by Jon Cleary
She went home that night and told Tom what had happened at the board meeting. “One thing I have in my favour, all the staff are behind me.”
“It’s some story.” He had started work on the Times that day. There had been a certain satisfaction at going to work for what he thought of as the Number 1 paper in the United States, but it was a huge organization and he knew he would miss the comparative intimacy of the Courier.
“You don’t use it,” she said as editor and wife, putting both roles in the right order. “That’s a rule we’d better lay down right now. I never use anything you tell me about inside stuff at the Times and you keep your nose out of the Courier.
“Okay.” He saw her point, at least for the moment. “But I wish I were back on the Courier so I could help you.”
“I’ll manage,” she said, and Tom felt himself pushed back a step. But she had gone into the bathroom and didn’t notice what she had done.
IV
Over the next two days Jerry Kibler, enjoying himself immensely, was busy. He bought Bill Warburg’s stock and rang Cleo. “I think I’ve also just about persuaded Stephen Jensen to sell to you. That will give you a total of thirty-eight percent.”
“It’s not enough.” She had had two sleepless nights and, though she was not prepared to confess it to anyone, not even Tom, she was losing the determination to go on with the battle.
But Jerry was not giving up. “It’s not over yet, dammit! We’ve lost Beaton’s and the Hargraves stock—I rang them and they wouldn’t listen to me, not even when I offered to raise the price. That leaves us the Galloway four per cent and Roger’s ten per cent.”
She felt even more disheartened. “Roger would never sell to me.”
“Despite what he said the other day, the stock is held jointly in his and his wife’s name. You might try talking to her, see how she feels. I gather she and Claudine have never got on, not really.”
What was it Claudine had said about there should be nothing personal in business? “What about the Galloway stock?”
“I think I can swing that. I’ll have to raise the ante, but it will be worth it.”
“Jerry—how much am I in for so far?”
“If you manage to buy both Roger’s and the Galloway stock, you will be up in total for just over eleven million dollars.”
She was sitting up in bed with the breakfast tray Tom had brought her across her lap; it tilted as her body slid down under it. She hadn’t fainted, but she felt herself go lightheaded and limp. Tom, hearing the rattle of cup and saucer, came to the door of the bathroom.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” She pulled herself up again. “Jerry—”
“Don’t worry, Cleo, don’t worry. The assets are there in the company—the Courier building, that’s prime real estate, the radio station, the paper itself. I haven’t raised the cash on thin air.”
“Jerry, how will I ever pay it back?”
“We’ll find ways. You can sell the building, for one thing, and then lease it back. You’re not going to have any money to spare for the next ten or fifteen years maybe, but you’re going to own the Courier and run it your way.”
“There’s something in the constitution that says if the Brissons lose control, they have to sell out completely. What happens then?”
“You can buy all the stock—”
“Jerry, I’m giddy as it is. Don’t knock my head right off my shoulders.”
“Okay. But don’t worry about that right now. I can always find buyers for Claudine’s stock if she has to sell. It would give me the greatest of pleasure to do that and then charge her commission.
Cleo hung up and looked up to see Tom standing in his shorts in the bathroom doorway. “What was that all about?”
“Jerry Kibler has just told me I may be in debt to the tune of eleven million dollars by the end of the day.”
He didn’t whistle or swear, showed no reaction at all. Instead he said quietly, “Is it worth it?”
“I don’t know. What else do I do if I don’t want to lose the paper?”
“You could look around for a job running some other paper. There are a lot of papers in trouble—maybe you could try saving one of them. We could do it together,” he added, but his voice was flat and she couldn’t tell whether he was enthusiastic or even meant what he said.
“Where? There are no editor’s jobs going in New York. It’s New York or Washington for me—I don’t want to work in any other town. I don’t think you do, either.”
“No,” he conceded. “But I don’t want to see us eaten up by the Courier.”
“Darling—” She reached out, pulled him down beside her. “Do you think I’d let that happen? If I thought there was any danger of that, I’d sell my stock and let Claudine and Alain have what they want.”
“Just keep your eyes peeled for the danger signal.” He kissed her and stood up. “I’m a newspaperman, but the last thing I’d want would be to lose you to a newspaper.”
He began to dress. She was still getting accustomed to having him here every morning. She had lived alone for so long that to have a man in her bedroom every morning was still a novelty. He was untidy but she loved the evidence he left around, since she didn’t have to pick it up: the daily maid did that. Yesterday’s shirt and shorts were dropped on the floor, his trousers hung from a doorknob; somehow it was all a reminder that he was permanent. Lovers, even durable ones like Jack, had somehow never left their mark on her bedroom. She looked at him adoringly, wanting him to strew the room with reminders of himself.
“We’ll have to look for a bigger apartment.”
“Sure. Ask Jerry Kibler for another half million.” He kissed her and went off to a dental appointment; the small pains, as well as the large, had to be attended to. She lay in bed a while longer, trying to get her immediate future into focus. She had not contemplated the alternative if she lost the battle against Claudine and Alain; but she now realized the real possibility that very soon she could be back, if only temporarily, where she had been when she had first come to New York six years ago. She would have money in the bank, a lot of it, and some fame, but those meant little to her: all she could recognize would be that she would have to start all over again. And it would not be easy, at least not in the newspaper field: Tom had been right, newspapers in America were in trouble. She could, of course, go into television, but it didn’t appeal to her; at heart she was a newspaperwoman. She decided all at once that she could not leave everything to Jerry Kibler.
She got out of bed, took a hot and a cold shower to wake herself up completely, put on a robe and went back to the bedroom. She phoned Roger at Watergate in Washington, hoping to catch him before he flew up for this afternoon’s meeting. She was answered by a woman’s voice and she thought, he’s at it again, what Congresswoman was it this time?
But it was the cleaning woman, making the General’s bed instead of occupying it. “The General’s up in New York, ma’am. At Sands Point, I think.”
Cleo dialled the number at Sands Point. “Louise, I’m trying to get in touch with Roger—”
“He’ll be here for lunch. Would you care to come out and have it with us?”
“I don’t want to intrude—”
Louise laughed. “Don’t worry, Cleo. I have everything under control, including him. You won’t find any awkwardness. Come early, so you and I can have a talk.”
Cleo ordered a car and half an hour later was being driven out to Long Island. It was a beautiful day, a slight breeze coming in off the Sound, and she made up her mind that she and Tom must buy a getaway place somewhere out of Manhattan. Her optimism was returning, she was going to win the war.
Louise came out on to the wide porch of the big house as Cleo got out of the car. She no longer ran but walked sedately, as if she had at last decided that nothing in life was worth chasing. She spent a good deal of her time now looking backwards, at what she had missed, and one can’t run safely while looking over one’s sho
ulder.
She greeted Cleo warmly, like a long-lost friend. They had seen very little of each other since the episode in Washington; each had waited on the other to call and as time had gone on the calls had never been made. But there was no awkwardness now.
They sat out on the porch, tossing conversation as light as the breeze that wafted past them. Then Louise said, “Roger tells me there may be some blood spilled in the boardroom. Is that why you wanted to see him?”
Cleo nodded. “I understand you and Roger are joint owners of ten per cent of the stock?”
“I think so. I’ve never been interested in it.” She made a slight gesture of embarrassment. “I had a mother and father who brought me up to believe that it was—grubby—for a woman to concern herself with money. I know that’s not the usual case, not in America. Isn’t there some statistics that say women own more than half of America? Well, anyway. I’ve always had more than I needed and I just took it for granted. Every year I write cheques for charity and I suppose I think that’s enough to ease my conscience.” She looked with almost innocent frankness at Cleo. “It isn’t really, is it?”
Cleo felt she was in no position to judge; her own charity ran only to writing cheques. “Would you back me against Claudine?”
Louise smiled, like a cat that had been offered entrée to a dairy. “I think I might. But you’d still have to win over Roger. He’s a Brisson, whatever else he is.”
“I think he’s appreciated the space I’ve given him on our Op. Ed. page for his articles on foreign affairs.”
“He thinks Alain might give him more space. They’re both very conservative, you know.” She herself was conservative because she had never bothered to find out what liberalism was; she was army trained. “I don’t know whether he’s told you, but he has his eye on being Secretary of State when we have a Republican President next year.”
Cleo was not surprised at the information. She had become cynical enough to believe that in today’s world, when bombast and violence were part of diplomacy, anyone could have aspirations to being a diplomat. Roger was neither bombastic nor violent, but he could learn to be.
“Claudine and Alain would back him for that,” Louise said. “She would adore to have him President, but unfortunately he was born in France of a French father. She would settle for Secretary of State. My brother the Secretary—I can hear it rolling off her tongue in a dozen languages. She would do a crash course at Berlitz in everything they teach.”
Louise had spent too much time alone in the past two years; she had lost her generosity and taken to practising malice. At least towards her sister-in-law.
“Would you back him?” she asked. “He’ll need all the support he can get. But don’t tell him I said so. Here he comes now.”
The big black Mercedes came up the driveway. He’ll have to change that, Cleo thought, if he’s to become Secretary of State. Detroit wouldn’t want to be represented by a man who drove around in something from Stuttgart. He got out of the car, recognized Louise’s visitor at once and bounded up the steps. But not before he had hesitated for a moment as if the two of them might be conspiring against him. He was learning the first defence of a diplomat, suspicion.
He kissed Cleo on the cheek, something he had taken to doing on their last two meetings. “What a delightful surprise!”
“I’ll leave you two together,” said Louise, practising her own diplomacy. “I’ll check with Lena to see how lunch is coming along.”
“Let’s go for a walk,” Cleo said and started off down the steps.
Roger looked after her in surprise, then he followed. He attacked at once: “You’re out here to see if I’ll sell my stock.”
“Yours and Louise’s. I understand it’s held jointly.”
“You’ve been working on her?” He was still affable, if only just.
“No, not working on her. I have the feeling she’ll do whatever you suggest.”
He nodded; she expected smugness, but there was none. “We’re almost back on our old terms. Not quite, but nearly. About the stock—I’ve told Jerry Kibler I shan’t sell. Why should I?”
“Of course. Why should you?” She, too, was being affable; but she knew it would get her nowhere. “Roger, Louise has told me you have your eye on State next year if there is a Republican President.”
“Yes,” he said cautiously. “I’ve talked to some of those who might be candidates. Governor Reagan, for one.”
“Have they committed themselves?”
“No candidate ever does, not this early. There are several other men who’d like to be Secretary. I shan’t be the only runner. Would you back me if I became one of the favourites?”
“I might. I couldn’t do it if I were not still the editor of the Courier.”
“No-o. But Alain has said he will back me, too. So I shall have the Courier behind me, no matter who’s in the editor’s chair. I’m sorry, Cleo. You’re a far better editor than Alain will ever be and the paper can ill-afford to lose you. But blood is thicker than water, isn’t that what they say? Blue blood, anyway,” he said, trying some of his sister’s snobbery but smiling with it.
She went for the jugular, ashamed of herself; but there was no alternative. She had not consciously thought about the tactic on her way out here; it had been at the back of her mind, hidden, a secret weapon that shouldn’t be used in decent warfare. But her father had told her of the chances he had missed because he had never gone for the jugular. She was not going to sacrifice what might be her only chance to stay at the Courier.
“Do you ever think about any of the blood that was spilled at An Bai?”
He was shocked at her ruthlessness; he had always thought of her as decent. He looked about him, as if wondering how the assassin could have crept up on him here in his own grounds. Sparrows, unfrightened, randomly stapled the lawns with their tiny claws; a gardener abstractedly clipped a hedge down at the bottom of the slope. Cleo, too, looked abstracted, as if she were outside herself, like someone suffering from petit mal, not able to believe what the woman in her shape and with her name had just threatened.
“Good God, that was years ago! It’s forgotten—”
“Not by me. I never forget it.” Not even if the memory had to be whipped up like a sleeping dog, like now.
He steadied himself, wanting a situation briefing. “Are you saying you will dig up all that if I don’t sell my stock?”
“I don’t care whether you sell it to me or not, so long as you back me against Alain as editor. And as publisher,” she added, all at once appreciating that Claudine, too, had to be got rid of. “I expect to own forty-two per cent of the stock by this afternoon. Your ten per cent, whether I own it or you give me your vote on it, will give me nominal control.”
“lf I say no?”
“I’ll give all the An Bai stuff—I still have the story I wrote on it in my files—” She hadn’t: she kept none of her material. But she knew she could write the story again as clearly as she had eleven years ago. “I’ll give it to several Democrat Senators who I know wouldn’t want you as Secretary of State—they’re prejudiced against military men in that post. I saved your neck once, Roger. Now it’s your turn to save mine.”
He let go a short harsh laugh. “There’s no comparison. You’re blackmailing me. I suppose you’ll give your Senators that other bit of dirt, too.”
“An Bai will be enough. It’s more than a bit of dirt.”
“Jesus Christ—” He looked at her eyeball to eyeball; it never happened in modern warfare, not to generals. “You must really want the Courier.”
“Not the paper itself so much. I just want to run it the way I’ve been running it. I didn’t start this stock-buying. I want to be editor of the Courier just as much as you want to be Secretary of State. I’m only sorry I have to do it this way.”
“Horseshit.” He had never been vulgar-mouthed, at least not to ladies. “You’d do anything to get your own way. All you women are the same.”
She w
as branded, she could see that; but he had lumped her with her sex. With Claudine, for instance: “I’ve never had to fight this way till I met the Brissons. It’s just like An Bai, Roger. The end justifies the means. This isn’t a moral war, either.”
Louise came out on to the porch and called them to lunch.
“Coming,” Roger said without looking at her. He changed his tactics, turned to pleading, though not abjectly. “Cleo, I can’t just vote Claudine out of her paper. I’m her brother, for Christ’s sake she’s always looked on the Courier as hers—”
She had gone too far for any charity; she couldn’t even write a cheque to ease her conscience. Conscience, she decided, had to give way to responsibility; she was fighting to keep other people besides herself in jobs, men like Joe Hamlyn and Carl Fishburg. Guilt, given intelligence, can always invent.
“It’s her or me, Roger. Think who deserves your vote the most.”
She turned quickly and went up to Louise on the porch “I shan’t stay for lunch—I have no appetitite. I think I’d better get back to town and get myself ready for this afternoon’s shoot-out.”
“Is it going to be bloody?”
“I think it may well be.” She took Louise’s hand, then leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. She felt both hypocritical and sincere; she was genuinely fond of Louise, yet she had just threatened to shoot down her husband in flames. “But I’ll survive.”
She drove away, turning in the car to look back. Roger still stood in the driveway staring after her. It struck her that he probably hated her more than Alain or Claudine did.
V
If the atmosphere in the boardroom had been charged two days ago, it was much worse this afternoon. I’m sitting inside a bomb, Cleo thought, one that has to explode within the next half-hour. No one would be able to prolong the suspense any longer than that. All at once she longed for Tom’s company; then just as abruptly she was glad he wasn’t here. She did not want him ever to learn how she had threatened Roger. If she won this afternoon, Roger would never tell anyone what had made him vote for her. If she lost, she would keep the story to herself forever. It would be cheap charity, like writing a cheque on a bottomless account, but it would help her conscience. No: she had to be honest with herself. It would protect her from Tom’s contempt.
