Frank Stannard chuckled dryly and regarded his niece with obvious affection. But he cleared his throat and frowned at Marty. “Well, Mr. Lee, just what is this big secret of yours that can turn loss into profit?”
Marty hunched his chair closer to the desk so that Karen would not be too much in his side vision. He decided to continue plunging as he had before. Stannard seemed to understand and appreciate bluntness and brevity. “O.K.,” he said. “I’ll tell you, but I doubt if you can understand all of it without a thorough knowledge of the business. In the first place, a large hotel today has to be a small city complete in itself. It should never be necessary for a guest to go anywhere else to satisfy his normal wants and desires. That means having on the premises ticket agencies, drugstore, wire services, flower stand, gift shop, liquor store, candies, beauty salon, barbershop, and everything else that can wrap up the guest’s needs in one package. That’s the pocket-money trade. There you’re after dimes and quarters and an occasional dollar, but they all add up.”
Karen observed coolly, “Aren’t you being too elemental, Mr. Lee? We are all well aware of that. We had a survey made a year or so ago — ”
Frank Stannard interrupted. “Sure. We looked into it only to find that we still couldn’t show a profit, or even break even. Adding all that extra junk wouldn’t warrant the expense.”
Karen’s voice was still cool, almost disinterested, as she said, “I believe, Uncle Frank, that perhaps Mr. Lee was simply introducing a primary idea to use as a springboard.”
Marty slanted a puzzled glance at her, wondering if, after all, she was friend or foe. He turned his attention back to the uncle. “Of course it isn’t enough,” he said. “It’s important, anything is important that keeps a dollar in the hotel, but it isn’t sufficient to put a big hotel in the black. That I mention merely as one thing that has to be done.” He leaned forward to emphasize his words. “With very few exceptions, the biggest thing in hotels today is the saloon business. Now, my idea — ”
George interrupted naively, “But there is a bar in the hotel, a very nice one. Why, I drop by there myself at least two or three times a week. I have never seen it empty.”
Marty prayed silently, Give me strength to ignore this nitwit. Aloud he said, “That’s the first thing I intend junking, that bar. The whole setup is inefficient. I have never seen anything so badly run and so loused up in my life. I could take that license out of there and make more money for you on Skid Row. But I’m not talking about one bar. I’m speaking of seven or eight, scattered through the lower floors of the hotel. Give them names like the Florentine Room, or the Venetian Room, or the Oval Room, or whatever you want, and keep the bottles out of sight and put in orchestras and entertainment and good food and dress them up as much as you want, but, to me, you’re selling booze and it’s still a saloon. Now do you see what I mean?”
George shook his head. “With one on-sale license? You can’t do it. You’d have to get more licenses, and I don’t think the Board of Equalization would go for it.”
Marty closed his eyes, opened them, and explained patiently, “Any on-sale license is good for the whole of the premises for which it is issued.”
George looked embarrassed and studied his fingernails.
Frank Stannard’s eyes had narrowed thoughtfully. “Go on, Mr. Lee.”
“O.K. So my idea is to put in seven or eight of these rooms, a different decor and atmosphere in each room, each distinctive and appealing in its own way and each advertising separately, almost as if in competition with each other. You see the point? Give each room a name and make each well known in its own right. Of course, there will also be a regular bar and all of the booze in the various rooms will come from one centrally located service bar.”
George started to laugh. He had to contribute something to cover up his blunder. “Please, Mr. Lee. Why, you wouldn’t have enough guests in the hotel to make any one of those so-called rooms pay a profit.”
Frank Stannard turned on his son to growl, “You’re talking when you should be listening. He doesn’t give a damn about the guests. Is that right, Mr. Lee?”
Inwardly Marty heaved a great sigh of relief. It was beginning to go his way. Now, if only Karen would stay out of it … “Exactly,” he said. “Whether or not the guests patronize these rooms — which they will, of course–is not the important consideration. I’m after the native San Franciscans and the tourists who won’t even be stopping at the hotel. My idea is to make the place so attractive that customers will float about from one of these rooms to the other without the necessity of bouncing about from hotel to hotel and bar to bar. People are damned restless, you know. They like to be on the move. They don’t like staying long in one place. My idea is to give them everything they want in one package, satisfy that craving to be on the move, yet keep them on the one property.” He sat back, feeling that he had said enough for the moment. “That’s about it. That’s my idea in a nutshell.”
There was a short silence in the room as Frank Stannard scratched his head and stared off into space. It was Karen who broke the silence. She said softly but firmly, “I would like to know more of the details. You speak of turning the hotel into a sort of super night club, but I can’t visualize it. The building is, after all, rather old-fashioned and run down. Bringing it up to date, as you suggest, would cost millions.”
Her uncle said, “He doesn’t intend bringing it up to date. Tell her about that, Lee.”
Marty said, “I intend keeping all the old-fashioned features of the hotel and, in fact, emphasizing them. There will be some renovations, of course, some of the older stuff will have to come out, but I mean to re-create the original atmosphere of the hotel. Sort of a turn-of-the-century feeling. Build on the nostalgic wish for the good old days. Accent everything that will bring that out. Oddly enough, it’s mostly there already, but has been allowed to go to seed. If it weren’t there, Miss Stannard, I wouldn’t be interested in your hotel. It’s because it is there that I can do something about it.”
She turned to look squarely at him. She was no longer neutral. There was interest in her expression. “You know, your idea begins to fascinate me. I think you have something.”
Marty’s voice had a sudden edge to it. “Do you think I’d be wasting my time sitting here if I didn’t know blamed well I had something? What you will be gambling, Miss Stannard, is relatively nothing. I’ll be gambling blood.”
She looked astonished by his outburst, then laughed. “You don’t have to be so intense about it.”
“Sorry.”
“And I do think your idea is good. Frankly, Mr. Lee, I’m on your side.”
Marty was afraid to look at her. It would have been too easy for her to read the disbelief and amazement written on his face. He squinted at Frank Stannard, gritting his teeth, almost holding his breath, while waiting for him to say something. The older man drummed his fingers on the desk, sucked at his teeth for a moment, and narrowly regarded Lee. He neither approved or disapproved of Lee’s anger.
After a long while he said, “Perhaps.” He nodded his head slowly and mumbled again, “Perhaps. It must be gone into carefully. Further discussions. But perhaps.”
George was quick to appraise the situation and get aboard. “Personally,” he said, looking eagerly from one to the other, “I think it’s a very sound business proposition.”
Marty knew he had won. There would be long weeks of battling over the price of the property, attorneys would make his days miserable, and there would be many doubtful nights ahead, but he knew he had won. The hotel was as good as his. And if all went well he would be the fair-haired boy of the hotel business in less than a year.
He turned then to look fully at Karen, appraising the blue-black hair, the creamy texture of her skin, and the round firmness of her body. His eyes traveled from slim ankles to long thighs, a narrow waist, full breasts, a slimly curved throat, delicately rounded chin, soft lips that nevertheless had a touch of arrogance about them, and wide e
yes so deep and brown they seemed as black as her hair. She was younger than her cousin. Marty guessed her age at twenty-four or five. For a moment he put aside his obsessions toward her class and found her to be the most desirable woman he had ever met. Any man who possessed her would be the most fortunate of individuals. He caught himself undressing her with his eyes and finding the idea much too disturbing. He shook the dream out of his mind and was back to reality.
She was watching him just as closely, the tiny crease of a frown between her brows, her lips faintly parted, her eyes thoughtful. Slowly, very slowly, she smiled at him, and her features became suffused from an inner glow of deep warmth. She had made up her mind and formed an opinion of him. Marty could not believe the warmth of her smile. She actually seemed to like him.
He snapped his head about and looked away from her. God, he thought, wryly amused by the idea, if she only knew.
Chapter Four
THE ability to concentrate intensely on one problem at a time, which had made Marty an eminent success in the business of robbing banks and payrolls, was applied full strength in securing the hotel from the Stannard family. Marty ate, slept, talked, and dreamed of the one idea. He had dozens of conferences with Frank and George Stannard, he battled long hours with attorneys, accountants, appraisal experts, and bankers, and each day his ammunition seemed to increase rather than diminish. It was an uphill fight all the way, but never did he doubt the outcome.
Another trait that helped him in the battle was his purely cold-blooded approach to any matter involved in the deal. Marty thought in one term only, the dollar sign. It soon became obvious to everyone concerned that if anyone at all could make a success of the Stannard Hotel, that person would be Marty Lee. In a very few weeks no one any longer argued about the merits of his idea. That was accepted. The deal finally resolved itself down to the dollar, the price of the property, the manner of paying for it, and what percentage the Stannards would retain.
The latter point added a touch of irony to the situation. He had sold his idea so well that Frank Stannard was sure he could show a profit and wanted to be in on it. He had suggested an equal division of the hotel’s value, had dropped to demanding the retention of 40 per cent, but was beaten down to lower percentages.
Stannard was constantly amazed that a man of Marty’s mercurial temperament could be so patient and plodding and stubborn. He did not mind going over the same idea again and again, he was willing to spend hours over minor clerical details, he never became exasperated when matters seemed to go against him, and he always managed to return to whatever point he had been hammering on, no matter how far the conversations went astray. Stannard, of course, did not realize that Marty’s approach to the deal was the same attitude he had always used in casing a job. The inexorably grinding inevitability of the technique astonished and delighted Stannard. He began to regard Marty as a genius that he, personally, had discovered.
The negotiations were still on the percentage phase when Marty again saw Karen Stannard. She was in the dining room of the hotel one day, having lunch with a group of young women about her own age. Marty watched them from his table across the room. Though they all varied in size and coloring, they were yet very much alike. They had the detached attitude of the wealthy, the poise of good finishing schools, and the cool assurance born of secure backgrounds. Marty regarded them as women who neither toiled or reaped, who contributed nothing to the world, and yet who calmly expected everything of it, simply because they were gracing it with their presence. He admitted to himself that Karen at least contributed unusual beauty, but disliked her all the more because that beauty in itself placed an additional demand upon the world. Her loveliness caused men to feel it no more than their simple duty to cater to her every whim.
He was surprised when the group broke up and Karen crossed the room toward his table. The eyes of all the diners turned to follow her. She was wearing a severely tailored black suit that, in spite of its lines, or because of them, succeeded in accenting her own. A felt hat with a jockey-like brim tilted forward to shade her eyes. Marty was fascinated by her walk, one foot placed almost directly in front of the other, somewhat in the fashion of a model displaying clothes, but with more ease and grace. Her hips followed the rhythm of her walk with a slight suggestion of voluptuousness. Marty smiled, watching the eyes of the male diners open a bit wider as she passed. He could hardly blame them.
He had just signed his check, so he got to his feet and met her before she reached the table. She gave him her hand and a pleasant smile and asked how the deal was going. Marty shrugged. “So-so.” He walked with her to the lobby and out to the street. They stood on the sidewalk, in the sun, and commented on the spell of unusually good weather San Francisco was enjoying. Marty felt that she was stalling for time, trying to make up her mind about something.
She said, “I’m glad it’s such a nice day. I have to drive down to Palo Alto to see a friend for a few minutes. Now I can leave the top down and enjoy the sun.” She looked into Marty’s eyes, was thoughtfully silent for a moment, then seemed to have made up her mind. “Perhaps you will go along with me? I’d like your company.”
Marty took off on a mental race through the schedule for the afternoon. There was nothing of vital importance taking place that day that he could not handle by a few telephone calls either later on or the following morning. It would be a more interesting and perhaps profitable experience to go along with Karen.
“O.K.,” he said, “it’s a deal. I could use some fresh air for a change.”
“You look healthy enough.”
“That’s from running from office to office. Sometimes I think I’m racing in reverse on a fast merry-go-round.”
She smiled sympathetically and gave him her arm. Women’s clothes meant little to Marty; he thought in terms of bodies and was immediately conscious of Karen’s swaying at his side. She sensed his attitude, as she gave him a curious sidelong glance and looked away with her lips pulled into a faintly amused line.
After a moment she laughed and said, “Very rugged. Uncle Frank was right.” Marty did not know what she was talking about.
They walked to the garage under Union Square and waited for Karen’s automobile to be brought up the ramp. The underground concrete parking area reverberated and boomed hollowly with the racket of engines and was hot and filled with pungent exhaust gases. People waited impatiently for their cars, made nervous and irritable by the noise, the delay, and the acrid fumes. Karen, however, was impervious to all of it. She shifted her weight to one foot, looked calmly over the heads of the people assembled on the “out” island, and waited patiently. Time was not important to her.
Marty was both startled and confused when Karen’s car finally arrived. He had expected a good make, but conservative and unobtrusive, or even a small, inexpensive machine, which seemed to be the fashion among the wealthy. Karen’s car, however, was a Rolls-Royce convertible of light gray with a darker gray and black trim. In spite of the blunt radiator, it had the sleek appearance of a greyhound. It was also so designed that no one could mistake it for anything other than exactly what it was, the most expensive hand-built automobile in the world. Marty was slightly embarrassed when the car rolled to a stop before them. He glanced uneasily at the people standing about and saw quick envy and even bitter hatred in their eyes. Karen ignored them. She offered to let Marty drive, but he shook his head. He was afraid he would be all thumbs. Karen stepped on the gas and the car purred up the ramp and out of the garage and out of the lives of a handful of suddenly deflated Cadillac owners.
The top was down, so Marty took off his hat and held it in his lap. His hair blew loose in the wind and whipped about his forehead. Karen nodded toward the glove compartment. He opened it, found a long-peaked pilot’s cap, and pulled it on. He felt a trifle silly, but it did stay on his head and kept his hair out of his eyes. He glanced at the polished walnut dashboard and the metal appointments of the car. He rubbed them with a finger and whistled under hi
s breath. Solid silver. He felt like laughing.
As soon as they had swung out of the heavy traffic of the Union Square area, he observed, “Quite an automobile.”
“Like it?”
“Sure. Like something out of Tiffany’s window, or designed by Cartier. Nice gadget to have. You ever go broke you can always hock the silverware. Fort Knox on wheels.”
She leaned her head back and smiled, but did not look at him. “I like that.”
“I can’t get over my surprise. I thought you’d have a Ford, or a Chevvy, or a black Cad, or something. Not this. Don’t you feel a little — well, conspicuous in this buggy?”
“I’m used to feeling conspicuous anywhere.”
Marty nodded. “I see what you mean. But, even so, most wealthy people I have seen, including the good-looking dolls, generally go for something a little less sensational.”
“That’s fear.”
“Come again?”
“Fear. Today is the day of the ever loving, kindhearted, down-trodden laboring man. People are not supposed to be wealthy any more, and if they are they go out of their way to hide it and tell the world that really they’re just old shoes like everyone else. The whole thing is ridiculous.”
“How?”
“Because what the laboring man wants and what everyone else wants is exactly what I have. Did you notice the expressions on the people back in the garage when they saw this car?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think you had.”
“I noticed. It’s always the same. And because they look that way, most people in my position are afraid and try to disguise themselves in the dull mediocrity of the masses. I don’t. I have a considerable fortune. Very well. I use it and I’m not afraid to show it.”
Deep is the Pit Page 6