The Honorable Harold ventured thoughtfully, “I agree with your point about sequence. First a democracy—solid, world-acknowledged, and effective. Then socialism, mild at first but soon increasing. Money spent wildly until nothing’s left. After that, financial ruin, anarchy, dictatorship.”
“No matter how much in a hole we get,” Byron Stonebridge said, “I’ll not believe we’d go that far.”
“We wouldn’t need to,” Big George told him. “Not if some of us with intelligence and power think ahead, and plan. When financial collapse comes, in the U.S. we’ve two strong arms to stop us short of anarchy. One is big business. By that I mean a cartel of multi-national companies like mine, and big banks like yours and others, Roscoe—which could run the country financially, exerting fiscal discipline. We would be solvent because of worldwide operation; we’d have put our own resources where inflation didn’t swallow them. The other strong arm is the military and police. In partnership with big business, they’d keep order.”
The Vice-President said drily, “In other words, a police state. You might encounter opposition.”
Big George shrugged. “Some maybe; not much. People will accept the inevitable. Especially when democracy, so-called, has split apart, the money system shattered, individual purchasing power nil. Besides that, Americans don’t believe in democratic institutions any more. You politicians undermined them.”
Roscoe Heyward had kept silent, listening. Now he said, “What you foresee, George, is an extension of the present military-industrial complex into an elitist government.”
“Exactly! And industrial-military—I prefer it that way—is becoming stronger as American economics weaken. And we’ve organization. It’s loose, but tightening fast.”
“Eisenhower was first to recognize the military-industrial structure,” Heyward said.
“And warn against it,” Byron Stonebridge added.
“Hell, yes!” Big George agreed. “And more fool him! Ike, of all people, should have seen the possibilities for strength. Don’t you?”
The Vice-President sipped his Planter’s Punch. “This is off the record. But yes, I do.”
“I’ll say this,” Big George assured him, “you’re one who should be joining us.”
The Honorable Harold asked, “How much time, George, do you believe we have?”
“My own experts tell me eight to nine years. By then, collapse of the money system is inevitable.”
“What appeals to me as a banker,” Roscoe Heyward said, “is the idea of discipline at last in money and government.”
G. G. Quartermain signed the bar chit and stood up. “And you’ll see it. That I promise you.”
They drove to the tenth tee.
Big George called over to the Vice-President, “By, you’ve been playing ’way over your head and it’s your honor. Tee it up and let’s see some disciplined and economic golf. You’re only one-up and there are nine tough holes to go.”
Big George and Roscoe Heyward waited on the cart path while Harold Austin looked over his lie on the fourteenth hole; after general searching, a Secret Service man had located his ball beneath a hibiscus bush. Big George had relaxed since he and Heyward had taken two holes and were now one-up. As they sat in the cart, the subject which Heyward had been hoping for was raised. It happened with surprising casualness.
“So your bank would like some Supranational business.”
“The thought had occurred to us.” Heyward tried to match the other’s casualness.
“I’m extending Supranational’s foreign communications holdings by buying control of small, key telephone and broadcast companies. Some owned by governments, others private. We do it quietly, paying off local politicians where we have to; that way we avoid nationalistic fuss. Supranational provides advanced technology, efficient service, which small countries can’t afford, and standardization for global linkage. There’s good profitability for ourselves. In three more years we’ll control, through subsidiaries, forty-five percent of communications linkages, worldwide. No one else comes close. It’s important to America; it’ll be vital in the kind of industrial-military liaison we were talking about.”
“Yes,” Heyward agreed, “I can see the significance of that.”
“From your bank I’d want a credit line of fifty million dollars. Of course, at prime.”
“Naturally, whatever we arranged would be at prime.” Heyward had known that any loan to Supranational would be at the bank’s best interest rate. In banking it was axiomatic that the richest customers paid least for borrowed money; highest interest rates were for the poor. “What we would have to review,” he pointed out, “is our bank’s legal limitation under Federal law.”
“Legal limit, hell! There are ways around that, methods used every day. You know it as well as I do.”
“Yes, I’m aware that there are ways and means.”
What both men were speaking of, and fully understood, was a U.S. banking regulation forbidding any bank to loan more than ten percent of its capital and paid-in surplus to a single debtor. The purpose was to guard against bank failure and protect depositors from loss. In the case of First Mercantile American, a fifty-million-dollar loan to Supranational would substantially exceed that limit.
“The way to beat the regulation,” Big George said, “is for you to split the loan among our subsidiary companies. Then well reallocate it as and where we need.”
Roscoe Heyward mused, “It could be done that way.” He was aware that the proposal violated the spirit of the law while remaining technically within it. But he also knew that what Big George had said was true: Such methods were in everyday use by the biggest, most prestigious banks.
Yet even with that problem handled, the size of the proposed commitment staggered him. He had envisaged twenty or twenty-five million as a starting point, with the sum increasing perhaps as relationships beween Supranational and the bank developed.
As if reading his mind, Big George said flatly, “I never deal in small amounts. If fifty million is bigger than you people can handle, let’s forget the whole thing. I’ll give it to Chase.”
The elusive, important business which Heyward had come here hoping to capture seemed suddenly to be slipping away.
He said emphatically, “No, no. It’s not too large.”
Mentally he reviewed other FMA commitments. No one knew them better. Yes, fifty million to SuNatCo could be managed. It would necessitate turning off taps within the bank—cutting back drastically on smaller loans and mortgages, but this could be handled. A large single loan to a client like Supranational would be immensely more profitable than a host of small loans, costly to process and collect.
“I intend to recommend the line of credit strongly to our board,” Heyward said decisively, “and I’m certain they’ll agree.”
His golfing partner acknowledged curtly, “Good.”
“Of course, it would strengthen my position if I could inform our directors that we would have some bank representation on the Supranational board.”
Big George drove the golf cart up to his ball, which he studied before replying. “That might be arranged. If it was, I’d expect your trust department to invest heavily in our stock. It’s time some fresh buying pushed the price up.”
With growing confidence, Heyward said, “The subject could be explored, along with other matters. Obviously Supranational will have an active account with us now, and there’s the question of a compensating balance …”
They were, Heyward knew, going through a banker-client ritualistic dance. What it symbolized was a fact of banking-corporate life: You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.
G. G. Quartermain, jerking an iron from his alligator bag, said irritably, “Don’t bother me with details. My financial man, Inchbeck, will be here today. He’ll fly back with us tomorrow. You two can get together then.”
Plainly, the brief business session was concluded.
By this time the Honorable Harold’s erratic game seemed to have
affected his partner. “You’re psyching me,” Byron Stonebridge complained at one point. At another: “Dammit, Harold, that slice of yours is contagious as smallpox. Anyone you play with should be vaccinated.” And for whatever reason, the Vice-President’s swing, shots and poise began to go awry for costly strokes.
Since Austin did not improve, even with the chiding, by the seventeenth hole Big George and short-but-straight Roscoe remained one up in the lead. This suited G. G. Quartermain and he crunched his tee shot on eighteen about two hundred and seventy yards, straight down the middle, then proceeded to birdie the hole, giving his side the match.
Big George was jovial at his victory and clasped Byron Stonebridge around the shoulders. “I guess that makes my credit balance in Washington even better than before.”
“Depends on what you want,” the Vice-President said. He added pointedly, “And how discreet you are.”
Over drinks in the men’s locker room, the Honorable Harold and Stonebridge each paid G. G. Quartermain a hundred dollars—a bet they had agreed on before the game began. Heyward had demurred from betting, so was not included in the payoff.
It was Big George who said magnanimously, “I like the way you played, partner.” He appealed to the others. “I think Roscoe ought to get some recognition. Don’t you two?”
As they nodded, Big George slapped his knee. “I got it! A seat on the Supranational board. Howzat for a prize?”
Heyward smiled. “I’m sure you’re joking.”
Momentarily, the smile left the SuNatCo chairman’s face. “About Supranational I never joke.”
It was then Heyward realized that this was Big George’s way of implementing their earlier conversation. If he agreed, of course, it would mean accepting the other obligations …
His hesitation lasted seconds only. “If you do mean it, I’ll be delighted to accept.”
“It will be announced next week.”
The offer was so swift and staggering that Heyward still had difficulty believing. He had expected that someone else from among the directors of First Mercantile American Bank would be invited to join the board of Supranational. To be chosen himself, and personally by G. G. Quartermain, was an accolade of accolades. The SuNatCo board, as composed now, read like a blue ribboned Who’s Who of business and finance.
As if reading his mind, Big George chuckled. “Among other things, you can keep an eye on your bank’s money.”
Heyward saw the Honorable Harold glance his way questioningly. As Heyward gave a small slight nod, his fellow FMA director beamed.
8
The second evening at G. G. Quartermain’s Bahamas mansion held a subtly different quality from the first. It was as if all eight of them—the men and girls—shared a relaxed intimacy, lacking the night before. Roscoe Heyward, aware of the contrast, suspected he knew the reason for it.
Intuition told him that Rhetta had spent the previous night with Harold Austin, Krista with Byron Stonebridge. He hoped the two men did not believe the same was true of himself and Avril. He was sure that his host did not; his remarks of this morning indicated it, probably because Big George was kept informed about what went on, or didn’t, within this house.
Meanwhile, the evening gathering—again around the pool and on the terrace at dinnertime—was delectable for its own sake. Roscoe Heyward allowed himself to be an untautened, cheerful part of it.
He was enjoying, quite frankly, the continued attentions of Avril who showed no sign of resenting his rejection of her last night. Since he had proven to himself that he could resist her ultimate temptations, he saw no reason to deny himself Aval’s pleasant companionship now. Two other reasons for his euphoric state were the pledge of Supranational business for First Mercantile American Bank and the unexpected, dazzling trophy of a seat for himself on the SuNatCo board. He had no doubt whatever that both would enhance his own prestige importantly at FMA. Already his succession to the bank’s presidency seemed nearer.
Earlier, he had had a short meeting with the Supranational comptroller, Stanley Inchbeck, who had arrived, as Big George said. Inch-beck was a balding, bustling New Yorker and he and Heyward arranged to work out details of the SuNatCo loan on the flight northward tomorrow. Apart from his meeting with Heyward, Inchbeck had been closeted through most of the afternoon with G. G. Quartermain. Although he was apparently staying somewhere in the house, Inchbeck did not appear for drinks or dinner.
Something else Roscoe Heyward had noticed earlier, from the window of his second-floor room, was G. G. Quartermain and Byron Stonebridge strolling in the grounds for almost an hour in the early evening, deep in conversation. They were too far from the house for anything they said to be overheard but Big George appeared to be talking persuasively, with the Vice-President interrupting occasionally with what probably were questions. Heyward remembered this morning’s remark on the golf course about “a credit balance in Washington,” then wondered which of Supranational’s many interests were being discussed. He decided he would never know.
Now, after dinner, in the cool, sweet-scented darkness out of doors, Big George was once more the genial host. Cupping his hands around a Q emblazoned brandy glass, he announced, “No excursions tonight. We’ll keep the party here.”
The majordomo, waiters, and musicians had discreetly slipped away.
Rhetta and Avril, who were drinking champagne, chorused, “A party here!”
By Stonebridge raised his voice to match the girls’. “What kind of party?”
“A swinging party!” Krista declared, then corrected herself, her speech slurred slightly from dinner wine and champagne. “No, a swimming party! I want to swim.”
Stonebridge challenged her, “What’s stopping you?”
“Nothing, By, darling! Absolutely nothing!” In a series of swift movements, Krista set down her champagne glass, kicked off her shoes, unfastened straps on her dress and wiggled. The long green dinner gown she had been wearing cascaded to her feet. Beneath it was a slip. She pulled that over her head and tossed it away. She had been wearing nothing else.
Naked, smiling, her exquisitely proportioned body with high firm breasts and jet black hair making her like a Maillol sculpture in motion, Krista walked with dignity from the terrace, down steps to the lighted swimming pool, and dived in. She swam the length of the pool, turned and called to the others, “It’s glorious! Come in!”
“By God!” Stonebridge said, “I reckon I will.” He tossed off his sport shirt, slacks and shoes, and naked as Krista, though less alluring, padded over and dived.
Moonbeam, with a small high giggle, and Rhetta were already taking off their clothes.
“Hold on!” Harold Austin called. “This sport’s coming, too.”
Roscoe Heyward, who had watched Krista with a mixture of shock and fascination, found Avril close beside him. “Rossie, sweetie, undo my zipper.” She presented him her back.
Uncertainly, he tried to reach the zipper from his chair.
“Stand up, you old silly,” Avril said. As he did, with her head half turned she leaned against him, her warmth and fragrance overpowering.
“Have you done it yet?”
He was having difficulty concentrating. “No, it seems to be …”
Adroitly, Avril reached behind her. “Here, let me.” Finishing what he had begun, she tugged the zipper down. With a shrug of her shoulders, her dress fell away.
She swirled her red hair in the gesture he had come to know. “Well, what are you waiting for? Undo my bra.”
His hands were trembling, his eyes riveted on her, as he did as he was told. The bra dropped. His hands did not.
With a minimal, graceful movement, Avril pivoted. She leaned forward and kissed him fully on the lips. His hands, remaining where they were, touched the forward thrusting nipples of her breasts. Involuntarily, it seemed, his fingers curled and tightened. Electric, sensual waves shot through him.
“Um,” Avril purred. “That’s nice. Coming swimming?”
He shoo
k his head.
“See you later, then.” She turned, walking away like a Grecian goddess in her nudity, and joined the other five cavorting in the pool.
G. G. Quartermain had remained seated, his chair pushed back from the dinner table. He sipped his brandy, eying Heyward shrewdly. “I’m not much for swimming either. Though once in a while, if he’s sure he’s among friends, it’s good for a man to let himself go.”
“I suppose I should concede that. And I certainly do feel among friends.” Heyward sank down into his chair again; removing his glasses, he began to polish them. He had control of himself now. The instant of mad weakness was behind him. He went on, “The problem is, of course: one occasionally goes slightly further than intended. However, if one maintains over-all control, that’s really the important thing.”
Big George yawned.
While they talked, the others, by this time out of the water, were toweling themselves and slipping on robes from a pile beside the pool.
Two hours or so later, as she had the night before, Avril escorted Roscoe Heyward to his bedroom doorway. At first, downstairs he had decided to insist that she not accompany him, then changed his mind, confident of his reasserted strength of will and positive now he would not succumb to wild, erotic impulses. He even felt assured enough to say cheerfully, “Good night, young lady. And, yes, before you tell me, I know your intercom number is seven, but I assure you there is nothing that I’ll need.”
Avril had looked at him with an enigmatic half smile, then turned away. He immediately closed and locked the bedroom door, afterward humming softly to himself as he prepared for bed.
But, in bed, sleep eluded him.
He lay awake for nearly an hour, the bedclothes thrown back, the bedding soft beneath him. Through an open window he could hear a drowsy hum of insects and, distantly, the sound of breakers on the shore.
Despite his best intentions, the focus of his thoughts was Avril.