Killed on the Rocks

by William L. DeAndrea

  I stopped roaming when I found the TV. It was very cleverly hidden inside a massive piece of mahogany that I was calling a chifforobe, since my father had had something similar, if smaller, and that’s what he’d called his. When I opened up the door, though, a 30-inch Sony color monitor rolled out on a double shelf. Just below it was a VCR. Sitting demurely on top, was a universal remote.

  It’s a matter of honor for us Network executives to check the reception on the local affiliate whenever we find ourselves somewhere new. I pushed a couple of buttons.

  The reception was fine. The reception on everything was fine. We were plugged into a cable system, and a damned good one. I pushed the plus button, and had identified maybe thirty stations and cable networks when there was a knock on the door.

  I still wasn’t enough at home in this place to yell “Come in.” Besides, I’d bolted the door behind me when I’d come in. Force of habit.

  I walked to the door and opened up for Gabby Dost.

  “I figure this is as good a time for our little talk as any,” he said. “Mind if I come in?”

  4

  Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?

  —Orson Welles (and others), “The Shadow” (MBS)

  DOST ASKED ME HOW I liked my room and sat down in an antique chair. I contented myself with a corner of the bed. It didn’t sag: I love firm mattresses.

  “It’s beautiful,” I told him. “It leads to two conflicting ideas, though.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The place wasn’t like this when you bought it, was it?”

  “Hell, no, it was a wreck. Took me more money to fix it up and furnish it than it did to buy it. Aranda handled the decorating. She’s my wife. Really did some job, didn’t she?”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said again.

  Dost laughed. “Son, don’t bullshit a bullshitter. It looks like God’s personal whorehouse, and I know it. But it looks like it cost money. When I bring people here—this is my official conference center, you know—whether it’s my own people or somebody I’m negotiating with, I want this room to put them in the proper frame of mind.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is, we’re playing in the big leagues. We can spend more on a crapper than most people spend on a car and not give a damn because the amounts I deal with make that kind of money insignificant. It’s like one time I was getting an honorary doctorate at Montana State—what the hell, it ain’t Harvard, but they don’t like me at Harvard—I heard these two science guys arguing. One of them was saying the earth was going to come to an end in five million years, and this other guy was saying nonono, it’s five billion years, and they went on like that for an hour, as if either one of them was going to be around to have a laugh on the other dummy for getting it wrong. The point is, it don’t make any difference.

  “Besides, the whole remodeling job was a tax write-off as a business expense. But I do go on. You were saying something about two conflicting ideas.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I had had a third idea in the meantime. The secret of Dost’s success was simply never to let anyone else ever say anything except when he was damned good and ready. But I noticed something else, too. He’d been eager to talk to me, and he was certainly living up to his nickname, but he had not come within a mile of anything that could be called a point. I might have to yell at him again.

  “Yeah, Gabby,” I went on. “Seeing what you’ve done to this place, I was inclined to wonder if you had any money left to buy the Network with—”

  “I just explained that. Besides—”

  I talked right through him. “On the other hand, if you could do this without blinking, maybe we just ought to forget about negotiations and banks and the government and let you buy the Network cash on the barrelhead.”

  Dost laughed. He laughed loud and long, much louder and much longer than the line deserved. He laughed until tears came to his eyes.

  “Gabby,” I said.

  He caught his breath and said, “Yes, Cobb?” I was so astonished to see he was giving me time to go on, I almost forgot to.

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” I said at last. “You know about the letter, don’t you?”

  “What letter is that?” He wasn’t laughing, now.

  “Come on. You’re the one who wanted to have this talk. I don’t think you sprinted upstairs to my room while my hair was still wet from the shower to ask me again if Spot is for sale.”

  Dost scratched his chin. “No. No, I didn’t do that. He is a fine animal, though. Fella who brought him said to ask you why he’s called Spot.”

  I had known this was coming, I had just hoped that the question would be asked at the dinner table or something, so I’d only have to deliver Rick Sloan’s joke once.

  “He’s named,” I said, “for the gigantic white spot that covers his entire body.”

  “Ah,” he said. “A joke.”

  “You’re changing the subject again. Are you or are you not aware that someone has sent letters to the Network’s entire board of directors accusing you of insanity, treachery, murder and suicidal tendencies?”

  “They forgot to mention dandruff and fallen arches.”

  “All right,” I said. “With all due respect, Mr. Dost, to hell with you. Since this is your place, I can hardly throw you out of the room, but boy, I’d like to. I can’t leave because of the snow. So as long as you’re here, what would you like to watch on TV?”

  Dost waved a big veined hand. “Oh, anything, anything. Never had TV up here until last week. Jack Bromhead supervised it. Great guy, Jack is, known him since our wildcat days. You’ll meet him later. How’s the reception?”

  “Terrific. See for yourself.”

  “I decided if we were going to work out details on my buying a TV network, we might as well have TV around while we did it. That’s deductible too, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, I pushed buttons on the remote. “‘Jeopardy’ okay?”

  Dost narrowed his eyes at me, but said nothing for maybe two whole minutes, probably a record. The only sound was me beating the pants off tonight’s contestants.

  Dost spoke with the first commercial. “I’m not used to being spoken to that way.” Not insulted or anything; just stating a fact.

  “As much as you talk, I doubt you’re used to being spoken to at all.”

  “When I buy the Network, I’ll be your boss.”

  “I can hardly wait. I’ve gotten more cooperation out of a broken shoelace than I have from you.”

  “How much money do you make?”

  “You find that out when you buy the Network.”

  Dost started to laugh. This time, it was real laughter, not the clownish hysterics he’d tried before. “Listen,” he said. “This isn’t the first company I’ve bought, you know. I’ll bet I can tell you how much you make.” He named a figure. “Is that about the number?”

  “No,” I said. Then I started to laugh. “That’s exactly the number.” I shook my head. “You’re good.”

  “You’re good, too, son. You know, I suspect I have dished out more bullshit than any man my age in the history of American business. Not lies, mind you. Just stuff that floats easy on the ear, stuff I say because I think somebody might like to hear it, or to fill up the air with syllables so I’ve got no time to say anything it would be smarter not to say.”

  He slapped his right knee. “But you don’t go for it! And, more important, you won’t stand for it, even from somebody as rich as me. I like that.”

  “It’s not so much,” I told him. “I’m not that crazy about my job, and I have free housing. There’s not that much for me to lose.”

  Dost grinned. “I can fix that.”

  I asked him what he was talking about.

  “Come work for me,” he said.

  “As soon as you buy the Network, I will be working for you. You said so yourself.”

  “Not like that. I mean, come work for me, personally. I’ll pay you a whole
lot more than what you’re getting now, and you’ll be able to get in on all the deals I make.”

  “Get thee behind me, Satan,” I told him.

  “What?”

  “This is really improper, Gabby. I’m here as part of the team protecting the interests of the Network stockholders, and you’re offering me a king’s ransom.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” he said.

  “I’ll bet. You’re trying to con me with the brash-young-guy-shoots-off-to-billionaire-and-gets-job-offer-because-billionaire-likes-his-spunk scenario.”

  “No, really. I was just impressed by you, you know. Of course, what I did would be a lot more improper if you were actually one of those people who were involved in negotiations.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Which brings us back to the letter.”

  “Yeah,” he echoed. “The letter. Okay, I’ve seen it.”

  “At last!” I moved to turn the TV off.

  “Wait. Might as well see final ‘Jeopardy’.”

  “I thought you hardly ever watch TV.”

  “I didn’t say I never watch it.”

  The answer came up: “These two actors won Oscars in the ’70s for playing the same character.”

  “Got me,” he said.

  “Who were Marlon Brando and Robert DeNiro?” I said. “Can I turn off the TV, now?”

  “Sure,” he said. “A movie question. I hardly ever get to the movies, either.”

  “Who showed you the letter?”

  “A friend.”

  “On the board?”

  “Of course on the board. I’ve got friends on your board. I’ve got friends on lots of boards. How do you think I know when a company’s ready to change hands?”

  “So tell me the name of the friend.”

  “Why?” Gabby was showing me he could be terse when he wanted to.

  “Because the purpose of the letter is to break up the takeover, or at least to slow it down. A lot of people stand to make or lose a lot of money depending on which way they guessed the deal would fall. Maybe your friend on the board had an ax to grind in showing you the letter. Maybe he sent it himself.”

  “You’re awfully suspicious, aren’t you?”

  “Somebody mentions murder, I get suspicious. Why do you think I’m here?”

  “To tell me about the letter, if I didn’t already know.”

  “Of course. But Falzet could have done that on the phone. Or I could. The real reason I’m here is to try to size up your people and see if any of them are behind this.”

  Dost didn’t seem to be surprised. I hadn’t expected him to be. You don’t work your way up to billionaire status without the ability to see the other guy’s angle.

  “You seem to be making a big deal out of a little crank letter.”

  “I’ve seen thousands of crank letters,” I told him. “The Network gets them by the bagful. This one is not typical.”

  “So it’s not typical. It’s still a crank letter.”

  “This one was typed on a laser printer. So we’re talking about a relatively well-off crank, or at least one who has access to one of these things and the knowledge of how to use it. It’s grammatical and educated in tone.”

  “Educated people write crank letters.”

  “They don’t think so.”

  “What?”

  “Educated people who write threatening letters. They invariably try to make mistakes in grammar or spelling because they feel intelligent people such as themselves would never be suspected of stooping to anonymous letters.” I looked at him. “Do I really have to tell you this? No offense, but you must get your share of hate mail.”

  “I get a couple of people’s shares. All right, so it’s not your usual crank. What diff—”

  “I’m not finished,” I told him. “I had my people do some checking. Every member of the board got a copy of this letter. Even Barnard Bass, who lives in Spain, got one. Not a photocopy. That means someone fed the names of all the directors into a computer and had separate letters printed up. The envelopes were done on the same printer, so the same someone fed in the addresses, too.”

  “And that means someone knew the addresses.” Dost did not seem happy.

  “Right,” I said. “Knew them right down to the nine-digit zip code and the number on the office door. That stuff isn’t exactly classified information, but it takes some nosing around, and you have to know where to look.”

  “Where were they mailed from?”

  “They were postmarked New York, but that doesn’t mean anything. There are mailing services in every town in America these days. A lot of them will get your stuff postmarked from wherever you like.”

  “I’ve used them myself,” Dost conceded. “When I wanted somebody to think I was somewhere I wasn’t.”

  “Who showed you the letter?”

  Dost didn’t like it, but he named somebody for me, the president of a Wall Street bank.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I smiled.

  Dost looked sour, but he hadn’t heard anything yet. “Now,” I said, “tell me about the family and staff you’ve got here. Tell me about insanity, treachery, and murder.”

  5

  Bon appétit!

  —Julia Child, “The French Chef” (PBS)

  DOST LEFT MY ROOM with a promise to see that Spot got a water dish and some food. I finished getting dressed. I had never gotten around to asking Dost what the dress code was. I decided on the jacket without the sweater or the tie.

  It was time to make a phone call, but I hesitated. There was a phone in the room, and I had the number I wanted to call and the Network’s credit card, so that was all right. I just didn’t know how things were set up here; how easy it might be for someone to listen in.

  I sat on the bed to think. My eyes wandered until I was looking out the window, and then I realized no thought was necessary. I was not fighting my way through that snow and down the goddam mountain just to find a pay phone. Besides, the odds against the letter having anything to do with anyone here were astronomical. I mean, a certain amount of paranoia can be beneficial, but too much is crazy.

  I picked up the receiver and dialed a zero, followed by a number in the 718 area code. Then after the bong, I dialed the Network’s credit-card number. A voice came on and thanked me for using AT&T.

  I was reflecting that they ought to add plugs on the tape for orthopedists who specialized in sore dialing fingers when Shirley Arnstein answered the phone.

  “Matt!” she said. “I’m surprised the phone lines are still up.” Shirley was one of the two people in Special Projects I called on for the most important jobs. Shirley had come to the Network from the staff of a congressman who would still be a congressman (and a free man) if he had listened to her advice instead of letting her do all of his work. She’s pleasant to look at, though you couldn’t call her pretty, and she’s very shy about everything but her work. There, she’s a tigress. If I told her to find out who put the salt in the sea, she’d come back in a week and tell me. She’d at least have a list of suspects.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The blizzard! They predicted ‘flurries’ down here. The whole Northeast is paralyzed. Didn’t you see the Network news?”

  “No, I watched Jeopardy.’”

  She clucked her tongue at me. “A fine example you set.”

  Three years ago, she would never have thought of speaking to a vice-president (even me) that way. Part of the change, I’m sure, was Harris Brophy’s influence. Harris is the other Special Projects employee I count on. He’s small and handsome, with an ever-present air of cynical amusement. Shirley is desperately in love with him, and he’s willing to let her be. For Harris, that’s large-scale commitment.

  “Tell me about the blizzard,” I told Shirley.

  “Well, here in the city, it’s bad enough—traffic snarled, a lot of things canceled—but north of Poughkeepsie, it’s a real mess. The highways are all closed, and the airports. Trains are running hours
late. Power lines and phone lines are down all over. The Governor has called out the National Guard.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t try to slip out to that pay phone.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. If telephone lines are down all over, I’d better talk fast.” I told Shirley about Gabby Dost’s friend, the banker, and asked her to do a thorough but discreet rundown on him as soon as she could.

  “I’ll get on it first thing in the morning,” she said.

  “I thought the city was snowed in, too.”

  “The subway isn’t. Not in this part of Brooklyn, at least. And our phone lines are underground, too.”

  “Call me here as soon as you have anything.” I gave her the phone number. “If you can’t get through, brief Harris and report to Falzet.”

  “Falzet?”

  “In person. While you weren’t looking, the Age of Aquarius got here—harmony and understanding and sympathy and trust and like that. Falzet’s like a father to me, now.”

  “Okay,” Shirley said. She sounded dubious. “I hope the phone lines stay up.”

  I told her I did, too. I hung up, put on my jacket, patted Spot, and went down to join the party.

  I met Roxanne on the stairs. She was still grinning like a beauty contestant.

  “Hi, Cobb,” she said. She almost sang it.

  “Hi, Rox. Listen, will you do me a favor?”

  “Anything for you, Cobb. You know that.”

  “Try to look a little more serious, will you?”

  “But I’m happy. I’m going to get out from under the Network. I’m going to have the monster that destroyed my family behind me at last. And I don’t even have to give up being rich!”

  She laughed at her own joke. Roxanne Schick drove a Volkswagen Beetle she kept together with Scotch tape, and lived in a two-room, third-floor walk-up. Being rich was not the central fact of her life.

  “That’s swell,” I said, “but if you keep grinning like the proverbial cat that ate the canary, Dost is going to think you think you’re putting one over on him. Who knows what would happen then?”