The Stallion (1996) (47 page)

She knew that after twenty-one years of marriage she was not the same woman who had first whipped Loren. Even five years ago she would have worn no bra, but her breasts sagged now. Her nipples were no longer well defined and shiny but somehow seemed smeared on. The flesh was loose under her arms and under her chin. Her belly stood out over the top of her panties. She knew—oh, God, how painfully
she knew it—that she was a grotesque caricature of the dominatrix, a role that no longer suited her.

He—well, what the hell role could he play? she wondered. He crouched naked on the floor. She had wrapped the chain between his leg irons twice around the link between his handcuffs. He could scoot around on the floor but could not stand or even crawl. She had poured his Scotch into a bowl left over from their room-service dinner, so he could lap it up. He could not lift a glass. He was helpless, which was what he wanted to be.

Even so, he had not aged as much as she had. A little thicker maybe, he was still very much the man she had married; and she had to wonder if he had not noticed the difference between them.

The thought incited her to grab up her crop and give him a shock across the backside.
The son of a bitch!

“Oh my God, baby!” he cried.

“We can always quit this,” she said. “I don’t
have
to beat your ass.”

Loren gasped. “Just take it a little easy,” he whispered hoarsely. “An’ hey! Time to turn on the tube.”

She got up from the couch, went to the television set, and switched it on.

Commercials. Endless commercials. Annoyed, she flicked him between the shoulders. He gasped but did not complain.

And finally—

“America!
Wake up, America, and join us …
Behind the scenes?.
This is the program that takes you where they don’t want you to go! That shows you what they don’t want you to see! That tells you what the spin doctors don’t want you to know! This
… is … Behind the Scenes!

“Tonight! A supposed cure for baldness that actually kills your remaining hair follicles! A cereal that contains every vitamin and mineral the human body needs
but only a cow can digest!
And, an electric automobile that—well, you’ll see. If you drive one of these you’ll want an umbrella, because you may find yourself drenched by a shower of battery acid!”

During twenty minutes of breathless talk about hair follicles and nutrients trapped in cellulose—plus commercials
for laxatives and denture adhesives—Roberta flicked Loren impatiently, hard enough that he grunted. The one big welt on his backside swelled and turned purple. The others were just pink.

Then—

“We don’t say what the following videotape really shows. We don’t know. You watch. You judge. XB Motors is in the process of developing an electric car, supposed to run on batteries. It is being developed inside some of the tightest security ever used at a Detroit test track.
Behind the Scenes
has been able to obtain the tape we are now going to show you. You will recognize the car as an XB Stallion. They are using the Stallion chassis and body as a platform for the new electric drive train. We don’t know exactly what it is that you are about to see. But watch, in slow motion…”

The TV image switched to a somewhat ill-focused black-and-white tape. A Stallion entered the picture from the left and moved slowly toward a thick wall. It hit. In slow motion the body crumpled. Then the body of the car suddenly filled with an explosion of fluid. The fluid erupted through the shattered windshield and windows and obscured the car. For a quarter of a slow-motion minute the car had the aspect of a waterfall, until the eruption subsided and left the crushed Stallion broken and streaming.

“What does that mean, ladies and gentlemen?
Behind the Scenes
leaves it to you to decide. Tomorrow night—perhaps—a word of explanation from XB Motors.”

Loren rolled over on his back and grinned at Roberta. “How y’ figure, kid?” he asked. “We got Perino? We not got him?”

Within two days of its national debut on
Behind the Scenes,
the tape of the exploding Stallion had been shown on all the major networks. In each instance the network anchor piously described the snippet of tape as something from tabloid TV—still, they ran it.

XB Motors stock fell to $450 a share.

Wilma Worth called Angelo. “Am I still your favorite reporter, or am I not?”

“The stockholders meeting is in ten days,” he told her. “Be sure you’re there.”

Betsy called from London. “How can those batteries explode? I thought you said—”

“Miss Betsy,” said Angelo, “your father put his cock on the anvil—and brought the hammer down hard. Notice, he did it to himself. I didn’t do it to him.”

For the first time in the history of XB Motors, Incorporated (formerly Bethlehem Motors), the annual stockholders meeting could not be held in the conference room adjacent to the president’s office. Angelo, as president, had arranged for the meeting to be held in Cobol Hall. More than four hundred seats were reserved for stockholders, who now numbered 631. Few shares would not be represented, either in person or by proxy. In addition, two hundred seats had to be available to the news media and another hundred for curious spectators.

When the meeting convened at 10:00
A.M.
on Wednesday, February 16, all the Hardemans were present at the head table—Loren and Roberta, Betsy, Anne, and Alicia. In a special box set aside for them at one side, Cindy, Van and Anna, John Perino and John Hardeman, George, Viscount Neville, and Igor, Prince Alekhine, watched the proceedings.

Tom Mason sat among the stockholders, as did Bill Adams.

Angelo presided, with Loren at his right hand. The first order of business was identification of the stockholders and
proxies, to determine who had the right to vote. The tellers took half an hour to do their business and certify their results.

Angelo read their report. No one objected. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “you all have before you the minutes of the last meeting and the report of the treasurer. Without objection, neither will be read but will be received as submitted. Do I hear an objection? Hearing none, the minutes and report will be received as submitted.”

He went on. “Before proceeding to other items of business, I ask consent to show a short piece of videotape.”

The audio-visual people had been cued. As a huge screen descended behind the head table, the lights dimmed. An image appeared on the screen. It was the tape from
Behind the Scenes.
The Stallion ran across the screen, hit the wall, and exploded.

The lights came up.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Angelo, “here is the XB Zero-Zero-Zero—the E Stallion—in two models: the first is the car as it will be offered for sale, the second is the same car with the body removed.”

The two cars, driven by two attractive models in short skirts, entered the hall in the glare of floodlights and stopped before the head table.

“With the consent of all concerned,” said Angelo, “I adjourn this meeting for thirty minutes, so that everyone here can examine these cars and look for any liquid batteries that might explode in a collision. The E Stallion, as you will see, is powered by a lithium-polymer cell and a flywheel battery. It has no liquid battery that could explode and send out a shower of battery acid. See for yourself.”

When the half hour was over, Angelo rapped the gavel and waited some minutes for stockholders and reporters to return to their seats.

“The chair will entertain a motion, if anyone wants to make it, that the meeting adjourn until tomorrow, to afford all stockholders and the media people a chance to go to the
test track and see the cars run—and drive them themselves. I will invite everyone to take note that there is no place on the track where the videotape of the crashing test car could have been made.”

In the moment of confusion that followed, Bill Adams rose. “Mr. President,” he said, “I move that the number of directors of XB Motors be increased from five to nine.”

Tom Mason shouted a second.

The motion passed without discussion.

“Mr. President,” Adams said then, “I would like to nominate a slate of directors.”

Angelo nodded.

“Mr. President, I nominate you. Then I nominate Mr. Loren Hardeman and Elizabeth Hardeman, Viscountess Neville. I nominate Mr. Thomas Mason, the company’s most successful dealer. I nominate Mr. Keijo Shigeto, an engineer who has contributed much to the development of the Stallion. I nominate Miss Alexandria McCullough, whose computer design runs the new car. I nominate Mr. Henry Morris, president of Morris Mining. I nominate Judge Paul Burger. And finally, Mr. President, I nominate myself, as owner of shares and proxy for many others.”

Betsy stood. “Mr. President,” she said, “I second all Mr. Adams’s nominations and call for a vote.”

Angelo rapped the gavel. “Every stockholder is entitled to nominate other candidates,” he said. He waited a full minute, and no one spoke. “Those in favor of the election of the directors nominated by Mr. Adams will signify by saying ‘aye.’ Those opposed by saying ‘no.’ The ayes have it, and the directors are duly elected.”

Buses were provided to transport all stockholders who wanted to go to the test track. They would be served box lunches, and ten E Stallions were ready for them to drive.

The nine directors met in the conference room at the XB Motors administration building. In a meeting that lasted less than an hour they elected Angelo Perino chairman of
the board, president, and chief executive officer, Elizabeth, Viscountess Neville, executive vice president; Keijo Shigeto vice president for engineering; Alicia Hardeman secretary; and William Adams treasurer.

The directors authorized the president to move the company’s administrative offices to New York and to sell the old plant where the Sundancers had been manufactured. The new, automated factory where the E Stallions were made would become XB Motors’ only remaining manufacturing facility.

Loren objected to nothing. All the votes were unanimous.

At the track, Roberta sat glumly in a lawn chair and watched E Stallions speeding past. Some of the stockholders were testing the limits of the cars.

“C’mon, Roberta,” said Cindy. “I’ll take you for a ride.”

Roberta frowned, but she nodded and rose to walk with Cindy to one of the cars. Cindy waited until Roberta had fastened her belt, then pulled the car out onto the track and smoothly accelerated to seventy miles an hour.

“I was once a test driver, you know,” Cindy said. “I’ve circled this track thousands of times.”

“I want one of these cars,” said Roberta quietly.

“Now that you’re sure the batteries won’t explode,” said Cindy. “How was that Stallion on the tape rigged?”

“A huge rubber bladder full of water, with a small explosive charge,” said Roberta. “It was done in Canada.”

“We guessed it was something like that.”

“Loren was trying to defend his inheritance,” Roberta explained.

“By destroying the company? What did he inherit besides his stock? He’s a wealthy man, and my husband is making him wealthier. Accept that, Roberta. No more games.”

“What else can I do?”

“You can take Loren to the Riviera or someplace else far away and keep him placid. We expect your cooperation.”

Roberta smiled bitterly. “What more can you do to us?” she asked.

Cindy drove the E skillfully through an S curve. “Betsy looked through the inventory of Number One’s estate. There was an item, three million dollars, listed as ‘recovery of trust fund.’ Do you know what that was, Roberta?”

“I have no idea.”

“Betsy’s lawyers found out. Before he died, Number One told Betsy he’d put a lot of money in a trust fund for you, which would be yours when you met certain conditions. When he died, you hadn’t had time to meet the conditions of the trust, and the money was returned to his estate. You remember this?”

Roberta’s jaw twitched, and she said nothing.

“You were to receive three million dollars when you divorced Loren—so he could remarry and produce a Hardeman heir. You were to find him a girl and facilitate his giving you grounds for divorce. Does this refresh your memory?”

“You couldn’t prove it.”

“Why not? The trust indenture was in the estate file.”

“If Loren found out—”

“He’s not going to find out, Roberta,” said Cindy. “He’s going for a ride with Angelo and Betsy so they can talk privately, the same way you and I are talking. They’re going to cover a lot of ground. The proposition Number One offered you to end your marriage with Loren—which you accepted—will not be mentioned.”

“Why not?” Roberta asked in a small voice.

“Because we have a job for you. Keep him happy. Keep his thoughts off destructive conspiracies. If he tries to pull any more tricks, the trust indenture will be only
one
of the secrets that will be disclosed. You have your ways of handling him. We know you can do it.”

Roberta nodded. “I can do it. Don’t humiliate Loren any more.”

“We haven’t humiliated him. He’s still a director. His daughter’s a vice president. The Hardeman name is still on the company.”

While Cindy ran the car through a deep turn, Roberta stared ahead and stayed silent. Then she drew a deep breath. “Who fucked us?” she asked flatly.

“You fucked yourselves, Roberta. You fucked
yourselves.”

The directors arrived at the track. They ate lunches and waited for a car to come in so that each of them could drive one.

“C’mon,” said Betsy to Angelo. “I threw my weight around and got a car. My father’s waiting in it.”

Loren was in the backseat of a bright red E, slumped and dour. Betsy drove, looking grim and aggressive. Angelo sat in the passenger seat, expressionless, ready for whatever was about to come.

“You owe me one, Father dear,” said Betsy.