by T. E. Cruise
“Herman, you do learn.” Campbell grinned.
“There’ll be time enough for me to throw you out on your ass, after the nineteenth.” Gold crumpled the envelope containing the resignation and tossed it into his wastepaper basket. “It’s ironic. When you gave me this seven years ago, you said that it would be my insurance in case I ever thought that I could do better without you than with you—”
Campbell, nodding, finished it for him. “But as it turned out, that’s the way I feel about you.” He stood up. “Look, from now on it’s going to be too awkward for me to work out of Burbank. I’ll be running things out of the L.A. airport offices. Hull’s made room for me and my staff…”
Gold watched Campbell walk to the door. “Tim,” he called out. “I intend to fight back—”
Campbell, in the doorway, turned and smiled. “Happy April Fool’s Day, Herman.”
(Two)
GAT
Burbank
11 April 1933
Gold was frustrated. The morning newspapers were carrying Campbell’s promised full-page advertisements soliciting Skyworld stock, and asking all stockholders to back him in the upcoming proxy battle. There were copies of the papers carrying the ads on every desk in every department in the Burbank complex. Wherever Gold went, his employees would stop talking when they saw him coming, and offer him a weak-tea smile with a kind of baleful, fisheye look in their eyes.
All morning he was being treated as if he were suffering from a terminal illness. Gold supposed he couldn’t blame his employees. He was definitely the underdog. He’d made a few calls around town this morning to knowledgeable business associates, just to see how the ads were being received… Most people had three words for him: Rest in peace. The wags wanted to know where to send the flowers…
Gold retreated to the design studio, thinking to lose his troubles in a couple of hours’ work on the Monarch Project. But there was no work getting done down there, either. The atmosphere was morgue-like. Everybody, including Teddy Quinn, was tiptoeing around and talking in whispers, so as not to upset Gold, which, of course, upset him no end. Gold cornered Teddy and asked him to step outside the studio so that they could talk in private. They stood close together in the hallway, speaking in whispers, both men in their shirtsleeves, with their ties loosened and their shirt pockets bulging with pencils.
Gold gestured with his thumb toward the door to the design studio. “Why is everybody in there so concerned with Campbell’s goddamned ad?”
“They don’t give two shits about the ad, or Campbell,” Teddy said. “Those guys care about you. They don’t want to upset you, Herm.”
“I don’t need to be handled with kid gloves,” Gold said. “And I don’t pay my R&D people to be preoccupied with my corporate problems. I pay them to design airplanes; like the Monarch, for instance.”
“You want people to get back to work, then go home,” Teddy said. “You know the saying: ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’”
“I don’t get it.” Gold frowned.
“These kids look up to you, believe it or not,” Teddy said. “The Great Depression put them out of the work they loved, but then, thanks to you, they got another chance. There’s not one of them wouldn’t give you his right arm in gratitude.”
“They can show their gratitude by concentrating on the task on hand,” Gold said.
“How are they supposed to concentrate when they see you moping?”
“Who’s moping?” Gold challenged. “I’m not moping.”
Teddy’s green eyes were mirthful behind his tortoiseshell eyeglasses. “Why don’t you take a good look at yourself in the mirror? You’ve been skulking around here like soaked cat.”
Gold scowled. “That was a damned good ad Campbell wrote, wasn’t it?…”
“It was okay.” Teddy shrugged.
“Come on!” Gold demanded ruefully. “By the time I was done reading it, I was ready to join Tim’s parade.” He sighed. “Well, he always was a clever writer. That’s why he handles all of our advertising for Gold Transport.”
“Handled,” Teddy quietly corrected. “And it’s Skyworld, not Gold Transport anymore.”
“Slip of the tongue,” Gold said, flustered. “And anyway,” he added defiantly, “in my heart it’ll always be Gold Transport!” He noticed Teddy looking at him with concern. “What?”
“You’re not crumbling, are you?” Teddy asked.
“Of course, not,” Gold scoffed. “I’m just pissed. I feel hurt, and frustrated. I’m not used to feeling that way…”
“Okay, Herm, whatever you say…” Teddy hesitated. “Can I give you a little advice?”
“Always.”
“If you’re going to beat Tim, you’ve got to do it your way. You’ll never win trying to play his complicated financial games… Now you go home, and let me get the brain pool get back to work.”
“I’ve got work to do upstairs in my office,” Gold said.
“Whatever, just as long as you’re out of sight. I can get a lot more out of those kids if they aren’t being distracted watching you out of the corners of their eyes. Every time you sneeze they start wondering if they’re going to be back on a streetcorner peddling apples.”
That evening, Gold mulled over what Teddy had said as he made his way down to the parking lot. Whatever happened, if he wanted his people to concentrate all of their energy on the Monarch project, he had to conceal the emotional turmoil he was experiencing due to Tim Campbell’s betrayal. He had to maintain an unflappable and confident image. That way his junior engineers could return to their drafting tables unencumbered by worries about him and their own futures.
Gold got into his British racing-green Marmon and started it up. The Stutz Bulldog tourer had been giving him trouble, so last year, when the ‘32s arrived in the dealers’ showrooms, he’d retired the Stutz in favor of this V-16, 9.1-liter, convertible sedan. While he was shopping for a new car he’d looked at a Duesenberg, a supercharged SJ, but decided against it. The SJ was faster, and almost as long as the Marmon, but not nearly as roomy inside. Gold liked to be able to spread out in his car. Anyway, the Marmon had cost only six grand. They wanted ten thousand for the Duesenberg. Gold figured six thousand dollars was quite enough to pay for a car at a time when the average man, assuming he was lucky enough to have a job, was only making, say, two or three thousand dollars a year…
The traffic going into Los Angeles was heavy. Gold concentrated on his driving, expertly weaving the majestic Marmon through the logjams, but it still took him twice as long as usual to get from the Burbank complex to Bel-Air.
He’d sold the Pasadena house back in ‘28, and paid a hundred and fifty thousand cash for the English colonial sheltered behind stone walls in Bel-Air. The house had been previously owned by a doyen of the silver screen who found himself yesterday’s news with the advent of talkies. It was a grand house, perhaps too grand for Gold’s taste. He missed the manageable scale and bright cheerfulness of the Pasadena hacienda. The new house was four stories tall, with grapevines crawling over its stone exterior, and a mansard roof you could land a plane on. Inside it was dark, and cool, with high, gilded ceilings, lots of fireplaces, mahogany paneling, and long, meandering hallways sprouting suites of rooms. The house looked as if it had been standing for centuries, but it was only ten years old. Erica loved the place, and the kids were happy. The rolling lawns on which croquet and badminton could be played were far more suitable for children than the fussy, tropical landscaping of the house in Pasadena. There was a pool, and a four-car garage. Hidden by trees at the edge of the property was a stone storage building that had been converted into a stable for the kids’ Shetland ponies.
Gold guided the Marmon through the wrought-iron gates. The full-time handyman gardener who lived above the garage was pruning the hedges that lined the crushed gravel drive. He tipped his hat as Gold drove by.
Gold parked in front of the house, next to Erica’s lemon-yellow Bugatti roadster. As he trudged up the front steps
the oak double-doors swung open, spilling soft warm light against the gathering twilight.
“Daddy’s home!” Susan called out as she swung on the doorknob. His eleven-year-old daughter was dressed in blue jeans and a dirty sweatshirt. Her shoulder-length blond hair was in pigtails.
“Pop! Look what I can do—” Nine-year-old Steven, wearing chino shorts and a red and black striped polo shirt, was sliding down the polished wooden banister that lined the broad curved staircase.
Gold watched as his fireplug of a son rocketed off the end of the banister. Gold made a lunging dive and caught the kid before he cracked his skull on the hallway’s polished stone floor.
“I taught him how, Daddy,” Suzy self-importantly announced.
His kids had inherited Erica’s features and coloring. Susan was tall for her age. She was boisterous and sassy, long-legged and lean, a tomboy just like her mother. Like Erica, lately Suzie had been showing hints of the femme fatale she was destined to become. Steven was built short and wide. He was an earnest and steady boy, but no match for his older, bossy, athletic sister. Just about anything poor Arnie tried to do, Suzy did better.
Steve liked airplanes, so Gold often took the boy flying. Gold would let his son sit on his lap. Once they were aloft, he would let Steve work the stick. Gold had promised to teach his son how to fly as soon as Steve’s feet could reach the rudder pedals. Flying was something Steve could eventually claim for his own. Suzy would not step foot in an airplane. Somehow, somewhere, before she was barely beyond her toddler stage, she had developed a fear of heights.
Erica came into the hall. She was wearing pleated, gray wool trousers, and a man-tailored, white blouse, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She was smiling, but her eyes were grim.
“I guess you saw today’s papers, right?” Gold asked. When she nodded, he said, “We’ll talk after dinner.”
Whenever possible, Gold liked to have the family together for the evening meal, even if it meant that the kids had to have a snack to tide them over. Gold didn’t mind the kids’ tumult at the table. He felt that he had endured his share of dining alone in his life. He was glad that Erica didn’t mind the admittedly unfashionable arrangement, but then she’d grown up in a close-knit farm family.
The family had dinner in the big dining room. Gold got a kick out of the fact that Erica had begun collecting china, lining the walls with her collection so that the room began to resemble her mother’s dining room back in Doreen. As usual, the conversation was commandeered by the kids as the servants served the meal. Ramona was still with them, but now there was also another Mexican girl to help with the cooking and cleaning. Ramona bossed her around like a drill sergeant.
After dinner the kids went into the solarium to listen to the radio. Gold and Erica went out to the patio beside the swimming pool. The submerged pool lights transformed the water into a shimmering, turquoise rectangle. Snowy moths fluttered around the glowing Chinese lanterns strung through the branches of the eucalyptus trees arching above.
Gold put his arm around Erica, who leaned against him. “The pool is beautiful tonight,” he said.
“Yes.” Erica sounded amused. “Strange thing for you to notice…”
“We’ve got so much. We have a luxurious home. We travel, we have all the money we’ll ever need…” He paused. “I feel—satisfied.” He looked at Erica. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so,” Erica replied.
“Good! Would you explain it to me, because I’m pretty confused…”
Erica laughed. “For starters, has this got to do with Tim Campbell?”
Gold nodded. “I guess.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“I’ve been trying to get riled up over what he’s doing. I mean, I should feel indignant, but mostly what I feel is hurt. You know what’s been really getting me down? The fact that no matter what happens, it appears that I’ve lost both Hull Stiles and Tim as friends.”
“Have you tried to talk to Hull?” Erica asked.
Gold nodded. “I tried telephoning, but he wouldn’t take the call, so I drove over to the airport to confront him. We talked; I told him that there were no hard feelings on my part. That he was his own man, and had to do what he had to do.” Gold grimaced. “It was like talking to a stranger.”
“He’s ashamed, that’s what it is,” Erica said confidently.
“Hull’s just doing what Tim tells him to do. And I don’t think Tim means to do me harm. He merely wants to do well for himself. It somehow seems petty to me to try and stop him. It goes back to what I was saying before. If Campbell wins, I’ll still have GAT. If I win, Tim and Hull will be ruined. They’ve both sunk everything into this. For them it’s do or die. I don’t want to win that way… On the other hand, I don’t want Tim to get away with this scott-free,” Gold added. “It’s a competition, and I don’t want to be seen as a loser.” He smiled. “Does that sound petty?”
“I think you are feeling indignation,” Erica said. “You just don’t know it. I can tell you that for as long as I’ve known you, you have never been a petty man. The question becomes, can you beat Tim at what we both know is his game?”
“Campbell seems pretty confident that I can’t,” Gold replied. He looked at his wife. “If I didn’t win, how would you feel about it? I mean, you wouldn’t look down at me on account of it?…”
Erica groaned, hugging him. “You are so dumb, sometimes. Why do you have to keep learning the same lesson? I’m proud of your accomplishments, but I love you. You’ve made it possible for me and the children to enjoy a wonderful life—”
“You’ve made your own life wonderful,” Gold interrupted. “You’re the racer in the family, not me—”
“Herman, I’m under no illusions about my racing career. I’m good, but I’m not the best.”
“Hey, come on…” Gold chided her. “You do very well.”
“But I’m not the best,” Erica firmly repeated. “And by now I think we both know that I’m not going to be. It’s the fact that GAT donates money and equipment to the racers that gets me invitations to participate in the more exclusive events, like the Schneider Trophy seaplane competitions, or the National Air Races. Anyway, do you love me any less because I don’t bring home first-place trophies?”
“Of course not,” Gold said. “It doesn’t even occur to me to think that way.”
“Well, that’s how I feel about you. I’ve told you that before.”
Gold hugged her. “I guess your reassurance is the only thing I can’t get enough of.”
“I know,” Erica said. “But have no worries about that, darling. I’ll never get tired of telling you.”
Gold smiled. “Why don’t we go upstairs, and you can explain all this to me at length, and in intricate detail?”
“Actions do speak louder than words, darling. Shall we go?”
As they walked back to the house, Erica said, “It’s too bad there isn’t a way for everyone to win.”
Gold stopped. “Maybe there is,” he said slowly. “You know, Teddy said the same thing to me today that you just said: that I can’t hope to compete with Tim at his own game. I guess I have been trying to do that. I’ve been so busy reacting to what Tim’s been doing that I haven’t really thought about what I might want out of this, and how I should go about getting it.”
“Does this mean we’re not going to bed?” Erica sighed good-naturedly.
Gold glanced at his watch. “I have to make a few telephone calls first.”
“Telephone calls, hmmm?” Erica nibbled at his ear. “My, aren’t we a big man…”
“You wait for me in bed. When I’m done telephoning, I’ll come up and tell you what I’m planning, and then I’ll show you just how big.”
(Three)
Campbell Household
Pacific Palisades
Tim Campbell, in pajamas and robe, was in his study. The walls were lined with hand-tooled leather volumes that Campbell had purchased for their luxuri
ous bindings rather than their precious contents. On his mahogany desk a brass lamp with a green glass shade cast a golden pool of light. Campbell had his cigarettes and a tall scotch on the rocks to keep him company. He was going over his personal brokerage accounts when the telephone rang, startling him.
As he lifted the receiver he glanced at the antique, black marble clock on the fireplace mantel. It was almost midnight. The house had been quiet. The kids were asleep and Aggie had long since gone to bed. Even the servants had retired for the night.
“Tim? It’s Layton Saunders. Sorry to disturb you at this hour.”
“No problem, Layton,” Campbell said jovially. Saunders had a large holding of Skyworld, and sat on the board of directors as chairman of finance. Campbell wasn’t sure which way Saunders was going to vote come next week’s stockholders’ meeting. “What can I do for you?”
“I received a call from Herman. I guess he asked me to contact you because I’m still a neutral party in all this. Anyway, he asked me to inform you that as chairman he’s invoking his authority under the company’s by-laws to call an unscheduled meeting of the board.”
“A meeting?” Campbell repeated sharply. “When?”
“On the fifteenth, at ten A.M.”
“Four days before the stockholders’ meeting!” Campbell exclaimed. “What kind of rabbit does he think he can pull out of his hat at that late date! I won’t attend, Layton, and I tell you now, Hull won’t attend either. And there’s a few other board members backing me who’ll boycott that meeting when I tell them to—”
“Perhaps there are, Tim,” Saunders replied evenly. “But I beg you to reconsider. I’ve made some other calls this evening. I can assure you there are enough board members who will attend for Herman to have a quorum.”
“Well, I guess now I know whose side you’re on,” Campbell said stiffly.
“You do not,” Saunders said. “Because I don’t yet know. This much I do know. Herman has the right to call this meeting, considering all he’s done for the company—”
