Not that much!
He made a forceful, self-controlled decision and thrust his gloom away. The hell with it all! Not for FMA, nor boards of directors, or personal ambition, would he surrender, ever, his private freedom of action and independence. Or give up Margot.
“The most important thing is,” he told her, “do you want it to be the way you said just now—a ‘sensible conclusion’?”
Margot spoke through tears. “Of course not.”
“Then I don’t either, Bracken. Or am I ever likely to. So let’s be glad this happened, that we’ve proved something, and that neither of us has to prove it any more.”
This time, when he put out his arms, she did not hold back.
6
“Roscoe, my boy,” the Honorable Harold Austin said on the telephone, sounding pleased with himself. “I’ve been talking with Big George. He’s invited you and me to play golf in the Bahamas next Friday.”
Roscoe Heyward pursed his lips doubtfully. He was at home, in the study of his Shaker Heights house, on a Saturday afternoon in March. Before taking the phone call he had been examining a portfolio of financial statements, with other papers spread on the floor around his leather armchair.
“I’m not certain I can get away that soon or go that far,” he told the Honorable Harold. “Couldn’t we try for a conference in New York?”
“Sure we could try. Except we’d be stupid, because Big George prefers Nassau; and because Big George likes doing business on a golf course—our kind of business that he attends to personally.”
It was unnecessary for either of them to identify “Big George.” For that matter, few others in industry, banking, or public life would have needed to.
G. G. Quartermain, board chairman and chief executive of Supranational Corporation—SuNatCo—was a bravura bull of a man who possessed more power than many heads of state and exercised it like a king. His interests and influence extended worldwide, like those of the corporation whose destiny he directed. Inside SuNatCo and out he was variously admired, hated, courted, lionized, and feared.
His strength lay in his record. Eight years earlier—on the basis of some previous financial wizardry—G. G. Quartermain had been summoned to the rescue of Supranational, then ailing and debt ridden. Between then and now he had restored the company’s fortune, enlarged it to a spectacular conglomerate, thrice split its shares and quadrupled its dividend. Shareholders, whom Big George had made wealthy, adored him; they also allowed him all the freedom of action he desired. True, a few Cassandras argued he had built an empire of cardboard. But financial statements of SuNatCo and its many subsidiaries—which Roscoe Heyward had been studying when the Honorable Harold telephoned—resoundingly contradicted them.
Heyward had met the SuNatCo chairman twice: once briefly in a crowd, the second occasion in a Washington, D.C., hotel suite with Harold Austin.
The Washington meeting came about when the Honorable Harold reported to Quartermain on the subject of a mission he had carried out for Supranational. Heyward had no idea what the assignment was—the other two had completed the main part of their conversation when he joined them—except that in some way it involved government.
The Austin Agency handled national advertising for Hepplewhite Distillers, a large SuNatCo subsidiary, although the Honorable Harold’s personal relationship with G. G. Quartermain appeared to extend beyond this.
Whatever the report was, it appeared to have put Big George in a jovial humor. On being introduced to Heyward, he observed, “Harold tells me he’s a director of your little bank and you’d both like a spoonful of our gravy. Well, sometime soon we’ll see about it.”
The Supranational chieftain had then clapped Heyward across the shoulders and talked of other things.
It was his Washington conversation with G. G. Quartermain which prompted Heyward in mid-January—two months ago—to inform the FMA money policy committee that doing business with SuNatCo was a probability. Later, he realized he had been premature. Now it seemed the prospect was revived.
“Well,” Heyward conceded on the telephone, “perhaps I could get away next Thursday for a day or two.”
“That’s more like it,” he heard the Honorable Harold say. “Whatever you might have planned can’t be more important to the bank than this. And, oh yes, one thing I haven’t mentioned—Big George is sending his personal airplane for us.”
Heyward brightened. “Is he now? Is it big enough for a fast trip?”
“It’s a 707. I thought that would please you.” Harold Austin chuckled. “So we’ll fly from here Thursday at noon, have all of Friday in the Bahamas, and be back on Saturday. By the way, how do the new SuNatCo statements look?”
“I’ve been studying them.” Heyward glanced at the mess of financial data spread around his chair. “The patient appears healthy; very healthy indeed.”
“If you say so,” Austin said, “that’s good enough for me.”
As he replaced the telephone, Heyward permitted himself a slight, sly smile. The impending trip, its purpose, and the fact of traveling to the Bahamas by private plane, would make a pleasant item to drop casually in conversation next week. Also, if anything came of it, it would enhance his own status with the board—something he never lost sight of nowadays, remembering the interim nature of Jerome Patterton’s appointment as FMA president.
He was pleased, too, about the scheduled return by air next Saturday. It meant he would not have to miss an appearance in his church—St. Athanasius’s—where he was a lay reader and delivered the lesson, clearly and solemnly, every Sunday.
The thought reminded him of tomorrow’s reading which he had planned to go over in advance, as he usually did. Now he lifted a heavy family Bible from a bookshelf and turned to a page already flagged. The page was in Proverbs where tomorrow’s reading included a verse which was a Heyward favorite: Righteousness exalteth a nation: but sin is a reproach to any people.
To Roscoe Heyward, the Bahamas excursion was an education.
He was not unfamiliar with high living. Like most senior bankers, Heyward had mingled socially with customers and others who used money freely, even aggressively, in achieving princely comforts and amusements. Almost always, he envied their financial freedom.
But G. G. Quartermain outdid them all.
The 707 jet, identified by a large Q on fuselage and tail, landed at the city’s international airport precisely as scheduled, to the minute. It taxied to a private terminal where the Honorable Harold and Heyward left the limousine which had brought them from downtown and were whisked aboard, entering at the rear.
In a foyer like a miniature hotel lobby, a quartet greeted them—a middle-aged man, graying and with the mix of authority and deference which stamped him a majordomo, and three young women.
“Welcome aboard, gentlemen,” the majordomo said. Heyward nodded, but scarcely noticed the man, his attention being distracted by the women—breathtakingly beautiful girls in their twenties—who were smiling agreeably. It occurred to Roscoe Heyward that the Quarter-main organization must have assembled the most comely stewardesses from TWA, United, and American, then skimmed off these three, like cream from richest milk. One girl was honey-blonde, another a striking brunette, the third a long-haired redhead. They were long-legged, willowy, healthily suntanned. The tans contrasted against their stylish but abbreviated pale beige uniforms.
The majordomo’s uniform was of the same smart material as the girls’. All four had an embroidered Q on the left breast pocket.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Heyward,” the redhead said. Her voice, pleasantly modulated, had a soft, almost seductive quality. She went on, “I’m Avril. If you’ll come this way, I’ll show you to your room.”
As Heyward followed her, surprised at the reference to a “room,” the Honorable Harold was being greeted by the blonde.
The elegant Avril preceded Heyward down a corridor extending part way along the aircraft on one side. Several doors opened from it.
Over
her shoulder, she announced, “Mr. Quartermain is having a sauna and massage. He’ll join you later in the lounge.”
“A sauna? Aboard here?”
“Oh, yes. There’s one directly behind the flight deck. A steam room, too. Mr. Quartermain likes either a sauna or a Russian bath wherever he is, and he has his own masseur always with him.” Avril flashed a dazzling smile. “If you’d like a bath and massage there’ll be plenty of time on the flight. I’ll be glad to attend to it.”
“No, thank you.”
The girl stopped at a doorway. “This is your room, Mr. Heyward.” As she spoke, the aircraft moved forward, beginning to taxi. At the unexpected movement, Heyward stumbled.
“Oops!” Avril put out her arm, steadying him, and for a moment they were close. He was conscious of long slim fingers, bronze-orange polished nails, a light firm touch and a waft of perfume.
She kept her hand on his arm. “I’d better strap you in for takeoff. The captain always goes quickly. Mr. Quartermain doesn’t like lingering at airports.”
He had a quick impression of a small, sumptuous parlor into which the girl led him, then he was seated on a softly comfortable settee while the fingers he had already become aware of deftly fastened a strap around his waist. Even through the strap he could feel the fingers moving. The sensation was not disagreeable.
“There!” The aircraft was taxiing fast now. Avril said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll stay until we’re airborne.”
She sat beside him on the settee and fastened a strap herself.
“No,” Roscoe Heyward said. He felt absurdly dazed. “I don’t mind at all.”
Looking around, he took in more details. The parlor or cabin, such as he had seen on no aircraft before, had been designed to make efficient but luxurious use of space. Three of the walls were paneled in teak, with carved Q motifs embellished in gold leaf. The fourth wall was almost entirely mirror, ingeniously making the compartment seem larger than it was. Recessed into the wall on his left was a compactly organized office bureau, including a telephone console and glass-shielded teletype. Nearby a small bar was stocked with an array of miniature bottles. Built into the mirror wall, which faced Heyward and Avril, was a TV screen with duplicate sets of controls, reachable from either side of the settee. A folding door behind was presumably to a bathroom.
“Would you like to watch our takeoff?” Avril asked. Without waiting for an answer, she touched the TV controls nearest her and a picture, clear and in color, sprang to life. Obviously a camera was in the aircraft nose and, on the screen, they could see a taxiway leading to a wide runway, the latter coming fully into view as the 707 swung onto it. With no time wasted, the aircraft moved forward, simultaneously the runway began to rush beneath them, then the remainder of it tilted downward as the big jet angled up and they were airborne. Roscoe Heyward had a sense of soaring, not merely because of the TV image. With only sky and clouds ahead, Avril snapped it off.
“The regular TV channels are there if you need them,” she informed him, then motioned to the teleprinter. “Over there you can get the Dow Jones, AP, UPI, or Telex. Just phone the flight deck and they’ll feed in whichever you say.”
Heyward observed cautiously, “All this is a little beyond my normal experience.”
“I know. It has that effect on people sometimes, though it’s surprising how quickly everyone adapts.” Again the direct look and dazzling smile. “We have four of these private cabins and each one converts to a bedroom quite easily. You just push some buttons. I’ll show you if you like.”
He shook his head. “It seems unnecessary now.”
“Whatever you wish, Mr. Heyward.”
She released her seat belt and stood up. “If you want Mr. Austin, he’s in the cabin immediately behind. Up forward is the main lounge you’re invited to when you’re ready. Then there’s a dining room, offices, and beyond that Mr. Quartermain’s private apartment.”
“Thank you for the geography.” Heyward removed his rimless glasses and took out a handkerchief to wipe them.
“Oh, please let me do that|” Gently but firmly Avril took the glasses from his hand, produced a square of silk and polished them. Then she replaced the glasses on his face, her fingers traveling lightly behind his ears in doing so. Heyward had a feeling he should protest, but didn’t.
“My job on this trip, Mr. Heyward, is to take care of you exclusively and make sure you have everything you want.”
Was it imagination, he wondered, or had the girl placed subtle emphasis on the word “everything”? He reminded himself sharply that he hoped not. If she had, the implication would be shocking.
“Two other things,” Avril said. Gorgeous and slender, she had moved to the doorway, preparing to leave. “If you want me for anything at all, please press button number seven on the telephone.”
Heyward answered gruffly, “Thank you, young lady, but I doubt if I’ll do that.”
She seemed unperturbed. “And the other thing: On the way to the Bahamas we’ll be landing in Washington briefly. The Vice-President is joining us there.”
“A vice-president from Supranational?”
Her eyes were mocking. “No, silly. The Vice-President of the United States.”
Some fifteen minutes later, Big George Quartermain demanded of Roscoe Heyward, “For Chrissakes! Whatinhellzat you’re drinking? Mother’s milk?”
“It’s lemonade.” Heyward held up his glass, inspecting the insipid liquid. “I rather enjoy it.”
The Supranational chairman shrugged his massive shoulders. “Every addict to his own poison. Girls taking care of you both?”
“No complaints from this quarter,” the Honorable Harold Austin offered with a chuckle. Like the others, he was reclining comfortably in the 707’s splendidly appointed main lounge with the blonde, who had revealed her name as Rhetta, curled on the rug at his feet.
Avril said sweetly, “We’re trying our best.” She was standing behind Heyward’s chair and let a hand travel lightly across his back. He felt her fingers touch the base of his neck, linger momentarily, then move on.
Moments earlier, G. G. Quartermain had come into the lounge, resplendent in a crimson towel robe with white piping, the inevitable Q embroidered largely. Like a Roman senator, he was attended by acolytes—a hard-faced, silent man in gym whites, presumably the masseur, and still another hostess in trim beige uniform, her features delicately Japanese. The masseur and the girl supervised Big George’s entry into a broad, throne-like chair, clearly reserved for him. Then a third figure—the original majordomo—as if by magic produced a chilled martini and eased it into G. G. Quartermain’s awaiting hand.
Even more than on previous occasions they had met, Heyward decided, the name “Big George” seemed apposite in every way. Physically their host was a mountain of a man—at least six and a half feet in height, his chest, arms, and torso like a village blacksmith’s. His head was half the size again of most other men’s and his facial features matched—prominent, large eyes, swift-moving and darkly shrewd, the mouth wide-lipped and strong, as accustomed to issuing commands as a Marine drill sergeant’s, though on larger issues. Equally clearly, surface joviality could be banished instantly by powerful displeasure.
Yet he stopped short of coarseness, nor was there any sign of overweight or flab. Through the enfolding towel robe, muscles bulged. Heyward observed, too, that Big George’s face betrayed no fat layers, his massive chin no jowls. His belly appeared flat and taut.
As to other bigness, his corporate reach and appetite were reported daily in the business press. And his living style aboard this twelve-million-dollar airplane was unabashedly royal.
The masseur and majordomo quietly disappeared. Replacing them, like one more character emerging on stage, was a chef—a pale, worried pencil of a man, immaculate in kitchen whites with a high chef’s hat which brushed the cabin ceiling. Heyward wondered just how big the on-board staff was. Later, he learned it totaled sixteen.
The chef stood stiffly besi
de Big George’s chair, proffering an outsize black leather folder embossed with a golden Q. Big George ignored him.
“That trouble at your bank.” Quartermain addressed Roscoe Heyward. “Demonstrations. All the rest. Is everything settled? Are you solid?”
“We were always solid,” Heyward answered. “That was never in question.”
“The market didn’t think so.”
“Since when was the stock market an accurate barometer of anything?”
Big George smiled fleetingly, then swung to the petite Japanese hostess. “Moonbeam, get me the latest quote on FMA.”
“Yes, Misto Q,” the girl said. She went out by a forward door.
Big George nodded in the direction she had gone. “Still can’t get that tongue of hers around Quartermain. Always calls me ‘Misto Q.’” He grinned at the others. “Manages nicely elsewhere, though.”
Roscoe Heyward said quickly, “The reports you heard about our bank concerned a trifling incident, magnified beyond importance. It happened also at a time of management transition.”
“But you people didn’t stand firm,” Big George insisted. “You let outside agitators have their way. You went soft and surrendered.”
“Yes, we did. And I’ll be frank to say I didn’t like the decision. In fact, I opposed it.”
“Stand up to ’em! Always clobber the bastards one way or another! Never back down!” The Supranational chairman drained his martini and the majordomo appeared from nowhere, removed the original glass and placed a fresh one in Big George’s hand. The drink’s perfect chill was apparent from its outside frosting.
The chef was still standing, waiting. Quartermain continued to ignore him.
He rumbled reminiscently, “Had a sub-assembly manufacturing plant near Denver. Lots of labor trouble. Wage demands beyond all reason. Early this year, union called a strike, the last of many. I told our people—the subsidiary which ran it—warn the sons of bitches we’ll close the plant down. Nobody believed us. So we made studies, planned arrangements. Shipped tools and dies to one of our other companies. They took up the manufacturing slack. At Denver we closed. Suddenly no plant, no jobs, no payroll. Now, the lot of ’em—employees, union, Denver city, state government, you name it—are down on their knees pleading with us to reopen.” He considered his martini, then said magnanimously, “Well, we may. Doing other manufacturing, and on our terms. But we didn’t back down.”
The Moneychangers Page 22
