“Yeah. If you don’t mind — ”He waved his hand toward the door and the four of them filed out. Hal paused to look back at him, lifted his hand for some sort of gesture, and dropped it. He coughed and stepped out of the office and closed the door softly behind him.
Dean stared blankly before him, seeing nothing, his mind frozen and numb. Tim Moore was indestructible. Nothing could kill the old bastard. He would go on and on and forever be king of the valley.
But he was dead. Dead, dead, dead, he thought. Tom Moore dead. Tom Moore in a grave. Tom Moore no longer on his throne. His body shook with a sudden chill and he rubbed his hands up and down his face, pulling at the corners of his eyes, drawing his mouth down, not conscious of what he was doing. Tom Moore was dead. It sank in and he accepted it and his brain was no longer numb.
He glanced toward the glass partition. The others could see him. They were again hard at work at the teletypes and the telephones, but occasionally they glanced curiously toward his office. He turned his back and leaned over and jammed his fist against his mouth to stifle the wild laughter that was bubbling in his chest and wanted release.
He could think of but one thing: Long live the king!
Chapter Two
BERDELL’S, a restaurant and bar on the Monterey-Salinas highway, was the noontime gathering spot for the big men of the produce business. The long bar, in a room aside from the dining room, had a back wall burned with all the cattle brands of the area. Many of the produce men were also in the cattle business, either seriously, as a hobby, or for a good front.
The place was packed at that noon hour. There were a few women in the dining room, but the barroom was filled with an all-male crowd. They were standing two deep at the bar and dice cups were rattling up and down its surface. Rarely did anyone have a drink without shaking someone for it. Sometimes, too, though it was prohibited, the customers started shaking each other for dollars as well as drinks. It was not uncommon for thousands of dollars to change hands on a roll of the dice. They were in a gambling business and so they gambled heavily at everything else.
Generally, they were loud and boisterous and thought nothing of carrying on shouted conversations the full length of the bar, but this noontime they were fairly subdued. They were all talking and the buzz in the room was a low rumble of sound, but statements were incomplete, sentences faded in the middle, and everything seemed to end on a question.
The big question was: “What now?”
Sam Parker, at one end of the bar, was telling a commission broker, “Sure, I know the old boy was pretty rough, but you always knew where you stood with him. You either nailed down the rug or he pulled it out from under you. So O.K. You kept yourself supplied with nails. The thing I’m getting at, old Moore was predictable. Isn’t that so?”
The broker sipped at a bourbon and water and nodded. “You knew where you stood with him, if nothing else.”
“That’s what I said. We’ve all had our bad times with the old bastard. But now?” He paused and licked his lips and stared into space.
A shipper standing next to him nudged Parker with an elbow and said, “You’re so right. But who knows where he stands with this son-of-a-bitch Dean Holt?”
Parker looked indignant. “Hey, wait a minute, pal. Dean’s a friend of mine.”
“Oh, crap on that. Cocky Holt’s a louse and you know it. I’ll give ten to one he’s the most hated man in the valley. And why not? The guy’s always gotta win at everything. It’s a — what would you call it? — one of those psycho things. Always has to be the big shot. Who knows where you stand with a guy like that?”
“Look. The Moore outfit hasn’t gone down the drain with the old man.”
“You think Steve will take over?”
“Who else?”
“Yeah. Besides, he’s still got Freeman Mitchell as sales manager.”
Parker said petulantly, “Why do you think Freeman stays? I know what he gets, twenty grand, and everybody in the business has offered him more than that, but he sticks with Moore. And you know why? Because the old man’s got Freeman in his will, that’s why. So no matter what happens, even if Steve does take over, we still got Freeman to deal with. And Dean’s still got him to deal with, too.”
“Maybe it won’t be such a snap for Dean, after all. Hmmmm?”
“Well …” Parker shrugged. “Who knows?”
“One thing I know, all hell’s gonna break loose.”
The commission broker mumbled, “Amen.”
Freeman Mitchell was in the other room having lunch with his wife. He was a man nudging forty, just under six feet tall, with the powerful build and rugged features of a stevedore. His hair was crew cut and he always wore slacks, a turtle-neck sweater, and a suede jacket on the job. He liked to be spotted instantly and recognized wherever he was. He was a man of conflicting moods and conceits who would have had difficulty adjusting himself in any other business. In the lettuce business, however, he was the greatest salesman the valley had ever known and top man in his field. At the moment, he was hardly aware of what he was eating.
Susan Mitchell, Freeman’s third wife, was in her early twenties and never let him forget it. She was a lush blonde with wide, baby-blue eyes, skin as creamy and smooth as a baby’s, and a full mouth that fell easily into a babyish pout. She had hard, uptilted breasts, which she accented with snug sweaters or half bras under diaphanous blouses. She had a habit of brushing them against a man’s arm, any man’s arm, when she was talking with him. She had an amazingly narrow waist and a sort of swivel-hipped action when she walked that was fascinating for a man to watch. Men usually overlooked the fact that her wrists and ankles were a bit thick. She was almost completely sexless, but only Freeman knew that. And his friends would never have believed him.
She put a piece of steak into her mouth, chewed at it stolidly for a few minutes, then swallowed and looked across at her husband. “Honey.”
“Hmmm?”
“How much do you think the old coot left you?”
He sighed and gave her an exasperated look. “I’ve told you before I don’t know. He never showed his will to me.”
“But you’re sure you’re in it?”
“Hell, yes. Look, baby. It started years ago, almost after I first went with him. He was a tough old rat to get along with, but we understood each other. I had better offers right away, but I stuck with him and he liked what he thought of as my loyalty. But then I had an offer from Sweeney almost double what I was getting from Moore. So the old boy raised my salary and that was when he first hinted about sticking with him and I wouldn’t regret it.”
“That doesn’t seem like much to go on to me.”
“It isn’t. We had it all out year before last, when he raised me to twenty grand. I could do better than that anywhere else and he knew it. You know, I’ve practically run that whole damned business for him the past few years.”
She nodded. “I guess you have. So you run it all and you make less with him. I may be dumb, but — ”
“Now, wait. Get the rest of it. That was when he told me flatly that he was putting me in his will.”
“How much?”
“I tell you, I don’t know. He was a secretive old cuss. But he said he was putting me in for a substantial slice of the estate and that I’d be fixed for life. That was good enough for me, considering what he owns. If I get just a quarter of it, we’ll be set.”
She put another two-inch square of steak in her mouth and mumbled, “That would be nice. We could use it.”
“Yeah. The way you spend.”
He looked at her breasts, almost wholly exposed by the low V of her dress, and sighed again, but with frustration. Cripes, he thought, the lousiest lay in the land and she looks like a nympho. She doesn’t mind what you do to her, but there’s no co-ordination, no co-operation, no nothing. Just lies there and — He saw her eyes come up and the smile at her lips and turned about to look toward the front door.
Dean Holt had just stepped throu
gh the door and was stooping over to brush the dust from his shoes with a handkerchief. All the other men in the business always had dusty shoes — there was no escaping it about the sheds — but never Dean. He straightened and saw Freeman and came toward him with his hands out. He shook hands with his right and squeezed Freeman’s shoulder with his left.
“Freeman.” He nodded at Mrs. Mitchell and said, “Hello, Sue. This is a pleasant surprise.” Then he looked into Freeman’s eyes. “What a blow this must be to you!”
Freeman was on his feet and looked into Dean’s eyes, his own as cold as ice. “Yeah.”
“I almost fell over when I heard it. My God. Old Tom Moore. What a terrible thing, right in his prime.”
“He was in his seventies.”
“What I mean, he was such a strong old — old guy. Do me a favor, Freeman. I’ve never met the girl, Truly, but I got to know Steve a little when he worked for the old man. Give them my sympathies for me. Will you do that?”
“Sure. They’ll be glad to hear.”
Dean detected the note of irony, but his eyes caught Sue’s breasts and his attention was distracted. He squeezed Freeman’s shoulder again, mumbled, “A terrible thing,” and walked away toward the bar.
When Freeman sat down Sue said, “There’s a go-getter. Didn’t he use to work for the old coot?”
“He’s worked for everybody in the valley, from a field hand right on up. That’s why he knows the business so damned well.”
“I kinda like him.”
Freeman laughed and said, “He’s a son-of-a-bitch. But, y’know, I think the old boy was partly responsible for his success.”
Sue had finished her steak and looked longingly at her husband’s, which was hardly touched. He shrugged, so she transferred his steak to her plate and asked, “How?”
“Well, it happened when Dean was about twenty or so. He was working in one of the old man’s sheds as a packer. That’s quite a job for a youngster. Pays about one-fifty to two hundred a week, for a good man. Dean was good, from what I understand. One day old Tom goes through the shed and he spots Dean at work. He can’t believe anyone that young would know enough to be a good packer. So he stands there and watches. And while he watches he rides him. You know how the old boy is — I mean was. And he keeps on riding and riding. Dean got nervous and started packing fours in for fives and got everything all mixed up and old Tom called him on it. Then Dean exploded and smashed a puffball in the old boy’s face and yelled at him, ‘One of these days, you old bastard, I’m going to own this whole damned outfit.’” Freeman chuckled at the thought of what the scene must have been like.
Susan swallowed and said, “Maybe he will someday.”
“Will what?”
“Own the whole damned outfit. He’s a go-getter.”
“Oh, nuts. Let me tell you the facts of life, baby. The Moore spread, even without Moore, is still the biggest thing in the business, and it’ll stay that way. You know why? Land. Just that one word: land. Red Holt doesn’t own an acre. He’s had to sink all his profits into sheds and ice plants and everything else except land. If it wasn’t for Ruth Tinsley’s acreage, he’d be strictly small fry. But we got the land. Two thousand beautiful acres of it. Come hell or high water, bad times or good times, it’s the land that keeps us on top. Understand?”
Ruth murmured dreamily, “He’s still a real go-getter, though.”
“Believe me, baby, he’s a double-crossing, dirty, A-one louse.”
She leaned over to attack her food and Freeman looked down into the V of her dress. He thought of being home with her that evening, alone, and his breath quickened. But it subsided just as quickly. He knew what it would be like. Always the same. He remembered the time she had reached for a cigarette while he had been making love to her and his teeth ground together. He slumped down in the chair and wondered how much the old boy had left him in the will. It was probably a very fat percentage of the firm. It had to be.
• • •
Dean Holt had paused in the doorway to the bar to look back at them. Now it was no longer Tom Moore, but there was still Freeman Mitchell to contend with. He also knew about the will, it was common gossip in Salinas, and he wondered how much of the firm Freeman would get. If it was a good, working percentage, then things could conceivably get rougher than they had been with old Tom. Freeman was pretty much a genius in the business. He knew every trick in the business and he played them all with the skill of a great symphonic conductor. If he had a free hand — Dean shook his head and thought, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
He assumed a sad, melancholy expression as he walked into the barroom, as if he had just lost a dear friend. He heard the decibel drop in the conversations swirling about the room and he was conscious of the fact that every eye was upon him. Sam Parker stepped aside to make room for him and he leaned against the bar and nodded at the bartender. It was not necessary to order. Dean never drank anything but champagne cocktails. He liked them with a half jigger of brandy, the balance of the glass filled with champagne and a lemon twist dropped in.
Whenever anyone asked about his singular drinking habit he always explained, “Why drink rotgut when you can have the best?” implying, of course, that everyone else drank rotgut. It set him apart.
Sam gulped down his highball, ordered another, then leaned an elbow on the bar to face Dean. “Well,” he asked, “what now?”
Talk in the room died down even more and ears strained to listen to what Dean would say. He lifted his glass and looked over the room to steal a surreptitious glance down the length of the bar. He had difficulty maintaining his expression of melancholy. Already they were worried about him and he wanted to break out into laughter.
To control himself, he turned to face Sam, appraising him all over again. Sam had at one time been an unusually handsome young man. He had been raised in wealth, he had been a quarterback on one of Stanford’s greatest teams, and he had been the most popular man in the university. He had made an excellent marriage, and when his father had retired he had stepped into a business with a personal net of better than a half million a year. But he was not the best brain in the business and had to rely heavily on hiring good men and the advice of his friends. His best advice had lately been coming from Dean, so he had made a friend of him. He knew that he was getting good advice from Dean because of Jan, his wife, and that there was probably something between them, but he kept it from his mind. Besides, he had struck a bargain with Jan years before. What they did in the field of extracurricular romance was their own business.
Sam was still a good-looking man with a wide appeal for all sorts of women. His hair, though beginning to thin, was still light blond, his shoulders were square and as good as ever, and though he had the beginning of a paunch, he dressed so casually that it was hardly noticeable. His face was now a permanent pink from the constant use of alcohol, there were usually traces of blood in the corners of his eyes, and his jowls were becoming heavy. Yet he was still somehow the image of what he had once been. It was an effect he achieved without trying, simply because his mind had never grown beyond what it had been on the gridiron. He had never really left college.
Dean turned away from him to order another cocktail and noticed Sweeney and Harding and Metzner a little way down the bar, three of the more prominent members of Millionaires’ row. They, too, were looking in his direction and waiting for him to speak. He had to laugh inwardly. At one time or another he had worked for all three of them, in the sheds and the fields, as ice loader and even as janitor. Now they waited.
He let them wait. He sipped half of his second cocktail before he finally turned back to Sam and said, “Well, for one thing, Sam, we’re going to miss the old boy around here. He started this business. He was the pioneer. It’s like an age was dying. Maybe what goes on from here will be good, maybe bad. It’s hard to tell.”
Sam said wistfully, “His passing sort of unbalances things. I’m damned if I can figure out now where anyone stands.
Old Tom had his hands in so many things. This could hurt a lot of people.”
Dean raised his hand to brush a strand of red hair back into place. It was becoming even more difficult to keep from laughing. “That,” he said, “I agree with. Plenty of people are going to be hurt if the Moore outfit comes apart at the seams, and I think it will. There’s going to be a fight to see who gets the pieces. It’ll be plenty rough.” He paused, then added quietly, but loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Better stay on my side, Sam, if you like to stay healthy.”
He raised his drink and saw the heads of Sweeney and Metzner and Harding come together. He had given them a challenge, he had given all of them a challenge, and now they had something to think about. Why pussyfoot around about it? He had let them know that if the Moore outfit started coming apart, he would be after the pieces, and that it would be unhealthy for anyone that got in his way. That was the right way to do it. Now they could separate the men from the boys.
Sam laughed heartily and slapped him on the back. “You know me, Red. You can always count me in on your side. You carry the ball and I’ll run interference any time.”
“Yeah. I figured that.”
Dean looked down at the others, openly this time, meeting their eyes. Harding was smiling lightly, as if enjoying some secret joke. He had seen big shots come and go. He was not worried. Sweeney looked worried, but his jaw was set at a stubborn angle. He was a fighter. Metzner, a slight, bald little man, was the most deeply worried of the three. He had overexpanded that year by building a vacuum plant and was not in a healthy condition financially. A fight could wreck him and the fear of it was in his eyes. Dean filed him away in his mind for future attention.
Conversation started again and dice cups rattled up and down the bar. Dean went into the dining room with Sam and ordered steak.
They had finished and were about to leave the table when a newsboy came in with an armload of extras. Dean bought two and tossed one of them to Sam. Virtually the entire paper was given over to Tom Moore’s death. His obituary ran for two and a half pages, a detailed history of the man’s activities and especially his influence on the Salinas Valley and the produce business. Dean read it all, but there was little of it that was new to him. He was more interested in the pictures. There was one of Tom as a young man and another taken of him the year before. He had always been spare, thin, tall, hollow-cheeked, with the look about him of an austere deacon. There was a picture of the late Mrs. Tom Moore, who had passed on four years earlier, a matronly, kind-looking woman with a confused smile. She had never become reconciled to the great wealth that had suddenly been theirs.
Hunger and the Hate Page 3
