by Lewis Orde
Roland felt a chill run down his back; he wished Generoso hadn’t brought that up, especially with such lurid attention to detail. ‘Do you want to come home?’ he asked Chivers.
‘You must be joking.’ Chivers took the pipe from his mouth and tapped it in the ashtray. ‘You and me, Roland, we’ve been through a bloody war—’
‘I went through the same war,’ Kassler pointed out.
‘So you did, and you can appreciate what I’m going to say as much as anyone else. After surviving a war like that are we now going to let a bunch of gangsters make us turn tail and run?’
‘That’s all right for you to say,’ Generoso interrupted. ‘Your families don’t live here. Mine does.’
Roland knew the vice president was right. The concerns of the people living in the area had to be taken into account. ‘Have there been any personal assaults, threats of any kind?’
Chivers shook his head. ‘Just property damage.’
‘We should be thankful for that then. I suggest we take a vote at the board meeting tomorrow whether we see this Brady deal through or not.’
*
Roland, Michael and Kassler stayed at the Sherry Netherland that night, eating an early dinner and then retiring. Roland was up at four-thirty the next morning, unable to adjust easily to the time difference. He placed a call to Katherine in London and spent ten minutes chatting with her without mentioning the trouble in New York; there was no point in upsetting her. Then he called Sally at the Eagle offices. At five o’clock he went downstairs to go for a walk. In the lobby, he found Heinrich Kassler staring out at the dark, empty street.
‘Couldn’t sleep either?’
‘I was awake all night,’ he answered, ‘wondering what business is coming to. Seems the gangsters have taken over from the legitimate businessmen.’
Roland nodded in agreement. ‘I remember reading somewhere how the established Mafia families have their money all tied up in seemingly legitimate business now. But they still run them in the old way, using force to achieve what they can’t get honestly.’
‘Are those eight Brady stores worth all this trouble?’
‘I’ve been asking myself that same question. Vince does have a family here and we should be as concerned about him as we are about ourselves.’ Roland walked out onto the street, bracing himself against the cold air. Kassler followed, and the two men began to walk north along Fifth Avenue. A sanitation truck passed and they stepped back quickly as a spray of water hit the gutter and part of the sidewalk.
‘Can you go for a cup of coffee?’ Roland asked as they turned east and passed a restaurant that was full of people eating an early breakfast or a very late-night snack; he was never sure in New York, it seemed to run twenty-four hours a day. He held open the door for Kassler and they sat down at a booth in the far corner.
A couple of minutes after they went in a florid-faced man wearing an overcoat and a hat pulled over his forehead followed. Roland watched as he took a seat at the counter. ‘Wasn’t he standing outside the Sherry Netherland when we came out?’
Kassler swiveled in the seat to look at the man who had removed his hat. He had dark brown hair streaked with gray, aged about fifty. He was reading a newspaper, seemingly oblivious to anyone else in the restaurant. ‘I don’t remember,’ Kassler said. ‘Are you seeing things in shadows?’
‘Maybe, but this series of incidents has got me worried. What if this mob decided to go higher than Biwell? What if they started to exert pressure on the Eagles Group? I’ve got a family.’
‘We both do, Roland. I would hate to see anything happen to them just as much as you would.’
Probably more so, Roland thought, and wished he hadn’t taken such a selfish attitude. The German had come to know the love of a family so late in life that he was probably more anxious than Roland about the possibility of anything happening to them.
They finished their coffee in silence and left. Fifteen yards down the street, Kassler tugged at Roland’s arm and motioned toward the doorway of a furrier’s shop. They ducked inside and waited. A minute later, the man who had followed them into the coffee shop hurried past, newspaper tucked under his arm.
‘Looking for us?’ Roland asked quietly, stepping out from the doorway and tapping the man on the shoulder.
The man spun around, startled by the sudden confrontation. ‘I beg your pardon?’ The accent was definitely not that of New York; if anything, it bore a strong resemblance to Franz Kassler’s accent, clipped and formal.
‘Why are you following us?’ Roland gripped the man’s arm as he asked the question.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Let go of me!’
Kassler stepped forward, his blue eyes fierce. ‘You were waiting outside our hotel, you followed us into the coffee shop. Why?’ He grabbed hold of the man by his coat lapels, dragged him away from Roland.
‘Let go of me! I am a German citizen! You have no right—’
‘Why were you following us?’ Kassler asked, switching to German.
Hearing German spoken and watching as Kassler pinned the man against a building, Roland realized how foolish they were, jumping to conclusions as they had. Accusing a complete stranger – a German probably, a tourist or just another businessman in New York for a meeting – and he and Kassler were accusing the man of being a mobster. The whole idea was so preposterous that Roland felt like laughing; and he would have if the situation hadn’t become so serious. ‘Let go of him, Heinrich.’
Kassler ignored Roland’s softly spoken command. ‘You were following us. I’m going to summon a police officer.’
‘For Christ’s sake, leave him alone!’ Roland shouted abruptly and pushed Kassler back. The man in the overcoat took the opportunity to escape. He broke into a run heading south, glancing back over his shoulder just once to be certain he wasn’t being chased. ‘We’re both imagining things now,’ Roland said as he held out an arm to stop Kassler giving chase.
‘He was following us,’ Kassler insisted, though he didn’t sound as convinced anymore.
‘No, he wasn’t. And why should a bunch of New York crooks use a German to follow us?’ He took Kassler by the arm and guided him slowly back to the hotel.
Over breakfast with Michael Adler, Roland repeated the story, expecting Michael to laugh. Only Michael failed to find anything amusing in it; he would have done the same thing, he admitted, and all three men realized just how deeply Lawrence Chivers’ warnings had alarmed them.
They arrived at the Biwell office on Lexington Avenue at eight-thirty. Chivers was on the telephone. He waved at them to sit down while he finished the call. ‘That was the police,’ he finally said, replacing the receiver. ‘There’s a fire at our New York-New Jersey distribution center over in Rutherford. Started about an hour ago. They’ve got it under control now, but damage could be in the millions. All the stock we were shipping for the final pre-Christmas week.’
‘Can we make up the shortfall?’
‘I suppose so, but is it really worth it?’
‘What happened to you?’ Roland asked, surprised by the change in Chivers’ attitude. ‘Just yesterday you were talking about fighting to the last man.’
‘That was yesterday, Roland. Last night I had a telephone call, a threat on my life.’
‘Did you call the police?’
‘Of course. The apartment where I live is now guarded.’
‘Did the man speak with an accent?’ Kassler asked. ‘A German accent?’
‘God, no!’ Chivers said. ‘Broad New York, definitely a New Yorker.’
‘See?’ Roland said to Kassler. ‘We assaulted an innocent man.’ He explained to Chivers what had happened, and the Yorkshireman nodded understandingly.
‘I suppose we’re all suffering from a siege mentality until this is sorted out. There isn’t much we can do sitting around here, so let’s get the meeting started. Maybe we’ll be able to come up with an idea.’ He called his secretary to assemble the board members, then led R
oland, Kassler and Michael through to the conference room which joined his office. They took their seats around a long mahogany table, scanning through the stacks of paper set in front of each place. The other board members filed in and sat down. Vincent Generoso settled himself in the seat next to Roland.
‘By now you’ve all heard what happened at Rutherford this morning,’ Chivers began. ‘We’ve got to assume that every piece of merchandise in that center is worthless now, either damaged by fire, smoke or water, and we’ve got to start arranging for fill-in shipments immediately. Otherwise, we’ll be in for our worst Christmas ever.’ He pointed a finger at the merchandise manager. ‘Get your people onto that straight away, duplicate whatever was stored there. Yes, Vincent?’ he said to Generoso who had a hand half-raised.
‘Shouldn’t we discuss the wisdom of proceeding with the Brady acquisition first? We spoke yesterday, just us,’ he indicated the members of the main Eagles Group board, ‘of the possibility of personal threats. Last night Lawrence received a threatening phone call. So did I.’
‘You as well?’ Roland cut in. ‘What did the man say?’
‘That I shouldn’t forget how vulnerable my wife and two daughters are.’
‘Have you arranged anything with the police where you live?’ Chivers asked.
‘I telephoned them the moment I had the call, about four-thirty. Two detectives came around to the house. I explained the situation here, the acts of vandalism. Now a patrol car is making regular sweeps.’
‘Biwell will pay for full-time guards on your house.’
‘Is it worth all that, Lawrence?’ Generoso asked. ‘Is this one acquisition worth having our families threatened . . . possibly harmed?’
‘This business with Brady should be over by Friday, two days from now. Whether they sell to us or not – and they’d be crazy not to, with our offer being two million more than Milano – the entire situation will be over by then.’
‘You hope!’ Generoso interrupted, his voice rising. ‘And what do you expect us to do for the next two days? You haven’t got a family here to worry about, Lawrence . . . None of your people from the Eagles Group has to worry about that.’
‘There’s no point in turning this into a shouting match,’ Chivers said, trying to control his own voice. He was just as worried as Generoso, but shouting wouldn’t serve any purpose in helping to resolve the problem.
‘Can we first carry on with the business at hand?’ Michael suggested, picking up the stack of papers in front of him. ‘We can get together again this afternoon to discuss it further.’
Generoso had to be satisfied with that although, Roland noted, he was clearly the most agitated by the recent threats. Thinking of Katherine, safe at home in London, he couldn’t blame him.
*
Chivers took his three visitors from Europe to lunch at La Coupole on Park Avenue. The moment they were seated he turned to his guests and, making certain they couldn’t be overheard, said, ‘Did any of you catch what I caught?’
They all looked at him blankly.
‘It might just be a coincidence but Vince and I both received threatening calls last night. What makes it especially coincidental is that we broached the possibility of personal threats only yesterday. Also, my number is unlisted. Vince’s as well.’ Chivers paused to let those facts sink in, then added, ‘And there is one other point that seems to have escaped your attention . . .’
Kassler was the first to speak. ‘While Roland and I were making fools of ourselves by assaulting innocent tourists we would have done better to keep a closer eye on members of our own group?’
‘Wait a minute,’ Roland cut in. ‘Vince was at Rego Park the day the cockroaches were let loose, right? He told us so.’
Chivers nodded. ‘And it wouldn’t have taken much for him to plant that fire in the Lexington Avenue store. He even could have been in on those other attacks – today’s fire and the break-in at the transportation depot. Even the trashing of the store manager’s home, because he knew when the family would be away.’
‘Why would he do such things?’ Michael asked.
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Money? Fear? Who knows? The question is now – what do we do about it?’
‘Where does Generoso live?’ Roland asked.
‘Mamaroneck, Westchester County.’
‘How good is your chauffeur . . . Bernie, whatever his name is?’
‘At tailing people?’ Chivers guessed. ‘Probably better than Alf Goldstein, and certainly a lot more willing to use brute force.’
‘I forgot – a former policeman. Why don’t we drop a hint this afternoon that we’re pulling out of the Brady deal? See what Generoso does then?’
*
They met again that afternoon and, in well-rehearsed lines, argued the pros and cons of proceeding with the Brady acquisition. Finally, Roland rapped on the mahogany table, his mind apparently made up. ‘It isn’t worth all this aggravation,’ he said wearily. ‘I went to lunch in a bulletproof car. I was brought back here in a bulletproof car. My identity is checked by an armed guard whose salary I pay. I don’t want to work in that kind of an atmosphere. If we’re being pressured to drop Brady, then let’s do it and get it over with before someone really gets hurt. There are plenty of other stores we can buy up.’
To Roland’s right, Generoso nodded in agreement. ‘I’m glad someone finally agrees with me. I’d like to stop living like a scared rabbit, having a police car go past my house every half hour or so. God knows what the neighbors think.’
‘They’re probably grateful to you,’ Chivers said in a forced jest. ‘No one in your street will get robbed for a while.’
‘We’ll get in touch with Brady,’ Roland continued as if there had been no interruption. ‘Tell them our offer is withdrawn.’
On that note the meeting ended. Roland returned to Chivers’ office while Kassler and Michael walked around the store, watching shoppers loading up for Christmas. ‘Think he fell for it?’ Roland asked.
‘We’ll know soon enough. Bernie’s following him.’ Chivers picked up the telephone and rang through to Generoso’s office. Generoso’s secretary answered; her boss had just stepped out.
‘Maybe he’s gone to the men’s room?’ Roland suggested.
‘Why not? There’s a public phone in there. I just hope he washes his hands before he uses it.’
*
Vincent Generoso had just deposited a dime in the public telephone located in the men’s room when he heard the door open. He dropped the receiver and turned away as Bernie, Chivers’ chauffeur, ambled in. Bernie nodded and went straight to a urinal, unzipping his fly and breathing a loud sigh of relief. He looked behind him as the noise of the dime dropping into the return box of the telephone attracted his attention.
‘Ma Bell paying out money these days instead of stealing it?’
‘Probably belongs to someone who tried making a call earlier on,’ Generoso replied as he stood at a basin washing his hands. His face was flushed and he realized it must be obvious to the chauffeur that it was he who had tried making the call. What business was it of his anyway? It probably wouldn’t even connect. Or would it? Bernie was an ex-cop, suspicious of everything. He’d probably wonder why Generoso hadn’t used his own telephone to make a call, why he’d want to use the public phone in the men’s room.
His stomach tense, Generoso dried his hands and left, hurrying back to his office. He wouldn’t try to telephone Joe Milano again from here – that was stupid. He’d call him later on from outside, arrange to meet him somewhere so he could tell him the deal between Biwell and Brady was off. The well-planned vandalism, the personal threat to Chivers, the alleged threat to himself, had paid off. Biwell was backing off. Brady would have to accept the lower offer from Milano. And Generoso would be a hundred thousand dollars richer.
It had been the most natural thing in the world for Joe Milano to contact Generoso when Biwell had first expressed interest in acquiring the stumbling Brady chain. Milano
also wanted it, but he wasn’t prepared to top the price Biwell was offering. Nor did he believe he had to – not with Generoso, the husband of his wife’s distant cousin, sitting on the Biwell board. And it was such a far-off, confused connection that it would never be traced. Milano knew how disgruntled Generoso was after having some Limey brought in over his head as company president. That resentment had grown as it became obvious that Lawrence Chivers wasn’t about to retire after a year, or two, or even three. Only death would remove the Englishman from the president’s chair.
Milano knew exactly how to use Generoso’s resentment. The help he’d given with the little accidents – the cockroaches, the fire in the children’s wear department, access to the transportation depot and the distribution center, even information about staff vacations so that a house could be safely vandalized. At the same time, Generoso had argued against the Brady deal, pointing out the folly of risking so much for a chain that was in trouble anyway; he had told, with great relish, of the war between the Mafia and the A & P in the sixties. And as a final touch – after Roland Eagles himself had pointed the way – the personal threats Milano himself made after Generoso supplied him with Chivers’ number.
Generoso stayed in the office until five-thirty, forcing himself to concentrate on work. When he finally left, he walked quickly to the parking lot where he left his Lincoln Continental, climbed in and headed for the FDR Drive, the route he normally took home to Mamaroneck. Instead of crossing over to the Major Deegan Parkway, though, he took the crowded Harlem River Drive toward the George Washington Bridge and New Jersey.
As soon as he cleared the bridge, Generoso pulled into a shopping mall, located a phone booth – situated, ironically, right outside a Biwell store – and called Milano’s home in Alpine, on the Palisades Parkway. A gruff voice answered. ‘Joe, it’s Vince. Can I meet you somewhere?’
