Tycoon

by Harold Robbins

  That was the last light moment of the evening, Everyone knew perfectly well that 27.5 percent or 37.5 percent was not going to save control of the company.

  Diane was livelier and more active than Jack was that evening, moving among the guests, saying a word here, a word there. She wore tight powder-blue stirrup pants and a loose white cable-knit sweater.

  Jack sat rather heavily in an armchair in a corner of the living room, wearing one of his signature dark-blue suits, with a white breast-pocket handkerchief folded precisely in two sharp points. He knew people were glancing at him, appraising him, and—God forbid!—pitying him. He knew they were looking at him more closely than they had ever looked at him before, taking special note of the liver spots on his head and hands, his droopy eyes, and his loose jowls. He smiled at each one he caught looking at him, showing them he was preserving his sense of humor.

  Suddenly the room was silent, as though everyone had simultaneously run out of things to say. Instinctively, they turned toward him.

  “Wouldn’t it be funny,” he asked quietly, “if all our worry and anxiety turned out to be for nothing? Remember how in 1948 when H. V. Kaltenborn insisted all night you couldn’t really tell how the election was coming out until the farm vote was counted? Well, the farm vote and the shrimp-boat vote haven’t been counted. If Billy Bob Cotton and Ray l’Enfant weigh in with us, we’ll have 37.5 percent, which makes it a whole lot closer.”

  He didn’t raise the spirits of the others.

  In a corner of the room, Curt Frederick talked with Cap Durenberger. “I think about the years . . . the things. It’s going to be an end of an era. Goddamn, we have to be glad we’ve retired! I wouldn’t want to be at LCI anymore.”

  Sara and Liz stood apart from the group. “I wish I’d known him longer and better,” Sara said.

  “He’s a great man,” Liz said simply. “I don’t know if he will, but I’m going to drop a letter to your mother, thanking her for buying some stock and giving us her proxy. That’s a real vote of confidence, Sara.”

  “Maybe I should do that, too.”

  Little Jack talked with Diane. “You have any idea how it was with my father and me? He was never around.”

  Diane sneered. “Another little boy who resents his father because the old man was out working his ass off to make a living. That’s a cliché, LJ—and a pretty wretched one, too.”

  “Okay. He gave me the best of everything.”

  “Another cliché, but never mind, LJ, your father built Lear Communications, Incorporated. Apart from the three major networks, LCI is the biggest communications enterprise in the United States. He built it, LJ. And tomorrow he’s going to lose it. Do you so much as give a damn?”

  “Does he really give a damn about what I’ve done?”

  “What have you done?” Diane asked with an almost Gallic shrug. “You never grew up. You’ve played a juvenile game all your life. Oh yeah, you’ve made money at it and won some temporary glory; but when you retire you’ll be forgotten very quickly. Your father won’t be.”

  “Is this what he thinks of me?”

  “Ask him, LJ. Your father speaks for himself.”

  Mickey Sullivan talked with Herb Morrill. “Jack’s old man would be proud of him. In spite of the fact that they clashed hard, Erich thought the world of him.”

  “Don’t make this sound like a funeral, for Chrissake!” Herb whispered shrilly.

  Joni talked quietly with Diane. “I could throttle Mary Carson,” she said. “I love my father so much, and to think of her— Diane, this could kill him.”

  Diane shook her head. “No, it won’t. If anything could have killed him, it would have been Anne’s death.”

  The buzzer sounded, and Diane went to the door. Billy Bob Cotton was there.

  The crowd knew his arrival was a significant development. They stood apart as Jack and Diane led Billy Bob into the suite’s master bedroom and closed the door.

  “Bourbon?” Jack asked as Billy Bob settled into a chair.

  Billy Bob shook his head. “After,” he said.

  “You’re not here with good news,” said Diane.

  “No. Jack . . . Diane . . . You’ll probably have my votes in the morning. But not Ray’s.”

  Jack stiffened. “Not Ray’s? I thought—”

  “So did I. But then . . . something happened.”

  “What?” Diane asked.

  “Ray’s got something in his craw.”

  “Which is?”

  “Emily.”

  “What about Emily?”

  Billy Bob crossed his legs and, as he sometimes did when he was nervous, rubbed his snakeskin boots with the fingers of his right hand. “You know about a stockbroker named Elsie Sennett?”

  Jack shook his head. “The name’s on the list. She inherited— I think it’s five thousand shares. That’s all I know.”

  Billy Bob sighed. “She lives in Baton Rouge. Two weeks ago she got a telephone call from Cap Durenberger, whom she’d met some years ago. He asked her to give you her proxy. She was kind of wavering, so Cap said something like ‘Well, you ought to know about Emily Carson’ and went on to tell a really wretched story about Mary’s daughter.”

  “I know about that,” Jack said. “Mary told me, a long time ago.”

  Billy Bob went on. “Well—Elsie Sennett called Ray, who’s a friend of hers, to report what she supposed was an awful lie about Mary and her daughter. Ray knew all about Emily. He was a much closer friend of Doug Humphrey than I ever was. In fact, he tried to help Doug get the charges reduced. Anyway, Ray called Mary to tell her the story was being used against her. Because it came from Cap Durenberger, both Ray and Mary supposed it came from you. Mary is furious. She says she spoke to you in confidence about Emily, and—”

  “I did not betray her confidence!” Jack said vehemently. I told Cap nothing about it. He found out for himself. He came to us with the story, and both Diane and I told him not to use it. From the day Mary told me about Emily to the day Cap came to us in Washington with the story, Diane was the only one who heard it from me.”

  Billy Bob frowned. “I’ll take that bourbon now,” he muttered. “And of course I accept your word and will vote my stock for you.”

  “Where is Ray?” Diane asked.

  “He’s got a room at the Plaza,” said Billy Bob.

  Jack stood at the bar, pouring three drinks. “We’re not calling him, Diane. I won’t beg for his vote. When he heard the story, he should have called and checked with me. He accepted the idea that I’d betrayed a confidence and didn’t even have the decency to talk to me about it. To hell with him!”

  “You could say to hell with me, too, I guess,” said Billy Bob.

  “Why? You’re here. You faced me with the story, I told you the truth, and you accepted my word.” Jack stomped across the room. “Mary, too. She could have had the goddamned decency to ask me if I—”

  “The worst thing for Mary is that she figures that any publicity that gets loose about Emily will make it more difficult for Emily to get her parole. She’s been in four years, and there’s some hope she might get a parole before Christmas.”

  “What fuckin’ publicity? Why should there be any publicity?”

  “Cap—”

  Jack strode to the door and jerked it open. “Cap! Come here!” He lowered his voice so only Cap could hear. He jabbed Cap’s shoulder with his finger. “Not another fuckin’ word to anybody about Emily Carson! You understand me? Another word and I’ll find a way to cut off your fuckin’ pension!”

  Leaving Cap Durenberger flushed and gaping, Jack slammed the door in his face.

  “I’ll talk to Ray,” said Billy Bob. “Also to Mary.”

  “Please do,” said Jack. “Now— If you will excuse me, I’ve got a call to make.”

  Billy Bob left the room. Jack faced Diane.

  “Grotius?” she asked softly.

  Jack shrugged. “Grotius. Why not? Our fallback position.”

  “Not exac
tly.”

  “I like it better than the other way.”

  Diane’s smile was soft and wistful. “He who tries to screw you had better cover ail points of the compass,” she said.

  Two

  THE STOCKHOLDERS MEETING WAS HELD IN A BALLROOM AT the New York Hilton at ten o’clock the following morning.

  Jack and Diane were standing in the corridor outside the ballroom with Joni and LJ shortly after eight. Joni wore a pink mini-dress and looked every inch the glamorous movie star. LJ wore a gold-buttoned blue blazer and gray slacks, also his Super Bowl ring. The tycoon, the congresswoman, the screen star, the football star—they made a formidable team. Each of them was asked for autographs.

  Mary Carson appeared only as the meeting opened. She sat beside Jack at the head table. “I apologize for doubting your word,” she said softly. “I apologize for not calling you.”

  “Cap did a rotten thing,” Jack said in a firm, controlled voice. “But it was rotten of people who have been my friends for many years to distrust me the way they did.”

  Jack opened the meeting. He presided and delivered a ten-minute speech, reporting to the stockholders on the condition of the company but referring them to the printed annual report for most of the information.

  “The next order of business,” said Jack, “is the election of a board of directors. Nominations are now open.”

  Billy Bob Cotton rose and nominated a slate of directors—people who would support Jack as CEO. A Dallas lawyer nominated a different slate. Jack was on the ballot for both slates and would remain a director of the company no matter which slate won. But the majority of the nominees for the Dallas slate would cast their votes for Mary as new CEO.

  “If there are no other nominations,” Jack said, “we will designate the slate nominated by Mr. Cotton as Slate A and the slate nominated by Attorney Lovell as Slate B. Voting is by paper ballot, and you may vote for either slate simply by writing A or B on your ballot.”

  While the tellers were collecting the ballots, Billy Bob Cotton came to the table. He spoke to Jack, but Mary could hear what he said. “Ray has gone home,” he said. “He gave me his proxy with instructions to vote for you.”

  The tellers were ready. Jack stood at the lectern and rapped the gavel.

  The chief teller read the results: “Present or voting by proxy, 777,255 shares. Votes for Slate A—379,412. Votes for Slate B—397,843.”

  The room was silent. No one applauded. Everyone—even those who had won—were stunned.

  Mary put her hand on Jack’s arm. “I want you to keep your office exactly where it is. Your salary will remain the same. Your access to company planes, cars, and so on will stay the same.”

  “Well, I’m afraid it isn’t going to be quite that simple, Mary. I’m going to say a few words to the stockholders, and then there’s a man here I want you to meet.”

  Jack rose and stepped to the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, before this meeting of stockholders adjourns, I would like to make an announcement. You have been kind enough to elect me a director of Lear Communications, Incorporated. I thank you, but I decline to accept. What is more, I resign all offices I hold in the corporation.

  “Julius Caesar once said he would rather be first in a small Spanish village than second in Rome. So would I. Either I run this company or I want nothing to do with it.

  “Those who have engineered this . . . coup—I think that is what it must be called—have a surprise coming. I have asked Mr. Junius Grotius to come forward. That is he, there.

  “Mr. Grotius is president of Wyncherly-DeVere, Limited, the British and Dutch communications conglomerate. For some time Mr. Grotius has had outstanding with me and others an offer to buy our shares in Lear Communications. Very recently I signed an option, allowing Wyncherly-DeVere to buy my shares in the event I should lose control of the company. Members of my family and friends and associates have signed similar options. What is more, Mr. Grotius has obtained options from two banks that hold substantial blocks of stock. Today Wyncherly-DeVere will exercise those options and others. After today, Wyncherly-DeVere will be the biggest stockholder in Lear Communications.

  “As I said, if I can’t run the company I want nothing to do with it. It will pass now—rather quickly, I imagine—into the control of a communications conglomerate with the capital and know-how to make it a bigger player in the field than it has ever been before—bigger than I dreamed of making it. And the stockholders of this company will benefit hugely.”

  Jack stepped back from the microphone. He pointed and nodded at Junius Grotius. The crowd applauded tentatively.

  Jack bent down over Mary Carson. “Let’s see you screw them, my dear,” he said quietly.

  Diane and Joni pushed their way forward through the crowd of stockholders. They embraced Jack as he came down from the platform and moved to shake hands with Junius Grotius. Suddenly the crowd burst into loud and sustained applause. Jack and the two women he loved moved slowly through a crush of people who wanted to shake their hands, even to kiss them as they worked their way toward the door.

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