Young Mr. Grace's office
YMG is dozing at his desk. Bakewell enters and approaches him.
Bakewell: Mr. Grace? Wake up, sir. Mr. Grace?
Bakewell: Sorry to wake you.
YMG: Oh, that's alright, Miss, er, Bakewell.
Bakewell: Were you having a nice dream, sir?
Well, I was dreaming I was on holiday already, at the New York
Plaza, just having dinner.
Oh, that's a coincidence, sir. One of the things I have to tell you
is that the Plaza has confirmed your booking starting Sunday.
YMG: Oh, that's fine. Cancel it.
Bakewell: Cancel it?
YMG: Yes, that's right, cancel the booking.
Bakewell: Why, Mr. Grace?
YMG: My dinner was terrible.
Bakewell: I see.
Anything else, Miss Bakewell? For what I was paying, I'm
going to see what was for afters.
Well, you can go back to sleep in a moment, sir, but Mr. Frobisher
is on the 'phone.
Bakewell: Mr. Frobisher, the secretary of your club.
Oh yes, I've been expecting his call. I'm afraid I'm in a bit
Bakewell: Trouble, Mr. Grace?
YMG: Yes, the night watchman at the club is blackmailing me.
Bakewell: Oh, dear!
Yes. One night last week he saw me coming out of the club
with a nightclub hostess.
Bakewell: Well, that's hardly scandalous, sir.
YMG: This hostess was, er, unusual, though.
Bakewell: How so?
She works at the Pink Flamingo Cabaret, which I later found
out is a, er . .
Bakewell: (knowingly) Female impersonator club.
YMG: Yes, but I didn't know it at the time. I figured it out, though.
Bakewell: When was that, sir?
When she offered to arm-wrestle the waiter for the drinks bill.
But I didn't want to be rude, so I said I had a headache and
offered her — er, him — a ride home.
Hmmm. Well, I should think the watchman at your club
would be more discreet, Mr. Grace.
Yes, but it's a new watchman. He's a young man — barely 60.
(Sighs) This is a fickle and faithless generation, Miss Bakewell.
Bakewell: Yes, sir. Will you speak to Mr. Frobisher, then?
Oh, yes. Thank you. (Picks up receiver) Hello Charles
. . .
yes, damn that watchman! I've got to pay him, I suppose.
You're sure you can't help me? . . . Oh, what has he got on
you? . . . Hmmm, I didn't think that was a crime anymore.
Well, how much does he want? . . . I see. Well, that can be
arranged, I suppose. (Sighs) Why can't we have a night
watchman that sleeps on the job, like other good clubs have? . .
Yes, goodbye. (Hangs up)
Bakewell: You'll be paying him off, then, Mr. Grace?
Well, sort of. The chap says he doesn't want any money.
He doesn't fancy the night shift and wants a position
at my store!
Bakewell: Well, that's quite ambitious for a blackmailer!
Yes, well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to give him what he
wants. But I don't fancy having him around here. Which
of our branches is the farthest away?
Bakewell: That would be the Liverpool branch, sir.
YMG: Ah. Have we any positions going there?
Well, we did have, but Mr. Rice of Tropical Fish will be
transfering there after the holiday.
Hmmm. I didn't know we have a Tropical Fish Department
We don't, sir. Mr. Rice will be working in Do-It-Yourself,
but he said there were some people in Liverpool who needed
YMG: I see. His family?
Bakewell: No, sir, his football club.
YMG: Oh, my. That's going a bit overboard, don't you think?
Bakewell: Oh, I don't know, sir. Football fans are very loyal.
YMG: Oh, that's right. You're keen on a football club, aren't you?
Yes, sir. Manchester United. You remember I got that
tattoo last year?
That's right, sir. Remember? You saw it when you took us
on your yacht this summer.
YMG: Oh, that's right. It's a little, er, football, isn't it?
Bakewell: Yes, sir.
Yes, right near your, er . . . (his face lights up, and immediately
his stress indicator sounds, and he tries to catch his breath
as Bakewell fans him with some papers from his desk.)
(c)1999 John F. Crowley