The Carpetbaggers (50 page)

"Sit down, General," I said when the door closed. "And pour yourself a drink. The bottle of Scotch is on the table."

"No, thanks," the General said tightly, still standing.

I shrugged my shoulders and picked up the third sandwich. I came right to the point. "What's it worth to you if I get Forrester to leave the Army?"

"What makes you think I want that?"

I swallowed a mouthful of sandwich. "Let's not horse around, General. I'm a big boy now and I got eyes. All I want is a fair test for the CA-4. From there on out, it's up to you. There are no other strings attached."

"What makes you think I won't give your plane a fair test now?"

I smiled at him. "And build Forrester up even more in your wife's eyes?"

I could see the tightness leave him. For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him. The brigadier's star on his shoulder meant nothing. He was just another old man trying to hold a young dame. I felt like telling him to stop knocking himself out. If it wasn't Forrester, it would be some other guy.

"I think I’ll take that drink now."

"Help yourself," I said.

He opened the bottle and poured himself a straight shot. He drank it and sank into the chair opposite me. "My wife's not a bad girl, Mr. Cord," he said half apologetically. "It's just that she's young — and impressionable."

He wasn't fooling me. I wondered whether he was fooling himself. "I understand, General," I said.

"You know how it is with young girls," he continued. "They see only the glamour, the excitement in a uniform. A man like Forrester — well, it's easy enough to understand. The silver wings on his blouse, the D.F.C. and
Croix de guerre
."

I nodded silently as I poured myself a cup of black coffee.

"I suppose that was the kind of soldier she thought I was when we were married," he said reflectively. "But it wasn't long before she found out I was nothing but a kind of glorified purchasing agent."

He refilled his glass and looked at me. "Today's Army is a complex machine, Mr. Cord. For every man in the front line, there have to be five or six men behind the lines just to keep him supplied. I always took pride in myself because I took care to see that that man got the best."

"I’m sure of that, General," I said, putting down my coffee cup.

He got to his feet and looked down at me. Maybe it was my imagination, but as he spoke, he seemed to grow taller and straighter. "That was why I came up to talk with you, Mr. Cord," he said with quiet dignity. "Not because you chose to bring my wife into an extraneous matter but to tell you that a test group will be at Roosevelt Field tomorrow morning to check out your airplane. I requested it this morning as soon as I got back into the city. I phoned your Mr. Morrissey but I guess he couldn't reach you."

I looked up at him with surprise. A feeling of shame began to run through me. I should have had brains enough to call Morrissey on my own before I shot off my big mouth.

A faint smile flitted across the General's face. "So you see, Mr. Cord," he said, "you don't have to make any deals with Forrester on my account. If your plane checks out, the Army will buy it."

The door closed behind him and I reached for a cigarette. I leaned back against the headboard of the bed and dragged the smoke deep into my lungs.

The telephone operator at the Chatham found Forrester in the bar. "Jonas Cord," I said. "I'm in the Waldorf Towers down the street. I'd like to talk with you."

"I’d like to talk with you, too," he said. "They're testing your plane in the morning."

"I know. That's what I want to talk to you about."

He was in my apartment in less than ten minutes. His face was flushed and he looked as if he'd spent the whole afternoon wrapping himself around a bottle. "Looks like the old man saw the light," he said.

"That what you really think?" I asked, as he poured himself a drink.

"You can say what you like about him, but Gaddis is a good soldier. He does his job."

"Pour a drink for me," I said.

He picked up another glass and held it toward me. I took it. "I think it's about time you quit playing soldier."

He stared at me. "What have you got in mind?"

"I think that Cord Aircraft is going to be doing a lot of business with the Army from now on," I said. "And I need someone who knows the ropes — the men, what they want in a plane. Make friends for us, contacts. You know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," he said. "Like not seeing Virginia Gaddis any more because it wouldn't look good for the company."

"Something like that," I said quietly.

He threw his drink down his throat. "I don't know whether I’d be any good at it. I've been in the Air Corps ever since I was a kid."

"You never know until you try it," I said. "Besides, you'll do the Air Corps more good out of it than in. There'll be nobody to stop you if you want to try out some of your ideas."

He looked at me. "Speaking of ideas," he asked, "whose was this — yours or Gaddis's?"

"Mine," I said. "I had my mind made up this morning after our little talk in Morrissey's office. And it had nothing to do with whether or not they took the CA-4."

He grinned suddenly. "My mind was made up this morning, too," he said. "I was going to take the job if you offered it to me."

"Where would you like to start?" I asked.

"At the top," he said promptly. "The Army respects nothing but the top man."

"Good enough," I said. It made sense. "You're the new president of Cord Aircraft. How much do you want?"

"You let me pick the job," he said. "I’ll let you name the salary."

"Twenty-five thousand a year and expenses."

He whistled. "You don't have to go that high. That's four times what I’m getting now."

"Just remember that when you come asking for a raise," I said.

We both laughed and drank to it. "There's a few changes on the plane I wanted to talk to you about before the test tomorrow," he said.

Just then, McAllister came into the bedroom. "It's almost six o'clock, Jonas," he said. "How long do you think we can keep them waiting? Dan just spoke to David Woolf. He says Norman is threatening to walk out."

"I’ll be with you as soon as I get my pants on." The telephone rang while I was buttoning my shirt. "Get it for me, will you?"

"What about the changes?" Forrester asked, while Mac was picking up the phone.

"Get out to the field and work them out with Morrissey."

"It's Los Angeles," McAllister said, covering the mouthpiece with his hand. "We haven't much time."

I looked at him for a moment. "Tell them I just left for a meeting. That they can reach me at the Norman offices in about two hours."

It was just starting to turn cool and the girls were coming out of their apartments along Park Avenue, dressed in their summer clothes, their fur stoles draped casually over their shoulders.

Over on Sixth Avenue, the girls were coming out, too. But these girls weren't getting into cabs; they were hurrying toward the subways and disappearing into those gaping maws, glad to be done with their day's work.

New York had a curious twisted form of vitality that belied the general air of depression that hung over the country. Building was going on here despite the moans and groans of Wall Street — office buildings and expensive apartments. If all the money was supposed to be gone, how come so many expensive whores were still living in the best places? It wasn't gone. It had just gone into hiding, burrowing into the ground like a mole, only to emerge when risks were less and profits greater.

On Sixth Avenue, the signs hung dejectedly in front of the employment agencies. The blackboards with their white chalk job listings were already beginning to look tired, and the two-dollar chippies were already beginning their dark sky patrol.

One of them, standing on the fringe of the crowd, turned to look at me as I came by. Her eyes were large and tired and weary and wise. I caught her whisper from almost motionless lips. "You'll be the first today, honey. How about starting the day right?"

I grinned at her and she took it for a sign of encouragement. She came toward me. "Just a deuce," she whispered quickly, "and I'll teach you things you never learned in school."

I stopped, still smiling. "I'll bet you would."

Mac and Dan had walked a few steps farther on. Mac turned back to me, an annoyed look on his face. The woman flashed a quick glance at them, then back at me. "Tell your friends I'll make a special price for all of you. Five bucks."

I dug into my pocket and came up with a dollar, which I pressed into her hand. "Some other time. But I don't think my teachers would approve."

She looked down at the dollar. A glint of humor came into her dark, tired eyes. "It's guys like you spoil a girl and make it tough for her to go to work."

She ducked into a cafeteria across the street as we turned into the lobby of the new RCA Building in Rockefeller Center.

I was still smiling when we walked into the board room. Norman sat at the head of the long table, David Woolf on his right and a man whom I had met at the studio — Ernest Hawley, the treasurer — on his left. Down the table sat our nominees, the two brokerage men, a banker and an accountant.

Dan and Mac took seats on opposite sides of the table, leaving the seat at the end open for me. I started to sit down.

Bernie got to his feet. "Just a minute, Cord," he said. "This meeting is for directors only." He glowered at me. "Before I'd sit at the same table with you, I’d leave myself."

I pulled a package of cigarettes from my pocket and lit one. "Then leave," I said quietly. "You won't have anything to do around here after this meeting anyway."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," McAllister said quickly. "This is no way to conduct an important meeting. We have many grave problems concerning the future of this company to consider. We'll settle none of them in an atmosphere of distrust."

"Distrust!" Bernie yelled. "You expect me to trust him? After the way he stole my company from me behind my own back!"

"The stock was for sale on the open market and I bought it."

"At what price?" he shouted. "First he forces down the market, then he buys up the stock. Below value he gets it. He don't care how bad he makes the company look while he's doing it. Then he comes to me and expects me to sell my stock at the same depressed price he paid the others."

I smiled to myself. The trading was on. The old man figured the best way to get what he wanted was by attacking me. Already, the propriety of my presence at the meeting had been forgotten. "The price I offered was twice what I paid on the open market."

"You made the market."

"I wasn't running the company," I retorted. "You were-and for the last six years, running it at a loss."

He strode around the table. "And you could do better?"

"If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be putting up better than seven million dollars."

His eyes stared into mine angrily for a moment, then he walked back to his chair and sat down. He picked up a pencil and tapped it on the table in front of him. "The regular meeting of the board of directors of the Norman Picture Company, Incorporated, is hereby called to order," he said in a quieter tone of voice. He looked over at his nephew. "David, you will act as secretary until we appoint a new one."

The old man continued. "A quorum is present, and also present by invitation is Mr. Jonas Cord. Make a note of that, David. Mr. Cord is present by invitation of certain of the directors but over the objection of the President."

He stared at me, waiting for me to react to his statement. I sat there impassively.

"We will now proceed to the first order of business, which is the election of officers of the company for the coming year."

I nodded to McAllister. "Mr. President," he said, "may I suggest that we postpone the election of officers until after you and Mr. Cord have completed discussions regarding the sale of your stock?"

"What makes you think I'm interested in selling my stock?" Bernie asked. "My faith in the future of this company remains as strong as ever. I've made plans to insure the successful operation of this company and if you fellows think you can stop me, I'll throw you into a proxy fight like you never saw before."

Even McAllister had to smile at that. What would he fight with? We were voting forty-one per cent of the stock already. "If the President's concern for the future of this company were as sincere as ours," McAllister said politely, "surely he would see the damage that could be done by starting a proxy fight he couldn't possibly win."

A look of cunning came over Bernie's face. "I'm not such a fool as you think," he said. "I've been busy all afternoon. I got pledges from enough stockholders to give me control if I fight. I should live so long as to give up my own company — the company that I built with the sweat of my brow — to Cord so he can donate more money to his friends the Nazis." He slammed his fist dramatically down on the table. "No, not even if he gave me seven million dollars for my stock alone."

I got to my feet, tight-lipped and angry. "I’d like to ask Mr. Norman what he would do with the seven million dollars if I did give it to him. Would he donate it to the Jewish Relief Fund?"

"It's no business of Mr. Cord's what I do with my money," he shouted down the table at me. "I'm not a rich man like he is. All I got is a few shares of my own company."

I smiled. "Mr. Norman, would you like me to read to the board a list of your liquid assets and holdings, both in your name and your wife's?"

Bernie looked confused. "List?" he asked. "What list?"

I looked at McAllister. He handed me a sheet of paper from his brief case. I began to read from it. "Deposits in the name of May Norman: Security National Bank, Boston — one million, four hundred thousand; Bank of Manhattan Company, New York — two million, one hundred thousand; Pioneer National Trust Company, Los Angeles — seven hundred thousand; Lehman Brothers, New York — three million, one hundred and fifty thousand; plus other minor accounts throughout the country amounting to six or seven hundred thousand more. In addition to that, Mrs. Norman owns one thousand acres of prime real estate in Westwood, near Beverly Hills, conservatively valued at two thousand dollars an acre."