“I’ve never met anyone like her,” Cindy said with a sound of envy in her voice. “Or like your father either. The money they have doesn’t affect them at all. All they care about is each other. And you. They’re real people.”
“I still won’t drink this shit.”
“You’ll drink it,” she said, looking into my eyes. “Just to make her happy.”
I swallowed the rest of the Fernet Branca in one gulp. I grimaced, giving her the glass. “Oh, God. It’s really awful.”
She didn’t say anything, still looking into my eyes.
I shook my head in wonder. “My mother’s really done a number on you, hasn’t she?”
“You don’t know how lucky you are,” she said seriously. “My family’s got more money than yours. Much more. And my mother and father never even seemed to know I was alive.”
I looked, surprised. She had never talked about her family before.
“Did you ever hear of Morris Mining?” she asked suddenly.
I nodded. Of course I had. Now I knew why money never seemed to matter to her. It was one of the blue chips. Right up there with Kennecott Copper, Anaconda and the Three M Company. I even owned a thousand shares.
“My father’s chairman of the board. My brother’s president. He’s fifteen years older than me. I was a change-of-life baby and I always had the feeling that they were embarrassed by my arrival. Anyway, they shipped me off to all the best schools as soon as they could. Once I was five years old I wasn’t around the house very much.”
I thought of my own childhood and how different it had been from hers. She was right. I was lucky. I held up my hands in surrender. “Okay, baby, I’ll confess. I love them very much.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I know you do. You came right home when you were hurt. All my life I kept running away when I was hurt.”
There was a knock on the open door. Gianno came into the room. “La Signora sent me to help you dress and bring you downstairs.”
I straightened up in bed, smoothing the covers over my legs and smiling up at Cindy.
She knew what I was thinking. Mother had really done her number.
Dinner was more than an hour away. There was no rush to dress. But good girls don’t spend too much time in Italian boys’ bedrooms. It’s not proper.
At dinner, I found out much to my surprise I was ravenous. Mother had really turned it on for me. The pasta was just the way I like it. Al dente. Cooked firm and not soft and mushy. And the sauce had everything in it. Hot sausage, sweet sausage, green peppers browned slightly first in oil, tiny meatballs blended delicately with finely chopped pork, quartered Italian tomatoes cooked into a rich red sauce with just the right touch of oregano and garlic. There was only one fault. As usual it was too sweet. It is very Sicilian to add a lot of sugar.
But I put it away like food was going out of style. I was too hungry to get finicky.
Mother looked at me proudly. “You like the sauce?”
I nodded, my mouth full. “Great!”
“She made it,” my mother said. “All by herself.”
I looked at Cindy wondering if I could tell her that if Mother gave her another shot at it to go easy on the sugar. Cindy’s own words blew that thought to hell.
“Your mother is just being kind,” she said. “All I did was to put what she handed me into the pot and stir once in a while.”
I should have guessed that. “It’s very good anyway,” I said.
“A few weeks with me,” Mother said, “and I’ll make a real Sicilian cook out of her.”
The pasta was better than sleeping pills. I found my eyes closing a half hour after dinner, right in the middle of my mother’s favorite television show. I went up to sleep.
The next morning was Sunday and the usual routine was that the whole family, including Gianno, went to ten o’clock mass. This Sunday the routine was changed because my mother didn’t want to leave me alone in the house.
Gianno went to nine o’clock mass and when he returned, my parents went to the ten o’clock. Much to my surprise when I went looking for Cindy, Gianno told me with a secret, knowing smile lurking in his eyes that she had gone to mass with them.
I went back to my room, mumbling to myself. It was then I knew I was really getting better. I was horny as hell. But Mother was operating in really top form.
I must have dozed off again, for when I opened my eyes, my father was standing over the bed, looking down at me.
He bent and kissed my forehead. “I thought if you were feeling up to it, we’d go down to my office and I’d take the bandages off.”
“I’m ready,” I said.
I sat, my legs dangling from the examination table, while he snipped carefully at the bandage around my head. Then, as gently as he could, he peeled the adhesive that held my nose bandage and lifted it off. He was just as cautious with the adhesive and bandage on my cheekbone, the side of my chin, and over my left ear.
He picked up a bottle and poured some of the liquid over a wad of cotton. “This is going to sting a bit,” he said, “but I want to clean you up.”
It was the usual professional understatement. It stung like hell. But he was quick about it. When he finished he peered at me critically.
“It’s not too bad,” he said judiciously. “When you have some time, you can jump over to Switzerland. Dr. Hans can make it right again without too much trouble.”
I got off the table and looked at myself in the mirror over the sink on the wall. A very familiar face looked back at me.
Suddenly I felt good. I was myself again. All the time I had the other face I had been someone else. Now my eyes didn’t look old any more. They belonged to the rest of my face.
“Hello, Angelo,” I whispered.
My face whispered back at me. “Hello, Angelo.”
“What did you say?” my father asked.
I turned to look at him. “I’m not going back to Dr. Hans,” I said. “I think I’ll keep this face. It’s mine.”
I woke up jumpy as a cat Monday morning. And it didn’t get any better. Especially after I read the morning newspapers.
It was a page-one story and picture. The photo showed a gutted mass of what used to be a building. The headline above it was simple.
MYSTERIOUS EXPLOSION AND FIRE DESTROYS
MICHIGAN AVENUE PRINT SHOP AND BUILDING
I almost didn’t have to read the rest of the story to know what had happened. Shortly after midnight, last night, two violent explosions that shattered windows as far as three blocks away, followed by a flash fire of intense heat, took the Mark S. Printing Company, the IASO, and forty late-model used cars on Simp’s used-car lot next door out of circulation permanently. When attempts were made to reach Mr. Mark Simpson, the proprietor of all three businesses, at home, they were informed that Mr. Simpson was away and could not be reached. Police and the fire department arson squads were conducting an investigation into the circumstances surrounding the occurrence. Fortunately there was no one on the premises and no injuries were reported.
That news didn’t exactly add to my comfort. I wondered whether Uncle Jake’s contacts hadn’t gone a little overboard in their enthusiasm. Then I pushed the thought from my mind. If Uncle Jake didn’t know what he was doing, then nobody did.
Still the jumpiness didn’t leave me. It got worse and worse as the day seemed to drag on. I went upstairs and tried to sleep but my eyes wouldn’t stay shut. So I went downstairs again.
I turned to a pro football game on the tube. But my head wasn’t into it. I sat there staring at it blindly, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Finally I turned it off in disgust and went back upstairs and stretched out on my bed, my arms on the pillow behind my head, and stared up at the ceiling.
I heard my door open. I didn’t look around. My father stood over me. I didn’t speak.
“You’re in no condition to get yourself all worked up like that,” he said.
“I can’t help it.”
&nb
sp; “Let me give you a shot so you can get some sleep,” he suggested.
“No.”
“Then let me give you a couple of tranquilizers. They’ll calm you down.”
“Let me alone, Papa.”
Silently he turned and started from the room. I sat up in the bed, swinging my feet to the floor. “Papa!”
He turned, his hand on the door.
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
He nodded. “That’s all right, Angelo,” he said and left the room.
I had no appetite for dinner and picked my way through the meal where no one talked. After dinner I went back to my room.
At eight thirty I went downstairs and sat alone in the living room. From the den I could hear the sounds coming from the television set. At eight forty-five, the telephone rang. I dove for it.
It was Donald, Number One’s man. “Mr. Perino?”
“Yes,” I answered, disappointed that it was not the call I expected.
“Mr. Hardeman asked me to find out if you’ll be able to attend the stockholders’ and board meetings tomorrow,” he said.
“I’ll be there,” I answered.
“Thank you, I’ll inform him,” he said. “Good night.”
“Wait a minute!” I said quickly. “Can I speak to Mr. Hardeman?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but Mr. Hardeman is already asleep. We had to make a special stop in Pensacola and have just arrived. Mr. Hardeman was very tired and went right to bed.”
“All right, Donald. Thank you,” I said, putting down the telephone. I didn’t know how the old man did it. He had to be made of ice to be able to sleep at a time like this.
But then what was it that I had read once. General U. S. Grant used to take a nap just before every big battle. He claimed that and whiskey freshened him up for the fight.
Maybe I couldn’t sleep but the whiskey didn’t seem like a bad idea. I looked at my watch. Five minutes to nine. I started for the bar.
I was on my second shot at exactly nine o’clock when the front doorbell rang. I heard Gianno start for it but I beat him to the door and opened it.
A man stood there in the shadows, his hat pulled down and his coat collar up. I couldn’t see his face. “Mr. Angelo Perino?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“This is for you,” he said, thrusting a large red manila envelope into my hand. “Compliments of the Judge!”
“Thank you,” I said. But he had already gone down the steps and into a car which sped down the driveway.
I closed the door and walked slowly back into the living room, untying the flat ribbon that closed the envelope. Inside were two file folders.
I sank into the couch and opened them. The first was the letter I had asked him to get from Loren’s safe. I read it quickly. It was almost word for word what Bobbie had told me. I put it back into the file and opened the other one.
This was everything I wanted and more. Names, dates, places, everything. Even photostats of the checks he received as well as his disbursements. Simpson had to be a nut for keeping records. It was either that or he had plans for blackmail at some future date. And from what I knew about him so far, it had to be the latter.
Suddenly I looked up. They were all standing there, watching me anxiously. My father, mother and Cindy. Even Gianno was in the doorway looking on.
“Was it what you wanted?” my father asked.
I broke into a smile. Suddenly the heaviness that was in the air all day was gone. I jumped up, kissed my father, kissed Cindy and began to dance my mother around. “Hey, Papa!” I said, looking over my shoulder at him. “Who says Grandfather isn’t watching over us?”
My mother stopped dancing and crossed herself. “He’s up there in heaven with the angels,” she said solemnly. “Looking after his children.”
Chapter Eleven
It was impossible for me to drive with my ribs still taped, so Cindy dropped me at the administration building at eight thirty in the morning. “Shall I come back for you?” she asked.
I caught my breath. It wasn’t that easy getting out of a Maserati with a couple of broken ribs. “No,” I said. “You go back to the hotel. I’ll grab a cab and pick you up for dinner when I get through.”
“Good enough,” she smiled. She held out her fist in a thumbs-up gesture.
I grinned and gave it back to her and she spun off down the road. I went into the building and directly to my office. My secretary wasn’t in yet, which was just as well. I sat down at her desk, put a sheet of paper in her typewriter and began knocking out a few notes.
I had just finished when she came in at ten to nine. I pulled the last note out of the machine, signed it and stuck it in my inside pocket.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Perino?” she asked. “Better?”
“Much better.”
“We were all so shocked when we heard what happened,” she said.
“No more than I was.” I picked up my attaché case and started for the door. “I’m going to Number One’s office.”
“Don’t forget you have the stockholders’ meeting at nine o’clock.”
“I won’t,” I said, as if I needed the reminder.
Number One had not arrived yet. “He’ll be a little late,” his secretary said. “He had to make one stop before he came in.”
I went back to my office, had a cup of coffee and, exactly at nine o’clock, went down to the board room for the meeting. The room was crowded, they were all there. Except Number One.
Loren III rapped a gavel on the table. The conversation in the room stopped. “I have just been informed that my grandfather will be a few minutes late,” he said. “While we are waiting for him, I will explain briefly a few procedural changes that have been instituted solely for the meetings today of the stockholders and the directors. These changes have been explained to my grandfather and he is in accord with them.”
He paused for a moment, his eyes glancing around the table. I didn’t think he recognized me at first glance because his eyes came back for a flash second look, then went on, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Both stockholders and directors have been invited to attend both meetings,” he said. “At the stockholders’ meeting, those directors who are not stockholders will retire from the table to the seats provided for them around the room. Seated at the table with the direct stockholders will also be those trustees of the Hardeman Foundation who will today vote the stock in the company held by the Foundation. I would like to introduce to the general company those trustees of the Foundation present other than myself.”
He paused for a moment. “My sister, the Princess Anne Elizabeth Alekhine.”
Anne, looking every bit the princess in a chic, tailored Parisian suit, nodded regally, then sat back in her place at her brother’s right hand.
“I might also add,” Loren said, “that my sister will also vote the stock she holds in the company in her own name.”
He gestured with his hand. “Seated on her right is Dr. James Randolph, executive director of the Foundation, and on his right, Professor William Mueller, administrative director of the Foundation. Stockholders will also be entitled to have legal counsel seated next to them at the table if they should so desire. Such counsel will not have the right to address any stockholder directly other than his own client or clients.”
He paused again for a moment. “For the board of directors’ meeting, the exact opposite will hold. That is, those stockholders who are not directors of the company will retire from the table so that the directors may proceed without delay and interference to the business of the company for which the meeting has been called.
“If the nonstockholding directors will now retire from the table, we will be able to proceed with the stockholders’ meeting as soon as my grandfather arrives.”
A shuffling sound rose in the room as the crowd rearranged themselves. When it died down, there were only five of us left at the table: Loren III, Anne, the two Foundation trustees and myself.
/> I sat alone at the opposite end of the table from them. Loren looked at me but didn’t speak. There were a thousand yards of open battlefield between us. A low hum rose from the other seats around the room. I couldn’t help but feel that we were like gladiators in an ancient Roman arena.
Silence fell abruptly across the room as the door began to open. Number One came through first, his arms pushing the wheelchair over the threshold vigorously. Behind him came Alicia, a tall, gray-haired, striking woman whom I did not know, and Artie Roberts.
Number One paused for a second, looking around the room, then propelled his chair to the table. Artie pulled a chair away so that the wheelchair would have a place. Number One gestured to the women and they took seats at the table next to him. Artie sat down in the chair directly behind Number One.
Loren III’s face was pale as he stared angrily at his grandfather. Anne got to her feet quickly and came down the table toward Number One. Reluctantly, Loren followed her.
Anne stopped at the gray-haired woman and kissed her warmly on the cheek. The surprise was clear in her voice. “Mother! I didn’t expect to see you. You should have let us know you were coming!”
Now I knew who the striking lady was. Admiral Hugh Scott’s wife. No wonder Loren III was so angry at his grandfather. Bringing to the meeting both his mother and his ex-wife.
Anne greeted Alicia with a peck on the cheek and a “Nice to see you again,” pecked Number One on the cheek silently, then made her way back to her seat.
Loren was much more reserved. He kissed his mother’s cheek politely, nodded silently to Alicia, ignored his grandfather and went back to his seat.
He picked up the gavel and rapped smartly on the table. “The meeting of the stockholders of the Bethlehem Motors Company, Incorporated, is hereby called to order.” He glanced down at his grandfather. “Before we commence the business before this meeting, the chair questions the right and propriety of the seating of Mrs. Scott and the former Mrs. Hardeman at this meeting. It is the contention of the chair that they have no interest, proprietary or otherwise, in this company that would permit their seating, since the chair already holds the proxy of Mrs. Hardeman to vote at its discretion and Mrs. Scott has no interest whatsoever in this company that the chair is aware of.”
The Betsy (1971) Page 38
