Текст книги "The Villiers Touch"

Автор книги: Brian Garfield

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

“Truth,” she said, “is anything but beautiful. You’re babbling like a romantic idiot. Act your age.”

“Why not humor me?”

“Oh, damn it, Russ-if you’ve got any sense at all, you’ll walk out that door and never see me again.”

He said in a flat voice, “I might-if I knew enough about one thing.”

“Oh, God, now we’re back to those shares of stock.”

“That’s right. We are.”

“What the hell do you want of me?” She threw up her hands. “They were a gift from an admirer, all right?”

“A two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar gift? Come off it. I could get a subpoena, you know.”

She gave him a wicked small grin. “Now you’re trying to bluff me.”

“Bluff? Don’t you believe I have subpoena power?”

“You have the power to subpoena the records of corporations and insiders and control stockholders. I’m none of those. I own nine thousand shares of NCI common voting stock. That’s not even one-half of one percent of the outstanding stock. You couldn’t convince a federal judge I was an insider by any stretch of the imagination.”

He made no immediate reply. Only one lamp was lit. Carol stood highlighted in the center of the carpet, statuesque, shadows deepening the roundnesses of her high breasts, soft thighs, and long legs. He came to her, leaned forward, kissed her mouth. It was a long lover’s kiss but her lips were still and stiff under his. She slipped her face away. “Don’t be ridiculous-don’t get intense, Russ.”

He straightened. His face was expressionless. “You’re damned beautiful, you know.”

“You’re forcing me to be cruel,” she said. “You asked me if I enjoyed it. The answer is, it’s the way I earn my living-it’s no more enjoyable than punching a clock, and no less.”

“Maybe-maybe. But you’re a good liar. How do I know that’s true?”

She only gave him the twisted smile he was getting used to.

He said, “You made a mistake, you know, coming back at me with that business about insiders and control stockholders. You were trying to prove it wouldn’t be any good for me to try to push you around, but all you did was convince me you’re involved in something. Whatever it is, you’re in it up to your gorgeous hairline. You’ve been too well briefed in legal technicalities for an innocent.”

She uttered a harsh laugh. “I have never pretended to be an innocent.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“Do I? You’d have to prove that, wouldn’t you?”

“Being top-priced in your line may be lucrative, but it’s not that lucrative. Why don’t you tell me who you’re fronting for?”

“Fronting for? I don’t know what you mean.”

“All right,” he said, turning toward the door. “I’ll keep digging until I find out.”

“Please don’t, Russ.”

“It’s my job-what do you expect me to do? You could make it easier for me.”

“I could only get you hurt if I did what you want me to do.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“Melodramatic? You don’t know the kind of people I have to deal with.”

“Do you mean the Mafia?”

“No. That’s not what I mean.”

“I thought they were tied up in-your racket.”

“You don’t have to use that tone on me, Russ. The skin trade doesn’t pay enough to interest the Mafia anymore, they don’t bother to organize it. Oh, they force a lot of kids onto the streets by hooking them on heroin, and it’s true racketeers are like anyone else with money-they can get a girl when they want one. But it isn’t what you think. I’ve got no connection with them.”

“Then stop threatening me. It’s asinine. You’re only throwing raw meat on the floor.”

“No. I’m telling you the truth. I don’t want you to play boy detective in my affairs. There are too many powerful people who can’t afford to have that kind of thing going on.”

“Like the one you fronted for when you bought the stock?”

“Drop it right now, Russ. I’m not kidding.”

He gave her a long, slow scrutiny, as if to fix her image forever in his mind, and suddenly he put a chill smile on his face. “Ciao, then,” he said softly, and turned on his heel and left.

By the time he reached the street he was feeling hung-over and stupid. He lit a cigarette and walked east toward Fifth Avenue, his shoes thudding the pavement; took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped it into the gutter; lifted his shoulders defensively and put his hands in his pockets. He was angry with himself for his stupefying naivete. He had somehow ignored all the signs-they must have been there all along-and plunged ahead, his perceptions corrupted by an innocence so eager it must have been comical to her. It had been a shabby trick; he had made a fool of himself.

He turned downtown on Fifth and walked all the way home. By the time he got there, his thinking had undergone a series of subtle changes. Mounting the steps of the converted brownstone, he found himself remembering her radiance, the range of colors in her voice, the sincerity screened by her mockery. He had opened the gates of his mind to let her flow inside, and now, by the time he entered his apartment, her face and name raged in him like a fever. Incredulous, he sat down on the bed and stared sightlessly, filled with disbelief and a half-hysterical feeling that things had escaped completely from his control.

The more he thought about it, the more outraged he became. He was far too mature for this kind of silly infatuation. It was absurd. She was nothing but a tramp. A prostitute, a cheap Goddamned whore. How many thousands of men had gone through her as if she were a revolving door or a public rest room? It was epic to estimate. He tried to make the dirty degradation of it loom forbiddingly, tried to fill his mind with loathing and contemptuous disgust. And when that didn’t work, he went to his desk and began to write, in a fierce crabbed hand, a list of investigative gambits on which he would get to work first thing in the morning. But when he finished it and leaned back to stretch, he could hear her throaty, mocking laugh and see the twisted smile on her stunning face. He caught himself reaching for the phone to call her; he shouted an oath and slammed the receiver down and sat staring in amazement at his own trembling hands.

8. Mason Villiers

The great yawl of a limousine prowled smoothly and almost without sound at fifty-five miles an hour, surging toward the huge complex of buttressed flying concrete at the Hawthorne interchange. Villiers sat back with his eyes half-shut, too disciplined to reveal even in the dark privacy of the Cadillac his distaste for the idea of having to attend one of George Hackman’s parties. Sanders tooled the big machine through town and along a succession of curving drives. Here and there Villiers saw at windows the reflected blue glow of television. Shrubs and trees nudged the big ranch-style houses, each set off on its own acre of ground. Neat lawns, asphalt driveways, Early American mailboxes. Villiers detested the suburbs. For years Isher had tried to persuade him to buy a house, for the tax advantages inherent in ownership. He had bought one, in Grosse Pointe, but he had never set foot inside it. Either you lived on a forty-square-mile estate on your own Mediterranean island or you jetted from hotel suite to hotel suite; there was no point in half-assed compromises.

Tod Sanders found a space for the limousine amid the herd of big cars that browsed in Hackman’s crescent driveway. Villiers said, “Stay put and stay awake,” and walked up to the porticoed entrance, the slight pinching of his lips the only sign of his displeasure. He could hear the noise of a jammed crowd through the door. When he rang the bell it swung open immediately, and Ginger Hackman greeted him with a cry: “Mace, darling, why is it we never see you?” And added in a lower voice, “I’m so glad to see you, Mace.”

There was a lot of noise and restive motion in the smoky room behind her, but she stood blocking the entrance for a moment, smiling at him, an attractive, sad-faced young woman with sulky and sensuous eyes. She was sewed into a low-cut cocktail dress, so tight it revealed her buttocks and pubic bulge and the seam lines of her panties. She licked crumbs from her fingertips and thumb, casual and unselfconscious, frankly staring at him. Finally she sighed. “Well, come on in and face it.”

When he squeezed past her through the door, she turned to present her cheek for a ritual kiss of greeting; when he didn’t make the appropriate response, she said, “Oh, Mace,” and stepped back to shut the door behind him.

The room roared with a thick crowd. Villiers surveyed it with his piercing gray eyes and an unsmiling expression. Ginger came along behind him and took his arm with a proprietary air. “You ought to give lessons in how to do a dramatic pause,” she told him.

He made no answer. She took him around to make introductions; Villiers went with her, moving with languid grace and his unflappable ability of ignoring any obligation to acknowledge the existence of the people to whom he was introduced. The room was jammed full of women in Pucci prints, men of all ages talking about earnings ratios and defensive market positions, and the titular guest of honor, a red-headed Irish actress, oft-married, a photogenic female who had enjoyed a brief flurry of Hollywood popularity in swashbucklers and Westerns, the results of her pneumatic talent for taking very deep breaths. She smiled at everything she said and everything that was said to her; she seemed to have been programmed to smile incessantly. Ginger brought Villiers along to meet her, and they found Ginger’s husband staring at the lardy cleavage revealed by the actress’s scooped neckline, while a woman was saying to the actress with completely false affection, “Oh, my dear, how divine! That dress is you.”

George Hackman looked up, recognized Villiers, and swarmed all over him in his enthusiasm. Villiers pushed him away gently, and Ginger said, “Don’t be gauche, darling,” calling her husband “darling” with steely emphasis and absenting the r from the word. She stared angrily at him, but Hackman was grinning obliviously; Ginger gripped his sleeve, turned him around, handed him her empty glass, and said, “Darling, why don’t you reach deep down in your heart and get me some ice cubes?” She smiled sweetly.

Hackman shifted his glance from Villiers to his wife and halved his smile. “Imagine you needing ice cubes.” Then, with elephantine cheek, he turned deliberately to stare at the actress’s breasts before he looked up again and said to Villiers, “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

En route through the crowd, he said, “She says she’s got nothing to wear, and it takes her three Goddamned hours to put it on. Damn glad to see you, Mace. Glad you came.” He elbowed a path to the built-in bar. It was racked with cheap liquor, without apology. Hackman went around behind it and started filling glasses, roaring in his bumptious voice, “Now, this is what you call an income-tax cocktail-two drinks, and you withhold nothing.” He guffawed.

A man by Villier’s elbow said, “Anybody can make a fortune in the market, George, but it takes a genius to mix a good Manhattan.”

“You bet your ass,” Hackman said. “The secret is, you don’t pour the vermouth, you just pretend to pour it.” He emitted another bark of laughter, turned to Villiers, and said in a low, confidential growl, “Why the hell can’t I convince Ginger a pretty secretary can be just as efficient as an ugly one, hey?” He winked elaborately.

Villiers eased back to the end of the bar and stood isolated by his aloofness. For a moment he looked speculatively across the room at the red-haired actress. She was swivel-hipped and large-breasted and impregnated with sensuality; but her hair was bottled, the thick mouth was outlined with a great smear of red like a gunnery target, and her eye makeup seemed to be compounded of shoe polish and reinforced concrete. Villiers lost interest and looked away. A man beside him said in his ear, “Christ, the heat.” Villiers didn’t even look at him.

He caught snatches of talk: “The servant class is dying off a lot faster than the upper class.” “… went up seven points in fourteen days!” “… can’t get the Goddamned car fixed at all, not a single competent mechanic left in Westchester County.”

Hackman handed him a drink. “Wrap yourself around this, old buddy.” He looked up and saw his wife approaching and said, “Cheese it, the fuzz,” and disappeared into the crowd; Villiers had a last glimpse of him resting a casual, proprietary hand on a girl’s rump.

Ginger came up to Villiers and let her shoulders slump. “Christ, Mace.”

He gestured with the drink Hackman had handed him. “How high the moon, Ginger?”

“About four Scotches,” she said. “Forgive me, I’m a little drunker than usual tonight. I’ve got a summer cold, which I’ve been curing with Scotch. God, look at this mess. All these Yo-Yos lying to each other, talking all the time about how much they hate parties. They’re all trying to sell something. What ever happened to the gay old times? What ever happened to the real laughs, Mace?”

“If you don’t like it, you can divorce him.”

“And go back to the chorus line and the runway at Macy’s? Thanks a lot.”

“You’ll suit yourself, I suppose,” he said, and put the drink down on the bar, untouched. “I expected to see Colonel Butler here.”

“He’s here-that little bald character over there talking to the Winslows. Shall I introduce you to him?”

“No. Where’s the guest bedroom?”

She gestured with her drink. “Down that hall, the last door on your right.”

“Tell Butler I’m there. Don’t let anybody else hear you.”

She lifted her eyebrows. Villiers moved off toward the hallway. He glanced back once and saw that Ginger was standing very still, looking at him, unblinking. Her lips parted; she followed him with her eyes when he turned away.

He found the guest room and went in, switching on a table lamp and choosing his spot. When knuckles rapped on the door, he had just finished moving the two chairs to new positions in the room. He opened up and said without smiling, “Come on in.”

“You’re Villiers. I’ve seen your picture in the Times. I’m Lew Butler.” The colonel offered his hand, and Villiers, out of politics, took it; the colonel made a childish contest of strength of it, and Villiers matched him grip for grip until the colonel smiled slightly and relaxed his hold. Villiers indicated a chair and crossed the room to sit down. He had so positioned the chairs that most of the light in the room fell on Colonel Butler’s face when he sat down. If Butler was aware of the deliberate placement of furniture, he made no sign of it. He was a trim, short-bodied man with a well-taken-care-of body that bespoke gym workouts and rubdowns; his suit was well cut, conservative, Brooks Brothers; his voice had that curious combination of command abruptness and Southern twang which seemed to be the standard patois of the armed services.

He said, “I had to postpone a trip to British Columbia to hunt bighorns for this. I hope you’ve got something important to say.”

“I have,” Villiers said, and added without expression, “I’m glad you could make it.”

“I don’t much care for this clandestine way of doing things. Always been a straight-from-the-shoulder man, myself.”

“You were the one who didn’t want anybody to know about this meeting.”

The colonel made a quick, impatient gesture, like a short judo chop. “Let’s get at it. What’s on your mind?”

Villiers took his time answering. He was sizing the man up. Butler had manicured fingers and a diamond tiepin. His shoes were $125 Johnston-Murphys. The necktie was silk, possibly Dior. Clearly a man who liked to spend money: if he spent that much on his attire, he probably had ambitions of owning his own private steam yacht to take him on his trophy-hunting safaris. Probably had tens of thousands invested in his hunting wardrobe and armory. All of which suggested a direction of approach. Villiers said, “Heggins Aircraft is a tired old company. You let yourself be tapped to head it because five years ago there were plenty of Pentagon contracts to be had and you liked the sound of the seventy-five-thousand-a-year salary that went with the job. When the contracts started to come in, in fact, you liked it so much you bought into the company with borrowed capital. By last year you’d bought enough stock, mainly through stock options, to control the board of directors as well as the management of the company. You moved up from president to board chairman because you owned fifteen percent of the stock and got the proxies of another forty percent. But you had to borrow money to do it, using your fifteen percent as collateral. All of which makes you control-rich but cash-poor. Let me finish. It strikes me you might welcome someone to come in and take the clunker off your hands, if it would allow you to retire with a pocketful of cash and negotiable securities instead of the mountain of debts you’ve got now. You’ll correct me if I’ve given offense. I’m offering you cash in hand.”

“For control of Heggins?”

“Of course.”

“I own only fifteen percent of it, and that’s in hock. How can I sell the company when I don’t own it?”

A bit of a smile touched Villiers’ mouth for the first time. “You’re not dealing with a country boy now, Colonel. Your pretended innocence is misplaced. As long as you control your own board of directors, you can sell the company to anybody you please. Let’s not waltz, shall we?”

The heavy roll of Butler’s lips compressed. “Why do you want it? You said yourself it’s in bad shape. Not that I agree, but if that’s your opinion I don’t see why you’d be interested in the company.”

“Does it matter?”

Butler stood up, picked up his chair, and carried it forward five feet. It took him out of the direct beam of lamplight. When he sat down he said, “I spent my life as a military man. It’s a straightforward kind of profession, and you learn to tackle things directly, without beating around the bush-at least you do if you’re a good soldier. I’ll be direct with you, Villiers. If you were a blue-chip executive coming to me with this offer, I might not give a tinker’s damn what your reasons were. But one of the first things I learned at West Point was not to go into unknown country without prior reconnaissance. I’ve had you checked out pretty thoroughly.”

“And?”

“I’m not sure you’re the kind of man I’d want to do business with.”

“Then why are you here?” Villiers said, unaroused.

“I didn’t say I’d absolutely refuse to do business with you regardless of circumstances. I’m saying you’re going to have to convince me. Now, why do you want Heggins? To strip it of assets and close it down? Because if that’s your game, I won’t play it. I’ve got too many friends in the company. I won’t be a party to it if you intend to close the company down and lock them out.”

“Fine sentiments,” Villiers murmured. “But Heggins is going under, whether or not you sell out. What happens to all your good friends in the management when Heggins runs out of defense contracts?”

“We’ll limp along. Civil aircraft, an executive jet we’re designing, component parts. We’ve still got markets. I admit we may have to lay off labor, but they’re only hired on a contract-term basis anyway. It’s the cadre I’m concerned with. Forty or fifty top men.”

“If they’re good, they won’t have any trouble finding positions in other companies.”

“You’re admitting you’d close the company out if I sold it to you?”

“Nothing of the kind. I’m only trying to make you see that your sentimentality’s misplaced. Look here, Colonel, you helped the company once because you had the contacts to get government contracts. That’s over. You got passed over for promotion to brigadier general for the same reason you’ll let Heggins go under. You haven’t got what it takes to ramrod the company into shape. I have. I see a chance to build the company up and make a fortune out of it. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t offer to buy it. I’ve insulted you? Good. Let me tell you something, Colonel-you’re in a tight place now, your ability to deliver is on the line, and I’m the one who can bail you out. I’m offering you a stock swap with a sound chemical corporation which will give you fifty thousand shares of a rock-hard six-dollar stock in outright exchange for your Heggins shares, on which I’ll pay what you owe in your margin account. And I’m offering you options on twenty-five thousand shares of the same chemical stock at fifty cents over the going market, exercisable anytime in the next two years.”

“What chemical company?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. If you come into the deal, you’ll be informed.”

“I’m not a country boy either, you know. I don’t sign blank checks. For all I know, you’re offering me fifty thousand shares of an on-paper corporation which won’t cost you anything to issue but six dollars and ninety-five cents in printing bills.” Butler stared at him with fierce challenge.

Villiers’ eyelids dropped, covering his thoughts. He said, “I think you’re in the wrong game, Colonel. Don’t you realize how easily I can cripple you? All I have to do is start selling Heggins stock short to drive the price down. If I start a rumor that your sales are slipping, your sales will slip. Once the price of your Heggins stock drops enough you’ll have to come up with more margin, and when you don’t they’ll sell you out. I’ll step in and buy, and you’ll be toppled from control without a thing to show for it. I’m offering you a chance to avoid that. I’m offering you cash. I guarantee the stock you’ll get in exchange for your Heggins will be worth a minimum of six dollars a share on the open market at the time of the trade. If it’s not, I’ll make up the difference out of my pocket. Three hundred thousand dollars guaranteed, for your interest in Heggins and your signature on a contract authorizing the merger. Options on more. Now, let’s have your decision.”

The colonel sat silent and surly, not meeting Villiers’ eyes. After a long time he said in a smaller voice than he had used heretofore, “My position in Heggins is worth more than three hundred thousand at the market.”

“Nuts. By the time you pay your creditors, you’ve got less than two hundred thousand equity. Quit sparring, I won’t bargain with you. My offer’s firm.”

“You’ll pay the creditors, is that what you’re saying?”

“Of course.” Yawning, Villiers patted his lips; he knew he had won-he was already beginning to lose interest. Butler searched his face intensely, quarreling with himself in silence, but Villiers’ opaque eyes blocked all inquiry, turned the appraisal back, as effectively as if they had been the eyes of a dead man. He had long ago learned not to give anything away with his face.

Butler said finally, aimless and without strength, “How do I know you’ll treat my people fairly?”

“You don’t. They’ll take their chances-we all do.”

“You drive a sonofabitching hard bargain.”

“I’m not running a charity institution. Your conscience is your own affair-I’m only offering money. If you’re worried about your friends, maybe you ought to try to use your influence to get them commissions in the Air Force.”

Butler stood up. “I could fight you, you know.”

“You could,” Villiers agreed.

“I could make it tough for you to get your hands on Heggins.”

“No. I’m not that desperate to own it. You put up a fight, and I’ll drop out. Then where are you? The company still dies.”

“It would give me one hell of a pleasure to spit in your face. I wish I could afford to.” Butler turned toward the door. “Let me know when the papers are ready for my signature.”

Villiers didn’t stir when the colonel walked out. He sat still for several minutes before he got up to replace the chairs on their original sites. He was reaching up under the shade to switch off the lamp when the door opened.

Ginger Hackman said, “Being exclusive, Mace?” She came inside and shut the door behind her. Villiers straightened, unsmiling. She stood just inside the door, slightly slumped, eyelids drooping; her eyes, beautiful and slanted with wary, rancorousirony, were bright and clever, and often wounded-the wisdom of frank cynicism that had come from rebuffed idealism. She said in a voice that seemed more resigned than eager, “I was wondering if you were feeling athletic. You used to, in the middle of a business deal.”

“Trouble in paradise so soon, Ginger?”

She smoothed down her skirt with lingering, suggestive hands. “All he wants at home is a mother and housekeeper. He saves all his fun and games for his other girls-his toys.”

“There are seventy-five people out there.”

Ginger turned the lock. “I’m not worried if you’re not.”

Villiers smiled a little. Ginger gave him a watchful look that turned playful. “Maybe you’d rather take it up with our Hollywood friend, out there shaking her big bloated boobs all over everybody. Maybe you’d rather climb into her big juicy saddle and score with her?”

“What’s the matter?” he said, his voice low and husky.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m sore at myself. Wouldn’t you be? No, hell no; you wouldn’t.” She moved forward until he felt the warmth of her legs moving close against him. She uttered a short nervous little gasp when he touched her. Her eyes were open wide; she kissed him with moist warmth and suction, whiskey on her breath. He felt coiling spasms in his groin, his genitals engorging, trying to swell free; her hand slid down his fly to the distended cloth, unzipped him, and reached inside to clutch him. As strength flowed into his hard penis, it came out, rising with eager stiffness into her hand. She stepped away from him abruptly, presenting her back, and he opened the dress and watched her step out of it. The strapless bra bit into the velvet of her back; he unsnapped it and watched it fall free of her round, brown-tipped breasts as she turned, smiled, slid tawny panties down her long legs, and lay back on the bed. She watched him with heavy-lidded eyes; she was caressing her soft pubic bush. She leaned back, thrusting it toward him. Her knees separated and arched, her thighs twisted, and she presented to him her emerging vaginal slit, the pink lips swelling. “Well?” she said. “Come on!”