Payback (6 page)

She was tired. She was bored. And she made a quite surprisingly small amount of money.

She stubbed out the cigarette.

Barefoot, in a shirt, she went into Richard's kitchen and made a pot of coffee.

His refrigerator blossomed with provocative greens. (Roughage, Richard called it.) There was tofu in a jar. No milk. (“It makes mucus,” Richard told her with alarm; and she'd looked at him levelly and said, “So do I.”)

She turned on the radio and poured a cup of coffee, and made herself examine the soul-defying fact: Richard had money. Therefore—and
mainly
therefore—she'd tried. So. There it was. And the only question left: Was there an article in it?
(Gold-Diggers of 37. Unite. You Have Nothing to Lose …)

The radio repeated there were “seven known deaths.” Whatever the story was, “seven known deaths” would be a definite Story. But only for the papers and the newsmagazines. The drama would be over by the time any monthly ever made it to the stands and besides, the kind of soft-bitten editors she knew weren't interested in crime. They were interested in diet (there we go: “Death is a diet that
works!”)
and traveling and money and fashion and—wait a second—one other angle that could play. She narrowed her eyes now and squinted at the wall. Man on a Hot Seat. Diary of a Disaster. How Tate Pharmaceuticals Weathered (or didn't weather) the Storm. Focus on the man. The president/chief/chairman/whatever. The brilliant/fumbling, genius/asshole, and how he reacted.

Five thousand bucks for maybe four thousand words.

Question: Who was he?

Answer: In the files.

In Richard's study she went to the elegant mahogany cabinet and riffled through the tabs. Richard was a ripper. He ripped things from magazines; he tore through the news. He saved things forever that applied to his business and—there. A bright red manila folder. TATE.

She brought the thing back to the kitchen. While she sipped at her coffee, she opened it and yawned. Yellowed clippings from
The Wall Street Journal
. Articles from dull-looking trade publications. Squibs out of
Business Week, Newsweek, Time
.

Obituary: Jeremy Mortimer Tate. “Feb. 11, 1982,” written in Richard's rather stern-looking hand.

She skipped through the clipping with a speed-reader's eye:

Grandson of the founder. Chief executive and chairman of the board. There were no immediate family survivors. His brother, who was listed as “a sportsman,” was dead; so was his wife; his only son had been killed in Vietnam; his only daughter, in a highway accident the following year.

Jeremy's picture showed a nice-looking man with a faceful of trouble. He'd been sixty years old.

NEW LIFE AT TATE. 3/82.

Robert R. Mitchell takes over the mantle. Been with the company since 1970. Vietnam hero. Winner of a Silver Star and a Heart.

A survivor, she thought.

Jeremy had left him a huge chunk of stock and had practically willed him to be president too.

Leaving his nephews somewhere in the cold. The brothers, Burtram and Cyrus Tate, gave a terse “no comment” when the story was announced.

Now there, she thought, putting down her cup, was a story. Or at any rate, the core of a continuing drama. Dynasty II. Angst and hubris in the house of the king.

She scanned a few headlines:

MITCHELL ACQUIRES McALLISTER

LABS PLUS SWEETENER PATENT

(3/82)

TATE INTRODUCES

NATURALITE SWEETENER

(2/84)

NATURALITE SWEETENER:

A SWEET SUCCESS

(6/84)

NATURALITE WEIGHS IN

WITH HEAVY PROFITS

(2/85)

TATE STOCK SOARS

(2/85)

And then, on the other hand—TROUBLE AT TATE. Mitchell had been shoveling the company's profits into “dead-end research and third world holes,” according to the brothers, and he'd better cut it out. (1/87).

She flipped through the file.

No pictures of Mitchell.

No pictures at all.

Why? Was he ugly?

No interviews either.

Why was he shy?

An item described him as “intensely private.”

Why was he private and why was he intense?

7/85:

McALLISTER, IN SUIT, CLAIMS

MITCHELL HELD BACK

William McAllister, claiming that Tate Pharmaceuticals Chairman Robert R. Mitchell had undisclosed knowledge when he purchased McAllister's foundering lab, testified today before a federal court in Mineola, Long Island. McAllister, whose suit is for “damages and loss,” presented his contention that “Mitchell seemed to know we were working on the formula for Naturalite” when he purchased the company “at fire-sale money.”

Naturalite, the artificial sweetener, has gross revenues of $450 million a year, but the patent, along with a few dozen others, and the research facility in Merritt, Long Island, were acquired by Mitchell for $7 million in 1982. McAllister, in trouble with a federal tax bill “and several personal problems at the time,” said, “I wasn't aware of what we had on the boards.”

Federal court Judge Eliot Donovan asked if McAllister's “personal problems had something to do with your addiction to coke, and I warn you,” he cautioned, “perjury still remains a crime in New York.”

The case was dismissed, Donovan invoking “the serviceable doctrine of caveat vendor,” and adding, “though your problems were nothing to sneeze at, I suggest you should have known what your company owned.”

Mr. Mitchell, who has funded the research facility, employing the profits from McAllister's loss, refused to make comment.

Joanna got up, poured another cup of coffee and giggled while she did, spilling coffee on her foot.

Well … good for Mitchell.

A Robin Hood, she thought. A renegade prowler in the fast-growing forests of American greed.

She found a few Seven-grain Stone-ground Salt-free Absolutely Natural and loathsome crackers and brought them to the yard. No grass ever grew under Richard Gough's feet; it was all terra-cotta. She ambled to the pool.

Robert R. Mitchell sounded practically terrific.

He seemed to be standing where the rest of her fine generation should have been, if fashion or comfort or boredom hadn't taken them to some other port.

She looked at the hedges that rimmed the back yard and then squinted at the pool. The sun had come up very startlingly bright. The air was still chilly but the water, in the heated little quarry, would be warm.

On an impulse, she suddenly stripped off her sweatshirt, climbed up the diving board, thought for a moment, and then took the plunge.

The water was good. She swam a few lengths of it, feeling it tingling and soothing her body, then floated for a while, thinking of nothing but the sun and the sky and how Robert R. Mitchell would undoubtedly be a very grave disappointment if she actually met him.

In Richard's bedroom, with a towel wrapped tight and the radio saying it was ten after nine, she checked through the phone book, looking up
Entrepreneur
magazine. If anyone she knew was a total workaholic, it was Harry Alina. Ten after nine and he'd be ready for his lunch.

Sitting on the bedspread and combing out her hair, she got him on the telephone.

“Harry? Joanna Reese. Listen,” she said, “I've got a brilliant idea.”

6

Mitchell had breakfast. Sitting in a coffee shop, wolfing half an omelet then staring at the rest of it, yellow and soggy, feeling suddenly glutted.

By the time he got home, half starved and half queasy, limping from the knots that were chewing up his leg, he was ready for a Moment of Silence for himself. As he opened the door, though, the radio was spitting out excitements of Spanish. A head popped out at him. Melda said, “Oh señor. Ju hokay?”

Wincing, he nodded. He'd forgotten she'd be there. Monday was maid-day.

The radio blatted. Melda said, “Ju big surprising in the morning,” and waddled through the living room fronted by a mop. Mitchell tried to tell her he'd like to be alone. Melda, oblivious, told him, “Sokay. Ju no bother,” and headed very briskly down the hall. He tried another angle: he said he had to sleep. Nodding comprehension, she lowered the radio, till finally Mitchell used his limited Spanish and said to her, “
Comprende. Yo necessito usar el dormitorio
,” which netted him a smile. Melda, which he gathered was short for Esmerelda, the girl for whom the Hunchback had busted his hump, understood about bedrooms and their customary use. “Oh,” she said knowingly. “Fren coming, uh? Hokay.” She was giggling, putting down the mop.

He went into the living room and headed for the bar. The room was immaculate—sterile and neat—a Hollywood decorator's careful idea of Heterosexual Executive Taste: a desert of beiges in the Beverly Hills. He reached for a bottle.

Melda came in in a dusty-looking raincoat and hovered at the wall. “I forget,” she said somberly, “but somebody call.” She was rummaging for carfare. Mitchell, without much interest, said, Who?

Melda had forgotten “what he nane was,” she said, “but he tell me he calling ju many many tine and ju no calling heen. Sending many many postcard, ju no calling heen. What he say was, ju calling heen now or no what.”

Mitchell cocked his head.

Melda, departing, said, “Is all writing down. In thee bedroom,” she told him, and giggled at the word.

Mitchell shook his head. He had no idea what she was talking about, and he wasn't in a hurry to get in there and look.

He poured himself a Scotch and then reached in the bookshelf for an Ellington record, “‘A' Train” starting to rumble off the tracks as he turned on the bathwater, hot as he could take it, and stripped off his sweater.

The note was on the bed, on a torn blue envelope, the printing in pencil, and it stopped him like a shot. For a moment he stood there, staring like a dunce as though he might have misread it, which wasn't in the cards. It was one easy word; it was something that a slow first-grader couldn't muff.

CAT

And a number.

He could hear the bathwater running in the tub. He could picture it catapulting over the tubline and flooding on the floor. He still didn't move.

He thought about calling the number right now. Get it over with. See who was fucking around. Still he didn't move. Trying to remember exactly what she'd told him. “He sending you letter.” “He calling many tine.” He pictured the folder of letters in the office, the folder marked Calls. He pictured the doorman handing him the tied-up bundle last night.

He turned off the tub.

Melda had neatly put his mail in the second of the night table drawers. He pulled off the twine and a rainbow of letters fell over on the blue Navajo blanket. Bills. Statements. Mailers from his congressman. Diseases wanting money. “Important Special Offer To Cardholders.” More bills. The postcard jumped at him and slipped to the floor.
GREETINGS FROM DISNEYLAND
just about said it. Mickey Mouse intrepidly dancing on a wall, waving Hi there, sucker.

And something told him he'd require that whisky and he'd better sit down.

The glass was on the sink. The “A” Train was pulling into Pennsylvania Station and he stopped it in its tracks. He went back to the bedroom and settled on the bed; reaching for the postcard, he turned it up slowly like the unseen hole-card in Blind Man's Stud.

Hey ole buddy, I just got to town and I'm figuring we ought to have a family reunion. Happens I've even got the family jewels
—
cheap piece of tin with some personal engraving, but me, I wouldn't part with it for less than, say. 500,000 in cash. Call you next Monday. (On Tuesday, the sentimental value goes up.)

Yer old buddy “Cat”

Mitchell turned it over and stared at the mouse.

Cat and mouse was supposedly the game. Five hundred thousand dollars was the prize. He looked at the postmark: 1/23. He'd left for Guatemala on—what?—the twenty-fifth—so the thing had been sitting there for practically a month. What shot through his mind now was
I am not afraid
. Jungle catechism:
I am not afraid
. Mantra. Repeat it. Repeat it till you think it; think it till you feel it. Rule #1: Your worst enemy is panic. Rule #2: Don't move before you think, and Rule #3: Don't think yourself to death.

Lighting a cigarette it came to him that Rule #1 was off the list. He could put his checkmark next to it. He felt no panic. What he felt now was numb. Dead but alert. And the thing was to handle it a step at a time; don't jump to a conclusion (don't move before you think).

He was being blackmailed for half a million dollars.

Accepting that one, the next thing to think about was clearly, By whom?

By “Cat”?

But of course there wasn't any Cat. The Cat was dead. Twice. Both ways. Any way you reckoned. He'd seen one body and he'd personally and carefully buried the other.

So from there, he could take it onto one of two paths. One—it had nothing to do with the murders. It was simply in the nature of a “personal problem.” Not the kind of problem he could take to the police, but a problem he could handle. Maybe. Or not. And pulling on his cigarette, pulling on his Scotch, he could almost convince himself that that was the case. If he pictured the universe as neutral and random, having no more direction than a couple of schmucks playing billiards in the sky, then once in a while it could pull off a shot—an amazing demonstration of articulate timing that was really nothing greater than a stab in the dark.

But the other conclusion kept jumping on his back.

He picked up the telephone, dialed the office, got Janet, said, “Look—” then heard his own urgency and started it again. “I just wondered,” he said, and asked her if he'd gotten any calls from a “Cat.”

“This morning?” Janet asked.