The Betsy (1971) (30 page)

“That was Betsy,” he said, in a wondering voice. “I thought she was in France. What the hell is she doing in the Bahamas?”

Number One shot a strange look at him. “Didn’t you know?” he asked. “It was in all the papers.”

“I haven’t looked at a newspaper in weeks,” Angelo said, still bewildered.

“Too bad,” Number One said slowly, a note of sadness coming into his voice. “My great-granddaughter is getting married there tonight.”

Number One rolled his chair to the door. He opened it and looked back at Angelo still sitting at the table. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Angelo lit a cigarette as the door closed and sat there in the empty room. It wasn’t until the cigarette almost burned to his fingertips that he dropped it into a tray and left.

He came out of the building into the red-gold rays of the sun setting through the Detroit smog. He looked up at the building behind him. The cracked windowpane of the board room looked down at him with its single eye.

Impulsively, he turned off the path onto the lawn beneath the window, his eyes searching the ground beneath him. He found the first cuff link almost immediately, directly under the window among some pieces of glass. The second took almost fifteen minutes to find. It was lying hidden beneath a privet hedge. He picked it up and stepped over back on the cement walk.

He looked down at the cuff links in his palm. The sun brought out every exquisite detail of the artist’s design. The tiny rendition of the Sundancer was so real that it would take only a breath of imagination to give it life and have it go roaring into the evening.

His hand tightened so hard around the small gold cuff links that they were almost cutting into his palm. Slowly he walked down the path to his car.

 Book Four

 1972

 Chapter One

The white January sun beat down on the salt flats, turning the miles in front of us into sparkling diamonds that would have blinded us if it weren’t for the shadowed glass of our crash-helmet visors. The only sounds were the whine of the turbine, the shriek of the wind and the rumble of the giant oversize tires biting into the earth between us. I held the wheel steadily in my hand, aiming the car at the horizon where the white sand met the blue winter sky.

Cindy’s voice came into my earphones as calm and as quiet as if we were cruising gently down some country lane. “Red line, sixty-eight thousand rpm; speed, three hundred eleven mph; turbine reactor temperature steady at twelve hundred degrees centigrade.”

Radio-control broke in over her voice. Duncan’s voice through the earphones had even more of a burr than usual. “Ye’re red-lining at sixty-eight thousand, laddie.”

“We already have it,” I said.

“All systems read normal,” he said. “Bring it up to seventy thousand and hold it there for one minute. I’ll give you the time. Cindy, you set your clock to check me if radio is lost.”

“Wilco,” Cindy said. Her hand, holding the chronometer, came into view in front of me.

I opened the throttle. A fraction of a moment later, Duncan came back on. “Start minute. Red line seventy thousand.”

Cindy’s thumb pressed the button. I caught a brief glimpse of the sweep second hand beginning its trip around the clock. Then her hand disappeared as she drew it back. Her voice was matter of fact.

“Red line, seventy; speed, three twenty-five; temp, twelve hundred; time, fifteen seconds.” There was a pause, then she began again. “Red line, seventy; speed, three forty-five; temp, twelve hundred; time, forty-five seconds.” A moment later. “Sixty seconds.”

Again radio overrode her. “Sixty seconds! Bring it down, laddie. Slowly now.”

I was already easing off on the throttle. “Wilco,” I said. It wasn’t until we were down to under seventy miles an hour and coasting that I dared turn to look at her.

Despite the air-conditioned cockpit, her face was flushed and there was a fine patina of moisture over her upper lip. Her voice was breathless. “Do you know how fast we were going?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Three ninety-one,” she said. “I came twice.”

I grinned. “I would have come too but I was too busy.”

Duncan’s voice came dryly through the earphones. “Remember you’re on radio. Stop talking dirty.”

We laughed. Her hand found mine on the steering wheel. “Hey, baby,” she said. “What a car!”

I looked at her. “Imagine what we could do with this at Indy if it were eligible?”

End of track came up about a mile in front of us. I touched the brake pedal. That was all I had to do. The electronic brake pumping system did all the rest.

By the time I got out of the shower and dressed, they were already rolling the Betsy Formula One prototype up the track into its air-conditioned van, ready for its trip back to our own testing grounds.

Duncan turned toward me as I came out of the building, his eyes squinting through the sunlight. “It was a good drive, laddie.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Everything go A-one right?”

“Perfectly,” he said. “The director told me the helicopter shots should be clear as a bell and all the other cameras were working perfectly.”

“Good,” I said. “We were lucky with the weather.”

He nodded. “Well, the TV-commercial people should have no complaints. We’ve given them everything they asked for.”

I looked at him. “Was it any easier in the days before television?” I asked. “When all you had to do to introduce a new car was put it in the showrooms?”

He smiled. “At least we didn’t have to waste all our time doing things like this. Imagine the nerve of that director? Saying he wanted more dramatics in my voice while I was talking to you on the radio.”

I laughed. “No wonder I thought you were a little hammy.”

Cindy came out of the building. She walked toward us, her hair loose and shining in the sun. “Number One’s calling you from Palm Beach.”

I went back into the building and picked up the telephone. “I was just going to call you,” I said. “The Formula One did three ninety-one breezing.”

“Who was driving?” His voice was irritated.

“I was.”

He was silent. I could feel the explosion building. I held the phone away from my ear. “You stupid son-of-a-bitch!” he shouted. “Vice-presidents don’t go around driving test cars. When are you going to give up playing with toys?”

“I’m entitled to a little fun out of the job,” I said.

“Not with my money,” he snapped. “Why in hell do you think I gave you options on two hundred thousand shares of my stock? Not in order for you to kill yourself and put us out of business.”

I didn’t answer. The only reason he gave me those options was because he didn’t want to return the million dollars I advanced for the deposit on the Washington plant a few years ago.

“You keep out of those fucking cars, do you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “But I have a feeling you’ll be happy with the commercials. I’ll arrange to have them flown down to you as soon as they’re completed.”

“I can wait until I see them on television,” he said. “We have other problems.”

That was the understatement of the year. So far. The year was practically brand new. “Which one are you talking about?”

“My grandson,” he said shortly. “We finally heard from him.”

“Oh?” Loren III had been peculiarly quiet the last few months. I was wondering when it would break.

“I don’t want to talk about it on the phone,” Number One said. “You get down here right away.”

“But I’m due back in Detroit to give final approval on the new assembly lines.”

“Leave that to Duncan,” he snapped. “You get your ass down here!”

The phone blacked out in my hand and I put it down. Duncan and Cindy came into the room. “Number One happy with everything?” Duncan asked.

“Not everything. He wants me down there as soon as possible.”

Duncan looked at me. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “He didn’t want to talk on the phone.”

The Scotsman was silent for a moment. “Do you think he found out?”

“Found out?” My head was some other place. “What?”

“The Sundancer project?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “At least he didn’t mention it. Something to do with Loren Three.” I looked at Cindy. “Get on the phone and call the airlines. Get me on the quickest connection to Palm Beach.” She nodded and went to the telephone as I turned back to Duncan. “You go into Detroit and okay the assembly lines for me. I want everything ready to start on the twentieth.”

Cindy covered the phone with her hand. “You’re too late for direct flights. The best connection leaves Salt Lake at six tonight; change planes at Chicago to Fort Lauderdale and drive up from there.”

“Okay. Confirm it.”

“No change in plans?” Duncan asked me. “Lines one and two, Sundancer standard, three and four, JetStar?”

“That’s the way they go,” I said. “You check with Tony and make sure he has everything ready out there. I want everything to go like clockwork.”

“It will,” the Scotsman said. “But—”

“But what?” I asked.

“Number One is not going to be happy when he finds out what you’ve done.”

I looked at him. “By the time he presses the starting button, it will be too late for him to do anything about it.”

It had all been worked out: 11 a.m. in Florida was 10 a.m. in Detroit and 8 a.m. in Washington. The gold telegraph key was already installed in the library of the Palm Beach house. The cameramen and photographers and news media were all alerted and ready to cover the ceremony. At exactly eleven o’clock, Number One would press the gold key on his desk, starting the assembly lines in Detroit and Washington at exactly the same moment. Fifty-five minutes later the first car should roll off each of the assembly lines and after that, a car every three minutes. On Lincoln’s Birthday, less than one month later, every Bethlehem dealer in America would present the new cars.

Cindy put down the phone. “You’re confirmed on the flights all the way through.”

“Good,” I said. “Thanks.”

She looked at me. “What do you want me to do? Go back to the test track?”

I shook my head. “No. You go into Detroit. You’ll be heading up the test group running checks on production-line cars.”

“What about Stanforth?” she asked.

Stanforth was the chief test driver. “He’ll stay on the Coast and run the group out there,” I said.

“Do I get a raise?” she asked, with a smile.

“What does Stanforth get?”

“Thirty thousand,” she said.

“That’s what you get,” I said.

“He’s not going to like it. A woman getting the same salary as him.”

“Tough shit,” I grinned. “Didn’t he ever hear of Women’s Lib?”

She was fooling around with her stereo tape player when I came out of the bedroom. “I’m packed,” I said.

She looked up at me. “Would you like a farewell fuck before you go to the airport? It’ll help you sleep on the plane.”

I laughed. “Since when are you worried about my sleeping on planes?”

“Listen to this,” she said, turning the “play” switch on the machine.

The roaring sound of a whoosh of air mixed with the peculiar high whine of a turbine came from the far speaker and raced across the room toward me as it traveled through the different speakers. Suddenly her voice came from the center speakers. “Turbine reactor temperature eight hundred degrees centigrade.”

Duncan’s voice came thin and reedy from the far speakers. “Start on signal. Ten seconds … nine … eight.”

She turned the player off. “How do you like that?”

I stared at her. She never ceased to amaze me. I would have sworn she didn’t have the time. “How did you get it?”

She smiled a secret smile. “I had them make duplicates of the computer tape and the camera tapes. All I had to do was mix them.”

I was silent.

“Well?” she asked.

I grinned. “Okay. Come back into the bedroom.”

“No, there isn’t time,” she said. “If I have to set up in there, you’ll miss your plane. Let’s do it here on the floor.”

She hit the switch again. The sound came on and she started across the floor toward me on her knees. The whine of the turbine and Duncan’s voice came from the speakers.

“‘ven … six … five … four …’”

By the time he reached “One and start,” she had my fly open and my cock in her mouth.

 Chapter Two

The giant shepherd guard dogs knew me but not the car, so they followed the car suspiciously up the driveway until I got out, and then came running over, tails wagging and breaking themselves in half to be petted. I scratched their heads before they could knock me down. “Hello, Donner, hello, Blitzen.”

The silent call from the sonic whistle pulled them away from me. Number One’s man stood on the steps of the house. “Good morning, Mr. Perino.”

“Good morning, Donald,” I said.

“May I get the luggage from the car?”

“There isn’t any,” I said. “Just the small bag I have here.”

He took it from me and I followed him into the house. “Is Mr. Hardeman awake yet?”

“He’s in the breakfast room with Mr. Roberts,” he answered.

I continued on through the foyer to the back of the house where the breakfast terrace looked out over the beach and the sea. Number One and Artie were seated at the table. They looked up as I came through the doors.

“Good morning, Number One,” I said. “Good morning, Artie.”

Artie rose and gave me his reassuring lawyer’s handshake. The don’t-worry-I’ll-take-care-of-everything grip. “Good morning, Angelo.”

Number One grumbled. “It took you long enough to get here.”

“I was in Fort Lauderdale at one thirty this morning but somehow I had the idea you wouldn’t like me to wake the house up.” I pulled out a chair, sat down and poured myself a cup of coffee. “It’s a lovely morning.”

“You won’t think it’s so lovely after you read this,” Number One said, throwing a copy of the morning
Miami Herald
over to me.

I picked it up. It was folded to page two. A small banner headline over two columns, circled in heavy red crayon, down in the corner of the page, caught my eye.

LOREN HARDEMAN I SUED FOR CONTROL

OF FOUNDATION BY GRANDCHILDREN

Loren Hardeman III and his sister, the Princess Anne Elizabeth Alekhine, trustees of the Hardeman Foundation, petitioned the courts of Michigan to set aside and revoke the trust agreement by which the Foundation gave to their grandfather the voting rights to the stock in Bethlehem Motors Company for his lifetime. Arguing that such an agreement was illegal and invalid and contrary to the public interest which is the principal purpose of the Foundation, they further stated that such voting rights gave Mr. Hardeman control of Bethlehem Motors, which constitutes the only asset of the Foundation, and that his control thereof endangers these assets and as such, imperils the work, welfare and purpose of the Foundation. They were joined in their petition by the Attorney General of the State of Michigan as
amicus curiae
on behalf of the people of the State of Michigan, who further said that in his opinion the loss of and/or the devaluation of the assets of the Foundation would negatively affect those projects for the benefit of the people of the State of Michigan in which the Foundation and the State had joined together. Chief Justice Paul Gitlin took the matter under advisement and set the date of January 17th for a hearing; he gave the Foundation and Mr. Hardeman I until that date to reply to the charges.

I put the paper down and looked at Number One. “Now tell me what it means.”

He stared balefully at me. “It means we’re fucked!”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “I thought you told me there were five trustees. That means there are two more besides your grandchildren and yourself.”

“So what?” he snapped. “I haven’t been near them for years. For that matter neither has Anne. But Loren has always worked closely with the other two and he has them in his hip pocket.”

“Did you talk to them?” I asked.

“I can’t get them on the phone,” he said sarcastically. “They’ve mysteriously disappeared. Loren’s done his job well.”

I turned to Artie. “What are our chances?”

“Do you want a long legal opinion or do you want it short and sweet?”

“Short and sweet,” I said.

“We lose.” He looked at me. “I can’t say it any shorter than that.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s a conditional gift. When Mr. Hardeman gave the Foundation the stock, he either withheld or demanded the voting rights to that stock as a condition of his giving it to them. The court would have to rule that it was an incomplete gift and, since the validity of the Foundation is not at question here, order Mr. Hardeman to surrender those voting rights to the Foundation.”

“What if the validity of the Foundation is questioned?” I asked.

“Then the stock would retroactively become once again the property of Mr. Hardeman. And, of course, he would then become liable for the income received by the Foundation due to dividends from the stock. A rough calculation by me determined that approximately one hundred million dollars was received in that manner since 1937 to date. Assuming federal and state income taxes averaging sixty-five percent, that gives us a tax liability to Mr. Hardeman personally of sixty-five million dollars together with interest thereon at six percent from the year of earned income, which can very well put his tax liability at over double the base tax or one hundred thirty million dollars.”

I turned back to Number One. “You’re right. You are fucked.”

The old man nodded glumly. “That’s what I said.”

We were silent for a moment. I sipped the coffee. It didn’t taste so good right now. Somehow the sparkle had gone out of the morning. I looked down at the newspaper. Something in the story caught my eye. I put my finger on the line and read it aloud.

“—such voting rights gave Mr. Hardeman control of Bethlehem Motors which constitutes the only asset of the Foundation, and that his control thereof endangers these assets.” I looked up at Artie. “Don’t they have to prove that in order to win?”

“Not really,” he said. “Merely the showing of the fact that the entire capital of the company is risked to manufacture and sell a new car would be sufficient for the court. Generally, prudent business sense doesn’t permit commitments like that. Part of the capital, yes. All of it, no.”

“But if the car is a success, the company will make more money than it ever made in its history,” I said.

Artie looked interested. “When will you know that?”

“Six months to a year after the car is on the market.”

“Too late to do us any good.” He shook his head. “I can’t hold them off that long.”

“If Loren gets control of the company, the Betsy is dead,” I said. “And the company blows a hundred million dollars just like that.”

“But they don’t lose it all,” Artie said. “That’s less than half of what I understand you might lose if you can’t sell at least two hundred thousand of the new cars.”

“I’d feel more positive about selling enough Betsys if we weren’t having all that trouble with the dealers,” I said.

“That’s it!” For the first time Number One’s voice had an edge in it.

We stared at him.

“That prick Simpson,” he said. “We all knew he didn’t have the money to pull off a campaign like that on his own. Someone had to be backing him.”

“We checked around,” I said. “Nothing turned up.”

“Who was doing the checking?” asked Number One.

“Dan Weyman, of course,” I said. “That comes under his department.”

“Dan Weyman.” Number One’s voice was sarcastic. “And you took his word for it?”

I didn’t speak.

“Weyman is Loren’s boy,” Number One said.

“You’re implying that your grandson is behind that campaign?” Artie asked incredulously. “I can’t believe that. Why would he want to destroy the company of which he is president?”

“I’m not saying he is and I’m not saying he’s not,” Number One answered slyly. “But my grandson’s getting more like me every day. And if I were him and I wanted to throw a scare into management, I would do a thing like that. The only thing wrong with it was that we didn’t scare.”

“If we tie Simpson in to Loren, will that help us in the court?” I asked Artie.

He thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. I think that the court would remove Loren as a trustee for violation of his fiduciary responsibilities, but it won’t alter their right to vote the stock.”

“But if we catch Loren with his pants down, surely they’ll switch their votes to Number One,” I said.

“If we catch Loren,” Number One said, “we won’t need the Foundation’s votes.”

“You got me,” I said puzzled.

“I have forty-one percent, right?” he asked.

“Forty,” I said. “I just decided to exercise my warrants.”

He grinned. “Why now?”

I grinned back at him. “I figured you might need another million in cash with all your problems.”

He laughed. “Okay. Forty percent. You got one percent. My granddaughter Anne has ten percent. That’s fifty-one percent. I don’t need any more than that.”

“But how do you know she’ll go along with you?” I asked.

“I know my granddaughter,” he said. “If she loses her faith in her brother, she’ll turn to me. Her husband will see to that. He goes where the money is.”

“Then we have only one problem left,” I said. “That’s to tie Simpson and Loren together.”

“That’s your problem,” Number One said. “You do it and you only have eight days left to do it in.”

“How the hell do I go about doing a thing like that?” I asked.

“I don’t give a damn!” the old man snapped. “Do anything you have to. It was money that got to Simpson. Money will buy him back.”

“What if that doesn’t work?” I asked. “What if Loren is really clean?”

The old man stared balefully at me. “Frame him then! This is no child’s game that we’re playing!”