Carriage Trade (6 page)

But I am in a unique position, Mr. Martindale, to offer you the store's actual sales figures. I'm talking the day-to-day sales figures, department by department, for the last twenty-four months or longer—the full and complete set of the company's books. The person who controls these books is in my pocket, Mr. Martindale. And I can promise you that these figures will not amount to what you have been led to believe. Tarkington's has suffered from the recent recession as much as other retailers, if not more so, considering the upscale nature of the store's trade. I can supply you with the full list of accounts receivable. I can also supply you with an exact dollar figure for the store's current inventory, which, I can also assure you, is worth nowhere near what you have been told.…

What would you do with this information? Well, Mr. Martindale, under one scenario I'm thinking of, if the news were leaked to your competitors that you have these figures and that the property is being offered at an inflated price—well, if you're lucky, Mr. Martindale, your competitors will drop out of the picture, and the property will be yours. And you will have it at a distress-sale price, costing your company considerably less money. You'd have the advantage of knowing exactly what you're getting for your money, a not inconsiderable advantage, it seems to me. Of course, once you acquire the property, you can do whatever the damn hell you want with it. The Tarkington name—one of the top fashion names in the world—has some value, though it's hard to put a dollars-and-cents price on the value of a name. And the Fifth Avenue building has some value. But if your competitors were to learn that Continental has the precise operating figures.… Yes, I'd be happy to engineer that leak for you, Mr. Martindale, as part of our deal.

And I'd like to throw in one more offer, sir, while I have you on the line. In any proposal that is placed before Tarkington's stockholders, there is one important stockholder whose vote will be pivotal, and I have that particular stockholder in my pocket, Mr. Martindale. That particular stockholder will vote whichever way I tell he or she to vote.… No, I'm not at liberty to reveal that stockholder's name at this point in our negotiations, Mr. Martindale.… No, I can't tell you whether that stockholder is a family member at this point in time. I can only say that he or she will have the swing vote, and without that vote you're out of the ballpark, sir.…

Why am I making this offer to you? Well, let me put it this way. I've always admired the way you do business. And I understand that the other two serious bidders for the store are one of your arch-rival chains in the U.S. and a retail chain in Canada. Just say I'm enough of a red-blooded American to want to see Tarkington's stay in American hands, the
best
American hands.…

My fee? Well, let's say that would be negotiable, at the time you and I are ready to hammer out a contract. We wouldn't call it a finder's fee, exactly. I'd like to see it as a facilitator's fee. Some sort of percentage that we'd both agree on.… Well, you do that, Mr. Martindale. You think about it. But don't think about it too long. The heirs are anxious to get the estate settled.… No, there's nobody in the family gives a damn about running the store, except maybe the daughter, who works there. But she's just a kid. No experience. Too wet behind the ears. She'll be easy to handle.… So, nice talking with you, Mr. Martindale. Let me hear from you by—let's say Friday, latest. Thank you, sir, and you have a nice day, you hear?

He hangs up the phone, tilts back in his big chair, and rubs his belly. Then he makes another call, this time a local one
.

Tommy Bonham, please, Moe Minskoff calling.… Well, if he's out, where is he? … See if you can locate him, sweetheart. Tell him I need to talk to him right away. Tell him it's urgent.

He hangs up again and dials another local call
.

Eddie? Moe here. Listen, I need some new phone credit card numbers. Last ones you give me is turning into duds already. Get me corporate card numbers. They last the longest. Those individual numbers don't last shit.…

Whaddaya
mean
how do ya get 'em? Same way you always get 'em. Go out to the airport, hang around the pay phones, and when you hear some guy give his number,
write it down
—what're you, some kind of jerk? And if he starts punching in numbers, watch what numbers he punches. You got
eyes
, ain'tcha? Watch, and make a mental note. And remember what I told you about delayed flights. Check the TV screens for delayed flights. That's when guys call their boss, or their wife or girlfriend, or who's meeting their plane, to say they'll be late. Just act like you're waitin' to use the phone.…

Whaddaya
mean
the price has went up? Listen to me, you little shmuck, there's about fifteen thousand other shmucks out there who can do what you do for me! You want this job or not? … Okay, that's more like it. The price stays the same, two bucks a pop. Now get out to La Guardia and start shlepping. I need fifty new numbers by five o'clock.

He slams down the receiver. Now he eases himself out of his chair. He checks the wall safe, then walks into the outer office
.

MINSKOFF
(to Smyrna):
Christ, I'm starving to death. I haven't had anything to eat all day. Doctor keeps telling me I gotta take off sixty pounds, but a man's gotta eat something, don't he? I'm going across the street to Harold's and grab a bite. If they locate Bonham, come get me.

Smyrna merely nods, not looking up from her magazine. He exits. Cut to: Interior, Harold's Diner, a seedy luncheonette with a counter and butt-sprung stools, most of which have been taped together with masking tape. HAROLD, in a dirty white apron, stands behind the counter
.

MINSKOFF enters, takes a seat at the counter, experiencing some difficulty squeezing his large frame between the stool and countertop
.

MINSKOFF:
Harold, I keep tellin' ya, ya got these stools too close to the counter. I got a friend in the bar fixture business. He could get ya some stools—

HAROLD:
Always sellin' somethin', ain'tcha, Moe?

MINSKOFF:
Just trying to be of service. I'm in a service business, after all.

HAROLD:
Well, what'll you have today?

MINSKOFF:
Let's see.
(Studies the plastic-coated menu.)
Gimme a bowl of your chili, a double bacon cheeseburger heavy on the mayo, a large fries, a large onion rings, and a diet Pepsi.

HAROLD:
Cash only, Moe. Remember my policy. Credit makes enemies. Let's be friends.

MINSKOFF:
Cash, shmash.

He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a large wad of bills. He waves this in front of Harold's face before replacing it in his pocket
.

HAROLD
(whistles):
Comin' right up, Moe!

MINSKOFF
(sighs, removes the unlighted cigar from between his clenched teeth, and balances it carefully on the counter's edge):
Hit an Exacta in the sixth at Belmont. Yeah, it's been a pretty good week, all things considered. It ain't gonna be long now before Honeychile and me can hang it all up and retire to the Bahamas.

Blackout

3

As she steps from the bright summer sunshine of the street into the seductively lighted Cafe Pierre, it takes a few moments for Miranda Tarkington's eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. She removes her sunglasses, and then she sees him. As usual, a tall, sleek, and expensively put-together woman has stopped at his banquette to talk to him, and Miranda watches the two of them in animated conversation. Tommy Bonham, she often thinks, must know every woman in New York, or at least every important woman in New York, and of course this is all a part of being vice president and general manager of Tarkington's. Even today, when the store is closed, Tommy is doing business. Miranda watches as Tommy rises and kisses the tall woman's outstretched hand to bid her adieu and the tall woman returns to her own table.

“Who dat?” Miranda whispers as she slides into the banquette beside him. “Me think-um big-time rich squaw, huh?”

“Rich Texas broad,” he mutters out of the side of his mouth, still smiling in the direction of the departing woman's back. “Came over to complain about the store being closed today. Can you believe it? Not a word about your father's death. Just, When's the store going to open? She needs an evening bag for a party tomorrow night. ‘Just a little clutch bag, but it's got to be silver.'”

“Not one of our latchkey ladies?”

“Are you kidding? Broad's a kleptomaniac. She likes it when I wait on her, but she doesn't know it's because I have to watch her like a hawk whenever she's in the store.”

From across the room a redheaded woman in a red Ungaro suit and a pink blouse waves at them and blows an air kiss, mouthing the words, “Hello, darlings!”

Miranda blows an air kiss back, and Tommy smiles in the woman's direction. When he smiles, he has three dimples—one on each cheek, and one on his chin.

“Mona Potter,” Miranda whispers. “This means we'll be in her column tomorrow morning.”

“Bitch owes us fourteen thousand dollars,” Tommy mutters. “She thinks she can pay her bill with column mentions.”

“Poor Tommy,” Miranda says. “I'd like a Lillet,” she says to the waiter who has approached them.

“Certainly, Miss Tarkington,” he says, “and may I tell you how saddened we all were by the news of your father's death? He often came in here, you know. We were all very fond of him.”

“Thank you,” Miranda says. “That's very kind of you to say.”

“And of course everybody's wondering—will Tarkington's ever be the same? Can it ever be the same without him?”

“I think it's safe to say that Tarkington's will always be Tarkington's,” she says. “Right, Tommy?”

“Absolutely.” He nods his head in agreement. “Well,” he says, after the waiter has departed, “how'd it go with the lawyers?”

“Oh, not very well, I'm afraid,” she says. “Blazer made a terrible scene. I knew damn well he would. Because Daddy made good on his threat. He didn't leave Blazer a penny. I don't know why Blazer even came this afternoon. In fact, I called him this morning, and I said to him, ‘Blaze, honey, please don't come to this meeting this afternoon, 'cause I don't think you're going to like what you're going to hear in Daddy's will.' But he said, ‘No, I want to have the last word with the old son-of-a-bitch.'”

“And so he did.”

“Of course, and he began shouting about—oh, you know, Daddy's girlfriends and all that. And about Smitty. And Mother just sat there, looking beautiful, saying nothing, as though she had ice water in her veins. Can you understand it? I know I could never put up with a husband who was flagrantly unfaithful to me, and
all the time
! Could you? Could you put up with a wife who was unfaithful to you all the time?”

He smiles. “Since I've never had a wife, I can't say,” he says.

“That's probably why you've never had a wife. To spare yourself that aggravation.”

He merely lowers his eyes and stirs the olive, on its toothpick, in his martini.

“But Mother—she seems just as unconcerned about Daddy's womanizing now that he's dead as she was when he was alive. Maybe someday you can explain my mother to me, Tomcat.”

“I think,” he says carefully, “that your mother's a very brave woman, Mandy.”

“Very brave or very stupid. Or maybe brave and stupid are the same damn thing.” She flips her chestnut ponytail with her left hand. “Anyway, I've stopped worrying about what my mother's feelings are. But poor Blazer, on the other hand—”

“Mandy,” he says, “maybe I shouldn't say this, but don't you think Blazer had it coming to him? He treated his father like shit, and your father wasn't a man who liked to be treated like shit.”

“Oh, I know, I know. And particularly after that last big row of theirs. But still—”

“He threatened your father, Mandy. He tried to—”

“I know, I know. But I think what hurt Blazer most of all was not being mentioned in the obituary this morning. It was like reading that he didn't exist.”

He shakes his head. “I don't know how that happened,” he says. “I gave
The Times
all that information. Want me to see if I can get the paper to print a correction, mentioning that Silas R. Tarkington, Junior, was inadvertently omitted from the obit? They're pretty good at doing things like that for us.”

“No. No, I don't think so. That would be like rubbing salt in his wounds. Like saying, ‘Oh, and we forgot to mention that he also had this son.' No, the harm's been done.”

“If Blazer had ever tried to make anything of himself, it might have been different. But face it, Mandy, your half brother's a bum.”

She nods mutely, in agreement. “Still, he was always nice to me when I was growing up. And—in fact—it turns out that at the last minute Daddy was planning to rewrite his will.”

“Really?” he says, looking at her, interested. “How do you know that?”

“Jake Kohlberg told us so. He was apparently planning to reinstate Blazer in some way and make some other major changes. But then he—died—and it was too late.… Thank you,” she whispers to the waiter as he places her glass of Lillet in front of her.

“What sort of—major changes?”

“I don't know. After Blazer went storming out, I asked Jake if we could see a copy of the new will he'd been drafting, but he wouldn't show it to us. ‘Lawyer-client confidentiality,' he said. ‘But I'm his daughter!' I said. ‘And I'm his lawyer,' he said. Stupid lawyers.”

“Hmm,” he says.

“Anyway, he left you his emerald pinky ring. I thought that was sweet of him. It's a good emerald, even though you-know-who picked it out for him.”