The Carpetbaggers (6 page)

She got to her feet and walked over to me. Her eyes stared coldly up at me. "Look, Jonas," she said coldly, "I'm being nice about it. Under the Nevada law, I'm entitled to one-third your father's estate, will or no will. I could break the probate of the will just like that if I wanted to. And even if I couldn't, I could tie you up in court for five years. What would happen to all your plans then?"

I stared at her silently.

"If you don't believe me, why don't you ask your lawyer friend downstairs?" she added.

"You already checked?" I guessed.

"Damn right I did!" she snapped. "Judge Haskell called me as soon as he got back to his office!"

I drew in my breath. I should have known the old bastard wouldn't let go that easy. "I haven't got that kind of money," I said. "Neither has the company."

"I know that," she said. "But I’m willing to be reasonable about it. I’ll take fifty thousand the day after the funeral and your note endorsed by the company for ten thousand a year for the nest five years."

I didn't need a lawyer to tell me she'd had good advice. "O.K.," I said, starting for the door. "Come on downstairs. I’ll have McAllister prepare the papers."

She smiled again. "I couldn't do that."

"Why not?" I demanded.

"I'm in mourning," she said. "How would it look for the widow of Jonas Cord to come downstairs to transact business?" She went back to her vanity table and sat down. "When the papers are ready, send them up."

IT WAS FIVE O'CLOCK WHEN WE GOT OUT OF THE TAXI in front of the bank building in downtown Los Angeles. We went through the door and walked back to the executive offices in the rear of the bank. McAllister led me through another door marked private. It was a reception room.

A secretary looked up. "Mr. McAllister." She smiled. "We thought you were in Nevada."

"I was," he replied. "Is Mr. Moroni in?"

"Let me check," she said. "Sometimes he has a habit of leaving the office without telling me." She disappeared through another door.

I looked at McAllister. "That's the kind of secretary I want. She's got brains and a nice pair of boobs to go with them."

He smiled. "A girl like that gets seventy-five, eighty dollars a week. They don't come cheap."

"Yuh gotta pay for anything that's good," I said.

The secretary appeared in the doorway, smiling at us. "Mr. Moroni will see you now, Mr. McAllister."

I followed him into the inner office. It was large, with dark, wood-paneled walls. There was a big desk spang in the middle of it and a small man with iron-gray hair and shrewd dark eyes sitting behind it. He got up as we came into the room.

"Mr. Moroni," McAllister said, "this is Jonas Cord."

Moroni put out his hand. I took it. It wasn't the usual soft banker's hand. This one was hard and callused and the grip was strong. There were many years of labor contained in that hand and most of them had not been behind a desk. "It's good to meet you, Mr. Cord," he said with a faint trace of an Italian accent.

"My pleasure, sir," I said respectfully.

He waved us to the chairs in front of his desk and we sat down. McAllister came right to the point. When he had finished, Moroni leaned forward across his desk and looked at me. "I’m sorry to hear about your loss," he said. "From everything I've heard, he was a very unusual man."

I nodded. "He was, sir."

"You realize, of course, this makes quite a difference?"

I looked at him. "Without trying to stand on a technicality, Mr. Moroni, I thought the loan was being made to the Cord Explosives Company, not to either my father or me."

Moroni smiled. "A good banker makes loans to companies but he always looks at the man behind the company."

"My experience is limited, sir, but I thought the first objective of a good banker was to achieve adequate collateralization for a loan. I believe that was inherent in the loan agreement that Mr. McAllister made with you."

Moroni smiled. He leaned back in his chair and took out a cigar. He lit it and looked at me through a cloud of smoke. "Mr. Cord, tell me what you believe the primary responsibility of the borrower is."

I looked at him. "To make a profit on his loan."

"I said the borrower, Mr. Cord, not the lender."

"I know you did, Mr. Moroni," I said. "But if I didn't feel I would make a profit on the money you're going to lend me, there'd be no point in my taking it."

"Just how do you expect to make that profit?" he asked. "How well do you know your business, Mr. Cord?"

"Not as well as I should, Mr. Moroni. Certainly not as well as I will next week, next month, next year. But this much I do know. Tomorrow is coming and a whole new world with it. There'll be opportunities to make money that never existed in my father's time. And I'll take advantage of them."

"I presume you're referring to this new product you're acquiring by the German contract?"

"That's part of it," I said, even if I hadn't thought of it until he mentioned it.

"Just how much do you know about plastics?" he asked.

"Very little," I admitted.

"Then what makes you so sure it's worth anything?"

"Du Pont and Eastman's interest in the American rights. Anything they're interested in has to be worth something. And, your agreement to lend us the money to acquire those rights. As soon as I clear up a few things here, I intend to spend two or three months in Germany learning everything there is to know about plastics."

"Who will run the company while you're away?" Moroni asked. "A great deal can happen in three months."

"Mr. McAllister, sir," I said. "He's already agreed to join the company."

A kind of respect came into the banker's face. "I know my directors may not agree with me, Mr. Cord, but I've decided to give you your loan. It has certain elements of speculation that may not conform to what they consider sound banking practices, but the Pioneer National Trust Company was built on loans like this. We were the first bank to lend money to the producers of motion pictures and there's nothing quite as speculative as that."

"Thank you, Mr. Moroni," I said.

He picked up the telephone on his desk. "Bring in the Cord loan agreement and the check."

"You will note," he said, "that although the loan is for three hundred thousand dollars, we have extended your credit under this agreement to a maximum of five hundred thousand dollars." He smiled at me. "One of my principles of banking, Mr. Cord. I don't believe in budgeting my clients too closely. Sometimes a few dollars more make the difference between success and failure."

Suddenly I liked this man. It takes one crap-shooter to recognize another. And this man had it. I smiled at him. "Thanks, Mr. Moroni. Let's hope I make a lot of money for both of us." I leaned over and signed the loan application.

"I'm sure you will," Moroni said and pushed the check across the desk at me.

I picked it up and gave it to McAllister without looking at it. I got to my feet. "Thank you again, Mr. Moroni. I'm sorry I have to run but we have to get back to Nevada tonight."

"Tonight? But there aren't any trains until morning."

"I have my own plane, Mr. Moroni. That's how we came up. We'll be home by nine o'clock."

Moroni came around his desk. There was a look of concern on his face. "Better fly low, Mr. Cord," he said. "After all, we just gave you a lot of money."

I laughed aloud. "Don't worry, Mr. Moroni. It's as safe as an automobile. Besides, if anything happens to us on the way down, just stop payment on the check."

They both laughed. I could see the look of nervousness cross McAllister's face, but to his credit, he didn't say anything.

We shook hands and Moroni walked us to the door. "Good luck," he said as we walked out into the reception room.

A man was sitting on the couch. He got to his feet slowly. I recognized Buzz Dalton, the pilot whose plane I had won in a crap game. "Hey, Buzz," I called. "Don't you say hello to your friends?"

A smile broke over his face. "Jonas!" he exclaimed. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

"Diggin' for a little scratch," I said, taking his hand. "You?"

"The same," he answered, a dejected look coming over his face again. "But no luck so far."

"Why?" I asked.

Buzz shrugged. "I got a mail contract. L.A. to Frisco. Twelve months guaranteed at ten thousand a month. But I guess I’ll have to pass it up. I can't get the dough to buy the three planes I need. Banks think it's too risky."

"How much do you have to borrow?"

"About twenty-five grand," he said. "Twenty for the planes and five to keep them flying until the first check comes in."

"Yuh got the contract?"

"In my pocket," he said, taking it out.

I looked at it. "It sounds like a good deal to me."

"It is," he answered. "I got it all worked out. I can net five grand a month after expenses and amortization. Here's the paper I worked out on that."

The figures seemed right to me. I had a good idea what it cost to run a plane. I turned around and looked at Moroni. "You meant what you said in there? About my additional credit? There's no strings on it?"

He smiled. "No strings at all."

I turned back to Buzz. "You got your money on two conditions," I said. "I get fifty per cent of the stock in your company and chattel mortgage on your planes amortized over twelve months, both payable to the Cord Explosives Company."

Buzz's face broke into a grin. "Man, you got yourself a deal!"

"O.K.," I said. I turned to Mr. Moroni. "Would you be kind enough to arrange the details for me? I have to be back tonight."

"I’ll be glad to, Mr. Cord." He smiled.

"Make the loan for thirty thousand dollars," I said.

"Hey, wait a minute," Buzz interrupted. "I only asked for twenty-five."

"I know," I said, turning back to him with a smile. "But I learned something today."

"What's that?" Buzz asked.

"It's bad business to lend a guy just enough money to give him the shorts. That's takin' a chance and you both can lose. If you really want him to make it, lend him enough to make sure he can do the job."

* * *

My father had the biggest funeral ever held in this part of the state. Even the Governor came down. I had closed the plant and the little church was packed to the rafters, with the overflow spilling out into the street.

Rina and I stood alone in the small pew down in front. She stood straight and tall in her black dress, her blond hair and her face hidden by the black veil. I looked down at the new black shoes on my feet. They were my father's shoes and they hurt. At the last minute, I'd discovered I didn't have anything in the house except huarachos. Robair had brought the shoes down from my father's closet. He had never worn them. I promised myself I would never wear them again, either.

I heard a sigh run through the congregation and looked up. They were closing my father's coffin. I had a last quick glimpse of his face, then it was gone and there was a curious kind of blankness in my mind and for a moment I couldn't even remember what he looked like.

Then the sound of weeping came to my ears and I looked around out of the corners of my eyes. The Mex women from the plant were crying. I heard a snuffle behind me. I half turned. It was Jake Platt, tears in his whisky eyes.

I looked at Rina standing next to me. I could see her eyes through the dark veil. They were clear and calm. From the congregation behind us came the sound of many people weeping for my father.

But Rina, his wife, didn't weep. And neither did I, his son.

IT WAS A WARM NIGHT, EVEN WITH THE BREEZE THAT came in through the open windows from across the desert. I tossed restlessly on the bed and pushed the sheets down from me. It had been a long day, starting with the funeral and then going over plans with McAllister until it was time for him to leave. I was tired but I couldn't sleep. Too many thoughts were racing through my mind. I wondered if that was the reason I used to hear my father pacing up and down in his room long after the rest of the house had gone to bed.

There was a sound at the door. I sat up in bed. My voice jarred the stillness. "Who is it?"

The door opened farther and I could see her face; the rest of her dissolved into the darkness along with the black negligee. Her voice was very low as she closed the door behind her. "I thought you might be awake, Jonas. I couldn't sleep, either."

"Worried about your money?" I asked sarcastically. "The check's over there on the dresser along with the notes. Just sign the release and it's yours."

"It isn't the money," she said, coming still further into the room.

"What is it, then?" I asked coldly. "You came to say you're sorry? To express your sympathy? Is this a condolence call?"

She was standing next to the bed now and looked down at me. "You don't have to say things like that, Jonas," she said simply. "Even if he was your father, I was his wife. Yes, I came to say I'm sorry."

But I wasn't satisfied with that. "Sorry about what?" I flung at her. "Sorry he didn't give you more than he did? Sorry that you didn't marry me instead of him?" I laughed bitterly. "You didn't love him."

"No, I didn't love him," she said tightly. "But I respected him. He was more a man than anyone I ever met."

I didn't speak.

Suddenly she was crying. She sat down on the edge of the bed and hid her face in her hands.

"Cut it out," I said roughly. "It's too late for tears."

She put her hands down and stared at me. In the darkness, I could see the wet silver sparkle rolling down her cheeks. "What do you know it's too late for?" she cried. "Too late to love him? It isn't that I didn't try. It's just that I'm not capable of love. I don't know why. It's the way I am, that's all. Your father knew that and understood it. That's why I married him. Not for his money. He knew that, too. And he was content with what I gave him."

"If that's the truth," I said, "then what are you crying for?"

"Because I'm frightened," she said.

"Frightened?" I laughed. It just didn't fit her. "What are you afraid of?"