Rudy’s business, however, took a turn for the worse. He and Schatz had much more time in which to discuss business. Many important people had started declining his invitations, so Rudy cut down on his entertaining. More and more often, at night, the brownstone was strangely quiet…
Later, when Jon was much older, he began to understand what had happened. Ever since gaining control of Venus, Rudy had been stealing the firm’s assets, using valuable Venus stock to acquire practically worthless little companies, which he owned himself through dummy fronts. These thefts, called “mergers,” presumably would benefit Venus by providing greater earning power, but actually they benefited only Rudy and, of course, Schatz, who had a piece of everything. Rudy hoped these thefts would remain unchallenged, obscured by a genuine rise in earnings due to the sale of Venus television sets. Rudy was sincere about that. “We’ll all profit this time,” he’d told Schatz when they first came to Chicago. “Naturally, we’ll take a little extra for ourselves, but it won’t be missed. We’ll make Venus the biggest TV manufacturer in the U.S. The stockholders will triple their money, they’ll have no reason to complain…
But the scheme broke down because while Rudy and Schatz were undoubtedly wizards at financial chicanery, they didn’t know the first thing about operating an electronics company on a day-to-day basis, an unhappy fact they finally had to admit to themselves. Under their well-meaning but inept direction, the obsolete Venus plant in Chicago was a shambles. Key people quit in droves; sales fell off. The fuzzy picture on the Venus screen wavered constantly, and the sets were of such poor construction that occasionally one burst into flames, perhaps burning a house down and resulting in troublesome lawsuits and damaging newspaper stories.
Word of these difficulties spread fast. Despite all Rudy did to support the price of Venus stock, such as sending gifts to financial editors and investment analysts, composing press releases describing vast, nonexistent mineral reserves on Venus’s land holdings, and inducing an alcoholic certified public accountant to certify audits somewhat less than accurate, the price of Venus dropped. As a result, Adam Lord and his dissident stockholder group grew stronger and stronger.
This was bad enough, but there were other complications. For one thing, Rudy’s important connections failed him. In New York, in the autumn of 1948, Schatz was indeed indicted for that matter involving the insurance companies. Schatz flew to New York to post bond and vigorously protest his innocence, but the publicity hurt. And privately, the lawyers indicated that Schatz didn’t have a chance. They could stall for a few years, but in the end his best course would be to plead guilty and throw himself on the mercy of the court. Schatz, who had no faith in the mercy of any court, took the news badly and fell into a state of nervous depression, drinking more martinis than were good for him and lighting one cigarette from another.
But worst of all, Rudy went broke. True, he’d siphoned millions from Venus, but in seeking a new way to keep Adam Lord off his back, he put the money in the wrong place. His new plan was to get control of a little company listed on the New York Stock Exchange, any little company with some book value, just so it had the prestige of a Big Board listing. Once in control, he’d merge that company into Venus and start the whole process over again on a grander scale, acquiring more firms here, spinning one off there, combining divisions and shuffling inventories and so confusing investigators that the truth about how he’d plundered Venus since 1944 would never be known. And of course this time he’d hire first-rate managers, men who really knew their stuff, to handle production, marketing and sales, and the new corporation would prosper and the stockholders would all be happy.
The ideal candidate, Rudy finally decided, was Wunder Electronics, which had plants in California and Texas. One of their divisions made TV sets too, but theirs actually worked, and wouldn’t it be nice to live in Beverly Hills, away from these miserable Chicago winters? We’ll just let that option on the Retreat expire…
Rudy put his cash into Wunder Electronics, every stolen penny, plus whatever he could borrow, and of course he bought on margin. Word that he was plunging in Wunder soon got out. The price was bid to an alarming level, since Wunder’s biggest stockholders, members of an old-line California family, had checked on Rudy and decided he wasn’t their type. If Rudy offered fifty dollars a share for more Wunder stock, they’d offer fifty-one. Rudy soon had a tiger by the tail. The Californians’ financial resources were at least as great as his, and lately he’d been unable to get credit from lenders who used to extend it without question.
Unknown to Rudy, the battle for control of Wunder was being settled in the Pentagon. A committee of generals concluded one day that a certain bomber, containing a communications system that accounted for 26 percent of Wunder’s gross revenues, was obsolete. Production would stop immediately, and all contracts would be canceled.
The significance of this was crystal-clear to the investing public. In the next week, Wunder dropped twenty points, and brokers began phoning Rudy, asking him to put up more margin or be sold out Soon, Rudy had no more margin to put up.
* * * *
Rudy shook his head. “A debacle,” he said. He sat behind a desk in his study. Across from him, Schatz sprawled in a chair. It was an early spring day in 1949. “No matter how I figure it, my liabilities exceed my assets by four million. And my assets consist chiefly of Venus stock I retained to keep Lord from getting control, and you know what that’s worth. Practically nothing. But I don’t dare part with it. Not yet.”
“How much cash,” Schatz asked, “can you raise overnight?”
“Fifty, sixty thousand. Without collateral, some kind of security on the loan, all the regular lending sources have dried up.”
“That won’t nearly cover your margin. You need a quarter-million. You’ll have to let the brokers sell you out.”
“Impossible. If they do, everyone in the country will know I’m busted. Then all my creditors will move in, including the lenders who took the Venus stock I got from the mergers as collateral so I could bypass the SEC on distribution. If those boys dump all their Venus at once, the bottom will fall out. Adam Lord will take over in a week, and the new indictments will make the trouble over the insurance companies look like peanuts.” Rudy reached for a cigar. “No, people still think Venus stock is worth something. Even Lord doesn’t suspect how much we’ve watered it. I’ve got to meet the margin, to give the illusion of solvency, and then I’ll start selling off my Wunder in a dignified way, no matter what the loss.”
“You’ll just be delaying the inevitable. Rudy, you’re bankrupt.”
“Obviously. But if I can meet margin, people will think I’m solvent. That’s the only way to keep Venus from going down the drain in the next few days. We have to keep it afloat for maybe another year.” He looked at Schatz and winked. “By then, we can make other arrangements. A strategic retreat. And I understand there are fabulous investment opportunities in Brazil.”
“It’s come to that?”
“You know what they say in poker. If the hand’s bad, throw it in.”
“Very nice. But where do you get the quarter-million for margin? If the regular lending sources have dried up…”
“I,” Rudy announced, “have found a new lending source. People with fantastic sums of cash at their disposal. They avoid publicity, so everything will be very confidential. In our type of business, they’re not too well informed either, so they take my word for a lot of things. But of course for such ready cash, the interest rates are high.”
Nine-year-old Jon, lying on the floor while trying to read the Wall Street Journal, looked up and asked, “Aren’t you going to own Wunder any more? Won’t we live in California?”
“No, but don’t tell anyone yet.”
“Then can we keep the Retreat? And…”
“Rudy,” Schatz said suspiciously, “I’d like to hear more about this new lending source.”
Rudy said, “Jon, go see Bess while Schatz and I talk business.”
CHAPTER 2
A few weeks later, Rudy bought a piece of a professional football team. Schatz regarded it as insane, investing good money in louts dressed in helmets and knickers, but Rudy explained the logic of the move. He, Rudy, owned only a small piece, two percent, but it got publicity on the sporting pages. Lenders would figure what the hell, if this Chakorian everyone thought was broke can invest in a football team, he must be loaded, so let’s lend him more.
The team, the Wolves, was headquartered in another city. In August, Rudy and Jon and Bess flew to the training camp so Rudy could have his picture taken with the other owners. From there they followed the team to Houston, Texas, for an exhibition game, played on Jon’s tenth birthday. After the game Jon and Bess waited in the hotel lobby while Rudy and some Texas oilmen went into the bar, where Rudy urged them confidentially to buy Venus, the price was temporarily depressed and what a bargain…
The players gathered in the lobby and some came over to ogle Bess and say good-bye to Jon, who had watched the game from the bench, where he learned many new swear-words. Then the team boarded a bus for the plane back to training camp. After they left another player walked into the lobby, carrying his bag. He was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted and flat-bellied, but older than the others. He had curly brown hair. A bandage covered his thick nose. His name was Skipper Molloy. In 1937, he’d been an all-American halfback, but that afternoon he participated in only a few plays. The one time he carried the ball, he fumbled while being thrown for a loss.
Molloy put his bag down and tousled Jon’s hair. At training camp, he’d been Jon’s best friend among the players. “Well, kid, the next time I see you, I guess you’ll be a millionaire like your old man.”
“I’ll see you next month,” Jon said, “at the season opener in New York.”
“I’m afraid not. They just cut me.”
Sympathetically, Bess said, “That’s terrible.”
Rudy strolled back from the bar. “Hello, Skipper. You better hurry, you’ll miss the plane. And what’s so terrible?”
“The dumb coach,” Jon said angrily, “threw Skipper off the team.”
Rudy frowned. “We can’t have that! I’ll talk to the coach.”
“Thanks, Mr. Chakorian.” Wryly, Molloy smiled. “But the coach is right. I shoulda retired last year. I can’t keep up with the kids no more.”
“What will you do now?” Bess asked.
“I dunno. I’m partners in a filling station in my home town in Wyoming, but it’s losin’ dough. I got an uncle in Wisconsin. Maybe I’ll go into business with him. I like the country there.”
Rudy grew pensive. “You married?”
“Hell, no.”
“What’d you do in the war?”
“Played football, mostly, for a Navy base in Virginia.”
“The Navy teach you to shoot a gun?”
“The Navy didn’t have to. I’ve been what they call a gun bug all my life. At your son’s age, I could hit a squirrel’s head at fifty yards with a single-shot .22. In fact when I was in the Navy, I taught marksmanship at a boot camp between football seasons.”
“In that case,” Rudy said, “while you’re thinking about your future, perhaps you’d consider coming back to Chicago with us. You know how it is with wealthy men. We make all sorts of enemies—crackpots, jealous people—and temporarily I want a bodyguard for me and Jon, especially Jon. I’ll hire you for six months at a thousand a month.”
Molloy looked at Rudy. Then he looked at Jon, and finally at Bess, particularly at Bess, and as he did so his eyes clouded over, something Rudy may have missed, since Rudy was lighting another cigar. “Okay,” Molloy said. “It’s a deal.”
In their suite, Bess said, “Rudy, I don’t get it. You never mentioned a bodyguard before. How come all of a sudden you need a bodyguard?”
“No special reason. But in my position a man can’t be too careful.”
* * * *
Molloy roomed in the servants’ quarters. Rudy got him a pistol permit, and he ferried Jon to school mornings and home evenings and spent a lot of time around the house when not chauffeuring Rudy. However, Jon’s hopes of becoming fond friends with the ex-all-American soon faded. In training camp, Molloy had been amusedly tolerant of the wide-eyed boy who followed him everywhere, but now that Molloy was part of Rudy’s entourage his attitude changed. He seemed resentful, self-conscious and bitter when ordered to escort Jon. If Jon tried to start a conversation, Molloy would say, “Yeah, kid, knock it off.” He seemed especially resentful when alone with Jon and Bess. He’d suggest that Jon read a comic book or something and Bess would say, No, Jon, stay here, we’ll play Monopoly. Invariably Jon won. Bess was a reckless player and Molloy never had his mind on the game.
In September, Rudy sent Jon and Molloy to New York to see the Wolves open the official season. At the half, with the Wolves behind 21 points, a tall, thin man with a hairline mustache leaned over their box and tugged Skipper’s sleeve. The man said, “You’re Skipper Molloy, aren’t you? I saw you run that punt back 98 yards against the Bears before the war, when you were in the other league. I’ve always been an admirer of yours, and correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that Chakorian’s boy? I see. Where you staying tonight? Oh, you’re flying back to Chicago. Well, maybe I’ll catch you in Louisville. Or Kansas City.”
When the Wolves played in Kansas City, they did meet again. This was a few days after Jon, supposedly renting comic books to friends in the basement, hid outside Bess’s bedroom and heard Bess say, “Get out of here, crumb,” and heard Molloy say, “Look, who kids who, he’ll never marry you.” Bess said, “He will, he loves me and I love him, that’s something you’d never understand.” She slapped Molloy. Jon ran, and was not seen.
In Kansas City, the man with the mustache encountered Skipper and Jon in the hotel lobby the afternoon before the game. “What a pleasant surprise,” the man said. “When the kid sacks in, let’s go to a place I know.” Molloy put Jon to bed early and went out. He returned at dawn. Jon woke up because Molloy knocked a lamp down. He smelled of booze, his tie was askew, and his shirt was covered with lipstick marks.
“Skipper, you all right?”
“Just fine.” Skipper sat on the other bed and pulled off a shoe. “You won’t rat on me, willya? And tell your old man?”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Good boy. Tomorrow, I’ll buy ya a ton of ice cream.”
The Wolves lost in Kansas City, too. Skipper didn’t seem to care. He dozed through most of the game. A day after they got back to Chicago, Molloy prowled around the basement and then told Rudy the brownstone’s wiring was inadequate, that’s why they were always blowing fuses, they needed an electrician to put in more circuits. Get one, Rudy said, and don’t bother me with details.
The electrician came when Rudy and Bess were out of town and the cook and the maid were at the movies. Jon didn’t see the electrician arrive, but when Molloy brought him home from school, the electrician was standing on a ladder in the study, his back to Jon, doing something to the overhead light fixture.
“What’s he doing there?” Jon asked. “That light works fine.”
“Electricity,” Molloy said vaguely, “is real complicated.” He tugged at Jon’s arm. “C’mon. Don’t bother the man. Let’s toss the old football around.”
They remained in the yard, tossing the ball, until the roar of the electrician’s truck out front signified that the electrician had left. Thereupon Molloy lost interest in tossing the old football around and went to his room. The door closed, but from the hall Jon heard a bottle dink against a glass.
* * * *
At Thanksgiving Skipper went to Wyoming, Bess flew to her mother’s in Buffalo, and Aunt Elvira and Uncle Howard came to dinner.
Aunt Elvira
was Jon’s mother’s older sister. Jon didn’t like her. She was tall and thin, with a pot belly, a small nose, a petulant mouth and a shrill voice. Rudy didn’t like Elvira either, but he felt some obligation toward her. That’s why he’d given Uncle Howard a job with the Venus Corporation.
Howard had been a Navy Supply Corps officer during the war and now, thanks to Elvira’s influence, he ran a Venus warehouse in a Chicago suburb. A lean, gaunt man, with hawk-like features and unruly hair the color of sand, he rarely spoke in Elvira’s presence. Jon sensed a bitter hostility between them, betrayed by Elvira’s sharp remarks and waspish glances whenever Howard drank too much, which at Rudy’s house was fairly often. Howard was always cordial to Jon, though, and in a sincere manner, not the artificial, condescending cordiality Elvira exuded. Once, before Rudy hired Molloy, Howard took Jon to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. That day Howard didn’t touch a drop, and he further surprised Jon with an expert’s knowledge of the players and the game’s finer points, all imparted in succinct, man-to-man comments. Plainly, there was more to Howard than Elvira or even Rudy, who regarded Howard as a necessary and useless evil, suspected…
But on Thanksgiving, as Elvira prattled constantly, Howard had four highballs before dinner. Silently, he munched through the meal and then he retired to a living-room chair facing the Venus, a bottle of beer in one hand. Howard and Elvira were poor guests. Rudy never invited them unless nobody else would be there. Elvira and Rudy remained in the dining room, Elvira talking and Rudy listening, so Jon went upstairs. He was bored. He got his father’s treasure from the heel of a brown shoe and spread the stones on his father’s bed.
The diamonds sparkled. In a stupor, Jon admired them, until behind him the door clicked shut.
Aunt Elvira said, “What’s that, Jon?”
Jon tried to hide the stones but she was over them, gathering them in, eyes bright. She kneeled. “Diamonds! Look at the diamonds!”
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 40