East is East

by Emma Lathen

  “We’re not the only ones putting in some good work,” Toby remarked, pocketing his engagement diary after this refreshing interlude. “You see that man with Carl Kruger? That’s Kwai Dong.”

  Thatcher examined the twosome at the bar. Kruger appeared to be deeply absorbed in his discussion with his companion. But it was surely no accident that they had taken up their position at such a strategic spot. Lackawanna was still trailing the Korean threat before as many Japanese eyes as possible.

  Any trade show flushes a diversity of interests. As the evening progressed, Thatcher met Japanese who were there to sell as well as Japanese there to buy. He heard about agricultural equipment and oil tankers, about high-definition television and about more cars than seemed humanly possible.

  There were even people looking at the exhibits, as he discovered when he came face to face with an unexpectedly elegant Ali Khan.

  “Have you seen the computer display?” the young Pakistani asked before launching into an enthusiastic and incomprehensible description.

  “It sounds splendid,” Thatcher said at the first opportunity. “I expect there’s a good deal here you wish to see.”

  “I was on my way to the electronic guidance section when I was nabbed by that Mr. Arai. Now I’ll have to do it tomorrow morning.”

  Thatcher blinked at the vision of the stately, immobile Arai interrupting anybody’s progress. Of course it was not difficult to understand the motivation.

  Ali, obscurely amused, was thinking along the same lines. “He seemed to think I was the one to tell him all about Kwai Dong’s trip to Birmingham.”

  “And did you?”

  Khan’s face was a study in innocence. “Oh, absolutely. I overflowed with simple gratification that the Koreans are so interested in my work.”

  Recalling the Pakistani’s account of his own duplicity at Cambridge, Thatcher realized how much Ali must have enjoyed the encounter.

  “You seem to have finished what Kruger started,” he remarked.

  “It’s what Arai wants, isn’t it?” Khan said. “Ammunition for his battle back home?”

  “That is certainly one way of looking at it,” Thatcher said diplomatically. Arai probably wanted to know whether the Koreans were in serious contention for his own purposes, but he was unlikely to find out from this young man. “And you’re spending tomorrow looking at exhibits, even though we’re all transferring to Birmingham the day after?”

  “Why not? Everything at Midland Research is fine.” Ali’s gaze drifted around the multinational throng. “The problems are all here.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Thatcher acknowledged the full justice of this remark. Rather than search for Fleming and Lemieux with an eye to departure, he had decided to wait in one of the sitting areas until they surfaced. There he had been hailed by Don Hodiak and found too late that he was responding to an S.O.S.

  Bennet Alderman was very drunk.

  “I’ve had it up to here with the Japs,” he announced with a graphic gesture.

  Hodiak winced. “For God’s sake, will you keep your voice down?” he hissed.

  “Afraid that I’ll screw up the Yonezawa deal?” Alderman retorted mockingly. “Hell, you’ve been dead set against it from the beginning.”

  Hodiak made the mistake of trying to humor him. “Now, Bennet, that’s no way to—”

  “In fact,” Alderman interrupted reflectively, “you make a great pair. You and Pamela the Bitch.”

  Hodiak’s jaw dropped while Alderman, sprawled lazily in his chair, continued:

  “. . . And if she thinks she can knife me in the back, little Pamela’s got another think coming. She’s going to regret the day she went running to Carl. This is going to be the end of little Miss Wonderful.”

  With dismay, Hodiak spoke sharply to him. “What do you mean, running to Carl? Did Carl have you on the carpet today?”

  “We had a few words,” Alderman muttered. Then, as if regretting this admission, he went on: “It was a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

  By now Thatcher was certain that drink was the crutch Alderman was using to get through a personal crisis.

  “Well, take my advice and forget it,” Hodiak said. “Carl’s always chewing somebody out—you know that. And while you’re at it, you can forget Pamela too.”

  Alderman’s reply was a bitter and knowing smile. “I’m not a big one at forgetting,” he announced. “You’ll find out.”

  Hodiak turned to Thatcher with an unconvincing laugh. “You probably won’t believe me, but we all got along just fine at Lackawanna before this bloody Japanese deal. Since then it’s been an albatross around our neck, and as you can see, the pressure’s beginning to tell.”

  “Yes, of course,” Thatcher murmured meaninglessly.

  “Maybe I’m prejudiced,” Hodiak continued with nervous determination, “but the only thing I can see coming from this sale is bad luck for everybody concerned. And I mean the Japanese, as well as Lackawanna.”

  Thatcher could not agree. The Japanese were past masters at taking the rough with the smooth.

  “Look at the Shima scandal,” he said. “If the Japanese can live with that, they can live with anything. Bad luck doesn’t enter their calculations.”

  Bennet Alderman shoved back his chair and leaped to his feet.

  “Are you insinuating that Lackawanna’s got anything in common with Shima?” he shouted.

  Thatcher did not bother to reply.

  “Sit down and stop making a spectacle of yourself,” Hodiak ordered.

  “Okay,” Alderman said sullenly. “But there’s been too much talk like that going around. The Japanese are trying to shovel all their dirt on Lackawanna and Carl—and I don’t like It. Understand?”

  Thatcher did not know the reason for Alderman’s reaction and did not care.

  “I was using Shima as an example,” he said, keeping any hint of apology from his voice.

  “Oh, yeah?” Alderman retorted rudely. “Well, it sounds like the Japanese line to me. They’re so busy covering up, they don’t care who gets hurt. If I have to, I’ll beat the truth out of Matsuda, so help me God. That squinty-eyed bastard isn’t going to wreck everything I’ve worked for.”

  Hodiak was frankly horrified.

  “Thatcher, I hope you’ll accept my apologies. As you can see, Alderman here has had one too many.”

  Before Thatcher could reply, Alderman spoke up.

  “Like hell!” he said. “I’m sober as a judge.”

  “You are not,” said Hodiak, still concentrating on Thatcher. “I’ll get him back to the hotel, then first thing tomorrow morning—”

  “Of course, you’re the big expert, aren’t you?” Alderman drawled.

  The words, which meant nothing to Thatcher, froze Don Hodiak.

  “You’ve had all that experience hustling Mary Ellen home loo,” Alderman crooned. “That is—”

  In a fury, Hodiak launched himself at Alderman.

  Alderman, stiff-arming instinctively, held him off. “Have you gone crazy?” he panted.

  Hodiak finally managed to land a blow.

  “Dammit, will you cool off!” Alderman cried, aiming a punch at Hodiak’s midriff.

  A crowd was watching the antagonists grapple clumsily with each other when security guards hurried up to stop the conflict.

  “They ought to be ashamed of themselves,” said one of Thatcher’s neighbors.

  “Perhaps they are,” Thatcher replied thoughtfully.

  Suddenly he realized that he was talking with the CEO of Shima Trading Company. Among those observing Don Hodiak and Bennet Alderman claw at each other was Rick Iwamoto. And if Thatcher was any judge, Iwamoto liked what he was seeing.

  Chapter 23

  When two businessmen engage in a brawl that requires forcible intervention, the news spreads. By the next morning it had, in one form or another, reached virtually all interested parties.

  “Honestly, Don,” said Pamela Webb, encountering Hodiak in the hallway. “W
hat got into you? Bennet can give you twenty years.”

  Hodiak, his right cheek sporting a large purple bruise, was abashed.

  “That occurred to me as I hit the floor. But when he started in on Mary Ellen, I saw red, and in a way, I’m glad I did it.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’re all alike,” she snapped.

  She was turning to go, when Hodiak caught her elbow. “Wait a minute. I’ve been wanting a word with you.”

  Misinterpreting his reference to his wife, she spoke before he could continue. “Carl didn’t know what Bennet was up to. It would never occur to him to set detectives on you, and he was furious at that report.”

  “I know, I know. I’ve already seen Carl,” Hodiak said impatiently. “I guess you haven’t heard that Bennet tied one on because he’s in big trouble. Carl suspects his white-haired boy has been working for somebody else all along, somebody who wants Carl Kruger waiting in the wings as a presidential candidate.”

  “And he might just be right!” Pamela exclaimed. Then, her wide brow furrowing in thought, she continued: “You know how Bennet is always trying to feed Carl lines. And how excited he gets when he’s left out of decisions. Those polls are just a drop in the bucket. Everything fits.”

  Hodiak was not finished.

  “It’s a lot more serious than that. Carl is beginning to wonder if Bennet tried to turn Tokyo into a sure thing by getting together with the Yonezawa boys to grease Matsuda.”

  Taken aback, Pamela could only stare for a moment.

  “What a mess!” she finally gasped. “If it’s true, the fat’s really in the fire.”

  Having finally arrived at his point, Hodiak underlined his next words. “And Bennet is convinced you’re the mastermind who’s blown the whistle on him.”

  “Me?” she said indignantly. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “You’re the one who told Carl about those polls.”

  Pamela was looking baffled. “Yes, you’re right there. But it was just a joke. It never dawned on me that Bennet had anything to do with them.”

  “Try telling Bennet that. He’s got his knife into you now, and you’ve got to remember he doesn’t know a thing about business.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “He thinks those bits of fluff he produces can make or break Lackawanna. He’s never figured out our only important release is the quarterly earnings statement. So what?”

  Hodiak had set himself the task of warning Pamela, and he was determined to carry it through. “The point is, Bennet’s never understood your role at Lackawanna. He doesn’t realize you’re tops in your field. He thinks . . .”

  As his voice died away, Pamela became exasperated. They could both waste a lot of time searching for a delicate rendition of what Bennet thought.

  “He thinks I’ve hooked a rich older man and I’m taking him for all he’s worth,” she offered crisply.

  Relieved to have that out of the way, Hodiak continued: “So he’ll try to dig up personal dirt.”

  “Oh, no!” she cried in involuntary dismay, before catching herself and saying grimly: “And from the job he did on you, Bennet will go all the way back to when I was twenty-one. I really don’t want my past to be an open book.”

  Hodiak had been thinking of the present, but he suddenly realized that Pamela must have had a life before Lackawanna. And twenty-one was not an age notorious for good sense and balanced judgment.

  “Carl isn’t likely to hold it against you,” he pointed out.

  “No, he’ll just roar with laughter and never let me forget it.” She produced a wry grimace. “Oh, well, I suppose I’ll have to grin and bear it. Unless, of course, Bennet’s getting the boot right away.”

  “No such luck. The evidence isn’t all in yet. Carl’s waiting for Johnson to fax some material over here.”

  Meanwhile Pamela had rearranged her thinking.

  “I take back what I said earlier, Don. It’s high time somebody did deck Bennet.”

  The designers of Tudor House, when allocating interior space, had badly miscalculated the requirements of the fax station. Intent on creating an atmosphere of opulent leisure, they had relegated the installation to a small, out-of-the-way cubbyhole, camouflaged by a jungle growth of potted trees. Unfortunately the love affair between business and instantaneous transmission was just flowering as Tudor House opened its doors. Within six weeks the facility was dealing with ten times the volume of work anticipated. The modest floor space was first crowded, then overcrowded, with personnel, equipment, and soaring mountains of paper.

  “What’s more,” complained the manager after a particularly trying encounter with some Venezuelans, “they don’t seem to realize it’s only the transmission that’s faster. If they ask their home office to prepare a report, it takes the same time as always to do it.”

  “And they won’t wait for us to call their rooms,” the billing clerk lamented. “They all—”

  He broke off as swaying green fronds warned of the approach of a customer.

  “Good morning, Miss Webb,” the manager chirped. “If it’s that material Mr. Kruger is waiting for, I’m afraid it hasn’t arrived. But we’d be happy to phone your room when it does.”

  Pamela grinned cheerfully. “I suppose we’re being pests,” she acknowledged. “But we were hoping it showed up while we were out.”

  She was turning to leave, when a machine operator in the farthest corner of the room suddenly yelped: “There’s something coming in from Lackawanna now.”

  He snatched up the first deposit in the delivery tray and carried it to the counter. “Would this be it?”

  But Pamela, after a cursory glance, shook her head. “No, this transmission is for Mr. Alderman.”

  The manager, conscious of overflowing storage shelves, was reluctant to see her go empty-handed.

  “I expect he’s waiting for it right now,” he said brightly.

  Pamela, however, ignored the hint.

  “Oh, no; he’s out for most of the day.”

  She had no intention of playing messenger boy for Bennet Alderman. In fact, the less she saw of him right now, the better.

  Not everyone associated with the Midland Research controversy was being subjected to the claustrophobic atmosphere of Tudor House. Ali Khan was happily touring exhibits at White Palace. Until his guests arrived in Birmingham, they were somebody else’s responsibility. Rick Iwamoto, doing even better, had actually managed to get outdoors. Clad in mud-spattered coveralls emblazoned with the Shima logo, he was watching a motorcycle roar around a dirt track. When it finally coasted to a halt, he advanced eagerly to question the padded figure in a black helmet.

  “Well, what did you think?”

  Gene Fleming pushed back his grimy visor.

  “You know, we ought to do what the jockeys do. Wear about eight pairs of goggles and throw away the top ones as we go.”

  “Come on, Gene,” Iwamoto pleaded. “How did you like it?”

  “It’s more like driving a Cadillac than being on a bike,” Fleming complained.

  Iwamoto was delighted. “That’s the whole idea. You can’t sell the upscale, middle-aged market with a bone-crusher.”

  Fleming, who harbored a nostalgic attachment to the motorcycles of his youth, was disparaging. “If you’re planning to line the streets of Beverly Hills with this thing, I’m surprised you haven’t put a muffler on it.”

  “Not on your life. The one thing they do want is the sound of that varoom!”

  Gene Fleming gave a valedictory pat to the flank of his steed as he dismounted.

  “Actually it’s a real honey, Rick.”

  “We expect to be shipping it by next May.”

  “If you bring it in at the right price, you should make a splash,” Fleming predicted, surrendering the machine to two Shima mechanics, who tenderly trundled it away.

  “We’ll need a winner by then,” Iwamoto said frankly. “Shima Computers isn’t helping our worldwide image, and our day in court may cost
us the wood pulp deal too.”

  These days motorcycles were merely a hobby with Gene Fleming. Cocking his head thoughtfully, he considered the implications of that last remark.

  “Len Ridgeway is still hanging in,” he said noncommittally.

  “But for how long? Especially if things snowball. They’re already trying to make a connection between the export violation and that bribe to Matsuda. Who knows what else they’ll come up with?”

  Iwamoto’s voice was casual, and he had half turned to watch a competitor’s motorcycle taking to the track. But Gene Fleming knew perfectly well that he was being prepared for the possibility of further damaging revelations about Shima. Abiding by the rules of the game, he pretended he was answering the question as it had been phrased.

  “Len likes the deal you’ve both worked out, but the Japanese demand for wood pulp is cresting. He can’t afford to wait too long.”

  Iwamoto did not have to be told that there were other potential partners for Ridgeway, Ridgeway & Hall.

  “I suppose I’ll have to see how things develop. You win some, you lose some,” he said fatalistically. “But you know what really burns me up, Gene? It’s the fact that one word from Matsuda could straighten it all out. Everybody knows he’s the one who had to be getting the bribe. The only question is, who was handing it to him? If he’d just open up, Shima would be off the hook.”

  Gene Fleming could not be encouraging.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” he advised. “It’s a long way from being a universal suspect to making an open confession, and Matsuda’s an expert at riding out trouble.”

  “I know all that. He’s not going to spill anything unless someone makes it worth his while. In the meantime I have to take it.” Iwamoto shrugged the subject aside and took one last look at the track before turning away. “At least that model is no threat to anybody. Do you want to see them strip down my baby?”

  Fleming realized that no additional disclosures would be forthcoming.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”