Private affairs : a novel (25 page)

He finished his presentation and the men around the table nodded approvingly. Rourke smiled. For two hours he had watched Matt, occasionally jotting a note on a pad of paper, his eyes noncommittal. And for those two hours Matt had made sure his own eyes were steady when they met Rourke's. He knew he was on trial; for at least the first year he assumed everything would be a test. And he liked that: the feeling of being on edge, tense with energy and purpose, trying a little harder each day. If Rourke had given him the whole wallet with no strings, no watchdog committee, no test runs, Matt would have thought him a fool.

And there was none of the fool about Rourke. Matt had never met a sharper businessman; one who could more swiftly and unerringly judge someone; who could spot a flaw in a situation or a weakness in a man and use them to his own advantage. He knew Rourke's silence was not necessarily approval or disapproval; most of the time it simply meant he was watching, measuring, judging. He would take part when the time was right, to settle a dispute or make a decision.

If my father had been that decisive and single-minded, he could have been anything he wanted, instead of a disappointed old man relying on his son to live out what was left of his dreams.

"So if we can get him to take six million." Rourke's chief accountant was saying, "or, better yet, five and a half: then cut total personnel by fifteen percent and increase circulation by a third I'd have no prob-

lem with that "

"No problem!" one of the lawyers repeated, chuckling. "Will he come down to five and a half. Matt?"

"I doubt it. We ought to get it for seven, though. Maybe six and a half. He's trying not to show how desperate he is, so I'm not sure, but it's obvious there's a serious problem—"

"Two of them," Chet Colfax cut m. "One is. he can't keep away from the horses and he bets wrong nine times out of ten. The other is James Junior, known as Jim Bob. He likes horses, too, but even more he favors blackjack at Las Vegas and expensive women anywhere. He and his papa have run through most of their money. And a few months ago Jim Bob started passing bad checks. Which Papa has so far made good on."

No one asked where Colfax got his information or if it was correct. It was his job to get information: it was his job to be correct. "By borrowing." Rourke said.

'"Yes. indeed," Colfax responded. "Ten thousand from one friend, fifty from another, a quarter of a million from a pal m Ohio . . . there's a substantial list."

"Demand notes." said Rourke.

Colfax nodded.

"Matt," Rourke said easily, "let's start with three and a half."

"He won't take it," said Matt. "He knows it's worth more."

"Of course he does. If we know it's irresistible at five and a half, so does he. And of course he'd like six or more; who wouldn't if he had to follow his son around, cleaning up his shit 0 But my guess is he'll take four and a half rather than wait. So start with three and a half."

"And if I have to go to five?"

"If you play it right, you won't have to."

Matt hesitated. Play it right. But he had made it clear he thought six and a half million a good price. If Rourke thought him naive, or incompetent . . . "I'll see what I can do," he said.

"Call me as soon as you know." Rourke moved on to other business and Matt sat back and listened. Well be moving very fast. He should have said, Learning very fast He wondered if they all thought he was out of his league.

But after the meeting, Rourke put his arm around Man's shoulders as they walked to his ofike, "Listen, son. I know you can handle Graham. If Chet is right—and Chet is always right about these things—Jim Bob

won't be around; you'll just have the old man. A father disappointed by a son." He gave a short laugh, almost a bark. "Take it from me; he's vulnerable."

Matt heard that short laugh again and again as he flew in the small commuter plane to Roswell. A father disappointed by a son. Odd: he'd thought of Tony Rourke as a nuisance, possibly a threat, when he kept showing up in Santa Fe to see Elizabeth, and again at Rourke's party when he saw them talking together. But since the day, two years ago, when Tony mocked him about getting away from his father, Matt had never thought of Tony as Rourke's son.

A father disappointed by a son. He remembered Rourke's hand on his shoulder as they had walked down the hall. Listen, son, I know you can handle Graham.

Gazing at the desert landscape below with its blowing tumbleweed, stretches of pale grass, dry gulleys, and narrow roads like knife strokes across the emptiness, it hit Matt suddenly.

No wonder Chet is in a rage. He wanted Tony's place for himself.

But Chet knew he'd never be a publisher, Matt thought as he walked across the airstrip to meet James Graham, standing beside his car. So all he wanted was the closeness. Listen, son . . . And Matt, unknowingly, had shoved him aside. Worse: treated him like a child, Elizabeth had said.

"Matt—glad to see you again." Graham shook Matt's hand. "Get in, get in, we'll grab some lunch, talk business over food, best way, don't you know, full stomach, friendly bargaining." Laughing too heartily, he opened Matt's door, then walked around to his own. He'd lost weight, Matt saw: his jowls sagged; the collar of his shirt was loose; a tightened belt pulled his pants into folds.

Graham followed Matt's look. "My go-to-meetin' pants," he chuckled. "All my jeans, every last one, in the wash. At least so the missus says; my personal opinion is she hid 'em so I'd wear what she calls real clothes and impress you. That's my guess, anyway. They impress you?"

"Your wife hiding your jeans impresses me more," Matt said with a smile. "She sounds like a woman of determination."

"That's her in a nutshell. Fine woman. Not always easy to live with, but I never doubt she has my best interests at heart and we've had forty good years together, which is a kind of record, I guess, with divorce as common as tumbleweed these days. Here we are."

They faced each other in a booth in a small diner on the main street of town. Graham drew small circles on the Formica table with the salt shaker. "I've been thinking, Matt, since you were here last; I'm not sure I made myself clear. I'm kinda tired of working, is the truth, and so is the

missus; we've been at it a long time. We figure, you only go around once and we want some time to relax before we're too old to enjoy it. Or before we die; people do, all of sudden, you know: they get sick, hit by a car, whatever. So we want to grab this chance while we have it. What I'm saying is, if you're here to talk business, I'll come down twenty percent. That ain't hay; brings it down to eight million. You'd be getting a steal; me and the missus would get our relaxing; everybody's happy."

Matt shook his head. "I'm sorry, Jim, but it's stiU more than I had in mind. We should be talking about—"

"Wait, now! Just a minute!"

The waitress brought beer in thick glass mugs. Matt wondered if it was Graham's standing order. "I'm not really hungry—"

"Got to eat! Got to have some lunch! Best way to talk! Chile," Graham said to the waitress.

"All right," Matt agreed. "That sounds fine."

"More than you had in mind?" Graham asked. "Eight million? Now I know you're a young man and new at this, but I did think we got along fine, Matt, last time we talked. I thought we agreed on what it is I've got for sale here, the value of it and all."

"We didn't come to any agreement the last time I was here; I wasn't authorized to make one. I am now. And what I'm offering—"

"Wait!" Graham cried again, trying to put off the moment when Matt named a figure, trying to get him to think higher before he said it aloud and they had to argue about it. "I'm trying to tell you I've been around a long time and I know what we've got going for us, what it's worth, that is, and I'm telling you to give a listen because there's lots you and your people in Houston don't know. They send a young fella like you—bird dog, sniffing around—and you act real pleasant first time around, but when things get down to bare ass, talking dollars and all, you get cocky. And you shouldn't, that's no way to do business, which you'd know if you'd been around long as I have, if you wasn't so raw, not knowing anything about—"

"Now you wait, Jim." Matt's voice whipped across the table and Graham's stomach sank. He'd said all the wrong things; his wife would tell him so when he recounted the conversation to her, and she'd be right. She'd wanted to come today, to do the negotiating, and he'd said no, but he should have let her; he was so mad inside he'd gone off the deep end, saying the wrong things, and now Matt Lovell, who'd seemed like a nice, simple guy, easy to handle, was furious and Jim Graham knew it was his own fault.

"I'm not here to talk about myself," Matt said. "I came to make an

offer for some properties you're trying to sell. If you want to talk about more personal subjects, we can discuss your son."

Graham's head shot up. "Jim Bob? What about him?" Matt was silent. "Well. News sure travels. Well, he'll find a job or something; he's a big boy now, have to make his own way. Like I said, you only go around once and it's me and the missus I worry about; we can't wait on Jim Bob to figure out his life. We can't wait, Matt. I mean, well, it's not like we're desperate, but the missus doesn't want to wait; she's always hockin' at me; your wife probably does the same; women are like that. So that's it. Twenty percent. Two million less."

"It's not enough, Jim."

"Dammit, I came down two million dollars!"

"I'll say it again: it's not enough. You're losing money on every operation. If we paid eight million dollars we couldn't turn the group around and make it profitable."

Graham downed his beer and signaled the waitress by pointing at his glass. "You most definitely can. It might take longer—"

"Jim, I can't sell this deal to my boss by telling him it will take longer than he expected."

A fresh mug of beer materialized on the table and Graham gripped it with both hands. "How long does he expect?"

"We're not talking about that; we're talking about price."

Graham slammed his fist on the table. "All right! What price are we talking about? I don't like games, mister! What price?"

"Three and a half million."

Graham stared at him, his eyes protruding. "You are out of your mind."

Matt shook his head.

"Three and a half?" Graham's voice went up. "Three and a half? You fucking bastard, do you think I'm some hick you can push around? You vultures from Texas come in here trying to ruin people—"

"I'm not from Texas." Matt wondered why he was defending himself; why he cared if Graham hated him. "I'm from New Mexico, just like you. Santa Fe. I work for a man who lives in Texas and he says he'll pay three and a half million."

"Santa Fe. Artsy-fartsy place, doesn't have anything to do with the rest of us. We work for a living; you fancy boys sit around and get rich licking tourists' asses."

Remembering what he and Elizabeth had gone through to keep the Chieftain alive, Matt burst out laughing. "Jim, you don't know the first thing about it. Are we going to talk business or not?"

"Shit," Graham muttered. "Seven million."

The waitress brought huge bowls of chile and a basket of flour tortillas. "Anything else?"

"More beer," said Graham.

The waitress looked at Matt, who shook his head. When she left, he said, "It's too high, Jim."

"Too—! Goddammit, this is eight newspapers we're talking about, television, radio, people, capital equipment, physical plant ..." When Matt was silent, he said, "Maybe six and a half. Okay. Six and a half. Shit, Matt, I thought you'd be easier on a guy. But I have my own prob— I have my own affairs to settle, plus the missus to satisfy, and that's as far as I go. Six and a half. If you're smart you'll take it and be grateful I didn't kick you out earlier and send you back to your vulture friends empty-handed. I'm helping you out, see, even though you're acting like a vulture yourself. But I did like you so I'll help you out and if you have a grain of sense in that stupid head of— Shit, forget I said that; sometimes I go too far. But I truly am helping you." He began eating his chile, breathing loudly. "Six and a half. Take it or leave it."

Matt ran his finger down the moisture on his beer mug. Whatever happens, he'll hate me. And so what? Keegan Rourke didn 't get where he is because people liked him. "What happens if your demand notes are called?" he asked casually.

Graham froze, spoon in one hand, beer mug in the other. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Otis Kearney, Fred Lepatta, Calvin Sherl, Ordrey Wayland—"

"Jesus Christ, you rattlesnaking son of a bitch, smiling and drinking beer with me and all the time your little spies out there looking under rocks . . . Well it doesn't matter, you hear? Those are my friends, they loaned me money and they'll be paid back when I sell my properties and they know it. They're not gonna call those notes and I am not gonna worry about it. If you're trying to scare me, mister, you have another think coming. Six million. Newspapers, TV, radio. That's it. You know about the loans, you know why I want it. Six million. If you say no, there's people who'll say yes. My friends won't call those notes, so I don't have to be in a hurry."

"But ycu are in a hurry; you told me you couldn't wait." Matt pulled a folded paper from his inside jacket pocket. "This is a list of names and telephone numbers. I talked to Ordrey Wayland this morning. He's heard of the man I work for; he knows his insurance business could double or triple if we steered clients his way."

"You told him that?" Graham demanded.

"He knew it. I reminded him."

"You didn't tell him you'd double or triple his business if he called my note?"

"Why would I tell him that?" Matt asked.

"No, 'course you wouldn't. You wouldn't have to." Graham shoved aside his chile. "You talk to any of the others?"

"No."

"You mean, not yet."

"I haven't talked to any of the others."

"But you would." Graham nodded to himself. "Five million would do it. It's worth—"