by T. E. Cruise
“What the fuck is that?” Gold’s voice wavered. His eyes were glued to the lizard as it imperiously stalked into the cleared area in order to settle beneath Campbell’s chair.
“This here’s my attack dragon,” Campbell said.
“Goddammit, Tim!” Gold started to rise out of his chair.
“Nah. Calm down.” Campbell chuckled. “I’m just busting your chops. Don’t be afraid of Bayou.”
“‘Bayou’ as in swamps?” Gold asked, relaxing a little. The lizard seemed not to be paying him much attention.
“Nah. Bayou as in ‘Iguana-be-loved-by-you.’”
“It’s an iguana?”
“Yep, and while he looks mean as hell, iceberg lettuce is Bayou’s favorite dish. He’s an even-tempered lizard.” Campbell paused, glancing at Gold’s feet. “However, some things do tick Bayou off. Those aren’t alligator shoes, by any chance?”
“Any more creepy-crawlies around?” Gold demanded.
“Oh, sure.” Campbell nodded. “Lots of them. Lots and lots. I love reptiles. They’re my favorite animals. I don’t give a shit about plants. Only keep all this crapola around to keep my little babies happy.”
“Jesus, Tim.” Gold scowled, his eyes searching the greenhouse. “Can’t we have this conversation somewhere else?”
“Hey, like I told you: not to worry. I put away all my dangerous pets when I knew you were coming.” Campbell paused, scratching his jaw. “At least, I think I did….”
Gold finally had to laugh. “You’re still one crazy son of a bitch.”
“The craziest,” Campbell agreed. “Now, what do you think you have to tell me?”
Gold began with the story of how Icarus had turned himself in on Saturday, and then continued by telling Campbell about yesterday’s sting operation that had nabbed Turner Layten. “Otto Lane has been holding Layten incommunicado,” Gold finished, feeling a bit flustered by the way Campbell had so impassively taken the news of his chief henchman’s downfall. “We’re still interviewing Layten.” Gold added meaningfully, looking for some reaction—any reaction—from Campbell. “That’s why you haven’t heard from Layten.”
“And I guess I won’t be hearing from him,” Campbell said “Not now that Layten’s going to be prom queen in some federal prison. Let me know his mailing address. I’ll send him some Vaseline, he’s going to need it.”
“He’s not going to prison,” Gold said.
“Oh?” Campbell nodded. “How kind of you to let him off the hook. Your father is likely smiling in heaven over your good deed.” He paused. “Well? Is that it, now? Are we done? ‘Cause if we are, I got some white rats waiting to walk the last mile to becoming the blue plate special for a twenty-foot boa constrictor I caged up in your honor.”
“No, we’re not done,” Gold said, growing angry. “Layten isn’t going to jail because he’s cooperating in our investigation. He implicated you, Tim. We’ve got you on industrial espionage.”
“You’ve got nothing,” Campbell said flatly. “Layten can spill his guts all he wants. No doubt he already has. I’m denying I had anything to do with this industrial-espionage shit. Okay?” He grinned. “I’ll even repeat it louder, in case you’re wired, Stevarino.”
“I’m not,” Gold said. “You want to frisk me?”
“Nah, I believe you, son,” Campbell said. “Anyway, the way you’re sweating like a pig, there, if you was wired, the do-hickey would have shorted out by now. But getting back to what I was saying, Layten can sing all he wants. He’s got no proof to back up his allegations, ’cause I’m real careful about never leaving around any proof of my less savory dealings. Sure I set up this Icarus scheme against you, and I enjoyed every moment of it while it lasted, but you’re out of your mind if you think you can convict me in court pitting Layten’s word against mine.”
“Actually, I never really thought I could pin industrial-espionage charges on you,” Gold admitted. “I’ve always known you put lots of buffers between yourself and your illegal activities.”
“You bet your ass I got buffers,” Campbell declared. “I put so much distance between myself and my dirty work, my cock’s got to call me long-distance to tell me to take a piss.”
Gold smiled. “I can’t get you on industrial espionage. But how about insider trading?”
“What?” Campbell eyed Gold the way Gold had earlier eyed the iguana. “You sure the heat in here ain’t getting to you, Stevie? You’re starting to babble.”
“You bought shares of GAT when the price went down due to the GC-600 crash, right?”
“Yeah, sure I did, but so what?” Campbell asked. “That just proves I’m an astute investor.”
“Here’s how it’s going down,” Gold said, leaning forward to tick off the points to Campbell. “GAT’s legal representatives have contacted the Security and Exchange Commission to make the case that we have witnesses—Halloway and Layten—who will testify that you orchestrated the campagn of industrial espionage against us, including the forged memo that depressed the price of GAT stock, and then you bought GAT on the cheap, confident the price would soon rise, because you had insider knowledge that the memo would prove phony.”
“It’s your case that’s phony!” Campbell laughed. “It’s fucking ironic that out of everything I’ve ever done, you try to hang me on the one thing I didn’t do! I had no idea that memo was forged!”
“I know that, Tim, but then, that’s only the truth, so who gives a flying fuck about it? Halloway and Layten will testify that it was you who fabricated the memo. They’ll do this for GAT in exchange for us not pressing charges against them.”
“Steve, you’re not listening,” Campbell admonished. “I bought heavy into GAT when the price was low, because I thought that maybe I could orchestrate a proxy battle against you at the next stockholders’ meeting. I didn’t want to profit from the purchases. What the hell do I need with more money?”
“It doesn’t matter Tim.” Gold shrugged. “We’ve made a credible allegation against you on insider trading, and because of that the SEC will be all over your business dealings.”
“It’ll never happen.” Campbell scowled. “All you got is circumstantial evidence backed up by the testimony of a couple of lightweights.”
“It’s already happening. It started today.”
“Bullshit!” Campbell looked contemptuous, but worried. “I’ll call in every favor owed me to block this.”
Gold smiling apologetically. “Well, I’ve already called in a few favors owed GAT. That’s how I managed to get a green light on at least a preliminary investigation into your financial dealings, but then, that’s all it’ll take, won’t it, Tim? I mean, in this sort of matter one thing leads to another, right? An SEC investigator poking around here discovering this, and another one there uncovering that, and pretty soon your entire, nasty house of cards built over a lifetime of double-dealing will come crashing down on you. I don’t think they’ll put you in jail. Not a man your age, but they’ll take it all away from you, Tim. You won’t have your wealth and power anymore. You’ll just be a harmless old man.”
I’ve done it. Gold thought as he watched Campbell’s response to his harangue. At first Campbell had looked dis-dainful. Then angry. Then appalled. Finally, much to Gold’s satisfaction, Tim Campbell looked scared.
“Steve, listen. You don’t have to do this. You know why? Because we’re already even! Okay, maybe I put a little dent into GAT, but I can make it up to you. Name your price.”
“My price is your head on an SEC platter,” Gold said calmly.
“I meant money!” Campbell snarled. “Name your price in money, goddamn you.”
“What you took from GAT money can’t buy back,” Gold told him. “You’re responsible for Icarus. If Icarus hadn’t muddied the waters with that memo, GAT might have relatively easily put behind it the GC-600 crash. As it is, thanks to Icarus—thanks to you, Tim—all the old speculation has been revived about the solidity of the company and the stability of its manage
ment, namely, Don Harrison and myself.” Gold paused. “But it’s more than just this one incident, Tim. Whenever something bad happens to GAT, you turn out to be behind it. That has got to end, and it’s going to end. Now.”
“No more bullshit, Steve.” Campbell pointed his gnarled finger at Gold. “The bottom line is that this insider-trading thing you’ve cooked up could ruin me. You’re right, son. There’s shady business dealings I’m involved in that have nothing to do with GAT. Because of that, I can’t afford to have them SEC sons of bitches crawling up my asshole with flashlights.”
Gold stood up. “Sorry, Tim.”
“Wait!” Campbell was frantic. “There must be something I can do? Steve?” He forced a hideous, crocodile smile. This is your ole uncle Tim talking! What can I do to make you change your mind about pursuing this?”
“Nothing, Tim.” Gold smiled. “There’s finally nothing you can do. Isn’t that a pisser?” He watched the iguana crawl slowly out from beneath Campbell’s chair.
Campbell said, “Your father wouldn’t do this. You know that, son? Herman Gold wouldn’t take it this far.”
“I do know that.” Gold took a few tentative steps toward the big iguana, which stood its ground, watching his approach with beady, expressionless eyes.
“I was wrong about you, Steve,” Campbell murmured, almost to himself. “I thought you were weaker than your father, but I was wrong.”
Gold reached out to gently tilt up Campbell’s chin in order to look him in the eyes. “Yes, Uncle Tim, you were wrong.”
Gold then bent to stroke the iguana’s head. At his light touch the lizard closed its eyes, tilting its broad snout up into his palm. Gold had expected the thing to feel slimy. He was surprised to find the creature’s textured green hide was pleasantly dry.
Gold left the greenhouse thinking that the creepy-crawlies weren’t scary if you knew how to handle them.
(Four)
After Steve left, Tim Campbell spent the rest of the night in the greenhouse, tending to his pets. At four in the morning, he went to the telephone mounted on the wall near the sinks and dialed the estate’s garage, where the telephone rang quite a few times before the sleepy-voiced attendant picked up.
“Whozit?”
“This is Mr. Campbell.”
On the other end of the line, there was a shocked intake of breath. “Yes, sir! Mr. Campbell! This is Pablo, sir!”
Campbell didn’t have the slightest idea who Pablo was. The estate’s majordomo handled all the personnel bullshit. “Yeah, listen here, pal. I want a car.”
“Yes, sir! I’ll wake the chauffeur, sir.”
“I don’t want any of the limos. I want a car I can drive. Tell me what I’ve got lying around these days, pal.”
“Well, sir, there’s the pair of Rolls’, the Bentley…”
“Something sportier,” Campbell decreed.
“Yes, sir. Well, the Jag is having some electrical problems. But there’s the Ferrari, the Lamborghini—”
“Oh, yeah!” Campbell exclaimed. “The Lamborghini. I forgot about that one. Let’s see, that’d be a ‘sixty-four, 350 GT. Red, I seem to remember. It can do 150 miles per hour thanks to its 270-horsepower V-12 engine.”
“Gee, Mr. Campbell, you know your cars,” the attendant said, sounding surprised and impressed.
“Nah. I don’t know shit about cars, but I know value, pal. That there little Italian cherry of mine is worth plenty because it’s in original, mint condition, and Lamborghini only built thirteen of ’em, in the first place. It’s one of a kind.” Campbell snickered. “Just like me.”
“Yes, sir…”
“You gas her up, or whatever needs to be done. I’ll be around to collect her in ten minutes.”
The red Lamborghini two-seater sports coupe had a light-tan leather interior, a five-speed transmission, and enough dials, gauges, rocker switches, and toggles to outfit a fighter-plane cockpit. Campbell had the garage attendant show him how to work the important stuff, and then he got in the car and drove off amidst much gear-gnashing, leaving his estate and heading toward the coast.
The Lamborghini’s shifter remained balky, and Campbell was a little rusty because he hadn’t driven a car in years, but there wasn’t much traffic to contend with at this ungodly hour of the morning. Once Campbell reached the Pacific coast highway heading south, he was able to put the Lamborghini in fifth gear and leave her there, averaging a hundred miles an hour.
It was fun driving through the night with the windows rolled down and the wind carrying the salty tang of the sea whipping around inside the little hardtop’s cabin. The wind’s roar melded with the V-12’s steady tiger’s purr, filling Campbell’s ears, lulling him, so that he was able to silence the turmoil in his mind as he concentrated on his high-speed driving.
About the time the sky had started to lighten, Campbell had slowed down, flipping on his high beams as he looked for the turnoff he remembered that led to the breathtaking view of the ocean. A lifetime ago, a bank junior loan officer named Tim Campbell and his new bride, an ex-waitress named Agatha, would often pile into their beat-up old Plymouth coupe to make this drive and spend a lovely few hours staring out at the Pacific with their arms around one another, dreaming about the future.
Campbell spotted the little sign that read “Scenic Over-look,” and turned onto the steeply inclined road, dropping the Lamborghini into low gear as the GT fishtailed on the loosely packed graveled surface. Campbell took it slow, not wanting to end up in a ditch as he followed the twisting, climbing, two-lane road. An early-morning fog had set in, creating swirling wraiths around the dark tree trunks that lined both sides of the high-banked trail.
Ghosts. Campbell thought, smiling to himself, wondering if Aggie was out there tonight, or maybe Herman Gold’s ghost was flitting among the trees, keeping a spirit’s pace with the red GT, laughing.
The road ended at a large, fan-shaped parking area with white wooden guardrails. It was still too dark to see the pounding ocean, but Campbell remembered that hundreds of feet below those rails the thunderous sea was enternally breaking itself apart against glistening rocks.
Campbell eased the Lamborghini into the parking area and stopped with the GT’s nose up against the rails. He took the car out of gear but left the engine running: for one thing, he was afraid he might not be able to restart it if he shut it off; for another, he enjoyed the powerful sound of its guttural warbling playing counterpoint to the cymbal crash of the sea.
As Campbell waited for the sun to rise above the cliffs behind him, he finally let himself think about his earlier confrontation with Steve Gold. The kid had him by the balls, there was no doubt about it. Sure, Campbell could fight the SEC investigation that Steve had hung over his head like the sword of Damocles. Hell, with the kind of legal clout he wielded, Campbell could likely tie up any power on earth in years of costly litigation if he had a mind to, but what the fuck kind of golden years was that for him to look forward to? There would be endless court appearances to endure, and hundreds of government accountants infesting his offices like parasitic vermin. His business associates would treat him like a leper, and rightly so. Campbell would be unable to wheel and deal with an SEC cloud hanging over him, and negotiating a deal was the only real pleasure left in his life. Steve had been right: he would end up a pitiful old man.
The oddest thing about it all, however, was that Campbell was not all that pissed with Steve for what the kid had done to him. No, in a funny way, Campbell was proud of Steve Gold.
“Herman,” Campbell told the tall, fog-shrouded figure he saw leaning against the guardrails. “Your kid did good. Your company will prosper, and just like always, you’ve got your old partner Tim Campbell to thank for that. I taught your boy what you never could: how to be ruthless. Steve was your son, but he’s my protégé.”
Below Campbell, the black sea applauded against the rocks. Above him in the leaden sky the first seabirds of the day were laughing joyously in celebration of the coming dawn.
The Lamborghini was trembling impatiently, like some great beast waiting to be freed.
“Herman, the feud is over,” Campbell said. “It turned out we’ve been partners all this time despite our own worst intentions. Together we made your boy. Together we’ve launched GAT toward its future.”
Campbell thought the figure glimmering in the fog raised a hand in salutation, but perhaps it was just a tendril of mist swirling in the rising sea breeze.
Anyway, the fog was dissipating with the arrival of the new day. The blood-red sun was peeking above the high cliffs behind Campbell, brightening the interior of the little red sports car. Campbell watched the sea come alive in luminous shades of green and blue that stretched endlessly to a pink and orange horizon.
“Time to go,” Campbell said.
He struggled to put the Lamborghini into reverse, and then backed away from the guardrails about one hundred feet, until the GT’s rear tires were on the roadway.
Time to go.
Campbell threw the Lamborghini into first gear and stomped the accelerator. The GT’s rear tires spun, then bit into the gravel, and the powerful sports car rocketed forward, pressing Campbell back against his seat as it splintered the guardrails. Campbell cried out as the car leapt into empty space, hanging in the sun for an instant before plunging toward the sea. His head slammed the windshield and he blacked out.
Campbell’s last thoughts were that he’d lived to be older than Herman Gold.
Ha-ha.
And that he who dies with the most toys wins.
(Five)
GAT
Burbank
29 June, 1978
It was around noon on Thursday. Steve Gold was in Don Harrison’s office, filling Don in on his meeting with Tim Campbell late last night, when Don’s telephone rang
“Yes?” Don said, picking up the receiver. He listened a moment and then told Gold, “It’s Susan. I won’t be a minute. Yes, honey. What’s up?”
Gold watched Don’s face turn white as Harrison listened to whatever it was that his wife had to tell him. “Yeah, thanks for calling, honey. Yeah, your brother’s with me now. I’ll tell him. Bye.”
