The Stars Shine Down (7 page)

He shrugged. “No skin off my nose.” He handed her a key. “Four-ten.”

“Thank you.”

Lara got in the elevator. It was slow and antiquated.
I’ll have it redone,
Lara thought.
And I’ll put a mural inside.

In her mind she was already beginning to decorate the hotel.

Room 410 looked like a disaster, but the possibilities were immediately evident. It was a surprisingly large room with antiquated facilities and tasteless furniture. Lara’s heart began to beat faster.
It’s perfect,
she thought.

She walked downstairs. The stairway was old and had a musty smell. The carpets were worn, but underneath she found the same marble.

Lara returned the key to the desk clerk.

“Did you see what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Lara said. “Thank you.”

He grinned at her. “You really going to buy this joint?”

“Yes,” Lara said. “I’m really going to buy this joint.”

“Cool,” he said.

The elevator door opened, and the young hooker and her elderly john emerged. She handed the key and some money to the clerk. “Thanks, Mike.”

“Have a nice day,” Mike called. He turned to Lara. “Are you coming back?”

“Oh, yes,” Lara assured him, “I’m coming back.”

Lara’s next stop was at the City Hall of Records. She asked to see the records on the property that she was interested in. For a fee of ten dollars, she was handed a file on the
Congressional Hotel. It had been sold to the Diamond brothers five years earlier for six million dollars.

The office of the Diamond brothers was in an old building on a corner of State Street. An Oriental receptionist in a tight red skirt greeted Lara as she walked in.

“Can I help you?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Diamond.”

“Which one?”

“Either of them.”

“I’ll give you John.”

She picked up the phone and spoke into it. “There’s a lady here to see you, John.” She listened a moment, then looked up at Lara. “What’s it about?”

“I want to buy one of his hotels.”

She spoke into the mouthpiece again. “She says she wants to buy one of your hotels. Right.” She replaced the receiver. “Go right in.”

John Diamond was a huge man, middle-aged and hairy, and he had the pushed-in face of a man who had once played a lot of football. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and smoking a large cigar. He looked up as Lara entered his office.

“My secretary said you wanted to buy one of my buildings.” He studied her a moment. “You don’t look old enough to vote.”

“Oh, I’m old enough to vote,” Lara assured him. “I’m also old enough to buy one of your buildings.”

“Yeah? Which one?”

“The Cong essi nal Hotel.”

“The
what?
”

“That’s what the sign says. I assume it means ‘Congressional.’ ”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Is it for sale?”

He shook his head. “Gee, I don’t know. That’s one of our big money-makers. I’m not sure we could let it go.”

“You
have
let it go,” Lara said.

“Huh?”

“It’s in terrible shape. The place is falling apart.”

“Yeah? Then what the hell do
you
want with it?”

“I’d like to buy it and fix it up a little. Of course, it would have to be delivered to me vacant.”

“That’s no problem. Our tenants are on a week-to-week basis.”

“How many rooms does the hotel have?”

“A hundred and twenty-five. The gross building area is a hundred thousand square feet.”

Too many rooms.
Lara thought.
But if I combine them to create suites, I would end up with sixty to seventy-five keys. It could work.

It was time to discuss price.

“
If
I decided to buy the building, how much would you want for it?”

Diamond said, “
If
I decided to sell the building, I’d want ten million dollars, a six-million cash down payment…”

Lara shook her head, “I’ll offer…”

“…period. No negotiating.”

Lara sat there, mentally figuring the cost of renovation. It would be approximately eighty dollars per square foot, or eight million dollars, plus furniture, fixtures, and equipment.

Lara’s mind was furiously calculating. She was sure she could get a bank to finance the loan. The problem was that she needed six million dollars in equity, and she only had three million. Diamond was asking too much for the hotel, but she wanted it. She wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted in her life.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Lara said.

He was listening. “Yeah?”

“I’ll give you your asking price…”

He smiled. “So far so good.”

“And I’ll give you a down payment of three million in cash.”

He shook his head. “Can’t do it. I’ve got to have six million in cash up front.”

“You’ll have it.”

“Yeah? Where’s the other three coming from?”

“From you.”

“What?”

“You’re going to give me a second mortgage for three million.”

“You want to borrow money from
me
to buy my building?”

It was the same thing Sean MacAllister had asked her in Glace Bay.

“Look at it this way,” Lara said. “You’re really borrowing the money from yourself. You’ll own the building until I pay it off. There’s no way you can lose.”

He thought about it and grinned. “Lady, you just bought yourself a hotel.”

Howard Keller’s office in the bank was a cubicle with his name on the door. When Lara walked in, he looked more rumpled than ever.

“Back so soon?”

“You told me to come and see you when I found a hotel. I found one.”

Keller leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about it.”

“I found an old hotel called the Congressional. It’s on Delaware. It’s a few blocks from Michigan Avenue. It’s rundown and seedy, and I want to buy it and turn it into the best hotel in Chicago.”

“Tell me the deal.”

Lara told him.

Keller sat there, thinking. “Let’s run it past Bob Vance.”

Bob Vance listened and made some notes. “It might be possible,” he said, “but…” He looked at Lara. “Have you ever run a hotel before, Miss Cameron?”

Lara thought about all the years of running the boarding-house in Glace Bay, making the beds, scrubbing the floors and doing the laundry and the dishes, trying to please the different personalities and keep peace.

“I ran a boardinghouse full of miners and lumbermen. A hotel will be a cinch.”

Howard Keller said, “I’d like to take a look at the property, Bob.”

Lara’s enthusiasm was irresistible. Howard Keller watched Lara’s face as they walked through the seedy hotel rooms, and he saw them through her eyes.

“This will be a beautiful suite with a sauna,” Lara said excitedly. “The fireplace will be here, and the grand piano in that corner.” She began to pace back and forth. “When affluent travelers come to Chicago, they stay at the best hotels, but they’re all the same—cold rooms without any character. If we can offer them something like this, even though it may cost a little more, there’s no doubt about which they’ll choose. This will
really
be a home away from home.”

“I’m impressed,” Howard Keller said.

Lara turned to him eagerly. “Do you think the bank will loan me the money?”

“Let’s find out.”

Thirty minutes later Howard Keller was in a conference with Vance.

“What do you think about it?” Vance asked.

“I think the lady’s on to something. I like her idea about a boutique hotel.”

“So do I. The only problem is that she’s so young and inexperienced. It’s a gamble.” They spent the next half hour discussing costs and projected earnings.

“I think we should go ahead with it,” Keller finally said. “We can’t lose.” He grinned. “If worse comes to worst, you and I can move into the hotel.”

Howard Keller telephoned Lara at the Stevens Hotel. “The bank has just approved your loan.”

Lara let out a shriek. “Do you mean it? That’s wonderful! Oh, thank you, thank you!”

“We have a few things to talk about,” Howard Keller said. “Are you free for dinner this evening?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

They had dinner at the Imperial House. Lara was so excited that she barely touched her food.

“I can’t tell you how thrilled I am,” she said. “It’s going to be the most beautiful hotel in Chicago.”

“Easy,” Keller warned, “there’s a long way to go.” He hesitated. “May I be frank with you, Miss Cameron?”

“Lara.”

“Lara. You’re a dark horse. You have no track record.”

“In Glace Bay…”

“This isn’t Glace Bay. To mix metaphors, it’s a different ball park.”

“Then why is the bank doing this?” Lara asked.

“Don’t get me wrong. We’re not a charitable organization. The worst thing that can happen is that the bank will break
even. But I have a feeling about you. I believe you’re going to make it. I think there could be a big upside. You don’t intend to stop with this one hotel, do you?”

“Of course not,” Lara said.

“I didn’t think so. What I want to say is that when we make a loan, we don’t usually get personally involved in the project. But in this case I’d like to give you whatever help you might need.”

And Howard Keller intended to get personally involved with her. He had been attracted to Lara from the moment he had seen her. He was captivated by her enthusiasm and determination. She was a beautiful woman-child. He wanted desperately to impress her.
Maybe,
Keller thought,
one day I’ll tell her how close I came to being famous
…

I
t was the final game of the World Series, and Wrigley Field was packed with 38,710 screaming fans. “It’s the top of the ninth, with the score Cubs one, Yankees zero. The Yankees are up at bat, with two outs. The bases are loaded with Tony Kubek on first, Whitey Ford on second, and Yogi Berra on third.”

As Mickey Mantle stepped up to the plate, the crowd roared. “The Mick” had hit .304 for the season and had forty-two home runs under his belt for the year.

Jack Brickhouse, the Wrigley Field announcer, said, excitedly, “Oh, oh…it looks like they’re going to change pitchers. They’re taking out Moe Drabowsky…Cub Manager Bob Scheffing is talking to the umpire…let’s see who’s coming in…it’s Howard Keller! Keller is walking up to the pitcher’s mound, and the crowd is screaming! The whole burden of the World Series rests on this youngster’s shoulders. Can he strike out the great Mickey Mantle? We’ll
know in a moment! Keller is on the mound now…he looks around the loaded bases…takes a deep breath, and winds up. Here’s the pitch…Mantle hauls back the bat…takes a swing, and misses! Strike one!”

The crowd had become hushed. Mantle moved forward a little, his face grim, his bat cocked, ready to swing. Howard Keller checked the runners. The pressure was enormous, but he seemed to be cool and composed. He turned to the catcher, looked in for the sign, and wound up for another pitch.

“There’s the windup and the pitch!” the announcer yelled. “It’s Keller’s famous curve ball…Mantle swings on and misses! Strike two! If young Keller can strike out the Mick, the Chicago Cubs will win the World Series! We’re watching David and Goliath, ladies and gentlemen! Young Keller has only played in the big leagues for one year, but during that time he has made an enviable reputation for himself. Mickey Mantle is Goliath…can the rookie Keller beat him? Everything is riding on this next pitch.

“Keller checks the runners again…here’s the windup…and here we go! It’s the curve…Mantle bails out as it curves right over the heart of the plate…Strike three called!” The announcer was screaming now. “Mantle is caught looking! The mighty Mick has struck out, ladies and gentlemen! Young Howard Keller struck out the great Mickey Mantle! The game is over—the World Series belongs to the Chicago Cubs! The fans are on their feet going crazy!
”

On the field, Howard Keller’s teammates raced up to him and picked him up on their shoulders and started to cross the
…

“Howard, what in the world are you doing?”

“My homework, Mom.” Guiltily the fifteen-year-old Howard Keller turned off the television set. The ball game was almost over anyway.

Baseball was Howard’s passion and his life. He knew that one day he would play in the major leagues. At the age of six he was competing against kids twice his age in stickball, and when he was twelve, he began pitching for an American Legion team. When Howard was fifteen, a scout for the Chicago Cubs was told about the young boy. “I’ve never seen anything like him,” his informant said. “The kid has an outstanding curve, and a mean slider, and a change-up you wouldn’t believe!”

The scout was skeptical. Grudgingly, he said, “All right. I’ll take a look at the kid.” He went to the next American Legion game that Howard Keller played in, and he became an instant convert. He sought out the young boy after the game. “What do you want to do with your life, son?”

“Play baseball,” said Keller promptly.

“I’m glad to hear that. We’re going to sign you to a contract with our minor-league team.”

Howard couldn’t wait to tell his parents the exciting news.

The Kellers were a close-knit Catholic family. They went to mass every Sunday, and they saw to it that their son attended church. Howard Keller, Sr., was a typewriter salesman, and he was on the road a great deal. When he was at home, he spent as much time as possible with his son. Howard was close to both his parents. His mother made it a point to attend all the ball games when her son was playing, and cheer him on. Howard got his first glove and uniform when he was six years old. Howard was a fanatic about baseball. He had an encyclopedic memory for the statistics of games that were played before he was even born. He knew all the stats of the winning pitchers—the strikes, the outs, the number of saves and shutouts. He won money betting with his schoolmates that he could name the starting pitchers in any team lineup.

“Nineteen forty-nine.”

“That’s easy,” Howard said. “Newcombe, Roe, Hatten, and Branca for the Dodgers. Reynolds, Raschi, Byrne, and Lopat for the Yankees.”

“All right,” one of his teammates challenged. “Who played the most consecutive games in major-league history?” The challenger was holding the
Guinness Book of Records
in front of him.

Howard Keller didn’t even pause. “Lou Gehrig—two thousand one hundred thirty.”

“Who had the record for the most shutouts?”

“Walter Johnson—one hundred and thirteen.”

“Who hit the most home runs in his career?”

“Babe Ruth—seven hundred and fourteen.”

Word of the young player’s ability began to circulate, and professional scouts came to take a look at the young phenomenon who was playing on the Chicago Cubs minor-league team. They were stunned. By the time Keller was seventeen, he had been approached by scouts from the St. Louis Cardinals and the Baltimore Orioles and the New York Yankees.

Howard’s father was proud of him. “He takes after me,” he would boast. “I used to play baseball when I was a youngster.”

During the summer of his senior year in high school, Howard Keller worked as a junior clerk in a bank owned by one of the sponsors of his American Legion team.

Howard was going steady with a pretty schoolmate named Betty Quinlan. It was understood that when they finished college, they would get married. Howard would talk baseball by the hour with her, and because she cared for him, she listened patiently. Howard loved the anecdotes about his favorite ballplayers, and every time he heard a new one, he would rush to tell it to Betty.

“Casey Stengel said, ‘The secret of managing is to keep the five guys who hate you away from the five who are undecided.’ ”

“Someone asked Yogi Berra what time it was, and he said, ‘You mean right now?’ ”

“And when a player was hit in the shoulder by a pitched ball, his teammate said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with his shoulder except some pain—and pain doesn’t hurt you.’ ”

Young Keller knew that he was soon going to join the pantheon of the great players. But the gods had other plans for him.

Howard came home from school one day with his best friend, Jesse, who played shortstop on the team. There were two letters waiting for Keller. One offered him a scholarship at Princeton, and the other a scholarship at Harvard.

“Gee, that’s great!” Jesse said. “Congratulations!” And he meant it. Howard Keller was his idol.

“Which one do you think you’re going to take?” Howard’s father asked.

“Why do I have to go to college at all?” Howard wondered. “I could get on one of the big-league teams now.”

His mother said firmly, “There’s plenty of time for that, son. You’re going to get a good education first; then, when you’re through playing baseball, you’ll be fit to do anything you like.”

“All right,” Howard said. “Harvard. Betty is going to Wellesley and I can be near her.”

Betty Quinlan was delighted when Howard told her what he had decided.

“We’ll get to see each other over the weekends!” she said.

His buddy, Jesse, said, “I’m sure going to miss you.”

The day before Howard Keller was to leave for the university, his father ran off with the secretary of one of his customers.

The young boy was stunned. “How could he do that?”

His mother was in shock. “He…he must be going through a change of life,” she stammered. “Your…your father loves me very much. He’ll…he’ll come back. You’ll see…”

The following day Howard’s mother received a letter from an attorney, formally stating that his client, Howard Keller, Sr., wanted a divorce and, since he had no money to pay for alimony, was willing to let his wife have their small house.

Howard held his mother in his arms. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’m going to stay here and take care of you.”

“No. I don’t want you to give up college for me. From the day you were born, your father and I planned for you to go to college.” Then quietly, after a moment: “Let’s talk about it in the morning. I’m very tired.”

Howard stayed up all night, thinking about his choices. He could go to Harvard on a baseball scholarship or take one of the offers in the major leagues. Either way he would be leaving his mother alone. It was a difficult decision.

When his mother didn’t appear at breakfast the next morning, Howard went into her bedroom. She was sitting up in bed, unable to move, her face pulled up on one side. She had suffered a stroke.

With no money to pay for the hospital or doctors, Howard went back to work at the bank, full-time. He was finished at four o’clock, and each afternoon he hurried home to take care of his mother.

It was a mild stroke, and the doctor assured Howard that
in time his mother would be fine. “She’s had a terrible shock, but she’s going to recover.”

Howard still got calls from scouts from the major leagues, but he knew that he could not leave his mother.
I’ll go when she’s better,
he told himself.

The medical bills kept piling up.

In the beginning he talked to Betty Quinlan once a week, but after a few months the calls became less and less frequent.

Howard’s mother did not seem to be improving. Howard talked to the doctor. “When is she going to be all right?”

“In a case like this, it’s hard to tell, son. She could go on for months like this, or even years. Sorry I can’t be more specific.”

The year ended and another began, and Howard was still living with his mother and working at the bank. One day he received a letter from Betty Quinlan, telling him that she had fallen in love with someone else and that she hoped his mother was feeling better. The calls from scouts became less frequent and finally stopped altogether. Howard’s life centered on taking care of his mother. He did the shopping and the cooking and carried on with his job. He no longer thought about baseball. It was difficult enough just getting through each day.

When his mother died four years later, Howard Keller was no longer interested in baseball. He was now a banker.

His chance of fame had vanished.