Mrs. Hunter replied immediately. “All of you in this hall know that I had to fight every inch of the way to win my party’s nomination, and unlike some, it wasn’t handed to me on a plate. In fact, I’ve had to fight for everything in my life, as my parents couldn’t afford silver’spoons. And may I remind you that I haven’t hesitated to stand firm on issues whenever I believed my party was wrong. It didn’t always make me popular, but no one has ever doubted my independence. If elected to the Senate, I wouldn’t be on the phone every day seeking advice on how I should vote. I will be making the decisions and I will stand by them.” She finished to rapturous applause.
The knot in his stomach, the sweat in the palms of his hands, and the weakness in his legs had all returned as Fletcher tried to collect his thoughts. He looked down at the audience to see every eye boring into him.
“I was born in Farmington, just a few miles away from this hall. My parents are longstanding active contributors to the Hartford community through their professional and voluntary work, in particular for St. Patrick’s Hospital.” He looked down at his parents, who were sitting in the fifth row. His father’s head was held high, his mother’s was bowed. “My mother sat on so many nonprofit boards, I thought I must be an orphan, but they have both come along to support me tonight. Yes, I did go to Hotchkiss, and Mrs. Hunter is right. It was a privilege. Yes, I did go to Yale, a great Connecticut university. Yes, I did become president of the college council, and yes, I was editor of the Law Review, which is why I was invited to join one of the most prestigious legal firms in New York. I make no apology for never being satisfied with second place. And I was equally delighted to give all that up so that I could return to Hartford and put something back into the community where I was raised. By the way, on the salary the state is offering, I won’t be able to afford many silver spoons and so far, no one’s offered me anything on a plate.” The audience burst into spontaneous applause. He waited for the applause to die down, before he lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Don’t let’s disguise what this questioner was getting at. Will I regularly be on the phone to my father-in-law, Senator Harry Gates? I expect so, I am married to his only daughter.” More laughter followed. “But let me remind you of something you already know about Harry Gates. He’s served this constituency for twenty-eight years with honor and integrity, at a time when those two words seem to have lost their meaning, and frankly,” said Fletcher, turning to face his Republican rival, “neither of us is worthy to take his place. But if I am elected, you bet I’ll take advantage of his wisdom, his experience and his foresight; only a blinkered egotist wouldn’t. But let me also make one thing clear,” he said, turning back to face the audience, “I will be the person who represents you in the Senate.”
Fletcher returned to his place with over half of the audience on their feet cheering. Mrs. Hunter had made the mistake of attacking him on ground where he needed no preparation. She tried to recover in her closing remarks, but the blow had been landed.
When the moderator said, “I’d like to thank both candidates,” Fletcher did something Harry had recommended at lunch the previous Sunday. He immediately walked across to his opponent, shook her by the hand, and paused to allow the Courant’s photographer to record the moment.
The following day, the picture of the two of them dominated the front page, and achieved exactly what Harry had hoped for—the image of a six-foot-one man, towering over a five-foot-seven woman. “And don’t smile, look serious,” he’d added. “We need them to forget how young you are.”
Fletcher read the words below the picture—nothing between them. The editorial said that he had held his own in the debate, but Barbara Hunter still led the opinion polls by two percent with only nine days to go.
32
“DO YOU MIND if I smoke?”
“No, it’s only Su Ling who doesn’t approve of the habit.”
“I don’t think she approves of me either,” said Julia Kirkbridge, as she flicked on her lighter.
“You have to remember that she was brought up by a very conservative mother,” said Tom. “She even disapproved of Nat to begin with, but she’ll come around, especially when I tell her …”
“Shh,” said Julia, “for now that must remain our little secret.” She inhaled deeply, and then added, “I like Nat; you two obviously make a good team.”
“We do, but I’m keen to close this deal while he’s on vacation, especially after his triumph in taking over our oldest rival.”
“I can understand that,” said Julia, “but how do you rate our chances?”
“It’s beginning to look as if there are only two or three serious bidders in the field. The restrictions set out in the council’s offer document should eliminate any cowboys.”
“Restrictions?”
“The council is demanding not only that the bidding must be by public auction, but that the full amount has to be paid on signature.”
“Why are they insisting on that?” asked Julia, sitting up in bed. “In the past, I’ve always put ten percent down and assumed I would be given at least twenty-eight days before I had to complete.”
“Yes, that would be normal practice, but this site has become a political hot potato. Barbara Hunter is insisting there be no holdups, because one or two other deals have fallen through recently when it was discovered that a speculator didn’t have the necessary resources to complete the agreement. And don’t forget, we’re only days away from an election, so they are making sure that there can be no comebacks later.”
“Does that mean I’ll have to deposit another three million with you by next Friday?” asked Julia.
“No, if we secure the property, the bank will cover you with a short-term loan.”
“But what if I renege on the deal?” asked Julia.
“It doesn’t matter to us,” said Tom. “We would sell it on to the under-bidder, and still have your five hundred thousand to cover any loss.”
“Banks,” said Julia as she stubbed out her cigarette and slid under the sheets. “You never lose.”
“I want you to do me a favor,” said Su Ling as the plane began its descent into Los Angeles airport.
“Yes, little flower, I’m listening.”
“See if you can go a whole week without phoning the bank. Don’t forget this is Luke’s first big trip.”
“Mine too,” said Nat, putting his arm around his son, “I’ve always wanted to visit Disneyland.”
“Now stop teasing, you made a deal, and I expect you to keep to it.”
“I would like to keep an eye on the deal that Tom’s trying to close with Julia’s company.”
“Don’t you think Tom just might like to have a little triumph of his own, one that hadn’t been double-checked by the great Nat Cartwright? It was you, after all, who decided to trust her.”
“I take your point,” said Nat, as Luke clung to him as the plane touched down. “But do you mind if I phone him on Friday afternoon just to find out if our bid on the Cedar Wood project was successful?”
“No, as long as you do leave it until Friday afternoon.”
“Dad, will we travel in a Sputnik?”
“You bet,” said Nat, “why else would you go to LA?”
Tom met Julia off the train from New York and drove her straight to City Hall. They walked in to find the cleaners just leaving after the debate the previous evening. Tom had read in the Hartford Courant that over a thousand people attended the event, and the paper’s editorial had suggested there wasn’t much to pick between the two candidates. He’d always voted Republican in the past, but he thought that Fletcher Davenport sounded like a decent man.
“Why have we arrived so early?” asked Julia, breaking into his thoughts.
“I want to be familiar with the layout of the room,” explained Tom, “so that when the bidding starts, we can’t be taken by surprise. Don’t forget, the whole thing could all be over in a few minutes.”
“Where do you think we should sit?”
Tom looked up toward the stage and watched as the auctioneer mounted the rostrum, tapped the microphone, and stared down at the tiny audience, checking everything was in place.
“Who are all these people?” asked Julia, looking around the hall.
“A mixture of council officials, including the chief executive, Mr. Cooke, representatives from the auctioneer’s, and the odd person who’s got nothing better to do on a Friday afternoon. But as far as I can see, there are only three serious bidders.” Tom checked his watch. “Perhaps we should sit down.”
Julia and Tom took their places about halfway back on the end of the row. Tom picked up the sales brochure on the seat beside him, and when Julia touched his hand, he couldn’t help wondering how many people would work out that they were lovers. He turned the page and studied an architect’s mock-up of what the proposed mall might look like. He was still reading through the small print when the auctioneer indicated he was ready to begin. He cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “there is only one item to come under the hammer this afternoon, a prime site on the north side of the city known as Cedar Wood. The city council is offering this property with approval for commercial development. The terms of payment and regulatory requirements are detailed in the brochure to be found on your seats. I must stress that if any of the terms are not adhered to, the council is within its rights to withdraw from the transaction.” He paused to allow his words to sink in. “I have an opening bid of two million,” he declared, and immediately looked in Tom’s direction.
Although Tom said nothing and gave no sign, the auctioneer announced, “I have a new bidder at two million two hundred and fifty thousand.” The auctioneer made a show of glancing around the room, despite the fact he knew exactly where the three serious bidders were seated. His eyes settled on a well-known local lawyer in the second row, who raised his brochure. “Two million five hundred thousand, it’s with you, sir.” The auctioneer turned his attention back to Tom, who didn’t even blink. “Two million seven hundred and fifty thousand.” His eyes returned to the lawyer, who waited for some time before he once again raised his brochure. “Three million,” said the auctioneer, and immediately looked in Tom’s direction before saying, “Three million two hundred and fifty thousand.” He returned to the lawyer, who seemed to hesitate. Julia squeezed Tom’s hand between the chairs. “I think we’ve got it.”
“Three million five hundred thousand?” suggested the auctioneer, his eyes fixed on the lawyer.
“Not yet we haven’t,” Tom whispered.
“Three million five hundred thousand,” repeated the auctioneer hopefully. “Three million five hundred thousand,” he repeated gratefully as the brochure rose for a third time.
“Damn,” said Tom, taking off his glasses, “I think we must have both settled on the same upper limit.”
“Then let’s go to three six,” said Julia. “That way at least we’ll find out.”
Although Tom had removed his glasses—the sign that he was no longer bidding—the auctioneer could see that Mr. Russell was in deep conversation with the lady seated next to him. “Have we finished bidding, sir? Or …”
Tom hesitated and then said, “Three million six hundred thousand.”
The auctioneer swung his attention back to the lawyer, who had placed his brochure on the empty seat beside him. “Can I say three million seven hundred thousand sir, or are we all finished?”
The brochure remained on the seat. “Any other bids from the floor?” asked the auctioneer as his eyes swept the dozen or so people who were seated in a hall that had held a thousand the night before. “One last chance, otherwise I will let it go at three million six hundred thousand.” He raised his hammer and, receiving no response, brought it down with a thud. “Sold for three million six hundred thousand dollars to the gentleman at the end of the row.”
“Well done,” said Julia.
“It’s going to cost you another hundred thousand,” said Tom, “but we couldn’t have known that two of us would settle on the same upper limit. I’ll just go and sort out the paperwork and hand over the check, then we can go off and celebrate.”
“What a good idea,” said Julia, as she ran a finger down the inside of his leg.
“Congratulations, Mr. Russell,” said Mr. Cooke. “Your client has secured a fine property which I am sure in the long term will yield an excellent return.”
“I agree,” said Tom, as he wrote out a check for three point six million dollars and handed it across to the council’s chief executive.
“Is Russell’s Bank the principal in this transaction?” inquired Mr. Cooke as he studied the signature.
“No, we are representing a New York client who banks with us.”
“I am sorry to appear to be nitpicking about this, Mr. Russell, but the terms of the agreement make it clear that the check for the full amount must be signed by the principal and not by his or her representative.”
“But we represent the company, and are holding their deposit.”
“Then it shouldn’t be too difficult for your client to sign a check on behalf of that company,” suggested Mr. Cooke.
“But why …” began Tom.
“It’s not for me to try and fathom the machinations of our elected representatives, Mr. Russell, but after the debacle last year over the Aldwich contract and the questions I have to answer daily from Mrs. Hunter,” he let out a sigh, “I have been left with no choice but to keep to the letter, as well as the spirit, of the agreement.”
“But what can I do about it at this late stage?” asked Tom.
“You still have until five o’clock to produce a check signed by the principal. If you fail to do so, the property will be offered to the under-bidder for three point five million, and the council will look to you to make up the difference of one hundred thousand dollars.”
Tom ran to the back of the room. “Have you got your checkbook with you?”
“No,” said Julia. “You told me that Russell’s would cover the full amount until I transferred the difference on Monday.”
“Yes, I did,” said Tom, trying to think on his feet. “There’s nothing else for it,” he added, “we’ll just have to go straight to the bank.” He checked his watch, it was nearly four o’clock. “Damn,” he added, painfully aware that if Nat hadn’t been on holiday, he would have spotted the subclause and anticipated its consequences. On the short walk from City Hall to Russell’s Bank, Tom explained to Julia what Mr. Cooke had insisted on.
“Does that mean I’ve lost the deal, not to mention a hundred thousand?”
“No, I’ve already thought of a way around that, but it will need your agreement.”
“If it will secure the property,” said Julia, “I’ll do whatever you advise.”
As soon as they entered the bank, Tom went straight to his office, picked up a phone and asked the chief teller to join him. While he waited for Ray Jackson to arrive, he took out a blank checkbook and began writing out the words three million six hundred thousand dollars. The chief teller knocked on the door and entered the chairman’s office.
“Ray, I want you to transfer three million one hundred thousand dollars to Mrs. Kirkbridge’s account.”
The chief teller hesitated for a moment. “I’ll need a letter of authorization before I can transfer such a large amount,” he said. “It’s way above my limit.”
“Yes, of course,” said the chairman, and removed the standard form from his top drawer and quickly filled in the relevant figures. Tom didn’t comment on the fact that it was also the largest sum he had ever authorized. He passed the form across to the chief teller, who studied the details carefully. He looked as if he wanted to query the chairman’s decision, and then thought better of it.
“Immediately,” emphasized Tom.
“Yes, sir,” said the chief teller, and departe
d as quickly as he had arrived.
“Are you sure that was sensible?” asked Julia. “Aren’t you taking an unnecessary risk?”
“We have the property and your five hundred thousand, so we can’t lose. As Nat would say, it’s a win-win proposition.” He turned the checkbook around and asked Julia to sign it and print beneath her signature the name of her company. Once Tom had checked it he said, “We’d better get back to City Hall as quickly as possible.”
Tom tried to remain calm as he dodged in and out of the traffic while crossing Main Street before jogging up the steps to City Hall. He kept having to wait for Julia, who explained it wasn’t easy to keep up with him in high heels. When they reentered the building, Tom was relieved to find Mr. Cooke was still seated behind his desk at the far end of the hall. The chief executive rose when he saw them heading toward him.
“Hand over the check to the thin man with the bald head,” said Tom, “and smile.”
Julia carried out Tom’s instructions to the letter, and received a warm smile in return. Mr. Cooke studied the check carefully. “This seems to be in order, Mrs. Kirkbridge, if I could just see some form of identification.”
“Certainly,” said Julia, and took a driver’s license out of her handbag.
Mr. Cooke studied the photo and the signature. “It’s not a flattering picture of you,” he said. Julia smiled. “Good, now all that is left for you to do is sign all the necessary documents on behalf of your company.”
Julia signed the council agreement in triplicate and handed a copy over to Tom. “I think you’d better hold on to this until the money is safely transferred,” she whispered.
Mr. Cooke looked at his watch. “I shall be presenting this check first thing on Monday morning, Mr. Russell,” he said, “and I would be obliged if it were cleared as quickly as is convenient. I don’t want to give Mrs. Hunter any more ammunition than is necessary only days before the election.”
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 84
