Free Fadeout by Joseph Hansen

noticed." 
    "Did you take it seriously?" 
    Amused, McNeil gave a quick headshake. "No. It was a gag to start with. Fox was rambling on one morning on the air about a mayoralty race in Cottonwood Corners—his imaginary small town, you know?" 
    Dave nodded. "Mrs. Olson lent me some scripts." 
    "Great, aren't they?" McNeil asked it mechanically. "Well, it gave me an idea. Just a promotional idea was all. Why not start a campaign over the station, Fox Olson for mayor?" 
    "And it got out of hand?" 
    "Did you ever have a kite pull you right off the ground when you were a kid? Then you know the feeling. But . . ." He shrugged. "We decided to go along with the gag. Fox went through the signing-up routines. And for the first time in the memory of a lot of the younger citizens of Pima, Lloyd Chalmers had somebody running against him for his office. His. Believe me. He built half this town. Nobody's going to disabuse him of the idea that he owns it. Not soon." 
    "But . . . he didn't take the campaign seriously?" 
    "Ask him," McNeil said. "He'll laugh at you." 
    "Was anybody going to vote for him? Olson, I mean." 
    McNeil chuckled. "Just everybody old enough." 
    "And then what? Did he want to be mayor of Pima?" 
    "I think he did." McNeil narrowed his eyes, tugged his lower lip. "Yes, I think he got to taking it kind of seriously after a while. But ... " He shook his head, gave a crooked smile and stood up. "How could he?" McNeil walked to a filing cabinet, pulled open a drawer, brought out a fat manila folder. He laid it on the desk in front of Dave. "Look at these." 
    Expensive stationery. Lavish multicolored imprints. Dave turned over letter after letter. Radio. Would Fox Olson come and guest for a week with Arthur Godfrey on his morning show, tell some of his hilarious stories, sing a few songs? Television. Would Fox Olson do a segment for Ed Sullivan? Would Fox Olson consider dramatizing the Cottonwood Corners stories for a series, would he star in them himself? Records. Would Fox Olson record a dozen of his songs? Las Vegas. Would Fox Olson appear twice nightly in the Rodeo Room? Concert management firms. Motion picture studios . . . Dave closed the folder and looked up. 
    McNeil asked, "Where would he get time to be mayor?" 
    "Was he going to do all these things?" Dave tapped the folder. 
    "Are you kidding? My Christ, man, Fox Olson had been slaving a lifetime for success. Before he got this program I'd swear he was a man ready to put a bullet through his head. He'd given up. If it wasn't for his wife—" McNeil broke off. "Sorry. The answer is yes, he was going to do all these things. The record contract was already signed. With Dot. The rest of it was waiting till we could figure out a way to find time. See, Fox refused to do anything that would interfere with what he considered his obligation to me. KPIM came first. Hell, he hadn't even taken a vacation in a year and a half." 
    "I see," Dave said. Then, "What about the man from France? What kind of an offer was that?" 
    "How?" McNeil looked blank. 
    "Olson spoke to a man from France a couple of weeks ago. Somebody who'd come here to see him. Stayed at the Pima Motor Inn. Olson talked to him there. He didn't say anything to you about it?" 
    "Not that I remember." McNeil's phone rang and he reached for it. "Excuse me." 
    "I'll go," Dave said. And went.

8
    The sun was hot. On a flat, smooth stretch of lawn a gaunt old man threw his cane. Hard and a long way. Two dogs chased it, big lean dogs, hounds of some kind. Rough blue-gray coats. They moved clumsily, like rusty machines. But fast. One of them got the cane and came back with it to the old man. It was a heavy cane but in the dog's jaws it looked fragile. The other dog stood where the cane had been and made a hoarse, rumbling sound that was supposed to be barking. The old man took the cane from the first dog and grabbed its collar. He heaved the cane to the other dog. Holding the collar hampered his throw