Tycoon (40 page)

1956

B
OB
L
EAR RARELY CAME EAST.
H
E THOUGHT OF HIMSELF AS A
man with a West Coast style who was in some way out of place east of the Mississippi. He was uncomfortable in Jack's house. He was uncomfortable in the presence of Jack's wife, constantly fearful that he would make a grammatical error in conversation with her or would pick up the wrong fork at the table.

Jack understood that if Bob came here he had something significant on his mind. When the two brothers sat down in the library after dinner, Jack learned what it was. At first he was not surprised.

“They've increased their bid to $275,” said Bob.

“I don't give a damn if they raise it to $375.”

“That's easy for you to say. You cashed out of Lear Communications and are a millionaire many times over. I'm not.”

“Why aren't you?” Jack asked. “You own half of a company they're offering $27.50 a share for.”

“But it's all in stock! If something went wrong—I mean, if something went badly wrong—I'd be . . . broke. Look. Carlton House is my bread and butter now. The salvage business is in decline. It was for a long time before the old man died. The truth is, he didn't pay much attention to it the last ten years of his life.”

“You want cash? Are you going to invest in something else?”

“Diversify. I need to diversify.”

“Okay. I'll buy ten percent or twenty percent of your stock. Then you'll be a millionaire and can diversify. Buy an assortment of blue chips. Treasury bonds. Municipals. You want security—”

“Jack . . . I can't.” Bob's lips trembled, and tears came to his eyes. “I have to sell to
them.
I've agreed to sell to them.”

“Why?
Why do you
have
to sell to them? God, man, there are
all kinds
of alternatives if you want to cash out.”

“They've got me by the short hairs!” Bob wept.

“What short hairs? What the hell are you talking about?”

Bob reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Look . . . Those are frames from a movie film!”

The black-and-white prints showed Bob in bed with an attractive young woman. They were fuzzy, but they were good enough for Jack to recognize him. He knew the projected film would be a lot clearer. The pictures were like outtakes from the cheapest 1940s stag films. Bob was naked except for a vest undershirt and ankle-length black socks. In three pictures he was taking head from the girl. In four others he was astride her.

“Who took these?” Jack demanded.

“Painter.”

“What are you saying?
Is that bastard
blackmailing
you?”

“Jack, it's a movie. I've got the whole reel . . . a copy.”

Jack reached for the telephone with one hand and for a pocket notebook with the other. He dialed a number.

“I'd like to speak to Mr. Humphrey, please. This is Jack Lear in Connecticut. The matter is urgent.”

A
STATION WAGON MARKED
HP,
MEANING
H
UMPHREY
P
ETRO
leum, was waiting for Jack and Bob at the Houston airport. The driver, who said he was a geologist, stowed their luggage in the rear and held the doors open for them. He drove them to a Houston suburb west of the center of the city, where he said Mr. Humphrey was expecting them. They were to be guests in his house for the night.

The one-story beige stucco house sat in the middle of a grove of great old trees. From the road it did not look prepossessing; but as the car approached, the dimensions of the house became more impressive. It was in fact a mansion.

Douglas Humphrey was waiting for them at an umbrella table beside the kidney-shaped swimming pool. He had been swimming and wore a white terry-cloth robe.

“Jack! And you must be Bob. Good to see you. Sit down. Mary! Emily! Come out and meet the Lear brothers.”

A woman in a yellow bikini came out of the pool. She looked about thirty years old, and was blond, tanned, and handsome. The girl, who was eight or nine years old, was nude. Though she showed no sign of being particularly embarrassed, she did not come out of the water.

“This is my daughter, Mary Carson, and that's my granddaughter, Emily. Mr. Jack Lear and Mr. Bob Lear.”

“We've heard your names often,” Mary Carson said smoothly.

Jack had remained standing. “I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Carson, Miss Carson. Don't let us interrupt your swimming.”

“We've got lots of spare trunks, if you'd like to come in,” said Mary Carson.

“Maybe we'll do that a little later.”

The mother returned to the pool by diving gracefully from a low board. Jack sat down. A houseboy in white coat and black pants approached. The three men ordered a round of drinks.

“Let's deal with this thing,” said Humphrey. “I want you to understand that Dick Painter acted totally without authority from me or Ray or Billy Bob. I talked to him today while you were flying down. I told him I want that reel of film burned, along with any copies or prints taken from it.”

“Doug, I want his ass,” Jack said bluntly.

Humphrey nodded. “I thought you would. And I don't blame you. But let's look at something. You and I know that in this broadcasting season the Lear Network has some of the most popular shows on television. We don't get the ratings because we don't have stations in every market—”

“We do all right where we do have stations,” said Jack. “Some hours, we're the top station in Boston, top in Cleveland, top in Atlanta . . .”

“Exactly,” said Humphrey. “And what shows are doing it for us?
The Sally Allen Show,
first and foremost. But besides that—
Doin' What Comes Natcherly, Thirty-Eight Special,
and
'Round the World.
Right?”

Doin' What Comes Natcherly
was a situation comedy featuring a family of West Virginia coal miners and moonshiners who inherited a Park Avenue apartment building and came to Manhattan to live in it, thinking it would be their obligation to do all the cleaning and maintenance work themselves—to the horror of their wealthy and snooty tenants.
Thirty-Eight Special
was a police show. The title was a double entendre that could refer to the revolver carried by the policewoman heroine or to her prominent breasts.
'Round the World
was a quiz show in which, at the end of a series of several appearances, the winning couple won a luxury trip around the world.

Jack shrugged. “That's the backbone of it.”

“And what do those shows have in common?” Humphrey asked. He answered his own question. “You had
The Sally Allen Show
going before Painter came on board. The other shows were developed for us by Dick Painter.”

“The man has an unmatched instinct for vulgarity,” said Jack.

“And the public has an insatiable appetite for it.”

“All right. But I want something, Doug. I want a letter of resignation from him. I want a letter that apologizes for attempting a low and dishonest trick, which he need not name. I'll keep that letter for the day when I might need it.”

“I'll see to it that you get the letter,” Humphrey said grimly. “Would you like to take a swim before dinner?”

Jack shrugged. “Why not?”

D
INNER WAS FOR FIVE:
H
UMPHREY,
J
ACK,
B
OB
, M
ARY, AND
Emily.

“I saw your daughter in
Stage Lights
,” Mary Carson said to Jack. “She made a fine impression.”

“Thank you. It was a bit part, but it was something she wanted very badly.”

“Did you see her pictures in
Playboy
?” Bob asked.

Jack couldn't tell if Bob was being ingenuous or if he was being nasty, because he resented having had to be bailed out by his brother this afternoon.

“No,” said Mary Carson.

“I did,” said Humphrey. “She's stunning. I think we should arrange an appearance for her on
The Sally Allen Show.”

“Wouldn't that look as if she's there only because she's my daughter?”

“The fact that she's your daughter shouldn't deny her an opportunity,” said Mary Carson.

“I don't know if she can
do
anything,” said Jack. “She's a model. In
Stage Lights
all she had to do was look good.”

“At which she's an expert,” said Bob.

“It's your call, your judgment,” Humphrey said to Jack.

Jack nodded. “I'll talk to her.”

After dinner Mary and Emily left the table. The men stayed, with brandy and cigars, and Humphrey raised again the subject of merging LCI and Carlton House.

“It's a perfect fit. You could move production of
The Sally Allen Show
out of that Kansas City warehouse and onto one of the CH soundstages.”

“We're thinking of leasing at least one of those soundstages
to another television production company,” Bob explained. “CH doesn't make as many films as it used to, and we can't afford to maintain unused facilities.”

“Why lease to a competitor? Whether we merge the companies or not, you could lease the facilities to LCI.”

“A sweetheart deal?” Jack asked.

“No. I happen to know Carlton House can use cash. This would be a way of transferring some from LCI to CH.”

“Why not bring in some cash from outside?” Jack asked.

“I think Mr. Humphrey is right,” said Bob.

J
ACK WOKE AT
7:45
A.M.
S
OMEONE WAS KNOCKING ON HIS
bedroom door. It was Humphrey, who told Jack he had a telephone call from Anne. He could pick it up on his bedside phone, line two. His hand trembled as he reached for the phone.

“Jack, something perfectly horrible has happened. Kimberly is dead! So is Dodge Hallowell.”

“How? What happened?”

“I don't know. Harrison Wolcott called. He said they'd had heart attacks.”

“Both of them?”

“That's what he said. He was very upset, of course. He asked us to get the word to John and Joni.”

“Joni's in the apartment in New York, I suppose. Would you mind calling her? I'll try to reach John. I'll try to reach Harrison, too.”

A
NNE REACHED
J
ONI JUST AS SHE WAS LEAVING THE APART
ment to keep a modeling appointment.

“Joni, I have terrible news. Your mother is dead. So is Dodge Hallowell.”

“That's too bad . . . I guess.”

“It
is
too bad. It comes as a terrible shock to your grandparents, both of whom are rather fragile.”

Joni was silent for a moment, then said, “Anne, I am not going to the funeral. That may as well be understood.”

“That's your decision to make, Joni. But I wish you'd consider this. Not going will not be a statement to your mother, who won't know what statement you're making. On the other hand, you'll hurt your grandparents' feelings, and you'll be letting down your father and brother. Will you be home this evening? I'll call to tell you what the arrangements are.”

N
EVER IN HIS DREAMS HAD
J
OHN SEEN HIMSELF AT THE CON
trols of an aircraft like this one, and he was aware that the navy had conferred a significant honor on him when it assigned him to one of the first F4D Skyrays to be delivered aboard an aircraft carrier. It was a delta-wing interceptor, propelled by so powerful an engine that it held a world speed record, having flown in excess of 750 miles per hour. It was also capable of climbing almost vertically and held world records for rate of climb.

Naturally, the F4D was a demanding aircraft. He had been assigned to it only five weeks ago, had trained in it at the San Diego Naval Air Station, and was now practicing carrier operations.

The ship was ahead of him and below. Five miles ahead of him another F4D was about to land—a tiny silvery bird hard to make out at this distance. The carrier was the
Yorktown,
the second U.S. aircraft carrier by that name, the first having been lost during the Battle of Midway. It was an Essex-class carrier. John had served aboard the
Essex
as a midshipman, so the layout of the ship was familiar to him. Sort of. Most of the Essex-class carriers had been modified. The landing deck had been angled 8 degrees off the line of the keel, an arrangement that made for more efficient and safer operations.

The aircraft ahead of him was being waved off. Something was wrong with his approach. The signal lights went blank and now came on again. John realized the signals were now for him. He was three miles out and too high. He cut power and felt the Skyray settling, losing altitude. He felt it was settling too fast, so he adjusted his power. The signals hadn't told him that; he had felt it in the seat of his pants. Pilots were urged not to fly by instinct but by the book, but John knew his feeling for what his aircraft was doing was almost always right.

The lights indicated he was at the proper altitude for the distance. He was slightly to the right of course, which meant the wind had shifted. He did not turn the nose into the wind but lowered his left wing into it and added some right rudder—cross controls. The wings were a little less efficient that way, so he added a bit more power. The lights changed, indicating he was on the glide slope and lined up on course. Good. Now all he had to do was hold it that way.

For some reason, an approach to landing always seemed slow, even leisurely, with plenty of time to fly the airplane—time to make corrections. He knew, though, that from the time he turned on his approach course until the instant he hit the deck he had only two minutes.