Текст книги "The Villiers Touch"

Автор книги: Brian Garfield

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4. Russell Hastings

After a dull lunch with two junior SEC attorneys Russ Hastings walked the steaming sidewalks to Chatham Square to find a taxi bound uptown through the Bowery. He waved down a vacant cab and got in.

“Well?” the driver growled. “Where ya wanna go?”

He had to look it up in his notebook. “Forty-fourth and Sixth.”

“Unh.” The traffic light was green, but the driver was busy writing the address down on his clipboard. “You got the time, mister?”

“One-thirty.”

“Thanks. I got to put it down on my ride sheet here, see, and I busted my watch last night.” The dashboard of the taxi was festooned with plastic madonnas, American flags, religious medallions. The driver finished scribbling and looked up; the light had just turned red against him. He put the shift in neutral and revved the snarling engine, startling a passing pedestrian. When the light changed, they started off with a neck-snapping jerk and careened across the intersection. Hastings sat back and tried to ignore the taxi’s violent progress through the traffic; watching, from the perspective of the back seat, always made him tense with alarm.

It was a big cab, a Checker, the high old body style with jump seats. A warped sliding plexiglass window separated the back from the front seat; it was open, against the heat.

The driver was a compulsive talker: “You one of them broker guys? My daughter works for one of them guys-Howard Claiborne, maybe you heard of him. Now an’ then I get tips on the stock market, y’understand what I’m saying?”

Hastings only grunted to indicate he was listening. The driver was a hulking big man with a thick brutal chin and a polished bald head; from the rear quarter he looked like a thug.

An errant car crossed the taxi’s bows, and the driver roared in a voice like a bassoon, out the window: “Whassamatta with you, ya dumb asshole-tryin’ to getcha stupid fuckin’ balls creamed?” The driver shook his head and said in exasperation to Hastings, “Mutterfuckinsonsuhbitches think they own the road or somep’n. Y’understand what I’m saying?”

Hastings glanced at the license sign on the glove-compartment door. He made out the driver’s name on the placard: Barney Goralski. The photo wasn’t much worse than his own passport photograph. It gave a vague indication of a big fleshy face, nothing more.

“Yeah,” Barney Goralski was musing, “that stock market sure a hell of a place. My daughter, Anne, now, she gets all kindsa inside dope, y’know, but she’s a good kid, she don’t go spreadin’ it around the wrong places. Y’understand? Yeah, I fool around some with them stocks myself-I’m an independent businessman, y’know, own this cab myself. Ain’t one of your hired minority-group thugs what don’t know how to drive a cab. It’s a fuckin’ disgrace the punks they put behind a wheel nowadays. Half these stupid fleet drivers ain’t got no idea at all how to get from one place to another. You gotta keep movin’ to make a living in this racket, mister, I can tell you-you get yourself caught in fuckin’ traffic jams, and you lose your shirt. Y’understand what I’m saying?”

Hastings grunted. Goralski gunned and braked violently, slithering between cars, outwitting traffic. In the taxi everything seemed slightly loose-taximeter, doors, windows, ashtrays, plexiglass, horn ring, change counter-so that a constant din of rattles assaulted the ear, symphonic accompaniment to Barney Goralski’s nonstop monologue. “One time, see, I buy a hundred shares of this five-dollar stock. So right away it becomes a three-dollar stock.”

Goralski cursed a double-parked truck, bucked loudly past it, and once more launched into his history of his battles with the stock market: “’Nother time I get this tip, so I buy a hundred shares of a six-fifty stock. I pay thirteen and a quarter commission.”

It awed Hastings that the cab driver could remember the exact figures, let alone believe anyone could conceivably be interested.

“But then I find out the fucking stock’s selling at eighty times earnings, y’know what I mean? Eighty times earnings, Christ-sake. So I get shaky. The stock goes up half a point, and I sell out everything, both them stocks. I end up with a net loss of a hundred and thirty-seven bucks and seventy-five cents, thirty bucks of which is commissions to the crooked bastards that sold it to me in the first place.”

“Then I buy a hundred shares of this Trymetronex-cost me damn near thirteen hundred, time I paid the commission. And the minute I buy, it starts to slide. I put in a bunch of sell orders a point above the market-I admit I was pushin’ for that extra point, y’understand what I’m saying? I figured, shit, it’s bound to bounce back sooner or later. So it goes down to nine. From twelve and a half down to nine mutterfuckin’ dollars. Then they pull some legal hocus-pocus, the bastard corporation calls its convertible debentures. You know what that does?”

Hastings grunted, which was a mistake, because Goralski had to explain.

“Well, they got convertible debentures worth ten million bucks, and when they recall them they issue shares of common stock to replace the debentures. Debentures-that’s bonds. Y’understand? So they shovel out ten million bucks’ worth of new stock onto the market, and naturally the price drops to seven mutterfuckin’ dollars. You can bet your sweet ass those insiders knew all about the debenture recall in advance. It’s little outside guys like me that get grabbed by the balls. Then I go back to the stupid asshole broker, and you know what he says to me? He says my stocks was overvalued when I bought them, he says. He says I shoulda known better. Jesus Christ, the mutter-fucking sonofabitch didn’t say that when I BOUGHT them!”

Mercifully they had arrived at 44th Street. Hastings’ ears rang. He paid Goralski, tipped him half a dollar, and got out quickly. A small old lady darted past him into the cab. He walked down 44th Street a few doors to the address the brokers had given his secretary on the phone. It was one of the medium-sized midtown hotels, not far from the Algonquin. Miss Carol McCloud-probably a white-haired old lady, like so many who lived in residential-hotel apartments, clipping her coupons and keeping miniature dogs. Miss McCloud had recently bought a large block of NCI stock. Why? Who had touted her onto it? Rumors were wildfire in the stock market, but not even little old ladies spent a quarter of a million dollars on the sole basis of rumors.

He went into the narrow lobby and found a house phone; after four rings a low female voice answered. The voice sounded younger than he had expected, but it was hard to tell. She seemed drugged with sleep. He glanced involuntarily at his watch.

“Miss McCloud? This is Russell Hastings, Securities and Exchange Commission.”

“Oh yes-of course. What time is it?”

“Ten till two. I realize I’m a little early-we did say two-fifteen. If it’s not convenient, I can-”

“No. Give me five minutes, and come on up-it’s ten-oh-eight. Turn right when you get out of the elevator.”

He went into the coffee shop and had a cup of coffee at the counter, finished it, and went to the elevator. It was self-service. On the tenth floor he found 1008 in an Edwardian rotunda at the end of the corridor. He recalled some literary acquaintance once telling him this old hotel had been one of Stanford White’s less memorable architectural monuments. Before the war it had been the home of several Algonquin Roundtable celebrities. It appeared to have been well kept up-not luxurious, but far from dingy: a select small hotel which would not cater to conventioneers.

Her telephone voice had changed her image in his mind; he wasn’t quite sure what to expect when he knocked. Nevertheless, he had a shock when she opened the door.

She was stunning.

She gave him a radiant smile. “Mr. Hastings.”

“Miss McCloud?” He felt he ought to have a hat, if only so that he could doff it. He walked in past her. The room surprised him, as well. It was large, informally divided by sectional settees and comfortable chairs, punctuated by walnut end tables, stern classic lamps, and a big fireplace that dominated one end of the room. The suite was done in shades of beige, brown, and pale green. A curved bar was built into one corner. The far end of the room opened through glass doors onto a narrow terrace rimmed by potted shrubs, big enough for two lawn chairs and a white iron table.

Hastings brought his attention around to Carol McCloud. She had shut the door and walked into the room ahead of him. Her hair was soft rich brown, full and loose to the shoulders. She had dark, dramatic eyes. She wore blouse, skirt, and sandals; there was no indication she had hurried to get dressed. Her splendidly turned legs would provoke fascinated stares on any sidewalk corner; she had a long waist, high classic breasts, good warm skin tones, and a striking face that was curiously strong and delicate at once. No pose, no artifice-beauty, but not beauty’s arrogance. She had a good fresh pride in her loveliness that was neither vain nor imperfected by false humility.

She laughed. “Well, sit down.”

“I expected you to have white hair and a cane. I feel like a fool.”

Her laugh was low, husky, smoky; she settled on the divan opposite him, full of supple grace. The appraisal she had given him was not the usual casual sizing-up an attractive woman would give a masculine stranger; it was more direct, aware, intense-and slightly provocative, because it was carried on a glance of slightly sardonic private amusement. With gentle irony she said, “I must say your approach is new. What can I do for you that hasn’t already been done?”

She was smiling; but her words took him aback. Before he could answer she was up, briskly moving toward the bar in the corner. “I imagine you’d like a drink.”

“Kind of early in the day,” he said.

She stopped; she seemed puzzled for the first time; she said, “Coffee, then?”

“Just had some, downstairs.”

Her head was tipped quizzically to the side; she touched a finger to the point of her jaw. “Then you’d better tell me what you do have in mind.”

“My secretary must have mentioned on the phone-I’m making a sort of survey of buyers of NCI stock.”

“You mean you’re really doing that?”

Baffled, he was beginning to get angry. “Of course. What did you think it was? Some subtle kind of pitch? Look, if I’ve made a mistake-you are the McCloud who bought a big chunk of NCI a few weeks ago?”

She had begun to laugh; she returned to her chair, still laughing. He noticed for the first time a faint discoloration under the makeup on her cheek-a small bruise. He had never seen her before and had no comparison, but she looked as if she had a slight swelling on that side of her jaw-it showed when she laughed.

Finally she said, “I’m sorry-really I am. I took you for a-for someone else. Please forgive me. Now, what was it you wanted to know about those stocks?”

“You did buy them?”

“I suppose so. I’d have to go look it up.”

He said, “Frankly, you don’t look that rich.”

“What?”

“Are you in the habit of misplacing two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

She gave him a blank look. “Two hundred and fifty thousand?”

He stood up. “I guess I’ve made a mistake, after all. I’m sorry.”

“No. Wait.” She pulled open a drawer of the end table by the settee, sifted through a small stack of papers, and put them back. When she turned her face toward him, her forehead was creased; she said, “No, it wasn’t a mistake.” She spread her hands with helpless mocking good humor. “You see how it is-sometimes I’m a little scatterbrained.”

Scatterbrained? He shook his head; he said, “But you do remember buying the NCI shares.”

“Yes, I do. I’m very sorry if I confused you.” But her eyes were still mocking.

“Uh-hunh,” he muttered. “Can you remember why you bought them?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Why pick that particular company to invest in? Why not spread the money around in several investments?”

“I suppose someone must have recommended it to me.” She smiled.

It was a blinding smile. He looked away; he closed his eyes and said, “Miss McCloud, we’re talking about a quarter of a million dollars.”

“Yes, I know that,” she said, as if she couldn’t understand what was upsetting him.

“Can’t you at least remember who might have recommended the stock?”

“A broker, I imagine. I really can’t recall.”

He had seen that helpless-female role played enough times on the witness stand in court to know it well enough: the pretty, wide-eyed, innocent misunderstanding of every question. It didn’t fit quite right; she was too obviously intelligent to carry it off.

He said, “You’re not under oath, you know-there’s no reason why you should tell me anything at all.”

“I’m quite aware of that,” she said. “But I’m curious-why are you so interested in my investments?”

“I guess you could just call it a routine check.”

“Sure,” she answered, matching his tone for casual evenness. But her smile was too knowing; it was no accident that after sidestepping his questions so adroitly she had deftly trapped him in his own evasiveness. It was a neat trick-so neat it made him shift his focus once again. His thinking jumped the straight track of his mind. He had built several hypotheses about her; none of them really fit. Clearly she wasn’t just a spoiled heiress, careless about her millions-she wasn’t flighty enough, her surroundings weren’t opulent enough, she didn’t have any air of class consciousness or liberal phoniness. She met him on equal terms, matching wits and subtleties. She was far too bright, and too relaxed, to be some rich married man’s penthouse plaything; and again, the surroundings didn’t fit in with that notion. An actress, perhaps? But if she was successful enough to be that rich, wouldn’t he have heard of her, recognized her face? No-she didn’t have the mannerisms for it; she was too straightforward. A wealthy divorcee, investing her lump-sum alimony settlement? Maybe-but something about her didn’t quite fit that frame, either. Granted she had brains, even a hard cynical edge that showed now and then; he still couldn’t picture her in the role of an adventuress sinking vindictive, greedy teeth into an ex-husband to the tune of a quarter of a million dollars.

He realized suddenly that Carol McCloud was sitting very still-looking at him, unblinking.

She said, “You went away for a minute there.”

“Trying to figure you out.”

It brought her smile again-slightly crooked, slightly turned against herself in some sort of distant irony. She said, “That would be a useless pursuit.”

He got to his feet. “You don’t want to talk about those shares of stock, I gather.”

“It’s such a dull, dry subject, isn’t it?”

“Unless money turns you on.”

She had a nice laugh, low in her throat; her eyelids drooped just a bit, and she said, “Oh, don’t make that mistake-I think a lot about money, Mr. Hastings.”

“Russ,” he said suddenly.

“Russ.”

He went halfway to the door, and turned to look at her. She hadn’t moved in her seat. She was watching him with that same directness. He said abruptly, “Have dinner with me?”

He had no way of anticipating what she might answer. Her smile changed; she tipped her head toward him, the fall of her hair swaying. She was one of the most exquisite creatures he had ever seen.

After a while she said, “It might not be a good idea.”

“I didn’t mean to step on anybody’s toes.”

“Not that. But I don’t think I want to-” Whatever she had meant to say, she didn’t finish it; instead, she tossed her head quickly, her eyes flashed at him with some kind of sudden resolution, and she said in a different voice, “It might be fun.”

“Tonight?”

“Why not?”

He found himself grinning; he said, “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

“It will be better if I meet you at the restaurant,” she said.

“Fine. The Bourgogne suit you? Eight o’clock?”

She nodded; the smile was quizzical now, speculative. Still grinning, Hastings went out. Halfway to the elevator he realized he was almost loping. He hadn’t felt this good in months.

5. Mason Villiers

Villiers stepped out of the rickety old elevator and walked the length of a narrow hallway. He knocked at a door and looked at his watch-just short of two-thirty. He stood without patience waiting for the door to open. Sometimes it was an irritant to him, his sexual imprisonment: he needed women frequently-sometimes two or three times in a day, when he was tense with the pressures of corporate juggling.

He knocked again and put his ear close to the door. He could hear the rapid clicking of a typewriter. Finally it stopped, and after a moment he heard Naomi’s voice, close to the door, husky and cross: “Who is it?”

“Mace.”

“Who?”

“Mace Villiers.”

She opened up, and hands impudently on hips, cocked her head to glare. “I’m in the middle of a chapter. Why didn’t you telephone?”

“Ran out of small change. Anyhow, a telephone’s always long distance.”

“You Goddamned sex maniac.” She looked him up and down with slow insinuation and stepped back to let him in.

She was a small, tight-packed, spider-waisted girl, fluffy and blond. She had huge china-blue eyes and a soft, heavy mouth. She wore a yellow dress, not quite chic because it had strong-seamed darts around the bustline to clothe her unfashionably big, plump young breasts, which bobbed and jiggled when she moved ahead of him into the large studio apartment.

Villiers pushed the door shut, indifferent to the surroundings, looking at the girl with desire.

The typewriter was on a small desk by the window. On the sill were dozens of teen-age girls’ novels, pointedly displayed, all by the same author: Naomi Kemp.

Villiers said, trying to put some show of interest in his voice, “What are you working on?”

“A simpering book about a prissy nurse. As if you gave a shit. Really, Mace, you could have picked a better time of day to come charging in.”

“I’m on my way downtown.”

“And that explains the whole thing? You just dropped in on your way to Wall Street for a quick bang?”

“That’s right,” he said, without humor.

“You’re a one-of-a-kind original, Mace. Don’t you know there’s a speed limit in this town?”

“If the idea doesn’t appeal to you,” he said, and turned to the door.

“You’re pitching low and inside,” she complained, and then blurted, “Come back here. You know you turn me into cream pudding. Can’t I be sore for a minute first? I haven’t seen you in months. Not even a postcard.”

“I’ve never sent a postcard in my life.” But then he smiled at her. “What would you want with a postcard from a man who was too far away to stick it in you?”

“You’ve got a foul mouth,” she said. “No shit.”

He peeled back his cuff to look at his wrist. “I haven’t got a lot of time.”

“You motherfucking bastard,” Naomi said, and stripped off her dress. He could see dark fluff in the translucent crotch of her nylon panties. She wore no stockings. She unfastened her brassiere, leering at him, doing a stripper’s bumps and grinds; she rubbed her back where the bra straps had welted her. He watched unblinking, savoring the milky full richness of her breasts. They were warm, red-brown-tipped; her body was the kind boys conjured up in adolescent masturbatory fantasies. Her breasts were so engorged, so thrustingly assertive, that it was never possible to look at her or think of her without focusing on them. Naked, she kept her arms wide of those proud organs, as if they were swollen to the point of tender soreness.

The bed, made up for the day with divan throw pillows, waited against the wall. He came to her beside it. She surged her warm breast up full into his palm, meeting his eyes with a sensual smile and quickened breath; she unzipped his fly and put her hand in. He clutched her breast and slid his left hand up her naked back to her neck, and pulled her forward for a kiss. Her lips were moist and parted; she sucked his tongue in her mouth. Her hand caressed his huge muscle-rippled shaft, thick and hard with pumping blood.

She drew back from his kiss and whispered, “You bastard, haven’t you even got time to take your clothes off? Never mind the window-let the voyeurs watch if that’s how they get their jollies. At least take your Goddamn pants off.”

She undid his belt buckle and the fly fastener of his trousers, and laughed at him when they fell down around his ankles. He kicked them away, shrugged out of his suit jacket, and pushed her down on the bed. He came down upon her, his fierce mouth on hers. Her arms came around him; her tongue probed him, her hands glided over his buttocks. He bent his head to suckle her soft white breasts. His rigid hot phallus brushed her thighs and found her ready moistness and thrust into her, lunging. She clung to him furiously, sweat-slick and arching herself ecstatically. He plunged and twisted, a hungry strong animal, mauling her around the narrow bed. As her flesh beneath him began its anguished tumultuous throes of completion, he was thinking of tomorrow night, his dinner date with Diane Hastings. Then his own excitement quickened, and he spurted himself into her. A shuddering sigh, and she clutched him tight, her eyes closed, her fingernails sharp against his back, scratching through the silk of his shirt.

Tension went out of his fibers. He lay across her, limp, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing under him. After a moment he got up.

She opened her eyes and frowned. He went into the bathroom, spent two minutes, and came out again to put on his pants. Naomi got off the bed, not speaking, not even looking at him; she pulled her panties up and stooped, making herself round-shouldered, to fit her spectacular breasts into the twin hammocks of her bra, hitched it into adjustment, and straightened, elbows spread-eagled, to snap it behind her.

He got into his jacket and straightened his tie, went to the mirror to comb his hair, and heard her say to his back, “Are you still rich?”

“Sure.” He turned around to regard her. “You always go with the winner, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What if I go broke?”

“Then I’ll find another winner.”

He smiled. “Anyhow, you’re honest. I’m still rich. Do you need money?”

“I always do. It takes me ten weeks to write a book, and I only get a fifteen hundred advance on it.” Her mouth twisted, and she added, “Just put it on the bed. That’s the way they do it, isn’t it?”

“Don’t get sour, I only asked.”

She said, “When I was thirteen I laid my best girl friend’s old man. I guess I’ve always been a whore. But not for money, Mace. Always for free, for fun. Once in a while they give me something-a bracelet or a watch. But it’s not pay. I never take pay. The difference may not look very important to you, but it does to me.”

He said, not caring, “I understand. All right, you don’t want anything right now, because that would be too much like taking pay. Suppose we have dinner together, say Thursday night.”

For some reason he sensed but did not comprehend, she gave him an enraged scowl and turned her back, folding her arms. She said in a low tone, “When you invite a girl to dinner, at least you could look as if you cared which way she’ll answer.”

“I don’t make invitations unless I mean them.”

“You could look a little less bored.”

“Suit yourself, then,” he said indifferently, and opened the door.

When he glanced back, she had turned to watch him; her eyes were too wide and too bright. She said, “God damn you, you think you can come and go like a subway train.”

He made no answer; he pulled the door shut and walked to the elevator.

He emerged from the narrow apartment building onto a Greenwich Village street and looked around, planning to ambush a taxi before he saw the limousine and remembered that Sanders was driving him today. He crossed the curb diagonally and got into the luxurious back seat. Sanders had the engine idling and the air-conditioning on; it was cool but stuffy in the Cadillac.

Sanders, via the rear-view mirror, gave his cowardly apologetic smile and said, “Where to?”

“Hackman’s office.”

“Yes, sir.” Sanders looked over his shoulder at the traffic and eased out into the flow. Villiers sat back and frowned at the back of Sanders’ billiard-ball head.

They stopped for a traffic light, and Sanders cleared his throat. “Sir…”

“What is it?” Villiers snapped.

“My mother, sir. She’s ill, and I was wondering if you’d be needing me for the evening. I mean-”

“I may need you. I’ll let you know.”

“Yes, sir.” The traffic began to move, and Sanders turned into Seventh Avenue and manhandled the limousine through heavy traffic past St. Vincent’s Hospital, heading downtown toward the financial district.

Tod Sanders was becoming an annoyance, Villiers thought. For a while it had amused him to put Sanders through hoops.

Ten blocks farther downtown, Sanders said again, “I’m not looking for a chance to goof off, sir. She really is sick. My mother, I mean. I wish I hadn’t brought her down here from Canada. You know, this stinking hot wea-”

“Shut up,” Villiers said. “Nothing runs out of listeners faster than a hard-luck story. You ought to’ve learned that by now.”

“Yes, sir. I suppose. Mr. Villiers, why is it things like this never bother you? What’s the difference between you and me?”

“Difference? I dominate my world, Tod. Your world dominates you. Now, shut up, I’ve got thinking to do.”

But the back of Sanders’ head was an irritant that badgered him and kept him from concentrating. Memory took Villiers back to the Alaska oil fields two years ago, when he had met Sanders. He had thought he’d known the man from the past, but Sanders had refused to answer to the name Villiers had addressed him by. Sanders had been a petroleum engineer, thought to be very bright by the oil company that employed him. Thinking Sanders might be of use to him, Villiers had investigated-and found out that the youth he had once known in Chicago had fled a hit-and-run homicide charge and disappeared.

He had confronted Sanders with it, broken him down with ridiculous ease, and used him to obtain inside information from the oil company, which he had been in the process of raiding.

Tod Sanders was a small shy man with inky fingernails and a hangdog face. A thirty-four-year-old mama’s boy whose mother became ill every time he got serious with a girl. It had aroused Villiers’ interest, as a coolly scientific experiment, to see how far the man could be pushed without stiffening to retaliate. Evidently there were no limits to the degradation he was willing to suffer. He had been convinced from the moment he was born that the world was too much for him, and Villiers’ harsh treatment of him only provided him with added evidence of that which he was already convinced of. Sanders had become Villiers’ valet, chauffeur, shoeshine boy, and memo pad; he spent his scuffling hours arranging hotel rooms and procuring women for Villiers. He didn’t object to any of it. Sanders never seemed to be taxed by any desire to ask himself why he had to be subjected to such degrading ignominy; and because he was so unresisting, Villiers was sick and tired of baiting him.

By the time the limousine reached Hackman’s building, Villiers had forgotten Sanders; he was thinking about bigger things.

The car slid in at the curb, and Villiers glanced upward past the tall buildings at the thick sky which hung heavily masked in vapor. The traffic of pedestrians was a morass of hot bodies, tramping gray sidewalks and narrow streets in an area where every square foot of ground was worth more than six hundred dollars.

Hackman and Greene were on the nineteenth floor of a building which hadn’t been there three years before. The modern reception foyer reminded Villiers unfavorably of the waiting room of an airport. Beyond lay a collection of cubicles with desks, phones, and typewriters, inhabited by junior salesmen and brokers, secretaries, and the clerical staff. The firm boasted an English receptionist with high breasts and a good London accent, an elegant letterhead on twenty-weight linen bound stationery, and an acronymous cable address for clients abroad.

George Hackman, one of the big beefy hucksters of Wall Street, was standing by the receptionist’s pretty shoulder, leaning forward, with her telephone at his ear. He nodded to Villiers and went on talking into the phone-evidently the call had caught him here and he had taken it rather than go back to his own desk. Talking and listening on the phone, Hackman was jotting with his left hand in a brass-framed calendar pad on the receptionist’s desk. Villiers noticed Hackman’s brawny forearm brushing the receptionist’s breast as he wrote. The girl had a pretty face but sat with spreading heavy buttocks; Villiers wondered dispassionately why she didn’t wear a girdle.

Villiers went to the window beyond and looked down at tiny New Yorkers crawling painfully across the hot pavements.

George Hackman said into the phone, “Bet your ass, Carl. You heard right, Continental’s buying them out. It can’t help but jack up Reuland Express, and Jackson’s gonna suffer from the competition, with all that new capital behind Reuland. So what happens, you go long on Reuland, and you sell Jackson short, got it?… Sure, just give me the word. All right, then, five hundred of each. See you, Carl baby.”

Hackman handed the phone to the English girl, leered at her, and walked over to Villiers to clap him on the arm; he said heartily, “How they hanging, Mace?”

Villiers gave him a cool stare. Hackman swallowed his smile and backed up a pace. Over his shoulder he said, “No calls and no visitors until I let you know otherwise,” to the receptionist, and steered Villiers back along a corridor toward the door to his private office.

“Sidney Isher’s already here,” Hackman said. Villiers went into the office and saw Isher in a chair. The lawyer nodded his red head and coughed. Hackman shut the door behind them and went around to sit behind his desk; he said, “How’d you like the new girl out front, Mace? Class with a capital ‘K,’ boy. She’s a pistol. Christ, I love to watch the way she shifts her carriage.” Hackman grinned and stuck a cigar in his mouth.

Villiers sat down and looked at him, not speaking. Hackman was big, meaty, hearty, with a broad red-brick face lined with broken commandments. He spoke with the rapid-fire delivery of a used-car salesman. He was the kind of man who believed his life could be measured by his number of old buddies and by his possessions, inside tips, and the athletic accomplishments of his adolescence. He was an after-office-hours alcoholic, casually unfaithful to his third wife, a former showgirl. He lived a lusty routine and threw rowdy parties in his suburban home. Isher had once described him to Villiers as a golfer who lied about his score at the nineteenth hole; it was an accurate thumbnail description.