The Fourth K (36 page)

Inch lived for the day when he could say to Bert Audick, “I have a thousand units.” It had always irritated him that Texan oil men talked in units—a “unit” in Texas was one hundred million dollars. Audick had said about the destruction of the city of Dak, “God, I lost five hundred units there.” And Inch vowed someday to say to Audick, “Hell, I got about a thousand units tied up in real estate,” and Audick would whistle and say, “A hundred billion dollars.” And then Inch would say to him, “Oh, no, a trillion dollars. Up in New York a unit is a billion dollars.” That would settle that Texas bullshit once and for all.

To make that dream come true, Louis Inch capitalized on the concept of airspace. That is, he would buy the airspace above existent buildings in major cities and build on top of them. Airspace could be bought for peanuts; it was a new concept, as marshlands had been when his grandfather bought them, knowing that technology would solve the problem of draining the swamps and turn them into profitable building acres. The problem was to prevent the people
and their legislators from stopping him. That would take time and an enormous investment, but he was confident it could be done. True, cities like Chicago, New York, Dallas and Miami would be gigantic steel-and-concrete prisons, but people didn’t have to live there, except for the elite who loved the museums, the cinemas, the theater, the music. There would of course be little boutique neighborhoods for the artists.

And of course the thing was that when Louis Inch finally succeeded, there would no longer be any slums in New York City. There would simply be no affordable rents for the petty criminal and working classes. They would come in from the suburbs, on special trains, on special buses, and they would be gone by nightfall. The renters and buyers of the Inch Corporation condos and apartments could go to the theater, the discos and the expensive restaurants and not worry about the dark streets outside. They could stroll along the avenues, even venture into the side streets, and could walk the parks, in comparative safety. And what would they pay for such a paradise? Fortunes.

Summoned to the meeting of the Socrates Club in California, Louis Inch began a trip across the United States to confer with the great real estate corporations of the big cities. From them he exacted their promise to contribute money to defeat Kennedy. Arriving in Los Angeles a few days later, he decided to make a side trip to Santa Monica before going to the seminar.

Santa Monica is one of the most beautiful towns in America, mainly because its citizens have successfully resisted the efforts of real estate interests to build skyscrapers, voted laws to keep rents stable and control construction. A fine apartment on Ocean Avenue, overlooking the Pacific, cost only
one sixth of the average citizen’s income. This was a situation that had driven Inch crazy for twenty years.

Inch thought Santa Monica an outrage, an insult to the American spirit of free enterprise; these units under today’s conditions could be rented for ten times the going rate. He had bought up many of the apartment buildings. These were charming Spanish-style complexes wasteful in their use of valuable real estate, with their inner courtyards and gardens, and their scandalously low two-story heights. And he could not, by law, raise the rents in this paradise. Oh, the airspace above Santa Monica was worth billions, the view of the Pacific Ocean worth more billions. Sometimes Inch had crazy ideas about building vertically on the ocean itself. This made him dizzy.

He did not of course try to directly bribe the three city councillors he invited to Michael’s but he told them his plans, he showed how everybody could become multimillionaires if certain laws were changed. He was dismayed when they showed no interest. But that was not the worst part. When Inch got into his limousine, there was a shattering explosion. Glass flew all around the interior of the limo, the back window disintegrated, the windshield suddenly sprouted a large hole and spiderwebs appeared in the rest of the glass.

When the police arrived, they told Inch that a rifle bullet had done the damage. When they asked him if he had any enemies, Louis Inch assured them with all sincerity that he did not.

The Socrates Club’s special seminar on “Demagoguery in Democracy” commenced the next day.

Those present were Bert Audick, now under a RICO indictment; George Greenwell, who looked like the old wheat
stored in his gigantic Midwest silos; Louis Inch, his handsome pouting face pale from his near death the day before; Martin “Take It Private” Mutford, wearing an Armani suit that could not hide his going to fat; and Lawrence Salentine.

Bert Audick took the floor first. “Would somebody explain to me how Kennedy is not a communist?” he said. “Kennedy wants to socialize medicine and home building. He has me indicted under the RICO laws and I’m not even Italian.” Nobody laughed at his little joke, so he went on. “We can dick around all we want but we have to face one central fact. He is an immense danger to everything we in this room stand for. We have to take drastic action.”

George Greenwell said quietly, “He can get you indicted but he can’t get you convicted—we still have due process in this country. Now, I know you have endured great provocation. But if I hear any dangerous talk in this room I walk out. I will listen to nothing treasonous or seditious.”

Audick took offense. “I love my country better than anyone in this room,” he said. “That’s what gripes me. The indictment says I was acting in a treasonable way. Me! My ancestors were in this country when the fucking Kennedys were eating potatoes in Ireland. I was rich when they were bootleggers in Boston. Those gunners fired at American planes over Dak but not by my orders. Sure, I gave the Sultan of Sherhaben a deal, but I was acting in the interest of the United States.”

Salentine said dryly, “We know Kennedy is the problem. We’re here to discuss a solution. Which is our right and our duty.”

Mutford said, “What Kennedy’s telling the country is bullshit. Where is the capital mass going to come from to support all these programs? He is talking a modified form of communism. If we can hammer that home in the media, the
people will turn away from him. Every man and woman in this country thinks they’ll be a millionaire someday and they’re already worrying about the tax bite.”

“Then how come all the polls show Francis Kennedy will win in November?” Salentine asked irritably. As so many times before, he was a little astonished by the obtuseness of powerful men. They seemed to have no awareness of Kennedy’s enormous personal charm, his appeal to the mass of people, simply because they themselves were impervious to that charm.

There was a silence and then Martin Mutford spoke. “I had a look at some of the legislation being prepared to regulate the stock market and banks. If Kennedy gets in, there will be mighty slim pickings. And if he gets his regulatory-agency people in, the jails will be filled with very rich people.”

“I’ll be there waiting for them,” Audick said, grinning. For some reason he seemed to be in a very good humor despite his indictment. “I should be a trusty by then, I’ll make sure you all have flowers in your cells.”

Inch said impatiently, “You’ll be in one of those country-club jails playing with computers that keep track of your oil tankers.”

Audick had never liked Louis Inch. He didn’t like a man who piled up human beings from underground to the stars, and charged a million dollars for apartments no bigger than a spittoon. Audick said, “I’m sure my cell will have more room than one of your fancy apartments. And once I’m in, don’t be too fucking sure you can get oil to heat those skyscrapers. And another thing, I’ll get a better break gambling in jail than in your Atlantic City casinos.”

Greenwell, as the oldest and most experienced in dealing with the government, felt he had to take charge of the conversation.
“I think we should, through our companies and other representatives, pour a great deal of money into the campaign of Kennedy’s opponent. Martin, I think you should volunteer to be the campaign manager.”

Martin Mutford said, “First let’s decide what kind of money we are talking about and how it’s to be contributed.”

Greenwell said, “How about a round sum of five hundred million dollars.”

Audick said, “Wait a minute, I’ve just lost fifty billion and you want me to go for another unit?”

Inch said maliciously, “What’s one unit, Bert. Is the oil industry going chickenshit on us? You Texans can’t spare a lousy one hundred million?”

Salentine said, “TV time costs a lot of money. If we are going to saturate the airwaves from now until November that’s five whole months. That’s going to be expensive.”

“And your TV network gets a big chunk of that,” Inch said aggressively. He was proud of his reputation as a fierce negotiator. “You TV guys put in your share out of one pocket and it appears like magic in your other pockets. I think that should be a factor when we contribute.”

Mutford said, “Look, we’re talking peanuts here,” which outraged the others. “Take It Private” Mutford was famous for his cavalier treatment of money. To him it was only a telex transporting some sort of spiritual substance from one ethereal body to another. It had no reality. He gave casual girlfriends a brand-new Mercedes, a bit of eccentricity he had learned from rich Texans. If he had a mistress for a year he bought her an apartment house to make her old age secure. Another mistress had a house in Malibu, another a castle in Italy and an apartment in Rome. He had bought an illegitimate son a piece of a casino in England. It had cost him nothing, merely slips of paper signed. And he always
had a place to stay whenever he traveled. The Albanese girl owned her famous restaurant and building the same way. And there were many others. Money meant nothing to “Private” Mutford.

Audick said aggressively, “I paid my share with Dak.”

Mutford said, “Bert, you’re not in front of congressional committees arguing oil depletion allowances.”

“You have no choice,” Inch told Audick. “If Kennedy gets elected and he gets his Congress, you go to jail.”

George Greenwell was wondering again whether he should dissociate himself officially from these men. After all, he was too old for these adventures. His grain empire stood in less danger than the fields of these other men. The oil industry too obviously blackmailed the government to make scandalous profits. His own grain business was low-key; people in general did not know that only five or six privately held companies controlled the bread of the world. Greenwell feared that a rash, belligerent man like Bert Audick could get them all in really serious trouble. Yet he enjoyed the life of the Socrates Club, the week-long seminars filled with interesting discussions on the affairs of the world, the sessions of backgammon, the rubbers of bridge. But he had lost that hard desire to get the best of his fellowmen.

Inch said, “Come on, Bert, what the hell is a lousy unit to the oil industry? You guys have been sucking the public tit-dry with your oil depletion allowance for the last hundred years.”

Martin Mutford laughed. “Stop the bullshit,” he said. “We are all in this together. And we will all hang together if Kennedy wins. Forget about the money and let’s get down to business. Let’s figure out how to attack Kennedy in this campaign. How about his failure to act on that atom bomb threat in time to stop the explosion? How about the fact that
he has never had a woman in his life since his wife died? How about that maybe he’s secretly screwing broads in the White House like his uncle Jack did? How about a million things? How about his personal staff? We have a lot of work to do.”

This distracted them. Audick said thoughtfully, “He doesn’t have any woman. I’ve already had that checked out. Maybe he’s a fag.”

“So what?” Salentine said. Some of the top stars on his network were gay and he was sensitive on the subject. Audick’s language offended him.

But Louis Inch unexpectedly took Audick’s point. “Come on,” he said to Salentine, “the public doesn’t mind if one of your goofy comedians is gay, but the President of the United States?”

“The time will come,” Salentine said.

“We can’t wait,” Mutford said. “And besides, the President is not gay. He’s in some sort of sexual hibernation. I think our best shot is to attack him through his staff,” Mutford added thoughtfully. He considered for a moment and then said, “The Attorney General, Christian Klee, I’ve had some people check into him. You know he’s a somewhat mysterious guy for a public figure. Very rich, much richer than people think, I’ve taken a sort of unofficial peek at his banking records. Doesn’t spend much, he’s not keeping women or into drugs, that would have showed up in his cash flow. A brilliant lawyer who doesn’t really care that much for law. Not into good works. We know he is devoted to Kennedy, and his protection of the President is a marvel of efficiency. But that efficiency hampers Kennedy’s campaign because Klee won’t let him press the flesh. All in all I’d concentrate on Klee.”

Audick said, “Klee was CIA, high up in operations. I’ve heard some weird stories about him.”

“Maybe those stories could be our ammunition,” Mutford said.

“Only stories,” Audick said. “And you’ll never get anything out of the CIA files, not with that guy Tappey running the show.”

Greenwell said casually, “I happen to have some information that the President’s chief of staff, that man Dazzy, has a somewhat messy personal life. His wife and he quarrel and he sees a young girl.”

Oh shit, Mutford thought, I have to get them off this. Jeralyn Albanese had told him all about Christian Klee’s threat.

“That’s too minor,” he said. “What do we gain even if we force Dazzy out? The public will never turn against the President for a staff member screwing a young girl, not unless it’s rape or harassment.”

Audick said, “So we approach the girl and give her a million bucks and have her yell rape.”

Mutford said, “Yeah, but she has to holler rape for three years of screwing and having her bills paid. It won’t wash.”

It was George Greenwell who made the most valuable contribution. “We should concentrate on the atom bomb explosion in New York. I think Congressman Jintz and Senator Lambertino should create investigating committees in the House and in the Senate, subpoena all the government officials. Even if they come up with nothing concrete, there will be enough coincidences so that the news media can have a field day. That’s where you have to use all your influence,” he said to Salentine. “That is our best hope. And now I suggest we all get to work.” Then he said to Mutford, “Set up your campaign committees. I guarantee you’ll get my hundred million. It is a very prudent investment.”