“He’s still sore. He says he isn’t going to trust anybody, especially another Moore.”
Betty smiled and said, “That’s just the point. Steve told me later that he felt Mr. Mitchell wasn’t quite so angry as he had been the day before. Steve thinks that if he had a week to think it over he’d take his offer. But we’ve heard that you are to close the deal with Mr. Mitchell this morning.”
“That’s right.” Dean glanced at the ship’s clock on the wall and said, “In about fifteen minutes.”
“That’s why I came to see you this early. Mr. Holt, you don’t need Mr. Mitchell in your business. My husband does need him, very badly. Won’t you cancel that appointment this morning and wait a week before making Mr. Mitchell decide anything? Then, whichever way Mr. Mitchell decides to go — ” She paused and gave him an uncertain smile.
Dean glanced at Susan again and she raised her eyebrows and shrugged. It was obvious that she was just as angry as Freeman over what had happened to him, but she was not going to commit herself.
Dean closed his eyes to a pinwheel of fireworks and had to open them immediately. His mouth was dry and he could barely swallow and he looked longingly toward the water cooler in the corner. He jerked open a desk drawer and saw a small aspirin bottle. It was empty. He swore under his breath. He looked up at Betty Moore and saw her in a red haze.
His head throbbed and anger boiled within him as he shoved himself to his feet. “Mrs. Moore,” he barked.
“Yes?”
“You go home and tell your husband you failed. I’m not buying.”
Her face turned pale and a hand crept to her slim throat. “But I told you, Mr. Holt, Steve knows nothing about this.”
“Oh, nuts. You expect me to believe that? This is the damnedest proposition I’ve ever heard of. You Moores are all alike.”
“Please — ”
“I don’t blame Freeman for blowing his top and I think he’d be a fool to listen to Steve. Furthermore, I’m getting pretty well fed up with the Moore name myself. Freeman is going to work for me and that’s that. And another thing, there isn’t anyone around here who’s going to hold Steve’s hand for him. He’d better make up his mind to that. This business is dog eat dog, and if he doesn’t bite back he goes under.”
Betty Moore’s back stiffened and she said proudly, “I’m sure my husband is capable of taking care of himself.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I was — were you.”
“I thought if I appealed to you — ”
“You got the wrong man.”
“Yes. I can see that now. I made a mistake. I’m afraid I was being terribly naïve. I’d heard Steve speak admiringly of you and so I naturally assumed you were friends.”
“I got nothing against Steve personally.”
“But you won’t mind getting him under your heel, will you? If it can be done.”
“No,” he barked, “I won’t mind a bit.”
She stared at him a moment, then twisted her shoulders about and swept out of the room. Susan got to her feet and gave Dean an awkward smile. But she shrugged and followed Betty Moore out of the office.
Dean went at once to the cooler and drank down a half-dozen glasses of water. He borrowed some aspirin from Haï Smith and returned to his office to swallow three of them and drink more water. He left the plant and started toward his attorney’s office in town. Something was nagging at him in the back of his mind. A worry. A thought. An idea. And then he knew what it was. He really did not need Freeman Mitchell in his business.
Unless he wanted to wreck the Moore outfit. O.K., he thought. Then that’s the way it is. Too bad a nice guy like Steve has to be in the way. And his wife, too. She was really a pretty nice gal.
Too bad.
Chapter Six
DEAN DROVE INTO TOWN, parked his car on the main street, put a nickel in the parking meter, and turned the handle. He resented the idea of having to pay to park on streets his taxes made possible, and he glared at the meter for a moment before turning away. Then he went up to his attorney’s office, on the second floor of the bank building. The girl in the reception room told him that Mr. Davenport was expecting him and waved him on by. Dean entered the office a few minutes late. Freeman was already there waiting for him. He was standing at the window and staring down at the street, but he turned his head to nod at Dean as he came in.
There was a small bar against one wall, and Dean glanced sharply at the drink in Freeman’s hand. So early in the morning?
Dean leaned over the desk and shook hands with his attorney, who clasped his hand warmly and gave him a good-natured smile. Clyde Davenport reminded everyone of a shaggy Saint Bernard. He was as big as Vince Moroni, but he lacked Moroni’s hardness and rugged power. He was all bulk and little strength. His face was tinged with a red flush, his brown hair was thin, his small blue eyes were almost hidden under heavy eyelids, and his lips were oddly thin. Just over forty years of age, he was still attractive to a wide variety of women. His own tastes leaned heavily toward youth. He always wore loose gabardine suits cut in the Western fashion, a string tie, and Western boots with walking heels. He enjoyed being pointed out as a “typical Westerner.”
Davenport had actually been born and raised in the state of New York and had first hung out his shingle in Freeport, Long Island, where he had practically starved. He had migrated to California and, quite by accident, had learned of the growing lettuce business. He was quick to realize its potential and the opportunities for himself. He took an office in Salinas, adopted Western clothes and mannerisms, and prospered. Now he was an official on the entertainment and legal committees of the annual rodeo, and he and Mrs. Davenport (who enjoyed showing off her slim figure in riding clothes) never failed to ride at any Western barbecue, picnic, or parade. The monthly breakfast ride at their Gabilan ranch had become a prominent social event in Salinas.
Davenport was well liked, he had the lion’s share of all the legal business of the produce men, and he had become wealthy beyond his fondest dreams. Because of his size and good nature, he was regarded everywhere as an extremely honest man. Dean, however, knew him to be a man absolutely lacking in moral or ethical scruples.
Dean dropped into a leather chair before the desk and asked him, “How’s the new house going?”
The attorney dropped heavily into his chair and shook his head. “I don’t rightly know, Dean. I ain’t seen it in quite a spell. That’s the old lady’s department. Sometimes she gets the craziest notions, y’ know. Me, now, I like the ranch. I’m damned if I see any reason for plain folks like us to spread ourselves out thataway.”
Dean had to hide a smile. Mrs. Davenport was afraid of the new house. The whole thing had been Clyde’s idea. He intended retiring in a few more years and he was thoroughly fed up with the Western pose he had adopted. He was building a new home in Pebble Beach, not far from where Dean lived, that was to be the last word in modern living. He had hired the best architect from Los Angeles and had awarded contracts to the best builders and had spared nothing in the way of expense. The house was completed, and was now in the process of being furnished by the most expensive interior decorator Clyde could locate in San Francisco.
Dean said, “I had a look at it the other day. Quite a place.”
Clyde asked smugly, “You think so?”
“Hell, yes. That place of yours tops them all. You’re going to ask me to the housewarming, aren’t you?”
Clyde leaned back and his booming laughter bounced from the ceiling. “Hell’s bells, man, you’re on top of the list. You think I could throw a party without ol’ Dean Holt runnin’ around the walls? Don’t be foolish. You’ll be there, friend, if I gotta drag ya personal.” He turned and called to Freeman, “You, too, Freeman. You hear?”
Freeman nodded indifferently and moved away from the window. He went to the bar in the wall, refilled his glass, then sank into a chair at Dean’s side. He held the glass before his eyes, then looked at Dean. “I sure need this.�
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“Been hitting it up?”
“God! I really hung one on last night. It started the night before.”
“I know. You got me going, too.”
“And, by God, I’m going to stay drunk for the week end.”
“No reason why not. I’d feel the same way. But how about right now? You feel up to working out this contract?”
“I’m sober enough. Right now it’s just a hangover. I’ll get plastered again later.”
“Then let’s get at it.” He faced Clyde and said, “Freeman is going in with me. We want you to work out a contract.”
The attorney interrupted with a wave of a massive hand. “Freeman already done told me afore you come in. I’ll get the gal.”
He pushed a buzzer and his secretary came in. Dean had difficulty hiding another smile. She was young, she was blonde, she was well built, she looked sufficiently stupid, and when she crossed her legs her skirt inched up above her knees. Dean wondered where Clyde had found this one. He was always on the prowl for secretaries. None of them ever lasted very long.
Clyde clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back and began dictating to her. He was no longer the hearty Westerner. His speech was precise, legally perfect, and grammatically correct. Dean interrupted now and then with an occasional idea, and so did Freeman. After half an hour the girl had a workable copy. She typed it out at a machine against the wall and placed four copies on the desk, then left the room. The men read through the copies and were satisfied with the terms and the legal phrasing. Dean and Freeman signed, with Clyde signing as a witness, and they pocketed their copies. Clyde tossed the other two in a desk drawer.
“Well,” he boomed heartily, “that does it, gents. No pain at all.” Then his eyes narrowed to shrewd pin points of light as he observed, “You two rebels should make some combination. Yes, sir. You ain’t been a man I’d care to cross, Dean, nor you, neither, Freeman. The two of you together — hmmm. I’d say some pumpkin rollers I know had better look out. Yes, sir.”
Freeman said, “Strictly business, Clyde.”
“Yeah. I heard the run-around you got from the Moore clan. But, to tell you the truth, I can’t figger it right in my mind.”
Freeman looked drawn and tired as he said softly, “I think Tom hated me.”
“So maybe he did. But he musta knowed that when he kicked the bucket his son would need you more’n ever. What he done was really cut his son’s throat.”
Freeman smiled. “You’re giving the old man credit for some intelligence. Believe me, Clyde, he was a shrewd old boy in the beginning and he knew how to ride the crest of the wave when the tide was high, but he was not intelligent. He was pretty dumb in lots of ways. But the hell with him. Now I’m with Dean and I don’t care to hear about the Moores again.”
He got to his feet and shook hands with Clyde, then looked inquiringly at Dean, who also stood up. Dean’s head was pounding again and he looked longingly toward the open bar. Clyde saw the glance and laughed and bellowed, “Help yourself, boy. Hair of the dog never hurt no man.”
Dean had a quick straight shot of brandy and walked to the door with Freeman. But there he paused and looked back at Clyde with a twisted smile. “See you tonight at the Bide-A-Wee?”
Clyde’s smile remained fixed on his face, but the light in his eyes was cold and murderous. “Sure thing,” he said. “Bring your own entertainment.”
“O.K.”
Freeman smothered a laugh and went out with Dean. They went down the stairs and paused on the sidewalk in front of the bank. Freeman looked at Dean with a wide grin. “Jees, Dean, you had nerve to say that. I’d never say it. Clyde would go after my scalp.”
Dean shrugged. “I can’t help myself. Every time I see him I have to needle him about the Bide-A-Wee.”
“Is it really true, all that gossip?”
“Hell, yes.”
“My God, everybody in town talks about it. I figured maybe there was too much smoke and the fire had gone out.”
“Uh-uh. It’s true. I know.”
“Don’t tell me you were anchor man on one of his daisy chains?”
Dean laughed and felt the top of his skull rise and then lower. He said, “Not that far, but I know Albert, the manager of the Bide-A-Wee Motel.”
“You mean the owner.”
“I mean the manager. For your information, Clyde Davenport is the owner.”
“No kidding!”
“Sure. He had to buy it out to protect himself. He has some sort of arrangement with a call-house madam in San Francisco. I guess he pays plenty for it. Every Friday night she sends down two of her youngest and newest whores and they spend the night with Clyde at the Bide-A-Wee. It’s been going on for years. Everyone knows about it, including Elsie Davenport. Only she closes her eyes and ears and keeps her mouth shut.”
Freeman chuckled. “Two of them? How do you like that? But look — ”
“Yeah?”
“You won’t need me before Monday.”
“No, no. You go on with your binge. But, for God’s sake, be in shape Monday. This is a rising market. Besides, I’d like to go over all the solid Moore accounts with you.”
“You need more outlets?”
“I want them.”
“I see. You don’t need them, but you want them.”
“All I can get.”
Freeman frowned and looked off into space and ran a finger about the snug neck of the sweater he was wearing. “That’s O.K. with me,” he said. “The way that old bastard treated me, why the devil should I worry about his kid? Good enough. I can bring a lot of them with me.”
“I thought you could. You might work out a list in your sober moments. We’ll go over it Monday.”
“See you then.”
“Yeah. Oh, wait a minute. Who’s running the Moore sales staff now?”
“No one. I had three salesmen working under me, but they’re strictly the assistant variety. Not one of them is capable of taking over. Steve is in there with them, so I guess they’re all trying to run it together.”
“He’ll have to hire a good sales manager somewhere.”
“Absolutely. But where is he going to get one with the season in full swing?”
Dean smiled. “That’s his worry.”
“Yeah. Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
Dean watched him walk away toward the bar in the Jeffery Hotel, a man in slacks and suede jacket. A man in a daze, still in a state of shock. A man who did not yet realize that he had thrown away a million-dollar interest in the Moore outfit. But when the shock wore off … Dean frowned and hoped he would not have trouble with him.
Dean returned to his office and closed the door so that he would not be disturbed. He had stopped to buy a bottle of aspirin and took two more of the tablets and could feel the hangover gradually leaving. He noticed Hal Smith, busy on the telephones, glancing around every now and then toward the glass partition with a worried expression. He had a right to be worried. There would be no room for Hal when Freeman took over, unless he would accept a cut in salary and a demotion to ordinary salesman in one of the other sheds. But Dean doubted that. Hal and his wife had more than their share of money problems. They had a son and daughter going to Stanford University, Mrs. Smith had recently undergone an expensive operation for cancer of the breast, and Hal, when he had got drunk one night to forget his worries (a rare thing for him to do), had lost what little savings he possessed in a poker game. Their home was mortgaged to the hilt and they were snowed under with debts. Dean frowned and pulled at his lower lip and wondered what to do about Hal.
Just before the noon hour, Dean got up and rapped on the partition with his knuckles and beckoned to Hal. The older man came into the office and dropped into the chair Dean indicated. He ran nervous fingers through his gray hair and tried to force a casual smile, but failed. His worried eyes followed every move Dean made.
Dean turned sideways to him to look out the window. He rapped a pencil against his teeth for a m
inute, then said, “I guess you know what’s going on. I imagine you’ve heard about Freeman’s blowup with Steve Moore.”
“Yes. But I — ”
“I’ll fill you in with the rest of it. You know the kind of man Freeman is. Any outfit in this business would be lucky to have him. Well, I got him. We signed a contract a little while ago. He moves in here Monday morning.”
The rigidity went out of Hal’s thin body and he sank back in the chair with a little sigh that was closer to a moan. “I see.”
“You know how I run this operation. Most places this size need a big staff. I don’t. I like to operate with all the strings in my own hands. So I — ”
Hal lifted a hand and waved it futilely in the air. “You don’t have to go on. I’m getting the sack. Isn’t that the size of it?”
“Well, not necessarily. I have the two other sheds, you know. I can bounce one of the other men and put you in his place. But, of course, that would mean taking a cut from twelve thousand a year to eight grand. I’m sorry, Hal, but that’s the best I can do. Do you want it?”
Hal sat back and wearily closed his eyes and thought of his debts and the kids in college and shook his head. “I can’t get by on that. I’m not doing too well even as it is.”
“I know.”
Hal opened his eyes and a tiny bitter smile played about his lips. “It’s funny. This is the first place where I’ve really fitted, working with you. I have good connections among the Eastern buyers and a pretty good reputation. I think I know the business as well as any man in it and I know damned well I turn out a good performance. But I do have one weakness. I’m not a gambling man. It simply isn’t in me to make any kind of decision that involves a gamble. That, of course, is necessary in this business, and so I was bounced around from one outfit to another.” He paused a moment, the bitterness and hopelessness increasing in his smile. “Then I landed here and for the first time I really belonged.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Like you said before, you keep all the strings in your own hands. I did the work and a good job of it, too, but you made all the decisions. It was never necessary for me to make a gamble on anything. You did it all. So, for the first time, I was happy. I belonged. But now — ” He blew out a heavy breath and his shoulders sagged.
Hunger and the Hate Page 11
