Aces (40 page)

It was better to be rich than poor, Hull had said. Campbell couldn’t argue with that. He and Herman had made themselves rich,
and brought Hull Stiles and Teddy Quinn along for the ride. Both Hull and Teddy were good men, but Campbell and Gold had been
the partners who’d made it all happen—

But now the partners were on opposite sides, Campbell thought, sipping from the decanter.

Campbell knew that money wasn’t enough, that a man needed a challenge to make life worthwhile. He’d worked hard to become
rich, and now he was risking it all in order to take control of the company he loved. Once Skyworld was in his hands he would
run with it; take it all the way. He would forge it into the biggest and best airline in the country, and maybe even the world—

He hadn’t been lying when he’d once told Herman Gold that he wanted the turquoise and scarlet fleet to dominate the skies,
but now it was going to be
his
fleet. Skyworld was going to belong to him. He was gambling his and his family’s future on being able to pull this off, and
he knew he could do it. He was positive he could—

But why was Herman calling this meeting? What the hell did he have in mind?

“Don’t underestimate Herman…,” Hull had said. “Remember what Herman can be like when his back is up against the wall…”

Campbell remembered, and shuddered.

He looked at the crystal and gold decanter in his hand. A hundred and fifty years old. Austrian. One of a kind, the shopkeeper
had said. Campbell had a photographic memory when it came to remembering how much things cost. The price tag on this baby
had been sixteen hundred bucks.

Campbell went to the terrace balustrade, drew back his arm, and hurled the decanter as far as he could. As it went spinning
away in the darkness, trailing a liquid plume of golden scotch, Campbell prayed to whatever gods paid attention to such matters
that he
win
.

He listened hard. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard the decanter shatter against the rocks. The black and restless ocean’s
crash suddenly sounded like the sustained roar of a distant, cheering crowd.

“Fuck it,” Campbell told the amused night sea. “Money isn’t everything.”

Gold paused as he walked by the Horatio Building, on the corner of South Olive and Sixth Streets. Saunders’s offices were
up on the tenth floor. Gold knew that in a very little while he was going to have to do some pretty fancy fast-talking up
there…

He looked at his watch. It was nine thirty in the morning, a half hour before the board meeting Gold had called.

“First things first,” Gold muttered to himself as he continued past the Horatio Building and then turned right onto Sixth.
As he walked he looked at his reflection in the storefront plate-glass windows. He was wearing an ivory linen, snap-brim fedora
and a very conservative, dark blue, pinstriped suit. Double-breasted. If ever there was a day to look youthful and vigorous,
this was it.

He turned left on Broadway and walked a couple of blocks to Berry’s Cafeteria. He went inside. The breakfast rush was over.
The place was fairly empty except for upstairs, where a few fellows down on their luck were smoking cigarettes and lingering
over their “bottomless” cups of coffee at the tables along the balcony. Behind the food service area the attendants in their
white coats were clearing the remains of the hotcakes and scrambled eggs from the steam tables. One of the employees was up
on a stepladder, chalking the lunchtime specials onto the big hanging blackboard:
Chicken Noodle Soup with Crackers 15¢/Macaroni & Cheese 35¢/Chipped Beef on Toast 55¢

Gold finally spotted Hull Stiles. He was slouched at a table against the back wall, beneath a sweeping mural of California
landscapes: the coastline, an oil field, a desert scene, a redwood forest.

Gold went over to the counter, ordered a cup of coffee, paid a bored-looking cashier in her booth, and then took it over to
Hull’s table. Hull was wearing a tan three-piece suit. Gold never could get used to Hull wearing a suit and tie, or anything
other than flying clothes. Hull’s square-jawed, leathery face, weathered by his years spent in open cockpits, looked drawn
and haggard. Gold noticed that Hull’s blond hair, slicked back and as thick as ever, had begun to show gray at the temples.
Time was taking its toll on everyone, Gold mused.

Hull had a tray in front of him. On it was a cup of coffee and a barely touched slice of apple pie. Next to the tray was a
crimson pack of Pall Malls, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The pie looked good, but Gold, thinking about
his ever-expanding waistline, decided against going back to get some.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet,” Gold said, taking a seat.

Hull nodded, fidgeting. “If Tim finds out…”

“He won’t.” Gold sipped at his coffee.

“The reason I agreed is I’d like there to be no bad blood between us,” Hull blurted. “Do you think that’s possible? We could
be friends again?…”

“You’ll always be my friend,” Gold said. “Christ, do you think I’ve forgotten how you saved my life? I’ll always owe you for
that, and for taking care of me again when you sent me that note tipping me off to what Tim was up to.”

Hull stared at him. “How the hell did you know it was me who sent the note?” Hull finally asked, lighting a Pall Mall.

“Actually I didn’t
know
, until just now.” Gold smiled. “But two things made me suspect it was you. The note was typed. The lowercase ‘t’ in the note
had a broken crossbar that seemed familiar. It reminded me of the broken ‘little t’ on that banged-up, secondhand Underwood
we bought for the Mines Field office, back when we first started Gold Express.”

Hull chuckled. “You got a good memory, buddy. That was the typewriter I used, all right.”

“I can’t believe you still have it,” Gold marveled.

“I got it up on a shelf in my office,” Hull said. “I got a lot of stuff from the old days.”

“Sentimental,” Gold said.

“Nah,” Hull said gruffly. He stared down at the ashtray as he ground out his cigarette. “Not about most things, anyway, but
I think I do miss our old days, Herm. I’m glad I got money, and all, but I almost wish we could go back to that time. We might
have been living hand to mouth, but we were happy, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Herman said.

“Maybe it was that things were simple,” Hull said, his voice full of longing. “I knew what I was doing. Now Tim’s got me acting
as his purchasing agent to accumulate Sky-world stock. I’m spending my days hunting down stray shares and keeping ledgers,
like I was a goddamned bookkeeper.”

“I heard that he had you doing that,” Gold said.

“Sometimes I got to remind myself that I’m still in the airline business…”

“You’re still in it, all right,” Gold said. “No one knows the ins and outs of the airline business better than you.”

“I can’t wait until I can forget all this stock business and get back to doing what I know…” Hull trailed off, shaking his
head. “You said there were two things that tipped you off about the note?” he asked briskly. “What was the second?”

Gold smiled. “You’re the only person involved who cares enough about me to give me a warning about the takeover.”

Hull looked miserable. “I do care,” he whispered.

“Then help me, now,” Gold said quickly.

“What are you talking about?”

“I can make it so that no one person gets hurt in this,” Gold said. “But I need your help to do it. You’ve got to trust me,
and do what I ask.”

“Has this got to do with this morning’s board meeting?” Hull looked hopeful, but the expression faded. “You want me to betray
Tim, right?”

“No,” Gold said firmly. “If you care about everyone involved, it’s not a betrayal to help put through a compromise solution
that will be to everyone’s benefit.”

“Why do I have to come into it at all?” Hull asked uneasily. “If your plan is so goddamned clever why not just do it and leave
me out of it?”

“I thought about trying to pull off what I have in mind without your help. It could work that way, but the chances of success
are a lot better if you’ll play along.”

Hull nodded in resignation. “You give me your word that nobody will get hurt?”

“No, I didn’t say that,” Gold replied. “We’re all going to be hurt. I can promise you that with my plan all three of us will
get something we want, but all three of us are also going to have to pay a price.”

Hull glanced at his watch. “It’s almost time for the meeting. We ought to leave here separately.” He laughed nervously. “It
wouldn’t do for us to be seen arriving at Saunders’s office together—”

He’s not going to help, Gold thought. He’d been counting on Hull’s cooperation. Without it, his entire strategy was in jeopardy.

Hull gathered his cigarettes and stood up. “You call me, tonight, at my home. You tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll
do it. All right?”

“Yeah… Sure.” Gold grinned with relief. “Thanks, Hull. But you don’t yet know what I have in mind—”

“Don’t have to.” Hull said firmly. “I know
you
. Whatever it is, it’s the right thing.”

Gold watched Hull leave the cafeteria. He figured to wait a minute to give him a head start.

A busboy wheeling his cart paused at the table. He eyed Hull’s tray. “Finished here?” the kid asked.

“All except the pie,” Gold sighed, lifting the plate from the tray. He polished it off in three bites.

Tim Campbell was waiting in the doorway to Layton Saunders’s conference room when Gold arrived. Campbell made a big show of
smiling and shaking hands with Gold for the benefit of the other directors who were already seated. He stood aside to let
Gold enter the room first.

“Get ready for world war two,” Campbell whispered as Gold passed him by.

All ten directors were present as Gold took his place at the head of the rectangular mahogany table. Campbell, as president,
sat at the opposite end. Beside him was Hull, the C.E.O. of the company. Next to Hull sat Layton Saunders, who was chairman
of finance. Saunders was a burly, bearded gent, partial to Irish country tweeds, gaudy satin waistcoats, and smelly cigars.
He had more money than anybody Gold knew. Saunders’s grandfather had been one of the original California forty-niners. The
old boy had struck gold in the rugged Sierra Nevada Mountains. The Saunders family had parlayed that stake into a West Coast
real estate empire.

Gold avoided making eye contact with any of the directors. On the wall was an antique Wells Fargo banjo clock, bracketed by
the dour portraits of Saunders’s father and grandfather. The clock chimed the hour.

“Well, I suppose we can begin,” Gold said, standing up.

He realized that he was sweating. He was having a hard time catching his breath. He stared down at the blank yellow legal
pad in front of him. He had to get hold of himself. Hell, back when he and Campbell were traveling around peddling stock he’d
faced far more hostile audiences. He could do this. He had to do it.

“Gentlemen,” Gold began. “I called this emergency board meeting for a specific reason. If Mister Campbell wins his proxy fight
and becomes chairman, he will acquire Cargo Air Transport, and with it, a Chicago to New York route that will make Skyworld
a coast-to-coast airline. I applaud Mister Campbell’s devotion to
my
company—”

Gold paused. He stared around the table, daring the others to contest his choice of words. The gazes of several of the directors
could not meet his. Gold suddenly felt comfortable. For the first time since this mess began he felt in charge.

“Yes, I do applaud Mister Campbell’s loyalty to Sky-world, but he is gravely mistaken in his intended course of action. I
called this admittedly unprecedented, emergency meeting because I intend to rescue my airline from the brink of disaster.”

Gold noticed that Campbell, leaning back in his chair, was smiling. Campbell winked, as if to say,
Have your fun while you can, Herman
…

And you smile while you can, Tim
, Gold thought, but resisted the urge to wink back.

“The proposed Cargo Air acquisition is a disaster because of its cost, and because of the evolving political climate in this
country. These two negative aspects are fundamentally related. Cargo Air’s stock price has been artificially inflated by the
unnatural conditions imposed upon the free market by the Watres Act.”

Gold paused for a beat; the way he’d learned to do in order to recapture an audience’s flagging attention back when he and
Tim were scouring the countryside in search of initial investors.

“The skies above this great nation are vast, gentlemen,” he continued, his tone reverent, impassioned. “There is more than
enough room for the various airlines to compete with one another for passengers.” Gold suddenly brought his fist crashing
down against the tabletop. A couple of the directors flinched. “All that’s stopping us is the Watres Act!” he declared fiercely.
“I believe that part of our
new
president’s
New
Deal may be a
new
look at this ill-conceived conspiracy by the postal service to barricade the heavens.”

Several directors, Saunders included, were frowning in disapproval. Gold had expected that: these men had come out early and
loud on behalf of Hoover’s reelection bid. They’d long ago petrified each other by exchanging rumors about how that “socialist”
FDR was going to “redistribute the wealth.” Ironically, these so-called capitalists supported government intervention in their
affairs through the Watres Act because it closed the door on new competition in their airlines industry. Gold hadn’t intended
to convince the Board to accept his antiregulatory point of view. He just wanted to plant an uncomfortable seed of doubt in
their minds concerning the uncertain future.

“If the chairman will excuse the interruption,” Campbell said. “We all know that in the recent presidential election Mister
Gold was a Roosevelt man.” Campbell made a show of looking at his watch. “If the chairman would get to his point, assuming
he has one, it would be appreciated. I do have a rather important luncheon date…”