“Good for you, George!” the Honorable Harold said. “We need more people to take that kind of stand. The problem at our bank, though, has been somewhat different. In some ways we’re still in an interim situation which began, as you know, with Ben Rosselli’s death. But by spring next year a good many of us on the board hope to see Roscoe here firmly at the helm.”
“Glad to hear it. Don’t like dealing with people not at the top. Those I do business with must be able to decide, then make decisions stick.”
“I assure you, George,” Heyward said, “that any decisions you and I arrive at will be adhered to by the bank.”
In an adroit way, Heyward realized, their host had maneuvered Harold Austin and himself into the stance of supplicants—a reversal of a banker’s usual role. But the fact was, any loan to Supranational would be worry-free, as well as prestigious for FMA. Equally important, it could be a precursor of other new industrial accounts since Supranational Corporation was a pacesetter whose example others followed.
Big George snapped abruptly at the chef. “Well, what is it?”
The figure in white was galvanized to action. He thrust forward the black leather folder he had been holding since his entry. “The luncheon menu, monsieur. For your approval.”
Big George made no attempt to take the folder but scanned its contents held before him. He stabbed with a finger. “Change that Waldorf salad to a Caesar.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“And dessert. Not Glacé Martinique. A Soufflé Grand Marnier.”
“Certainly, monsieur.”
A nod of dismissal. Then, as the chef turned away, Big George glared. “And when I order a steak, how do I like it?”
“Monsieur”—the chef gestured imploringly with his free hand—“I ’ave already apologize twice for the unfortunate last night.”
“Never mind that. The question was: How do I like it?”
With a Gallic shrug, repeating a lesson learned, the chef intoned, “On the slightly well-done side of medium-rare.”
“Just remember that.”
The chef asked despairingly, “’Ow can I forget, monsieur?” Crestfallen, he went out.
“Something else that’s important,” Big George informed his guests, “is not to let people get away with things. I pay that frog a fortune to know exactly how I like my food. He slipped last night—not much, but enough to ream him out so next time he’ll remember. What’s the quote?” Moonbeam had returned with a slip of paper.
She read out in accented English, “FMA trading now at forty-five and three quarters.”
“There we are,” Roscoe Heyward said, “we’re up another point.”
“But still not as high as before Rosselli bit the bullet,” Big George said. He grinned. “Though when word gets out that you’re helping finance Supranational, your stock’ll soar.”
It could happen, Heyward thought. In the tangled world of finance and stock prices, inexplicable things occurred. That someone would lend money to someone else might not seem to mean much—yet the market would respond.
More importantly, though, Big George had now declared positively that some kind of business was to be transacted between First Mercantile American Bank and SuNatCo. No doubt they would thrash out details through the next two days. He felt his excitement rising.
Above their heads a chime sounded softly. Outside, the jet thrum changed to lower tempo.
“Washington, ho!” Avril said. She and the other girls began fastening the men to their seats with heavy belts and light fingers.
The time on the ground in Washington was even briefer than at the previous stop. With a 14-carat-VIP passenger, it seemed, top priorities for landing, taxiing, and takeoff were axiomatic.
Thus, in less than twenty minutes they had returned to cruising altitude en route to the Bahamas.
The Vice-President was installed, with the brunette, Krista, taking care of him, an arrangement which he patently approved.
Secret Service men, guarding the Vice-President, had been accommodated somewhere at the rear.
Soon after, Big George Quartermain, now attired in a striking cream silk one-piece suit, jovially led the way forward from the lounge into the airliner’s dining room—a richly decorated apartment, predominantly silver and royal blue. There, the four men, seated at a carved oak table beneath a crystal chandelier, and with Moonbeam, Avril, Rhetta, and Krista hovering deliriously behind, lunched in a style and on cuisine which any of the world’s great restaurants would have found it hard to equal.
Roscoe Heyward, while relishing the meal, did not share in the several wines or a thirty-year-old Cognac brandy at the end. But he did observe that the heavy, gold-rimmed brandy goblets omitted the traditional decorative N of Napoleon in favor of a Q.
7
Warm sunshine from an unbroken azure sky shone on the lush green fairway of the long par-5 fifth hole at the Bahamas’ Fordly Cay Club golf course. The course and its adjoining luxury club were among the half-dozen most exclusive in the world.
Beyond the green, a white sand beach, palm-fringed, deserted, extended like a strip of Paradise into the distance. At the edge of the beach a pellucid turquoise sea lapped gently in tiny wavelets. A half mile out from shore a line of breakers creamed on coral reefs.
Nearer to hand, beside the fairway, an exotic crazy-quilt of flowers—hibiscus, bougainvillea, poinsettia, frangipani—competed in belief-defying colors. The fresh, clear air, moved agreeably by a zephyr breeze, held a scent of jasmine.
“I imagine,” the Vice-President of the United States observed, “that this is as close to heaven as any politician gets.”
“My idea of heaven,” the Honorable Harold Austin told him, “would not include slicing.” He grimaced and swung his four iron viciously. “There must be some way to get better at this game.”
The four were playing a best-ball match—Big George and Roscoe Heyward against Harold Austin and the Vice-President.
“What you should do, Harold,” the Vice-President, Byron Stone-bridge, said, “is get back into Congress, then work your way to the job I have. Once there, you’d have nothing else to do but golf; you could take all the time you wanted to improve your game. It’s an accepted historical fact that almost every Vice-President in the past half century left office a better golfer than when he entered it.”
As if to confirm his words, moments later he lofted his third shot—a beautiful eight iron—straight at the flagstick.
Stonebridge, lean and lithe, his movements fluid, was playing a spectacular game today. He had begun life as a farmer’s son, working long hours on a family small holding, and across the years had kept his body sinewy. Now his homely plainsman’s features beamed as his ball dropped, then rolled to within a foot of the cup.
“Not bad,” Big George acknowledged as his cart drew even. “Washington not keeping you too busy, eh, By?”
“Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I ran an inventory of Administration paper clips last month. And there’s been a news leak from the White House—it seems there’s a chance I’ll sharpen pencils over there quite soon.”
The others chuckled dutifully. It was no secret that Stonebridge, ex-State governor, ex-Minority Leader in the Senate, was fretful and restless in his present role. Before the election which had thrust him there, his running mate, the presidential candidate, declared that his Vice-President would—in a new post-Watergate era—play a meaningful, busy part in government. As always after inauguration, the promise stayed unfulfilled.
Heyward and Quartermain chipped onto the green, then waited with Stonebridge as the Honorable Harold, who had been playing erratically, shanked, laughed, flubbed, laughed, and finally chipped on.
The four men made a diverse foursome. G. G. Quartermain, towering above the others, was expensively immaculate in tartan slacks, a Lacoste cardigan, and navy seude Foot-Joys. He wore a red golf cap, its badge proclaiming the coveted status of a member of Fordly Cay Club.
The Vice-President portra
yed stylish neatness—double knit slacks, a mildly colorful shirt, his golfing footwear an ambivalent black and white. In dramatic contrast was Harold Austin, the most flamboyant dresser and a study in shocking pink and lavender. Roscoe Heyward was efficiently practical in dark gray slacks, a white, short-sleeved “dress” shirt and soft black shoes. Even on a golf course he looked like a banker.
Their progress since the first tee had been something of a cavalcade. Big George and Heyward shared one electric golf cart; Stonebridge and the Honorable Harold occupied another. Six more electric carts had been requisitioned by the Vice-President’s Secret Service escort and now surrounded them—on both sides and fore and aft—like a destroyer squadron.
“If you had free choice, By,” Roscoe Heyward said, “free choice to set some government priorities, what would they be?”
Yesterday, Heyward had addressed Stonebridge formally as “Mr. Vice-President,” but was quickly assured, “Forget the formality; I get weary of it. You’ll find I answer best to ‘By.’” Heyward, who cherished first name friendships with important people, was delighted.
Stonebridge answered, “If I had my choice I’d concentrate on economics—restoring fiscal sanity, some balanced national bookkeeping.”
G. G. Quartermain, who had overheard, remarked, “A brave few tried it, By. They failed. And you’re too late.”
“It’s late, George, but not too late.”
“I’ll debate that with you.” Big George squatted, considering the line of his putt. “After nine. Right now the priority is sinking this.”
Since the game started, Quartermain had been quieter than the others, and intense. He had his handicap down to three and always played to win. Winning or turning in a sub-par score pleased him (so he said) as much as acquiring a new company for Supranational.
Heyward was playing with consistent competence, his performance neither flashily spectacular nor anything to be ashamed of.
As all four walked from their carts at the sixth tee, Big George cautioned: “Keep your banker’s eye on the scores of those two, Roscoe. To a politician and an advertising man, accuracy’s not a natural habit.”
“My exalted status requires that I win,” the Vice-President said. “By any means.”
“Oh, I have the scores.” Roscoe Heyward tapped his forehead. “They’re all in here. On 1, George and By had fours, Harold a six, and I had a bogey. We all had pars on 2 except for By with that incredible birdie. Of course, Harold and I had net birds there, too. Everyone held par on 3 except Harold; he had another six. The fourth hole was our good one, fours for George and me (and I had a stroke there), a five for By, a seven for Harold. And, of course, this last hole was a real disaster for Harold but then his partner comes through with another bird. So as far as the match is concerned, right now we’re even.”
Byron Stonebridge stared at him. “That’s uncanny! I’ll be damned.”
“You have me wrong for that first hole,” the Honorable Harold said. “I had a five, not a six.”
Heyward said firmly, “Not so, Harold. Remember, you drove into that palm grove, punched out, hit your fairway wood short of the green, chipped long and two-putted.”
“He’s right,” Stonebridge confirmed. “I remember.”
“Goddamit, Roscoe,” Harold Austin grumbled, “whose friend are you?”
“Mine, by God!” Big George exclaimed. He draped a friendly arm over Heyward’s shoulders. “I’m beginning to like you, Roscoe, especially your handicap!” As Heyward glowed, Big George lowered his voice to a confidential level. “Was everything satisfactory last night?”
“Perfectly satisfactory, thank you. I enjoyed the journey, the evening, and I slept extremely well.”
He had not slept well at first. In the course of the previous evening at G. G. Quartermain’s Bahamas mansion it had become evident that Avril, the slim and lovely redhead, was available to Roscoe Heyward on any terms he chose. That was made plain both by innuendo from the others and Avril’s increasing nearness as the day, then night, progressed. She lost no opportunity to lean toward Heyward so that sometimes her soft hair brushed his face, or to make physical contact with him on the slightest pretext. And while he did not encourage her, neither did he object.
Equally clear was that the gorgeous Krista was available to Byron Stonebridge and the glamorous blonde Rhetta to Harold Austin.
The exquisitely beautiful Japanese girl Moonbeam was seldom more than a few feet away from G. G. Quartermain.
The Quartermain ménage, one of a half dozen owned by the Supranational chairman in various countries, was on Prospero Ridge, high above Nassau city and with a panoramic view of land and sea. The house was in landscaped grounds behind high stone walls. Heyward’s room on the second floor, to which Avril escorted him on arrival, commanded the view. It also afforded a glimpse, through trees, of the house of a near-neighbor—the prime minister, his privacy protected by patrolling Royal Bahamas Police.
In late afternoon they had drinks beside a colonnaded swimming pool. Dinner followed, served on a terrace out of doors, by candlelight. This time the girls, who had shed their uniforms and were superbly gowned, joined the men at table. Hovering white-gloved waiters served while two strolling players added music. Companionship and conversation flowed.
After dinner, while Vice-President Stonebridge and Krista elected to stay on at the house, the others entered a trio of Rolls-Royces—cars which had met them at Nassau Airport earlier—and were driven to the Paradise Island gambling casino. There Big George played heavily and appeared to win. Austin participated mildly, Roscoe Heyward not at all. Heyward disapproved of gambling but was interested in Avril’s description of the finer points of chemin de fer, roulette, and blackjack, which were new to him. Because of the hum of other conversations, Avril kept her face close to Heyward’s while she talked and, as on the airplane earlier, he found the sensation not unpleasing.
But then, with disconcerting suddenness, his body began taking greater cognizance of Avril so that ideas and inclinations which he knew to be reprehensible were increasingly hard to banish. He sensed Avril’s amused awareness of his struggle, which failed to help. Finally, at his bedroom door to which she escorted him at 2 A.M., it was with the greatest effort of will—particularly when she showed a willingness to linger—that he did not invite her in.
Before Avril left for wherever her own room was, she swirled her red hair and told him, smiling, “There’s an intercom beside the bed. If there’s anything you want, press button number seven and I’ll come.” This time there was no doubt of what “anything” meant. And the number seven, it seemed, was a code for Avril wherever she might be.
Inexplicably his voice had thickened and his tongue seemed oversized as he informed her, “Thank you, no. Good night.”
Even then his inner conflict was not over. Undressing, his thoughts returned to Avril and he saw to his chagrin that his body was undermining his will’s resolve. It had been a long time since, unbidden, it had happened.
It was then that he had fallen on his knees and prayed to God to protect him from sin and relieve him of temptation. And after a while, it seemed, the prayer was answered. His body drooped with tiredness. Later still, he slept.
Now, as they drove down the sixth fairway, Big George volunteered, “Look, fella, tonight if you like I’ll send Moonbeam to you. A man wouldn’t believe the tricks that little lotus blossom knows.”
Heyward’s face flushed. He decided to be firm. “George, I’m enjoying your company and I’d like to have your friendship. But I must tell you that in certain areas our ideas differ.”
The big man’s features stiffened. “In just what areas?”
“I imagine, moral ones.”
Big George considered, his face a mask. Then suddenly he guffawed. “Morals—what are they?” He stopped the cart as the Honorable Harold prepared to hit from a fairway bunker on their left. “Okay, Roscoe, cut it your way. Just tell me if you change your mind.”
Despite the
firmness of his resolution, over the next two hours Heyward found his imagination turning to the fragile and seductive Japanese girl.
At the end of nine holes, on the course refreshment lanai, Big George resumed his fifth hole argument with Byron Stonebridge.
“The U.S. government and other governments,” Big George declared, “are being run by those who don’t, or won’t understand economic principles. It’s a reason—the only reason—we have runaway inflation. It’s why the world’s money system is breaking down. It’s why everything moneywise can only get worse.”
“I’ll go part way with you on that,” Stonebridge told him. “The way Congress is spending money, you’d think the supply is inexhaustible. We’ve supposedly sane people in the House and Senate who believe that for every dollar coming in you can safely put out four or five.”
Big George said impatiently, “Every businessman knows that. Known it for a generation. The question is not if, but when, will the American economy collapse?”
“I’m not convinced it has to. We could still avert it.”
“Could, but won’t. Socialism—which is spending money you don’t have and never will—is too deep-rooted. So there comes a point when government runs out of credit. Fools think it can’t happen. But it will.”
The Vice-President sighed. “In public I’d deny the truth of that. Here, among us privately, I can’t.”
“The sequence which is coming,” Big George said, “is easy to predict. It’ll be much the way things went in Chile. A good many think that Chile was different and remote. It wasn’t. It was a small-scale model of the U.S.A.—and Canada and Britain.”