Inheritance

by Judith Michael

"Goddam it to hell!" His face was beet-colored. "Who are you to tell me what I'd do? Huh? Where do you get off being

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  so goddam cocky here? Now you listen to me: you sure as hell are going to tell us who this is you're talking about! We each paid nine million dollars for the right to know what the fuck is going on around here, and to change it if we don't like it, and I'm telling you now, there is no way you can clear the name of these hotels until you produce a thief, and I want to know who — it — is."

  "No. I'm sorry, Tim."

  "Okay, you want to play rough, we'll play rough. You won't tell us who it is because it's you. You've been burglar-ing your way around the worid; everybody knows it— *'

  "Ridiculous," Currier snapped. "Are you out of your mind, Tim? Laura wouldn't—-"

  "Oh, wouldn't she. She owes a pile of money— you know how much she owes, Wes—and she had all these turkeys sleeping under her roof, ripe for plucking, and she worked it! She worked it for three years! Right? Am I right?"

  "No! Of course not!" Laura's eyes were daric with anger. "You have absolutely no reason to believe that. You've been involved with these hotels almost from the beginning; you've seen what I've done with them. I've made them what they are, and I wouldn't risk them for anything. I certainly wouldn't steal—"

  "Is that so! Well let me tell you something, young lady. I've got a friend over at the Daily News, and he told me there's ' going to be stories in tomorrow morning's papers that say you were convicted of theft once aheady, and diat there was some fight over an inheritance you weaseled out of somebody—^I don't know the details and I don't give a shit right now—but this is not a sterling reputation we're talking about! Here's three of us came in with nine mill each because Wes told us it was a good deal, and now we find out we backed a convicted crook!"

  Laura had met Currier's eyes, seeing the shock in tiiem and knowing it reflected her own, and then she looked away, past all the investors, at a large painting behind Currier's desk: an abstract in shades of blue, gray, and black. I never noticed how gloomy it is, she thought. Like a collection of shadows.

  There were shadows everywhere. Again and again they crossed her sunlit path; no matter how fast she ran, she could never outrun them.

  Judith Michael

  Currier looked at Laura, giving her a chance to speak, but she couldn't; she felt as if she were smothered by shadows; and after a moment he spoke for her. "You don't believe Laura is the thief, Tim; I know damn well you don't. You're using it as a ploy to get rid of her."

  "You got it, Wes." Alcott nodded. "We're getting rid of her. I don't know if she stole anything or not—^I don't give a damn. The only thing I know for sure is that she's got to go. These hotels aren't going to wait around until a mythical thief is produced, or this young lady decides to fess up and bow out on her own. The only way we can make people think we've got safe places for them to lay their precious heads is to make a clean sweep and put in a new boss.**

  Currier looked at Laura again, his eyes urging her to defend herself, but she sat frozen, barely breathing, her eyes on Al-cott's small mouth.

  *The three of us got twenty-seven million bucks in this outfit, Wes; you think we're gonna sit on our duffs while Laura tries to sweet-ass people into spending their money in places they don't trust? Shit, you know better than that. So what I'm doing, I'm calling this meeting to order, and I'm making a motion that we remove Laura Fairchild from the position of president of OWL Development."

  They can't do this.

  "Do I hear a second?"

  This is my company. They can't steal it from me.

  "Second," the investor on his right said firmly.

  Fm not going to let that happen again — at least not without afight.

  "All those in favor—**

  "AccOTding to the rules, we have discussion before a vote!" Laura's voice whipped across the table. She pushed back her chair and stood up. "If no one else has anything to say, I have." She looked down at Alcott and the two men on either side of him. "You've had your millions in this company for two years, and you were perfectly satisfied as long as the value of your investment was increasing and you were getting my loan payments on time. You didn't give a damn about anything else. I could have been running whorehouses or bookie joints or heroin distribution centers for all you cared; you

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  never even came around to look. And you weren't concerned about who I was, either: from the first day you met me you never ran a character check on me. All you cared about when Wes introduced us was the return on investment in the Chicago Beacon Hill; you did look at our books there."

  "You're wasting our time," the investor on Alcott's right said, and looked at his watch.

  "This is my time," Laura said furiously. But then she swallowed hard. Don't blow it. Don't yell at them. They'll call you a hysterical woman. She clasped her hands loosely in front of her. "I'd appreciate it if you would listen. It's not a small matter, and all I ask is a few minutes."

  The investor on Alcott's left gave her a long look. "Fair enough. Go ahead."

  From then on, Laura spoke directly to him. "When I was fifteen, I was caught leaving a house I'd robbed. I was convicted and put on probation for a year. Since the day that happened, I haven't stolen or committed any other crime. I finished high school and college, and I've worked for everything I have. We all have things in our past that we want to put away. Tim, you've had one divorce, and your second wife committed suicide—^"

  "Goddam it! Who the fiick do you think you—^"

  "It's public knowledge," Currier said mildly, trying not to smile. "Sit back and listen, Tim; Laura has the floor."

  Laura gave him a quick, grateful look, then went on as if no one had interrupted. "That's not a sterling reputation to offer a woman who might be thinking of marrying you. But I imagine you'd tell her she shouldn't judge you by your past, or punish you for the actions of those who marry you—or work for your company."

  Her voice was low and even. The room was quiet. She looked at the three investors. "Ten years from now, are you still going to be punishing your teenagers for trying marijuana or drinking too much beer or shoplifting from a store? Or will you judge them as the adults they've become? That's all I'm asking you to do now—judge me the same way you invested in me; by what I'm accomplishing now. You were satisfied to let me make money for you; you never lost money or had any reason to think you would. I don't think you're going to lose

  Judith Michael

  any now. I can run these hotels better than anyone you could bring in— **

  "Christ," Alcott snorted. *The CEO of Hilton or Marriott, or Coca-Cola, for Christ's sake, could run this corporation; it's a business, you know, or have you forgotten that with all your dribble about teenagers?"

  "I haven't forgotten. You're right: another CEO could run OWL Development, but the Beacon Hill hotels wouldn't be the same. You don't have any idea what I do to make them different from all the other luxury hotels in the world; no one knows, because I don't publicize it. The CEO of Coca-Cola wouldn't have the relationship I've built up with our guests over the past years; he wouldn't know about the letters I write to them before they arrive and after they leave, or the way I train my staffs to give the kind of service no one else does, or how many of the personal touches that make the hotels special are mine and no one else's. These aren't a bunch of buildings that just happened: they're Laura Fairchild's hotels, and no one else could step in and keep them that way; they would be different within a week."

  "Different is what we want," said the investor to Alcott's right. "Why the fuck would we want them the same when everybody thinks they're happy hunting grounds for thieves?"

  "You mean people are going to change their minds because you bring in a new CEO?" Laura demanded. "What will have changed? The person at the top. Will that convince them there's no longer a thief running around the corridors? I'll tell you what they'll be convinced of: that you don't have confidence in the m
anagement of the hotels they've enjoyed and recommended to their friends. They'll be convinced that they've been wrong every time they said a good thing about a Beacon Hill hotel, and they're right to be afraid to come back. And if they do come back, they'll find the Beacon Hill is no longer what they remembered. You will have made everything even worse than it is now. But if I stay, we—all of us, together—will be telling our guests that even though the Beacon Hill has had a serious problem— and tell me one company or institution that hasn't, at some time in its history —their judgment was excellent: the hotels are as solid and well-managed as they always thought."

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  She took a long breath. "I am not going to walk quietly away from this company. We've had a setback—a terrible one, I know, but not irreversible. Not if we work together to keep the reputation of the Beacon Hill hotels exactly what it has been from the beginning. Our guests want to trust me. If we give them reasons to do it, they will, as they always have. They're sophisticated enough to know that it usually takes a lot more than one problem to bring down a solid company, especially when that problem is being resolved—will be resolved. You have my word on that."

  She looked at each of them again: wealthy, powerful men who wanted to be sure they were backing a winner. "Danm it, you trusted me once; we built a major hotel group in a few years! And I'm giving you my word that I'll do everything I can to—^"

  "Stay in power," Alcott said flatly. "Have you finished?"

  Laura gazed at him. "To keep the hotels, and OWL Development, as strong and profitable as we all assumed they would be in the beginning. Now I've finished, Tim."

  "Then I'd like a vote on my motion, which is to remove Laura Fairchild from her position as president of OWL Development. I vote yes." Ostentatiously, to show he was going by the rules, he wrote his vote on a pad in front of him, then turned to the man on his right, waiting for his vote.

  "Yes."

  Alcott nodded with satisfaction and recorded the vote. "Laura?"

  "No." Her mouth was dry. Years of dreams and hard work, and it came down to this: a group of people saying one word.

  Alcott wrote down her vote. "Wes?"

  "No."

  "Of course." He wrote, then, smiling, he turned to the man on his left.

  "No."

  There was a moment of stunned silence. A wave of exultation swept through Laura, and her eyes were bright as she met those of the man whose vote had allowed her to stay on as president of OWL Development.

  "You're right the hotels are a reflection of you," he said. "I think that's the best thing we have going for us."

  Judith Michael

  With a grunt, the investor on Alcott*s right pushed back his chair. "One minute," Alcott said quickly. "I think before we leave we should take care of one more piece of business. I think we'd all agree that we need some reassurance here. We have damn little information, and that always makes me nervous. So I'm making another motion: that Laura has thirty days to clean up this mess. If we're in no better shape in thirty days, then she leaves and we get somebody in to salvage things. Even thirty days may be too long; who knows? I sure as hell wouldn't want it to be more than that. But we have to know what's going on! Agreed?" He looked around the table.

  The man on his right nodded. "I'll second that motion."

  "Discussion?" Alcott asked, looking at Laura.

  But Currier spoke first. "I think thirty days is fair, but automatic dismissal isn't. If Tim allows, I'll amend the motion to say that in thirty days we look at the situation and take another vote on whether Laura stays."

  Alcott glanced at the man on his left and understood he would vote against him again. He shrugged. "Amend it, then."

  When they voted, all were in favor. *Thirty days," Alcott said to Laura as they all stood. "It would be best for all of us if you didn't take that long."

  "I agree," she said, and held out her hand.

  "Keep us informed," he said, and shook her hand.

  She stood beside the table, watching them leave, suddenly feeling drained and exhausted. Thirty days. One month. When I was a little girl that seemed like such a long, long time.

  The next day's edition of the Daily News carried a report of the meeting in Currier's office in a story that included Laura's background, brief descriptions of the victims of the six robberies, and the only words the reporter had been able to squeeze out of Sam Colby: "Ws're making progress; we expect an arrest soon."

  It was that story that made an executive of a television network wonder why Paul Janssen was in Europe when he was supposed to be making a film for them about Sam Colby, who was in New York. "I'm flying back in a few days," Paul said when the executive called. He was impatient. He had just

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  returned to his hotel and found the message from Laura; he held the slip of paper with her name on it and was driven by urgency: he had to call her. "I have someone to call; Fll get back to you in a few minutes."

  "Hold on. Why are you over there when youWe got a start on a hell of a story in your own backyard?"

  Paul took a breath. "I told you Vm using a different investigation to show how Colby operates; we've got good footage on police and some of the victims— "

  "Different investigation? We've got a hot story that's popping off the pages; everybody wants it and you've got a head start on the whole world. Why the hell would you use a different one?"

  "Hot story? What are you talking about?"

  "Oh, shit, you don't even know. . . . Hold on, I'll read you the stories." He pulled them from his folder on Colby and read Felix's statement and parts of two later stories from the Daily News. "I'll ask Colby if I can send a cameraman to film his next interview with the Fairchild gal so you won't miss out on it. Then if you get cracking, as soon as Colby wraps it up we've got a film. We'll air it as soon as we can, while it's still hot. We can always use it again during ratings month. Forget any ideas you had about another story; this is the one we want."

  "I'm not doing this one," Paul said. Thafs what she called me about. "I wrote you a note on this two weeks ago; I told you I was using a different story and I'd tell you about it as soon as I knew what it was."

  "A note? I never got it. Oh, wait, maybe I did. I don't know; it didn't matter then. It only matters now. This thing has broken in the last five days, and that's what matters. Listen, this is the film we want: Colby's investigation of six thefts that came from the Beacon Hill hotels. God, the ratings! Who could of guessed, when you started—^?"

  "I am not doing a film on the Beacon Hill hotels," Paul said. "Sam and I miked about this some time ago; it may not even be the hotels. He isn't sure; nobody is. I want to use an investigation that's complete—he'll take us through the whole thing—so I don't have to worry about finding out at the last minute that all my footage is on a dead-end investigation. I'll get this to you as soon as I can— *'

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  "I don't want whatever 'this' is. I want the film I want. I don't know what your real reason is for not doing it, but we're paying for a good part of this film and, damn it, we have a right to tell you how to do it."

  "No one has that right. Is that clear? Do you think funding this film made you its producer or censor? This was my film from the first, and I make it the way I decide or I don't make it at all. At least not for you."

  "Then goddam it, you don't make it for us. I don't like your attitude, Paul. The trouble with you rich playboys is you aren't hungry enough: you don't lose enough if you fail. This is just a hobby for you so you think you don't have to take orders. Well, this is one order you'll take. If you don't deliver this film, on time, the way we want it, we'll never show any of your stuff on this networic again, much less give you any money, for Christ's sake. Will that make you think a little bit?"

  "I don't have to. I don't give in to blackmail."

  "That's a mean word; don't use it, Paul. This is a negotiation. You just shoot the film the way you'
ve been doing, then you add footage on the hotels and the Fairchild gal, and her gang, if she's got one, that's pulling off the thefts—"

  "No," said Paul in disgust. "And that's final."

  He hung up, then immediately picked up the telephone to call Laura. But she was not in her office; her secretary would say only that she was in a meeting and would not be back that day. "Tell her Paul Janssen called," he said. *Tell her I'm coming home."

  At the same moment that Paul hung up. Clay stopped at a newsstand on Perea Street, in the center of Mexico City, and bought a copy of the New York Daily News, to read about home. He sat in a cafe, ordered coffee, and opened the paper. And on the second page he found himself staring at a large picture of Laura. Rapidly, he read the story beneath it. She was suspected of being a thief. And her hotels, and her position with them, were in jeopardy.

  He stared at it, rereading it all that day and evening. He didn't believe it. But it was there, in front of him: son of a bitch, it was true.

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  He brooded over it. Something else dumped on him. He was miserable enough at having to leave New York; he'd been gone less than two weeks, and already he couldn't stand it; he was going crazy, knowing that Laura didn't love him anymore and that he'd probably never see her again. Christ, he thought, how did they put it all together? He'd been so sure tfiey wouldn't: he'd never gone to the same city twice; he'd never left a fingerprint or anything that would connect one job to the others; he'd always sold the stuff to one broker who sold them to his clients, and the broker didn't even know his name or anything about the Beacon Hill hotels, so he couldn't give it away. He'd had it all figured out; it was absolutely brilliant. So how the fiick had they gotten to the hotels?

  And Laura. Blaming it on Laura. Clay sat in the library at the University of Mexico City, reading back issues of the New York Daily News. He was barely mentioned. Goddam it, didn't they think he was clever enough to think it up? Why did they think it was Laura? Nobody ever gave him credit; first it was Ben who was the smart one, and then it was Laura. Shit, I was the one who worked out the robbery at the Cape; I'm the one who's been lifting high-priced art for three years, with nobody being the wiser; everything was perfect until Laura found that fucking necklace, and now this other thing— Christ, it couldn't have come at a worse time. . . .