The Carpetbaggers

by Robbins, Harold

  I'd forgotten about the conversation until now. It all fitted together neatly. It would have been a very neat trick if Engel could have stolen the company right out from under my nose. And it was just the kind of deal his Middle-European mind would have dreamed up.

  I looked at Sheffield. "What does Engel plan to do with the stock now?" I asked casually.

  "I don't know." Then he looked at me. "No wonder," he said softly. "Now I know why we couldn't get anywhere. You knew all along."

  I didn't answer. I could see the look of surprise on Mac's face behind him but I pretended I hadn't.

  "And I was beginning to believe that stuff you were handing me about picture people standing together," Sheffield said.

  I smiled. "Now that the deal fell through, I suppose Engel has no choice but to close those theaters. He can't get product anywhere else."

  Sheffield was silent, his eyes wary. "All right, Jonas," he said. "What's on your mind?"

  "How would Mr. Engel like to buy the Norman Film Distributors of England. Ltd.? That would assure him access to our product and he might not have to close those theaters."

  "How much would it cost him?" Sheffield asked.

  "How many shares of stock does he own?"

  "About six hundred thousand."

  "That's what it would cost him," I said.

  "That's five million dollars! British Norman only nets about three hundred thousand a year. At that rate, it would take him almost twenty years to get his money back."

  "It all depends on your point of view. Closing two hundred theaters would mean a loss to him of over a million pounds a year."

  He stared at me for a moment and then got to his feet. "May I use your phone for a call to London? In spite of the time difference, I just might still catch Mr. Engel before he leaves the office."

  "Help yourself," I said. As he walked to the telephone, I looked down at my watch. It was nine o'clock and I knew I had him. Because no one, not even Georges Engel, left his office at two o'clock in the afternoon. Not in merry old England, where the offices were open until six o'clock and the clerks still sat at their old-fashioned desks on their high stools. Engel was probably waiting at the telephone right now for Sheffield's call.

  By noon it was all arranged. Mr. Engel and his attorneys would be in New York the next week to sign the agreement. There was only one thing wrong with it: I would have to remain in New York. I reached for the telephone.

  "Who're you calling?" Mac asked.

  "David Woolf. He's the executive officer of the company. He might as well be here to sign the papers."

  "Put down the telephone," Mac said wearily. "He's in New York. I brought him along with me."

  "Oh," I said. I walked over to the window and looked down. New York in midmorning. I could sense the tension in the traffic coming up Park Avenue. I was beginning to feel restless already.

  I turned back to McAllister. "Well, get him up here. I'm starting a big picture in two months. I'd like to know what's being done about it."

  "David brought Bonner along to go over the production details with you."

  I stared at him. They'd thought of everything. I threw myself into a chair. The doorbell rang and Robair went to open it. Forrester and Morrissey came in. I looked up at them as they crossed the room.

  "I thought you were supposed to leave for California this morning, Morrissey," I said coldly. "How the hell are we ever going to get that new production line started?"

  "I don't know if we can, Jonas," he said quickly.

  "What the hell do you mean?" I shouted. "You said we could do it. You were there when we signed that contract."

  "Take it easy, Jonas," Forrester said quietly. "We have a problem."

  "What kind of problem?"

  "The U.S. Army just ordered five CA-200's. They want the first delivery by June and we're in a bind. We can't make them B-17's on the same production line. You're going to have to decide which comes first."

  I stared at him. "You make the decision. You're president of the company."

  "You own the goddamn company," he shouted back. "Which contract do you want to honor?"

  "Both of them. We're not in the business of turning away money."

  "Then we'll have to get the Canadian plant in operation right away. We could handle prefabrication if the B-17's were put together up there."

  "Then do it," I said.

  "O.K. Get me Amos Winthrop to run it."

  "I told you before – no Winthrop."

  "No Winthrop, no Canadian plant. I'm not going to send a lot of men to their death in planes put together by amateurs just because you're too damn stubborn to listen to reason."

  "Still the fly-boy hero?" I sneered. "What's it to you who puts the planes together? You're not flying them."

  He crossed the room and stood over my chair, looking down at me. I could see his fists clench. "While you were out whoring around London, trying to screw everything in sight, I was out at the airfields watching those poor bastards come in weary and beat from trying to keep the Jerry bombs off your fucking back. Right then and there, I made up my mind that if we were lucky enough to get that contract, I'd personally see to it that every plane we shipped over was the kind of plane I wouldn't be afraid to take up myself."

  "Hear, hear!" I said sarcastically.

  "When did you decide you'd be satisfied to put your name on a plane that was second best? When the money got big enough?"

  I stared at him for a moment. He was right. My father said the same thing in another way once. We'd been walking through the plant back in Nevada and Jake Platt, the plant supervisor, came up to him with a report on a poor batch of powder. He suggested blending it in with a large order so the loss would be absorbed.

  My father towered over him in rage. "And who would absorb the loss of my reputation?" he shouted. "It's my name that's on every can of that powder. Burn it!"

  "All right, Roger," I said slowly. "You get Winthrop."

  He looked into my eyes for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "You'll have to find him for us. I'm sending Morrissey up to Canada to get the new plant started. I’ll go out to the Coast and start production."

  "Where is he?"

  "I don't know," he answered. "Last I heard, he was in New York, but when I checked around this morning, nobody seemed to know where he is. He seems to have dropped out of sight."

  4

  I slumped back into a corner of the big limousine as we came off the Queensboro Bridge. Already, I regretted my decision to come out here. There was something about Queens that depressed me. I looked out the window while Robair expertly threaded the big car through the traffic. Suddenly, I was annoyed with Monica for living out here.

  I recognized the group of houses as the car rolled to a stop. They hadn't changed, except that the lawn was dull and brown with winter now, where it had been bright summer-green the last time.

  "Wait here," I said to Robair. I went up the three steps and pressed the doorbell. A chill wind whistled between the buildings and I pulled my light topcoat around me. I shifted the package uncomfortably under my arm.

  The door opened and a small girl stood there, looking up at me. Her eyes were dark violet and serious. "Jo-Ann?" I asked tentatively.

  She nodded silently.

  I stared at her for a moment. Leave it to children to remind you of the passing of time. They have a way of growing that ticks off your years more accurately than a clock. The last time I had seen her, she was little more than a baby. "I'm Jonas Cord," I said. "Is your mother home?"

  "Come in," she said in a small, clear voice. I followed her into the living room. She turned to face me. "Sit down. Mummy's dressing. She said she wouldn't be long."

  I sat down and she sat in a chair opposite me. She stared at me with wide, serious eyes but didn't speak. I began to feel uncomfortable under her candid scrutiny and lit a cigarette. Her eyes followed my hand as I searched for an ash tray for my match. "It's over there," she said, pointing to a tab
le on my right.

  "Thanks."

  "You're welcome," she said politely. Then she was silent again, her eyes watching my face. I dragged on the cigarette and after a moment's silence, spoke to her. "Do you remember me, Jo-Ann?"

  Her eyes dropped and she was suddenly shy, her hands smoothing the hem of her dress across her knees in a typically feminine gesture. "Yes."

  I smiled. "The last time I saw you, you were just so big," I said, holding my hand out just about level with my knee.

  "I know," she whispered, not looking at me. "You were standing on the steps waiting for us to come home."

  I took the package out from under my arm. "I brought you a present," I said. "A doll."

  She took the package from me and sat down on the floor to open it. Her eyes were smiling now. She lifted out the doll and looked at me. "It's very pretty."

  "I hoped you'd like it," I said.

  "I do. Very much." Her eyes grew solemn again. "Thank you," she said.

  A moment later, Monica came into the room. Jo-Ann leaped to her feet and ran to her. "Mummy! Look what Mr. Cord brought me!"

  "It was very thoughtful of you, Jonas," Monica said.

  I struggled to my feet. We stood looking at each other. There was an almost regal quality of self-possession about her. Her dark hair fell almost to her bare shoulders over a black cocktail dress.

  Then the doorbell rang. It was the baby sitter and Jo-Ann was so busy showing her the new doll, she didn't even have time to say good-by when we left.

  Robair was standing at the car door when we came out. "Robair!" Monica put out her hand. "It's nice to see you again."

  "It's nice to see you again, Miss Monica," he said as he bowed over her hand.

  I looked out at the cruddy Queens scenery as the car rolled back to Manhattan. "What do you want to live out here for?" I asked.

  She reached for a cigarette and waited while I held the match for her. "Jo-Ann can play outside when the weather is good and I don't have to worry about her being hurt in the city streets. And I can afford it. It's much more reasonable than the city."

  "From what I hear, you're doing all right. If you want to live in the suburbs, why don't you move up to Westchester? It's nicer up there."

  "It's still too expensive," she said. "I don't make that kind of money. I'm only the office manager at the magazine. I'm not an editor yet."

  "You look like an editor."

  She smiled. "I don't know whether you mean that as a compliment or not. But at Style, we try to look the way our readers think we should."

  I stared at her for a moment. Style was one of the most successful new fashion magazines aimed at the young matron. "How come you're not an editor yet?"

  She laughed. "I'm one step away. Mr. Hardin's an old-fashioned businessman. He believes that every editor should put in some time on the practical side. That way, they learn something about the business problems involved in getting out a magazine. He's already hinted that the next editorial opening is mine."

  I knew old Hardin. He was a magazine publisher from way back. He paid off in promises, not in dollars. "How long has he been promising?"

  "Three years," she said. "But I think it will happen soon. He's planning a new movie magazine. A slick. Something on the order of the old Photoplay. We'd have been on the presses, only the finances are holding it up."

  "What would you do on it?"

  "Feature editor," she said. "You know, arrange stories about the stars, that sort of thing."

  I glanced at her. "Wouldn't you have to be out in Hollywood for that?"

  She nodded. "I suppose so. But Hardin hasn't got the money yet so I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

  Monica put her coffee cup down and smiled at me. "It's been a perfectly lovely dinner, Jonas, and you've been a charming host. Now tell me why."

  "Does there have to be a reason?"

  She shook her head. "There doesn't have to be," she said. "But I know you. When you're charming, you want something."

  I waited until the waiter finished holding a match for her cigarette. "I just got back from England," I said quietly. "I ran into your mother over there."

  A kind of veil dropped over her eyes. "You did?"

  I nodded. "She seems very nice."

  "I imagine she would be, from what I can remember of her," Monica said, a slight edge of bitterness in her voice.

  "You must have a very good memory. Weren't you about Jo-Ann's age?"

  The violet eyes were hard. "Some things you don't forget," she said. "Like your mother telling you how much she loves you, then disappearing one day and never coming back."

  "Maybe she couldn't help it. Maybe she had a good reason."

  "What reason?" she asked scornfully. "I couldn't leave Jo-Ann like that."

  "Perhaps if you wrote to your mother, she could tell you."

  "What could she tell me?" she said coldly. "That she fell in love with another man and ran away with him? I can understand that. What I can't understand is why she didn't take me with her. The only reason I can see is that I didn't matter."

  "You may not know your mother, but you do know your father. You know how he can hate when he feels someone has crossed him."

  Her eyes looked into mine. "Someone like you?"

  I nodded. "Someone like me," I said. "That night, when you both came up to the hotel in Los Angeles – was he thinking about you or was he thinking about how much he wanted to get even with me?"

  She was silent for a moment, then her eyes softened. "Was it like that with my mother, too?"

  I nodded again. "Something like that," I said quietly.

  She looked down at the tablecloth silently. When she looked up at me, her eyes were clear once more. "Thank you for telling me, Jonas. Somehow, I feel better now."

  "Good." The waiter came by and refilled our coffee cups. "By the way," I said, "seen anything of your father lately?"

  She shook her head with a wry smile. "About two years ago, he came out to dinner and borrowed a thousand dollars. That's the last I saw of him."

  "Do you have any idea where he might be?"

  "Why?"

  "I’ve got a good job for him up in Canada, but he seems to have dropped out of sight."

  A strange look came into her eyes. "You mean you'd give him a job after what he did to you?"

  "I haven't much choice," I said reluctantly. "I don't especially like the idea but there's a war on. I need a man like him."

  "I had a letter from him about a year ago. He said something about taking over as manager of the Teterboro Airport."

  "Thanks," I said. "I’ll look out there."

  Her hand suddenly came across the table and pressed mine. I looked at her in surprise. She smiled. "You know, Jonas, I have the strangest feeling you're going to make a much better friend than husband."

  5

  McAllister was waiting for me in the hotel when I got back the next afternoon. "You find him?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "He only stayed out there long enough to pass a bum check for five hundred bucks on some poor jerk."

  "That's pretty far down the ladder for him. Any idea where he went next?"

  "No," I said. I threw my topcoat across a chair and sat down. "For all I know, he's in jail in some hick town we never heard of. Bum check – Jesus!"

  "What do you want me to do?" Mac asked.

  "Nothing," I said. "But I promised Roger I’d try to find him. We better put an agency on the job. If they can't turn him up, at least Roger will know I tried. You call Hardin?"

  Mac looked at me curiously. "Yes. He'll be here any minute now. Why do you want to see him?"

  "We might go into the publishing business."

  "What for?" Mac asked. "You don't even read the papers."

  I laughed. "I hear he's thinking of putting out a movie magazine. I'm making a picture. The best way I know to grab space is to own a magazine. I figure if I help him out with the movie magazine, he'll give us a plug in his others. That adds up
to twelve million copies a month."

  Mac didn't say anything. The doorbell rang and Robair went to open it. It was S. J. Hardin, right on time. He came into the room, his hand outstretched. "Jonas, my boy," he wheezed in his perennially hoarse voice. "It's good to see you."

  We shook hands. "You know my attorney, Mr. McAllister?" I said.

  S. J. gave him the glad eye. "It's a real pleasure, sir," he said, pumping Mac's hand enthusiastically. He turned back to me. "I was surprised to get your message. What's on your mind, boy?"

  I looked at him. "I hear you're thinking about putting out a movie magazine."

  "I have been thinking about it," he admitted.

  "I also hear that you're a little short of cash to get it started."

  He spread his hands expressively. "You know the publishing business, boy," he said. "We're always short of cash."

  I smiled. To hear him, one would think he didn't have a pot to piss in. But S. J. had plenty, no matter how much he cried. The way he raided his own company made old Bernie Norman look like a Boy Scout.

  "I'm about to make my first movie in eight years."

  "Congratulations, Jonas," he boomed. "That's the best news I've heard in years. The movies can use a man like you. Remind me to tell my broker to pick up some Norman stock."

  "I will, S. J."

  "And you can be sure my magazines will give you a big play," he continued. "We know what makes good copy."

  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, S. J. I think it's a shame your chain has no movie magazine in it."

  He fixed me with a shrewd glance. "I feel the same way, Jonas."

  "How much would it take to get one on the stands?" I asked.