The Betsy (1971) (3 page)

 Chapter Three

The soggy heat at the West Palm Beach airport came right through my shirt by the time I got to the Hertz counter. I sprang my freebie card and pushed it at the girl.

She looked at the card before she looked at me. Then her expression changed.
“The
Angelo Perino?” she asked respectfully.

I nodded.

“I watched you on TV the other day. I’m sorry your car burned out.”

“One of those things,” I said.

“I was just a kid when my father took my brother and me to Sebring that time you went over the wall. I cried. I said prayers for you all week until I read that you would be okay.”

She had that Hertz look. All-American girl. “How old were you?” I asked.

“Sixteen.”

I looked at her again. She was all orange-and-sun-country tan and over statutory age by now. “I owe you something for those prayers,” I said. “Maybe we can make dinner.”

“I have a date tonight,” she said. “But I can break it.”

“No, keep it,” I said quickly. “I don’t want to mess up your plans. We’ll do it tomorrow night.”

“Okay,” she said. She wrote something on a slip of paper and pushed it at me. “That’s my name and phone number. You can get me here before five and there after five.”

I glanced at it. I might have guessed. Even her name was orange-and-sun country. “Okay, Melissa,” I said. “I’ll call you. Now what about a car?”

“We have a Shelby GT Mustang and a Mach One.”

I laughed. “I’m not racing. Do you have something with the top down? I want the sun on my face.”

She checked her list. “How about an LTD convertible?”

“Great.”

She began to fill out the form. “Where are you staying?”

“The Hardeman place.”

“How long will you need the car?”

“A few days. I don’t know.”

“I’ll leave it open.” She looked embarrassed. “Could I have your driver’s license? It’s for the form.”

I laughed and pushed it toward her. She copied down the number and gave it back to me. She picked up the phone and spoke into it. “LTD convertible, Jack,” she said. “And give it super service. It’s for a VIP.” She put down the phone. “Give us about ten minutes.”

“Take your time, Melissa,” I said.

Another customer came up and I walked over to the curb and lit a cigarette. I took off my jacket and threw it over my arm. It was hot.

I turned and looked back at the girl. I liked the way she moved. The way her breasts pushed against the tight-fitting uniform. There was more to look at down here than the old man thought. The trouble was that he couldn’t get out to the right places.

After all, when you rent Hertz, you don’t just rent a car. You rent a company.

I pulled up in front of the electrified iron gates and pressed the signal button on the side of the driveway. While I waited for a voice to answer I read the signs on the gate.

PRIVATE PROPERTY.

NO TRESPASSING.

DANGER! GUARD DOGS PATROLLING!

SURVIVORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

I laughed. Somehow it didn’t seem very convincing. But I changed my mind real quick. By the time I had finished reading the signs, there were two giant Belgian shepherds standing just inside the gate, their tails wagging deceptively at me.

The voice came from the speaker box over the signal button. “Who’s calling?”

“Mr. Perino.”

There was a moment’s pause. “You’re expected, Mr. Perino. Drive through the gates. Do not get out of the car to close them, they shut automatically. Do not, I repeat, do not get out of the car until you reach the front of the house and do not let your arm hang out alongside the car door.”

The voice clicked off and the gates began to roll back. The dogs stood just inside, waiting for me. I started the car slowly and they went to one side to let me pass and then began to run silently beside the car as I went up the driveway.

Every once in a while I would look out at them and they would look back at me and I just kept on driving. I went around a curve and, hidden behind the trees, was the front of the house. A man and a woman were standing on the steps. I stopped the car.

The man put a sonic whistle to his lips and blew it. I didn’t hear a thing but the dogs did. They froze and watched me get out of the car.

“Please stand there a moment and let them sniff you, Mr. Perino,” the man said. “They’ll recognize you after that and won’t bother you.”

I stood still as he raised the sonic whistle to his lips again. The dogs came running over to me, their tails wagging. They sniffed around at my shoes and then at my hands. After a moment, they left me and went over to the car. In less than a minute they had squirted over every tire and had run happily off.

The man came toward me. “I’m Donald. Let me get your bags, sir.”

“There’s only one,” I said. “In the back seat.” I turned toward the house.

The woman smiled at me. She seemed in her fifties, her gray-black hair pulled severely back behind her face and very little makeup. She wore a simply tailored black dress. “I’m Mrs. Craddock. Mr. Hardeman’s secretary.”

“How’d you do,” I said.

“Mr. Hardeman apologizes for not greeting you but it’s the hour for his afternoon nap. He asks if you will meet him in the library for a drink at five o’clock. Dinner is promptly at six thirty. We eat early here because Mr. Hardeman retires at nine.”

“That’s okay with me.”

“Donald will show you to your room,” she said, leading me into the house. “And you can freshen up. If you should care for a swim, there’s a pool on the ocean side and a choice of swim trunks in the cabanas.”

“Thank you. But I think I’ll follow Number One’s example. I’m a bit tired.”

She nodded and moved off and I followed Donald up the staircase to my room. I went into the bathroom to wash my face and by the time I came out, my valise was unpacked, the bed turned down, the curtains drawn and a pair of my pajamas were laid out.

I took the hint and got out of my clothes. In ten minutes I was asleep.

He was waiting in the library when I came down the stairs. He held out his hand. “Angelo.”

I took it. His grip was firm. “Number One.”

He smiled. His voice was reproving. “I don’t know whether I really like that. Makes me sound like an old Mafia chief.”

“Nothing like it,” I laughed. “If the stories I heard about my grandfather are half true, he was a Mafia chief and I never heard anyone call him Number One.”

“Come over to the window and let me look at you.”

I followed his wheelchair over to the large French windows that led onto the terrace overlooking the ocean and turned to face him. He peered up into my face. “You’re not pretty, that’s for sure.”

“I didn’t say I was,” I answered.

“We’re going to have to do something about those burn scars if you’re coming to work for me,” he said. “We can’t have you going around frightening children.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Who said I was going to work for you?”

He peered up at me shrewdly. “You’re here, aren’t you? Or did you think I asked you down just to pass the time of day?”

I didn’t answer.

“I’m too old,” he continued. “I have plans. And I haven’t that much time left to waste.” He rolled his chair back into the room. “Fix yourself a drink and then sit down,” he said. “I get a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

I went to the sideboard and poured myself a Crown Royal on the rocks. He watched me hungrily as I sat down and tasted the drink.

“Damn!” he said. “I sure wish I could have one.” Then he laughed. “I remember the time, back in 1903 or 1904, Charlie Sorensen had just given me a job over at the Ford Company building on the Model K and Mr. Ford came around because he made it a point to interview each new man personally at that time.

“‘Do you drink?’ he asked.

“‘Yes,’ I answered.

“‘Do you smoke?’

“‘Yes.’

“Mr. Ford was silent. He just stared at me. After a while I got to feel uncomfortable and had to say something. ‘But I don’t run around with women, Mr. Ford,’ I blurted out. ‘I’m married.’

“He stared at me for another moment, then turned on his heel and walked away without saying a word. Ten minutes later Charlie came down and fired me. That same morning he had hired me.

“I guess he saw the expression on my face. I was stunned. With a wife and a kid on the way, I guess he felt sorry for me.

“‘Go over to the Dodge Brothers and tell them I sent you,’ he said. ‘They’ll give you a job.’ He started to turn away and then turned back. ‘You know, Hardeman,’ he said, ‘Mr. Ford has no vices. Absolutely none.’

“But he was wrong. Mr. Ford had the one unforgivable vice. He was intolerant.”

I took another pull at my drink. I didn’t speak.

His eyes fixed on mine. “I want you to come to work for me.”

“Doing what?” I asked. “I wouldn’t be happy test-driving any more.”

“I didn’t say anything about that,” he said. “I have other plans. Big plans.” His voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “I want to build a new car!”

I think my mouth fell open. “You what?”

“You heard me!” he snapped. “A new car. Brand-new from top to bottom. Like nothing ever built before.”

“Have you talked to anyone about this?” I asked. “To L.H. Three?”

“I don’t have to talk to anyone about it,” he said testily. “I still vote eighty percent of the company stock.” He pushed his chair closer to me. “Especially not my own grandson.”

“And what do you expect me to do?”

“Get me out of this goddamn chair,” he said. “I expect you to be my legs!”

 Chapter Four

He was still talking when we went in to dinner. We sat at a small table and the meal was simple. Salad, lamb chops and a vegetable, wine for me, a glass of milk for him. The wine was good, a ’51 Mouton Rothschild, and so was the milk. Walker Gordon whole.

“The target date is the New York Automobile Show in the spring of ’72. That gives us three years.”

I looked at him.

He laughed. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m ninety-one. Don’t worry. I’m going to live to be a hundred.”

“It’s not going to be easy,” I said.

“Nothing ever is,” he said. “But I made it this far.”

I laughed. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m convinced you’ll live to one hundred and fifty. I’m talking about a new car.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time,” he said. “For thirty years I’ve let them pin me to this chair. And it’s all wrong. I never should have let them do it.

“Before the war we had almost fifteen percent of the market. Now we have two percent. Even the lousy little Volkswagen sells more cars here than we do. And that’s not all of it. The Japanese are coming. They’ll wipe us all out. The little bastards are going to clean up the world. They’ll underprice and outsell all the rest of us put together.

“This year and next, the American companies will be coming out with their sub-compacts. It won’t do them any good. Sure they’ll sell cars. But they won’t be stealing sales away from the foreigners, they’ll be stealing sales away from themselves and reducing their over-all price-per-unit volume.

“The only answer is a completely new car. Built in a new fashion. On a completely automated, electronic production line. I remember when Ford came out with his Model T. It set the world on fire. For only one reason. Ford had a better idea. But it was the only idea they ever had. Since then they’ve been flying tail to General Motors’ kite. And so has the rest of the industry. Even us.”

“It’s a pretty large order.”

“It can be done,” he said. “I don’t like coming in out of the money. I’m a winner. I’ve always been a winner.”

“I read the annual reports,” I said. “Bethlehem makes money. They always make money.”

“But not on automobiles,” he retorted. “They account for only thirty percent of our gross. The appliance division supplies fifty-seven percent and the rest comes from manufacturing parts for the other companies. It’s their way of making sure we stay in the business. They’re afraid of antitrust and monopoly. Right now over seventy percent of our production space is used for that and not automobiles.”

“I didn’t know,” I said.

“Very few people do. It all began during the war. Ford, GM, and Chrysler got all the big jobs. L.H. Two concentrated on the other areas. When the war was over, they were ready to go back into big production; we weren’t. But we were equipped to go into the appliance field and, I must say, he did a fantastic job. It nets us better than forty million a year. But I don’t give a damn. It’s not automobiles.”

I leaned back in my chair and looked at him. “What about Number Three?”

“He’s a good boy,” Number One answered. “But all he’s interested in is profits. He doesn’t care where it comes from, television sets, refrigerators, or cars. It’s all the same. Sometimes I think he would have taken us out of the auto business a long time ago, but he doesn’t want to upset me.”

“How are you going to tell him?”

“I’m not,” he said. “Not until we’re set up.”

“You’ll never keep it a secret,” I said. “Not in our business. They’ll pick it up the minute I go to work.”

He smiled. “Not if we tell them something else.”

“Like what?”

“Everybody knows what you are. A race-car driver. They don’t know what I do. That you’re a graduate of MIT in automotive engineering and design. Or that years ago John Duncan wanted to put you on to take over the department when he retired.

“We’ll give you a title, vice-president, special projects, then we’ll let on that we’re going in for factory-sponsored race teams and cars. That should be enough smoke.”

Donald came into the room. “It’s time, Mr. Hardeman.”

Number One looked at his watch, then back at me. “We’ll talk some more at breakfast,” he said.

I got to my feet. “Right, Number One.”

“Good night,” he said.

I watched Donald roll the chair out of the room, then sat down again. I lit a cigarette and looked at my watch. It was eight thirty and I was wide awake. That afternoon nap blew it. On a hunch I called the girl from Hertz.

A man’s voice answered. “Is Melissa in?” I asked.

His voice had a father’s defensive edge. “Who’s calling?”

“Angelo Perino.”

He sounded impressed. “I’ll call her, Mr. Perino.” He turned away from the phone and I heard him yell. “Melissa! Mr. Perino’s on the phone!” His voice came back to me. “Melissa told me you were in town, Mr. Perino. I hope we get a chance to meet. I’m a real admiruh of yours.”

“I hope so,” I said. “Thank you.”

I heard the telephone change hands. She had enough southern tease in her voice to clog the lines. “Mr. Perino, this is a surprise.”

“I had a hunch,” I said. “What happened to your date?”

“I canceled him,” she said. “He’s really a bore.”

“Want out?” I asked.

“That would be lovely,” she said, and I knew that her father was still somewhere nearby.

“Where can we meet?”

“Do you know Palm Beach?”

“Not really. I know how to get from the airport to here. But that’s about all.”

“Then maybe I’d better come over there and get you,” she said.

“Good idea,” I said. “How long will it take you?”

“About a half hour okay?”

“Good enough,” I said.

When I put down the phone, Donald was standing a respectable distance away. “Is there anything I can get you, sir?”

“Do you have any brandy?”

“Of course, sir.” There was reproach in his voice. “Will you have it in the library?”

I nodded and he followed me into the library. He poured the brandy into a snifter and, swirling it gently, gave it to me.

“Thank you, Donald.” Then I remembered the dogs. “Someone’s coming to pick me up in about half an hour; can you do something about the dogs?”

“I’ll take care of it, sir. Will you be needing your car?”

“I don’t think so.”

He took a key from his pocket and held it toward me. “This will work the gate and the front door. Just leave it on the card table in the entrance foyer when you return.”

“Thank you, Donald.”

“Not at all, sir,” he said and left the room.

I sank into one of the old-fashioned leather chairs and sipped at the brandy until I heard the roar of her car coming up the driveway. I went outside just as she came to a stop. Of course she had the Mach One.

I went down the steps and opened the car door. “That was quick.”

“Super service.” She smiled. “Want to drive?”

I shook my head and slid into the passenger seat. “No. I’m happy.” I leaned across and kissed her cheek, then sat back and fastened my seat belt.

“Nervous?”

“Nope. Just habit.”

“What would you like to do?”

I looked at her. “Let’s go someplace and fuck.”

Her voice was filled with honeysuckle reproach. “Why, Mr. Perino!”

“All right, if you’re going to be so formal about it, what would you like to do?”

“I know a lovely romantic place on the beach where we could drink and talk and dance.”

“Good enough for me.”

“That’s better, Angelo,” she smiled.

I smiled right back at her. “Then we’ll go someplace and fuck.”

She put the car into gear and we went down the driveway like we were going down the line at a Grand Prix. Why was it every time I got into a car someone had to prove to me how fast they could drive? I closed my eyes and prayed.