The Palace Thief (4 page)

I shall not mention other examples of the spendthriftery that was a disease in my house. As I have said previously, at one time or another we have dug a pool in our backyard, leased a cottage
near the beach at Lake Tahoe, and given to a number of my wife’s charities. All the while I had three children in private schools and was afflicted with the standard concerns of any father. Scheherazade had never worked, and I needed to think of her security should something happen to me. And after private high school, of course, our children would expect private college.

Therefore, it was with careful consideration that I reacted when, shortly over one month ago, I again had contact with Eugene Peters. I was working at my desk at Priebe, Emond & Farmer when Mrs. Polaris, my secretary, came on the speaker phone to inform me that Mr. Peters was on the line. Naturally this was a surprise, he and I not having spoken in several years, since the evening of our fruitless dinner at the Fairmont Hotel. I organized the papers I was studying, a rather complicated profit-and-loss statement from a sophisticated client, closed the volumes of tax code that were on my desk, replaced them in their alphabetical slots on my shelves, returned to my chair, leaned back in it, and answered the call. However, it was not Mr. Peters but his secretary on the line. “Please hold for Mr. Peters,” she said.

The line went quiet and I rang Mrs. Polaris again and asked her to wait on the line for Mr. Peters; then I sat back again in my chair and, resting my eyes on the speaker telephone in front of me, pleasantly noted the cool breeze that was at that moment entering through my window. Finally, after a pause, the telephone chimed, indicating a call transfer, and Mrs. Polaris passed Mr. Peters on to me. “Eugene,” I said, picking up the phone, “I’m sorry to make you wait.”

“I have a proposition,” he said.

I do not need to explain that in the business world one proposition is often nothing more than the camouflage for
another, and as I sat back in my chair noting the details of what he proposed, a pattern took form in my mind. He had called to tell me something rather ridiculous, that he and a group of fellows had arranged to spend a week that January in Scottsdale, Arizona, at a San Francisco Giants fantasy camp. I knew about these fantasy camps from an article in
The Wall Street Journal
, but I asked him questions anyway, because there are times in business when one ought to act as though one is uninformed, and I was well aware that this call was business. I let him tell me that the fantasy camp was an opportunity for athletic men such as ourselves to play live baseball against some of the Giants’ stars of the past era, such as Tito Fuentes, Dick Dietz, and Ken Henderson. The food was first-class, Mr. Peters went on, the accommodations were excellent, and business seminars were held in the evenings. One of the fellows had become otherwise engaged, Mr. Peters told me, and the long and the short of it was that a position was now open. Did I want to fill it? He mentioned the cost, close to four thousand dollars for the week, and I assured him that this was not what mattered to me. I was quick to laugh at this, and told him I would call him in the afternoon after Mrs. Polaris had a moment to consult my schedule.

I hung up and sat thinking. It is phrases like this “group of fellows” that one must be on the lookout for in business, for such a group of fellows can in fact turn out to be a set of industry leaders, chairmen of the board, or senators. It is not like going to the bowling alley with a “group of guys.” In fact, what had taken shape in my mind as Mr. Peters and I exchanged jovial barbs about his old inability to hit the curveball and my own occasionally erratic throw to first—although, for the record, my throw is quite reliable—was that in fact he was hoping to use the opportunity at baseball camp to offer me a business proposal.

I don’t mind saying that I became a bit agitated. I went out into the anteroom of my office and stood behind Mrs. Polaris’s desk, looking out the window and reviewing the near misses Mr. Peters and I had had in our dealings. I obviously had made the correct decision the first time he had approached me, for in those days he was an uneducated man with neither the sense nor the appearance for business, and he had not in any reasonable view made analysis of the market. That he succeeded with his venture, indeed, was luck. The second time, he had of course something of a record in the marketplace, and I will not conceal the fact that I was disposed to invest; yet something occurred in our exchange at the Fairmont Hotel that precluded an offer. Although I do not know exactly what it was, I now see the possibility that it was an error to have brought along my wife. It is of no use to think like this, however.

In any case, at Mrs. Polaris’s window now, it seemed perfectly possible that another opportunity was at hand: To wit, I suspected that Mr. Peters was going to approach me at this fantasy camp with another bid for investment. I quickly reviewed in my head my own portfolio, which I had weighted toward bonds in light of the unstable stock market and toward shorter maturities in light of the uncertain future. It seemed once again, I am happy to say, that I could make him a pleasing offer.

And then, of course, I suddenly understood that Mr. Peters had no need for my money. I don’t mind saying that I had over the years taken enough interest in his businesses to know that he was heavily capitalized, unencumbered with debt service, and clearly poised for expansion, yet it did not occur to me until that moment, standing at Mrs. Polaris’s window, that he wanted me for another reason. Business, of course, is both science and intuition, and this was a moment of intuition.

Mrs. Polaris was typing, and I moved behind her. Because of
an architectural quirk, the view from her window runs unobstructed to San Francisco Bay, whereas my own is temporarily obstructed by the back of a newly built hotel. (Obviously, the hotel is not temporary; however, I will be in another office soon.) This hotel has caused quite a stir in this city for its architectural ingenuity, although it can be safely said that any ingenuity is strictly confined to the front quarters of the building; my own view, in back, is limited to the ventilation shafts, to the rows of rather shabby casement windows, already dripping rust stains at their corners, and to the constant flow of beer salesmen hefting their kegs, florists picking among their buckets of blooms, health inspectors in cheap suits, trash collectors with their hats on backward, and butchers, who on Friday mornings converge on the banquet kitchen carrying pig carcasses over their shoulders like duffel bags.

“Have I neglected something, Mr. Roth?” said Mrs. Polaris.

“Not at all, Ina,” I responded.

The fact is that I prefer my own view, full as it is of the suggestive hubbub of commerce, to that of Mrs. Polaris, which is so placid and beautiful that it suggests to me the shame of failed ambition; but to contemplate a question one needs an uninterrupted vista, and that is why I stood at the window of my secretary. Whitecaps were chalking the bay.

“Ina,” I said, “would you believe that a grown man would pay close to four thousand to spend a week with a few baseball players from his childhood?”

“Yes, I would,” she said, resuming her typing.

I regarded her. Mrs. Polaris is a matronly woman with neat white hair, plainly coiffed, who gives the distinct impression of having been betrayed. I do not know if this has been by a husband, or by her children, or by another relation I have not imagined, yet in her presence I cannot help thinking that it has
been by me. It is not that she says anything about it, for she does not; it is merely a sense I receive from her.

“To me,” I said, “It’s ridiculous and a foolish waste of money. If you want to play baseball, go to the park and play. If you want to see professional baseball players, attend a professional game. It’s as ridiculous for me to want to play baseball with Tito Fuentes as it would be for Tito Fuentes to come in here to prepare his own Schedule Nines.”

I had tried not to permit my voice to rise, but I am afraid it had. Mrs. Polaris kept typing. I again had the impression that I had overacted around her, that she had in some way come to expect a rise in my voice or an unpleasant stridor in my bearing. As I have said, however, there is no basis for such a feeling on her part. In the corner of the picture window a luxury liner had come into view, steaming for the Golden Gate, and when the whole ship had appeared, traversed Mrs. Polaris’s segment of window, and disappeared again behind the jamb, I walked around the desk and stood in front of her. I proceeded to address her in a lower voice.

“Could you imagine that?” I said, chuckling, “Tito Fuentes coming in to prepare his own Schedule Nines?”

“No, I couldn’t,” she said.

“Ridiculous.”

Mrs. Polaris rose from her desk, went to the window and adjusted the blinds, and as she did so my thoughts turned suddenly to the fact that if I did not spend the four thousand dollars on baseball for myself, Scheherazade would spend it on Persian carpets.

“However,” I said, “there may be an important business reason for me to attend the camp.”

I stood in front of her, a slight smile on my lips, and although I would have preferred her to ask me what that business reason
was—for I am not so successful that I cannot feel pleasure from relating my business victories to a willing ear—she did not ask me anything, and in fact took her seat again and resumed typing. I went back to my own office. It was a Friday, so I looked into the alley and waited for the butcher trucks to arrive.

That evening when I arrived home, Scheherazade and Naomi were playing backgammon together in our sunroom, on an ivory board that I had never seen before. “Where did that board come from?” I inquired. “And what do the elephants think?”

“What does the gorilla think?” said Naomi, which caused both of them to giggle darkly.

“Well,” I said, “you’ll never guess who called me today.”

Naomi was wearing a portable radio on her belt, which I had not noticed until she reached to her ears now and shifted the speakers.

“You won’t believe who called me today.”

“Who?” said my wife.

“You’ll never guess.”

Naomi threw the dice and made her move, and my wife leaned over the board.

“It was Eugene Peters,” I said.

Scheherazade looked up. I have not mentioned before that my wife is a beautiful woman who has become only more beautiful as I have known her. Her bone structure is Scandinavian, and although this might imply a harshness to her features, her beauty is softened by the gentle look of her eyes, which appear always to be misted.

“He wants me to go on a vacation with him,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Although I had an insight about the business reason that may be involved.”

“I wouldn’t go,” she said.

“I believe I realized why he wants me to come along.”

“He’s trying to humiliate you.”

“Pardon.”

“He’s trying to humiliate you, and you don’t even see it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Remember what happened last time.”

At this point I moved back into the kitchen, where I sat down at the table, turned on the radio, and poured myself a glass of cranberry juice. I should explain what my wife was referring to. She believes that our dinner with Eugene Peters at the Fairmont Hotel was in fact some sort of play on Mr. Peters’s part intended to denigrate me in regard to our relative standings in the business world. Needless to say, I have pointed out that this sort of dinner is commonplace in business and can signify any number of intentions, from an entreaty to a reconnaissance to a friendly repast, and that no denigration was intended. She, however, has insisted in the course of several conversations that Eugene Peters was “pulling my chain.” Needless to say, I have assured Scheherazade that he was not, although I have not mentioned to her my own theory, which as I have said, involves desserts.

As Scheherazade had made no move to come in from her game of backgammon, I finished my cranberry juice and went upstairs to find Rachel. She was in her bedroom braiding her hair, and when I entered she came across and hugged me. “Peanut,” I said, “you’ll never guess who called me today.”

“Mr. Peters,” she answered immediately. She sat at her vanity and faced me. “I heard you out the window,” she said. “What did he want?”

“He wants me to go on vacation with him, and I figured out why.”

“Why, Daddy?”

“He doesn’t want another investment. He’s too well capitalized for that. What he wants—” I said. I folded my hands. “What he wants is for our firm to take over his accounting.”

It is difficult to describe the pleasure I felt in those first few hours after we had disembarked from the airplane at Tucson and been chauffeured in by van to our accommodations at the fantasy camp. Our rooms were private and luxurious and their windows looked out over the groomed playing fields to which we would be fanning out in the morning. The hiss and rat-tat of sprinklers filled the air. Not only were we about to play the game whose dearness to my heart I clearly and immediately recalled from my childhood, but I also felt the sudden, heady pleasure of having won the professional respect of Mr. Peters. He was a wealthy and influential man and it was obvious that he planned to ask me for my services. It is one of the pleasures of life that conscientious study and diligent labor are rewarded in the end.

Swallows darted above the dark fields. On the coffee table sat a vase of fresh flowers and on the nightstand a plate of chocolates. Opening the closet door I found my uniform. It hung from a hanger within a plastic dry-cleaner’s bag and I will describe it. The piping was orange, the number was sewn both on the back and on the shoulders (mine was 59, which I was not able to identify with any stars of the past), and the carefully scripted Giants emblem arced gently in the traditional manner, so that it would appear level when the uniform was donned. The black stirrup leggings buckled into the knickers, the belt was stitched into the waistband, and the pants contained the classic single pocket, at the left hip, for the hat. I donned the entire uniform immediately, a fact I am not embarrassed to
admit because I know that anyone who has ever worn one will understand the sentimental reasons for doing so, although of course we would not be playing until the morning. Indeed I considered taking a stroll out to the fields at that very moment, for I could smell the new mowings and suddenly felt the childhood urge to ball them in my fingers. However, I assumed that the other men were looking out from their own windows as well, and I decided to stay in. I doffed my uniform and slept soundly.