The Carpetbaggers (3 page)

McAllister rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You'll do all right."

I gestured toward the couch. "I won't always have him there to help me."

McAllister didn't speak. I glanced over at Nevada. He had been leaning against the wall silently all the time. His eyes flickered under the veiled lids. He took out a pack of makin's and began to roll a cigarette. I turned back to McAllister.

"I'm going to need a lot of help," I said.

McAllister showed his interest with his eyes. He didn't speak.

"I’ll need an adviser, a consultant and a lawyer," I continued. "Are you available?"

He spoke slowly. "I don't know whether I can find the time, Jonas," he said. "I've got a pretty heavy practice."

"How heavy?"

"I gross about sixty thousand a year."

"Would a hundred thousand move you to Nevada?"

His answer came quick. "If you let me draw the contract."

I took out a pack of cigarettes and offered him one. He took it and I stuck one in my mouth. I struck a match and held it for him. "O.K.," I said.

He stopped in the middle of the light. He looked at me quizzically. "How do you know you can afford to pay me that kind of money?"

I lit my own cigarette and smiled. "I didn't know until you took the job. Then I was sure."

A returning smile flashed across his face and vanished. Then he was all business. "The first thing we have to do is call a meeting of the board of directors and have you officially elected president of the company. Do you think there might be any trouble on that score?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so. My father didn't believe in sharing. He kept ninety per cent of the stock in his own name and according to his will, it comes to me on his death."

"Do you have a copy of the will?"

"No," I answered. "But Denby must. He has a record of everything my father ever did."

I hit the buzzer and Denby came in.

"Get me a copy of my father's will," I ordered.

A moment later, it was on the desk — all official, with a blue lawyer's binding. I pushed it over to McAllister. He flipped through it quickly.

"It's in order," he said. "The stock is yours all right. We better get it probated right away."

I turned to Denby questioningly. Denby couldn't wait to answer. The words came tumbling out. "Judge Haskell in Reno has it on file."

"Call him and tell him to move on it right away," I said. Denby started out. I stopped him. "And when you get through with him, call the directors and tell him I'm having a special meeting of the board at breakfast tomorrow. At my house."

Denby went out and I turned back to McAllister. "Is there anything else I ought to do, Mac?"

He shook his head slowly. "No, not right now. There's only the German contract. I don't know too much about it but I heard your father say it was a great opportunity. It's got something to do with a new kind of product. Plastics, I think he called it."

I ground out my cigarette in the ash tray on the desk. "Have Denby give you the file on it. You look at it tonight and give me a breakdown tomorrow morning before the board meeting. I’ll be up at five o'clock."

A strange look began to come over McAllister's face. For a moment, I didn't know what it was, then I recognized it. Respect. "I'll be there at five, Jonas."

He got up and started for the door. I called to him before he reached it, "While you're at it, Mac, have Denby give you a list of the other stockholders in the company. I think I ought to know their names before the meeting."

The look of respect on his face grew deeper. "Yes, Jonas," he said, going out the door.

I swung around to Nevada and looked up at him. "What do you think?" I asked.

He waited a long moment before he answered. Then he spit away a piece of cigarette paper that clung to his lip. "I think your old man is resting real easy."

That reminded me. I had almost forgotten. I got up from the chair and walked around the desk and over to the couch. I picked up the blanket and looked down at him.

His eyes were closed and his mouth was grim. There was a slightly blue stain under the skin of his right temple, going on up into the hairline. That must be the embolism, I thought.

Somehow, deep inside of me, I wanted some tears to come out for him. But there weren't any. He had abandoned me too long ago — that day on the porch when he threw me to Nevada.

I heard the door behind me open and I dropped the blanket back and turned around. Denby was standing in the doorway.

"Jake Platt wants to see you, sir."

Jake was the plant manager. He kept the wheels turning. He also listened to the wind and by now the word must be racing all over the plant.

"Send him in," I said.

He appeared in the doorway beside Denby as soon as the words were out of my mouth. He was a big, heavy man. He even walked heavy. He came into the office, his hand outstretched. "I just heard the sad news." He crossed over to the couch and looked down at my father's body, his face assuming his best Irish-wake air. "It's a sad loss, indeed. Your father was a great man." He shook his head mournfully. "A great man."

I walked back behind the desk. And you're a great actor, Jake Platt, I thought. Aloud I said, "Thank you, Jake."

He turned to me, his face brightening at the thought of his act going over. "And I want you to know if there's anything you want of me, anything at all, just call on me."

"Thank you, Jake," I said again. "It's good to know there are men like you in my corner."

He preened almost visibly at my words. His voice lowered to a confidential tone. "The word's all over the plant now. D'ya think I ought to say something to them? You know them Mexicans and Indians. They're a might touchy and nervous and need a little calming down."

I looked at him. He was probably right. "That's a good idea, Jake. But I think it would seem better if I talk to them myself."

Jake had to agree with me whether he liked it or not. That was his policy. Not to disagree with the boss. "That's true, Jonas," he said, masking his disappointment. "If you feel up to it."

"I feel up to it," I said, starting for the door.

Nevada's voice came after me. "What about him?"

I turned back and followed his glance to the couch. "Call the undertakers and have them take care of him. Tell them we want the best casket in the state."

Nevada nodded.

"Then meet me out in front with the car and we'll go home." I went out the door without waiting for his reply. Jake trotted after me as I turned down the back corridor and went out onto the stairway leading to the plant.

Every eye in the factory turned toward me as I came through that doorway onto the little platform at the top of the staircase. Jake held up his hands and quiet began to fall in the factory. I waited until every machine in the place had come to a stop before I spoke. There was something eerie about it. It was the first time I had ever heard the factory completely silent. I began to speak and my voice echoed crazily through the building.

"Mi padre ha muerto."
I spoke in Spanish. My Spanish wasn't very good but it was their language and I continued in it. "But I, his son, am here and hope to continue in his good work. It is indeed too bad that my father is not here to express his appreciation to all you good workers himself for everything you have done to make this company a success. I hope it is enough for you to know that just before he passed away, he authorized a five-per-cent increase in wages for every one of you who work in the plant."

Jake grabbed my arm frantically. I shook his hand off and continued. "It is my earnest wish that I continue to have the same willing support that you gave to my father. I trust you will be patient with me for I have much to learn. Many thanks and may you all go with God."

I started down the steps and Jake came after me. The workers made a path as I walked through. They were silent for the most part; occasionally, one would touch me reassuringly as I passed by. Twice I saw tears in someone's eyes. At least my father didn't go uncried for. Even if they were tears in the eyes of someone who didn't know him.

I came out of the factory into the daylight and blinked my eyes. The sun was still in the sky. I had almost forgotten it was there, it seemed so long ago.

The big Pierce-Arrow was right in front of the door, with Nevada at the wheel. I started across toward it. Jake's hand on my arm stopped me. I turned toward him.

His voice was half whining. "What did you have to go and do that for, Jonas? You don't know them bastards like I do. Give 'em an inch, they'll want your arm. Your father was always after me to keep the pay scale down."

I stared at him coldly. Some people didn't learn fast enough. "Did you hear what I said in there, Jake?"

"I heard what you said, Jonas. That's what I'm talking about. I— "

I cut him off. "I don't think you did, Jake," I said softly. "My first words were
'Mi padre ha muerto.'
My father is dead."

"Yes, but— "

"That means exactly what it says, Jake. He's dead. But I'm not. I'm here and the only thing you better remember is that I'm exactly like him in just one way. I’ll take no crap from anyone who works for me, and anyone who doesn't like what I do can get the hell out!"

Jake learned fast. He was at the car door, holding it open for me. "I didn't mean anything, Jonas. I only— "

There was no use explaining to him that if you pay more, you get more. Ford had proved that when he gave his workers raises the year before. He more than tripled production. I got into the car and looked back at the factory. The black, sticky tar on the roof caught my eye. I remembered it from the plane.

"Jake," I said. "See that roof?"

He turned toward it and peered at it. His voice was puzzled. "Yes, sir?"

Suddenly I was very tired. I leaned back against the cushions and closed my eyes. "Paint it white," I said.

I DOZED AS THE BIG PIERCE ATE UP THE TWENTY MILES between my father's new house and the factory. Every once in a while, I would open my eyes and catch a glimpse of Nevada watching me in the rear-view mirror, then my eyes would close again as if weighted down by lead.

I hate my father and I hate my mother and if I had had sisters and brothers, I would hate them, too. No, I didn't hate my father. Not any more. He was dead. You don't hate the dead. You only remember them. And I didn't hate my mother. She wasn't my mother, anyway. I had a stepmother. And I didn't hate her. I loved her.

That was why I had brought her home. I wanted to marry her. Only, my father said I was too young. Nineteen was too young, he had said. But he wasn't too young. He married her a week after I had gone back to college.

I met Rina at the country club two weeks before vacation was over. She came from back East, someplace in Massachusetts called Brookline, and she was like no one I had ever met before. All the girls out here are dark and tanned from the sun, they walk like men, talk like men, even ride like men. The only time you can be sure they are something else is in the evenings, when they wear skirts instead of Levi's, for even at the swimming pool, according to the fashion, they look like boys. Flat-chested and slim-hipped.

But Rina was a girl. You couldn't miss that. Especially in a bathing suit, the way she was the first time I saw her. She was slim, all right and her shoulders were broad, maybe too broad for a woman. But her breasts were strong and full, jutting rocks against the silk-jersey suit that gave the lie to the fashion. You could not look at them without tasting the milk and honey of their sweetness in your mouth. They rested easy on a high rib cage that melted down into a narrow waist that in turn flared out into slim but rounded hips and buttocks.

Her hair was a pale blond that she wore long, tied back behind her head, again contrary to fashion. Her brow was high, her eyes wide apart and slightly slanted, the blue of them reflecting a glow beneath their ice. Her nose was straight and not too thin, reflecting her Finnish ancestry. Perhaps her only flaw was her mouth. It was wide — not generous-wide, because her lips were not full enough. It was a controlled mouth that set firmly on a tapered, determined chin.

She had gone to Swiss finishing schools, was slow to laughter and reserved in her manner. In two days, she had me swinging from the chandeliers. Her voice was soft and low and had a faintly foreign sound that bubbled in your ear.

It was about ten days later, at the Saturday-night dance at the club, that I first knew how much I wanted her. It was a slow, tight waltz and the lights were down low and blue. Suddenly she missed half a step. She looked up at me and smiled that slow smile.

"You're very strong," she said and pressed herself back against me.

I could feel the heat from her loins pouring into me as we began to dance again. At last, I couldn't stand it any more. I took her arm and started from the dance floor.

She followed me silently out to the car. We climbed into the big Duesenberg roadster and I threw it into gear and we raced down the highway. The night air on the desert was warm. I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes. Her head was back against the seat, her eyes closed to the wind.

I turned off into a date grove and cut the motor. She was still leaning back against the seat. I bent over and kissed her mouth.

Her mouth neither gave nor took. It was like a well on an oasis in the desert. It was there for when you needed it. I reached for her breast. Her hand caught mine and held it.

I lifted my head and looked at her. Her eyes were open and yet they were guarded. I could not see into them. "I want you," I said.

Her eyes did not change expression. I could hardly hear her voice. "I know."

I moved toward her again. This time, her hand against my chest, stopped me.

"Lend me your handkerchief," she said, taking it from my breast pocket.

It fluttered whitely in the night, then dropped from sight with her hands. She didn't raise her head from the back of the seat, she didn't speak, she just watched me with those guarded eyes.

I felt her searching fingers and I leaned toward her but somehow she kept me from getting any closer to her. Then suddenly, I felt an exquisite pain rushing from the base of my spine and I almost climbed halfway out of the seat.