Aces (38 page)

“I’ve been thinking about history,” Gold began. Campbell opened his mouth to say something, but Gold help up his hand. “Just
hear me out. The Watres Act that gives the postmaster general the right to decree who can fly where is a product of the Hoover
administration.”

“So?” Campbell demanded.

“So now there’s a new president. A Democrat. I think Roosevelt will move to rescind everything Hoover’s done.”

“You think FDR’s going to try and repeal the Watres Act?”

“I’m saying he might.” Gold nodded. “And with it, the postmaster’s authority to parcel out routes. If that happened we could
fly anywhere we want, with or without the postmaster’s blessings, and without taking ourselves to the poorhouse to do it.”

Campbell nodded. “Okay, that’s an opinion.” He smiled thinly. “It doesn’t happen to be mine.”

“Right, we disagree, and time will tell who’s right.” Gold acknowledged. “But what’s the point of starting this civil war?
Even if you could manage to take over Skyworld—”

“Oh, I’ll manage it, all right.” Campbell smiled. “I’ve been busy while you’ve been preoccupied with the Monarch project,”
Campbell replied. “I’ve put together a group of shareholders who, like me, disagree with your leadership. The group has authorized
me to vote their shares by proxy.”

Gold was startled. He hadn’t realized until now just how out of touch he’d become concerning what was going on at Skyworld.
“Is Hull with you in all this?” he asked softly.

“Yes, Hull’s with me.”

So now it’s two old friends I’m losing
, Gold thought wearily. “I take it you intend to wage a proxy battle for the company at this month’s annual shareholders’
meeting?”

“I do. With full-page newspaper advertisments, press conferences, the works. It’s going to be messy, Herman, I can promise
you that. And in the meantime I’ll be buying up as much stock as I can.”

“I could match you on that strategy,” Gold threatened.

“You could,” Campbell said. “But what good would it do you? You can’t buy it
all
, Herman. But each share I grab will add to my credibility. And I still expect to be able to beat you in the proxy fight.”

“The meeting isn’t until the nineteenth,” Gold said. “Cargo Air Transport will be long off the market by then.”

“Cargo Air Transport is off the market now,” Campbell said. “Because Skyworld has bought it. Or
will
have bought it, I should say, come April nineteenth, when I take over as chairman, and as soon as I can get to a telephone.
I’ve made Cargo Air Transport an offer it is quite happy with. They’ve agreed to wait. I’ve also gotten from Cargo’s board
the privilege to top by ten percent any better offer they might get between now and the nineteenth.”

“You haven’t the authority to commit Skyworld to such a transaction,” Gold protested.

“It’s a touch illegal at present,” Campbell admitted. “But it won’t be after the nineteenth, when I control a majority share,
and when I’m chairman.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Gold asked. “Don’t you realize that I could pick up the telephone and take legal steps against
you?”

“I don’t believe you’re capable of ratting on a friend, not even one who’s about to take your company away from you.” Campbell
grinned. “After all, I didn’t rat on
you
concerning a certain incident in which a fire got started and a fellow burned to death.”

“That was seven years ago,” Gold said.

“There’s no statute of limitations on murder, Herman, but let’s not dwell on the past,” Campbell said, dismissing the matter
with a wave of his hand. “I brought that ancient history up merely to make the point that both of us have experience bending
the rules when it suits us.”

“Then I have your word that ‘the certain incident’ will not rear its ugly head during this present conflict?” Gold asked.

“You do, and I trust that I have your word that our conversation today will remain confidential?”

Gold nodded. “But if you don’t succeed with this takeover you’ll still be finished,” Gold said. “I won’t have to rat on you.
Cargo Air Transport will sue you for everything you own, and you will go to jail.”

Campbell nodded. “That’s my problem, not yours. I know that I’ve put everything—including my freedom—on the line. So you see,
Herman, there really is no turning back for me concerning this.”

“You must have agreed to pay Cargo Air Transport a fortune for them to go along with this scheme…”

Campbell lit a third cigarette off the butt of the last. “Let’s just say that I’m paying generously for something they have,
that I want.”

“Will you have to borrow money?” Gold asked. When Campbell nodded, Gold laughed. “I don’t pretend to be the money master that
you are, but even I know that it’s bad business to overpay, and go into hock to do it. What good will Skyworld be to you if
you bury your precious company in debt?”

“It gets a little complicated, Herman,” Campbell patronized. “Let’s just say that my long-term strategy is to wait for the
economic climate to improve and then sell some of Sky-world’s subsidiaries to help pay off the debt. During the short-term,
I believe that while there will be an initial slump, once Skyworld has settled into its new coast-to-coast route, business
and profits will resume their upward course.”

“Good cash flow to debt ratio, eh?” Gold asked sardonically. Campbell’s smile was faint. Gold picked up the envelope containing
Campbell’s resignation. “Know what this is?”

“I can guess. But it’s no longer relevant, is it? I mean, I’m not resigning from anything, except, I guess, our friendship.”
Campbell hesitated. “Unless, of course, you’re firing me from my position as president of Skyworld? As chairman, you do have
the authority to do that,” he seemed to encourage.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Gold muttered. “If I
did
fire you, you own enough stock to fight me on it, but suddenly you’re being obliging. Now why is that?” Gold smiled. “Probably
it’s because without you—and Hull, who no doubt would loyally follow you out—Skyworld would grind to a halt, and revenues
would plummet. Wall Street would get wind of it, and the price of the stock would drop. That would look just swell for me
at the stockholders’ meeting, wouldn’t it?”

“Herman, you do learn.” Campbell grinned.

“There’ll be time enough for me to throw you out on your ass,
after
the nineteenth.” Gold crumpled the envelope containing the resignation and tossed it into his wastepaper basket. “It’s ironic.
When you gave me this seven years ago, you said that it would be my insurance in case I ever thought that I could do better
without you than with you—”

Campbell, nodding, finished it for him. “But as it turned out, that’s the way
I
feel about
you
.” He stood up. “Look, from now on it’s going to be too awkward for me to work out of Burbank. I’ll be running things out
of the L.A. airport offices. Hull’s made room for me and my staff…”

Gold watched Campbell walk to the door. “Tim,” he called out. “I intend to fight back—”

Campbell, in the doorway, turned and smiled. “Happy April Fool’s Day, Herman.”

Gold was frustrated. The morning newspapers were carrying Campbell’s promised full-page advertisements soliciting Skyworld
stock, and asking all stockholders to back him in the upcoming proxy battle. There were copies of the papers carrying the
ads on every desk in every department in the Burbank complex. Wherever Gold went, his employees would stop talking when they
saw him coming, and offer him a weak-tea smile with a kind of baleful, fisheye look in their eyes.

All morning he was being treated as if he were suffering from a terminal illness. Gold supposed he couldn’t blame his employees.
He was definitely the underdog. He’d made a few calls around town this morning to knowledgeable business associates, just
to see how the ads were being received… Most people had three words for him:
Rest in peace
. The wags wanted to know where to send the flowers…

Gold retreated to the design studio, thinking to lose his troubles in a couple of hours’ work on the Monarch Project. But
there was no work getting done down there, either. The atmosphere was morgue-like. Everybody, including Teddy Quinn, was tiptoeing
around and talking in whispers, so as not to upset Gold, which, of course, upset him no end. Gold cornered Teddy and asked
him to step outside the studio so that they could talk in private. They stood close together in the hallway, speaking in whispers,
both men in their shirtsleeves, with their ties loosened and their shirt pockets bulging with pencils.

Gold gestured with his thumb toward the door to the design studio. “Why is everybody in there so concerned with Campbell’s
goddamned ad?”

“They don’t give two shits about the ad, or Campbell,” Teddy said. “Those guys care about
you
. They don’t want to upset you, Herm.”

“I don’t need to be handled with kid gloves,” Gold said. “And I don’t pay my R&D people to be preoccupied with my corporate
problems. I pay them to design airplanes; like the Monarch, for instance.”

“You want people to get back to work, then go home,” Teddy said. “You know the saying: ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’”

“I don’t get it.” Gold frowned.

“These kids look up to you, believe it or not,” Teddy said. “The Great Depression put them out of the work they loved, but
then, thanks to you, they got another chance. There’s not one of them wouldn’t give you his right arm in gratitude.”

“They can show their gratitude by concentrating on the task on hand,” Gold said.

“How are they supposed to concentrate when they see you moping?”

“Who’s moping?” Gold challenged. “I’m not moping.”

Teddy’s green eyes were mirthful behind his tortoiseshell eyeglasses. “Why don’t you take a good look at yourself in the mirror?
You’ve been skulking around here like soaked cat.”

Gold scowled. “That was a damned good ad Campbell wrote, wasn’t it?…”

“It was okay.” Teddy shrugged.

“Come on!” Gold demanded ruefully. “By the time I was done reading it,
I
was ready to join Tim’s parade.” He sighed. “Well, he always was a clever writer. That’s why he handles all of our advertising
for Gold Transport.”

“Handled,” Teddy quietly corrected. “And it’s Skyworld, not Gold Transport anymore.”

“Slip of the tongue,” Gold said, flustered. “And
anyway
,” he added defiantly, “in my
heart
it’ll always be Gold Transport!” He noticed Teddy looking at him with concern. “What?”

“You’re not crumbling, are you?” Teddy asked.

“Of course, not,” Gold scoffed. “I’m just pissed. I feel hurt, and frustrated. I’m not used to feeling that way…”

“Okay, Herm, whatever you say…” Teddy hesitated. “Can I give you a little advice?”

“Always.”

“If you’re going to beat Tim, you’ve got to do it your way. You’ll never win trying to play his complicated financial games…
Now you go home, and let me get the brain pool get back to work.”

“I’ve got work to do upstairs in my office,” Gold said.

“Whatever, just as long as you’re out of sight. I can get a lot more out of those kids if they aren’t being distracted watching
you out of the corners of their eyes. Every time you sneeze they start wondering if they’re going to be back on a streetcorner
peddling apples.”

That evening, Gold mulled over what Teddy had said as he made his way down to the parking lot. Whatever happened, if he wanted
his people to concentrate all of their energy on the Monarch project, he had to conceal the emotional turmoil he was experiencing
due to Tim Campbell’s betrayal. He had to maintain an unflappable and confident image. That way his junior engineers could
return to their drafting tables unencumbered by worries about him and their own futures.

Gold got into his British racing-green Marmon and started it up. The Stutz Bulldog tourer had been giving him trouble, so
last year, when the ‘32s arrived in the dealers’ showrooms, he’d retired the Stutz in favor of this V-16, 9.1-liter, convertible
sedan. While he was shopping for a new car he’d looked at a Duesenberg, a supercharged SJ, but decided against it. The SJ
was faster, and almost as long as the Marmon, but not nearly as roomy inside. Gold liked to be able to spread out in his car.
Anyway, the Marmon had cost only six grand. They wanted ten thousand for the Duesenberg. Gold figured six thousand dollars
was quite enough to pay for a car at a time when the average man, assuming he was lucky enough to have a job, was only making,
say, two or three thousand dollars a year…

The traffic going into Los Angeles was heavy. Gold concentrated on his driving, expertly weaving the majestic Marmon through
the logjams, but it still took him twice as long as usual to get from the Burbank complex to Bel-Air.

He’d sold the Pasadena house back in ‘28, and paid a hundred and fifty thousand cash for the English colonial sheltered behind
stone walls in Bel-Air. The house had been previously owned by a doyen of the silver screen who found himself yesterday’s
news with the advent of talkies. It was a grand house, perhaps too grand for Gold’s taste. He missed the manageable scale
and bright cheerfulness of the Pasadena hacienda. The new house was four stories tall, with grapevines crawling over its stone
exterior, and a mansard roof you could land a plane on. Inside it was dark, and cool, with high, gilded ceilings, lots of
fireplaces, mahogany paneling, and long, meandering hallways sprouting suites of rooms. The house looked as if it had been
standing for centuries, but it was only ten years old. Erica loved the place, and the kids were happy. The rolling lawns on
which croquet and badminton could be played were far more suitable for children than the fussy, tropical landscaping of the
house in Pasadena. There was a pool, and a four-car garage. Hidden by trees at the edge of the property was a stone storage
building that had been converted into a stable for the kids’ Shetland ponies.