competition’s too strong.”
Mangrum didn’t respond.
“I need to talk to you about our arrangements.”
“Arrangements?”
“You back into the scotch again?”
“Bit.”
“I’m coming up.”
He ge stured for Hanrahan to enter. “What arrangements?”
“I’ll explain.”
Mangrum stood back. “Have a drink?”
He led Hanrahan to his small barroom.
Scotch in hand, they stood looking at the view.
“I think I’ll step outside,” Hanrahan said. “A little air to go along with my drink.” “Hot out there.”
“I won’t be long.”
Mangrum stared at his visitor for a moment, then said, “I’ll join you.”
“Quite a view.”
“Tough to have to give it up.”
Mangrum frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve lost this place.”
Mangrum frowned. “The five hundred wasn’t enough?” “Second best.”
“I see.” Mangrum’s voice rose in pitch. “Well, there’s more. I can let you
partici pate in the shorting profits. There’s sixty-some million. I’ll give you five—no, ten. Ten million dollars.”
Hanrahan shook his head.
Mangrum started to leave the balcony, but Hanrahan restrained him.
“A check. Right now!”
Hanrahan shook his head again.
“No, of course not. Cash—tomorrow morning. And I’ll settle with Kiro and Simon—and the others.”
Hanrahan steered Mangrum across the balcony.
“Seamus!”
“Walter, you turned on people who trusted you.”
“Seamus!”
“Time to go, Walter.”
Hanrahan kicked Mangrum’s feet from under him and leveraged him over the railing.
Mangrum twisted his body as he fell so he caught the railing with one hand. “Seamus! Help me!”
Hanrahan watched the pudgy hand begin to slip.
“Seamus! Fifty! All of it! More!”
Hanrahan peeled Mangrum’s little finger from the rail.
Mangrum was trying to replace it when the other fingers released. He turned his head to see the abyss below.
Hanrahan waited until the scream ended, then finished his whisky and walked back inside.
“I do not care, Atal, tell the bugger I'll call him back as soon as it's daylight.” “Sir, the caller insists.”
“Who does he say he is?”
“'Seamus.”
“Bother!”
Simon ScottMallory walked to his study. “Is that you, Hanrahan?” “It is.”
“Why are you calling me at this hour?”
“Because you told me to.”
“Because I told you—ah, yes, I have it now. And?”
“It's over. Walter fell from the balcony of his apartment.”
“I remember that balcony,” Scott-Mallory said softly.
“How did he go?”
“Resisted to the end. Offered a large bribe.”
“Not large enough, obviously.”
“Large enough, but the probability of collection was slim.”
“Quite right.”
“I’ll be in your office Wednesday afternoon. Have my money ready.”
At 6:00 PM, the WSPPTV anchorman reported Mangrum’s death. The police had released no information.
Chapter 46 August 7, Atlanta.
A photograph of Mangrum appeared in the top right column of the front page of the
Sunday edition of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
ICP CEO DEATH
Walter Mangrum, CEO of Construction Products Giant Dies In Fall From Corporate Tower
Cause Of Plunge Unknown; Atlanta Police Mystified; Effect On Company Operations Unknown
World-Wide Competitors Pay Homage Late yesterday afternoon, Walter M. Mangrum, Chairman and CEO of International Construction Products plunged from his 80th floor penthouse atop the ICP Tower. Authorities in Atlanta had no additional information concerning the incident. Interviews of senior corporate personnel produced no reasons why Mr. Mangrum might have wanted to end his life.
ICP, the dominant factor in sales of construction-related materials worldwide, has recently been under heavy attack by investors who have been shorting the stock. The financial media have queried senior corporate personnel often during the past few weeks, but no reasons for the attack have been uncovered. Mr. Roger Doucent, Chief Operating Officer of the Company, has repeatedly stated ICP is in excellent financial and operational health and there are no dark clouds on the Company's horizon that would warrant such an attack.
No date has been set for election of new officers, but it is expected Mr. von Scherner will succeed Mr. Mangrum as CEO and Mr. Doucent will succeed Mr. von Scherner as President.
The Washington Post provided similar coverage. Harding’s jubilation would have been a spectacle, had in occurred in public.
Evonne spread the Sunday paper on her kitchen table. There was Mangrum’s photograph. She reached for a constriction in her throat, then fainted.
She recovered moments later, her eyes focusing on the bottom of her kitchen table. She frowned, then remembered. They had sat silently since giving their waiter their orders. Finally, Celia said, “Is this a celebration or a wake?”
Sloan broke off a piece of the raffia surrounding the old Chianti bottle and forced an
escape route for the wax from the top of the candle.
“Tom?”
“Somewhere in between.”
“By which you mean…”
“By which I think we’ve made a giant step forward—but at what cost?” “Cost?”
“I wonder if I am not an accessory to murder.”
“I don’t understand how you can wonder at…”
“But I do.”
They were silent again until Celia said , “What about Doucent?”
“If there’s reason to celebrate, he’s it. He seems to be an intelligent businessman. I’m sure he’ll be named CEO. I believe he’ll want to put the Morgan family business behind him.”
August 8, Atlanta.
Evonne awoke at dawn, ill and wondering how she could be vomiting. She had had
nothing to eat since Saturday night.
At 10:00 she left off staring out of her window and forced down toast and tea. She arrived at the Tower at noon. When she could stand no more solicitous words,
she hid her face and hurried to Mangrum’s office.
By mid-afternoon she was able to call Archives for packing boxes and began piling
files on the desk. When she had finished, she looked at the credenza. The telephone
recording tapes and the player were where she had left them. She loaded the tape marked
with a number one and began to listen.
August 13, Atlanta.
The election notice was on the second page of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
business section:
NEW OFFICERS AT ICP At a meeting of the Board of Directors of International Construction Products, Inc., held in Atlanta this morning, Roger D. Doucent was elected Chairman and Chief Executive Officer, Yousuff F. G. Bada was elected President, and Margaret T. Turnbull was elected Secretary. Mr. Doucent announced the retirement of former President Werner-Heinz Paul von Scherner and former Secretary Daniel R. McQuade. No other management changes were reported.
Mr. Doucent noted the Company’s projection of third quarter income of $1.25 per share was on track.
Chapter 47
August 16, Atlanta. The formal pictures Sloan had seen had been unrevealing. Given his known reliance on information processing, Sloan was prepared for a nerd, but Doucent looked like the interior lineman he had been a Michigan.
Sloan took a g uest chair, then said, “I’ve visited here once before. Walter gave me a tour of this level in early June. He remarked ab
out how businesslike your office was.”
“I work in my office and I live at home—away from the office.”
“You’re not moving into Walter’s quarters?”
“No. I’m opening a door to his office and making it a more complete computer operation for me and Bud Bada, my Cal Tech computer whiz.”
“And what Walter called his ‘small apartment’?”
“Undecided as yet.”
There was a silence until Doucent sai d, “I’ve read your letter and reviewed the Celia Morgan file. Quite a story.”
Sloan nodded.
“Subject to Board approval, we’re going to propose a ten-year pay-out. Fix the amount so we don’t have to recompute her position every time we issue more stock. Each year, she can take one-tenth of the stock or—if she prefers—we’ll pay her the equivalent amount of cash.”
“Of the value of the stock at that time or..?”
“We propose to fix that, too—on the date of the agreement.”
“She might like to let it float. Take advantage of your growth and inflation.”
Doucent laughed. “I wouldn’t blame her for liking that, but we have to get a fix on the obligation. She can buy the stock, if she likes.”
“Sure. OK, what about interest on the undelivered balance?”
Doucent laughed again. “You’re hard, Professor. You may have missed your calling?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“But, no, no interest. And after all, it’s not as if she’s going to have live on dog food. If we were to sign our proposed agreement today, the annual cash would amount to around two hundred fifty millions dollars. That is not exactly…”
“Most going to charitable foundations.”
Doucent raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Still.”
“Yes, I agree. If your proposal is as you describe, I’ll recommend her agreement.”
Doucent stood and extended his hand. “I’ll get the attorneys busy.”
“When could she expect her first payment?”
“Two weeks after she signs. Around two hundred fifty million dollars.”
August 17, Atlanta. Evonne pulled her nightgown left and right until a seam rubbed her left nipple. Then it began as it always began.
It is autumn, late afternoon. The sky has been overcast all day. She is alone in the typing pool suite in the old ICP building, typing a revision to Walter Mangrum’s report. A visitor to headquarters, he has no secretary. She was happy to agree to his request. He is a romantic figure to the headquarters staff—world traveler, super salesman. She looks forward to his thanks when he returns. She hears the door at the far end of the suite open, then a light tread. She glances toward the door, but concentrates on completing the last paragraph. She pulls the last sheet from her typewriter and turns to the approaching figure. “Ready,” she says. “You’re just in time. Now how will you thank me?”
He takes the sheets with his right hand, then circles her shoulder and neck with his left. He buries his face in the hair at her neck and says, “Thank you.”
“Walter—Mr. Mangrum!” she exclaims.
He grasps her hair and pulls her head back. He kisses her gently. “Yes?”
“I…”
His next kiss is stronger. The third is painful.
“Walter, you’re hurting me.”
“Do you mind?”
She hesitates.
“I thought not.”
He twists her body and places his right hand at the small of her back. He lowers her body to the tiled floor.
“Cold,” she murmurs.
He takes a thick report from a pile on the floor and places it under her head. He pulls her skirt above her waist, then pulls her panties off her legs.
“Walter, I…”
He balances himself on his knees and one hand while he unzips his trousers.
“Walter, what if someone..?”
“Shh.”
There was a ripping and then pain.
“Walter. Walter, it’s my first. You’re my first. I…”
“Special, then,” he murmurs.
He inserts himself and begins the motion. She tries to see his eyes, but the room is too dark. He soon sighs, lets his weight settle on her body for a moment, then rolls away.
He stands and zips his fly. He finds his report. He looks down at her and says, “Thank you.”
She closes her eyes. The light tread recedes. The door opens, then closes.
August 18, Atlanta.
Harding had visited Mangrum’s office more than once, but never the adjoining office
of Roger Doucent. The room was dedicated to information and communications. He gestured at the room’s furnishings. “I see how things get done around here.” “I have a complex job.” He pointed at a chair.
Harding paused. “I can imagine how busy you must be just now, Roger. I appreciate
your finding time for me.”
“Glad to.”
“I’ll be brief—and frank. Walter was not pleased with my vote on the Cockerham
tariff and wouldn’t give me the chance to explain my underlying reason for doing so.” “He mentioned that.”
“Good. Well, I’ve come with two questions. Will you oppose me in the upcoming
primary? And if so, what can I do to change your mind?”
“I won’t oppose your renomination. It’s time to put all of that behind us.” Harding smiled, shook Doucent’s hand, and left the room.
Evonne blew dust off the cover. How could there be dust? She had looked at the album only two days before. The atmosphere in Atlanta was becoming a problem. When Walter retired, they’d move to someplace less dusty.
She opened to the page marked by a dried rose —a very special rose. The page was devoted to pictures of them in London. There they were, Walter feeding pigeons in Trafalgar Square while she looked on, pictures of them watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and—really best of all—a picture of Walter and the proprietor standing outside the cute little bed-and-breakfast in the lake country. She looked closely at the sign beside the door. She had forgotten the name and had had to make the lettering a smear.
Mrs. Daniels, her art teacher at the YWCA, had always remarked on her talent —how lifelike and accurate her backgrounds were and how well she had caught her own features. She had also commented on the man’s face in the drawings—handsome, debonair, yet somehow indistinct.
Evonne closed the album and then her eyes.
August 18, Washington. Harding once again dragged his checkerboard from the closet and stacked all of the checkers in the middle of the board. He would need all of the checkers to plan his next move, but he would be the next Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives.
August 20, Atlanta. It was a small article on the fourth page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Georgia’s Republican Congressmen would be meeting with the State Committee in Atlanta on August 31. All nine incumbent Republicans were expecting endorsement for the primary.
Evonne folded the newspaper so that the article was in view and anchored it on her kitchen table with the sugar bowl. “Your favorite Congressman on line one, Tom.”
“Tell him—no, I’ll take it.” He picked up the phone. “Morning, Joe Earl.” “A good morning to you, Professor.”
“How can I..?”
“Have you heard the news?”
“Regarding?”
“The Committee. I’m receiving its endorsement. I’ll be in town for the
announcement on the 31st and I wondered if you and Celia would like to get together. A sort of celebration.”
“I…”
“I’ve never visited the fabled Twopenny Lane and would like to do so.” Sloan hesitated. “All right. What did you have in mind?”
“The announcements will be made late that afternoon. Cocktails after that, then
dinner. Suppose I see you at Miss Morgan’s house at, say, 10:30.”
&n
bsp; “I’ll let Monica know if there’s a problem.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Chapter 48
August 21, Atlanta. Evonne found Paul and Maxie’s.
Quality weaponry at unreasonably good prices. Quick registration to qualified buyers
in the Yellow Pages.
‘Women need protection these days. Buying a gun is normal and natural. Women
need protection. Buying a gun is normal and…’ It was a mantra for her as she walked
toward the Little Fivepoints pawnshop.
The sound of the bell startled her as she entered.
“Ma’am?” a burly man in camouflage clothing said.
“A gun. A pistol.”
“Revolver? Automatic? New? Used? Got some Glock’s you couldn’t tell had
ever…”
“A gun. A hand gun.”
The clerk frowned.
“Protection. Something for my apartment. Something that I could carry in my purse,
if I wanted to. Women need protection these days. Buying a gun is normal and natural. Women need protection these days. Buying a gun…” He frowned, then led her to a tabletop display under glass. “Smith & Wesson. Thirtytwo revolver.”
She stared at the little nickel-plated pistol as if it were a snake.
“How much is it?”
“Regular one fifty, one twenty to you.”
She opened her purse.
“Ammunition?”
“What?”
“Bullets.”
“Oh, yes.”
“How many?”
“One. No, two.”
“They come in boxes.”
“Of course. One box.”
He extended his hand. “Your driver’s license, please.”
When the State of Georgia was satisfied, the clerk showed her how to load the pistol and operate the safety.
She had been awake for an hour, watching the lighted numbers on her clock radio count her morning away. At 7:29 she depressed the alarm plunger. She ran a full tub and was about to ration the bubble bath crystals, when she shook her head and emptied the half bottle into the water.
She drank her orange juice and coffee. No cereal today. Not for many days, now. Her clothes were beginning to hang on her. Fat and flabby these days, voluptuous on that night twenty years ago.
What to wear? She wanted to look nice, but whatever she wore today had a questionable future. She chose a Ramporte that might have pleased him.
The Dryden Note Page 24
