‘Make it ten.’
The hotel limousine took Dave to LAX. Miss Pritchard had called the airline, and there was a stewardess waiting to take him through the VIP channel, to avoid mob scenes in the departure lounge.
He had had nothing but aspirins for breakfast, so he was glad of the in-flight lunch. As the plane came down towards the flat city by Lake Erie, he ruminated over what he was going to say to Mr Wharton. This was going to be difficult. But if he handled it well, perhaps he could turn Wharton around. That would make up for his earlier cowardice. He longed to tell his sister that he had redeemed himself.
Miss Pritchard’s arrangements worked well, and a car was waiting for him at Hopkins Airport. It took him to a leafy suburb not far away. A few minutes after seven, the limousine pulled into the driveway of a large but unostentatious ranch-style house. Dave walked up to the entrance and rang the bell.
He felt nervous.
Wharton himself came to the door in a grey V-neck sweater and slacks. ‘Dave Williams?’ he said. ‘What the hey . . . ?’
‘Good evening, Mr Wharton,’ Dave said. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, but I’d really like to speak to you.’
When he got over his surprise, Wharton seemed pleased. ‘Come on in,’ he said. ‘Meet the family.’
Wharton ushered Dave into the dining room. The family appeared to be finishing dinner. Wharton had a pretty wife in her thirties, a daughter of about sixteen, and a spotty son a couple of years younger. ‘We have a surprise visitor,’ Wharton said. ‘This is Mr Dave Williams, of Plum Nellie.’
Mrs Wharton put a small white hand to her mouth and said: ‘Oh my golly gosh.’
Dave shook hands with her, then turned to the youngsters. ‘You must be Caroline and Edward.’
Wharton looked pleased that Dave had remembered his children’s names.
The kids were awestruck to get a surprise visit from a real pop star they had seen on TV. Edward could hardly speak. Caroline pulled back her shoulders, making her breasts stick out, and gave Dave a look that he had seen before in a thousand teenage girls. It said: You can do anything you like to me.
Dave pretended not to notice.
Mr Wharton said: ‘Sit down, Dave, please. Join us.’
Mrs Wharton said: ‘Would you like some dessert? We’re having strawberry shortcake.’
‘Yes, please,’ Dave said. ‘I’m living in a hotel – some home cooking would be a real treat.’
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she said, and she went off to the kitchen.
‘Have you come from Los Angeles today?’ Wharton asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Not just to call on me, I’m sure.’
‘Actually, yes. I want to talk to you one more time about tonight’s show.’
‘Okay,’ Wharton said dubiously.
Mrs Wharton returned with the dessert on a platter and began to serve.
Dave wanted the children on his side. He said to them: ‘In the show that your dad and I made, there’s a part where Percy Marquand does a duet with my sister, Evie Williams.’
Edward said: ‘I saw their movie – it was a blast!’
‘At the end of the song, Evie kisses Percy on the cheek.’ Dave paused.
Caroline said: ‘So? Big deal!’
Mrs Wharton raised a flirtatious eyebrow as she passed Dave a large wedge of strawberry shortcake.
Dave went on: ‘Mr Wharton and I talked about whether this would offend our audience – something neither of us wants to do. We decided to leave out the kiss.’
Wharton said: ‘I think it was a wise choice.’
Dave said: ‘I’ve come here to see you today, Mr Wharton, because I believe that, since we made that decision, the situation has changed.’
‘You’re talking about the assassination of Martin Luther King.’
‘Dr King was killed, but America is still bleeding.’ That sentence came into Dave’s head from nowhere, the way song lyrics sometimes did.
Wharton shook his head, and his mouth set in a stubborn line. Dave’s optimism lost its fizz. Wharton said ponderously: ‘I have more than a thousand employees – many of them Negroes, by the way. If sales of Foam plummet because we offended viewers, some of those people will lose their jobs. I can’t risk that.’
‘We would both be taking a risk,’ Dave said. ‘My own popularity is also at stake. But I want to do something to help this country heal.’
Wharton smiled indulgently, as he might have if one of his children said something hopelessly idealistic. ‘And you think a kiss can do that?’
Dave made his voice lower and harsher. ‘It’s Saturday night, Albert. Picture this: all over America, young black men are wondering whether to go out tonight and start fires and smash windows, or kick back and stay out of trouble. Before making up their minds, a lot of them will watch Dave Williams and Friends, just because it’s hosted by a rock star. How do you want them feeling at the end of the show?’
‘Well, obviously—’
‘Think of how we built that set for Percy and Evie. Everything about the scene says that white and black have to be kept apart: their costumes, the roles they’re playing, and the counter between them.’
‘That was the intention,’ said Wharton.
‘We emphasized their separateness, and I don’t want to throw that in black people’s faces, especially not tonight, when their great hero has been murdered. But Evie’s kiss, right at the end, undermines the whole set-up. The kiss says we don’t have to exploit one another and beat one another and murder one another. It says we can touch one another. That shouldn’t be a big thing, but it is.’
Dave held his breath. In truth, he was not sure the kiss was going to stop many riots. He wanted the kiss left in just because it stood for right against wrong. But he thought maybe this argument might convince Wharton.
Caroline said: ‘Dave’s so right, Dad. You really ought to do it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Edward.
Wharton was not much moved by his children’s opinions, but he turned to his wife, somewhat to Dave’s surprise, and asked: ‘What do you think, dear?’
‘I wouldn’t tell you to do anything that would harm the company,’ she said. ‘You know that. But I think this could even benefit National Soap. If you’re criticized, tell them you did it because of Martin Luther King. You could end up a hero.’
Dave said: ‘It’s seven forty-five, Mr Wharton. Charlie Lacklow is waiting by the phone. If you call him in the next five minutes, he’ll have time to switch the tapes. The decision is yours.’
The room went quiet. Wharton thought for a minute. Then he got up. ‘Heck, I think you might be right,’ he said.
He went out into the hall.
They all heard him dialling. Dave bit his lip. ‘Mr Lacklow, please . . . Hello, Charlie . . . Yes, he’s here, having dessert with us . . . We’ve had a long discussion about it, and I’m calling to ask you to put the kiss back in the show . . . Yes, that’s what I said. Thank you, Charlie. Goodnight.’
Dave heard the sound of the phone being cradled, and allowed a warm sense of triumph to suffuse him.
Mr Wharton came back into the room. ‘Well, it’s done,’ he said.
Dave said: ‘Thank you, Mr Wharton.’
*
‘The kiss got huge publicity, nearly all of it good,’ Dave said to Evie over lunch in the Polo Lounge on Tuesday.
‘So National Soap benefited?’
‘That’s what my new friend Mr Wharton tells me. Sales of Foam have gone up, not down.’
‘And the show?’
‘Also a success. They have already commissioned a season.’
‘And all because you did the right thing.’
‘My solo career is off to a great start. Not bad for a kid who failed all his exams.’
Charlie Lacklow joined them at their table. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said insincerely. ‘I’ve been working on a joint press release with National Soap. A bit late, three days after the show, but they want to capitalize on the good publicity.’ He handed two sheets of paper to Dave.
Evie said: ‘May I see?’ She knew Dave had trouble reading. He handed the papers to her. After a minute she said: ‘Dave! They have you saying: “I wish to pay tribute to the managing director of National Soap, Mr Albert Wharton, for his courage and vision in insisting that the show be broadcast including the controversial kiss.” The nerve!’
Dave took back the paper.
Charlie handed him a ballpoint pen.
Dave wrote ‘OK’ at the top of the sheet then signed it and handed it to Charlie.
Evie was apoplectic. ‘It’s outrageous!’ she said.
‘Of course it is,’ said Dave. ‘That’s show business.’