Payback (2 page)

Leo said, “You make something here for a penny, export it to the States, you can sell it for a quarter, you can beat the competition, you can still make a pile.”

Leo said, “Shrewd.”

Mitchell said no. Mitchell said, “I make something here for a penny, I can sell it here for something like three-for-a-nickel. I can still make a profit and I'm giving the people here some high-grade medicine at tabs they can pay.”

Leo looked around at the concrete evidence of Mitchell's perversity.

Leo said, “Schmuck.”

***

The surfer had brought a little picnic to the beach. At a quarter after three he conceded he was hungry and forced himself over to a blanket on the sand. The beach was deserted. It was, he'd decided, a day for professionals, the hard-core neck-riskers ready for the risk—sixty-degree air, thirty-degree water, but the California breakers had been rolling like a dream.

The surfer kept grinning. He huddled in his sweatshirt, back to the wind, blanket wrapped around him; his teeth chattered slightly on the corners of his grin. He poured a little coffee from his Scotch-plaid Thermos and suddenly and happily lifted it in toast. He thought: To the entire Pacific Ocean. He thought, patriotically: Long may she wave.

He sipped at his coffee and registered a momentary flicker of alarm. A split second later and the surfer was dead before he knew what had hit him, his hard young body just a relic in the sand.

Nobody found him till the following morning—a sunny Sunday—a day when the amateurs flooded to the beach, and by that time he'd stiffened into true rigor mortis, his face in a grimace, his fists in a ball.

Nobody came upon the pale yellow packet that was crumpled and wadded and waiting in his hand.

That wouldn't happen till the middle of the night.

***

By Sunday at breakfast, the actual body count was still only five.

***

Mitchell, that morning, was sitting on the terrace of a three-star hotel room in Guatemala City. The woman in his bedroom, sulking on his bed, was from Venice, she'd told him, as in Venice, California. She was here buying Indian boleros for Saks. She'd said it with irony; the girl wasn't dumb and in fact was pretty smart. She was also attractive—good body, good company, good vibes, good in bed, but she seemed to think something here was leading to a future. A couple of sentences that started with, “And maybe when we get to L.A.…”

Mitchell'd said “Maybe,” and ambled to the terrace. The terrace was surrounded by large leafy hedges and he sat in his jockey shorts, lighting up a cigarette and staring at the ground.

He was thinking that any other man in his position would at least stop to wonder if he
might
fall in love, but he knew himself well; knew that if he tried it, he could go through the motions but he couldn't go the mile.

The girl came out to him, shrugging philosophically and stripping off her gown.

“Might as well get myself a good even tan,” she said cheerfully, and sprawled on the green-and-white canvas recliner.

He looked at her body now. Laid out in state. He knew what she was doing.

She said to him, “Just because it's one of those things doesn't mean we stop fucking, though—does it?”

He sighed. It made him unhappy to have made her unhappy. She wasn't a girl who would have said that before. He shrugged. “You just told me how you want to get a tan.”

She said, “And I do,” and then looked at him with anger. “But I don't believe you cast any shadows,” she said.

***

Later, he'd think of it and wonder if the line had been a prophesy, a curse, or just a statement of the facts.…

***

At a little after sundown, the actress's body was found, half-naked, on the living-room sofa, a packet of brand name artificial sweetener apparent on the floor.

The end was in sight.

CAT

1

Mitchell was yawning as they got off the plane and said he wasn't in the mood for any Hollywood party.

Leo said, “It isn't any Hollywood party, it's in Laurel Canyon. It's a Laurel party.” Then he said, “Why am I apologizing for it, it's a Hollywood party. Guy who's giving it's a hotshot producer.” Leo hit the ramp and shifted his suitcase. “You know what he makes?”

“Yeah,” Mitchell said. “Terrible movies.”

“Right,” Leo said. “Two mil a year.” He looked up at Mitchell who was dealing with a large elaborate yawn. Leo said, “You better watch that, you know. I'm not kidding. Any day now, it's nineteen-forty-seven. There'll be Un-California Activities Committees. And you know what'll happen? They'll take away your license. They'll call me as a witness and to save my own ass I gotta tell 'em: ‘Your Honor, he is unpatriotic. A man who's been living in the star-studded banner and he doesn't like stars.'”

Mitchell glanced over. “Or studs,” Mitchell said.

Leo just laughed. Leo was sixty and a champion black belt in public relations, an
éminence grise
in an area where everybody else was under thirty or died trying. Leo made out. He was trim, incredibly furrowed, but tan.

They moved through the terminal and threaded through the crowd. Mitchell thinking only of a long hot shower and a long cold beer. Maybe a Sunday night television movie. Fall asleep to it.

Leo said, “Quarter of seven.—Have you got any bags?”

“I don't know,” Mitchell said. “I worry. Any airport that calls itself LAX …”

“You're funny,” Leo said. “So I'll meet you at the entrance. In the meanwhile, you'll possibly contemplate your sins.”

“I doubt it,” Mitchell said.

He lit a cigarette now and paced around the floor. Waiting for three weeks of sweated-in clothes, bottle of tequila, Indian belt. The trip to Guatemala had gone pretty well, the factory was geared up and ready for production, and he hadn't gone down there and acted like a gringo-imperialist ass, so he felt a little mellow; patient. He was moving to a Mexican beat.

So was the baggage.

Leo at the entrance, leaning on the hood now and smoking a cigar, looking arrows at his watch. Leo had a stretched-out silver Mercedes and a tall black chauffeur. Leo once told him, “If I were what I ate I'd be a Maalox tablet but luckily in Hollywood you are what you drive.”

The car had everything. Television, telephone, tape deck and a bar.

And a blonde. She was sitting in the corner in a sable. Blank; a showgirl with Midwestern eyes; about thirty. Leo slid over on the seat. Putting his hand over Mitchell's shoulder, he said to the lady, “Now you see this face? You'll forget you ever saw it and remember what you said about mature older men.”

The girl said to Leo, “I think he's mature,” and to Mitchell, “I'm Debbie.”

Mitchell said, “Debbie, it's very nice to meet you.”

Leo said, “Handsome, polite, but an ass. As in stubborn.” Leo grinned. “I'm continuing my lecture.”

Mitchell said nothing, yawning now, leaning his back against the leather, watching the taillights zoom along the road. Leo had to talk. Fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly.

Leo said, “The deal in Guatemala—okay. Like I told you this morning, you might break even. Chalk it up to P.R. You want to bring low-cost drugs to the peasants—” He turned back to Debbie. “Pharmaceuticals,” he said. “This guy runs a pharmaceutical company. In case you turn out to be an undercover cop.” He turned back to Mitchell. “Where was I?”

“You were telling me to cut out the research.”

“Exactly,” Leo said. “You want to deal with reality, the research has to go. You have to understand this. Stockholders tend to be short-term thinkers. What they want is their dividends. They want another Ralph Lauren shirt. They want it now, and they don't give a shit about paralyzed veterans or Guatemalan peasants. They don't even know where Guatemala is but they know where Saks is. You follow what I'm saying?” Mitchell said nothing. Leo said to Debbie now, “Where's Guatemala?”

Debbie gave it thought and said, “Where you just were?”

“Case rests,” Leo said.

Mitchell watched some taillights zooming for a while. Then he said, “Yeah, but does she own any stock. Debbie? Do you own any Tate Pharmaceuticals?”

“Do I?” Debbie asked.

“You do in a manner of speaking,” Leo said. “It's the one that makes the artificial sweetener.”

“Oh.—Good,” Debbie said.

“Case rests,” Mitchell added, and thought he had it wrapped because Leo was actually silent for a second.

Mitchell watched a Bentley passing on the left; lady in back of it lining up a snort. Roadsign ahead: Los Angeles 8, Bel Air 17. Final scorecard in the Ballgame of Life.

“The trouble,” Leo said, “is you've been dreaming out loud. You're forgetting your purpose. The purpose of business is business,” Leo said. “The only thing that saves you is the fact that you can be such a bastard when you want.”

Mitchell said nothing.

Leo said to Debbie, “The man can be a shark. He gets hold of the sweetener. Beautiful maneuver. Then he takes the money and he pours it down the drain. He puts it into research. He tries to get paralyzed guinea pigs to walk.”

Mitchell said patiently, “That's what he does.”

“
Why?
” Leo pressed.

“Because somebody has to. Because somebody has to be a long-term thinker and a long-shot taker or we're going down the tubes. We'll choke on our own pragmatism, Leo. What's the matter with you anyway? You're starting to sound like you've been listening to Cy.”

Leo said nothing. He fiddled with the unlit cigar in his hand. “Okay,” he admitted. “He invited me to dinner and he did his little shtik. So let me tell you how it goes: Cy wants you out of there and don't underestimate the slimy little fucker.”

Debbie said, “Is that the slimy little fucker we met at Capalbo's?”

“That's right,” Leo said. “That was Cyrus Tate. Scion of the founder. I think you said he looked like a child molester, right?”

And Mitchell had to laugh. Picturing Cy with his nervous little body and his speedy little eyes.

Leo said, “He told her he's a movie producer and she thought he was even too degenerate for that.”

Mitchell laughed again and said, “No, he produces, and he almost gets it right. I think he came closest with
Thursday, the Twelfth
. Am I right, Leo?”

“No. You're wrong,” Leo said. “You can't just dismiss him. He hates you in an actually biblical sense. He'd like to see you stricken with some seven-year boils. And he'll fight you. You're gonna have a proxy fight. Watch.”

Mitchell just shrugged again and lit a cigarette. Nothing that Leo was telling him was news. The stockholders' meeting wasn't slated till August but already he'd caught the little stirrings in the wind. The troops had been massing. The last bitter dregs of the Tate family were even now rising from the bottom of their barrels, a family so quarrelsome that Thanksgiving dinners were served without knives, and now they were apparently united in a cause. Trying to get him to be drummed from the chairmanship and kicked off the board. Well … he could get overconfident about it and that, he was aware, would be asking to be kicked. But the thing was, he couldn't take it seriously either. Cy was a jerk. Such an obvious jerk that even the most venal stockholder would have to be aware that he couldn't run a vacuum cleaner let alone a company. So Mitchell wasn't worried.

Except, on occasion, in the middle of the night.

Leo said, “You can't just wait for it either. What you ought to have's a personal publicity campaign. I can get you an article in—”

“No,” Mitchell said.

“You want to just listen to a—”

“
No
,” Mitchell said, “so try listening to me. I told you to begin with. No personal publicity. Not ever. Not once. Not under any circumstances. No.—Would you like that again, Leo? Watch my fist. No.”

Leo stared. “What's the matter with you anyway?”

“Plenty,” Mitchell said, and let it go at that.

But of course Leo didn't. Leo kept talking while Mitchell kept yawning and looking at the road, saying nothing, trading smiles with a showpiece redhead in a bright yellow Saab, and by the time he tuned in again, the lecture was over. Leo was off now describing Guatemala. Or Leo's Guatemala. Twenty-four hours and he had it all down.

“It's hot,” Leo had it. “So what else can I tell you.”

Debbie didn't seem to want to know a lot more.

The limo pulled up in front of Mitchell's apartment—a skyscraper condo called The Harmony Towers. Mitchell liked to call it El Condo Pasa, imagining a lineup of vultures on the roof, waiting to eat it and return it to the landscape as a bucket of mulch. The chauffeur was out now and groping for the door. Mitchell feeling stupid. Mitchell in a faded pair of cords and a sweater while a black-suited person tipped a black-visored hat. He said, “Thanks,” and to Debbie and Leo, “Have fun,” and went into his building.

The doorman at the desk said, “You've got a lot of mail,” and went off to produce it. Mitchell stood waiting in the Decorator Lobby, catching his reflection in the long mirrored wall. He was tanned and his hair had gone blonder in the sun. In the overhead lighting he cast a peculiarly shrunken shadow, a canted little dwarf, and he flickered on the line from the girl in Guatemala that he'd cast none at all. He'd thought about that. In old superstition, the shadow was the soul and a man who didn't have one had sold it to the devil. Vampires, werewolves, Faust and Mitchell.

It sounded like the name of a law firm, he thought.

The doorman came back with a thick sheaf of mail, a four-inch stack of it, bundled in an
Esquire
and bound with some twine.

In his penthouse apartment, he tossed it in the bedroom and went to the refrigerator, looking for a beer, thinking of a pizza, possibly a monstrous pastrami-on-rye, a little coleslaw on the side.