Carriage Trade (18 page)

“Hear, hear!” several department heads say.

“Of course, any changes a store like Tarkington's makes should be made very slowly and carefully,” he says. “We still like to be known as expensive, and even a bit intimidating. That's part of our glamorous image. For instance, Si never believed in having a sale. I could see his point. Shoppers tend to develop a sale mentality. They never set foot inside a store unless there's some sort of sale going on. As a result, there's hardly anything being sold in New York anymore at the full retail price. I'm not suggesting we go the Saks route, where there's something on sale in the store every day of the year. But I might suggest, with fall and the Christmas season coming on, that we have one storewide post-Christmas sale once a year, the way, for instance, Harrod's does.”

“Hear, hear!”

He nods in Miranda's direction. “I'd even be in favor of advertising that sale.”

“Hear, hear!”

“You know, and I do too, that other merchants in town call Tarkington's an anachronism. I don't want us to become an anachronism.”

“Hear, hear!”

Miss Rubinstein, head of the Bridal Department, raises her hand.

“Yes, Sarah?”

“Tommy, let me ask a question,” she says. “You were talking about storewide gross figures a minute ago. If the store's profits are down fifty percent from a year ago, why are my department's figures down
sixty
percent? And why are Diana Smith's jewelry department figures
up
ten percent? We're both selling luxury goods. By the way, where is Smitty?”

“She was notified of this meeting,” he says. “You have a good point, Sarah, and it's another problem we face. Demographics show that our clientele is growing older. Every time I see in the paper that a rich society woman has died, I kind of groan and think, There goes another of our customers!”

There is laughter at this.

“And not enough rock stars, women like Madonna, are coming along to take those women's places.”

More laughter.

“Rich older women still buy jewelry. But they're out of the market for bridal apparel.”

Still more laughter.

“But seriously, Sarah, you have an important point. I've often thought that Tarkington's ought to have a department offering designer apparel for children, and also for teenagers, so that we could start educating women to be Tarkington's shoppers while they're young.”

“Hear, hear.”

“I'd like to end this meeting on one final, even more serious note,” he says. “If we're going to have the capital necessary to fight a takeover attempt, our company is going to have to do some serious belt tightening. I'm going to propose something you won't like, but I hope it will be only temporary—a ten-percent cut in base pay, of those at the executive level only.”

There is a collective groan.

“To offset this, I'd like to increase the commission percentage to salespeople who exceed certain goals. And I'd also like to allow sales staff members to sell merchandise from departments other than their own.”

There is silence, as the members of the sales staff do mental arithmetic to try to figure what such a move will do to their take-home pay.

“You mean,” says one, “that I could take a customer from Small Leather Goods up to the fur department and sell her a mink?”

“Absolutely.”

“That would work fine for
you
, wouldn't it?” says a saleswoman from the fur department. “It wouldn't work so fine for me, the other way around.”

“It would work fine for you, Eunice, if you could sell the client the mink first,” Tommy says, giving her his best smile. “Well, that's all I have for you this morning. Except to say that I hope you'll all bear with me during this difficult interim period, while we all may literally find ourselves fighting to save Tarkington's. Thank you, and God bless you all.” He hops down from his perch on the tabletop.

There is applause. Muted applause, but applause.

“Well, you may not be president of the store yet, Tomcat,” Miranda says to him when they are back in his office, “but you were certainly acting like one. That was a good meeting, and they liked nearly everything you said. Except salaries, of course. You wouldn't have expected them to like that. Is the situation really that serious? With Continental?”

He nods. “I'm afraid it is. Albert Martindale has already sent out feelers to me about acquiring my stock. Of course I told him it was not for sale. But I sense a big fight coming.”

“And I guess Daddy was a bit of a fuddy-duddy. A bit behind the times. He didn't prepare the store for this at all, did he?”

“Your father was your father. He did things his own way.” He picks up a slip of paper from his desk, reads it, and hands it to Miranda. “This explains why Smitty wasn't here today,” he says.

Miranda reads the note headed
From the desk of Diana Smith
.

Dear Tommy:

Mr. Jacob Kohlberg, who is the attorney for Si Tarkington's estate, has informed me that I have been named in Si's will as Special Curator of the Tarkington Collection of Art when it is turned over to the Metropolitan Museum. This is an exciting new career opportunity for me in the field of Fine Art, and one I accept eagerly.

Since such a curatorship will be a full-time job for me, I am herewith submitting my resignation, effective immediately.

Smitty

“So that solves that problem,” he says. “You should be pleased.”

“I just hope she really has that new job,” Miranda says grimly. “The representative from the museum didn't exactly do handstands when he learned that Smitty came along as a condition of the gift.”

“But it means we have one less salary to pay,” he says with a little laugh. “Every little bit helps, I guess. What would you say if I gave Jewelry to Gertie Elson of Small Leather Goods? She seemed happy with my idea of interdepartmental selling, and the two departments are right next to each other on the floor. Gertie could buy for both.”

“Good idea. Or what about Sarah Rubinstein of Bridal? They sort of go together: brides, wedding rings. And she complained that her figures weren't as good as Smitty's.”

He lowers his voice. “Frankly, I think Sarah's problem is her merchandise. Her figures are weak because her merchandise is lousy. If it were up to me, I'd get rid of Sarah and find someone else with a younger point of view. Sarah's bridal apparel looks like it was designed for weddings in the nineteen-fifties.”

“I haven't been in the Bridal Shop recently,” she admits. “I'll stop by there and have a look.” She sits in a chair opposite his desk. Unlike his house in Old Westbury, his office is meticulously tidy, his desktop clear, the quilted pillows on his sofa plumped invitingly. But perhaps this is his secretary's doing. “Now tell me,” she says, “who are these stockholders, besides Mother and myself, who we'll have to deal with if there's a takeover attempt?”

“You and your mother each own about twenty percent of the voting shares,” he says. “I own roughly five percent. Moses Minskoff owns about twelve percent.”

“Moe Minskoff is a
stockholder
?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“How in the world did that happen?”

“He advanced your father money over the years. Your father repaid him in Tarkington's stock. Then there's your father's sister, Mrs. Belsky—”

“My father's
sister
? I never knew my father had a sister! You mean I've got an aunt I never knew about?”

“Yes, she's your father's younger sister, Simma Belsky. Mrs. Leopold Belsky. She lives in Florida. She owns another twelve percent.”

“Does my mother know about her?”

He hesitates. “I'm sure she does,” he says.

“More dumb family secrets!”

“Apparently something occurred in your father's family years ago, and there was a serious falling out between your father, his sister, and his mother. I don't know what it was all about. Money, probably—these things usually are. But there's been absolutely no communication since. Did you know that your father's mother is still living?”

“I have a grandmother
too
?”

“Yes, you do. She's a very old lady now. She lives in a nursing home near Palm Beach, and I understand she's completely senile. On Mother's Day your father used to send her something now and then—not often—from the store. But they haven't spoken to each other in years.”

She looks at him wonderingly. “You're telling me about relatives I never knew I had! Of course I know why nobody ever mentioned those women. They were family skeletons, weren't they? That's quite typical of my parents. Those two didn't match the Tarkington's image. They weren't glossy enough. They weren't Tarkington types. They reminded Daddy of his quote-unquote humble origins, so he swept them under the rug, turned them into non-persons. Right?”

“I really don't know the whole story, Miranda. Your father never discussed it with me. All I know is their names from the company books as stockholders.”

“My grandmother is a stockholder too?”

“She doesn't own as much as your father's sister. She only owns about three percent of the company. She always has.”

“Wait a minute,” she says, as a thought suddenly flashes across her mind. “What does she look like, this grandmother? Is she short and fat with long white hair? Did she used to live on West End Avenue?”

He spreads his hands. “I don't know. I've never met her either.”

“Do you remember, years ago, one evening at the farm—” But she breaks off. “Never mind.”

“Anyway, those are the six major shareholders. The other shares, the remaining twenty-eight percent, are owned in small blocks by individuals. Some are employees. Your father often rewarded longtime employees with gifts of Tarkington's stock in lieu of raises. He felt it made them feel as though they owned at least a little piece of the company they worked for. And there are other individuals who've bought up shares whenever they appeared for trading, over the counter. I can show you the complete list, if you like.”

“What percentage of the twenty-eight percent is owned by our employees, do you know?”

“About half. Actually a little less than half.”

“Will they be loyal to us? Will they help us fight a takeover?”

“Who knows? It will depend on what form Continental's tender offer takes. Never underestimate the human capacity for greed. I'd hope they'd be loyal. That's why I made that little spiel to them this morning.”

“But,” she says, quickly counting on her fingers, “if you and Mother and I and even
half
the employees refused to sell their shares, that would give us a clear majority, wouldn't it? Nobody could take us over!”

“That's right,” he says. “But your mother wants to sell.”

She bites her lip. “Yes,” she says. “At least that's what she's saying now. But let me work on her. I wasn't very nice to her at dinner last night, but let me try being nice to her again. Let me see if I can butter her up. I'll work on her and you work on the employees—take them to lunch, tell them what a great job they're doing, what a great store we're going to make this into, and I'll tackle Mother. How's that for a division of labor?”

He shakes his head. “I wish I thought it would work,” he says.

“Why not? Why won't it work? I'll make it work.”

“Your mother's a very determined lady,” he says. “And I think you underestimate the depth of her bitterness.”

“Bitterness?”

“Over your father's relationship with Smitty.”

“But Smitty wasn't the first, and she wouldn't have been the last. There were lots of others—others Mother knew about, and others she probably didn't.”

“I think she knew about them all,” he says. “But Smitty was different. Your father was besotted with Smitty.” He fixes her with his deep blue eyes. “I can't lie to you, Miranda,” he says. “I've got to tell you the truth. This isn't going to be easy, but you've got to know.”

Her dark eyes flash. “What is it?”

“On the day he died, your father was planning to leave your mother and run away with Smitty.”

She takes a quick intake of breath. “How do you know?”

“I found a letter. About a week before he died, your father had gone out to lunch, and I needed some figures he had. As I rummaged through the papers on his desk, I found a typewritten note. And—I'm not proud of this—I read it. It was from Smitty. It named the date and time when they planned to meet at the farm, where they planned to confront your mother, and then go off together to Bermuda. That date was the day he died. Strange coincidence, don't you think?”

“Tommy, you don't think—”

“I don't know what happened that day at the farm,” he says, “but something did. The whole thing was handled so strangely. First, your mother finds him floating in the pool—”

“No, Milliken found him. Then he called Mother.”

“Oh?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Is that the story now? Well—”

“That's what Milliken told me last night. And Mother doesn't deny that that was the way it happened. She says she doesn't remember.”

“Anyway, nobody called the police or an ambulance. Instead, Si's old crony Harry Arnstein is called from twenty-five miles away in Manhattan. He pronounces death from natural causes—no tests, no autopsy—and your father is whisked off to the crematorium. All this before anyone else is notified—not me, not even you.”

“Tommy, you don't think that Mother—”

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” he says. “But I honestly don't know what happened that day, Miranda, and now I suppose no one ever will. But I did think you ought to know about the letter, and the fact that on the day he died your father had other plans.”