The hacienda was actually some distance to the east of Cordoba. It was situated on a mountainside, and on clear days a very distant view of the Gulf of Mexico could be seen from the windows.
Sonja was the chatelaine of the hacienda, mistress over an extended family and a dozen servants. The mountain land had once been a working sheep and cattle ranch. In years past, Sonja explained, the family had sold the land cheap and on good terms to tenant farmers and farm laborers who now worked all but about fifty hectares of land immediately adjacent to the house. The family kept the house as a home, but the income to maintain it came from oil and other investments.
She showed Jonas the thickness of the outer walls: a meter and more. The dining room had once been a chapel. A pantry had once been an arsenal. The swimming pool had been dug out of the rocky land that had once been a courtyard enclosed by high walls, now torn down, and the well that supplied the pool with water had been inside those walls.
"The place was built to sustain a siege," she said. "Once in fact it was attacked by Zapatistas." She smiled. "And the people inside surrendered."
She gave him the bedroom suite that Fulgencio Batista used when he came to visit — which he occasionally did. Emiliano Zapata had slept two nights in that same room.
She introduced Jonas to one of Bat's half brothers and one of his half sisters. The others were away: the boy in school in France and the girl living with her husband in the States.
The half sister, whose name was Rafaela, told Jonas how Bat had saved her life by shooting a rattlesnake with a pistol.
"You lived in a handsome home," Jonas said to Bat as they stood on a stone terrace looking at the distant sea.
"I didn't live here long," said Bat. "I went away to school."
Over dinner, Jonas stared at Sonja as much as he could without being noticed. He was sure what he had said to Bat had been right: that she was living a better life than he would have given her. Still, he couldn't help reflect on what might have been. He might have lived his own life very differently if he'd known she was carrying his child and had married her. On the other hand, he might have resented her, as men tend to do when they marry women they have made pregnant without intending to.
He remembered her bright wonder as they crossed the Atlantic twice on the big liners. He remembered her gratitude. Painfully, he remembered the hurt he'd dealt her when he left her. He had been simply unable to believe she was as innocent as she was.
A rationalization. He had known.
Now here she was, still beautiful, and now sophisticated and dignified.
She'd brought the boy up wonderfully. It was going to be a pleasure to introduce him to Nevada Smith.
In the Old World tradition, the women left the table after dinner, and the men remained for coffee, brandy, and cigars — Bat and Jonas and Virgilio Escalante. Virgilio and Bat wore white suits. Jonas didn't have one and wore a summer-weight tan suit.
"The price of oil is down," Bat said to Virgilio.
"It will come back," said Virgilio.
"When the price of oil goes down," Bat said to Jonas, "they don't pump as much. Which means that not only do they get less per barrel but they don't sell as many barrels. It makes income fluctuate wildly."
"I never invested in oil," said Jonas. "It has always impressed me as a business in which a fool and his money are soon parted." He nodded at Virgilio Escalante and added, "I mean, señor, it is a business where a man should not venture unless he is knowledgeable about that business."
Virgilio smiled. He was a graying, compact man who could, so far as appearance was concerned, have been a native of the United States or any country in Europe. "I understood your meaning," he said.
"I've never invested in uranium either," said Jonas. "For the same reason. It's a legitimate business in which some men are making fortunes. But for those who don't know what they're doing —" He shook his head.
"You've invested in a casino-hotel," said Bat.
"I have an experienced, knowledgeable consultant on my payroll."
"When I was last in the States," said Bat, "I saw Cord television sets in the stores."
"We're not as successful in the field as RCA or General Electric," said Jonas, "but I think we can compete with Philco, Zenith, Magnavox, DuMont, Emerson, Sylvania, and the like."
"I am hoping to see television broadcasting in Mexico before too much longer," said Virgilio. "I am afraid the broadcasting will be government-controlled, however. It is in most countries."
4
They had no bourbon in the house, so Jonas carried half a bottle of brandy to his room. He took a bath, stretched out on his bed, and looked through an English-language book he had found in the library. Main Street by Sinclair Lewis. He'd heard about it for many years but had never read it. He'd never had the time. Starting it now, he didn't find it terribly interesting and was about to put it aside when someone knocked on his bedroom door.
God! Not Sonja. Surely not ...
No, not Sonja. When he opened the door he found Virgilio standing there.
"May I come in?"
"Of course."
Two chairs faced the small fireplace, and the two men sat down. Jonas had undressed for bed. He hadn't brought a robe, so he'd pulled on his pants before he went to the door. Virgilio was still wearing the white suit he'd worn at dinner.
"I hope you will forgive the intrusion," said Virgilio. "I hope even more you will forgive the reason for it."
Jonas nodded. "Would you like some brandy?"
"No, thank you. I ... I am most embarrassed about what I am about to say. After dinner, when Bat spoke of the price of oil and the wide fluctuations we experience in oil income, he was not prompted by me, but he was explaining something that I would otherwise have had to explain."
Jonas knew what was coming. He was about to be touched for a loan.
"Even the past few months' diminished income would have been entirely sufficient ... but for one thing. I have been very foolish in Las Vegas. I am heavily indebted to the casinos, which of course expect payment. I need time. When the price of oil recovers, which it will, I shall be in a position to pay in full, with reasonable interest. For the moment —" He turned up the palms of his hands.
"How much do you owe?" asked Jonas.
"More than a quarter of a million dollars," said Virgilio glumly. "I owe the Flamingo a hundred ten thousand. I owe The Seven Voyages a hundred sixty-five thousand. Imagine my surprise and embarrassment when I learned that you own The Seven Voyages."
"You gamble badly," said Jonas. "Do you have other expensive habits?"
"No," said Virgilio humbly. "I am loyal to my wife — I mean, as loyal as any man; I have ventured but have never kept another woman. Like any man. No significant money."
Jonas was distressed that the man would bare himself this way. He demeaned himself, confessing his peccadilloes to a man who was almost a stranger to him. "You have what we call a cash-flow problem," he said to Virgilio.
"I believe that is the term."
Jonas's mind worked fast. This man had reared his son for him — and reared him well. He decided.
"One sixty-five at my hotel, one ten at the Flamingo, you say. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."
"A loan," said Virgilio.
"We can talk about it again sometime when the cash is flowing. In the meantime, don't even think about it. I'll take care of it."
5
From the villa in Mexico City, Jonas telephoned Morris Chandler on Tuesday, using the scrambler telephone.
"What are we carrying on the books in the name of Virgilio Escalante?" he asked.
"We don't have books for that kind of thing," said Morris.
"Then I'm sure you've got it in your head, Morris — that kind of money."
"Hundred sixty-five," said Morris.
"Write it off," said Jonas.
Morris Chandler said nothing for a long moment, then said, "Well, you own the place."
"Right. Now, I un
derstand that Señor Escalante owes a hundred ten at the Flamingo. Call and offer them fifty for it."
"They won't go for it."
"See if they do."
"Okay," Morris sighed. "You're the boss."
"Let me ask you something," said Jonas. "How much are we carrying for our Mexican junketeers?"
"Oh, I'd say another five hundred thousand. More than that, actually."
"And how much do we make from them in a year?"
"Offhand —"
"Enough to justify flying a plane back and forth from Mexico City twice a week, right? Enough to justify rooms, meals, drinks, gifts, right? Well then, it's enough to invest a hundred sixty in one of their high rollers. It's business, my friend, business."
6
When Bat came to the villa on Friday evening, Angie was there again. She had come down on the Thursday junket flight and would return to Las Vegas on Tuesday.
From the moment when Bat walked into the living room, Jonas saw that his son was angry. Dressed in a gray suit of some shiny material, with a narrow black necktie, Bat looked more Mexican than Jonas had ever seen him. He didn't sit down and spoke to Angie.
"I hope you won't be offended, Angie, but I would like to speak with my father alone ... for a few minutes."
Angie rose, nodded, and quietly left the room.
"Why?" asked Jonas.
Bat stepped over to the chair where his father was sitting. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He handed the envelope to Jonas. "There," he said. "There's twenty-five thousand in cash. That's all I could raise for the moment. The balance is represented by a note for two hundred fifty thousand. I'll pay as soon as I can. With interest."
Jonas didn't open the envelope. He thrust it toward Bat, who stepped back and didn't take it.
"May I ask what the hell this is for?"
Bat glared. "Virgilio ... Padre ... put a touch on you for his Las Vegas gambling losses. It was a despicable thing to do. I'm not sure you didn't do something worse, though. You gave it to him."
"I made him a loan."
"Do you have a note?"
"No. A deal like that doesn't need a note. It's a deal between gentlemen."
"Virgilio is no gentleman," said Bat. "His father, the man I called Abuelo — grandfather — would have horsewhipped him for asking money from you, from you of all people! And you gave it to him! 'A deal between gentlemen.' Bullshit!"
Jonas flared. "Who the hell are you to talk to me that way?"
"I want a straight answer to a straight question."
"Let me hear your straight question," Jonas muttered, his face glowering and red.
"The two seventy-five thousand cleared accounts between you and Virgilio, didn't it? It wiped the books clean. He married my mother, knowing she was pregnant by you. He brought me up in his household and treated me as if I were his son. He paid my tuition — well, part of it. Most of that was paid with Batista money, and we know how that is earned. But you and Virgilio. You're even, aren't you? My straight question is Can you tell me you didn't think of it that way? You hand over two seventy-five thousand and you feel no more obligation to Virgilio Escalante. Isn't that the way you figured?"
Jonas shook his head. "In the first place," he said, "you know nothing about casino gambling if you think high rollers like Virgilio have to pay a hundred cents on the dollar. I bought his markers from the Flamingo for fifty thousand. Morris Chandler would have sold him his markers at my hotel for a hundred ten or a hundred twenty. Your note is more than a hundred thousand too rich."
"That's not a straight answer to my straight question," Bat snapped angrily. "What the hell's the difference how much you paid? You paid him off! Didn't you?"
"If you've made up your mind to that, why should I even answer?"
Bat stiffened as he drew a deep breath. He stood for a full quarter of a minute breathing heavily. "Because," he said hoarsely between clenched teeth. "Because — All right. If you give me your word on it, I will believe you. I have no choice."
Jonas smiled, almost imperceptibly. So — His son. Formidable. He had backed his father — not just his father but Jonas Cord — into a corner.
Almost. "I will give you my word on a condition," said Jonas.
"Which is?"
"Which is that you take this money and this note back. Virgilio will repay me. If he doesn't, it's a business risk I took, for reasons that are sufficient for me — and which have nothing to do with you."
Bat nodded. "All right," he muttered. He reached for and accepted the envelope.
Jonas looked up and met Bat's eyes with his. "I did not pay off Virgilio Escalante for what he did for your mother, for you, or for me."
"What choice do I have, but to believe you? I used to think I didn't want to meet you until I was in a position to tell you to go to hell. So now I'm in that position."
"Are you telling me to go to hell?" asked Jonas. Bat shrugged scornfully. "'What's the difference?"
13
1
IN THE LAW FIRM OF WILSON, CLARK & YORK THERE WAS no Wilson and no York. There was a Clark: the great-grandson of Depew Clark. The founders were all long since dead, none of them having lived past 1930. The custom was to keep their names on the firm letterhead, giving the dates of their lives to solve any possible ethical problem that might arise if someone was naive enough to believe his law business might be handled by one of the founders.
The firm's twenty-nine active partners were listed in a column down the left margin of the letterhead. A column down the right margin listed the associates. One of these was Jonas E. Cord.
He was spending a year in the offices of Wilson, Clark & York by reason of the agreement between that firm and Gurza y Aroza in Mexico City to exchange junior associates for one-year terms. Two Wilson, Clark & York lawyers were in Mexico City. Two Gurza y Aroza abogados were in New York.
The fall crop of associates were traditionally welcomed at a cocktail party held at the Harvard Club. There they met all the partners and all the more senior associates and were welcomed into the fraternity of the firm. The partners kept keen eyes on their new associates. They wanted to see how much the boys would drink and how drunk they got. In point of fact, the test didn't work, and everybody knew it didn't. Among the senior associates there was invariably someone disloyal enough to warn the new associates, so the boys drank sparingly. Usually it was the partners who got drunk.
Occasionally, lawyers from other firms came to the party. They came to see how well Wilson, Clark & York had done with its recruiting, but they were welcome.
Dave Amory came. "Bat!" he exclaimed as he strode across the threadbare carpet that was an clement of the dignity and cachet of the Harvard Club and seized Bat's hand. "I heard these pettifoggers had got you. Welcome to New York!"
"Bat?" asked one of the firm's junior partners.
"Well, you aren't going to call him Jonas, for Christ's sake," said Dave. "Bat and I go back a long way. He was my platoon leader during the late unpleasantness."
"Dave saved my life," said Bat solemnly.
"Bull," said Dave. "If I had anything to do with it, it was only because he was fool enough to run across the Ludendorff Bridge as if it were the Brooklyn Bridge."
"I was in the Pacific," said the junior partner. "Anyway, we're glad to have another name for this guy, also to know we've got a genuine hero in the office."
"Hero — Oh, come on!" Bat complained. "Dave, you've got a big mouth."
A little later, as Bat and Dave stood at a window looking down on the street, Dave said, "Take the opportunity while you're in New York and get yourself admitted to the New York bar."
"I'm already admitted," said Bat. "I took the New York bar exam before I went back to Mexico."
"Good. Get all the admissions you can. And, hey, it's none of my business, but have you seen your father yet?"
Bat nodded. "He has an apartment in the Waldorf Towers, would you believe? I met him in Mexico, actual
ly. He's not in town very often, but when he was here, a week or so ago, he invited me to dinner at '21'."
"How 'bout Toni?"
Bat drew a breath and sighed. "I suppose I ought to go down to Washington and see her."
"When did you see her last?"
"Well, it's been ... a year."
Dave shook his head. "Maybe you better stay away from her. After all that time, she's probably made other arrangements."
2
Toni had cheered herself hoarse, but when she sat down over a Scotch and soda later with Nick Gargagliano she shook her head and sighed and admitted, "We don't have a chance."
They had driven from Washington to Baltimore to be present at a campaign rally for Adlai Stevenson. She couldn't think of a man in public life that she admired more, but she knew he would not be elected President of the United States.
"It's not that bad," said Nick, who was always the optimist.
"Not? It's worse. The great war hero is going to be elected President — and that slimy little creature from California will be elected with him. There's not a goddamned thing we can do to stop it."
Nick had ordered a plate of steamers and a mug of beer. Toni didn't feel like eating and was sipping Scotch and glancing around for the waiter who would bring her another one. She had started smoking again since she didn't see Bat anymore, and she inhaled the thick smoke from a Chesterfield.
They sat side by side in a high-backed wooden booth painted with shiny red enamel, facing a table painted the same way but blackened with dozens of cigarette burns. They had privacy, and Nick was casually fondling her left breast. She allowed this. She allowed more, though she had never done with him some of the things she had done with Bat.
Nicholas Gargagliano was assistant to the director of the Bureau of Apprenticeship and Training, Department of Labor. He was an exceptionally handsome man, with dark curly hair, a long jaw with the blue shadow of a beard always showing, active brown eyes, and a puckish smile. He was about forty years old and came from a county in southern Oklahoma known as an Italian enclave where wonderful red wine was somehow made, to the amazement of the Oklahomans.
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