Sleeping Beauty (18 page)

Vince looked at him thoughtfully. “You're not entirely a fool, Ray.”

“And you're not entirely a son of a bitch,” Beloit said cheerfully. “By the way, Ludlow's going to bid on Cherry Creek Point.”

“Is that definite?”

“I got it from one of his backers. He's been busting his ass over it and he's got a bigger team than us. Sounds to me like he figures he can empty his piggy bank to buy the land, maybe as high as thirty million, and make a pile on whatever he builds on it. You think he'll go that high?”

“We might be able to find out. Cal Zorick used to work for him.”

“I forgot that. Your new assistant. And he probably still has drinking buddies over at Ludlow. He strikes me as a little greedy.”

“Probably.”

“You want me to call him?”

“It might not be a bad idea.”

“I'll do it now. And you'll think about what I said? About nests and little birds and all?”

“I'll think about it.”

He knew Beloit was right; it was something he had to take care of. In fact, Vince had known for some time that he could not continue unattached forever. If he did, his credibility and influence in the city would erode. Conservative Denver, dedicated to prairie values of stability and close-knit social and family groups, would not applaud or welcome him beyond a certain point, and after fifteen years of high visibility on the social scene, that point was not far off.

A year at the outside, he thought. By then, he'd be married: a model husband and citizen. And then he could move on. He was getting bored with being Denver's top developer; it was almost time for him to switch careers.

The next week, he went into Beloit's office. “Have you talked to Cal?”

“I talked to him. I told him everything he already knows. I told him Cherry Creek Point could be the biggest thing to hit Denver since Conestoga wagons if the city fathers sell the land to the right developer. I told him Ludlow's going to bid, and I wondered if he hadn't kept up his friendships over there. I told him the construction business is rich with rewards for the goose that lays the golden information. He's a bright lad, you know: he brought me Ludlow's bid this morning. Twenty-seven five for the seventy acres.”

“Not bad. What did Cal say about it?”

“He wants to bid twenty-eight and do the job. He's crazy to do it.”

“I'd like to shave that a little. Get everybody in here this afternoon; we'll work on it. By the way, what did you pay Cal?”

“Ten thousand. He did good.”

Vince nodded. “Everybody here at three o'clock.”

It was the kind of meeting he liked best, all the information at hand, his key people waiting for his decision, the opposition at a disadvantage. Their final bid, sealed and delivered to the city the following week, was for
$27,910,000. Two weeks later, the Cherry Creek property was theirs.

Because they had decided to use a fast-track method of construction, beginning to build even while they were still finishing drawings of many construction details, the ground breaking was that fall, five months after the land became theirs.

“Fastest time on record,” Cal Zorick said, gazing at the sketches in Vince's office. “It's such a great project, Vince; it's, you know, visionary. Everything's on such a huge scale. The money, too; the cost of it. That part's hard to grasp.”

Vince looked at him narrowly. “What is it that gives you trouble?”

“Oh, just thinking about what's involved. I don't mean what you paid for the land; that's pretty straightforward. But when it's all built. God, Vince, can't you almost hear the money dropping into all those little coin slots? The amusement park and putting green and tennis courts and the boathouse, and then all the rents, and then you get a percentage of the sales at the shops and restaurants, right? It's so awesome it's just hard to grasp. I mean, the rest of us just work on parts of these projects and make little salaries, but you see the whole thing, you've got this grasp of . . . everything. I really envy that.”

Vince sat back. “Ten thousand dollars would satisfy anyone who thought he had a future in this business.”

“But I'm not just anyone, Vince; if I was, Ray wouldn't have asked me to help you out. And then he said I did fine. I did, too, Vince; nobody at Ludlow even knew I was asking. I was very clever.”

“You may have been, then. You're not now.”

“Well, I don't know. See, what I'm getting at is I've been wanting to go out on my own and be a developer like you, and I could do it if I had a couple hundred thousand dollars. Not a lot to a big developer like you, but I'd be starting small, somewhere else; I was thinking maybe the Southwest. I thought you'd help me get started. It would be like an investment in me.”

“Why would I do that?” Vince asked.

“Well, it'd be sort of benevolent. I mean, I helped you out when you needed it, even though what you wanted me to do was, uh, shady? Well, it was really illegal, right? And my conscience has been sort of bothering me. I wouldn't want to get you and Ray into any kind of shit; but if I can't get away and do my own thing, then I guess my conscience would get the better of me, and after a while I'd just have to, sort of, confess.”

Vince stared at him until Cal's gaze slid away. “When were you thinking of moving to the Southwest?”

“Right away,” Cal said eagerly. “In a couple of days. I move fast.”

“So do I. We should be able to settle this tomorrow afternoon. Close the door on your way out.”

“But—wait a minute—you mean you'll—”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Close the door behind you.”

When he was gone, Vince went to Beloit's office. “Cal wants two hundred thousand to keep quiet. Will you take care of it, Ray? You're better at that sort of thing than I am.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That we'd settle it tomorrow afternoon.”

“That gives us tonight. Oh, wait a minute. I have one of these damn dinners. How about you going in my place?”

“Fine,” Vince said instantly. And that night he was seated at Beloit's place at a round table in the grand ballroom of the Brown Palace Hotel with two hundred guests eating baked chicken and wild rice, the menu for every benefit in Denver that year. He and Beloit went to a number of these dinners every season; it was important that they be seen as community supporters, and it was crucial that they be able to hold quiet conversations with finance and government officials that often got far more accomplished than meetings in boardrooms and offices.

He scanned the ballroom, noting the men he had not reached during the cocktail hour, whom he would chat with after dinner. His survey paused two tables away as his eyes met those of a redhead with a wide smile who was looking directly at him. She left her table and came to him. “Maisie Farrell,” she said, and held out her hand.

Vince stood and took it. She was wearing black, and against it her bare shoulders and arms were chalk white and her hair a flaming aureole. “I remember,” he said. He dug deep into his infallible memory. “Are you still doing volunteer work with the symphony?”

“No. I've graduated to the museum.”

“You
were
graduating, from the university, when we met—”

“Slept together.”

“I remember that, too.” Vince's smile was warm, though all he could remember for certain after five—or was it six?—years was that he had expected a college senior to be pliable and grateful, and instead she had been knowledgeable and ironic. “You were leaving for Europe the next week.”

“The next month. We had time to see each other again. You didn't call.”

Vince gazed at her unhurriedly. Her face was too long for beauty, her nose and chin a little too large, her forehead a little too low. But it was her smile that drew attention, and the unsparing scrutiny of her cool green eyes. Her biting remarks reminded Vince of Anne, though Maisie was older and more sophisticated, her aim more accurate. He was recalling more about her now. She was the only daughter of a wealthy oilman; a champion swimmer, skier, and tennis player who was known for her fondness for all-night parties. But it was her smile he remembered most: magnificent and open, so bright that, though it did not reach her eyes, most people thought she was fascinated by whatever they were saying. It was that impersonal smile that Vince had wanted most to crush. He had wanted her to smile just for him. “You made me nervous,” he said. “I couldn't tell whether you were serious, and that was terrible for my ego. Men can't stand uncertainty, you know; they begin to doubt everything, even their own name, if they can't be sure of a woman.”

Maisie laughed. “So you forgot your name, and mine, too. You're very good, Vince; I almost believe you. That's what I remember best about you: how good you are.”

“I'll have to make sure you keep thinking it.” He was still holding her hand, and he raised it to his lips. “I won't forget your name again.”

“Or yours, I hope.” Casually, she slipped her hand from his and stood, relaxed, studying him. His tuxedo was perfectly cut; his cuff links were gold; his blond hair was carefully combed to look just slightly uncombed. He was exactly her height, but he managed to give the impression that he was looking down at everyone else. “You're the talk of the town. I've heard people say you're changing Denver forever.”

“They're right.”

“And are you pleased? Do you feel triumphant and immortal with all those Chatham Towers and Chatham Places and Chatham Centers dominating the plains?”

“Of course. Would you like a Farrell Tower? I'll build you one.”

“I've never wanted my name on a building. It seems such an odd desire. As if you have to convince everyone how big you are. I often wondered if men do that because they're worried about the size of their parts.”

His face darkened. You fucking bitch, he thought; you're begging to be slapped down. He did not wonder why she would try to make him angry; Vince seldom concerned himself with motives, his own or those of others. He cleared his face and chuckled. “I hadn't heard that before. I'll have to give it serious thought. And examine myself in the mirror.”

Her eyes saluted his swift recovery. “And what about all your buildings? Are they the children you'll leave behind?”

“Better than children. There's no question how they'll grow up.”

“That must be far more comforting than taking chances with people. Do you visit them often? Do you stroke the stone and feel noble because you've created beauty and usefulness from it?”

“No.” He was still angry, but also excited and keyed up. He wanted to wipe the mockery out of her voice and the superior glint from her green eyes; he wanted to make her
proud body bend to his. “I'm not interested in touching stone or any other part of a building; I only care about seeing it take shape the way I want.” He grinned like a little boy and noted the wariness in her eyes as his face became youthful and guileless. “The real fun is putting things together like a huge puzzle. Stone, mortar, steel; the crews who do the work; the money to pay for it; the people who rent the space when it's done . . . I make the pieces fit so no one can imagine them any other way. Other people can stroke the stone and marble and talk about beauty and functionalism; the game is putting the puzzle together in the best way. Are you married?”

“No.”

“I'll take you home tonight.”

“I'm with someone.”

“Tomorrow, then. I'll be free at one.”

“I won't be; I work.”

“Oh, the museum. When do you get out?”

“Five o'clock.”

“I'll be in front at five.”

“I don't fit into other people's puzzles,” she said. “Or other people's games.”

“Then we'll make a new one, just for you.” He took her hand again. “Thank you for coming over to say hello. It's the nicest thing you could have done. I'm looking forward to tomorrow. Five years is far too long.”

“Six.” She smiled the wide, automatic smile that told him nothing. “Tomorrow will be fine.”

He was thinking about her when he awoke the next morning; he thought about her all that day. “You're not paying attention,” Beloit said, sitting on the couch in his office just before noon.

“No, I was thinking. What were you saying?”

Beloit's look sharpened. “Who is she?”

There was a pause. Vince shrugged. “Someone I met last night.”

“She have a name?”

“Maisie Farrell.”

“Oh, very good. You really like her? And she likes you?
Very good, Vince; you couldn't do better. She's the perfect hostess, the perfect wife for you. Good in-laws, too; they're even richer than you. Half a billion, a billion, whatever. Rich in-laws are a prize beyond rubies. So are rich wives. She's on a dozen committees, she's a volunteer at the museum and the Women's League and God knows what else, she's so respectable she could be in the White House. Which brings me to another subject.”

“What?” Vince was only half-listening while scanning the morning paper. “What subject?”

“Politics. You ever thought about politics, Vince?”

“No.”

“When you say it that way it means you have.”

“I may have. Wait a minute, I want to read this.” In a moment he looked up. “Cal Zorick's car ran off the road in Clear Creek Canyon last night. They found his body a little after ten o'clock.”

“No kidding. Cal? What a shame. He was a talented lad.” Beloit pursed his lips, nodding slowly. “A real shame. He did some good work for us. Sounds like he wanted to go too fast and lost control. Too bad. Well, but what did you mean: you may have thought about politics? Either you have or you haven't. Which is it?”

Vince closed the newspaper. “What are you getting at, Ray?”