Winter of the World (Century Trilogy 2)

by Ken Follett

  A portly man wearing a blue suit with a workingman’s cap appeared from behind a furnace. ‘This is the union leader, Brian Hall,’ said Lev. ‘Morning, Hall.’

  ‘Morning, Peshkov.’

  Greg raised his eyebrows. People usually called his father Mr Peshkov.

  Lev stood with his feet apart and his hands on his hips. ‘Well, have you got an answer for me?’

  Hall’s face took on a stubborn expression. ‘The men won’t come back to work with a pay cut, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘But I’ve improved my offer!’

  ‘It’s still a pay cut.’

  Greg began to feel nervous. His father did not like opposition, and he might explode.

  ‘The manager tells me we aren’t getting any orders, because he can’t tender a competitive price at these wage levels.’

  ‘That’s because you’ve got outdated machinery, Peshkov. Some of these lathes were here before the war! You need to re-equip.’

  ‘In the middle of a depression? Are you out of your mind? I’m not going to throw away more money.’

  ‘That’s how your men feel,’ said Hall, with the air of one who plays a trump card. ‘They’re not going to give money to you when they haven’t got enough for themselves.’

  Greg thought workers were stupid to strike during a depression, and he was angered by Hall’s nerve. The man spoke as if he were Lev’s equal, not an employee.

  Lev said: ‘Well, as things are, we’re all losing money. Where’s the sense in that?’

  ‘It’s out of my hands now,’ said Hall. Greg thought he sounded smug. ‘The union is sending a team from headquarters to take over.’ He pulled a large steel watch out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘Their train should be here in an hour.’

  Lev’s face darkened. ‘We don’t need outsiders stirring up trouble.’

  ‘If you don’t want trouble, you shouldn’t provoke it.’

  Lev clenched a fist, but Hall walked away.

  Lev turned to Brekhunov. ‘Did you know about these men from headquarters?’ he said angrily.

  Brekhunov looked nervous. ‘I’ll get on it right away, boss.’

  ‘Find out who they are and where they’re staying.’

  ‘Won’t be difficult.’

  ‘Then send them back to New York in a fucking ambulance.’

  ‘Leave it to me, boss.’

  Lev turned away, and Greg followed him. Now that was power, Greg thought with a touch of awe. His father gave the word, and union officials would be beaten up.

  They walked outside and got into Lev’s car, a Cadillac five-passenger sedan in the new streamlined style. Its long curving fenders made Greg think of a girl’s hips.

  Lev drove along Porter Avenue to the waterfront and parked at the Buffalo Yacht Club. Sunlight played prettily on the boats in the marina. Greg was pretty sure that his father did not belong to this elite club. Gus Dewar must be a member.

  They walked on to the pier. The clubhouse was built on pilings over the water. Lev and Greg went inside and checked their hats. Greg immediately felt uneasy, knowing he was a guest in a club that would not have him as a member. The people here probably thought he must feel privileged to be allowed in. He put his hands in his pockets and slouched, so they would know he was not impressed.

  ‘I used to belong to this club,’ Lev said. ‘But in 1921 the chairman told me I had to resign because I was a bootlegger. Then he asked me to sell him a case of Scotch.’

  ‘Why does Senator Dewar want to have lunch with you?’ Greg asked.

  ‘We’re about to find out.’

  ‘Would you mind if I asked him a favour?’

  Lev frowned. ‘I guess not. What are you after?’

  But, before Greg could answer, Lev greeted a man of about sixty. ‘This is Dave Rouzrokh,’ he said to Greg. ‘He’s my main rival.’

  ‘You flatter me,’ the man said.

  Roseroque Theatres was a chain of dilapidated movie houses in New York State. The owner was anything but decrepit. He had a patrician air: he was tall and white-haired, with a nose like a curved blade. He wore a blue cashmere blazer with the badge of the club on the breast pocket. Greg said: ‘I had the pleasure of watching your daughter, Joanne, play tennis on Saturday.’

  Dave was pleased. ‘Pretty good, isn’t she?’

  ‘Very.’

  Lev said: ‘I’m glad I ran into you, Dave – I was planning to call you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your theatres need remodelling. They’re very old-fashioned.’

  Dave looked amused. ‘You were planning to call me to give me this news?’

  ‘Why don’t you do something about it?’

  He shrugged elegantly. ‘Why bother? I’m making enough money. At my age, I don’t want the strain.’

  ‘You could double your profits.’

  ‘By raising ticket prices. No, thanks.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘Not everyone is obsessed with money,’ Dave said with a touch of disdain.

  ‘Then sell to me,’ Lev said.

  Greg was surprised. He had not seen that coming.

  ‘I’ll give you a good price,’ Lev added.

  Dave shook his head. ‘I like owning cinemas,’ he said. ‘They give people pleasure.’

  ‘Eight million dollars,’ Lev said.

  Greg felt bemused. He thought: Did I just hear Father offer Dave eight million dollars?

  ‘That is a fair price,’ Dave admitted. ‘But I’m not selling.’

  ‘No one else will give you as much,’ Lev said with exasperation.

  ‘I know.’ Dave looked as if he had taken enough browbeating. He swallowed the rest of his drink. ‘Nice to see you both,’ he said, and he strolled out of the bar into the dining room.

  Lev looked disgusted. ‘ “Not everyone is obsessed with money,” ’ he quoted. ‘Dave’s great-grandfather arrived here from Persia a hundred years ago with nothing but the clothes he wore and six rugs. He wouldn’t have turned down eight million dollars.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had that much money,’ Greg said.

  ‘I don’t, not in ready cash. That’s what banks are for.’

  ‘So you’d take out a loan to pay Dave?’

  Lev raised his forefinger again. ‘Never use your own money when you can spend someone else’s.’

  Gus Dewar walked in, a tall figure with a large head. He was in his mid-forties, and his light-brown hair was salted with silver. He greeted them with cool courtesy, shaking hands and offering them a drink. Greg saw immediately that Gus and Lev did not like one another. He feared that would mean Gus would not grant the favour Greg wanted to beg. Maybe he should give up the thought.

  Gus was a big shot. His father had been a senator before him, a dynastic succession that Greg thought was un-American. Gus had helped Franklin Roosevelt become Governor of New York and then President. Now he was on the powerful Senate Foreign Relations Committee.

  His sons, Woody and Chuck, went to the same school as Greg. Woody was brainy, Chuck was a sportsman.

  Lev said: ‘Has the President told you to settle my strike, Senator?’

  Gus smiled. ‘No – not yet, anyway.’

  Lev turned to Greg. ‘Last time the foundry was on strike, twenty years ago, President Wilson sent Gus to browbeat me into giving the men a raise.’

  ‘I saved you money,’ Gus said mildly. ‘They were asking for a dollar – I made them take half that.’

  ‘Which was exactly fifty cents more than I intended to give.’

  Gus smiled and shrugged. ‘Shall we have lunch?’

  They went into the dining room. When they had ordered, Gus said: ‘The President was glad you could make it to the reception at the White House.’

  ‘I probably shouldn’t have taken Gladys,’ Lev said. ‘Mrs Roosevelt was a bit frosty with her. I guess she doesn’t approve of movie stars.’

  She probably doesn’t approve of movie stars who sleep with married men, Greg thought, but he kept his
mouth shut.

  Gus made small talk while they ate. Greg looked for an opportunity to ask his favour. He wanted to work in Washington one summer, to learn the ropes and make contacts. His father might have been able to get him an internship, but it would have been with a Republican, and they were out of power. Greg wanted to work in the office of the influential and respected Senator Dewar, personal friend and ally of the President.

  He asked himself why he was nervous about asking. The worst that could happen was that Dewar would say no.

  When the dessert was finished, Gus got down to business. ‘The President has asked me to speak to you about the Liberty League,’ he said.

  Greg had heard of this organization, a right-wing group opposed to the New Deal.

  Lev lit a cigarette and blew out smoke. ‘We have to guard against creeping socialism.’

  ‘The New Deal is all that is saving us from the kind of nightmare they’re having in Germany.’

  ‘The Liberty League aren’t Nazis.’

  ‘Aren’t they? They have a plan for an armed insurrection to overthrow the President. It’s not realistic, of course – not yet, anyway.’

  ‘I believe I have a right to my opinions.’

  ‘Then you’re supporting the wrong people. The League is nothing to do with liberty, you know.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about liberty,’ Lev said with a touch of anger. ‘When I was twelve years old I was flogged by the Leningrad police because my parents were on strike.’

  Greg was not sure why his father had said that. The brutality of the Tsar’s regime seemed like an argument for socialism, not against.

  Gus said: ‘Roosevelt knows you give money to the League, and he wants you to stop.’

  ‘How does he know who I give money to?’

  ‘The FBI told him. They investigate such people.’

  ‘We’re living in a police state! You’re supposed to be a liberal.’

  There was not much logic to Lev’s arguments, Greg perceived. Lev was just trying everything he could think of to wrong-foot Gus, and he did not care if he contradicted himself in the process.

  Gus remained cool. ‘I’m trying to make sure this doesn’t become a matter for the police,’ he said.

  Lev grinned. ‘Does the President know I stole your fiancée?’

  This was news to Greg – but it had to be true, for Lev had at last succeeded in throwing Gus off balance. Gus looked shocked, turned his gaze aside, and reddened. Score one for our team, Greg thought.

  Lev explained to Greg: ‘Gus was engaged to Olga, back in 1915,’ he said. ‘Then she changed her mind and married me.’

  Gus recovered his composure. ‘We were all terribly young.’

  Lev said: ‘You certainly got over Olga quickly enough.’

  Gus gave Lev a cool look and said: ‘So did you.’

  Greg saw that his father was embarrassed now. Gus’s shot had hit home.

  There was a moment of awkward silence, then Gus said: ‘You and I fought in a war, Lev. I was in a machine-gun battalion with my school friend Chuck Dixon. In a little French town called Château-Thierry he was blown to pieces in front of my eyes.’ Gus was speaking in a conversational tone, but Greg found himself holding his breath. Gus went on: ‘My ambition for my sons is that they should never have to go through what we went through. That’s why groups such as the Liberty League have to be nipped in the bud.’

  Greg saw his chance. ‘I’m interested in politics, too, Senator, and I’d like to learn more. Might you be able to take me as an intern one summer?’ He held his breath.

  Gus looked surprised, but said: ‘I can always use a bright young man who’s willing to work in a team.’

  That was neither a yes nor a no. ‘I’m top in math, and captain of ice hockey,’ Greg persisted, selling himself. ‘Ask Woody about me.’

  ‘I will.’ Gus turned to Lev. ‘And will you consider the President’s request? It’s really very important.’

  It almost seemed as if Gus was suggesting an exchange of favours. But would Lev agree?

  Lev hesitated a long moment, then stubbed out his cigarette and said: ‘I guess we have a deal.’

  Gus stood up. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘The President will be pleased.’

  Greg thought: I did it!

  They walked out of the club to their cars.

  As they drove out of the parking lot, Greg said: ‘Thank you, Father. I really appreciate what you did.’

  ‘You chose your moment well,’ Lev said. ‘I’m glad to see you’re so smart.’

  The compliment pleased Greg. In some ways he was smarter than his father – he certainly understood science and math better – but he feared he was not as shrewd and cunning as his old man.

  ‘I want you to be a wise guy,’ Lev went on. ‘Not like some of these dummies.’ Greg had no idea who the dummies were. ‘You’ve got to stay ahead of the curve, all the time. That’s the way to get on.’

  Lev drove to his office, in a modern block downtown. As they walked through the marble lobby, Lev said: ‘Now I’m going to teach a lesson to that fool Dave Rouzrokh.’

  Going up in the elevator, Greg wondered how Lev would do that.

  Peshkov Pictures occupied the top floor. Greg followed Lev along a broad corridor and through an outer office with two attractive young secretaries. ‘Get Sol Starr on the phone, will you?’ Lev said as they walked into the inner office.

  Lev sat behind the desk. ‘Solly owns one of the biggest studios in Hollywood,’ he explained.

  The phone on the desk rang and Lev picked it up. ‘Sol!’ he said. ‘How are they hanging?’ Greg listened to a minute or two of masculine joshing, then Lev got down to business. ‘Little piece of advice,’ he said. ‘Here in New York State we have a crappy chain of fleapits called Roseroque Theatres . . . yeah, that’s the one . . . take my tip, don’t send them your top-of-the-line first-run pictures this summer – you may not get paid.’ Greg realized that would hit Dave hard: without exciting new movies to show, his takings would tumble. ‘A word to the wise, right? Solly, don’t thank me, you’d do the same for me . . . bye.’

  Once again, Greg was awestruck by his father’s power. He could have people beaten up. He could offer eight million dollars of other people’s money. He could scare a president. He could seduce another man’s fiancée. And he could ruin a business with a single phone call.

  ‘You wait and see,’ said his father. ‘In a month’s time, Dave Rouzrokh will be begging me to buy him out – at half the price I offered him today.’

  (iii)

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with this puppy,’ Daisy said. ‘He won’t do anything I tell him. I’m going crazy.’ There was a shake in her voice and a tear in her eye, and she was exaggerating only a little.

  Charlie Farquharson studied the dog. ‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ he said. ‘He’s a lovely little fellow. What’s his name?’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  They were sitting on lawn chairs in the well-kept two-acre garden of Daisy’s home. Eva had greeted Charlie then tactfully retired to write a letter home. The gardener, Henry, was hoeing a bed of purple and yellow pansies in the distance. His wife, Ella, the maid, brought a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses, and set them on a folding table.

  The puppy was a tiny Jack Russell terrier, small and strong, white with tan patches. He had an intelligent look, as if he understood every word, but he seemed to have no inclination to obey. Daisy held him on her lap and stroked his nose with dainty fingers in a way that she hoped Charlie would find strangely disturbing. ‘Don’t you like the name?’

  ‘A bit obvious, perhaps?’ Charlie stared at her white hand on the dog’s nose and shifted uneasily in his chair.

  Daisy did not want to overdo it. If she inflamed Charlie too much he would just go home. This was why he was still single at twenty-five: several Buffalo girls, including Dot Renshaw and Muffie Dixon, had found it impossible to nail his foot to the floor. But Daisy was diffe
rent. ‘Then you shall name him,’ she said.

  ‘It’s good to have two syllables, as in Bonzo, to make it easier for him to recognize the name.’

  Daisy had no idea how to name dogs. ‘How about Rover?’

  ‘Too common. Rusty might be better.’

  ‘Perfect!’ she said. ‘Rusty he shall be.’

  The dog wriggled effortlessly out of her grasp and jumped to the ground.

  Charlie picked him up. Daisy noticed he had big hands. ‘You must show Rusty you’re the boss,’ Charlie said. ‘Hold him tight, and don’t let him jump down until you say so.’ He put the dog back on her lap.

  ‘But he’s so strong! And I’m afraid of hurting him.’

  Charlie smiled condescendingly. ‘You probably couldn’t hurt him if you tried. Hold his collar tightly – twist it a bit if you need to – then put your other hand firmly on his back.’

  Daisy followed Charlie’s orders. The dog sensed the increased pressure in her touch and became still, as if waiting to see what would happen next.

  ‘Tell him to sit, then press down on his rear end.’

  ‘Sit,’ she said.

  ‘Say it louder, and pronounce the letter “t” very clearly. Then press down hard.’

  ‘Sit, Rusty!’ she said, and pushed him down. He sat.

  ‘There you are,’ said Charlie.

  ‘You’re so clever!’ Daisy gushed.

  Charlie looked pleased. ‘It’s just a matter of knowing what to do,’ he said modestly. ‘You must always be emphatic and decisive with dogs. You have to almost bark at them.’ He sat back, looking content. He was quite heavy, and filled the chair. Talking about the subject in which he was expert had relaxed him, as Daisy had hoped.

  She had called him that morning. ‘I’m in despair!’ she had said. ‘I have a new puppy and I can’t manage him at all. Can you give me any advice?’

  ‘What breed of puppy?’

  ‘It’s a Jack Russell.’

  ‘Why, that’s the kind of dog I like best – I have three!’

  ‘What a coincidence!’

  As Daisy had hoped, Charlie volunteered to come over and help her train the dog.