to depend too much on his chatter and his good nature, to be on her guard.

It was twilight now. They were walking arm in arm across Columbus Circle from the _Evening Journal_, Grace exhausted, even Al dragging his feet.

Grace had still to return to the office. She meant to write a story about the six dresses which Annabella Arden would offer to poor working girls. As it was Grace's idea, Al had disregarded it in their brief encounters with the city rooms, but, seizing a moment and an assistant city editor of a paper which specialized in legs and actresses, Grace had managed to make the suggestion. He had grasped at it. "That's not bad. Are you peddling this around to all the papers or is it an exclusive story?" he demanded. Al opened his mouth. Grace said quickly, "Exclusive." "You get it to me Monday, with pictures, and I'll give you a five-column layout. Can't promise what day. Maybe Tuesday. But it's an exclusive story, now? You're sure of that?" Grace said she was sure. She was overwhelmed.

Outside, Al fell upon her. "Never promise an exclusive story!" he cried. "We coulda planted that all over town, all the front pages! And you go give it to him exclusive! Jesus Christ!"

"But a five-column layout!" said Grace.

They had argued about it, Al declaring that they must offer the story elsewhere, too; Grace repeating that it was poor business to go back on a promise to a paper. "Aw, promises!" said Al cockily. "If we gotta good story, they'll come eatin' out of our hands. To hell with 'em!"

It was the one bright spot in the long day for Grace. Now, when Miss MacAlister had left her typewriter, would be a good time to write it. She hoped that Mr. Strauss had left too.

On each of their sallies back to the office Harry Strauss had been sitting at his desk over a pile of canceled checks, dealing them out as if he were playing solitaire, shuffling them between thumb and finger as bank tellers shuffle and count paper money. Sometimes she had to use the telephone on Miss MacAlister's desk and she could feel him watching through the open door, counting each call she made. She knew he listened because once, while Al was arguing over the telephone with an advertising man (the office also placed advertisements for clients) Mr. Strauss had called in his resonant, decisive voice, continuing to deal his checks: "Hang up on him! Hang up on him!" He looked up at her whenever she entered the office but made no comment. Only, Al warned her, "Don't make too many phone calls. Harry don't like that."

Once she had dared to hint for a messenger. She was speaking to Al in the outer office. Mr. Strauss called through instantly and bitterly, "And who's going to pay for the messenger? You'd be surprised how easy it is to send stuff around by messenger, my dear, and how easy it is then to throw it in the wastebasket. I've been doing publicity for thirty years--I know."

He was not there now, thank goodness! She let herself in with Al's key, took her hat off her aching forehead, and laid her head against the wide black paper holder of the machine. It felt cool and smooth. She could do nothing but sit still for a while.

Later, she was still sitting before a sheet of yellow paper in the typewriter. Under the yellow stare of the electric light she typed feverishly, tore out the paper, crumpled it. Balls of crumpled paper fell, one after another, into the wastebasket. What _was_ the matter with her? She had been accustomed to write quite easily items, interviews with actresses, but she had not counted on the paralyzing self-consciousness which seizes a press agent who must get a certain name into a story. The name was no longer one among many but _the_ name in the whole world. No matter where she put it, it seemed to poke out, swell, and spread over the paper. How should she slip in the name of the club? "Slip" was the word. There was an element of guilt and stealth in it. The story must not sound like a press-agent yarn.

When she had finally pounded it out the story sounded to her like nothing but a press-agent yarn. She read it with eyes so exhausted that they stung and stuck. "Would any poor working girl like a new dance frock? ... awaiting her choice in the wardrobe ... of ANNABELLA ARDEN.... The dresses were put into the bottom of a deep trunk and forgotten, together with other souvenirs.... Now ANNABELLA ARDEN is making her return appearance ... at the CLUB MIRAFLORE Thursday night...." The name of Annabella Arden seemed to be on every line and that of the club on every other.

The back of her neck felt permanently bent and the soles of her feet burned as they touched the ground.

The next morning, Saturday, Grace thought there might be a lull. But she found Al lying in wait for her the moment she entered the office. He was sorting a mass of flimsy sheets on which were typed short, final announcements of the opening. Addressed envelopes flew toward him out of the stenographer's machine.

"Now, we gotta get these to everybody to-day," cried Al. "Come on, Grace, lend a hand. And listen, I gotta get ahold of that City News man. He'll send it over the wire."

"You don't really think City News will let that go over the wire?" said Grace involuntarily. Her eyes took in the slew of papers and envelopes. "And--how can we deliver all this to-day?"

"You watch me," said Al. "I'll show you."

In a daze, she began to sort the envelopes. She counted forty. Some, however, were addressed to different departments of the same papers. She put her hand to her head and exchanged a long look with the stenographer and Miss MacAlister giggled. In time, Grace would learn that the Harry Strauss system, the Broadway system, was to bite off everything within reach, regardless of whether or not it could be chewed; afterward, the undigested bits, unfinished matter, would be spewed about. She was still taking instructions too literally.

When this task was over, Al was lying in wait for her again.

"Now listen, Grace, one thing we forgot. We didn't get anything to Arch Seuer down at the _Dress Daily_. He'll give us a good break, and Harry's sure to put up a holler if we miss him. All the salesmen and buyers read that paper--go to night clubs. So you type a special note for Seuer and go down there right away--and grab all the envelopes you can and deliver all you can on your way--and meet me at the Sun at four."

Grace hastened down to the _Dress Daily_. She had meant to see Mr. Milford again anyway. It would be wise to thank him. Besides, he sometimes used sketches of actresses' clothes if they were decorated in a way to suit his column. Grace had seen some block-printed garments in Annabella's wardrobe. But she remembered something, something unpleasant, something that had pulled her shadow up short and forced her to take notice, in Mr. Milford's department. What was it?--oh, yes--that girl, his secretary. She certainly didn't like her, Grace. Grace had to pause and consider this. Unwitting, Anita Vestry had chosen a perfect path to Grace's interest. A person who didn't like Grace and was not afraid to show it disturbed her, even caused her some fear. What was it that they saw in her to scorn? Could they be holding some secret harm in store for her? Did they know--know about her?

Grace saw that Mr. Milford was not in. Miss Vestry stood by his desk with her back to the door. After Grace had done her errand she walked past again, and now Miss Vestry was typing. But she didn't look up. She wore the same brown tweed suit; her profile was just as stern. Grace halted by her desk and fixed large, worried, tentative eyes upon her. Miss Vestry waited for the other girl to speak.

"Do you think--that Mr. Milford," began Grace, swallowing nervously, "would use--any sketches of block-printed dresses? I'm--doing publicity for Annabella Arden, the dancer--and I saw some very unusual ones among her clothes."

Again Anita Vestry noticed the tenacious eyes, the halts between phrases, the curious way in which the girl's eyes advanced and the lower part of her face retreated as she talked. It was interesting to watch. She felt in better humor to-day and was a little ashamed of her pettish outburst at their first meeting.

"You'd have to ask him," she replied, yielding somewhat. "We haven't anything for next Saturday," she suggested.

"Would there be time--if I called up Monday?"

"Oh, yes. Plenty of time." She looked down at her hands on the typewriter keys.

Still Grace lingered. The other girl seemed so removed, regarding, but sealed against her. She searched for some way to penetrate herself into the other's consciousness. Suddenly she said, without really meaning to, "Look--Miss Arden opens Thursday night at the Club Miraflore. I--they say I can ask a lot of newspaper people. There'll be five tables. Wouldn't you--like to come?"

The hue of Miss Vestry's face softened into what was almost a blush and she gazed at Grace. In all the months she had been in New York, this was the first proffer of acquaintance, of pleasure, that had come her way, or that had come her way directly enough for her to notice. As luck would have it, she even owned a suitable dress; old, but seldom worn, it would do, and there was one man at her rooming house who, she thought, could serve as escort. But... Her mouth drew down again. She lowered her eyes to her hands, then raised them suddenly, frankly.

"I haven't got an evening wrap," she said, and grew red.

This was the best possible way to fix all of Grace's attention and sympathy. On this point of clothes Grace could enter at once into anyone's feelings. It was so engrossing, so sore a point with her. Didn't she herself have to--hadn't she had to as far back as she could remember--scrimp and plan and borrow and make over and make do? To her, too, any offer of amusement must bring as its first reaction the idea of what she could possibly wear. Perhaps that dress would do, but... Oh, yes! She knew. She reflected. She could wear her sealskin coat now. Letty--but Letty had been invited and would need her own wrap. Mrs. Kline, however, had an old cloth cape, gaily lined, which Grace had sometimes used for an evening cloak. She moved closer to Miss Vestry.

"I have a wrap I could lend you," she said. "Do come."

"Oh." Miss Vestry's face was wholly open, wholly grateful. "All right," she said, and smiled, a twinkling smile. She made a great concession. "I--I'll talk to Mr. Milford about those sketches."

"Oh, _thank_ you!" said Grace. "Then that's settled. I'll--get the wrap down to you on Thursday. Good-bye."

On the way out she spent a few minutes concerning herself with this girl. She felt more than curiosity, a sort of imaginative wonder about her, which was unusual. What was her life? How did she manage? Whom would she bring to the club? Even--what were her thoughts? Grace felt pleased with herself, with her impulse and with its results, of which she could approve.

The envelopes she carried soon shook her out of reverie. She began to hurry and worry and close off her mind. She flew uptown, then she flew downtown. There was an engagement with Blake in the offing, one of the few evening engagements he could permit himself. She didn't mean to miss it, but she had to. When she met Al at the _Sun_ not even her own share of envelopes had been delivered, and Al, as usual, recollected numerous additional duties.

They sped from paper to paper, from Dramatic Department to Dramatic Department, from one yellow, tiredly glaring, dusty city room to the next. From Park Place they walked across City Hall Park, black and quiet, with huddled figures on the steps of the City Hall; newspaper vendors, small oases of noise, shouting their wares down the wind. The tiny, tireless lights gleamed along Park Row. The Woolworth Building stood deserted, above it all, white and high, like a dream in youth. They went down several black steps, felt a black square about them, and there were the delivery trucks of the _American_, the hoarse, bare bowels of its building swallowed them. Men looked up at Grace from under green eyeshades with the instantaneous, naïve interest of newspapermen in a pretty girl, any girl. She made a moment to call Blake when he should have reached the restaurant and arranged to see him later at the theater. He was sulky, but it couldn't be helped.

She and Al walked arm in arm from outside darkness into yellow light, rush, and noise, then into darkness again, into the desert, with its small islands of power, which this section was at night; glad of each other's company, glad of a parallel effort against the forceful, whirring, harassed indifference of the presses, felt now in the dusky air, but neither heard nor seen.