Back Bay (9 page)

He took it out and examined it. He knew of no one at school who owned President Madison’s signature, but he could think of several who would pay handsomely for it. If he used only the flap, he could still destroy the text of the letter. He heard his grandfather’s cane tapping toward the door. He jammed the letter into the back of the ledger on the desk. He would return later to claim his prize.

W
illiam Rule tightened his tie and slipped into the gray suit jacket that his servant held behind him.

“Will you be needing the car today?” asked the servant, who was also his bodyguard.

“No, Edward. It’s a beautiful day. We’ll walk.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll wait outside.” Edward spoke very softly and seemed slightly backward, but his loyalty to William Rule was unquestioning and he stood at six feet four.

Rule went into the kitchen, where his third wife was sipping coffee. She was sitting by an open window, and the breeze was carrying the smell of salt air through the house. He came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, and kissed her on the back of the neck. She tilted her head back, and he kissed her on the cheek.

“Good morning, Ruley,” she purred.

“Hello, babe,” he said softly. “Have your suit on and have the boat gassed up. I’m taking the afternoon off.”

She rested her head against his chest. “I’ll have champagne on ice.”

Rule laughed. “Not so fast, babe. Champagne next weekend.”

“You’ve waited a long time for this, Ruley.”

“I can wait a little longer before I start poppin’ corks all over
town.” He lowered his voice and spoke with mock disappointment. “For today, I’ll have to be happy with poppin’ you in the boat.”

“And that’s too good for you, you son of a bitch.”

Rule laughed merrily and headed for the door. “See you at noon.”

“Ruley,” she said seriously, “stay cool. Don’t let them get to you.”

“I’ve got them by the short hairs, babe. If there’s any gettin’ to be done, I’ll be doin’ it.”

William Rule was thirty years older than his wife. He had picked her out of a Las Vegas chorus line one night when he was in the mood for a brunette, and she had stayed. She was one more symbol of his success, another beautiful possession, like the Lewis Wharf condominium where they lived, the cabin cruiser moored at their front step, the Rolls-Royce, and the Atlantic Avenue offices of William Rule Imports, Inc.

Rule walked out of his building and gazed across the harbor. When he had first come to work on the waterfront in 1938, Lewis Wharf had been a rundown row of warehouses and shipping offices, a remnant of Boston’s former greatness. Today, it was part of the renewed city and the home of some of Boston’s richest citizens.

Life had been good to William Rule in the last twenty-five years, and the sun felt warm on his face. Everything he owned he had earned himself in his climb from the tenements of the South End to the top of the business world. Beneath the Brooks Brothers suit was the body of a longshoreman, and beneath the black toupee were the heavy features of a Slavic immigrant. But his face showed little of his struggle. He had enjoyed success, savoring his women, his boats, and today, his walk across town.

Philip Pratt and Mr. Soames arrived at the home offices of Pratt Industries fifteen minutes before Rule. After the red-eye special from Los Angeles, Pratt needed a shower, a change of clothes, and a cup of coffee. He wanted to appear rested and relaxed when Rule arrived. His father always told him that the key to success in business was “Look your best and imagine that your adversary is dressed in paisley boxer shorts, dirty T-shirt, and nothing more.”
Philip Pratt had extended the axiom to every relationship in his life.

As he strolled with Edward across the Public Garden, Rule could admire the Pratt Building on the corner of Arlington Street and Commonwealth Avenue. Five stories of gray sandstone in the French Empire style, one of the first buildings erected in the Back Bay in the 1860s, it was the perfect home for a venerable Boston corporation. From out of that august structure, the tentacles of Pratt Industries spread into electronics, engineering, chemical production, real estate, and entertainment, and William Rule was about to control it all.

The Pratt Industries sign in front of the building was smaller than a doctor’s shingle and so overgrown by shrubbery that it was barely visible from the street. The Pratts seemed to consider themselves too important to attract attention. Typical Yankee stupidity dressed up as good taste, thought Rule, the sort of thing that was bringing him to power.

Miss Alice Allardyce ushered Rule into Philip Pratt’s office. Secretary to Artemus Pratt IV and now to his son, she had been guarding the door since 1932, and, as she told every visitor, very little had changed in the president’s office in the last forty years. Dark mahogany paneling, prints of sea battles and fox hunts, a mammoth desk, oriental carpets, a model of the
Gay Head
on the mantelpiece, the view of the swan boats down in the Public Garden—they were all the same. Only the portrait of Artemus Pratt IV was new. Rule reminded himself to pull it down the day he moved in.

William Rule and Philip Pratt greeted each other with an artificial warmth that expressed their mutual contempt. Pratt was joined by his cousin Calvin, chief legal counsel and member of the board of Pratt Industries; Christopher Carrington, their nephew and a lawyer in Calvin Pratt’s firm; and Mr. Soames. Miss Allardyce served coffee in bone china, and the gentlemen sat on the leather sofas in front of the fireplace.

“She’s a fine secretary,” said Rule. “Do you think she’ll stick around after the fifteenth?”

“I see no reason why she would want to leave, Mr. Rule.”

Although Philip Pratt’s aristocratic tone always irritated him, Rule resolved not to lose his temper. He considered anger one of his best weapons, but he found greater satisfaction in shattering Philip Pratt’s icy calm. Whenever they met, he tried to orchestrate his performance with that in mind.

“There’s no need for us to be coy, Pratt.” Rule paused carefully and sipped his coffee. “We all know what’s happening.”

“You need a majority of the stockholders to remove us,” said Calvin, a tall, balding man with a Phi Beta Kappa key in his vest pocket.

Rule opened his morocco briefcase and took out a piece of paper. “Which one of you wants to read it?”

Calvin Pratt examined the paper. “It’s a list of proxies.”

Rule settled back and crossed his legs. “And they’re all pledged to me.”

The color drained slowly from Philip Pratt’s face, but his voice remained calm. “We’ve seen those before, Mr. Rule.”

Calvin Pratt smiled. “The names on this list represent only forty-five percent of the voting stock of this corporation, Mr. Rule.”

Philip Pratt relaxed. “Yes, and unless I’ve forgotten my math, that’s not enough.”

“I wouldn’t get too cocky, Pratt. Since that last quarterly statement, you ought to be out sellin’ apples.” Rule held out his coffee cup. “Would you pour?”

“The company will rebound, Mr. Rule. It always does,” said Philip coldly.

Rule filled the cup himself. “The company hasn’t rebounded since 1974. In three years, the stock dropped from forty-eight to thirty-three and an eighth, and you’re still in this office makin’ stupid decisions every time you turn around. It’s not gonna go on much longer.”

“Mr. Rule, as any Wall Street analyst will tell you, a reduction in the price of stock over a long period of time may indicate a positive retrenchment on the part of a corporation that has overextended itself badly, as we did in the late sixties and early seventies.” Calvin Pratt tried to make failure sound like success. He was an excellent lawyer.

“Bullshit!” Rule exploded off the sofa. When he was angry, he
had to move. As he crossed the rug, he reminded himself to keep control. He paused at the far side of the room and decided it was time to recite the litany. He turned back to Philip Pratt.

“After the Vietnam War, Pratt Chemicals took a nosedive that hasn’t stopped. Then the Apollo Program ends, NASA says goodbye, and Pratt Engineering and Electronics is as useless as the moon it landed on. You start makin’ computers and components, and when a couple of guys come to you with an idea for a computer game that you rig up to your television set, you tell them to take a running jump. So what happens? They go over to some other company and make millions.” Rule’s Boston accent grew harsh.

Philip Pratt studied his manicure and pretended not to listen. Calvin Pratt played with his Phi Beta Kappa key. Christopher Carrington took notes. Bennett Soames looked out the window.

“And real estate!” Rule continued. “You have six blocks of rundown granite warehouses on the waterfront. Some small-time company wants to buy them. A lot of people, including me, say, ‘Don’t do it, the waterfront’s comin’ back. Look at Quincy Market.’ So you sell the warehouses for next to nothing, just to get rid of the damn city tax bill, and those small-timers buy up half the apartment houses in Boston with the profits. Shall I go on?”

“You’ve made your point quite ably,” said Calvin.

Rule glanced at Christopher Carrington, a handsome patrician in his late twenties. “I’ll tell one more story for the young man. All about the movies.” Rule knew Pratt was especially sensitive about the movie investments. He smiled and approached Carrington, who remained expressionless.

“Your uncle decides he wanted to be in the movie business. Half the members of the board of directors tell him he’s crazy. They say movies are a shaky investment, but he thinks he’s another Charlie Bludhorn and Pratt Industries has all the clout of Gulf and Western. Then, he goes out and buys forty percent of American Center Films, which hasn’t shown a profit since Adolphe Menjou died.” Rule glanced at Pratt. He could see the small vein bulging just below Pratt’s left eye. Now was the time to condescend. “It wasn’t good corporate management, Pratt. If you couldn’t buy a chunk of Universal or Paramount, you shouldn’t have bought at all.”

Philip Pratt was trying not to lose his temper. He walked over to his desk and picked up the
Wall Street Journal
. “You’ve had your say, Mr. Rule. Thank you and good afternoon. I’m a very busy man.”

“Not for long. After the meeting on June fifteenth, you can take that portrait of your old man and that model ship and your subscription to the
Wall Street Journal
and be on your way.”

“You can’t remove us without fifty-one percent of the stockholders backing you up,” snapped Calvin Pratt.

Rule paused and looked around the room. The announcement was premature, but he couldn’t resist. “In ten days, I’ll have the six percent, gentlemen. I guarantee it.”

Rule was disappointed in the Pratts’ reaction. He hoped they would beg to negotiate, but they remained silent. He wanted to see them squirm, but they stared at him, as though they were waiting for him to finish his speech.

Paisley boxer shorts and dirty T-shirt. Philip Pratt would not allow himself to lose control. He would not give this crudity any satisfaction. “Thank you very much, Mr. Rule, and good luck in your hunt for stockholders.” Pratt turned to Soames. “Do we have any more appointments this morning, Bennett, or do you think I can sneak in eighteen holes at the Country Club?”

“You’re clear this afternoon,” said Soames crisply.

Calvin Pratt and Christopher Carrington stood.

“I’d better be running,” said Calvin. “I’m due in court in a half an hour.”

Soames picked up the telephone. Carrington began to pack his briefcase. Suddenly, no one was paying attention to William Rule. If he hadn’t been its victim, he would have admired the technique.

“I’ll call the club and get you a starting time,” said Soames.

“Very good.” Pratt busied himself with the newspaper.

William Rule would have the last word. He stepped close to Pratt and peered over the newspaper. “Stick around today,” he said softly, like an old friend giving advice. “Admire the leather and the mahogany and the picture of your old man. Take a few phone calls. Turn a few down. Try to remember what it feels like to run the show. Ten days from now, you’ll have all the time in the world to play golf.”

Rule turned to leave.

Philip Pratt lost control. He jumped between Rule and the door. “You listen to me, you ignorant rug merchant. We’ve controlled this company for two hundred years, and we’ll control it for two hundred more.” Pratt’s voice sounded like a bar fight about to happen. “You back out now, or we’ll destroy you. I promise you.”

Rule laughed in Pratt’s face and left. Infuriated, Pratt started after him. He took three steps into the outer office and stopped abruptly.

“Mr. Pratt, this is Edward,” said Miss Allardyce nervously. “He’s Mr. Rule’s butler.”

Edward stood in front of Pratt, and somewhere on the other side of him, Rule was laughing.

“Good day, Mr. Pratt. See you in ten days,” said Rule. “And Miss Allardyce, you make excellent coffee.”

“Thank you, sir.” The old woman was trembling.

Calvin Pratt led Philip back to the office. “We can do without an assault and battery charge right now, Philip. Especially if you’re the one getting assaulted.”

Philip Pratt was the sort who punched people or walls when he lost his temper, but he held back, remembering the broken knuckles from his last tantrum. “That son of a bitch laughed at us. He really thinks he has us.”

“I think he might,” said Calvin. He was five years older than Philip and much more willing to accept the circumstances of his life, which were enviable, regardless of the fate of Pratt Industries. He had a successful law practice, a home in Lexington, a son on the staff of Massachusetts General Hospital and another in Harvard Law School, and he had been happily married to the same woman for thirty-five years.

“I suggest,” said Carrington, “that we determine the nine or ten major stockholders most likely to shift allegiance and begin to work on them. Our family has forty percent of the stock. Rule controls forty-five. That leaves fifteen percent uncommitted. We have a lot of convincing to do in ten days.”

“I agree,” added Calvin. “The McCafferty block is wavering. And over at Aldrich and Bradfield, Jeff Hendricks tells me they’re
considering a pullout unless things improve. They might decide to throw their portfolio behind Rule just to see what he can do.”