(1969) The Seven Minutes

by Irving Wallace

  T feel better already,’ said Barrett.

  Zelkin had removed his spectacles and was wiping them with his napkin. ‘In one way it’s too bad,’ he muttered, ‘your having to sweep the arrest of Ben Fremont under the rug. If it could only be brought to trial, it would be the perfect case for Barrett and Zelkin to start their partnership with. It’s our meat, Mike, a good cause, a challenge, a publicity natural, everything. But what the heck, we’ll have plenty of other cases coming up.’ Zelkin pulled on his spectacles again, and squinted at Barrett. ‘You are going to quit Thayer and Turner, aren’t you?’

  Barrett felt the lump in his throat. He swallowed. ‘I’ve already quit them, Abe. I quit them this morning.’

  Zelkin slapped his hands together. ‘Great!’ he exclaimed. ‘My gosh, why did you keep me in suspense? Why didn’t you teil me right away?’

  Barrett’s forehead felt warm. He tried not to squirm. ‘Well, Abe, first let me tell you, let me explain -‘

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ It was the waiter, rolling the cart with their lunch plates up to their booth. ‘Sorry to be so long. The hamburger steak takes time. It’s all here hot, maybe even the chef’s

  salad’s hot.’

  Zelkin had tossed aside his napkin and was sliding out of the booth. ‘Hold still, Mike,’ he said exuberantly, ‘Before you tell me about it, let me go to the little boys’ room. Be right back, I want to know everything that happened.’

  Unhappily, Barrett watched him go bouncing off toward the bar in the rear.

  ‘ Miserable, ignoring the water, who was setting down the plates, Barrett sat back against the padded booth, closed his eyes, and tried to review what had happened and assess how it would sound to his friend - or ex-friend.

  It had begun with the Osborn account.

  Willard Osborn II, president of Osborn Enterprises, Inc., owned or controlled the majority stock in fourteen television and radio stations in Los Angeles, Phoenix, Las Vegas, San Francisco, Seattle, Denver, and elsewhere in the West. His interests in these stations alone, not including additional investments in motion-picture companies, tape-manufacturing firms, amusement centers, hotels, amounted to forty-two million dollars. While Osborn was no Luther Yerkes, no super-tycoon, he was, as the saying goes, comfortable. He was also ambitious. Persisting in his quest for empire, Osborn had become involved in an intricate negotiation over an immense new possible acquisition. His bargaining had been stalemated because the new business presented a complicated tax problem. In an effort to learn whether the problem could be resolved, he had taken on the management company of Thayer and Turner. And Thayer and Turner, as was their custom, had fragmented various aspects of the difficult taxation obstacle, and farmed these parts out to their junior members. To how many, Mike Barrett did not know, except that he was one of those assigned full-time on a crash program to create a tax structure that would make Osborn’s negotiation feasible.

  The work had been almost crushingly difficult, days without hours, weekends without rest, a project both back-breaking and mind-splitting. As much as he had come to detest tax law, Barrett had enjoyed the Osborn project. He had enjoyed it because it brought him close to dissecting the anatomy of power. For once, he could see it up close - so that legal precedents and business figures became translated into stately mansions and royal gardens - and it intrigued him and spurred his creativity. He had been reluctant to give up his papers, his findings, researches, suggestions, and to live among lesser people and problems again, but at last he had turned in his part of the job.

  He had not heard another word about the Osborn project until several months later, about four months ago, when old Thayer had announced at a staff meeting that their report had enabled Osborn Enterprises to conclude successfully a history-making multimillion-dollar deal in communications. Now Thayer, on behalf of

  himself and Turner, wanted to thank every person in the firm who had participated in this dedicated team effort.

  Three days after that meeting, old Thayer had summoned Mike Barrett to his office alone. He had offered Barrett a sherry. Unusual. Then he had said that Willard Osborn wished to meet Barrett briefly that very afternoon. No, not at the Osborn Tower Building, but at Osborn’s residence north of Sunset Boulevard in Holmby Hills. When Barrett had wondered what it was all about, Thayer had hesitated, then replied that Osborn merely wished to meet him. ‘I think you will find it interesting,’ Thayer had added with a pinched smile.

  After lunch, Barrett had driven to the Osborn hillside residence. Even though he had been prepared for grandeur, from the reports of colleagues who had been fortunate enough to be invited to the residence, the Spanish hacienda exceeded his expectations. Osborn had remodeled his mansion, Barrett had heard, after the Palacio Liria, the Alba town house near the Plaza de Espana in Madrid. Barrett had seen photographs of the original, and the smaller replica was equally impressive. There were the colorful gardens guarding the rolling driveway, and beneath tile roofing there were adobe facades with Doric columns in front of imposing pilasters.

  Awed, Barrett had allowed himself to be led by an immaculately uniformed maid through the vast entrance hall, down a long, wide passage, and into the high-ceilinged library. There, surrounded by Flemish paintings, and with a magnificent Goya oil as his backdrop, waited Willard Osborn II. He was lounging on a sofa near his ornate desk, teasing a friendly wolfhound, when Barrett appeared. Osborn rose immediately - a tall, droopy, aristocratic man with whitish hair, heavy-lidded eyes, angular features - and he shook Barrett’s hand. He signaled Barrett to the sofa, and then sat beside him.

  Slowly he turned toward Barrett and studied him. ‘Well, Mr Barrett,’ he said after a pause, ‘you may wonder why I had Thayer send yon around. For one thing, 1 wanted to thank you personally. For another, I wanted to have a look at a young man responsible for making me, in tax savings, two million dollars.’

  Barrett’s eyebrows shot upward when he heard the figure. Osborn did not hide his amusement. ‘It’s true, Mr Barrett,’ he went on. ‘Oh, it wasn’t easy to ascertain to whom the credit belonged. Thayer and Turner would have liked to take the credit themselves, or prattle about teamwork but I wouldn’t have that nonsense. I pinned them down. It turned out that, of the many ideas submitted, it was yours that was both the most novel and the most practicable, and it was yours around which they built their proposal.’ He paused. ‘A clever legal device - gimmick, as my television colleagues like to put it - and most imaginative. In a time of mediocrity, it is not often that I have the good fortune to meet a young man like yourself. 1 would be fascinated to know precisely

  how you conceived the whole tax structure. But first, will you have a cup of coffee with me?’

  During coffee they were joined by a third person. Faye Osborn, the host’s daughter and only offspring, fresh from the tennis court, had put her head into the library to remind her father of some social engagement. She had been introduced to Barrett. Meeting him, being told of his accomplishment, she had asked if she might have coffee with them.

  For the next half hour, it had become increasingly difficult for Barrett to keep his mind on tax matters. Faye’s eyes never left him. She seemed to be examining him with the cool objectivity of a horse-woman studying a derby winner soon to be auctioned off for stud. As for Barrett, he found his attention constantly diverted by the glacial beauty of Faye’s face and the perfection of her figure. Her sun-blanched blond hair was drawn tightly backward and caught up by a red ribbon. Her features were fine, flawless, Grecian. Her open-throated white blouse offered glimpses of the slopes of her full breasts. Her gracefully crossed legs were long and shapely. Perhaps twenty-eight years old, Barrett guessed. Finishing school in Switzerland, he guessed. And spoiled, he was sure.

  When the coffee and conversation had ended, it was Faye Osborn who saw him to the door. At the door she said, ‘I’m having some interesting people in Saturday night for a buffet dinner. I’d love to have you come.’

  ‘I’d be delighted.’
/>   ‘I’m pleased.’ She stared at him. ‘Is there someone you want to bring?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘Then bring yourself alone. I’ll cancel my date. Do you mind being my partner?’

  ‘I was hoping that was it.’

  And that was it. In the next two months, Mike Barrett had become a regular at the Osborn mansion, always Faye’s partner. One evening, as they were returning to Holmby Hills from the Philharmonic Auditorium, Faye asked to see his apartment. After two drinks, curled up against him, she said that she loved him. He admitted that he loved her.

  ‘Why haven’t you shown it ?’ she whispered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve never invited me up here before. And I still haven’t seen the bedroom.’

  ‘I’ve been afraid to. You have too much money. It puts me down.’

  ‘What if I were a shopgirl or somebody’s secretary?’

  ‘I’d have undressed you on the first date.’

  Her hand caressed his thigh. ‘Mike, you inverted snob, please undress me.’

  After that evening, he had begun seeing Faye four and five times a week. Sometimes Willard Osborn II was present, and Barrett

  often felt that the elder Osborn was taking his measure. Frequently, in the monotony of his legal work, Barrett caught himself daydreaming about what might be possible. It was this daydreaming, alone, that made him hesitate when Abe Zelkin had called him a month ago. Zelkin had wanted to know whether he had made up his mind yet about their partnership. Earlier Barrett had made up his mind to quit the rat race and join up with Zelkin. Now he had hesitated. Perhaps he was merely another one of Fay’s indulgences, and perhaps he misread the elder Osborn’s interest in him. Yet the daydreams continued. He had told Zelkin that he was overloaded at the office. Also, there was some prospect of a raise, and he wasn’t certain yet whether he should leave. Could Abe give him a little more time? Zelkin had said, ‘A little more, but not too much, Mike. For myself, I can’t wait. I’ve given my notice to the ACLU. I’m quitting and setting up my own office. I can’t carry it by myself. I’ve got several good guys who want to go in with me, but none of them is you, Mike. Look, I’ll carry the load alone for a month and keep your desk ready and waiting. I’m expecting you to say yes by then. I’ll wait for you to call.’

  Barrett had continued putting off that call. But three days ago he had almost decided that, while his relationship with Faye was the real thing, his hope about her father was something else and quite unreal, and that he should telephone Zelkin and agree to their partnership. Then, two days ago, Faye had telephoned. Her father wanted to see him that evening, after dinner, on business.

  On business. His hope danced, until he grabbed it and locked it out of sight.

  There they were, that evening, in the library once more, he and Willard Osborn II.

  ‘Michael,’ Osborn had said. ‘I think you’re shrewd enough to know I’ve been keeping an eye on you. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to bring this up. Now the timing is right, and I’ve made up my mind. I’m sure you’ve heard me discuss that Midwest television network that was coming on the market. 1 can have it, if certain tax details can be worked out. I need the right man to negotiate this. I’ve had the choice of promoting one of my older men or taking on someone new. I’ve decided on someone new. There’s only one condition. The new man would have to be available to take over by early next week. Michael, how would you like to be a vice-president of Osbom Enterprises starting at seventy-five thousand a year?’

  The jackpot, at long last.

  There had been an excited sleepless night. His mind had been a happy Mardi Gras, except for one very real demon. He was on a project that mi ght take weeks to resolve, and he had an understanding with his employers that he would not abandon a project without their consent. Yesterday morning he had been in the office early, awaiting Thayer’s arrival. He had gone in to see Thayer, and he had blurted out Osborn’s fantastic proposal. Sniffing, Thayer had listened. As he finished, Barrett felt that he could expect resistance. But old Thayer had merely sat up and said, ‘I’ll send Magill in to see you. Brief him on your project, and he’ll take over. You can terminate tomorrow morning. Good luck. It’s our policy never to stand in anyone’s way.’ By the emphasis Thayer put on ‘anyone’s way’ Barrett knew that the old man did not mean Barrett’s way, but Osborn’s way. And this morning he was free.

  He had wanted to telephone Faye immediately, and then her father, and make his acceptance formal. Instead, he had called Abe Zelkin to make a lunch date, not having the courage to tell him on the phone what had happened. He still wanted to telephone the Osborns, but his sense of order, of chronology, of first things first, would not permit him to do it. He must see Zelkin first, get that unhappy task over with, clear the decks, and then he would be truly free.

  And here he was with Abe Zelkin.

  Barrett slowly opened his eyes to the present, and to his surprise there was Zelkin, in the booth across from him, grinning at him.

  ‘I was wondering when you’d come out of the trance,’ said Zelkin. ‘For a guy with only good news, you sure looked stricken. Or were you in yoga meditation, and was that the face of ecstasy ? Well, 1 tell you, I feel good, Mike.’ He picked up his knife and fork and dug into the hamburger steak. ‘It’s sure taken us long enough to get together.’

  ‘Abe, let me -‘

  ‘Okay, I’m. sorry. You were going to tell me how it happened.’

  ‘Yes, let me tell you the whole thing.’ He picked at his salad without eating it. ‘It goes back to that day when I first met Faye Osborn. You remember, I told you about that.’

  ‘Great girl, Faye.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the story. The story is her old man. Now, don’t bust in, Abe. Let me tell it all, because that’s why I’m here.’

  Carefully, sorting and rearranging the events that he had just reviewed in his memory, Barrett began to relate the growth of his relationship with Willard Osborn II. Eventually he came to the point where Faye had told him that her father wanted to see him privately. Then he began to recount the meeting with Osborn in his library the night before last, and he tried not to watch Zelkin when he quoted Willard Osborn’s offer of seventy-five thousand a year and a vice-presidency.

  He tried not to watch, but he could not help seeing Zelkin’s pumpkin face come up from the hamburger and go taut beneath the fat. Zelkin ceased eating.

  It was no use avoiding the hurt eyes. Barrett looked up. ‘I’m seeing Osborn tomorrow night. I’m going to accept his job. I’m sorry, Abe, but I have to. I don’t feel there’s any choice. Much as I have wanted to go with you, something like this Osborn thing

  comes up once in a lifetime. I can’t let the brass ring pass. I’ve got to grab. I hope you’ll try to understand.’

  Absently Zelkin touched the napkin to his mouth. ‘Well, what the devil, what can I say ? I can’t say what I offered you is better as far as material things go. I mean, our law office could give you only crumbs compared to this. You could work thirty years and still never see seventy-five thousand dollars in three years, let alone one. And, while I got us some nice attractive offices, they’d be like storage rooms compared to what Osborn can give you. And clients -well, you know, we’d have the helpless and the dregs alongside the big shots you’re going to be meeting with now. The question is… what you’re after.’

  Barrett would not allow himself to weaken. ‘I know what I’m after, Abe.’

  ‘Do you ? I never felt you were certain, even after you threw over the Good Government Institute to play Get Rich Quick. After all, you were considering going in with me.’

  ‘I was. That was sincere. But that was before this Osborn position came up. That’s the one I’ve spent years waiting for.’

  Zelkin shook his head. ‘I’m still not convinced that’s what you want. Forget the do-good part of you. Technically, you can do good for the rich, too. Like A. J. Liebling once put it about the columnist
Westbrook Pegler. He said, “Pegler is a courageous defender of minorities - for example, the people who pay large income taxes.” Forgive me, Mike. I didn’t mean to say it to shiv you. I meant it as a funny. Only it came out bitter. Let me put it this way, Mike. You are an attorney, and what you’re going into isn’t law, it’s business. You’re going to become a businessman. Granted that in the eyes of the world you’ll be a big success. But in your own eyes, Mike, you’ve got to see sooner or later that the challenges won’t be the same as in our kind of law. The people won’t be the same as real people, and they won’t need the kind of help only you could give the clients who’d come to us. What’s there in it for you ?’

  ‘Money,’ said Barrett bluntly. Nobody, not even Zelkin, was going to cast him as some goddam Benedict Arnold. ‘Honest money, honestly earned. As Milton put it, “Money brings honor, friends, conquest, and realms.” Aptly from Paradise Regained.’

  ‘Well, as Thackeray put it,’ said Zelkin softly,’ “We often buy money very much too dear.” ’

  Barrett was suddenly exasperated. ‘Abe, to quote nobody but myself, please don’t give me any more of that crap. Let me tell you something, something that I’ve never told you about completely. My mother scrimped and pinched pennies and deprived herself to put me through Harvard, through law school. She and the old man came over on immigration boats, steerage, when they were kids, and grew up scared and alone, and we pushed around because they were poor. After they met up and got married in Chicago, my father worked twenty-five hours a day to keep his head above

  water and set aside a few bucks for a rainy day. And when he keeled over, there was that sum in the bank, a pitiful sum by our lights, to keep my mother and me alive.’

  ‘Mike, I know about such things,’ said Zelkin. ‘It wasn’t so different with my parents.’

  ‘All right, then it should be easier for you to comprehend the rest. Because when I got out of high school, my mother wouldn’t play it safe with her little loot. She knew what it was all about in little golden America. It was money talks, and if you want to learn the language you’d better go to school, and it better be the best school around. And then if you make it, you’ll be somebody and you can be independent and nobody can push you around. So she shot what was left on her son, so he could go to Harvard and make it. So far, so good, and some of that you already know.’