Institute by James M. Cain Page B

But we should also get out a press release, a Xerox job that we write up ourselves, with names, dates, places, and a release date—all complete.”
    “What names, besides my wife’s?”
    “Our governing board, for one thing.”
    “It hasn’t even been appointed.”
    “No, but I’ve picked the nominees.” I took out my list of historians, biographers, librarians, university department heads, and financial bigwigs, and passed it over to him. “They should be queried,” I said. “And when we have their acceptances—”
    “They’re probably on vacation now.”
    “They can be reached by phone—or rather, most of them can.”
    “Okay, I’ll begin calling today.”
    “I’ll begin calling today.”
    “What’s your objection to me?”
    He seemed startled, so I told him: “I’m the director. Or am I?”
    “Of course you are, Lloyd.”
    “Then I’ll call.”
    “Fine.”
    He stared for a moment and then asked: “And what places?”
    “The location of the press conference you should hold, as the host graciously answering any questions that may come up.”
    “That’s more up my wife’s alley.”
    “I was going to suggest that you ask her to arrange it.”
    “All right, what else?”
    “That’s all I can think of right now.”
    Hortense arranged it at one of Washington’s big hotels, with me sitting in as a sort of advisor, but not until she had “a few minutes alone with Monsieur Pierre, Dr. Palmer.” That seemed to mean money was going to change hands. By the time I got back, Monsieur Pierre was purring out loud. He was a sleek-looking guy with an accent I didn’t quite place. He set it up exactly as she wanted—for Conference Room A, with counter, bar, and buffet at one end, telephones at the other, and chairs in the middle. The only hitch came over the canapes. When she mentioned them to him, Monsieur Pierre frowned, but she told him emphatically: “I know they’re a lot of trouble and that hotels hate to fool with them. But these will be newspaper people who are not only chronic freeloaders but will have their hands full of pencils, papers, cameras, tape recorders, and all sorts of things—and to expect them to scoop up dip with potato chips or spear lobster tails with a fork is not being realistic. I want to make it easy for them—dips, shrimp, lobster tails, and potato salad of course, but also, if you could stretch a point, Monsieur Pierre—”
    It turned out that he could.
    For my two cents worth I asked for three armchairs—“with a mike beside each—one for Mrs. Garrett, one for Mr. Garrett, and one for me, facing the rows of folding chairs. Since they will be shooting pictures of us, we should be in comfortable positions. Also, in addition to your counter, bar, and buffet, I want a decent-sized table to hold the printed matter we’ll have on hand to give out. I want it put at one side near the door, so if any reporter forgets something, he can grab it on the way out.”
    Monsieur Pierre made a note.
    She had come down in a cab. When we were through I suggested: “Why don’t you come out with me? Then in the morning I’ll drive you in, and—”
    “I can’t, Lloyd; Mother’s here,”
    “Oh. Then invite me out. I’d like to meet her.”
    “That thought crossed my mind, but for some reason, I shied off.”
    “Okay, no use pushing our luck.” “With her, there will be plenty of time.”
    By the day of the news conference, stacks of material had been delivered to the apartment, not only the announcements, brochures, and releases but a couple of dozen copies of our application to I.R.S., in case some reporter wanted to cover us thoroughly. In addition, there were Xeroxed capsule biographies, mainly taken from Who’s Who in America, of the dozen people or so I had been able to reach and invite to join the board. I didn’t get any turndowns. Their names were important for advance release to the press.
    The entire mass of material filled two suitcases which were heavy.