by T. E. Cruise
“You’ve got a very good memory, young lady,” Gold said sourly.
“Reporters need to remember most everything they hear,” Linda replied. “Anyway, back then your father indulged in mudslinging because the stakes were high and his company’s survival was at stake. Today, you threatened to use the same mudslinging tactics against Skytrain’s Pont jetliner.”
“Pretty rotten of me, huh?”
“It depends on how you look at it,” Linda said. “This time around the stakes were equally high for GAT, but only you can decide if you did the right thing by doing what you had to do for the sake of your company.”
Gold felt like crying. “All my life I’ve lived according to a personal moral construct.”
“A code of honor,” Linda suggested.
“Yeah, a military code of honor, I guess you’d call it,” Gold murmured. “It worked for me because in the Air Force it was easy for me to see things in terms of black and white.” He smiled wistfully. “Out here in the civilian world, the lighting isn’t so good. White is becoming increasingly gray.” He took Linda’s hand. “There’s who I always tried to be, and who I seem to have become. The difference between the two frightens me, and I’m not used to being afraid.”
“Like I said before, you did what you had to do,” Linda told him. “And like I’ve said before, you’re a strong man. The question becomes, are you strong enough to keep what you’ve done from eating you up inside?”
Gold didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he turned toward the jetliner’s window. The plastic oval looking out onto the night reflected the lit cabin’s interior, and within that murky cameo of plastic Gold saw his own features. The cabin’s recessed, dimmed lighting bleached the little color that was left to his thinning, blond hair, and brought out the lines in his face, so that Gold could hardly recognize the man staring back at him….
I look so old. Gold brooded as he studied the image caught against the blackness some 40,000 feet above the turbulent Atlantic. My God, I look like my father….
Gold, turning away from his reflection, said, “I’ll get over it.”
“Promise?” Linda coaxed.
“It’s only business,” Gold said.
Linda laughed, squeezing his hand. For her sake, Gold forced a smile, not that he thought anything was particularly funny.
CHAPTER 9
(One)
Downtown Los Angeles, California
11 September, 1974
The fire-engine-red Corvette convertible’s twin exhausts rumbled like thunder as Steve Gold weaved his way through the tangled downtown traffic. Gold, the wind blowing through his hair as he cruised along Sunset Boulevard, saw a clear stretch of left lane and got the ‘Vette up to fifty, but then some clown up ahead doing thirty in a shit-brown Mercedes evidently spotted Gold coming, and decided to appoint himself traffic cop. As the Corvette approached, the Mercedes veered left while maintaining its sedate speed to keep Gold from passing. Shut down. Gold hit the brakes, downshifting and cursing, but then he saw that he had just enough room to squeeze by on the right, and made his move.
The Stingray’s tires squealed, leaving rubber patches as the roadster’s rear end fishtailed. Gold felt the kick in his pants reminiscent of a jet fighter’s afterburn as he was pressed back against the custom-installed Recaro racing bucket. The Mercedes driver, some old dude in a plaid golf cap, leaned on his horn, glaring at Gold as the Sting Ray zoomed past with just inches to spare between the Mercedes’ passenger side and a big yellow fire hydrant sticking out from the curb. Gold cut in sharply in front of the Mercedes, then glanced in his rearview mirror to check his six. He saw the Mercedes driver waving his fist. Gold waved back jauntily as he turned off the boulevard.
Passing on the right like that was certainly stupid and childish. Gold thought, feeling a twinge of conscience. Then he smiled: But that’s what made it fun. After all, there was nothing quite as exhilarating as driving a powerful convertible on a sunny California day when you were in a good mood.
First off, the 1971 Stingray certainly fit the definition of powerful. Gold had bought the ‘Vette new when he’d still been in the Air Force and assigned to L.A. He’d stayed with the car because it had a big block engine with mechanical lifters; 1971 being the last year before the namby-pamby federal safety czars citing the oil embargo did their best to neuter the marque.
Secondly, it was certainly a doozy of a day: warm and sunny, with a hint of cooling breeze.
And thirdly, I’m certainly in a good mood. Gold thought as he slowed to tool the Corvette down the ramp that led into the BADCO Towers underground parking garage. He took off his Ray-Ban gold-rimmed Aviators as he went from the bright sunlight to the garage’s fluorescent lighting, thinking: Oh, I’m in a wonderful mood. I’ve been looking forward to this for the entire summer.
He nosed the ‘Vette into a corner slot to protect it as best he could against dinks in her door panels from other drivers who were careless getting out of their cars, and set the anti-theft alarm. He then took the elevator from the garage up to the main lobby, where he switched to an express to the fiftieth floor. While he was riding up, he ran his fingers through his sparse, close-cut hair and straightened his tie. He tried to smooth out some of the wrinkles in his tan linen suit, but then he remembered that Linda had said these natural-fiber deals were supposed to look rumpled.
The elevator came to a stop and its doors opened. Gold stepped out and wandered down the corridor past various office suites until he came to a glass door lettered: AGATHA HOLDING COMPANY.
Grinning savagely. Gold opened the door and strode inside. He looked around, gleefully satisfied to see the bare white walls marked with ghostly rectangles where framed pictures had recently hung. A frazzled-looking but pretty freckle-faced redhead was manning the reception desk which was surrounded by office furniture on dollies and cardboard packing boxes.
“Sir? Can I help you?” She looked surprised to see Gold, or any visitor for that matter. Gold surmised, but she was smiling tentatively. Probably my animal magnetism, Gold thought. That, or the wrinkles in my suit.
“I’d like to see Tim Campbell.”
The redhead’s smile reversed into a puzzled frown. “But Mr. Campbell no longer…” She trailed off, flipping through the pages of her appointment book. “Was Mr. Campbell expecting you?”
“No, but if you tell him Steven Gold is here, he’ll see me.”
“Just a moment, sir.”
Gold watched her reach for the telephone. She certainly had a lot of freckles, Gold thought. She was wearing a light-blue patterned sundress with a scooped neckline that revealed her extensive cleavage. Gold could see a scattering of freckles across the tops of her breasts, which made him wonder about the freckles he couldn’t see.
The redhead punched a three-digit extension number into the telephone and then held the receiver to her ear while she waited for somebody on the other end to pick up. She noticed Gold gazing at her and smiled. Yes, definitely a lot of freckles, Gold decided. It’d be a tough job counting them all, but somebody had to do it.
“Sir?” the redhead suddenly said into the receiver. “There’s a Mr. Steven Gold here to see Mr. Campbell. I don’t have him in the appointment book….” She listened a moment and then hung up the telephone. “Mr. Campbell isn’t in—” she began.
Gold interrupted. “I bet he hasn’t been in for a while, right?”
She paused thoughtfully. “I really don’t know if I should say.…” Gold saw her looking him over, taking in the expensive cut of his suit, her eyes tarrying at the gold Rolex on his wrist. “Then again, this is my last week here….” she trailed off expectantly.
Gold took out his wallet and extracted a business card. He picked up a pen from her desk and jotted on the back of the card the name and phone number of a personnel manager at GAT.
“You call this person and mention my name,” Gold said. “I’m sure we can find something for you at my company.”
“Any strings attac
hed to this offer, Mr. Gold?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She pouted, expertly using her blue eyes as she reached for the card. “Too bad.”
Gold grinned at her. She was cute, all right, and ripe for the taking, but since Linda Forrester had come back into his life. Gold had amazingly found himself behaving in a monogamous fashion. Even more amazingly, he was liking it. Oh, sure, he still liked to ogle, but he no longer had the desire to score on each day’s passing pretties. It had to be that he was in love with Linda, Gold mused. Or burgeoning old age.
“You were going to tell me when Tim Campbell was here last,” Gold coaxed.
The redhead tucked his business card into her purse, confiding, “He hasn’t been in since midsummer.”
Gold nodded. Now that he thought about it, it made sense that Campbell, who had other fish to fry throughout the world, would have long ago deserted this sinking ship. Meanwhile, it had been an exciting and lucrative summer for GAT.
The airlines had enthusiastically embraced GAT Credit Corporation’s financing offer. GAT didn’t come close to cornering the jetliner market with the Pont, but then, there were a lot of good airplanes out there available from various manufacturers. GAT did get enough orders to feel confident about eventually turning a profit on the Pont, and for at least the next eighteen months to two years, GAT’s commercial aircraft division’s assembly lines would be operating full-time building the Skytrain jetliner. That happy situation, combined with GAT’s military contract firmed up over the summer to supply the Air Force with six hundred Stiletto fighters over a five-year period, had the company sitting pretty.
“The fact that Mr. Campbell hasn’t been here in so long was why I was so surprised when you asked for him, Mr. Gold,” the redhead was explaining. “But Mr. Layten will see you.”
“That’s right.” Gold chuckled. “I heard Turner Layten had signed on with Campbell. Yeah, old Turner will do just fine.”
“It’s just through that door, sir,” the receptionist said, pointing over her shoulder. “Then you go down the hall. Mr. Layten’s office is on the left.” She smiled apologetically. “I’d show you the way, but I have to stay at my desk in case the movers come.”
“No one else here but you and Layten?” Gold asked.
“No, sir. We’re shutting down operations, you see….”
“You call that number I gave you,” Gold reminded her. “We’ll get you set up at a decent place for a change.”
He went through the door she’d indicated. His footsteps echoed in the carpetless corridor which was lined with more packing cases on both sides, so that Gold had to walk sideways through the narrowed passage.
“In here,” Turner Layten called as Gold sidled past his open doorway.
“Hello, Turner.” Gold stepped inside the large office.
Layten nodded warily. He’d stood up behind his desk, but made no offer to shake hands.
Gold looked around. Like the rest of Agatha Holding, the place was in a shambles. There were large, potted palms on dollies, rolled-up Oriental scatter rugs, more of the ubiquitous cardboard shipping crates, and a partially disassembled glass display case filled with intricately detailed miniature soldiers.
“I see you’re dressing more casually than I remember.” Gold gestured at Layten’s yellow, short-sleeve, open-neck shirt-jac, and muted plaid green-and-black slacks. “That’s a new look for you, huh?”
Gold hadn’t seen Turner Layten for over ten years, and was shocked at how much the man had aged. But then, haven’t we all, Gold thought sadly. Layten was still built wide in the hips and narrow in the shoulders, with lank dark hair and a jowled baby face, but these days there was gray seeding Lay-ten’s hair, and the guy had grown a couple more double chins.
“Well! What can I do for you, Steven?” Layten asked brusquely, settling back into his desk chair. “I’m very busy.”
“Oh, yeah, I can see that,” Gold remarked, perching on a stack of packing cases. He looked out through the office windows, which afforded a sweeping view of downtown, dominated by ARCO Plaza’s twin monoliths. “Nice office you have. Or should I say, nice office you used to have… ?”
“These offices are expensive to maintain, and are no longer necessary,” Layten said stiffly.
“So Agatha Holding is folding up its tent and slinking out of town, eh?”
Layten smiled indulgently. “That’s hardly the way I’d put it,” he sniffed. “Now that the airlines have placed their jetliner orders, Agatha Holding has become a mostly bookkeeping and inventory-control operation. For that reason, Mr. Campbell had decided to combine it with his existing accounting operation.”
“I must confess I was surprised when Tim didn’t try to renege on his Payn-Reese financing and spare-parts-inventory offer to the airlines,” Gold acknowledged. “I guess he couldn’t get out of the deal, huh?”
“Tim Campbell stands by his word,” Layten replied archly.
“Yeah, sure,” Gold said, taking quiet satisfaction in what he’d heard through the grapevine: that Tim had moved to abrogate Agatha Holding’s marketing agreement with Payn-Reese and the airlines, but that Campbell’s lawyers had warned that litigating to get out of the deal would have cost Campbell more than honoring it. “Tim must really be pissed that he got stuck paying the piper without being able to call the tune?”
“Is that why you’re here, Steven?” Layten asked coldly. “To nose around in other people’s business? To gloat?”
“Well, yeah, sure.” Gold shrugged. “Gloating is definitely on my list.…”
“I suppose you think you’ve won!” Layten snapped.
“I’ll presume that’s a rhetorical question,” Gold replied. “No, on second thought, I’ll answer it.” He stroked his chin. “Let’s see: GAT ended up with everything it wanted, and you and Tim got screwed royally.”
“That’s not true!” Layten protested, adding lamely, “I made a lot of money trading Amalgamated-Landis stock!”
Gold nodded. “Okay, so you made some money. But we both know that money wasn’t what this was about. We both know what you wanted, and we both know that you didn’t get it, so on the whole I’d say GAT won.”
“And here you are to crow about it, like the immature, overblown jerk you are,” Layten smirked.
“You tried to destroy my company,” Gold said, growing angry at being talked down to by this son of a bitch.
“So what?” Layten scowled. “Sure Tim Campbell and I tried to take you down, and we came damn near close to pulling it off, too.”
“Not close enough. Turner,” Gold laughed, regaining his composure.
“There’s always next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“Fuck you,” Layten scoffed. “That just shows how little you know! Tim has a lot more ideas up his sleeve—” He stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing slyly as he regarded Gold. “But then, you’d like me to talk about that, wouldn’t you?”
Too bad. Gold thought. The loudmouth was just beginning to get interesting. “Talk about what?” He shrugged, trying to play innocent.
Layten laughed. “Give it up, Steven. Subtlety was never your strong point.”
“I don’t think you and Tim have shit up your sleeve,” Gold tried again, but Layten dismissed the attempt to ferret out information with a wave of his hand.
“You know, Tim was absolutely right about you,” Layten mused. “He said that I should expect a visit like this from you. I said no, that while I had no use for Steve Gold, I had to give him some credit. That he had to have more class than that.”
“Thanks for sticking up for me, old buddy,” Gold said wryly.
Layten shook his head in mock sorrow. “But I was wrong, huh?” He paused, his smile hardening. “What’s the matter, Steven? Are you here because your partner at GAT—the brains of the organization—hasn’t seen fit to give you any more busy work to do?”
Don’t get mad, get even. Gold reminded himself. He patted the packing box on wh
ich he was sitting. “Some things never change. When you were Jack Horton’s CIA stooge, he had you following him around to clean up his messes. Now that you’re Tim Campbell’s stooge, I guess it makes sense that while Tim’s moved on to other, important things, he’d keep you hanging around here to sweep out this failed venture.”
Layten jumped out of his chair and came around his desk. “You’ve got a lot of balls to come here and talk to me like that.…”
Gold slid off the packing cases and took several steps toward Layten, until their faces were scant inches apart. “Yeah, I do have a lot of balls. Turner. You should have remembered that before you let Tim Campbell talk you into trying to ambush me.”
“Talk me into it?” Layten echoed, amused. “Nobody had to talk me into anything. I was glad to do it.”
“That’s because you’re an ambusher by nature,” Gold said.
“Shut up,” Layten warned.
“You’re a back-shooter….”
“You son of a bitch!” Layten was shaking with anger.
Gold said, “Your trouble all along has been that you’ve blamed me for the mess you and your CIA honcho Jack Horton got yourselves into over the MR-1 spy-plane project.”
“You’re the one who fucked things up!” Layten’s jowls were crimson. His eyes were wild.
“No.” Gold shook his head. “You’re wrong. You and Horton fucked it, but then, your kind always wants to blame someone else for your own failings.”
“Get out!” Layten demanded, his voice rising. “Get out of here before I throw you out!”
“What are you going to do. Turner? Call Security?” Gold winked. “Why don’t you call that redhead you’ve got sitting out front?”
“Shut up, you bastard!”
Layten lunged, taking Gold by surprise. He grabbed hold of Gold’s wrist and tried to twist Gold’s arm up and around behind his back.
“Nice try,” Gold muttered, stepping away from Layten to rob him of any leverage advantage. Gold brought his arm up and around in front of him, twisting his wrist free of Layten’s grip using an aikido-derived unarmed-combat technique he’d been taught in the Air Force.
