“It was business,” I said.
“Oh, sure,” she said sarcastically.
“It was,” I said. “You got the wrong Mrs. Hardeman. This was the first one.”
“My God!” she said in a shocked voice. “Don’t tell me you’ve been there too?”
Duncan was waiting in my office when I got to the plant in the morning. Carradine of Engineering and Joe Huff of Design were with him.
I didn’t need a second look to know they weren’t there to bring glad tidings. I walked around behind my desk. “Okay, gentlemen,” I said. “Hit me with it.”
“How do you want it, laddie?” Duncan asked. “One at a time or all at once?”
“One at a time,” I said. “This is Monday morning and I’m not in very good shape.”
“Okay,” he said. “On Friday all work on the production line was stopped. Orders from the president.”
“He can’t do that. He hasn’t the authority. Number One is still chairman of the board and chief operating officer.”
“He did it,” Duncan said flatly.
“Well go in there and start it again,” I said.
“We can’t,” Duncan said. “We’ve been barred from the plant. We can’t even get into our own offices. This is the only place we could come.”
I was silent. Loren wasn’t waiting. Maybe he was even a little ahead of himself. “That’s one,” I said. “What’s next?”
“Union troubles,” Duncan said. “The UAW said they won’t let the assembly line start until all the reclassifications are agreed on. They claim too many jobs are being downgraded.”
“I thought we approved a schedule that was satisfactory to them.”
“You mean you approved it,” Duncan said. “Weyman never passed it on.”
Weyman again. He wasn’t being very helpful. I was starting to really dislike him. “He’s supposed to negotiate only on the basis we give him,” I said. “He has no right to alter or withhold our proposals.”
“He did,” Duncan said. “Of course, he had direct orders from the president.”
I looked at him. “Is that all?”
“No,” he said. “Did you read The Wall Street Journal this morning?”
I shook my head.
“Here, read it,” he said, giving me the newspaper.
It was a front-page story. Banner headline across the first two columns.
HUNDRED-FIFTY-MILLION-DOLLAR NEW CAR
OF BETHLEHEM MOTORS ALREADY A DISASTER?
I read on. The story was out of Detroit, dated Friday.
Special to The Wall Street Journal—Informed company sources inside Bethlethem Motors today indicated serious doubts over possible success of their new car, the Betsy, due to be introduced later this year. These doubts came to the surface with the filing of a lawsuit by Loren Hardeman III and his sister, Princess Alekhine, against their grandfather, Loren Hardeman I, and the Hardeman Foundation for what basically amounts to control of the giant motor company.
Company sources further revealed that Mr. Hardeman III began to feel concern over the mounting costs on the project together with progressive reports as to the safety of the car itself, and that he initiated this suit reluctantly after endeavoring to persuade his grandfather to abandon the project in the interest of the public.
There was more but I had read enough. I put the paper down. There was no doubt in my mind as to whom the “informed company sources” were. Weyman. As executive vice-president, he had a pipeline right into the paper. I had the feeling this was only the beginning, there would be more stories like it going to newspapers around the country. If they wanted to kill the Betsy before it reached the market, they couldn’t find a better way. A few more stories like this and the public wouldn’t buy the car if it were given to them on a silver platter.
“Wait here,” I said. Then I went down the hall to Loren’s office.
Chapter Four
“Mr. Hardeman’s in a meeting,” his secretary said holding up a restraining hand as I went to his door.
“Beautiful,” I said, brushing past her.
Loren III was behind his desk, Weyman and a man I didn’t know were sitting opposite him when I entered.
Loren was the only one who didn’t seem surprised. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said.
“I don’t doubt that,” I said.
The other man and Weyman got to their feet quickly. “We’ll be in my office when you’re free,” Weyman said. They started out.
“You wait,” I said to Weyman. “What I have to say concerns you too.”
Weyman shot a questioning glance at Loren. Loren nodded and he sank back into his chair. “Wait in my office, Mark,” he told the other man.
The man nodded and left. I didn’t wait for the door to close behind him. “Is that Mark Simpson?” I asked.
Weyman hesitated. Again Loren nodded. “Yes,” Weyman answered.
“I thought so,” I said. “The scum’s beginning to come to the surface.”
They didn’t answer.
“I’ll get to him later,” I said. I moved to the side of Loren’s desk where I could look at both of them. “You saw the story in The Wall Street Journal this morning?”
“Yes,” Loren answered.
“Don’t you think you’ve overreached with that one?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I think it reflects the truth.”
“As you see it,” I said.
“As I see it,” he echoed.
“Have you thought what might happen to the company if you should lose?”
“I won’t lose,” he said confidently.
“Even if you win,” I said, “you lose. A few more stories like that and you’ll control a bankrupt company. There won’t be a single person left in the world who will buy any car that this company produces.”
“What happens to this company won’t be any of your concern,” said Loren.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “I am concerned. I happen to be the owner of two hundred thousand shares of stock in this company which I purchased from your grandfather for two million dollars cash.”
For the first time surprise showed on Loren’s face. “I don’t believe it. Grandfather would never sell a share of his stock to an outsider.”
“It’s easy enough to check,” I said. “Why not pick up the telephone and ask him?”
Loren didn’t move.
“As a stockholder I have certain rights. If you read the bylaws of the company as carefully as I have you will know what I’m talking about. I have the right to ask indemnification and damages against any officer of the company who interferes with work currently in progress, if that interference leads to losses directly attributable to it.”
Loren reached for the telephone. He spoke quickly to Jim Ellison, the company’s general counsel. He put down the telephone and looked up at me. “You would have to prove it first,” he said.
I smiled. “I’m no lawyer, but that should be a cinch. You halt production on the Betsy now and a hundred and fifty million dollars goes down the drain.”
He was silent.
“I’ll make it easy for you,” I said. “I’ll give you the time it takes for me to go from here back to my office. And when I get back there if I don’t hear from you that work on the production line has started again and my boys can go about doing their normal jobs without interference, I’m going to hit you and your little prick friend here with a lawsuit requiring you both to come up with the biggest indemnification bond any of you ever heard of. One hundred and fifty million dollars worth.”
I started from the office. Halfway to the door I turned back. I looked at Weyman. “And you have exactly one hour to be in my office with the UAW people to straighten out our contract.”
I almost smiled at the expression on his face. His devotion to Ex-Lax was a running gag around the plant. He didn’t look as if he would need any today.
I turned to Loren. “If I were you,” I said almost mildly, “I would go ab
out finding a way to deny or counteract that story in today’s paper before it has a chance to catch up to you.”
I went back to my office the long way round just in case they needed time to think about it. I passed Weyman’s office. On an impulse I went in.
“Is Mr. Simpson here?” I asked the secretary.
“He’s just left, Mr. Perino,” she said brightly. “He told me to tell Mr. Weyman that he had an important appointment and that he would call him later in the day.”
I nodded and went out. The man had all the good instincts of a jackal. He smelled trouble and he was going to be nowhere around when it was happening. I made up my mind to get to him later in the afternoon if things here were under control.
I leaned against the outside door to my office and smoked a whole cigarette before I went inside. I wasn’t taking any chances. I wanted them to have all the time they needed.
My secretary looked up at me as I came in the door. “Mr. Perino.”
I stopped at her desk. “Yes?”
“I just received a peculiar message for you from Mr. Hardeman’s office,” she said, a puzzled expression on her face. “I didn’t understand it, but he said you would.”
“Read it to me,” I said.
She looked down at her shorthand notebook. “He said to tell you that everything was arranged the way you wanted it but that he, personally, would come down to say good-bye to you next week.”
I smiled. I knew just what he meant. I went into my own office. “Okay, fellows, get back to work. We’ve already blown four days on this shit.”
Duncan looked at me. “How did you get them to back down so quickly?”
I grinned. “I used my Italian charm. I threatened to sing ‘O Sole Mio’ for them.”
We didn’t finish the meeting with the UAW representatives until after nine o’clock that night and by then it was too late to go chasing after Simpson. There was a lot more to building a car than just getting it from the drawing board to the assembly line.
It was the first time I had ever been close at hand to a union negotiation and as far as I was concerned, I was willing for it to be the last. But, as little as I liked the son-of-a-bitch, I had to admit that Dan Weyman was good at it.
He was professional and precise. I hadn’t realized up to now the number of different classifications that existed within the same assembly-line framework. He did. And knew the exact definition of work responsibilities for each class. Once he got down to it, I was fascinated at the efficiency and subtlety he brought to his work. I only wished that he were on our side, not Loren’s, but that did not keep him from doing a good job for the company.
At one point when things got a little sticky, he dug right in and explained it to them in basic terms. “We’ll give a little, but so will you have to bend a little.” His voice was as calm as if he were lecturing a class at college, which I understand he had done before he went to Ford with the whiz kids. “We’re all breaking our asses to keep the Japanese and Germans from walking away with our market. Not only in sales but in manufacturing. It would have been comparatively easy for Bethlehem management to decide to build this car abroad and it would have cost less. You know it and I know it. Last year our average hourly rate of pay was $6.66, substantially higher than most other companies in the industry. And we lost twenty million dollars on our automotive division. We had every justification in the world to go abroad and build the new car. But we didn’t. Because we have a respect for and obligation to our employees, and to do so would cause a great deal of hardship among them. Now all we ask is their cooperation. To increase their productivity together with our own. You give a little, we give a little. Maybe between us, we can bring some of the business back home where it belongs.”
I watched the faces of the union representatives while he made his little speech. I couldn’t read much in them, but they, too, were professional and experienced in their jobs. From that point on, it took hours. But eventually it was all done.
After they had gone, I looked at Dan Weyman who was gathering up his papers. “You did well,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
“You could have saved all of us a lot of trouble if you had done it when you were asked in the first place,” I said.
He snapped his attaché case shut. He stared at me for a moment as if he were about to say something, but then he turned abruptly and walked out of the office without speaking.
Cindy met me at the door of my apartment when I let myself in after ten o’clock. She handed me a message slip. “Try to tell me that this is business too,” she said sarcastically.
I looked down at it. “Am in the piano bar downstairs. Must see you right away.” It was initialed B.H.
I looked up at Cindy. “It probably is.”
“Sure,” she said. “She called before the message came up. I would recognize that British accent anywhere. But she hung up before I could ask who is calling, then the message came up.”
“How long ago was that?” I asked.
“Maybe a half an hour ago.”
I thought for a moment. The bar was no place to meet. Bobbie had to be looking for trouble. “Go down there and tell her to come up,” I said. “Then get lost for an hour.”
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked.
“Go to a movie, sit in the bar. I don’t know,” I answered.
A bitchy smile came to her lips as she moved obediently to the door. “Can’t I come back upstairs?” she asked. “I’ll stay in the bedroom, out of the way. You won’t even know I’m around.”
“Uh-uh.” I shook my head.
“At least then, let me set up a mike,” she said. “Maybe that way I can learn something. I was always curious how the British ladies did it.”
“I’ve had a rough day, Cindy,” I said wearily. “Now do as I say or I’ll belt yuh.”
She looked at me for a moment. “Not now,” she said. “When I come back.” The door closed behind her.
Chapter Five
I had the martini, very dry and very cold, in a glass clouded with frost beads waiting on the bar for her when she came in. Silently I put it in her hand.
“You didn’t forget, did you, Angelo?” she asked.
I raised my glass to her. “Angelos, like elephants, never forget.”
We drank silently. She finished her drink in what seemed like one swallow. I remembered that too. I refilled her glass from the martini pitcher. I still didn’t speak.
She crossed the room and looked out at the sparkling lights of Ontario. The blinking sign on the other side of the river went on-off: COME ON OVER!
She turned to me. “You have a good view from here at night.”
“When it’s clear,” I said. “Not so good on smoggy days.”
She sipped her drink and turned back to the window. “I’m leaving him,” she said. “I made a mistake. I know it now.”
I didn’t say anything.
She turned to look at me. “Did you hear what I said?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Don’t you have any comment to make?” Her voice was brittle and thin.
“No.”
“Nothing?” She laughed. “Not even, I told you so?”
“Nothing.”
She turned away again and looked out the window. “The girl that came downstairs. Is she—?” She didn’t finish the question.
“We’re old friends,” I said.
We were silent again. She emptied her glass and held it out to me. I refilled it and gave it back to her.
“Thank you,” she said.
I nodded.
“Still don’t talk very much, do you?”
“Only when I have something to say.”
“Then say something,” she said sharply.
I looked at her. “Why?”
She didn’t look at me. “Because it’s not the way I thought it would be. All he cares about is the company. That’s all he lives for. That and the determination he has to avenge his father’s de
ath.”
“Avenge his father’s death?”
“Yes,” she answered. “He’s a man split in two between his respect for his grandfather because of the old man’s accomplishments and his hatred of him for hounding his father to suicide.”
“He blames Number One for that?”
She nodded. “He said the old man never got off his father’s back, just as he won’t get off his.”
“I can’t believe that.”
She turned to me. “I didn’t either. Until one night he showed me a letter which he keeps in the wall safe in the house. It was the first time he ever showed it to anyone. Even Alicia never saw it.”
“What letter?”
“The letter his father left when he committed suicide,” she answered.
“But there was no letter,” I said. I remembered the newspaper stories. “The police never found one.”
“Loren did,” she said. “He was the one who discovered his father’s body. He found the letter too. And hid it. Even then he was afraid that if the contents of the letter were revealed, the company would be finished.”
“What did it say?”
“I only saw it once but I won’t forget it,” she said. “It was not addressed to anyone. It was just a note scrawled in his father’s handwriting.
“‘I cannot go on any longer. He will not leave me alone. I do not have one day’s peace and there is not a day that passes that he does not make impossible demands on me. I have tried for years to get him to leave me alone but now I see that he never will. And I no longer have the strength to fight him. This is the only way out. Believe me. Forgive me.’
“It was signed simply, ‘L H II.’”
I didn’t speak.
She looked at me. “Loren said it was exactly the way his grandfather treated him. But that he was stronger than his father. He could fight back and would.”
I turned away silently to refill my own glass. I took a sip of my drink. “Why didn’t he do something about it then?”
“The reason he gave me, and for one other,” she said. “He was afraid that his grandfather would not make him president of the company if he did.” She took a sip of her drink and held out her empty glass again.
The Betsy (1971) Page 33
