Green Grow the Dollars

by Emma Lathen

  “How far does your friend Bruno drive?” he asked, stirring his coffee.

  “Wisconsin,” Vince replied briefly, without realizing that he and Bruno were living confirmation of Adam Smith.

  “That’s a long way from here, isn’t it?” Mary Larrabee marveled.

  Indulgently, Mancuso formulated a maxim for her. “You want fresh fruit, you got to go a long way.”

  There was a respectful silence. Finally, tossing his cup into a refuse barrel, Mancuso said,

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Obediently they all followed suit, then trooped downstairs where the first stop was an area big enough to berth a destroyer. It was filled with bags, bins, crates and bushels of potatoes. Vince left them standing, in everybody’s way, it developed, and approached a tall man with clipboard, pencil and eyes that watched everything and everyone. After a minute’s talk, Vince nodded and disappeared to the back of the floor where Thatcher saw a cashier. Mr. Gordon, he appreciated, was your true businessman. Vince was not giving them a guided tour; they were accompanying Vince on his regular rounds.

  Another aspect struck Mary Larrabee as she was nipped from the path of an oncoming dolly. “You mean you bought all the potatoes for your chain of stores, just like that?” she asked.

  A hunching of shoulders, a turning out of palms, was her answer. Why else would he be here?

  “How many?” she wanted to know.

  When she learned that Mancuso had just purchased 500 crates of potatoes for Gordon Markets, she was impressed but still practical.

  “Where are you going to put them?”

  Gordon Market trucks were out there, shadowing Vince. The Cadillac was a nosegay for Mary Larrabee.

  From what he had seen of her, Thatcher suspected she might have preferred to ride shotgun.

  Certainly she enjoyed every moment of their progress from potatoes to onions, from spinach to grapefruit and on past more potatoes and more onions. The provisioning of a great city thrilled her. Thatcher himself was no stranger to this link in the distribution chain. Middlemen, as well as consumers and producers, were solid Sloan clients. The artichoke king of Manhattan, for example, was solider than most. Nevertheless, the spectacle remained engrossing. Stripped of trucks and pocket calculators, South Water could have served Rome or Constantinople. In essence, they were viewing the bedrock on which the whole intricate system of capitalism rested. Without earlier Vince Mancusos, there would have been no Sloan Guaranty Trust.

  Even Jason Ingersoll began waking up as they waited for Mancuso to buy strawberries or reject beets. In Ingersoll’s case, it was not man and economics. It was produce. Totally aloof from the bargaining around him, he picked up a green pepper, then critically sniffed.

  “Can you recognize a Vandam product when you see one?” asked Thatcher, noting out of the corner of his eye that the proprietor of the stall was gallantly presenting Mrs. Larrabee with a grapefruit.

  Ingersoll grinned. “Some of the old-timers claim they can. Not me. But I can still tell you that this pepper is probably Vandam’s.” He tapped one of the crates piled high before him. “The Vallejo Valley, Mexico,” he read from the label. “Just about 70% of the Valley peppers are Vandam’s Peppino. They’ve been switching more and more every year. The Vandam peppers are smaller, but they’re uniform. That saves a whale of a lot in transport and processing costs.”

  “You can say that again,” said a nearby voice. The owner of the pepper display, having finished with Vince, had a minute to spare. Like everybody else who had watched them, he was curious. “You know peppers?” he asked Jason mistrustfully.

  “I should,” Ingersoll responded. “I’m with Vandam’s.”

  “How about that!” said the pepper merchant, turning alertly as a potential customer materialized from the rear.

  After peppers, the character of their exploration of South Water Street changed. Vince Mancuso went on buying or not buying. Mary Larrabee watched with undiminished fascination, while collecting an avocado, two cucumbers and other tribute. But Thatcher and Ingersoll did not trail unnoticed in their wake. Ingersoll’s connection with Vandam’s sped ahead of them, by means unknown and unseen, producing widespread cordiality. In one stall, radishes, it flushed the proprietor, who emerged from a desk near the cashier to join his floor man. They were surrounded by carrots as well as radishes but, Mr. Mavroulis explained, root crops were winter only. In season he handled peas and beans.

  “. . . and those Sugarinas of yours. I could sell twice as many as I get.”

  “Well, you’re going to be getting more,” said Ingersoll, shaking hands vigorously. “Orders for Sugarina are really taking off. Just like our Calico corn.”

  “Good, good,” said Mavroulis.

  As they continued on, Thatcher told himself he was seeing a new and improved Ingersoll. He was friendly, open and, in view of the flattering attention, modest. Scott Wenzel would not recognize him. For that matter, neither would Dick Vandam.

  The acid test lay just ahead. They had finished one long flank of the market. Mancuso climbed down to street level and was making for the opposite side when Mrs. Larrabee grabbed his arm.

  “What about that?” she demanded, pointing across a pathway to an extension of the long row of buildings they had just traversed. To Thatcher’s naked eye, it looked like more of the same, but then so did Mancuso’s destination. Mrs. Larrabee, however, was determined not to miss anything.

  Mancuso had his standards. “That?” he said scornfully. “That’s not the market.”

  “What do you mean, that’s not the market?” she asked, her suspicions roused.

  “I’ll tell you,” he riposted with gusto.

  But reasoned explanation was not Mancuso’s strong suit. Fortunately Thatcher grasped enough of the argument to interpret.

  “That, Mrs. Larrabee, is where the independent truckers, those who service stores too small to come to market themselves, buy their supplies. They load up there, then make their own rounds. The sales volume is much smaller and, Mr. Mancuso feels, the quality is lower too.”

  “But small grocery stores always have better produce than supermarkets!”

  “They have higher prices and, perhaps, better displays,” he replied gently. Seeing the light of battle in her eye, he added hastily, “But possibly Mr. Mancuso is prejudiced.”

  Prejudiced or not, Mancuso left them no time to debate consumer sovereignty. Reaching the second side of the market, Thatcher discovered a more immediate topic of dispute. Tomatoes, tons of tomatoes, all large, unblemished, waxy and about as tempting as dyed baseballs—those tomatoes in fact that add color and nothing else to January salads and BLT’s in the northern tier.

  “From Mexico?” he asked Ingersoll.

  “And a lot farther than Mexico,” Ingersoll replied, examining the nearest specimen. “Picked weeks ago when it was green, treated chemically to bring up this pink tinge, which has nothing to do with ripening.”

  He had lowered his voice, but not enough.

  “Hey!” said a pained Vince Mancuso, who had just bought 300 cases of these pitiful objects.

  Behind him, the vendor was less restrained. “Look, people want tomatoes, right? These are the only tomatoes we can sell them. You show me where I can get—”

  “Next year, you’ll be selling tomatoes from the Carolinas,” said Ingersoll. “They’ll be the next best thing to vine-ripened, and they’ll be available year-round.”

  The tomato specialist favored him with a long hard look, then shrugged. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Ingersoll took this cynicism in good part. “When you see it, it’ll be called Vandam’s Numero Uno,” he said lightly, preparing to move on.

  But he had struck a chord. Handing over clipboard and customers to an assistant, the wholesaler followed him. “I’ve heard something about that,” he said. “There have been a lot of crazy rumors about some new tomato.”

  “They’re not crazy,” Ingersoll told him.

 
Again he was treated to suspicious scrutiny. “You have anything to do with it?”

  Ingersoll explained his connection with Vandam’s, inviting a comprehensive cross-examination on the availability, taste and probable wholesale cost of Numero Uno. As Thatcher looked on, incredulity warred with cupidity.

  “If half what you say is true, I can triple my volume,” said the dealer finally.

  “At least,” Ingersoll agreed.

  Some variant of this exchange was repeated in each of the next 12 tomato stalls. By the time they reached the end of Vince Mancuso’s circuit, Thatcher said, “In Chicago alone, Numero Uno is going to pay for its development.”

  “That’s why . . .” Ingersoll broke off and started again. “In Chicago or New York or any other major market in the country.”

  That broken sentence, Thatcher knew in his bones, had to have something to do with Scott Wenzel.

  By now a pallid dawn was lightening the sky. Trucks were pulling out of the South Water Street Market, not into it, and the lights no longer stood out against the eerie, inky blackness. Beyond the grinding of gears and the cries of porters were other sounds, the throb of traffic on nearby streets. At 4:30 in the morning, the city was coming to life.

  Mr. Mancuso was unable to accompany them back to the Hyatt. As if apologizing for a social lapse, he explained that the Produce Manager of Gordon Markets still had work to do. All those crates and bushels would be on display by nine when the stores opened.

  “Including tomatoes,” he said, emboldened to make a small joke. “Well, it’s been my pleasure.”

  A Gordon Market truck stood waiting for him. After a hurried leave-taking, with special reference to Mary Larrabee, to whom he presented three beautiful oranges, they parted.

  She sank back into the luxury of the limousine with a sigh of satisfaction. “What a nice man! You know, Mr. Ingersoll, this may have been the high point of my trip to Chicago,” she said.

  But Ingersoll had relapsed into his earlier isolation. He murmured something to the effect that Vandam’s was happy to oblige, and left it to Thatcher to ask the obvious.

  “Better than your banquet tonight, and your $10,000 check?” he asked as the car sailed onto the expressway.

  Chicago was preparing for the cold hard light of day and so was Mrs. Larrabee. Gazing past her lapful of oranges, grapefruit and peppers, she said, “Well, no.”

  “Let’s hope not,” said Ingersoll.

  His attempt at geniality rang false. Clearly his thoughts were far, far away, and they were giving him no pleasure.

  “It’s going to be a long day, isn’t it?” Mary Larrabee said sympathetically.

  Chapter 12

  A Choice Variety

  PRE-DAWN trips to South Water Street were not the only way to make the day long and hard. Dick Vandam had managed it without losing any sleep at all. His ill-advised attempt at strong-arm tactics had failed with Professor Santanelli and alarmed Santanelli’s colleagues. As a result, those with hopes of future Vandam largesse became unavailable.

  By midmorning Eric Most was getting desperate. So, when he finally spotted Dr. Whittingsley chatting with a small group, he rushed into action.

  “Dr. Whittingsley!” he cried triumphantly.

  The recognition was not mutual.

  “Er . . . er . . .” Whittingsley stalled as his nearsighted eyes tried to decipher the name tag.

  It did not help that one of the men who swiveled at the newcomer’s voice was Scott Wenzel.

  “This is Dr. Eric Most from IPR,” he said obligingly.

  What made this commencement particularly galling was Most’s conviction that he looked like a man of distinction. He had blond hair, blue eyes and a reasonable build. His passport statistics, however, were misleading. He also had washed-out coloring, mass-produced features and no individuality. It was not unusual for him to be introduced to people four and five times. But to encounter Scott Wenzel was to recognize him for life. A mobile ugly face, a wiry undersized body and a thrusting combativeness may not be universally admired, but they are memorable.

  After a curt nod of acknowledgment to his adversary, Eric began his pitch. “You probably know about our lawsuit, Dr. Whittingsley, and so—”

  Scott Wenzel was enjoying himself. “You’re too late, Eric,” he broke in. “Dr. Whittingsley has signed up with our team.”

  Now that he had insured himself, Whittingsley could afford to be gracious to all comers.

  “Yes, and having seen the tomato, I’m really looking forward to the notebooks. A remarkable development, no matter whether the credit belongs to Wisconsin Seed or Vandam’s.”

  “Vandam’s had nothing to do with it. They just did the field testing. The basic research is ours,” Eric corrected him.

  “Yours?” Whittingsley frowned, once more trying to place Most.

  Again Scott Wenzel filled in the details. “You remember, Dr. Whittingsley, I told you that Vandam’s is now claiming the research was done down in Puerto Rico, at IPR.”

  “There’s no claiming about it!” Most snapped. “My experimental data is every bit as convincing as yours.”

  “Well, if one set of data has been copied from the other, you’d expect them to look alike,”

  Wenzel explained slowly. “So it really doesn’t make any difference who gets Dr. Whittingsley. All he can say is that something funny’s going on.”

  “Why don’t we let him make up his mind about that?”

  Unfortunately Dr. Whittingsley was lagging two exchanges behind. “Isn’t Howard Pendleton still head of IPR?” he asked the world at large.

  “Of course he is,” Most said too eagerly. “We’ve been working together on Numero Uno.”

  Wenzel grinned. “I’ll bet Howard doesn’t describe it that way. Not unless he’s changed a lot.”

  Most ignored this. He had convinced himself that whatever damage had been done to the cause could be repaired by his persuasiveness.

  “Of course now that you’ve agreed to testify for Wisconsin Seedsmen, there’s no more to be said,” he began, “but I wish you’d waited until you’d reviewed the evidence. I’m not puffing my own performance, but I think you’ll be impressed at the very thorough foundation that enabled us to avoid dead ends in the intermediate stages.”

  Eric Most’s high opinion of his own persuasiveness was not shared by other people. If Scott Wenzel was disturbed at leaving the field unguarded, he did not show it. With a casual flap of the hand he departed, saying there was a paper he wanted to hear.

  The victory that Most had won was short-lived. Even as he was preparing further fluent sentences, Dr. Whittingsley realized that he, too, could rush off to hear papers.

  “I certainly don’t want to miss Faulkner, Dr . . . . er . . . er.” Abandoning any attempt to recall the name, he tried to make amends. “And I certainly look forward to comparing your notebooks with Scott’s.”

  On the whole, it was not one of Eric’s better mornings.

  Dr. Whittingsley and Dr. Santanelli were the acknowledged great men of their profession. Vandam’s efforts to secure their services had resulted in losing one and alienating the other.

  Earl Sanders did not like the score and, above all, he did not like discussing it with Milton Vandam.

  “Disgraceful!” Milton was sputtering. “I can’t remember when Vandam’s has been treated this way.”

  Sanders was already regretting his ill-timed luncheon hospitality yesterday. In Milton’s book, they were now intimates.

  “You’ve never had a major patent suit before,” he growled.

  “These problems would never have arisen if you’d had an experienced man in charge of R&D. But that’s what happens when you hand over the most important operation in the place to a boy who doesn’t know the people or the conditions or the competition.”

  Sanders stared resentfully around the expansive hospitality suite laid on by Standard Foods. In another hour it would be jammed with enough freeloaders to insulate him from unwelcome e
ncounters. But, at 10:30 in the morning, the rooms were just as the cleaners had left them. The deep-piled carpet was still airy and buoyant. Virginal ashtrays adorned every horizontal surface. And, in the opposite corner, an array of bottles that could have stocked a retail establishment winked in the sunlight.

  “It was Dick who put everybody’s back up,” he said bluntly. “And, God knows, he’s had enough years in the business.”

  “He shouldn’t have been in a position where he had to make the approach,” Milton replied. “That never would have happened if I’d still been in charge.”

  Discontentedly chewing his third antacid tablet, Sanders realized he should not be surprised that it was Milton, easily the stupidest of the Vandams, who was dogging his steps. Milton had been tossed out on his ear as a result of the takeover. After an experience like that, even a dumbbell recognized who had the muscle. Milton wanted his old job back from the very source that had deprived him of it.

  “Look how everything’s gone downhill,” he persisted. “Money absolutely poured into IPR. A lab so free and easy that the first corner can steal their results. Then a patent suit that destroys our catalog schedule and embarrasses us in public. You can’t say anything like that took place in my time. No thefts, no suits, no catalog delays.”

  “No nothing,” Sanders said sourly, recalling the record of inanition built up by R&D. But he was surprised at the sweeping nature of the indictment. Maybe he had underestimated Milton’s objective. Maybe it was Dick’s job he was after. “You haven’t forgotten that you were there when the Numero Uno deal was put together, have you? And for four years afterward?”

  “And everything was fine then.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that? That was when the theft took place.”

  “There’s no point looking to the past,” Milton said airily. “We must look to the future.”

  But he had delayed his battle cry too long. Earl Sanders’ wishes had been fulfilled and they were no longer alone. Shyly pushing open the door and thrusting in his head was that stock character of all conventions, the perambulating drunk. As he wavered on the threshold, red-eyed, unfocused, his convention badge askew, he would have been an unprepossessing figure to most people. But to Sanders he was a pearl of great price.