The Rothman Scandal (65 page)

“Charlie is very tolerant, very understanding. And knowing him as I do, I think he'll be amused by the challenge,” Lenny said.

And so that was how the creation of the young man who was to become Adam Amado was conceived.

“Man, you're really
nice,
” the young man said. “I mean, you're the first older guy I've been with who's turned out to be really nice.”

Lenny laughed. Then he rose and sat on the young man's lap. “You are a true rough-cut diamond,” he said. “Why do I so very much look forward to polishing you? Why do I find you so utterly enchanting, Mr. Johnny Smith? I think it's because you manage to radiate a certain sense of—menace. We're going to get you to radiate that sense of menace from behind the footlights.”

The young man chuckled. “You ready for round three?” he asked.

What a fool I was twenty years ago, Lenny thought now. And now, not foolish, he was in Herbert Rothman's office in suite 3000 at 530 Fifth Avenue. “I see you've taken over Ho's old office,” he said. “Very clever. Once again you've stolen the jump on brother Arthur. Congratulations, Herbert.”

Herb ignored this. “Sit down, Lenny,” he said.

Lenny seated himself in one of the big low leather chairs, the ones that, even with Lenny's height, placed the visitor's eyes at a considerably lower level than Herbert Rothman's eyes. They had been designed to do the same for Ho's. “Your map is out of date,” Lenny said, glancing at the wall. “I don't see a gold star for Boise.”

Herb Rothman waved his hand. “I'm having this entire office redecorated,” he said. “The map is coming down.”

“Pity,” Lenny said. “I always found it so marvelously
daunting
. So symbolic of the Rothman power.”

Herb Rothman changed the subject. “You've been unavailable all week,” he said. “May I ask what you've been doing at our printing plant in Paramus?”

“Certainly. Alex is considering a story on how our magazine gets printed. I've been researching it for her.”

“Stupid idea. Typical Alex. Who'd want to read a story like that?”

Lenny steepled his fingers. “Alex is my editor-in-chief,” he said.

“Yes. For the time being. But let's get down to business, Lenny. Do you remember that incident in Tarrytown in September of nineteen seventy-three?”

“Of course. Tragic business. Best forgotten about, at this point.”

“I am in possession of a photocopy of a certain letter. It offers a clue as to what may have happened there that afternoon. Unfortunately, it offers only half a clue. The other half is missing. You see, the letter which I have is clearly a response to an invitation to ‘Rothmere.' What I am looking for is the invitation itself.”

“Really, Herbert, I don't know what you're talking about. What invitation? What in the world are you suggesting?”

“That the alleged intruder and assailant was actually invited there. By Alex. And I have reason to believe that you may be in possession of that letter of invitation, Lenny.”

Lenny's eyes widened innocently. “Why?” he said. “Why me?”

“It would seem likely, considering your—ah—relationship with the deceased.”

“I really don't know what you're talking about, Herbert.”

“If you have such a letter, Lenny, it would be worth a lot to me to have it.”

Lenny's eyes narrowed. “Really? How much?”

Herbert hesitated. “Suppose you tell me how much you would ask for this letter?”

“Five million dollars,” Lenny said. “Mind you, I'm not saying that I have such a letter. Since I assume this conversation is being recorded, I would like to place that fact on the record. I'm merely saying that
if
I had such a letter, which would presumably incriminate Alex, and destroy her career and life forever, I would ask five million dollars for it. That's all.”

Herb's face reddened. “Too much,” he said. “Out of the question. The company can't afford that kind of money. This IRS business is costing us—”

“The company's problems with the IRS are of no concern to me,” Lenny said. “And I was not suggesting that company funds be expended for this. I am suggesting that, if you want such an important letter so badly, you should be willing to dip into your own pockets—pockets which, alas, have always been so much deeper than mine—to obtain such a letter. If, that is, such a letter exists.”

“Two million five,” Herb said. “But only after I've had a chance to examine the letter and determine its authenticity.”

Lenny rose to his feet. “Five million seems cheap for a woman's life,” he said. “It certainly seems cheap for a man as rich as you are. But I'll tell you something, Herbert. I've never liked dealing with you. I don't like dealing with you now. In fact, I've never liked one thing about you, nor, I dare say, do you have much love for me. We've been able to tolerate each other—just barely—over the years, for reasons that you and I both understand. As a matter of fact, I hate you, Herbert, and am in no mood to do any special favors for you and your friend Fiona. Steven, on the other hand, was quite another matter. I adored Steven—the son that you helped kill.”

Herbert jumped to his feet. “Kike faggot bastard!”

“Good afternoon, Herbert,” he said. “Let's stay in touch.”

When Lenny had gone, Herbert Rothman reached for the telephone on his private line. “My darling?” he said when she answered. “I've got him on the hook. And you were right—I'm certain he has the letter.”

“How much does he want for it?”

“Too much. But I'll work him down.”

“Oh, pay him whatever he bloody wants, Herbert, and let's have done with the whole bloody mess.”

“Now sweetheart, you never pay a man his first asking price. You offer him half, and settle somewhere in between. Just let me handle the negotiations, my darling. Lenny's hungry, and I know how to handle him. Can I see you tonight, my darling?”

She hesitated. “I suppose so. But I warn you, my bloody nerves are bloody shot from all of this.”

“Not mine,” he said. He lowered his voice. “In fact, now that we're getting close to the end of this, I'm feeling bloody horny.”

She giggled. “Sevenish,” she said.

From time to time, over the years, Lenny Liebling and Charlie Boxer dropped by the vault of the Manufacturers Hanover Trust to pay a call, as it were, on their letter. They slipped safe-deposit box number 369 out of its narrow slot, and withdrew with it into one of the small windowless rooms where there were a table and chairs, and a door that could be dead-bolted from the inside. Then they snapped open the box and checked its contents—their respective wills (each bequeathing whatever he had to the other), a few stock certificates and savings bonds, and the letter, along with that document from the Court House of Jackson County, Missouri.

Now, in the windowless room of the vault, Lenny removed the pale blue envelope and handed it to Charlie. “Your house in the Hamptons,” he said.

“Not just a house. A showplace,” Charlie said. “And this is the time to buy, you know. The real estate market is in a slump. There are ‘For Sale' and ‘Price Reduced' signs all over the South Shore.”

“So I'm told,” Lenny said.

“Will he really pay that much?”

“I'm quite sure he will. He faces a very expensive lawsuit if he doesn't. And apparently he has the letter that was written in response to this, which makes our letter much more valuable to him, doesn't it? Yes, ever so much more valuable.”

“The two pieces to the puzzle,” Charlie said.

“Rather like the two keys it takes to open a safe-deposit box, isn't it?” He smiled.

Charlie held the pale blue envelope by its corners, gingerly, between his fingertips. He pressed its slit open, just to be sure that the crested sheet of pale blue letterhead was still inside, along with the boxholder's note. There was no need to take out the letter and read it. Both Lenny and Charlie knew the words by heart, and the paper those words were written on was fragile, perishable, particularly if unfolded and refolded too often. “The postmark, everything,” Charlie said. “Would her fingerprints still be on it, do you think?”

“Possibly,” Lenny said. “After seventeen years, I don't know. But possibly. And it occurs to me, dovey, that probably you should not leave the apartment for the next few days, at least while we're negotiating.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Now that Herbert has guessed that we have this letter, it might occur to him to hire someone to do a little Watergate on us.”

“My God! You're right!”

“Herbert's playing hardball now, dovey. And the Brit bitch is pushing him. My spies have been reporting to me.”

Carefully, Charlie replaced the blue envelope in the box, and closed the lid.

Keeping the letter in the bank's vault had been Charlie's idea. It was too dangerous to hide the letter, in, say, a desk drawer in the Gainsborough apartment. Apartments could be burglarized and, in New York these days, even apartments in the most secure buildings often were. Also, if a too-inquisitive guest at one of their famous Sunday soirees happened upon that letter, and grasped its significance, that would be the end of everything.

But the vault of the Manufacturers Hanover Trust was the newest, safest, most fireproof in the city. It was also Charlie's idea to keep the key to this particular safe-deposit box in another safe-deposit box, in a different bank—the Chase Manhattan, just down the street. Charlie knew that if one had a key, and knew another person's bank and box number, it was ridiculously easy to gain access to that person's box. The tellers rarely bothered to compare signatures on those little access slips they made you sign. Lord knows that he had gone into his dear Aunt Jane's safe-deposit box often enough, and no one ever questioned the fact that he was signing a woman's name.

Finally, it was Charlie's idea that both boxes be rented in his name only. After all, though Lenny never revealed his age, even he would admit that he was a few years older than Charlie, and probably would be the first to go. And both men had agreed never to have the letter Xeroxed, or copied in any way. It would be too dangerous if a copy of this letter ever fell into anyone else's hands. Possession of the original was everything. It was their insurance, for neither Lenny nor Charlie owned a penny's worth of life insurance. Lenny had always said that letter would be valuable someday, though he didn't know how, and now apparently that day was at hand.

There was also the document from the Jackson County Court House. That was a somewhat different situation, since other copies of it certainly existed. Anyone interested could easily go to the Bureau of Vital Statistics in Kansas City and obtain a copy for the asking. But the point was that, without the letter, that document was all but meaningless. Without the letter, the connection between the two pieces of paper would never be made. The letter was pivotal, and was worth much, much more—as they say—than its weight in gold.

“I was thinking,” Charlie said now, “that if Herbert Rothman will pay that much for it, how much would Alex pay?”

“You mean put it up for auction? Sell it to the highest bidder?”

“Something like that.”

Lenny ruffled what remained of his friend's thinning hair. “Now don't be greedy, dovey. I don't think Alex has that kind of money. Besides, other sources of income are on their way.”

“Really? From where?”

“You'll see,” said Lenny with a wink. “Irons are in the fire. All things come to him who waits.”

“Voilà!”
Lenny cried, unrolling the big rug across the parquet floor of the red-and-gold drawing room at 720 Park Avenue. “What do you think of your Isfahan, Aunt Lily dear? Isn't it gorgeous? And it wasn't gone too long.”

Aunt Lily Rothman peered down at the rug. “It looks different,” she said. “It looks new.” She sniffed. “It even smells new.”

“Of course!” he said. “Because it's
like
new! It's clean at last. Now you can see all the original colors, as they came from the weavers' looms.”

She studied it some more. “It just doesn't look like the same rug,” she said.

“Of course it doesn't, because it's been so long since you've seen it
clean
. How long has it been since it's been cleaned? Twenty years? Thirty years? You're seeing your rug with thirty years of filth and grime removed.”

“My house isn't full of filth and grime.”

“The cleaner did a really lovely job. And he only charged a thousand dollars. Can you imagine? I'm having the bill sent to you.”

“Hmm. I don't think that's so cheap.”

“It's an absolute steal, Lily dear. Now what about those two Boulle commodes?” he said. “Look at the way your stupid maids have chipped and barked and scratched their legs with their vacuum cleaners. As luck would have it, I have a little man who's a superb refinisher. Of course he'll have to have the pieces for a while. Refinishing fine furniture takes longer than cleaning a rug.”

“No, I don't think so,” she said. “Taking those out will leave big holes in the room.”

“Only for a few weeks.”

“No. I don't think so.”

“But when you own fine furniture, Lily dear, you must not let it fall into disrepair. If you do, it's a sign of aging. And we can't have people think you're aging, can we, Lily? Letting things go?”

“Well, I'll think about it,” she said. “But meanwhile, what about the other business?”

“Aha!” he said, reaching for his briefcase. “I have something for you. Hot off the presses.” He opened his briefcase and withdrew a sheet of parchmentlike paper. “The first Rothman Communications stock certificate. I had it issued in your name—a thousand shares.” He handed it to her, and she examined it closely.