The Rich Are Different (74 page)

It was a long time before I felt truly at ease in New York. Despite our Saturday nights on the town the city remained a backdrop to me, an alien setting in which I was obliged to live and work, and it was not until Steven Sullivan went to Europe in the March of 1929 that I felt secure enough to discover that New York really did have more to offer than Velletria, Ohio. I was twenty-one by that time, quite old enough to enjoy the pleasures of the wicked city, and more than ready to toss Paul’s cautionary advice to the winds. Sam was there with me, in exactly the same position. We cast off the shackles of rigid self-discipline at exactly the same moment, and all through that doomed summer before the Great Crash when Steve was making a fool of himself in Europe, we behaved in a way which would have bleached my mother’s hair snow-white and prompted Paul to turn groaning in his grave.

[6]

We behaved like a pair of juvenile satyrs. I guess it was a delayed reaction to Paul’s death. For months we had clung to the comforting familiarity of our former life but eventually there came a point when we had to realize our
lives had changed beyond recognition and although we were excited by this transformation we were also frightened. It was disorientating as all the old landmarks fell by the wayside, and although we knew we had to adapt in order to survive, our confusion was so massive that we could not at first perceive the new roles we had to assume. The pressures mounted, the strain increased and when it became essential for our stability that we found a way to defuse these tensions we turned to Paul’s favourite method of relaxation.

Paul might have sympathized with our desires but not with our outrageous lack of discretion and common sense. It was only a matter of time before the mills of God began to grind us exceeding small, and the grinding began in September when a girl I had seen three times in July telephoned to say she was pregnant. That same day Sam thought he had contracted some particularly revolting complaint from a recent encounter. As it turned out both the girl and Sam were mistaken, but the incidents frightened us so much that we decided the time had come to discuss, analyse and reform our private lives.

‘It was all Steve’s fault,’ groaned Sam. ‘If we hadn’t been so relieved to see the back of him we wouldn’t have gone out and got drunk at Texas Guinan’s. No wonder she said “Hullo suckers!” Since then it’s been downhill all the way.’

I found a pencil and listed our new rules of conduct. ‘Number one,’ I declared, ‘no sex at the office. Number two: no messing around except in locked bedrooms out of sight and hearing of the servants. Number three: no picking up stray broads in speakeasies. Number four: condoms at all times. Number five: absolute respectability in dress, deportment and demeanour. Number six: church on Sunday.’

‘I’ll leave that last one to you,’ said Sam, ‘but the next girl I like I’m going to date for six months and I’m not going to take out anyone else during that time. And I’m going to write to my parents every week without fail.’

‘Maybe I’ll invite my mother to visit me,’ I mused. ‘Then she can see that contrary to all her expectations I’m leading a moral Christian life.’

A week later I met Vivienne Coleman. I had successfully deluded myself that I had returned to sanity in my private life, but as subsequent events proved I was merely pausing in mid-air while I leapt out of the frying-pan into the fire.

[1]

That summer Sam developed a passion for the old tune, ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’, and played his favourite recording of it night and day. He had no interest in classical music but was addicted to all forms of American
music from ragtime to Dixieland and from blues to bluegrass. He himself played no instrument, but when Kevin walked out of Harvard Law School, turned his back on his wealthy family and retired to Greenwich Village to write the Great American Novel, we used to invite him and some of his new musician friends to our house for a jam session which Sam would record. My lasting memories of that summer revolve around the breakneck pace of life at the office, where we were all mesmerized by the dizzy gyrations of the ticker-tape, and the breakneck pace of life at home when Kevin roared uptown with his friends, our girls streamed in to kick up their heels and we all got drunk on bathtub gin while dancing our hearts out to Charlestons like ‘Yes, sir, that’s my baby’ – and to Miff Mole’s Molers version of ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’.

That was before the mills of God prompted Sam and me to reform in September. It was also before the mills of God caught up with America in October. However, the shadow of those mills had already fallen across the investment bankers’ paths, and when in early September the market faltered, staggering beneath the burden of a million dreams, the shadow became too obtrusive to ignore. Although the market recovered quickly we held a partners meeting to discuss future policy in the event of another such unpleasant ‘technical correction’, and although there was a great deal of waffle that everything was bound to be all right, it was obvious we were secretly uneasy in case things went all wrong.

Finally the senior partner Lewis Carson, who looked like an elderly cross between Douglas Fairbanks and John Barrymore, suggested that one of the partners should have a conference with Steve’s brother Luke to review our investment trust’s portfolio. It was generally agreed that in the event of a decline speculative stocks would be the first to suffer, and we thought it was time to eliminate the riskiest investments.

No one wanted the job of conferring with Luke Sullivan. As Clay Linden remarked acidly, since Steve’s departure Luke had become just like Mussolini, without any of Mussolini’s redeeming qualities.

‘I’ll talk to him if you like,’ I offered humbly. ‘Luke and I get on real well nowadays.’ That was an absolute lie but I was always looking for ways to increase my power and I thought a toehold in Van Zale Participations could be useful to me.

The other partners all mouthed the ritual nonsense about me being too young but once that was over they gave me the job with relief. Accordingly I wandered down to the desk which had been assigned to Luke in the great hall, but when someone told me Luke had gone to see his brother Matt I walked up Willow Street to the office of Van Zale Participations.

The Trust had a showy little suite on the third floor. A bleached blonde was manicuring her scarlet nails before the typewriter in the reception room, and beyond the open door of the president’s office I could see Matt Sullivan, his feet resting comfortably on his desk, a cigar in one hand and his hipflask in the other. He was talking to someone I could not see but assumed to be Luke. So angered was I by the sleazy atmosphere of the
office and so enraged that the house of Van Zale could be intimately connected with such an operation, that I ignored the receptionist and walked unannounced into Matt’s office.

Conversation stopped. When the other man spun round startled I did not recognize him, and yet I felt that somewhere a long time ago I had seen him before.

‘Good morning,’ I said politely to Matt. ‘Forgive me for interrupting you but since the door was open I assumed you weren’t engaged in business. Is your brother here?’

‘He’s in the john. He’ll be right back,’ said Matt with his usual coarseness, and stood up. He was a big man with an athlete’s figure run to seed, bloodshot blue eyes and animal-like curly hair which grew low down on his forehead. ‘Well!’ he exclaimed, his glance shifting between me and the stranger with a relish which I found incomprehensible. ‘Haven’t you two ever met?’

The stranger seemed to find Matt’s amusement as baffling as I did. We stared at one another suspiciously. He had a tough scarred fighter’s face with nasty yellowish-brown eyes and thick lips. I was just wondering if I had seen his picture in the newspaper in connection with the St Valentine’s Day Massacre when I remembered the two men who had tried to comfort Jason Da Costa long ago at Vicky’s funeral.

‘Say, Greg!’ said Matt, really enjoying himself by this time. ‘Don’t you remember Mildred Blackett’s kid?’

Luke Sullivan chose that moment to walk back into the room. There was a short tense silence. Then:

‘Nice to meet you again, sonny,’ said the son of the man Paul had ruined. ‘No hard feelings, huh?’ and he held out his right hand.

‘How are you, Mr Da Costa?’ I said, shaking the hand courteously. ‘Are you in town long? I understand you live in California nowadays.’

The tension in the room slackened. What they expected me to do I have no idea; stamp my foot childishly perhaps, and flounce from the room. When I remained they no doubt assumed it was because I was too young and stupid to react with anything but friendly interest.

‘I’ve quit on California,’ said Da Costa easily. ‘My wife and I separated and I thought I’d come back east to make a little money on the market – which is where the Sullivan boys here come in. I’m staying with my cousin Vivienne Coleman – maybe you know her?’

‘Only by her reputation as a popular hostess. I didn’t know she was your cousin.’

‘Our mothers were sisters. Say, come over and have a drink with us this evening – why don’t you? We’ll drink to the end of the family feud,’ said Da Costa, smiling at me indulgently. He had a tooth missing at the side of his mouth.

‘Gee,’ I said, very young and dewy-eyed, ‘I’d like that. Thanks a lot, Mr Da Costa. Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me—’

‘Did you come here looking for me, Cornelius?’ said Luke. He was the only one of the three who had any brains worth mentioning.

‘Oh, it’ll wait,’ I
said airily, but he remained suspicious.

‘I’ll walk back with you to Van Zale’s,’ he said flatly, and as soon as we were in the street he launched into an explanation. ‘I know you’re thinking Greg’s got no business to be within a hundred miles of Van Zale’s, Cornelius, but you can relax. He’s told me himself he’s figured it’s too damn dangerous for him to resurrect the assassination business in any shape or form. He just wants to forget he ever knew O’Reilly and Clayton, and anyway he doesn’t need the bank to foot his bills for him now. He did well out of that hotel in California and decided to quit while he was ahead. Between you and me I think he was scared of getting on his boss’s nerves once too often – he was running with a rough crowd out there. Anyway, he’s just put twenty thousand dollars into Van Zale Participations. Matt and I are the only people he knows well on the Street nowadays and so it’s only natural he should gravitate to us. It’s all absolutely bona fide.’

‘Uh-huh. You never had second thoughts about taking his money?’

‘Hell, why shouldn’t we take it? His money’s as good as anyone else’s, isn’t it?’

The short answer to that was no. Greg Da Costa’s money was usually obtained by extortion.

‘Oh my God!’ groaned Sam as soon as I confided in him. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘I don’t know, but if Da Costa’s involved it has to be a disaster.’

We sat facing each other across my desk and put our brains to work. He excelled in analysing current problems while I had a talent for long-range planning. We really did work excellently together.

After agreeing we didn’t trust the Sullivan twins further than we could throw them, we had to admit that Luke was smart enough to keep any shady secrets well under wraps. The Trust was doing well and we had no excuse for demanding to see the books before the official audit. Assuming the Sullivan twins were currently impregnable our only route to the truth lay through Greg Da Costa, and both of us could see right away that this would be the rockiest route imaginable.

‘God, maybe he’s blackmailing the twins!’ said Sam horrified.

‘No, no.’ I had already rejected that possibility. ‘Matt Sullivan wasn’t acting like a man in the presence of his blackmailer. Of course, that doesn’t mean to say Da Costa’s not setting them up for the big squeeze.’ I got out a cigarette and then put it away again. I had to cut down on my smoking. ‘There’s no choice, Sam. Repulsive though it may be I shall have to cultivate Greg Da Costa.’

‘Go easy, Neil. I know it’s unlikely but we could be wrong about all this.’

‘But supposing we’re right?’ Delicious vistas were opening up in front of me. ‘After all, Steve did appoint his brothers, and if they get into trouble … You’re right, Sam. We’ve got to take this nice and easy. We mustn’t go wading into the lake and frightening off all the fish. We’ve got to cast our lines very carefully on the water and tempt the fish to nibble at the bait. Then when
they’re stuffed to the gills we’ll reel them in, gut them and cook them for dinner.’

Sam laughed and so did I. It was certainly an attractive idea, but as it turned out it was quite the wrong decision.

[2]

Late that afternoon my secretary told me I had a call from a Mrs Vivienne Coleman.

‘Mr Van Zale?’ said a woman’s low whispery voice when the call was put through. ‘We haven’t met but my cousin Greg’s just told me he invited you to visit us for a drink tonight. I’m just calling to say you’ll be more than welcome but I feel I should warn you that there’ll be several people present. I’m giving a cocktail party. Greg quite forgot that when he issued the invitation.’

I assured her that I loved cocktail parties and hung up gloomily.

I arrived late at the party but not late enough to avoid the horror of being crammed into a room with sixty people in various stages of drunkenness. The pall of cigarette smoke immediately made me cough and I had just decided I could no longer endure the incessant screech of conversation when a pretty woman with thick longish chestnut hair and a pert snub nose glided through the haze towards me. She wore a sleek black dress with a cluster of diamonds placed strategically at the bottom of her very deep decolletage.

‘Mr Van Zale?’ she said as my gaze halted at a spot half an inch above the diamonds. ‘I’m Vivienne Coleman – how are you? So nice of you to come! Aren’t cocktail parties frightful? Now come on in and – oh!’ she gasped as someone reeled backwards and spilt a tomato-coloured drink all over my suit. ‘I
am
sorry! How clumsy people are sometimes—’ She glared at the offending guest who was busy slinking out of sight. ‘Well, it’ll be a long time before I invite
him
back to my house! Come upstairs, Mr Van Zale, and we’ll fix the disaster right away.’