Green Grow the Dollars

by Emma Lathen

  “Well then, I think we can declare this meeting adjourned, pausing only to express our gratitude to the distinguished panelists who have given us the benefit of their research work in this area. And of course our special thanks go to Professor Lordian Helsgrod for bringing us up to date on the research in Stockholm.”

  There was a polite patter of applause, most of the assembly scrambled for the doors, and one beady-eyed man headed straight for the chairman.

  “Well, Howard, it’s a relief you were able to make it. And I can’t thank you enough for going on with the panel.”

  Pendleton pretended to misunderstand. “I agreed to be moderator last August, Stuart,” he said.

  “Yes, I know, but you’ve got so much on your hands these days, Howard, we all would have understood if you’d withdrawn.”

  Pendleton had learned to control himself in public a long time ago. He agreed that he was busy, very busy.

  “I can’t remember when we’ve had so many simultaneous projects at IPR. We may have bitten off more than we can chew. But one thing’s certain, we’re going to have to take on a few more assistants. That’s why I have to start interviewing. Otherwise I’d love to have a bite with you.”

  Stuart Downing and Pendleton had been competitors since their student days. Downing had always been consumed with envy. Pendleton had achieved prominence early in his career. Pendleton was head of his own institute. Above all, Pendleton’s salary was not dictated by a state legislature. If he was now heading for a fall, it was only fair. Some of the rumors, and downright slander, suggested this might be the case, and Downing hungered for signs of confirmation.

  But none was forthcoming. Howard was not nervous, Howard was not embarrassed, Howard was not even using his schedule as an excuse to avoid conversation. On the contrary, he was his normal cordial self, busy but never too busy for a few words with a friend. “I expect we’ll be running into each other at the interviews,” he continued.

  “Not the way research funds have been drying up,” Stuart muttered, automatically falling back on a stock complaint.

  “Ah, yes, I’d forgotten. These are lean days at the state universities,” Pendleton said with a kindly air of detachment.

  Pricked, Downing moved to the offensive. “Actually I thought you’d be so busy with this big lawsuit of yours, you might not show up at all.”

  “Good Lord, no. Vandam’s is taking care of all that,” Pendleton replied negligently. “Of course, they’ve asked us to recommend some expert witnesses to review the scientific exhibits.”

  The gleam of anticipation in Downing’s eye was not wasted on Pendleton.

  “I’ve told them you can overdo that sort of thing,” he went on, calculating every word. “Far better to concentrate on quality than have an army of nonentities trooping to the stand and boring everybody to death. I advised them to be satisfied with three experts, so long as they were three of the top men. It’s not so easy to find them, though.”

  Downing was almost licking his lips by now. But the next sentences he heard were not those he expected.

  “Whittingsley and Santanelli go without saying, naturally,” said Dr. Pendleton judiciously. “But where in the world am I supposed to find a third man of that caliber?”

  For a moment his glance appraised his companion. Then he passed on to a new subject.

  “By the way, Stuart, as you won’t be doing any hiring yourself, you don’t know a bright youngster we could use, do you? Fran is looking for an assistant on her floribunda work and she really needs someone who has . . .”

  Late that evening Dr. Pendleton described the outcome to his wife.

  “That SOB really thought I was going to beg him to be a witness, so he could have the pleasure of refusing. By the time I was done with him, it was the other way around. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to be linked with Whittingsley and Santanelli. I haven’t known Stuart Downing for 30 years without learning what’ll make him go down on his knees.”

  “You’re so good at handling people, Howard,” Fran murmured without lifting her eyes from the paper she was delivering the next day.

  Dick Vandam could have used lessons in this all-important subject. By now he was convinced that the Pendletons had been unnecessarily pessimistic about the amount of support to be wrung from their witnesses. After all, Vandam’s had certain levers unavailable to most defendants. As he advanced on his prey, Dick forgot that, in order to use a lever, you first need a place to stand.

  “Dr. Santanelli! What a coincidence running into you!”

  He had been tracking the man down for an hour.

  “Mr. Vandam! I didn’t expect to see you until the banquet tomorrow night.”

  Mrs. Mary Larrabee was receiving her $10,000 check at the annual dinner of the American Sweet Pea Society and, consequently, Vandam’s had adopted a possessive attitude toward the occasion.

  “I’m glad you’re going to be there. We expect it to be a great evening. Mrs. Larrabee’s Firecracker will be in gardens all over the country next year. And we do like to encourage amateur enterprise of that sort, although we realize it cannot compare to the work being done with modern technical facilities.”

  Dr. Santanelli did not disappoint him.

  “Such as in our new laboratory.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask about that. I hope it’s working out as well in practice as the architect promised.”

  Vandam’s did not confine its benefactions to contests for the general public. Most major universities had a Vandam Graduate Fellowship. Dr. Santanelli’s own particular bailiwick now boasted a Vandam Laboratory of Plant Science.

  The professor waxed enthusiastic. “A beautiful building! And the equipment is everything we could ask for. The temperature-control rooms, the humidity system, the computer terminals.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Vandam smiled modestly before tossing in a negligent addendum. “By the way, you may not know about our lawsuit. I wanted to ask you—” Beaming, Dr. Santanelli did not let him go further. “Howard Pendleton has already asked me to be an expert witness for you. I agreed at once. From what he tells me of the evidence, there is no possibility of independent research and I will so tell the court.”

  “Fine! And we’d like to emphasize the different caliber of the two research teams. Naturally everybody knows the kind of effort we put into our development program, but it won’t hurt to make sure the judge gets a realistic view of the probabilities.”

  Santanelli stiffened. “I could not possibly pretend to evaluate the comparative competence of Dr. Pendleton and Dr. Wenzel.”

  “But you’ve known Howard Pendleton for—”

  “An expert witness is only asked for his judgment of factual evidence. I can look at two sets of laboratory notes and say that, in my opinion, one set has been copied from the other. But as to which is genuine and which is fake . . .” Here both palms turned upward. “For that you want a crime expert, not a botanical expert.”

  Vandam reddened angrily. That’s gratitude for you, he thought to himself. 15 million dollars for that building and all we get in exchange is a lecture. Well, that’s the last penny Dr. Joseph Santanelli ever sees from us. He’s going to find out he’s offended the biggest force in contemporary horticulture.

  Dick Vandam should have known better. His company was not the biggest force in horticulture and never had been. In America that honor rests with the U.S. Department of Agriculture.

  And their two representatives were having lunch with Ned Ackerman.

  McCormick Place has taken every possible precaution to ensure that its visitors are adequately nourished at a price they can afford. Leaving aside the stand-up sandwich bars intended for transient spectators, there were basically three types of eatery available. Corporate executives and the high panjandrums of academia instinctively found their way to the dining room restaurant where they could lunch in splendor looking out over the lake. Earl Sanders had never considered any other locale for his tête-à-tête with Milton
Vandam over expense-account veal piccata. Flower exhibitors, graduate students, and secretaries just as instinctively headed below to the cafeteria, where Barbara Gunn and Eric Most had the misfortune to find themselves elbow to elbow with overcrowded trays, a stalled checkout line, and no possibility of ignoring each other. But the separation into have’s and have-not’s is by no means this absolute. Right in the middle of the bustling lobby there is a cheerful sidewalk cafe, and it was here that Ned Ackerman and his old friends were having a substantial meal in solid second-class comfort.

  “I hear you’re beating the bushes for expert witnesses, Ned. How come you’re not asking any of us?”

  “Listen, Steve, the last thing I want right now is anybody from USDA testifying,” Ackerman replied amiably. “Scotty can round up a couple of big shots for the witness stand.”

  The third man, a gaunt skeletal figure who required immense amounts of food, pushed away an empty plate and, with the serious work of the noon break taken care of, entered the conversation.

  “That’s a wonderful way to find out who’s entitled to a patent,” he jeered in friendly fashion. “You’ve got experts, they’ve got experts, and in the meantime the ones who could blow the whole thing apart are kept a long way from the courtroom.”

  Ackerman was not visibly troubled by this criticism. “Being on your own is a lot different than working for the Department, Gus,” he replied. “They play by different rules out here.”

  Gus rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Sure, but how long do you think you can sit on this thing?”

  “Just as long as we have to. You boys know the kind of capital I have. Wisconsin Seed has got just one chance at the big time, and we’re not blowing it!”

  Steve was not convinced. ‘There’s such a thing as playing your cards too close to your chest, Ned. You can get burned that way.”

  A grin split Ackerman’s face. “It depends on the odds. There are capers you can pull off in a small outfit that wouldn’t stand a chance in a big one. This time the advantage is on our side. Nobody in the world knows a goddamned thing except Scotty and me.”

  Downstairs in the cafeteria Barbara Gunn threw a despairing glance at the bottleneck by the cashier’s desk. Would she never be able to end this encounter?

  “No, Eric, I’m not going to discuss it anymore,” she said through trembling lips. “I’ve already told you too much.”

  Chapter 11

  Organic Material

  THOUSANDS of out-of-towners were swirling around McCormick Place, working or pretending to work. Other thousands were not even pretending. The sedentary were hailing a cocktail waitress, then settling in for a good talk, frequently about Numero Uno. The more energetic were touring the Art Institute, shopping at Marshall Field’s or exploring Rush Street. In pre-ERA days these extracurricular delights, minus Rush Street, had been laid on for the wives. Now, with everybody’s consciousness raised, the frills offered for spouses were scrupulously non-sexist.

  Nevertheless, most of the Entertainment Committee’s clients were still wives, not husbands. It was through this Ladies Entrance that John Thatcher was inexorably sucked into the festivities.

  The lady in question was Mrs. Mary Larrabee, recipient- to-be of Vandam’s $10,000 prize for the perfect sweet pea. Wishing to do the right thing by their heroine, Vandam’s had consulted the Entertainment Committee. None of their proposed outings impressed Vandam’s. Finally someone had the daring notion of asking Mrs. Larrabee what she would like to do or see in Chicago.

  Mrs. Larrabee wanted to visit the stockyards. She had wanted to see the stockyards since she was a small child. But her mother and father had refused to take her and, as for Pete . . .

  The stockyards, the Entertainment Committee retorted, had left town.

  Pete Larrabee heaved a sigh of relief while Mary thought deeply. “Then I’d like to tour the market,” she said firmly.

  “You mean the Board of Trade?”

  “No, the wholesale produce market. Where stores buy their fruits and vegetables.”

  The Entertainment Committee, which prided itself on a lengthy roster of tourist attractions, huffily told Vandam’s that no one had ever before turned down the Oriental Institute and Sears Tower in favor of the market. As a matter of fact, the Entertainment Committee was not at all sure it could make the arrangements.

  Vandam’s in turn told Standard Foods, and Standard Foods told John Thatcher.

  “It shouldn’t be insuperably difficult,” he said rashly. “Find someone who goes to the market, and get him to take Mrs. Larrabee along.”

  With those unconsidered words, he established himself as an authority on the subject and considerably delayed his return to the Sloan.

  “Find someone who goes to the market?” Earl Sanders asked helplessly. “Who goes to the market?”

  “A good many of Standard Foods’ customers,” replied Thatcher, knowing full well that Sanders thought of SF customers as permanently glued to their expensive desks. “What you want is someone who drives a truck.”

  Leaving Sanders completely flummoxed, Thatcher departed for the Midwestern Trust where Edgar Brown took this harmless anecdote and ran with it. First he delivered a pithy sermon about hands-on experience as an essential step on the corporate ladder. Then he initiated several phone calls.

  “Oh thanks, but—” Thatcher protested.

  “Easiest damn thing in the world,” Brown assured him.

  Willy-nilly, Thatcher found himself cast as tour leader. Mr. Bernard Gordon, owner of the Gordon Markets that spangled Cook County, was delighted to oblige any friend of Edgar Brown’s. It would take him no more than an hour, he promised, to set things up.

  “Thank you very much,” said Thatcher, now resigned to further involvement.

  It began when he got back to the Hyatt. Just as he was preparing to join Charlie Trinkam for dinner, the phone rang.

  “Mr. Thatcher.” It was an accusation, not a question, and when Thatcher admitted as much, the caller said throatily, “Vince Mancuso.”

  “Oh yes,” said Thatcher, putting two and two together. No one at Wenonah Industries sounded remotely like Vince Mancuso. Possibly this was part of their problem. “Mr. Gordon said someone would be calling—”

  Mancuso fell on the name. “He told me to call you,” he said, disavowing personal responsibility.

  “He says you want to go to South Water Street tonight. And he says you want to take some lady along.”

  Without giving Thatcher a chance to comment, he added, “And Mr. Gordon says that means I don’t take the truck.”

  “I see,” said Thatcher, beginning to fear that Gordon had used the stick, not the carrot.

  But Mancuso only wanted to spell out his instructions. “It’s okay by me, if that’s what you want,” he said generously. “Here’s what we’ll do . . .”

  His subsequent words banished other concerns from Thatcher’s mind.

  “Say what you will about Wenonah Industries,” he said to Charlie with some heat, “they’ve never asked me to get up in the middle of the night.”

  “Of course not,” said Charlie, absorbed in his own problems, “even in broad daylight, they’re not wide awake.”

  Chicago has its beauty spots. Nineteenth Street, between Racine and Morgan, is not one of them. At three o’clock in the morning on a frigid Tuesday in January it resembled an outpost of hell. The unearthly glow of sodium lights illuminated a vast, terrible wasteland.

  The streets were almost deserted except for an occasional truck, a disquieting number of police cruisers and, courtesy of Bernard Gordon and Gordon Markets, a magnificently inappropriate Cadillac complete with uniformed chauffeur.

  The passengers were pretty incongruous too. Mrs. Larrabee, the only one who had boarded with marked enthusiasm, was alternately shocked and fascinated by what she saw. Jason Ingersoll, escorting her on behalf of Vandam’s, was noticeably subdued. The other two members of the expedition were Vince Mancuso and John Thatcher, and Thatcher always le
t experts hold the floor.

  Mancuso, initially constrained by surroundings and company, got along with Mary Larrabee like a house afire.

  “Oh, my!” she exclaimed as they glided past a particularly desolate intersection.

  “Used to be real nice here,” he said, breathing heavily.

  Fortunately, before they could delve further into urban blight, the limousine turned into a short roadway and they rolled into the South Water Street Market.

  “Oh, my!” said Mrs. Larrabee once more.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Thatcher, following her out of the car.

  It was an astonishing sight, long city blocks lined with brightly lit loading platforms piled high with crates and mounds of potatoes, lettuce, onions, cabbages, mushrooms, bananas and celery. Trucks ranging from huge six wheelers to battered pickups jockeyed through the street between the cliffs of produce, while aproned men and boys swore and grunted as they heaved heavy burdens into the trucks. And, all the time, there was the ceaseless chant of market-making: “How much?”

  “Two dollars a bushel.”

  “Too much.”

  “Six bushels for eleven-fifty.”

  “Five for nine.”

  “Okay, Louis.”

  It was not the leisurely haggling of the bazaar but the electric current of split-second decisions that crackled in the pre-dawn air.

  “You people want to come this way?” said Mancuso, gaining authority by the minute. Without waiting, he clambered up the ladder to the first platform, then turned into a darkened stairway that led to a second-floor room.

  Sensible woman that she was, Mary Larrabee had come prepared in boots, slacks and a woolly cap. For following Mancuso, she was more suitably garbed than either Ingersoll or John Thatcher. Even so, she attracted all the attention. Business suits and overcoats might be uncommon at South Water; women were a rarity.

  Upstairs, they discovered that Mancuso was starting the tour with hospitality. He gestured toward a battered coffee urn on an even more battered table before turning to the sole occupant of the room. “Hi, Bruno.”

  Bruno was large, heavily sweatered, and bemused. Impassively he nodded a reply, studied Mancuso’s charges, gulped his coffee and lumbered off. Thatcher had a sudden vivid image of these two men meeting over this urn night after night.