The Stallion (1996) (45 page)

“There is rarely anything one can do about such a matter,” said George.

“You can do one thing for me. She says her name is Lady Penelope Horrocks. Find out for me who Lady Penelope is. Get me her history, her background.”

“Hardly my speciality, you know.”

“Someone in chambers will have access to an investigator who can do a rundown on her. I need to know, George. I need to know
right now?”

Van graduated from Harvard in June. He had not applied for admission to law school and said he wanted to spend the summer in London.

Alicia had a party for him. Betsy came. So did Max van Ludwige. Loren and Roberta flew in from Detroit. All the Perinos attended, as did Amanda, Dietz, and Marcus.

For once, Angelo and Loren agreed about something. Both of them took Van aside and asked why he had not applied to Harvard Law. And so did his father.

The young man became annoyed and was more than a little curt in dismissing the questions.

Betsy didn’t ask him. She knew why.

The day after the party he packed his bags in his room in Alicia’s house. Anna was with him.

She wept. “I won’t see you until—until when? When
will
I see you, Van?”

“I … well, I’ll be back, of course. It’s just that I’ve been away from my mother and father so long, I feel I have to spend some time with them, something more than just a few days now and then. I do have some obligations.”

“But law school. You didn’t—”

“Other people decided I should be a lawyer. I’m not certain. I need some time to think about it.”

Anna sat on the bed, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “You’ve turned cold to me, Van,” she said. “Is it because we haven’t had sex? ‘Cause, if it is, I’ll give it to you right now.
Right
now!”

“No, Anna. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is the problem?” she pleaded.

“It’s just that … we’re not very grown up. Neither one of us. We must take some time to think everything through.”

Anna fled the house crying.

Betsy did not see Anna. She came up the stairs and reached Van’s door five minutes later. She knocked once, then opened the door and walked in.

“Mother?”

Betsy sat down on the bed, where Anna had been. She was casually dressed, in blue jeans and a white golf shirt. For a long moment she stared at him.

“Mother…?”

“I have something to tell you,” she said coldly. “I spared you until after your graduation and yesterday’s gala. I don’t intend to spare you any longer.”

“Mother?”

She had a small photograph in her right hand. It was a police mug shot of a young woman, facing the camera with a flat expression. She passed it to him and waited for him to examine it. “Recognize her?” she asked.

“Of course. It’s Penny!”

“Lady Penelope Horrocks?”

“Yes! What in the world is—this?” He blanched.

“Lady Penelope Horrocks is seventy-two years old and lives in Kensington. The young woman in the photograph is twenty-five years old. Her name is Rebecca Mugrage, and she lives in Camden Town. The photograph was supplied to my husband by the Metropolitan Police. It was taken at Holloway Prison on the day she entered to serve a one-year term for credit-card fraud. She has also appeared in Bow
Street Magistrate Court three times on charges of being a common prostitute.”

Van tossed the picture on the bed. “I don’t believe it,” he muttered.

“You had better believe it. Have you been checked for HIV? She’s a damned good candidate for giving it to you.”

“Why?”
he sobbed. “Why would she…?”

“I intend to find out,” said Betsy grimly.

“She knew a friend of mine. She remembered where we met, at a curling match.”

“Information she couldn’t have gotten by herself,” said Betsy. “Someone helped her. And I, by God, will find out who. You, you damned fool, betrayed the girl you love and who loves you, for a professional piece of tail.”

“Mother!”

“That’s all she is, your Penny. And worse. And for her you didn’t apply to law school. I guess I haven’t been a good enough mother. Max or I should have taught you some facts of life.”

Van wept. “What should I do about Anna?”

“Tell her the truth. And don’t touch her until you’ve had a medical exam. Then call Harvard Law and see if they’ll accept a late application. You had an excellent academic record, and they might have an opening in the fall class. Stay here. I’ll ask Angelo to find you some kind of job. And learn to know who your friends are.”

Finding out who was behind Rebecca Mugrage was not difficult. She had presented herself as Lady Penelope Horrocks, not just to Van, but to the service from whom she’d rented the Jaguar. To rent the car without trouble, she had used a forged driving license in the name of Lady Penelope. Back in jail and facing a sentence for fraud, she gave a full statement.

Angelo stopped in London on his way to Berlin. He was dining at Neville House with Viscount George and Viscountess Elizabeth. For this candlelight dinner, Betsy had brought out the Neville antique silver: heavy ornate pieces that had survived wars and estate taxes. Although the
viscount knew of the relationship between his guest and his wife, he could not have been more gracious.

Not until after dinner, when they remained at table over coffee and brandy, did Betsy tell Angelo why she had so urgently demanded he stop here on his way to Germany.

“This is a copy of the written statement she gave,” said Betsy. “On the second page you see what she said about who hired her and funded her. Roberta.”

Angelo looked at the viscount. “Do people do things like this in England?” he asked.

Viscount Neville nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “We should like it to be supposed that we are more … civilized than Americans. But we are not.”

Angelo handed the paper back. “Betsy,” he said, “this means I am going to make war on your father. I am going to
destroy
him. Do you want to bail out, or are you with me?”

Betsy hesitated for a moment. “It depends on how you’re going to do it,” she said quietly.

“Not that way,” said Angelo.

Loren threw a file folder across his office. Papers flew.

“Goddamn!”
he yelled. “The sons of bitches have declared
war
! Do you know what this
means?”

For once, Roberta was flushed and flustered. Ned Hogan, XB corporate counsel, stared at the papers on the floor and made no move to pick them up—as once he might have done.

“All right,” said Loren hoarsely. “In the woodpile. We know who they are. Perino. Burger. Fairfield. So Mr. Attorney General Fairfield files a lawsuit…”

“I have to tell you, it might work,” said Hogan.

“Let me get this straight. Number One transferred thirty-five percent of the stock in what we then called Bethlehem Motors to the Hardeman Foundation. Now the attorney general of Michigan is saying the foundation has to sell a lot of that stock because—”

“Because the foundation is too heavily committed to one stock,” said Hogan. “A charitable trust—”

“I
know
a charitable trust! Didn’t I have Number One’s ass in nineteen seventy-two because he’d retained control of Bethlehem Motors by appointing dummies as trustees of—”

“So what have you done differently?” Hogan asked. “The foundation is a quasipublic entity. Its investments are subject to state supervision. That’s how Number One got the huge tax break. But he never
really
gave up control of that stock, and neither have you.”

Loren slumped in his chair and looked at Roberta. “Your girl in London is in jail,” he said. “That’s all that comes of your goddamned
subtlety.
”

“Don’t lay it on me,” she said curtly. “You knew what I was doing and approved everything.”

Loren slumped further, as if he would disappear down inside his clothes. “If the attorney general wins this suit, what happens exactly?”

“Some part of the XB stock held by the foundation will have to be sold, so the foundation can diversify its investments.”

“Sold?”

“At public sale. On the market. You have to figure that lots of investors will be interested. XB, which has always been a Hardeman family business, will become a publicly held corporation. Instead of ten or so stockholders, you’re going to have a thousand.”

Loren sighed noisily. “Perino will get up in a stockholders meeting—that personable wop asshole—and charm those idiots into—”

“Changing management,” said Roberta.

Loren nodded. His eyes narrowed. “Only if his fuckin’ car’s a success.”

Henry Morris telephoned Cindy, saying he’d like to send her a fax. She said it was okay; no one was home but her. In a few minutes the fax came through on the machine in Angelo’s study. It was a report to Henry from Blakoff Security Agency—

We have been able to obtain the following information concerning Professor Robert Carpenter.

His salary as an assistant professor of art history is $56,000 per annum. Over the past two years, however, he has deposited several large checks, aggregating as much as a year’s salary.

We were able to obtain the balance due on his Visa card. At present he owes Visa $6,325.87. We could not of course ascertain what he had charged.

We were able also to obtain some information about his telephone calls. One number frequently called by him, both from home and from his hotels, is in the 313 area code. That seemed significant, since that is for the Detroit area. A simple check in a reverse directory turned up the information that the number is the residence number of one Loren Hardeman.

Robert Carpenter heard the knock on his door in the Hyatt Regency. Cindy! He needn’t dress. Wearing only his white briefs, he unlocked the door.

It was pushed in hard, knocking him back.

The man who stood before him was bigger than he was but much older—not a threat, Carpenter decided, as he guessed who the man was.

He had decided wrong. The man kneed him in the crotch; and as he bent over in agony, the man grabbed him by the hair and drove his face down against an upraised knee. Carpenter felt his nose break. Released, he staggered back and dropped to the floor. “I guess you know who I am, Professor.”

Carpenter nodded. He had guessed. Perino.

He caught the blood from his nose in his hands. It escaped and dropped on his chest and belly. Perino went to the bathroom and came out, tossing him a towel. Carpenter caught his blood in the towel.

“I have friends who’d be glad to give you a major headache,” said Perino. “You know the term?”

Carpenter nodded.

“Fuckin’ my wife. No, more than that—playing games
with her affections. I don’t know … What’s the right thing to do with a guy like you?”

“Mr. Perino.
I love her!”

“Sure. For how much money? How much has Loren paid you?”

Carpenter covered his whole face with the towel.

“I don’t care how much,” said Angelo.

Carpenter looked up into the apparently calm face of Cindy’s husband. “How’d you find out?” he mumbled.

“I didn’t.
She
did. Like every cockhound in the world, you overestimate yourself and underestimate the women you play around with.”

“I swear I love her. I really do.”

“Tell
her
about that. Explain the calls to Loren Hardeman.”

Carpenter stared at the towel. His blood soaked it, but the bleeding was stopping. He coughed. “What can I say? What can I do?”

Angelo saw the bottle of Scotch on the telephone table. Sure. For Cindy. He walked over and picked it up. He poured two stiff drinks and handed one to Carpenter.

“I could arrange a major migraine for you, Professor,” he said. “Not here. Not now. Sometime, as a big surprise. But I think you’re just a cheap little piece of shit that got into something you couldn’t understand. Even Loren Hardeman”—Angelo nodded—“is a bigger man than you.”

“A richer man than me,” said Carpenter.

“So, a wanna-be,” said Angelo scornfully. “What do you want to be, Professor? The word on you is that you know your business. You just don’t know the business you’ve got yourself into.”

Carpenter hung his head for a moment. “Can I get up?” he asked.

“Sure. Go in the bathroom and wash your face. You behave yourself, and I’ll give you the name of a doctor who can put your nose back the way it was. He’s in Switzerland, and he’ll give you a new face entirely, if you want it.”

Carpenter returned. He’d slapped cold water over his face. His nose was flattened. It was turning purple. “Oh, shit,” he muttered and sank down on the couch.

“How’d you like a nice pill that will take away the hurt and guarantee long life?” asked Angelo.

“What?”

“Listen and repeat after me,” said Angelo.

Carpenter sat on the edge of his bed, still in nothing but his white shorts, his chest and belly still brown with his blood. He looked up at Angelo Perino and waited as the telephone rang.

“H’lo.”

“Roberta? Bob Carpenter.”

“What’s the word, Carpenter?”

“They’re having trouble with the batteries. The damned things
explode.”

“Solid
batteries explode? The story was, they’re using solid batteries.”

“Well, there’s some kind of problem. They’re still going to use the flywheel batteries, but with liquid batteries in the combination.”

“And they explode?”

“On impact. Not safe if the car hits something or gets hit. They ran a test car into a wall. The batteries exploded and shot battery acid fifty feet in the air. They’re trying to design some kind of armored container, but the thing will add too much weight to the car. They’re stymied.”

“Doesn’t sound like anything we’ve heard.”

“Okay. Who’s lying to who? Perino to Cindy? Or Cindy to me?”

“Loren’s asleep. I’ll wake him up and tell him.”