HardScape (21 page)

“The yuppie nightmare,” Jack chuckled.

“Poor guy looked like he hadn't slept indoors since the Korean War. So I peeled off a fifty.”

“Generous.”

“I'd just tipped a wealthy sommelier a hundred.”

“Did the old guy thank you?”

“No. He just took the money and leaned in closer. My driver's banging on the windows, like he's the one with the problem. The old man asks me, ‘Do you know what's wrong with capitalism?”

“This was some months before the crash, and I could not for the life of me think of
anything
wrong with capitalism.”

“Other than shoddy limousines.”

“Other than shoddy limousines. ‘Okay,' I said, ‘fill me in.'

“He said, ‘Capitalism runs just fine at eighty percent.'

“I felt like he'd dropped a paperweight on my head from the top of the World Trade Center. I had never thought of it that way before. Then he explained, ‘You boys do real fine at eighty percent, so long as you can pay enough cops to keep the rest of us out of your houses.'”

“Old guy should publish a newsletter,” said Jack.

“Yes, well, I was his first convert. That was the night I lost my taste for playing with numbers.”

“You know what I'm hearing?” asked Jack. “I'm hearing you lost your money in the crash and got religion.”

“No. I got rich in the crash. Morning after the old beggar, I moved all my ill-gotten assets into bonds.”

Jack Long stopped sneering abruptly. “You did?”

“Followed my gut. Made out like a bandit.”

Jack looked at his wife. “You see why I want this guy on my side?”

Rita said, “I'd hire the old man with the cup.”

Jack laughed. “Don't say no, now, Ben. Keep my offer in mind. Hey sweetheart, what's for dessert?”

“Sweetheart” reported there was Oreo ice cream, or lemon ice for anyone concerned about his weight. I had Oreo, and we withdrew to the drawing room, where Jack lit a smokey fire.

“Could I ask you something, Jack?”

“Nothing's stopped you so far. Shoot.”

“I saw your picture in the paper. What's it like meeting the President?”

“Less expensive than it used to be under the Republicans. With Bush, grip and grin cost seventy-five thousand bucks to the re-election campaign. This was much more…democratic.”

“You don't really meet?”

“He shakes your hand, speaks your name, gives you a big hug. This is a warm, huggy guy. You could walk away thinking he knew his ass from a hole in the ground.”

“Does he?”

“I frankly don't know. Back with Bush you knew right away you were dealing with an idiot, because while you tried to explain to him that
he
was the leader, he was rattling away about the rotten economy as if his gang hadn't been in charge for the last twelve years. This guy's smart, and he listens. Very smart. Look at the way he's end-run the White House press. Maybe he listens too much, but I'll withhold judgment. And he's tough. Comes out of bare-knuckle politics. I like his wife. Major asset. What worries me is whether he can rise above the people helping him. They're very young. They're ignorant of the past—which might not be terrible. But that young, that close to power, how soon before they believe their own bullshit?”

Jack snatched up his wineglass and emptied it. “You should have seen his ‘inner circle' that night. One of them did the Larry King show. King massacred the puppy, but they sat there telling him what a great job he'd done on King. Total fantasy.”

“What does it cost to meet the ‘inner circle'?”

“A whiff of cordite.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Jack was a war hero,” explained Rita. “That always goes down big with the Beltway crowd, no matter who's in office.”

“I was not. I was young and dumb.” He saw me waiting expectantly and laughed. “I joined the Marines when I left home. Went to 'Nam, very early on. Two tours and I was back in the world by '64.”

“He won a Silver Star,” Rita said with genuine admiration.

“Yeah, right.” Jack shrugged.

“Tell him how, Jack,” Rita prompted. Her eyes sparkled, and she leaned closer to touch his arm.

I felt a stab of jealousy at this unexpected insight into the early, better days of their marriage. Regardless of how things had turned out, they had once been hot for each other.

I chalked it up to the aphrodisiac charms of an older man's money, power, and “whiffs of cordite” for an impressionable young woman of twenty.

“Ben doesn't want to hear this,” Jack scoffed. “It was practically before he was born.”

“I do. I do.”

He looked at his empty glass a moment. “I'd trained as a helicopter mechanic. Back in those early days, we could not afford to waste anything. So when we had a chopper down with a blown engine, I jumped in with some parts, installed them, and flew the thing out.”

“In,” I gathered, meant in the Viet Cong's jungle. I was impressed and said so.

“You do what you have to do.” Jack shrugged again. “Before they do it to you.”

“Did you have any backup?”

“Forty-five automatic. Brandy?”

“No, I got to drive.”

“Oh, don't worry about that,” said Rita.

“I need my license.”

“No, no, no. Stay the night.”

“Sleep here,” Jack echoed. “We got an extra bedroom furnished upstairs. No one's using it, now. Right, Rita?”

“Stay. Jack, pour Ben some brandy. I'll have some too.”

“You've twisted my arm.”

Jack opened a cute little Chinese lacquered cabinet in the corner, came up with three balloon snifters, and cracked a brand new bottle of sixty-year-old Napoleon. He splashed generously into each, handed a smiling Rita hers, passed me mine, and raised his. “Welcome, Ben. Hope you're enjoying yourself.”

“Very much.” Jack was starting to confuse me. I had enjoyed his take on administrations past and present, and I wondered what else we had in common in our respective world views—he out there on the cutting edge, me snugged up in front of a fire with
The Manchester Guardian Weekly
for facts and moral position, the
Economist
for reality, the
New York Observer
for uplifting gossip, the
New York Times
for kindling, and the
Newbury Clarion
for moving violations.

Jack told funny President Bush and Reagan stories for a couple of rounds, and even a howler about our new Democrat—funny if it were someone else's country—and when he got up to pour a third time, I said, “You amaze me, Jack. You sound like a liberal.”

“The hell I am.”

“Jack has a short fuse when it comes to idiots, don't you, dear?”

He tossed her a black look and drank. Rita looked at me and gave me a little nod, which I read as saying, Push that button harder. The glint fired in her eyes by Jack's war story had long faded, and she was regarding him again with veiled contempt, which made me inordinately happy.

“I'm curious. You're in the thick of the economy. What would you have him do different?”

“He's overwhelmed by health care and the deficit. He's losing his focus on the main problem, competition. Pump money into research. Make it profitable for businesses to invest in productivity. Pay for the kind of advanced education the Japanese workforce gets. Pay for a Manhattan Project type program to build an electric car. For high-temperature superconductivity. Underwrite a light rail intercity-intersuburban system people would ride.”

Sounded to me like Jack Long's LTS Corporation had plans to expand into mass transit and electrotechnology.

Rita asked, “Where's the money to come from?”

Jack said nothing for half a minute. Then he spoke: “From hot-shots like Ben here.”

“You want to bring
back
the 'Eighties?”

“I want to bring back 'Eighties energy.”

I reached for the brandy.

***

Very late that night, tucked into the guest room where Rita had tucked Ron, I was blearily fantasizing that she would pop in to see if I were comfortable, when it occurred to me that I still had no idea whether Jack Long had been jealous enough to kill his wife's lover and then cold enough to let her go to prison for it.

The main subjects on his mind seemed to be money and debt. It probably meant nothing, but if there was one thing we learned from Robert Maxwell, Donald Trump, and even Rupert Murdoch, it was that they were never as rich as their bankers hoped.

I heard a soft knock at my door. I sat up, smiled, and called, “Come in,” innocently, and not so loud as to be heard down the hall.

Jack walked in with a couple of brandy snifters and a sheepish expression. “Kick me out if it's too late, but I can't sleep, and I really hope I didn't mouth off at you too hard. I like mixing it up in conversation, and then later Rita tells me I've been acting like a jerk.”

This was a different, extremely apologetic Jack, and I hardly knew how to take him. “Relax. I had a great time.”

“Want a drink?”

“Why not?”

He handed me a glass and sat down in the armchair. He was wearing a silk paisley robe. Where Cary Grant would have knotted his cravat, Jack had bundles of chest hair. I had never met a man so determined not to come from Park Avenue.

“Cheers.”

He turned out to be in a confessional mood.

“Shit, let me tell you, Ben, this is crazy time. I'm feeling pulled every which way. Before this hit the fan I was up to my eyeballs buying another Singapore operation. Then Rose calls me and tells me there's a dead guy on my property. Then he calls back and says it's Ron. Then it turns out Rita's sleeping with the bastard. This is not my idea of a marriage. But instead of wanting to shoot the bitch, which would seem reasonable, I'm worried about her trial. I'm worried sick. I got Rose lurching around like a loose cannon and a bunch of farmers hoping to crucify my wife. Anyhow, that's why I can't sleep. And that's why if I got out of line at dinner, I apologize. I been under a lot of pressure.”

“Why is Rose a loose cannon?”

“Huh?”

“You said Alex Rose was a loose cannon.”

Jack scratched his chest and crossed his hairy legs. “Al's all right. He's doing a crackerjack job backing up my lawyers. I've seen him in a clinch. The man knows when to hit. And he stays on top. He got to me before the cops.”

“I don't follow.”

“I pay to make sure I'm not surprised. When the cops called to tell me there was a dead guy on my land, I was already heading up here.”

“Rose told you?”

“Sure. That's what I pay him for.”

“How'd he find out?”

Jack peered into his brandy. “One thing I learned from my old man, when people bring you information, don't ask. It's like sausage. You don't really want to know how they make it.”

He struggled to his feet, gathering his robe. “Hey, you're passing out, Ben. Get some sleep.”

“Thanks for the drink.”

“Don't mention it. Anything you want in the house is yours. Except my wife.” He smiled as he pawed open the door, but if it was a joke it didn't quite work, and I felt sorry for him.

Chapter 18

At dawn I heard a car crunching down the drive; I fell asleep and awoke in daylight to the smell of coffee. Rita tapped lightly at the door and entered with a cup and saucer. “Good morning.” She had her hair in a braid and she looked all fresh-faced, as if she'd been walking. I could smell autumn on her sweater.

“Good morning.”

“Jack's gone to New York. He had a good time last night. He said to say Goodbye.”

“I had a good time too.” I sat up in bed, bunched the blankets over my lap, and moved the book to make room for the coffee. “None for you?”

“Be right back.”

I washed my face, borrowed somebody's brand new toothbrush, and climbed back into the bed, just before Rita returned. She perched on the deep windowsill, alternating between looking out at the valley and down at me with a smile.

“So? What do you think? Am I crazy? Or is he a killer?”

“I don't know.”

“What did he say about Ron?”

“He didn't like him much. Called him a momma's boy.”

“Momma's boy?” She smiled a secret smile that said she had a different opinion. “Momma's boy is Jack's lowest putdown. He's a little strange about family. He was dyslexic as a child. They treated him like he was dumb, so he left and showed them.”

“I got some of that last night. Anyway, he tore into Ron and got really ticked when I suggested they had similar backgrounds.…”

“Vaguely,” she conceded. “Except Ron was a happy child.”

“He likes Ron's father.”

“Nat's a character. Poor man. He's heartbroken over this. It's so sad.”

“Did Ron's father know about you?”

“I wouldn't put it past him to guess. But if he did, he kept it to himself.…What else about Jack?”

“He came by with more brandy after we went to bed. Apologized for mouthing off.”

“What else did he say?”

“He surprised me. He said Rose is a loose cannon.”

“I don't
like
Rose, but I wouldn't call him a loose cannon.”

“Yeah, well then Jack sort of amended that, talked about how he stayed on top of things.”

“What did he say about me?”

I looked at her.

“Boy talk?” she nudged.

“Sort of.”

“Don't forget you're working for me.”

“Basically he said he wished you hadn't had an affair with Ron.”

“That's it?”

“Said he was buying a new Singapore operation.”

“So?”

“He said the negotiations were distracting him.”

“He's exaggerating. We're snapping it up cheap.”

“Is Jack in debt?”

“Of course. How could he do business and not be in debt?”

“I mean really in debt.”

“I don't think so.”

“You told me you helped Jack manage LTS. You'd know his financial situation, wouldn't you?”

Rita looked out at the valley and considered her answer. “Until a year ago Jack didn't make a move without talking to me.”

I doubted that Jack's young wife had played as big a part as she thought. LTS wasn't exactly a family grocery store.

“What happened a year ago? Ron?”

“Before Ron.”

“So what happened?”

“Are you interrogating me, Ben?” She looked down at me in the bed. I couldn't make out the expression in her eyes.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You think your husband killed Ron. And you told me the other day that you think Jack threw you together with Ron. I want to know what's going on with you two. What happened?”

She sighed and hugged her knees.

“
HG
came to photograph the Greenwich house. I, in my
naïveté
, thought they admired my interior decoration. What I got was a bunch of horrible old women acting like they were doing me a favor invading my house. And it suddenly struck me that these gossips didn't give a damn about me or the decor. They were photographing it solely because it was Jack Long's house.”

“Your house too. You were partners. Right?”

“Do you want breakfast?”

She was angry. I tried to jolly her out of it. “Getting pretty sure of yourself around the kitchen, aren't you?”

“I've been reading up on toast.”

She swung her pretty legs off the windowsill and hurried out the door. I called after her, “Hey? How'd you meet Jack?”

“I was a bicycle messenger.”

“Beg pardon?”

She came back and leaned on the door jamb. “I dropped out of school to study at the Art Students League. My parents were really pissed; they wouldn't pay for it. I was supposed to be a lawyer. My father had a hardware store. He worked really hard and wanted me to be something special, which to him meant a professional. So I worked as a bicycle messenger.”

“Jack's limo ran over your bike?”

“No, I delivered blueprints up to his office one night, late, and he was alone. And we talked a minute. He was kind of fat and funny-looking, but I was so glad to be in the air conditioning. August and muggy. When I got down to Sixth Avenue they'd stolen my bike. You know, they spray Freon on the lock—freeze it and smash the brittle metal? It had been the worst day, and I was standing there crying when Jack came down with his blueprints. He bought me a new bike and then he bought me dinner and we became friends. Three months later we were married.”

Wondering where Jack had bought a bike in the evening, I asked, “Did that redeem you with your parents?”

“Jack was worth about a hundred million then. They thought it was a great idea.”

“How'd you go from bicycle messenger to business advisor?”

“Slept with the boss.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously, Jack saw I had a head for business. He'd been on his own almost twenty years. He hates partners. But he began to feel he needed a sounding board. He got in the habit of laying out a plan and I'd play devil's advocate.”

“That's very unusual in a corporate situation.”

“I had been at Columbia. I had to learn a lot of stuff to keep up with him—like what fork to use for salad—but I wasn't dumb. Keep in mind, none of this would have happened if Jack hadn't broken with his family. His parents would long before have found him the right sort of wife. Forks and Junior League and all that stuff that those kind of people need to make a family. A woman who'd breed the kids and manage the houses and give parties.”

“Why no kids?”

“He doesn't want them.”

“What about you?”

“We had a lot of fun, Ben. We were very busy. And I was very young.…I still am.” She turned to go. “I wanted a baby with Ron.”

I lay in bed awhile thinking about Jack. Fat and funny-looking, Rita had thought at age twenty. Not exactly aphrodisiac. Nor did it sound as if she had gone for the money at that moment in her life. Rather, she had seen past fat and funny to Long's dynamic energy, and had been charmed by the promise of action. While he, considerably older and wiser, had spotted a winner. Again I felt sympathy for him. How, he must be thinking this morning, had he screwed up?

Smoke drifted up the stairs. I climbed quickly into my pants. “It's okay,” I heard Rita call. “It's just the toast.” Blue haze hung in the kitchen. She looked flushed but happy as she stuffed black ash down the disposal. “The second batch is perfect.”

“Did you love Jack?”

“He was my best friend until Ron.”

“Would you call him passionate?”

“He's not cold.”

“No offense, but I read you two as a couple long past the jealous-rage stage. He seemed passionate enough about beating his father. He seemed passionate about saving the economy. But he doesn't seem passionate about you. Not enough to kill for you.”

“You just told me he wished I hadn't gone with Ron.”

“‘Wished.' He didn't sound torn up enough to commit murder.”

“He'd kill to win. Didn't you see that in him?”

“No. I saw a guy too happy in his work and too smart to risk the second half of his life in jail. I think when he found out about you and Ron, he wrote you off.”

“You're wrong. Jack knows I never ran around on him before. He wants me back. And with Ron gone, he's probably got me.”

“Sounds like you've made a big decision.”

“Not if he killed Ron.”

So that was my job. I worked hard on keeping a poker face, but I was shocked and dismayed. She wasn't as worried as she should be about her trial. She'd leave that to Rose and the lawyers. She was looking ahead, past an acquittal, hoping I could confirm that her five-hundred-million-dollar husband and friend would make a proper partner for the rest of her life.

It was a win-win plan. She could stay with the action, while remaining forever loyal in her heart to the great love of her life. Fantasy? Not necessarily. Romantic? Definitely. Practical? Maybe deep in the recesses of her heart she had left herself an out: If it all hinged on Jack's not having murdered Ron, who safer to prove that he didn't than an amateur?

***

“What's your next move, Ben?”

“I have to think about it.”

I thought about it all weekend, which was a humbling experience, as I hadn't put my mind to much except selling houses for a couple of years. I wondered some more about Jack's financial situation. But the weekend was no time to gather business gossip; I'd been out of the loop too long to bother people at home. So I posed a question: If Jack didn't kill Ron, who did?

How about Alex Rose, the man in the middle? Security man. Intelligence gatherer. Tame gofer. Was he a rich man's indulgence, or a shrewd operator who protected Jack's back? A loose cannon?

No man is a hero to his valet, cynical Victorians smiled. Did Alex Rose ever wonder how'd the boss get so rich? Or did he leap when the boss hinted how happy he'd be if Ronald Pearlman disappeared?

By Sunday morning at the Drover, I was all over the map. It was still possible, regardless of the lack of police evidence, that some damned fool Chevalley or the like had accidentally blasted Ron from the woods. My cousin Pink might have heard by now. But he'd never tell me, much less the state cops.

Sunday night, I telephoned a portrait painter I'd sold a barn to. I had waited until dark because he once told me, “I have a jealous mistress. Her name is Daylight.” He was slurring a little, as if he were two-timing her with another called Chardonnay.

“I've got an art question for you,” I said. “When you're painting a face, do you ever do the skull first as a foundation?”

“Foundation?”

“First you draw the skull, then the muscles and flesh, then the skin?”

“Sure. I used to do a series of sketches when I was starting out.”

“A series of sketches? What about doing them one on top of another?”

“That would entail a lot of erasing.”

“But you could paint over the drawing,” I persisted, vaguely aware a lawyer would object that I was leading the witness, “couldn't you?”

“Sure you could,” he answered affably. “What, are you taking a course?”

Sautéing a plate of mushroom-stuffed cappelletti, I found myself focusing on Jack again. Maybe it was because money was what I knew best, but I just couldn't ignore the possibility that Jack Long might be in serious debt. I was probing like a player, feeling for rust in his armor.

***

Six o'clock Monday morning I unlimbered my old Rolodex and started working the phones. Thirty percent of my former colleagues had vanished like ice in August. The rest sounded only mildly chastened, and many seemed to be enjoying a grand old time.

I got some very wary Hellos—and some even warier inquiries as to how I was doing—until I assured them I was not looking for a job. That they took the calls at all was less a matter of friendship than fear. It was widely known that I had declined to cooperate with the Securities and Exchange Commission and wildly rumored that I had told the United States Attorney to take a hike—which wasn't remotely the language I had used when I found myself emptying my pockets on his desk. But people wondered what I knew, and if I had changed my mind about spilling it. So they took my calls and promised to keep their traps shut about my questions. Unfortunately, they didn't have much in the way of answers.

LTS was privately held, so Jack Long was legally permitted to play it very close to the vest. No public offerings, no stock, therefore no prospectus, no SEC filings, no analysts' reports. That didn't mean Long didn't borrow money, but he was privileged to borrow it quietly. A full morning's work on the phone—sixty calls—got me the names of several institutions that
might
act as Long's bankers. Rita was paying the telephone bills, so I kept dialing. Finally, Bob Mayall, a savvy independent investment banker who was more of a friend than most, asked
me
a question.

“Why don't you call Leslie Harkin?”

I had known in the back of my mind that her name would surface in one of these conversations. I hadn't looked forward to it.

“Are you still on the line?” Mayall asked.

“Yeah, I'm here. I doubt she'd take my call.”

“She owes you at least a call, Ben.”

“Is she back from London?”

“Via Tokyo.”

“I thought the Japanese were out of money.”

Mayall sighed. “Back in the woods, do you remember when the Lexus came on the scene?”

“Good-looking automobile.”

“Yes, well, what the Japanese taught themselves about finish and performance to build the Lexus and the Infiniti, they are now translating down to ordinary cars. Low-end luxury-quality Toyotas and Subarus are going to blow what remains of Detroit out of the water. The Japanese are merely catching their breath. Leslie Harkin is up to her shapely butt in Silicon Valley, running M&As paid for by Tokyo.”