Getting the car turned around was easy enough, and Marc stepped to the window again. “Is the ignition on?”
“Right.”
“Are you in second gear?”
“Yes.”
“Then here we go.” He leaned into the door, and the little car began to roll.
“Now!”
Valerie popped the clutch. The car bucked heavily, lurching to a stop. They tried it three more times with exactly the same result.
“It’s no use. She’s not going to start.”
Valerie shook her head, feeling bad now that she had teased him about it. She could tell he was terribly embarrassed by it all.
“Problems?”
That brought both Marc and Valerie around with a snap. Two cars had pulled up alongside the VW. The first one was a white Mercedes 450 SL convertible. The second he didn’t recognize. It was low to the ground—not much higher than Marc’s belt buckle—and a gleaming metallic blue. It looked like a cross between a Formula I racer and air-to-air missile. The engine purred deeply, like some jungle cat after a successful kill.
The window of the sports car was down, but in the glare of the overhead arc lights Marc couldn’t make out the driver. Then the doors of both cars opened. A stunning black-haired woman got out of the Mercedes, then Alex Barclay stepped out of the blue sports car. Surprised, Marc opened the door for Valerie, and she got out of the VW as the two joined them.
“Won’t she start?” Barclay asked.
“No way. She’s gone.”
“I can help push it.”
Marc shook his head. “We tried that. It’s no use. It’s completely dead. Thanks anyway, Mr. Barclay.”
The older man’s eyes widened. “You know me?”
“I was in the lecture.”
“Oh, of course. In fact—” He peered at him. “You asked a question, didn’t you?”
Marc flushed slightly, pleased to be remembered. “Yes. My name is Marc Jeppson. This is Valerie Robertson.”
Barclay stuck out his hand, gripping Marc’s firmly, and nodded to Valerie. “This is my executive secretary, Jacqueline Ashby. Jackie, actually.”
“How do you do?” Jackie smiled and stuck out her hand to both of them. First class all the way, Valerie noted, feeling suddenly very plain. Hairdo, makeup, clothes, figure. This was a very lovely woman.
“The faithful secretary sacrifices evening at home to listen to the boss’s lecture.” Alex made it a compliment even though it was said lightly. Alex turned to survey the VW. “That’s too bad about your car.”
“Yeah,” Marc answered glumly. “I don’t understand. I just had it tuned up two weeks ago. And it ran fine all the way in.”
“So what are you going to do with it?”
“Why? Do you want to trade?”
For one split second Barclay looked startled, then he laughed deeply, Jackie and Valerie joining in.
“Well,” Marc added, straight-faced, “You’d have to throw in the all-leather steering wheel cover.”
“Whoo-ee,” Barclay chuckled, “that isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
Marc shrugged. “What kind is it, anyway?”
“A Lamborghini Contach Five Thousand.”
“How about my car and a couple of thousand?”
“How about your car and ninety-five thousand?” Jackie laughed. It could have been barbed, but her look made it clear she had joined in the game.
Marc whistled softly. “Ninety-five thousand! My eight-yearold son would go bananas just to see it.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure he sees it,” Alex went on. “But actually what I was going to ask was, where do you live?”
“Claremont.”
“Let’s see…”
“That’s out near Pomona, isn’t it?” Jackie broke in.
“Yes.”
“Do you have a mechanic in this part of town?” Barclay asked.
“No.”
“Well, I do, over in Culver City. He’s terrific. If you have it towed to Claremont, it’s going to cost you a bundle. I’ll call him and have him pick it up.” It was obvious that in Barclay’s mind, the whole thing was settled. “Just leave the key in the ignition.”
Marc shook his head. “Look, Mr. Barclay—”
“Alex, please.”
“Okay, Alex. I—”
“You’re worried about how you’re going to get home, right?”
“Well, yeah. The thought had crossed my mind.”
“I’d be delighted to run you and Valerie home.”
Marc’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut again. “That’s fifty miles from here! If you could just get us to a bus stop, that would be great.”
“At this hour of the night? In this part of town, even the bus drivers mug the passengers.”
Jackie stepped forward and touched her boss’s arm. “Alex, I have an idea. There’s not room in either of our cars for three people. Why don’t we let them take one of the cars? We can switch back once Harvey checks out the VW.”
Alex quickly cut in on Marc’s protest before it was fully formed. “Great idea, Jackie!” He reached into the Lamborghini and pulled out the keys. “Here, Marc, you take this, and I’ll call you tomorrow—”
“Mr. Bar—Alex! I can’t take your car!”
“Why not?” he asked as if the answer were not really obvious.
“Well, for one thing, I live in a very high-class neighborhood. You just don’t drive up in any old car. What would the neighbors say.”
Again that won him a hearty laugh from Alex.
“How about mine?” Jackie asked. “Even I’m intimidated by Alex’s Lamborghini.”
Marc was completely nonplussed now. “Really, this is very kind of you, but I can’t.”
“It’s the company car,” Jackie smiled. “If you wreck it, I’d have to get a new one. That wouldn’t be all bad.”
“Then it’s settled,” Alex said firmly. “Jackie only lives a few miles from my home. I’ll drop her off.”
“Alex,” Marc tried again. “I just can’t.”
“Nonsense.” His eyes suddenly narrowed suspiciously. “Do
you belong to a men’s club?” “What?”
“A men’s club. Do you belong to any men’s clubs?” Valerie nodded, understanding, but Marc was still lost. “No,
why?”
“Do you know anyone in the market for widgets?”
Marc smiled, finally catching up. “No, I don’t think I do.”
Alex clapped him on the shoulder. “Then what’s to worry?
Grab your things—you just got yourself a ride home.”
Marc swung the Mercedes into the driveway of the Robertson home, which was only one street over from his own, and turned off the lights and the engine. Valerie’s head was back against the seat, and he looked to see if her eyes were open.
She turned her head slightly. “I appreciate you bringing me home in the style to which I’ve grown accustomed.”
“Isn’t this something? I can’t believe it. I can’t believe the whole night, as a matter of fact.”
She pulled a face. “Thanks a lot.”
“I didn’t mean you—that part has been delightful. It’s just everything else.”
“I know. When you think about it, it really was something for him to lend his car to a total stranger.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I still can’t believe the VW. That is really strange. I just had it tuned up.”
Valerie opened the door a crack. “Well, in spite of it all, I had a delightful time. Thank you very much.”
“Thank you. I really enjoyed it too.”
She swung her legs out.
“Valerie?”
She turned back.
“Running is really hard on your body. Have you ever tried racquetball?”
“Once or twice.” She shook her head. “I’m terrible at it.”
He grinned wickedly. “That’s wonderful. How would you like to try a game tomorrow night?”
&
nbsp; Chapter Seven
Nearly eight thousand miles east of Claremont, California, the sun was just coming up over the peaks of the Jungfrau Massif in central Switzerland. Quinn Gerritt stood at the bedroom window of his luxurious chalet, watching the light tip the peaks with gold. He reached for a set of binoculars on the dressing table, adjusted the focus slightly, then began sweeping slowly down the narrow valley, past the tiny village of red-roofed houses. The sound of the helicopter was growing louder. Then he had it. The helicopter was coming in from the direction of Interlaken, and though it was still too far away to see the circular GI logo, the red-and-white markings were unmistakeably those of the Gerritt Industries.
Behind him, Jessica Gerritt stirred lazily. “Is that them?” she murmured.
“Yes.” He turned. She was sprawled across the bed like a contented cat, one hand tucked under the spray of honey-blond hair that covered the pillow.
Gerritt walked to the bed, leaned over, and kissed her. Her eyes opened, and she smiled, then reached up and touched his cheek. Jessica Hawthorne had been on her way to a highly successful modeling career, with screen opportunities likely to follow, when Quinn Gerritt had met her, dazzled her with a jet-set courtship, and proposed three weeks later. Seven years later, it was one of the few things that virtually everyone agreed he had done right.
“Are you sure you don’t need help down there?” she asked.
“I’m sure. Freda set everything out before she went in to the village. And Karl is out back if I need him.”
The clear blue eyes closed slowly again, long lashes lying softly on her cheeks. “Good,” she purred. “This is a ridiculous hour to hold a meeting anyway.”
“Anything before noon is ridiculous to you,” he agreed amiably. Then, conscious that the noise from the helicopter had ceased, he straightened. “We may have to go back to the States tomorrow.”
Jessica turned over on her side. “Whatever,” she mumbled, already sinking back into sleep. Gerritt patted her arm softly, then rose and exited the room.
The east end of the living room of the chalet was a two-story wall of glass framing a panorama that stunned the eyes and made one involuntarily draw in a breath. To the south, the village of Lauterbrunnen lay below them, looking much like a miniature cluster of Monopoly houses flung across a board of unbelievable green. Behind it, a sheer granite cliff provided the leaping-off point for a thundering waterfall that dropped nine hundred eighty-four feet to the valley floor. Above and beyond the falls were the knife-edged peaks of the Jungfrau—the Wetterhorn, the Schreckhorn, the Eiger, the Monch, the Jungfrau itself—jagged masses of granite towering to the thirteen-thousand-foot level and beyond.
Gerritt sat with his back to the window, facing the two men who had come on the helicopter to the village, then motored up to the chalet. As they sipped their coffee, he studied them. Rarely were these men totally at ease in his presence, though he had worked with them for a combined total of over twenty years. But it was more than that now. He had seen it in the nervous flutter of their fingers, the quick aversion of the eyes when he looked at them, the shifting of their weight now as he watched them steadily.
These were shrewd, bold men, tenacious in every respect. One did not come into senior management positions, at least not in Gerritt Industries, by ducking confrontations or sidestepping the unpalatable. But they were on edge, more than he had ever seen them before.
Quinn Gerritt had been born to wealth, and the fates had seen fit to dress him in the physical presence that his position required. In his midfifties, his blond hair was still thick and full with only the first touches of gray. His face was sharply cut, angular, almost too narrow, but a full mouth and ready smile softened it without making him look weak. Most people found Quinn Gerritt charming, witty, and immensely likeable. Only his eyes hinted at the combination of drive, power, and ruthless determination that was the real Quinn Gerritt. And now he focused those eyes on Michael Shurtliff, senior vice-president of Gerritt Industries.
“All right, Michael,” Gerritt finally said, “cut the fancy dancing. What’s the bottom line?”
Shurtliff, a short but stocky man with jowls that made him look a bit like a bulldog, took a deep breath. “The bottom line is, Gerritt Industries is bankrupt.”
A nervous tic started pulling at the corner of his mouth. When Gerritt continued to watch him with those pale blue eyes, he licked his lower lip quickly. “The final blow came yesterday. Bank of America called. We have until the first of the month to meet that twenty million dollar note or we go into receivership.”
Theodore Wuthrich, controller and senior accountant, jumped in. He was a small man, nervous and quick, and his voice was high-pitched now with the strain. “We’ve been late on payroll in three of the four divisions for the last two pay periods. The unions have given us the ultimatum. One more and they walk.”
“Ted, you’ve been crying in your beer for a year and a half,” Gerritt said contemptuously. He slipped into a whining, singsong voice, “‘We can’t make payroll. We can’t pay the suppliers. We’re behind on our taxes.’” His voice suddenly took on a knife edge. “We haven’t gone belly up yet.”
“Yes we have!” Shurtliff cut in sharply. “What is it going to take to convince you? Come the first, we are belly up! Belly up, gutted, stuck on the spit, and roasted over the open coals.”
“It isn’t the first yet!” Gerritt snapped.
“Come on, Quinn!” Shurtliff shot back. “We’ve been on a collision course with disaster for five years. We haven’t put a dime into research and development. Our plants are ten years out of date. The last four products we’ve introduced have bombed. Our stock has fallen to three dollars a share! Three dollars. I mean, come on! We’ve begged and pleaded and warned, but all we ever get from you is there’s always tomorrow. Well, tomorrow is here. It’s over! We’re finished!”
Shurtliff sat back, breathing hard. Wuthrich was staring at him, half in awe, half in astonishment. For almost a full ten seconds, Gerritt stared at his senior vice-president, his mouth hard, but Shurtliff was through dodging. He met Gerritt’s gaze with a fury of his own.
“Did you tell the bank about Taggart and the radar system?”
“Sure. Bring a signed contract with Taggart’s name on it, and a ten percent payment on the note, then they’ll talk.”
Gerritt loosed a string of bitter expletives describing the mental capacities of all bankers in general, and the Bank of America specifically. “And what about Taggart?” he finally asked.
Wuthrich rich looked quickly at Shurtliff, who nodded. “Meet his price and he’ll sign tomorrow,” Wuthrich said. “Otherwise, he won’t budge.”
“Why should he?” Shurtliff blurted. “Jonathan Taggart has developed the most significant breakthrough in radar technology in the last ten years. If he goes to Hughes or TRW, they’ll snap him up so fast he’ll wonder why he ever gave us first option.”
“He gave us first option because he’s one of our engineers!” Gerritt shouted.
The senior vice-president sighed and leaned forward. “Quinn, we’ve plowed that ground a thousand times. We have no legal hold on him. He developed this totally on his own. It was not a Gerritt Industries project.”
Off somewhere in the house a phone began to ring. Shurtliff turned to look, but Gerritt ignored it.
“I’ll talk to him again,” Gerritt said, for the first time badgered by the brutal finality of their logic.
“You’ve talked to him already!” Shurtliff exploded. “Four different times. I’ve talked to him. Ted’s talked to him. We’ve wined and dined and cursed and pleaded. He’s not going to change his mind. You either put four hundred fifty thousand dollars on the table or you’re whistling in a wind tunnel.”
The sound of a door opening and closing caused them all to look up. Jessica Gerritt came to the railing of the loft above them, tying the sash on her robe. She leaned over, ignoring the two men with her husband. “Quinn, that was Maurice on the phone. He’s ha
ving a private showing of his winter designs this afternoon. He wants me to fly up.”
“Fine. Tell Peter to keep the jet in Paris. I’m going home tomorrow. I’ll meet you there.”
She blew him a kiss, started to sweep away, then turned back. “I’ll need a letter of credit. Ten thousand dollars should be plenty.”
Gerritt nodded absently. “Ted, there’s a typewriter in the study. Can you draft that for her?”
Theodore Wuthrich just stared, his mouth open.
“Quinn!” Shurtliff was also widemouthed in disbelief.
“What?” Gerritt was still preoccupied.
Shurtliff threw up his hands. “Hasn’t anything we’ve said all morning gotten through to you?”
Gerritt’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward slowly. “Yes, Michael, it has. Why do you ask?”
Shurtliff flinched, chilled by the sudden tautness in Gerritt’s voice. But then he straightened. Quinn Gerritt was not the only one going down with this ship. “I ask,” he retorted bitterly, “because normally—” He stopped, suddenly realizing that Jessica Gerritt had returned to the rail and was watching them with a faint smile of contempt.
He took a deep breath. “Because normally, a man staring bankruptcy in the face doesn’t send his wife on a private jet to Paris with a ten thousand dollar letter of credit in her purse.”
Gerritt shot out of his chair, his face livid. “You listen to me, Mr. Senior Vice-President! The day I cannot take care of my wife’s needs will be the day you and this toadie you brought with you will be out on the streets peddling toilet paper! I am Gerritt Industries! Do you understand that?” His voice had gone shrill and piercing. “I am Gerritt Industries! We are bankrupt if and only if I tell you that we are bankrupt. Is that clear?”
The color completely drained from Shurtliff’s face as the withering onslaught smashed at him. Wuthrich’s hand fluttered to his tie, which bulged out momentarily as he swallowed hard.
“I asked you a question, Mr. Shurtliff! I said, is that clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Gerritt.”
“Are we bankrupt, Mr. Shurtliff?”
“No sir, not until you say we are.”
“Then why is Mr. Wuthrich standing here with his thumb in his ear like some retarded tree sloth? Why isn’t he in the study typing a letter for my wife?”
Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Page 64
