Eagles

by Lewis Orde

  Roland glanced at Sally who sat with Christopher Mellish; she grinned at him and gave a tiny wave of support.

  ‘. . . the newest resident of Fleet Street – the London Daily Eagle!’

  The toastmaster pulled from behind his back a copy of the first edition, the ink still wet from the presses. A tabloid format with a black and red banner, the newspaper carried on the front page a photograph of a serious-looking Ian Smith as he left Ten Downing Street after meeting with British Prime Minister Harold Wilson over the future of Rhodesia; the main story, covering half the front page, concerned the unilateral declaration of independence. Two smaller stories dealt with Vietnam and an armed bank robbery in London, while the entire left-hand column of the front page was devoted to a message from the staff of the Eagle, welcoming their new readers.

  ‘You conceited bugger,’ Christopher Mellish shouted across the restaurant, and laughter followed.

  Feeling his face burning, Roland stood up. The name of the newspaper had been Sally’s idea which Roland could do nothing about, particularly after she’d started a popular movement to name the new publication the Eagle.

  ‘I disclaim all responsibility for the title,’ Roland said, ‘It was the brainchild of other people involved with the newspaper who thought that if my name appeared on the front page – on every page – I would be satisfied with that and wouldn’t try to meddle with the contents.’ As he waited for the laughter to subside he looked down at Katherine, who sat beside him. Her hair was still short, but the luxurious thickness had returned. He reached out his hand and she took it, proud of her father. ‘I promise I will not.’

  ‘You’ll have a walk-out on your hands if you even dare think about it,’ Sally called out. ‘And I will be the one leading it.’

  ‘I bet you will.’ He grinned and sat down.

  For the first time in his memory, journalists were being kind to him. In the following day’s editions of other newspapers, the stories about the Eagle’s launch were strictly factual. Some newspapers even went as far as mentioning the newcomer in their leader columns, welcoming the competition and stating that its arrival was merely a reflection of the health of a free press; there wasn’t even a suggestion of the massive advertising revenue the Eagles Group could pour in from its own retail businesses to support its newest venture.

  ‘Treat journalists decently,’ Sally said at the next weekly meeting the Eagle’s directors held with the main board, ‘and they’ll treat you decently right back.’

  ‘I remember one I bought dinner for once,’ he whispered. ‘Look what she did for me.’

  ‘Plenty,’ Sally replied. ‘And don’t you ever forget it.’

  Roland smiled, and wondered what would be in the next edition of Probe.

  Roland was to be disappointed, though. No mention was ever made of ‘the Vulture’ opening a London daily newspaper. Roland decided it was a matter of dog not eating dog, and perhaps Rushden would give him some peace from now on.

  Or maybe that final warning – despite Alan Martin’s counsel not to get involved – had paid off.

  *

  Rushden ignored Roland’s business and personal affairs for more than a year. During that time the Eagle’s circulation and advertising revenues climbed steadily, allowing Roland to return his attention to the Eagles Group and his retail line. The pound was still valued at two dollars and eighty cents – overvalued, so Roland thought. He believed firmly that the boom he had ridden in Britain would soon end, and sterling would fall. While the pound still bought so much in the United States he wanted to look seriously into expanding there; despite the economic drain caused by the Vietnam War, America was still the retail marketplace of the future.

  Roland and Michael Adler spent three weeks in December of 1966 meeting with bankers and brokerage houses in New York. He returned to England just before Christmas, after buying twenty-eight percent of the six-store chain of department stores on the East Coast called Biwell, leaving instructions to his brokers to buy up as many of the remaining shares as possible when they came on the market.

  He spent Christmas at Stanmore, giving a party for friends and family. An invitation was sent to Simon and Nadine, who politely but coldly refused it. Roland resigned himself to never seeing his youngest son unless he chose to enter another legal battle for custody, but he decided against it. He didn’t have the stomach for it. Not now.

  On New Year’s Eve he went to a party given by Sally and Christopher Mellish on Curzon Street, intending to leave on the stroke of midnight. He and Katherine were traveling to Monte Carlo early the next day, and he wanted to be fresh for the trip. The five-day break would be Roland’s first vacation in more than a year, and he wanted to spend time with his daughter before she returned to school. He’d made the travel and hotel arrangements himself, and told no one where he was going – this would be one time when he wasn’t going to let work interrupt his brief vacation with Katherine.

  ‘Happy New Year, old sport!’ Mellish slapped Roland hard across the back as the last chime from a grandfather clock in the corner of the living room died away. ‘What are you going to get up to in 1967? Going to conquer more of the free world?’

  Roland looked around the crowded room for help, but Sally was nowhere to be seen. ‘How much have you had to drink?’

  ‘Not enough,’ Mellish answered with a sly wink. ‘I’m looking for courage, you know.’

  ‘You won’t find it in there.’ Roland took an empty champagne glass from Mellish’s hand before he dropped it.

  ‘Got to find it somewhere.’ Mellish raised his hand to his eyes and peered around the room, searching for another drink. Roland was uncertain whether he was really drunk or just hamming it up, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the New Year spirit. Mellish started to sing, a low repetitious chant, barely above an incoherent mumble.

  ‘Pardon?’ Roland said.

  Mellish swung around to face him. ‘Why? What did you do? Whatever it was you’re excused.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything. What’s the matter with your eyes?’

  Mellish dabbed at the huge tears that welled up in his eyes. His face dropped, and the happy drunk turned into a mournful one. ‘Another year’s gone, Roland. Who knows what crap this one’s going to bring?’

  ‘Christ, don’t be so maudlin.’ He shuddered as Mellish laid both hands on his shoulders, drew his face close, peered into his eyes.

  ‘You’re a good friend of Sally’s, aren’t you?’

  ‘I like to think so.’

  ‘Look after her, Roland.’ The tears began to flow freely, dribbling down Mellish’s flushed face. ‘Make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’ At last he spotted Sally, coming from the direction of the kitchen. ‘Sally, over here!’ He guided Mellish into a chair, just stopped him from falling out of it onto the floor. ‘Do something about your husband before he drowns everyone.’

  ‘You take one arm, I’ll get the other. We’ll put him where he belongs – in bed.’

  Between them, they manhandled the drunken man into his bedroom and dropped him onto the middle of the bed. He fell asleep immediately, mouth hanging open, arms outstretched.

  ‘What’s got into him?’ Roland asked.

  ‘Beats me. This party was his idea, too. Have a big bash, he kept telling me. Give everyone something to remember him by.’ Roland became concerned. ‘Is he all right? Physically, I mean. He asked me just now to make sure that you were looked after.’

  Sally gazed down at the inert figure, now snoring gently. ‘He’s as healthy as an ox. God knows why he drank so much.’

  ‘Will he be all right now?’

  ‘Sure, once he sleeps it off. If you want to leave, go ahead. I know you’re going away in the morning with Katherine . . . even if you won’t tell me where you’re going.’

  ‘I will when I get back. Happy New Year.’

  ‘Happy New Year to you, too.’ She raised her face to kiss him. ‘See
you when you get back.’

  As he left the apartment Roland remembered Mellish’s odd little drunken chant . . . something about having his money and his passport . . . Perhaps he should have mentioned it to Sally. Maybe it would have meant something to her, but it certainly didn’t mean a thing to him.

  The following afternoon, Roland and Katherine were in Monte Carlo, checking into the Hotel de Paris, where Roland had stayed with Janet when Mellish proposed to Sally. Roland had always considered Katherine to be very mature for her age – a characteristic brought on, he believed, by having to fend for herself in her turbulent early years. Now, at sixteen, she was an adult in body as well as spirit, tall and willowy, long blonde hair spilling down to her shoulders. Roland delighted in walking a few paces behind her when they went out to eat, noting the attention she received. Only a blind man wouldn’t turn around and stare at the pretty blonde teenager.

  While taking a walk on the fourth day of their vacation, Roland stopped at a kiosk to ask in the halting French he’d learned at Berlitz for a package of lighter flints. While he waited for change, he watched Katherine walk on fifty yards ahead. She stopped in front of a shoe shop, interested in the window display. A young, fair-haired man wearing jeans, an open-necked shirt and a cashmere sweater walked up beside her. When he started to talk to Katherine, Roland moved away from the kiosk, his protective instincts coming to the surface. Then he thought better of it. He wanted to see what would happen. Katherine was grown up enough to handle almost any situation – even a pickup on the street.

  The man said something and Katherine shook her head. He tried again, and a second time Katherine shook her head. Roland wondered just what was going on, whether she was turning down a proposition and the young man refused to take no for an answer. When he spoke a third time, though, Katherine nodded happily, and Roland was even more confused. He continued to watch while Katherine spoke to the stranger for a minute. Then the young man moved off, waving goodbye.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Roland asked, once he’d caught up with his daughter.

  ‘He tried to speak to me in French. I don’t understand it very well. Then he tried German. Finally he spoke English.’

  Now it all made sense to Roland. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s staying at the hotel and must have seen me there. He asked if he could meet me at the dance tonight.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘That I’d have to ask you first.’

  ‘Good girl.’ He hugged her. ‘Don’t get into trouble like your mother did by going against your father’s wishes.’

  That night at the hotel dance, Katherine wore a long pale blue dress and the diamond bracelet Roland had given her for Christmas. As young men had once lined up to dance with Catarina, so they did for her daughter. Roland sat back and watched quite happily for half an hour, then decided he was getting jealous. He would like one dance with Katherine for himself. He waited for a waltz, but as he was about to step onto the floor someone tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Excuse me, please, sir.’

  Before Roland could protest that he had waited thirty minutes to dance with his own daughter, Katherine was being whisked away by the fair-haired young man who now wore a black tuxedo. Roland stood on the edge of the dance floor, hands on hips, feeling foolish – as foolish as a painter named Giles Prideaux must have once felt when Sally butted in between him and Catarina, he decided with a rueful grin. Was Katherine now telling the young man that her intended partner was no great loss . . .?

  Roland turned around, intending to head for the bar, and walked straight into another man. ‘Excusez-moi,’ Roland muttered as he began to edge around him.

  ‘My son manages to accomplish what I cannot . . . to defeat you at something.’

  ‘Kassler! Good God!’ Roland blinked as he stared at the German’s face. ‘What are you doing here? Wait a minute – did you say your son?’ It was difficult enough to reconcile seeing Heinrich Kassler in Monte Carlo, but for the young man to be his son?

  ‘Franz. He has been ogling your daughter for the past two days.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop and say hello?’

  ‘I only arrived today. My son was here for two days by himself, and he told me about this beautiful English girl he’d met. When he pointed her out to me just now, I saw you standing next to her. How long are you here for?’

  ‘We’re leaving tomorrow. Yourself?’

  ‘A day or two. Just to relax at the tables. Is that the girl whose photograph you showed me . . . how many years ago was it?’

  ‘Six, seven years ago. That’s her. And that’s your son, whose picture you showed me?’

  ‘My only son. I understand important things have been happening to you.’

  ‘In business?’ What else could Kassler mean? He couldn’t know about Sharon. ‘I’m doing as well as I’d anticipated doing.’

  ‘A newspaper owner. How I envy you for that.’

  ‘It seems to me you’ve had your share of success, Heinrich.’

  Kassler shrugged modestly. ‘How much of Biwell do you now own?’

  ‘Twenty-eight percent. You’ve really been keeping tabs on me.’

  ‘The Vulture is an easy person to keep tabs on,’ Kassler remarked as they walked toward the bar. ‘I’ve also heard of your fame in Probe magazine.’

  ‘I’m not very fond of that name, or of the person who gave it to me.’

  ‘Left-wing intellectuals always criticize the men who keep a country running. What will you have to drink?’

  ‘A brandy, thank you.’ Roland waited for Kassler to order, then lifted his glass. ‘To left-wing intellectuals, Heinrich. I’ve met quite a few I liked.’

  ‘You surprise me.’

  ‘Why? Because I’ve got some socialist friends?’

  Kassler nodded ‘The wealthy have to ally themselves with the right, because the right supports them.’

  ‘Learn your history lessons, Heinrich. That’s what was wrong with your country thirty years ago.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Kassler smiled enigmatically. ‘How old is your daughter?’

  ‘Too young for your son. She’s sixteen.’

  ‘Franz is twenty. Four years is a perfect age difference.’

  Roland burst out laughing. ‘You’re an incorrigible fixer, do you know that? I bump into you for the first time in six years and already you’re planning to build an empire between us.’

  ‘A man’s mind must never stop working, Roland. Even while on holiday. Otherwise it leads to atrophy.’

  Katherine returned and introduced Franz to Roland. Franz was very formal. He bowed slightly from the waist as he shook Roland’s hand and apologized for stealing his daughter away.

  ‘Will you join us at the tables?’ Kassler asked Roland.

  ‘I will. But I don’t know about these two.’ He glanced at Franz and Katherine who stood off to one side, talking and holding hands.

  ‘They have better things with which to occupy their time than gambling,’ Kassler said as he led the way to the casino. ‘How deeply do you intend to go into the United States, Roland?’

  ‘I’m testing the waters at the moment. How about yourself?’

  ‘I’ll take my time.’ He changed some travelers checks for chips and began to play vingt-et-un. His bets were small at first, growing larger as the dealer progressed through the shuffled decks. Roland stood behind Kassler, watching intently. He knew exactly what the German was doing: counting, remembering how many face cards and aces had passed. As the deck became smaller, moving toward the cutoff card, the odds would shift in Kassler’s favor.

  Kassler’s playing brought to mind Simon Aronson’s rule. No wonder Kassler had done so well at business, if he worked as hard and ruthlessly as he played. Even as Roland considered the thought, he watched as Kassler confidently split a pair of aces and drew face cards on both.

  When the deck reached the cutoff and was reshuffled, Kassler dropped his bets back to the minimum �
�� not for him the sudden surge of feeling lucky, a bet based on pure optimism instead of logic. He played the game coldly, interested only in winning. Roland told him so when the German quit fifteen minutes later with a small mountain of chips in front of him.

  ‘I play only to win, Roland. What other reason is there?’

  ‘For enjoyment – for relaxation?’

  ‘What enjoyment or relaxation is there to losing, eh?’

  Roland couldn’t argue with that.

  They stood watching a roulette table for ten minutes, amused by the players who scribbled down numbers and symbols as they followed their own systems. Roland knew exactly what Kassler was thinking – the absolute stupidity of systems when each turn of the wheel started a new cycle. He agreed with the German but he wasn’t about to spoil the fun of these people by explaining scientifically the folly of their ways. Given the opportunity, though, he was sure that Kassler would. He was a hard man, opinionated, and clearly not afraid of showing other people why he was right and they were wrong. But was that any different from himself? Not really, Roland thought – it was just a matter of degrees.

  ‘Let’s return to the ballroom,’ Kassler said. ‘I’ve seen enough of these people and their complicated little ways of playing. Besides, I must remember why I came to Monte Carlo.’

  ‘Not to play the tables?’

  ‘No. To be with Franz. And your daughter has stolen him from me. Roland . . .’ By the entrance to the casino Kassler stopped and turned to face him. ‘Do you ever have family problems?’

  God! What a question! ‘It hasn’t always been peaches and cream. Why do you ask?’

  ‘My son – he is at university now, at Heidelberg, but he always lived with my ex-wife and I saw him when my work permitted.’

  ‘I remember, you told me when we met in England.’

  ‘I saw nothing wrong with that arrangement . . . how close should a father and son be? But now he is like a total stranger to me. When he leaves university he will join my company, of course. But it will be like having a stranger come to work for me. We came to Monte Carlo to be together for a few days, to try to get to know each other.’