by Emma Lathen
But it was not puzzling to a man of Thatcher’s experience. He knew that they had passed a traditional watershed. When trouble befalls a debtor, there is a period when he covers up, when he minimizes his predicament, when he responds to pressure. When, in short, he is the one who does the worrying. But let things go really sour and positions get reversed. The creditor does the worrying, and the debtor holds the whip hand. Frank Hedstrom’s attitude told Thatcher as clearly as words that this was now the case. If Chicken Tonight were auctioned off on the spot, there wouldn’t be twelve million dollars’ worth of assets. The only way the Sloan would ever see its money again was by helping Hedstrom back to solvency.
Which made Thatcher very grateful that Frank Hedstrom had enough acumen to recognize this. The Sloan Guaranty Trust had a big interest in Frank Hedstrom’s acumen right now.
The buzzer interrupted these speculations. Vern and Dodie Akers entered the room, acknowledged greetings, and then sat, looking rather lost.
“I understand you’ve been elected to represent the franchise operators, Mr. Akers,” Hcdstrom prompted when silence threatened to descend.
“Yes, that’s right. That’s why we set up that meeting for Friday.” Vern Akers paused.
“But you decided not to wait that long. Was it because of the story about Sweeney’s murder?” Frank Hedstrom spoke slowly and calmly. He reminded Thatcher of a naturalist stalking a wild animal.
“Not exactly.” Akers took a deep breath. “Look, Mr. Hedstrom, you may think it’s none of our business how you run your office here. And maybe it’s out of line for us to barge in, but we’ve got a lot riding on Chicken Tonight.”
Dodie Akers decided to take a hand. “Now, Vern, you know we decided that Mr. Hedstrom would want to know.”
Thatcher had to give Hedstrom full marks for the way he reacted. He had obviously decided that Vern Akers was the one who needed reassurance. Hedstrom swiveled around for a direct view.
“Of course it’s your business. Look, I know how close to the bone a lot of you are operating. Our credit arrangements weren’t designed to handle a real disaster like this. And while I don’t know what Mrs. Akers is talking about yet--he turned to smile at Dodie—“I want to know every single thing of interest to Chicken Tonight. Now more than ever.”
“There!” Dodie was triumphant. “What did I tell you? Now go ahead and tell the man, Vern.”
Thus encouraged, Vern Akers plowed ahead. “It’s like this, Mr. Hedstrom. I had it all set to come up and see you on Friday. We were sitting around, hashing things over, when suddenly there’s a ring at the door and in walks this Mrs. Young.” He looked up, half hoping that further explanation would be unnecessary.
Hedstrom had been playing with a ruler on his desk. Now his hands froze, the knuckles whitening as his grip tightened.
“Iris,” he breathed softly.
“Yes, that was her name.” Dodie’s snort was eloquent. “She asked us to call her Iris.”
Hedstrom ignored the interjection. “And what did Iris want?” he demanded harshly.
“That woman must be nuts,” Akers burst out. Thatcher noted with appreciation that his original embarrassment was dissipated, thanks to Hedstrom’s skillful handling. “She gave us a lot of crap about how you’re just a figurehead, that the really important man up here is her husband. Except when it comes to troubles. Those are all your fault. So then, after she’d softened us up with that routine, she got down to brass tacks. Said if all the franchise people got together and cooperated with the stockholders, we could bounce you in favor of her husband.”
“And then?”
“And then everything would come up roses,” Vern Akers said with fierce sarcasm. “All our problems would make themselves into a little ball and just roll away. It’s like I said, she’s crazy.”
“No, she’s not crazy, she’s just a troublemaker.” Hedstrom was very sober. “Iris always has been. I hate to think what Mrs. Sussenberger would say to this.”
“Mrs. Sussenberger?” Thatcher was perplexed. “Who is Mrs. Sussenberger?”
“Iris’ mother. A real sweetheart. I’ve always liked her, but she never realized what she hatched out.”
It was rare in Thatcher’s circle to hear business maneuvers condemned on grounds of maternal disapproval. But, he realized as he remembered the Hedstroms and the Youngs, he was dealing with something closer to a tribal clan than a corporate hierarchy. Still, was this the time for old-fashioned kitchens, floury hands rolling out pastry, and cooky jars filled for the neighborhood children?
“She’s dead, I suppose,” Thatcher murmured.
“Dead?” It was Frank Hedstrom’s turn to be puzzled. “Hell, no! She’s just divorced her second husband. And high time, too!”
So much for floury hands. Once again Thatcher had forgotten how incredibly young all these people were. He did some fast calculating. My God! Mrs. Sussenberger, sweetheart or not, could be a very youthful—and active—fifty.
He had been distracted from the active middle-aged woman in their midst.
“We didn’t like it,” said Dodie Akers, flushed by recollection of Iris Young. “We could see what she was up to, trying to take advantage of what Clyde did. But it wasn’t just that. When we sat down to think about it, that’s when we really got upset. Because . . .”
Now it was Vern who came to the rescue when his wife faltered. “Because we think the front office should be concentrating on us, the franchise operators. We’re going to go under if we don’t get help now. And I don’t mean in a month or two.” He was looking Hedstrom straight in the eye. “We don’t want this Mrs. Young acting as some kind of red herring, getting all the attention we should be getting. Nobody has to tell us that Chicken Tonight is in trouble. It’s not going to help if headquarters is all knotted up with some power play. That’s why we came right up.”
Frank Hedstrom nodded and was silent. Very few men on Wall Street would have been capable of as much, Thatcher realized. They would never understand the world of Vern Akers. But then, Hedstrom came from the same world. Some of his high-school classmates had probably gone into the service as a career. In fifteen years they, like Akers, would be ready to take on a franchise. If Hedstrom kept up with Mrs. Sussenberger, he might well keep up with them. He knew by instinct what response they valued—a studied answer after a long pause for review and thought.
“I’m glad you did,” he said slowly. “I didn’t know what Iris Young was up to, but you’re right. Whatever it is, we don’t have time for it. You can forget about it. I’ll take care of her. But you said you had problems and needed help. The best thing I can do is get started on that. Suppose you tell me your ideas.”
In unison, the Akerses let out sighs of relief. Vern drew out an envelope from his inner jacket pocket, produced a sheaf of rumpled notes and, rather unexpectedly, donned a pair of stylish eyeglasses.
“This is a list we got together on. But before I read it to you, there’s one thing I’d better explain,” he began scrupulously. “Not all the operators agree with it. A couple of them are big enough so they’re not as worried as the rest of us. People like Chet Brewster have been in business long enough so they’ve got cash reserves. They figure they can ride this one out. And then, of course, we’ve got some guys who are real complainers. They’ve got a list of gripes a mile long. This is a sort of . . .” He looked into recent political history and produced the mot juste. “This is a consensus.”
Everybody nodded.
“I guess you could say Dodie and me are about the average. And this is where we stand. . . .”
The facts were simple enough. The Akerses’ original investment had gone into building alterations and delivery trucks. Their obligations to Chicken Tonight included a lease for their equipment and a credit line for supplies. In addition, they had to meet the rent, the payroll and utility bills.
“I know,” Hedstrom said. He then proceeded to outline his proposal. As he systematically moved from one point to the next, Thatch
er realized that each one of them had been carefully prepared in advance. Hedstrom, for one, was taking the problem of his franchisees seriously.
In essence, Chicken Tonight was offering its operators a moratorium on their lease payments, an increase in their credit lines, a massive promotion campaign and, under special circumstances, loans for payments to outsiders.
“Not many loans like that,” he warned. “They’d just help out individual franchisees. It wouldn’t be fair. Publicity is more important. That’ll help all of you.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Vern conceded, inspecting the advertising figure unenthusiastically. “Somehow it doesn’t seem right to spend that much money on anything that isn’t hard.”
Dodie did not agree. “You’ve-got to remember that Clyde’s murder is going to keep things stirred up. We need advertising, Vern. People won’t just forget. It’s not like that cranberry sauce we read about when we were in Germany.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Hedstrom commented. “It all depends. Maybe people will decide that Sweeney’s murder winds up the whole thing. If they do, they’ll forget about the poisoning faster than you think, Mrs. Akers. Either way, advertising should help a lot.”
Hedstrom did not have to describe the other possibility, at least not to John Thatcher. If people decided that Sweeney’s murder was just the beginning, then not even the Sloan could float Chicken Tonight.
“There’s one other thing,” Vern Akers said, crossing off as he went. “The breather on our lease payments and a bigger credit line will help tide us over. If everything works out, that’s fine. But still, it’s costing us money every day we stay open.” He squared his jaw. “If Chicken Tonight is going to fold, the sooner we know about it, the better. We don’t want to be conned into piling up our debts, if the end is already in sight. We realize you’re an important man with a lot of other interests, Mr. Hedstrom. You may decide it’s not worth fighting for. The papers say you were down in Maryland about buying some kind of insurance company. Well, then—”
“Get that out of your head,” Hedstrom ordered brusquely. “I’m fighting with everything I’ve got, just the way you are. If Chicken Tonight goes down, I’m going down with it!”
“But what about the insurance company?” Akers persisted.
“That merger is dead as a doornail. Southeastern wouldn’t touch it, and neither would I. I don’t have time for anything but keeping Chicken Tonight alive. And, by God, I’m going to do it! You’re going to get your money, and you’re going to stay open. Iris Young is going to get kicked in the pants—she’s had it coming for a long time. Don’t worry, the minute you leave, the first thing I’m going to do is order enough broilers to keep Chicken Tonight hopping for the next six months. Chicken Tonight isn’t going under, and no-one’s edging Frank Hedstrom out, either! You come back in five years and this office will be right here, with me in it!”
Vern Akers was unabashed. “Well, it’s nice to get things out in the open,” he said peaceably. Clearly he was pleased by this declaration of intent.
Hedstrom’s tension dropped a notch. “Besides,” he said almost lightly, “you don’t seem to realize that I’m the middle of a sandwich. Mr. Thatcher here represents the bank that’s financing me. You’re not the only ones who want to keep me on the straight and narrow. He feels exactly the same.”
Thatcher recognized a cue. He assured the Akerses that the Sloan did not intend to see its twelve million dollars frittered away on nonessentials. Whether he was unusually convincing or whether the Akerses were heartened to learn that Big Brother was watching the front office, Vern and Dodie departed looking ten years younger than on entry.
When they left, Frank Hedstrom seemed abstracted. After remarking casually that Vern Akers had his head screwed on the right way, he lapsed into silence.
“I should listen more to Joanie. She knows Iris like a book,” he finally muttered to himself.
Thatcher remembered Joan Hedstrom’s lack of surprise at Iris’ hysterical attack on Hedstrom.
“You mean that Mrs. Young hates you?” he asked, half suspiciously. Could these people be so blind that they did not see the obvious? This was no time to accuse anyone of hating Frank Hedstrom. Not when someone who hated him might have poisoned over a hundred people and strangled Clyde Sweeney. Or were they more subtle than they seemed?
“No, no. That’s not what I’m talking about,” Frank Hedstrom sat up straighter. “Iris is just a born troublemaker. I suppose if she didn’t have her claws into me, she’d have them into somebody else. But Joanie has another idea about Iris I should have listened to. That, even if Iris is crazy about Ted, she doesn’t understand him at all.” Hedstrom paused to examine this statement and added, “Even I’ll give her that much. I don’t think she’s looked at another man since she was sixteen.”
Thatcher was taken aback. He had come for a business conference. At Hedstrom’s first word he had braced himself for a discussion, however veiled, of murder and murder suspects. Now he was being propelled into marital analysis.
“Oh, yes?” he said neutrally.
“I don’t know if she understands him,” Hedstrom continued, missing his guest’s wariness. “But I’d say Iris isn’t very good for Ted. You see, Ted’s not the easygoing kind. He can’t help letting things get to him. And Iris is even worse. Whenever he’s wound up, she winds him up tighter. So before you know it, the two of them can take any molehill and turn it into a mountain. And Joanie says they both probably enjoy it!”
Thatcher could have sworn that the last sentence was genuinely indignant.
“Some couples do like to live on their nerves. They have an appetite for crises,” he offered, amused despite himself.
Hedstrom flicked a hand as if he were brushing away a fly. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Ted does enjoy being all the way up or all the way down. As far as that goes, Iris should know. It’s nobody’s business if they like to . . . like to . . .”
“To live the rich emotional life?” suggested Thatcher, feeling his years.
Hedstrom was grateful. “That’s it. But Iris doesn’t have a clue about the things he wants. Hell! I understand him better than she does that way. All this running down to the Akerses to start some kind of revolution! Her big dump-Frank scheme! That isn’t what Ted wants. Look, the last thing Chicken Tonight needs right now is someone rocking the boat. Ted knows that. He’s sweating his guts out in the opposite direction. We’ve both got better things to do, but I’ll have to tell him about this—and he’ll have to choke Iris off. Ted can handle her, when he wants to. And he’ll be able to get a list of the people she contacted. I don’t suppose she stopped with the Akerses.”
“I don’t suppose so,” said Thatcher, reminded of Iris’ descent on Robichaux.
“Then,” Hedstrom continued blandly, “Ted should be able to stop this thing before it gets off the ground.”
“And that’s what he’ll want to do?” Thatcher asked curiously.
Frank Hedstrom’s blue eyes widened. Momentarily, he looked very much like his wife.
“Well, naturally!” he said.
CHAPTER 20
ROAST THE NUTS
FRANK HEDSTROM might not notice every complexity in his personal relationships. There was, however, nothing dormant about his commercial instincts. Within five minutes Thatcher was learning that more was expected of him than witnessing the session with the Akerses.
“I know it may not fit in with your schedule,” Hedstrom said with the barest sketch of apology, “but, if you can manage the time, I’d like you to come down to Pelham Browne’s place in Maryland with me.”
“You mean now?” Not unnaturally, Thatcher was reluctant to return to a locale which spelled police detention and domestic discomfort.
Hedstrom organized himself for a selling job.
“That’s right,” he said. “The weekday schedule isn’t bad. We can be back in time for dinner.”
Thatcher did not need extrasensory perception to see how usefu
l his presence might be. “What time is Browne expecting you?” he asked.
“He isn’t,” Hedstrom replied forthrightly. “I want to take him by surprise. I don’t know if you’ve seen enough of him to get an impression of what he’s like . . .” His voice trailed off suggestively.
Unbidden, Thatcher’s mind conjured up the vision of Pelham Browne acting out the territorial imperative in the Calvert Hunt Club men’s room.
“I may not have seen him at his best,” he equivocated.
“Browne doesn’t have a best,” Hedstrom retorted. “But right now he’s suspicious of me. God knows why! I suppose he’s afraid he isn’t going to get his money. At the same time, he’s lazy. If I call him for an appointment about a new broiler contract, he’ll want to squirm out of it. He’ll start hunting other markets for his birds, he’ll talk to people, he’ll have time to think of objections. But if I go down with a contract in hand, with you beside me as proof of payment—well, he’ll be so glad not to do any work, he’ll sign on the spot.”
Thatcher was beginning to appreciate why Frank Hedstrom had shot to the top in the business world. Understanding money is a rare talent. Understanding people is even rarer. Understanding both is damn near nonexistent.
“I’d better call my office and let them know where I’ll be,” he capitulated.
Hedstrom’s motives were clear enough. Nothing is more useful during commercial bargaining than a Wall Street banker, on tap as it were, to guarantee good faith, cold cash—or both.
Not much later, they were on a Baltimore-bound plane. As he ate plastic food off a plastic tray, Thatcher admitted that his own conduct did not bear close examination. The Sloan’s twelve million, of course, explained this trip adequately for the rest of the world. Thatcher knew better. The alacrity with which he had accepted these arrangements argued a less reputable motive than concern for the well-being of the Sloan. Thatcher was normally able to defend its interests without resorting to commando raids.