The Inheritors (4 page)

“You talk money, contract, terms?”

I shook my head. “What for? That’s your job.”

“Good boy,” he smiled. “Don’t you worry. We’ll make a good deal for you.”

“I’m sure you will,” I smiled back at him. More than anything else he was an agent. And like every agent once you got the job, he was going to get it for you.

“Where the hell were you all afternoon?” he asked. “All I got was the message to meet you here and then you dropped out of sight. This was no time to shack up with a broad. My ulcers were developing ulcers.”

I laughed. “No broad. I had some personal business that couldn’t keep.” Another martini appeared in front of me as if by magic. I picked it up and looked at him. “Now I want you to turn your staff loose and put some information together for me. I want a complete rundown on network personnel. Programming, sales, research, advertising and engineering, both coasts. Then the same thing station by station across the country. After that, I want a program breakdown, production and rating, program by program nationally and by market. On top of that I want a list of all pilots, planned and in work, and I want it complete, Sinclair and all other networks.”

It was his turn to crow. He reached down to the seat beside him and came up with a black leather-bound loose-leaf book almost three inches thick. I looked down at the gold lettering on the cover. It was the first time I saw it in print and it was a real charge.

Confidential for
MR. STEPHEN GAUNT
President, Sinclair Television

“I’m way ahead of you, boy,” he grinned. “It’s all there, everything you asked for. That’s the kind of service you get from World Artists Management. I’ve had our whole research department on it ever since you told me last week about the appointment with Sinclair. Now I’ve got all my boys standing by and we’re ready to spend the night with you going over the whole thing, point by point.”

I smiled at him. “I should’ve known better than to think you wouldn’t be ready.”

“Not only that,” he said. “I’ve red-flagged the shows that I think will be big winners that we can get on for next season.”

“Good,” I said. “But what about the rest of this season?”

His voice took on a pontifical tone. “Come on now, it’s October. There’s not enough time to get anything good ready before next season. You can’t do anything about it.”

“Why not?”

“You’re putting me on,” he said. “You know as well as I do that the season has been all locked up for months.”

“I don’t know nothing,” I said. “All I know is that I’m going in there and I’ll be on the firing line, a target for every guy that resents my walking in. And you know Sinclair better than I do. He expects me to do something.”

“He doesn’t expect miracles.”

“What do you want to bet?”

He said nothing.

“Why do you think I got the job?” I asked. “I’m supposed to be a miracle man. Look what I did for Greater World.”

He swallowed his martini, still silent.

“Which movie company is in trouble right now?” I asked.

He stared glumly down into his drink. “They’re all in trouble. Not one of them has a smell of real profits this year. They’re all going crazy trying to figure out a way to rearrange their bookkeeping so they don’t look sick.”

“Okay,” I said. “I want you to go out tomorrow morning and buy as many top features for me as you can get your hands on. The only condition is that they’re all post-48’s.”

“You’re joking,” he said flatly.

I knew what he meant. Up to now the film companies had not released to television any movies produced after 1948. I let my voice grow cool. It was time he learned who was boss. “The one thing I don’t joke about is my business.”

It worked as well for him as it had for Sinclair. There was a subtle change in his voice. “It’ll take a fortune.”

“That’s unimportant. Have you seen Sinclair’s latest statement? Over one hundred million in cash.”

“Then what will you do with them when you get them?”

“I’ll blow Saturday night from nine to eleven and put them in.” I noticed he said “when,” not “if.”

His voice was shocked. “But that’s going back on everything TV has done up to now. They’ve been creaming the picture business on their own.”

“You mean the other networks have,” I pointed out. “Sinclair is in the shithouse. The only thing they got is money and I intend to use a little of it to get them a share of the market.”

“But it’s all wrong,” he protested. “We can develop our own shows.”

I knew what was bugging him. Pictures didn’t deliver a ten percent packaging fee and he didn’t like to give up that juicy money coming in every week. “That’s right,” I said. “But next year. You said yourself there’s no time this year.”

“The whole industry will be laughing at you.”

“Let them. I couldn’t care less. The name of the game is ratings. They won’t be laughing when the Nielsens come in.”

“When do you want to go with them?” he asked.

I could see his mind ticking over. The greater the pressure, the bigger the price, and he was going to get his cut on the other end. That was his business and it didn’t matter to me as long as he delivered. “January,” I said.

“That’s not much time. It’ll be expensive.”

“You said that before.” I picked up my martini. “You know that slogan the movie companies use? ‘Movies are your best entertainment.’ Well, I believe them.”

“I hope you’re right,” he said glumly, swallowing his drink.

“I know I’m right. Now let’s order dinner and you call your boys and tell them to meet us over at my apartment at eleven o’clock.”

He reached for the telephone on the table. “What’s that address again? Twenty-five Central Park West?”

“No,” I said. “Penthouse B, Waldorf Towers.”

I almost laughed at the look of surprise on his face. “I didn’t know you moved,” he said.

“That’s just one of the things I did this afternoon. I like to be within walking distance of the office.”

CHAPTER FOUR

This time when I came into the lobby, they knew me. The two girls at the desk looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Gaunt,” they said, almost in chorus.

“Good morning,” I replied.

The guard who took me upstairs yesterday came out from behind the desk. “Good morning, Mr. Gaunt,” he said. “I have the key to your elevator. I’ll show you how it works.”

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” I said.

He smiled, pleased that I remembered his name. I followed him to the back of the corridor. There was another elevator next to the one we had used. He took the key from his pocket and placed it in a lock where the call button usually was. He turned it. The doors opened. I followed him inside.

“All you have to do is press the Up button,” he said. “There are no stops between the lobby and your floor. You do the same in reverse when you come down.”

I nodded, then I smiled. “No bells on this one?”

“No, sir,” he said straight-faced. “That’s only in Mr. Sinclair’s elevator. He had it installed last year after a crank came in with a gun.”

I waited for a moment, but he didn’t continue. I wondered what it was that Sinclair did that almost led to his getting shot. He handed me the key.

“Your visitors will be directed to the executive reception area on the forty-seventh floor,” he said. “From there, they take another elevator that runs only between the five floors to fifty-one. That elevator is always attended, all the others in the building are self-operated. There are only three keys to this elevator, one for yourself, one for Miss Fogarty, your executive secretary, and the last one is always at Main Lobby reception.” He pressed a button and the doors opened again. “Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“One thing,” I said. “On what floor is my office?”

A look of faint surprise came onto his face. “Fifty, of course, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” I said and punched the Up button.

Miss Fogarty was waiting for me as the elevator doors opened. She was in her late twenties, tall, slim, brown-eyed with darkly burnished auburn hair tied neatly with a black ribbon behind her head, a simple Dior dress in basic black with one unobtrusive gold pin on her shoulder. “Good morning, Mr. Gaunt,” she said. “I’m Sheila Fogarty, your number one.”

I held out my hand. “Good morning, Miss Fogarty,” I said.

Her hand was cool and slightly damp. I suddenly realized that she had to be as nervous as I was. I began to feel better. I smiled at her and she returned my smile. “Let me show you around,” she said.

She turned and I noticed she had a good ass and that the seams of her stockings were straight on good legs and slim ankles. “The layout on this floor is exactly like Mr. Sinclair’s on the floor above. Yours is the only suite of offices.”

I followed her down the corridor. Everything was white, highlighted only by paintings. Someone with taste had evidently gone to a great deal of expense to select them. If I wasn’t wrong there were some genuine Miros and Picassos.

She caught my gaze. “All the paintings are from Mr. Sinclair’s private collection.” She opened the first door. “This is the projection room.”

I glanced inside. It was neat and luxurious, holding about twenty-two people in armchair comfort. I nodded and she closed the door and led me to the next room.

“This is the large conference room,” she said. The table inside seated twenty people. “Between this and the small conference room, there is a private kitchen, and a permanent chef is on standby everyday for lunch if you should want to have it in.”

The small conference room seated ten people and was a miniaturized version of the other. We walked back toward the elevator.

“Off the reception area,” she said, “there are three private waiting rooms so that your visitors need never run into each other.” She opened a door. “They’re all very much alike.”

They were also like the one I had been in on the floor above. A cool blonde was now sitting at the desk in the reception area. She got to her feet as we came near.

“This is Miss Swensen, your receptionist,” Miss Fogarty said. “Miss Swensen, Mr. Gaunt.”

The blonde smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gaunt.”

I returned her smile. She, too, was a carbon of the girl in Sinclair’s office. “My pleasure, Miss Swensen.”

We crossed the reception area. She opened another door. “This is my office,” she said.

There was another girl in the office. She looked up as we came in. She rose to her feet as we approached. “This is Ginny Daniels, my assistant, your number two. Miss Daniels, Mr. Gaunt.”

“Happy to meet you, Mr. Gaunt,” she smiled. She was in the mold, only with dark hair. For a moment I wondered whether Sinclair had them manufactured especially for their own use.

“Miss Daniels,” I said. We shook hands. Her hands weren’t as damp as Fogarty’s had been. But then she had much less to lose. She was only number two.

“There are two entrances to your office,” Miss Fogarty said. She indicated a door near her desk. “This one from our office and one directly from the reception area. Your visitors will be shown in from there unless you instruct otherwise.”

I didn’t say anything.

She opened the door to my office and let me walk in ahead of her. I stood there for a moment. It was almost a duplicate of Sinclair’s office. The same ten windows on each side, the same view. There was only one thing that was different. The office looked new, untouched and unused.

“Who was in this office before?” I asked. Whoever it had been had disappeared without a trace.

“No one,” she said. “For some reason, I don’t know why, this office has been vacant ever since we moved in four years ago.”

I glanced at her briefly, then walked over to my desk and sat down behind it. Sinclair had to be a strange man. No one sets up offices like these and then doesn’t use them.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.

“Thank you,” I said. “Black with one sugar.”

She left and returned in a moment, placing the coffee tray on my desk. I looked at it while she poured the coffee. At least he did things in style. The china was Wedgewood. She used silver tongs to drop one lump of sugar in my cup. “Like that?” she asked.

I raised the coffee to my lips. “It’s fine,” I said.

She smiled again. “In the center drawer of your desk,” she said, “you will find two folders. One has the personnel records of Miss Swensen, Miss Daniels, and myself. You understand, of course, that we are provisionally assigned to your office. If you have other personnel or preferences we shall understand.”

“No problem,” I said. “I like what I see so far and I have no ties.”

She smiled. “In the other folder is a list of the names and positions of certain key executives. Mr. Sinclair especially asked me to remind you to review that list as there will be a meeting at ten thirty in his conference room to introduce them to you.”

“Thank you,” I said. Fogarty would do all right. She had tact and style. She didn’t say introduce me to them.

“Now, if I may, let me explain some things about the mechanics of the office.” She came around the desk and stood beside me. I was aware of the faint, gentle perfume.

“The telephone is a conventional call director with ten lines. Outside lines are available by dialing eight or nine first. Of course we are available to get all numbers for you. There are also two direct lines that bypass the switchboard for your personal use, and direct intercoms to each of our desks.

“On the wall opposite you you will see three television screens. The first is tied into our own network and will always project the current network program. The other two are conventional sets and show all channels. All are controlled from this set of buttons next to your telephone.

“On the inside wall of the office there is a built-in bar which is revealed by this button.” She pressed it and the bar opened.

It was stocked and ready for action. I nodded approvingly.

“To the right of the bar, you will notice a door. That is the entrance from the reception area. It is electrically controlled and locked from our desks or yours. To the left of the bar is a private bathroom. It is complete with a dressing room, shower, and sauna or wet steam; there is also a small bedroom should you desire to rest.”