A Man of Affairs

by John D. MacDonald

  “Mike, please,” Amparo said, a warning note in her voice.

  “Get off my back, honey. I’ve got to tell this punk. The reason you’ll never make it, Glidden, is because you’re living in a dream world. You want to be loved. You haven’t got the guts to endure being hated.”

  “You take your dream world, Mike, and I’ll stick with mine.”

  “I’m not in a dream world. I deal with facts.”

  I stood up. I was seeing things a little more clearly. “You’re an emotional cripple, Mike. You’re a fat boy locked in the candy store. Some people have compulsive eating habits. You’ve got compulsive earning habits. You’ve got to have money, because there isn’t another damn thing in the world that means anything to you.”

  “Do me the courtesy of leaving out the parlor psychiatry,” he raved. His face was dark red. “By God, I’ll smash you completely!”

  “Go ahead. Have a try at it. And Miss Hallowell and I will see just how much harm we can do you.”

  He followed me toward the door, and he was yelling. I’d stopped paying any attention to what he was saying. It was only when he made a strange sound that I turned and looked at him. He stood holding both hands against his middle. His mouth had a twist of agony. His face had been a tray of coals, but water had been thrown on them and they were wet and gray. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  Amparo ran to him. I instinctively took the other arm and we tried to lead him to a chair. He took three steps and went down and I caught him before he hit the floor. I carried him over to the bed.

  He groaned when I eased him down. He opened his eyes and mumbled, “Can’t see.”

  “What is it?” Bowman demanded of Amparo. She paid no attention to him. She stared down at Mike in torture.

  Suddenly his mouth opened wide. You could see that he was straining for air, but could not breathe. His eyes bulged and the cords in his throat were like the knotted roots of a tree. And very suddenly he stopped straining, and that was all of him. That was all there would ever be. The face was still grotesque.

  Amparo’s face was ghastly. She murmured something.

  “What did you say?” Bowman demanded. “What?”

  “Massive coronary occlusion,” she said, barely moving her lips. “I saw one before. Long ago.”

  “He’s dead,” Cam said softly.

  Bowman must have taken a full swing. His fist hit me at an angle of the jaw and I took a chair over with me when I went down. I shook my head to clear it. I moved just in time when he tried to kick me in the face. Even after I had pinned his arms, he tried to slash at me with his teeth. He was like a demented person. “You did it, damn you!” he yelled. “You did it!” Then he went limp, chin on his chest. I moved him three feet and dropped him into a chair.

  Amparo had covered the body with a blanket. She started toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Cam demanded.

  “I … I don’t really know.”

  “We’ve got to start thinking,” Cam said. “We’ve got to use our heads.” But his voice was lost and plaintive. The body of Mike Dean was an oppressive bulk. The spider had died in the center of the web. Amparo sat down quietly. Her face was very still. Tears ran from her quiet eyes.

  Bowman slowly pulled himself together. I felt as if, in some curious way, I had rejoined them as conspirator. Bowman looked at Cam. “What will this do?”

  “The walls come tumbling down,” Cam said.

  “I know, I know. Start thinking. I’m trying to.” He got up and walked over to the small writing desk, took a zipper portfolio out of the drawer, brought it back to the chair and opened it.

  “Status report?” Cam asked. Bowman nodded. Cam went over and stood behind his chair. Bowman took a pencil from his shirt pocket to indicate listings on the status report. “You’re in this one, and this one too.”

  “The timing couldn’t be worse,” Cam said. “My God, some of them are so delicate that bad publicity like the Hallowell girl has threatened would turn them sour. Now the whole ball of wax goes down the drain—to mix hell out of a metaphor.”

  “And we’re too vulnerable.”

  “If we had about five days. Even four,” Cam said softly. “We could unload. But once this gets out, the bottom is going to fall out of too many things. Those are the things we should dump. Other stuff we can hang onto, like Harrison. It’s below book. I’ll be damned if I want to lose everything I’ve picked up in the last few years.”

  Bowman looked over at Amparo. “Are you in anything current?”

  “Just Harrison and Lou-El Drilling.”

  “The minute it breaks, Lou-El will go down like a dive bomber. Where did you get it?”

  “At eight and a quarter,” she said.

  “It won’t level off until it’s down to three.”

  “I’ve got three thousand shares,” she said.

  “So,” Bowman said, “so you get out with thirty-three thousand right now, or you get out with nine thousand after the news breaks.”

  “How do I get out right now?” Amparo asked.

  Cam’s color was better. The mild and engaging smile was not quite back in place, but there was more ease in his manner. “I think that Fletcher and I are thinking along the same lines. It’s bad luck Glidden had to be here when it happened, because it would be easier without him. But I think it can be arranged. I can draw up limited powers of attorney for you and Fletcher to sign. And I can fly up to New York and, if we plan it carefully enough, get the three of us off the worst part of the hook.”

  “When I talk to Ralph Pegler tonight,” Bowman said quickly, “I can relay some instructions from Mike that ought to change the picture just enough to make it easier.”

  “Good idea,” Cam said. “I can …”

  “Hold it, fellows,” I said. “Let’s back up a little. You want to keep news of his death from leaking out until you can cover yourselves. It sounds like a pretty good trick. How the hell do you expect to work it? I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  The three of them looked at me. I felt like exhibit A. Or problem A. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t give us a break, Sam,” Cam Duncan said amiably. “The stuff you signed doesn’t mean a thing now. Mike’s holdings of Harrison will be tied up in his estate. There won’t be any move against Harrison. You’ll be free to run the show your own way. I don’t think you’re going to want to be small about this.”

  “Small? Hell, you’re the lawyer, Cam. There must be some sort of law about withholding the knowledge of death. Why should I get mixed up in your slick tricks by committing a crime of omission?”

  Bowman said, his careful charm restored, “Sam, would you mind stepping into the bathroom for a moment and closing the door?”

  It seemed childish to refuse, so I went in and closed the door and sat on the edge of the tub. There was a stain of coffee in the tub, and splintered pieces of cup. Mike’s razor was on the edge of the sink, cord dangling. I reached over and picked it up curiously, blew the white stubble out of the blades. It was hard to accept that all that vast vitality had been so suddenly stilled. The coronary had killed too big a percentage of the heart muscle, and what was left could not carry on.

  I could hear the mumble of their voices. I wished Mike could hear what they were saying. I wondered what he would have thought of it. It wasn’t a mumble of prayers for the dead, of lament for Michael Davis Dean. This was the mumble of money, of sleek and clever avarice. The situation was very much like the way smart operators can sometimes trim a bookie. All you have to do is find out who won the race in time to get a bet down.

  Mike Dean, through his considerable powers of persuasion, and through the golden magic of his reputation, and through the clever uses of press agentry, had kept the values of many securities, listed and unlisted, at an artificially inflated value. A lot of speculative investors had formed the habit of riding along with Mike on his raids and ventures. Once the word leaked, there would be a simultaneous dumping of holdings that would skid prices down so f
ast there would be no takers until the drop leveled off. The sound ones would, of course, climb back to respectable levels. But too many of the companies involved in Mike’s plans had been most carefully and legally gutted. Those would go way down and stay way down. Cam, Bowman and Amparo wanted enough time to get out of the building before the roof fell in. I doubted that they would tell any of the New York staff, who very probably were in a similar position. Mike’s operating methods weren’t of the type to breed loyalty within his own organization.

  Bowman opened the door and said, “Okay, Sam.” I went out into the room. I could not help glancing at the stillness under the blanket. They seemed unaware of it. They had fresh drinks. Amparo was gone.

  “First of all,” Cam said, “and I am sorry this part of it has to be so gruesome, I think we can avoid all kickbacks on the time of death. Fletcher tells me that there is one large deep freeze that’s not now in use. It’s kerosene operated, and it has a lock. Tonight after the staff has gone back to their house, we’ll get it operating, and we’ll put the body in it. Amparo believes that it will make the actual time of death impossible to detect. The body can be taken out in four days and the death reported.”

  “That’s real nice,” I said. Bowman frowned at me.

  Cam continued, “I guess you know we’ve got quite a bit at stake. In return for your co-operation in this matter, I can prepare some ironclad agreements that should give you a return that will be reasonably handsome, but of course nothing like what you would have gotten if you’d gone along with Mike. And he had lived.”

  “How much?”

  “We’ll each sign over some of our holdings. They can be predated so as to give you a long-term capital gains. You should clear between twenty and thirty thousand. And you must understand that, in effect, that money is coming out of our pockets.”

  “Nice big bribe,” I said.

  “Let’s stay clear of the ugly words. We’ll all be more comfortable,” Cam said. “We’ll all go to New York tomorrow. Just Fletcher and Amparo and the staff will be left here. You do not say a word of what happened to anyone. I’ll help you liquidate what we sign over to you. Then you can be on your way.”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  “You stay on the island until I’m damn ready to let you leave, any of you,” Bowman said, his face ugly.

  “That would be a pretty good trick, too.”

  “Not as difficult as you might think.”

  I stood up. “And not as easy as you might think.”

  “Are you going to be difficult?” Cam asked plaintively.

  “Sure am,” I said. “I don’t want any piece of this thing. If you boys are caught in a bind, it’s because you had your necks out, and that’s too bad. But you’re both sharp, and Amparo is a good secretary, so you shouldn’t be hurt beyond repair. I think that my people at Harrison should know about this just as soon as possible. And I’m going to let them know just as soon as I possibly can.”

  I expected them to try to block me at the door. But they let me go. Bowman gave me a cold and savage smile as I looked back at them. He lifted his glass. “Good luck,” he said.

  And it was forty minutes before I learned about the hole card, the ace that had made them so calm. Forty minutes, before I guessed why Amparo had left while I was in the bathroom.

  There wasn’t much light left in the west when I got back to the dark veranda where I had left Bridget. She was tense and slightly indignant. “What took you so long?”

  And I told her. It shocked her terribly—not only Mike’s death, but their plans to save themselves.

  “I thought Bowman was a nasty piece of work,” she said, “but I sort of liked Cam and Amparo. But they’re just like Bowman, aren’t they?”

  “In their own way. The words may be different, but it’s the same tune. So we’ve got to get off the island.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “Why, by boat, I guess.”

  “Indeed?” she said sweetly. I looked down at the dock. The Try Again was gone. The three skiffs were still tied up.

  “I saw Romeo down there about ten minutes ago,” she said. “He fiddled around for a while and I couldn’t see what he was doing, and then he took off like a bat.”

  So we went down to the dock. Nobody seemed to notice us, or care. The outboard motors were on the rack in the dock house. We batted at the mosquitoes that whined around us. The housings were off the sides of the motors. I knew without further investigation that some essential parts were gone, and those parts would be on the Try Again.

  My Bridget had asked a helluva good question.

  How?

  She whispered, “How are you at swimming?”

  “Not that good.”

  “I was making a joke. Why are we whispering?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s get away from the bugs.”

  We went back up to the house at a half run.

  “What’s the point?” Bridget asked.

  “I won’t play their game, so they won’t let us off the island. None of us. So it doesn’t matter if you and I and Guy and Elda and Bonny and Bundy do know he’s dead. They’ll have a way of getting Cam off. So they keep us right here until Cam gets the three of them healthy up in New York. Then what do we do? Sue? I have a hunch they’ll come out of it with enough money to buy their way out of any jam that might arise because of this.”

  A few moments later, in a dreamy voice, Bridget said, “I never in my life have seen a house party go more completely to hell.”

  ELEVEN

  Dinner on Saturday night was a strange occasion. For the first time since my arrival, the food was indifferently prepared and carelessly served. Amparo, Bowman and Cam did not put in an appearance. Quite obviously the staff was badly rattled. There were just the six of us. Booty served us at a table in the lounge. She banged the dishes down in a great hurry, and didn’t hear you when you spoke to her. Her eyes were enormous. Dinner was quite late—late enough so that Bonny Carson got well loaded beforehand—and when it was finally served, the main course was tepid.

  I had told them about the sudden death of Mike Dean.

  I had expected Guy Brainerd to be utterly crushed. But in a most curious way it seemed to hearten him. His big jaw become more firm. “In effect, Glidden, it solves a problem for me. Elda and I talked it over this afternoon. Even though the annual fee he has been paying Brainerd Associates is handsome, there comes a time when a man must weigh profit against … his personal pride in himself and his work. I had about made up my mind to cancel the Dean contract.”

  “And I told Guy,” Elda said, “that a man of his standing should not have to endure rudeness.”

  Bridget made an almost inaudible and entirely disrespectful sound. Elda Garry stared at her furiously. “After all Guy has done for you, you should be ashamed of yourself, Miss Hallowell.”

  “But think of what I did for both of you!” Bridget said and winked broadly at her. The lady editor turned red in the face and stabbed her fork into a piece of the overdone and cooling roast.

  Bonny frowned into space and said in her deeply husky and blurred voice, “Figure he’s going to walk in any minute. Never thought they could kill Mike. He was all man. Mean as a damn snake, but all man. You gotta give him that.”

  “I give him nothing, nothing at all,” Bundy said shrilly.

  Bonny turned her head slowly and looked at Bundy with a certain almost regal dignity. “You know, sometimes, Bundy, you’re a nasty little jerk.”

  “So okay! But what did he ever do for us?”

  “He was a great guy.” She crossed herself quickly and then began to cry and, a few moments later, left the table, stumbling over the sill as she went out onto the veranda.

  Bundy stood up and patted his mouth with his napkin. “You got to excuse her,” he said. “It’s just temperament. You know, she’s sentimental like. All great artists are that way. You gotta know how to handle them.”

  He trotted after her.

  �
�That dreary little type is almost touching,” Elda said. “He seems so terribly devoted.”

  “Oh, he’s terribly devoted,” Bridget said, smiling at Elda. “Bonny’s last two agents dropped her because they couldn’t see any future in handling her. So now she’s with poor little Bundy and she’s the only client he’s got who ever made more than two hundred a week, and he’s got one chance of making a dollar out of her, so he’s extremely touching and devoted. I think it’s so charming the way you can sentimentalize everything, honey.”

  Elda dropped all her Manhattan mannerisms and bawled, in pure Iowa, “Get off my back!”

  Guy said heavily, “I hardly think this is the proper time for quarreling, ladies. Remember, we’re all in the same boat. To put it bluntly, if Mr. Glidden is correct, we’re being held here against our will by unscrupulous, and if I may use an old-fashioned word, wicked people. And we will be here for several more days, it would seem. I have important matters in New York that I should attend to. I think we should give our attention to seeing if we can think of some way out of our … dilemma.”

  “If you want to do any planning,” I said, “don’t do it aloud either here or in any of the bedrooms. The whole joint is wired, and apparently Bowman is the one who has been doing the most listening.”

  I saw Elda and Guy give each other a look in which horror and shame were commingled. His bald head turned as dark and moist as a pickled beet. And she turned so pale she looked greenish. She swallowed with an effort.

  “Are you absolutely positive?” Guy asked me.

  “Almost completely certain.”

  He banged his fork down. “Had I known that Mike Dean would lend himself to any such …”