Morrison was waiting for someone who was hung up in the air traffic jam over Kennedy International when he saw a familiar face at the end of the bar and walked down.
"Jimmy? Jimmy McCann?"
It was. A little heavier than when Morrison had seen him at the Atlanta Exhibition the year before, but otherwise he looked awesomely fit. In college he had been a thin, pallid chain smoker buried behind huge horn-rimmed glasses. He had apparently switched to contact lenses.
"Dick Morrison?"
"Yeah. You look great. " He extended his hand and they shook.
"So do you," McCann said, but Morrison knew it was a lie. He had been overworking, overeating, and smoking too much. "What are you drinking?"
"Bourbon and bitters," Morrison said. He hooked his feet around a bar stool and lighted a cigarette. "Meeting someone, Jimmy?"
"No. Going to Miami for a conference. A heavy client. Bills six million. I'm supposed to hold his hand because we lost out on a big special next spring."
"Are you still with Crager and Barton?"
"Executive veep now."
"Fantastic! Congratulations! When did all this happen?" He tried to tell himself that the little worm of jealousy in his stomach was just acid indigestion. He pulled out a roll of antacid pills and crunched one in his mouth.
"Last August. Something happened that changed my life. " He looked speculatively at Morrison and sipped his drink. "You might be interested."
My God, Morrison thought with an inner wince. Jimmy McCann's got religion.
"Sure," he said, and gulped at his drink when it came. "I wasn't in very good shape," McCann said. "Personal problems with Sharon, my. dad died-heart attack-and I'd developed this hacking cough. Bobby Crager dropped by my office one day and gave me a fatherly little pep talk. Do you remember what those are like?"
"Yeah. " He had worked at Crager and Barton for eighteen months before joining the Morton Agency. "Get your butt in gear or get your butt out."
McCann laughed. "You know it. Well, to put the capper on it, the doc told me I had an incipient ulcer. He told me to quit smoking. " McCann grimaced. "Might as well tell me to quit breathing."
Morrison nodded in perfect understanding. Non-smokers could afford to be smug. He looked at his own cigarette with distaste and stubbed it out, knowing he would be lighting another in five minutes.
"Did you quit?" He asked.
"Yes, I did. At first I didn't think I'd be able to-I was cheating like hell. Then I met a guy who told me about an outfit over on Forty-sixth Street. Specialists. I said what do I have to lose and went over. I haven't smoked since."
Morrison's eyes widened. "What did they do? Fill you full of some drug?"
"No. " He had taken out his wallet and was rummaging through it. "Here it is. I knew I had one kicking around. " He laid a plain white business card on the bar between them.
QUITTERS, INC.
Stop Going Up in Smoke!
237 East 46th Street
Treatments by Appointment
"Keep it, if you want," McCann said. "They'll cure you. Guaranteed."
"How?"
"I can't tell you," McCann said.