Tycoon (7 page)

“I mean it, Jack. This is not California.”

“In other words, don't act like a California Jew.”

“All I ask is that you don't embarrass us, for God's sake. Help me with this.” She pulled her dress over her head and writhed as she drew it down over her body. He pulled up the zipper in back and fastened the hooks. “Don't mention Betsy Emerson's divorce,” Kimberly continued. “If someone mentions it to you, say you hadn't heard of it. She'll be introduced to you as Mrs. Otis Emerson. That's the correct form. Her maiden name was Otis. Her Christian name is Elizabeth, and the second or third time you talk to her she'll invite you to call her Betsy.”

“All right. Shall we go down and check everything?”

“Yes. And don't forget that the Horans are Catholics. They'll be the only people here tonight who are. Connie is one of my best friends.”

“I never make anti-Catholic jokes,” Jack reassured her.

“I know you don't. But there are little ways of saying things. I mean, some things are better said in other ways.”

“Jesus Christ, Kimberly!
Don't you think I know
anything?”

W
HEN THE HOUSE WAS FULL OF PEOPLE AND NOBODY WAS
particularly noticing who was talking to whom, Jack slipped up beside Mrs. Otis Emerson, who was gathering some crackers smeared with caviar onto her plate, and murmured, “H'lo, Betsy.”

Her eyes flashed. “You bastard!” she whispered. “Where have you been?”

“I've been busy as hell.”

“Bull. I'm a fallen woman, Jack, and need someone to comfort me. Did you arrange to have me invited tonight?”

He shook his head. “Kimberly invited you.”

“I'm off about half the invitation lists in town.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. In Boston society, divorce is still a major scandal.”

“Even if the bastard beat you.”

“Even if the bastard beat me. Listen. My family tried to talk me out of the divorce. My lawyer tried to talk me out of it. The
judge
tried to talk me out of it. They all said any husband is better than no husband.”

Betsy was a comely blond woman of maybe thirty-two or -three, but she was not nearly as beautiful as Kimberly. Her nose was a little too long and sharp, her mouth was a little too wide and toothy. What Jack found most attractive about her was her air of comfortable self-esteem.

“I'm sorry, Betsy,” he said earnestly. “I'll make a point of getting together with you as soon as I can.”

“Make it soon.” She spoke in a very low voice because she had noticed Kimberly approaching. “Any woman who's ever had a feel of the Lear cock wants another feel.”

A moment later Kimberly was beside them.

“I see you two have met.”

Jack nodded. “And she's already invited me to call her Betsy.”

Kimberly pretended not to notice Jack's catty comment. “I know you're something of an expert on chinoiserie, Betsy,” she said. “Have you noticed my new highboy? I'd like your honest opinion.”

“Jack . . . ?” Betsy asked.

Kimberly grinned. “My husband wouldn't know chinoiserie from Duncan Phyfe. It's something I've got to teach him. Maybe you can help.”

Betsy looked directly into Jack's eyes. “I'll be glad to try,” she said.

Dan Horan was an easy man to get to know. A good deal older than his wife, Kimberly's friend Connie, Dan was a big, bluff man, overweight but still hard-muscled and athletic. He had curly dark hair and wore gold-framed eyeglasses. He had no reason to go to any special effort to make friends, yet he seemed to seek them assiduously, like a bibliophile who collected books he did not read.

“I congratulate you on the house,” he said to Jack. “To be able to snatch one up here—”

“You watch for opportunities.”

“Well, you found one. And Kimberly has done a hell of a job on it!”

“I need a drink,” said Jack. “Bar?”

Kimberly had hired two maids for the evening, to wander through the house in short, flared black skirts, with white aprons and caps; but on their trays they carried only glasses of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The cook, an Irishwoman of formidable proportions, had proved a knowledgeable bartender and was serving in that capacity behind a table set up in the library.

“Connie tells me you're going to buy WHFD in Hartford.”

“So Kimberly has told Connie, and so she tells me. I haven't decided yet. Kimberly wants it because it broadcasts only classical music. She's a little embarrassed by WCHS.”

“It's the most
interesting
station in Boston,” said Dan Horan.

Jack laughed. “Thanks for the careful choice of words. It's also the most profitable, according to the latest numbers.”

They walked away from the bar with their drinks, and in the foyer between the library and the living room they came across Kimberly and Connie.

Jack had decided that Constance Horan was the only woman he had ever seen who rivaled Kimberly in grace and beauty. But her style was completely different. She was taller than Kimberly, had long sleek legs, and was blond. Her mouth was softer, but she hardened it with cold-red lipstick. The chief difference between the two women was that Connie carried herself with a defiant dignity that bordered on arrogance.

She was also a superior bridge player. She and Jack were sometimes matched as partners because they made a formidable team.

Tonight she was wearing a white silk-satin dress with a loose V neck, a sleeveless bodice, and a clinging skirt that flaunted her slim hips and long slender legs. Jack was stirred by the sight of her.

“Jack . . . how many Scotches have you had this evening, darling?” Kimberly asked with a pinched little smile.

“I haven't been counting. Have you?”

“No, not really. But I hope that's the last one.”

J
UST BEFORE MIDNIGHT, IN THE SITTING ROOM ADJOINING
their bedroom, Jack flung his jacket on the floor. “
Goddammit! Enough
! Enough goddamned faultfinding.”

Kimberly unhooked and unzipped her dress, and with it hanging loose she went into the bedroom.
“You're
in a foul mood,” she called back.

“Why wouldn't I be? You go out of your way to humiliate me.

“How did I humiliate you?” she asked with a calmness that begged for a challenge.

“You said to Betsy that I wouldn't know chinoiserie from Duncan Phyfe—”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do. I don't suppose I'd always recognize a piece as Duncan Phyfe, but I know what chinoiserie is. I ought to; I paid enough for an item of it.”

Kimberly returned, knotting the cord at the waist of her blue silk dressing gown. “Do you have other complaints?” she asked.

He'd tossed his clothes on the floor as he spoke, and now he stood before her naked, flaunting his cock. “Barbara handed me a canapé from her plate, and I took it and ate it. You didn't have to ask me where my plate was. What was I supposed to do, accept a canapé from her plate and put it down on mine before I picked it up again and ate it? Is that what I was supposed to do?”

“What was more, you didn't have a napkin.”

“Well, I had a drink, didn't I? And in front of the Horans you asked me how many I'd had and advised me not to have any more.”

“It's well that I did, too, isn't it? Listen to yourself.”

“
I am not drunk, Kimberly!”

“I'll take your word for it. But I thought you looked to me to make a gentleman of you. That was part of our deal. You asked me to. And you are still a long way from—”

“Not in public, Kimberly! Not in front of other people!”

“Ah. I see the distinction. I put you on show tonight, my husband. I showed off a man who can afford a home on Louisburg Square, decorated as this one is, who knows how to dress and how to receive and converse with guests—as he didn't know three years ago. I showed off a man who may not know exactly who Duncan Phyfe was but who recognizes chinoiserie and the several different kinds of Oriental carpets we have—and has the money to buy them. I
presented
you to Boston tonight. And you came off pretty well, Jack. And frankly, it was among people who doubted you could. The thanks I get is a petulant series of little complaints from a man who is, no, not drunk but is on the verge of it. If I advised you to make that Scotch—your fourth or fifth or whatever it was—your last one, it's a damned good thing
I did, because you could have destroyed everything we've worked and spent to achieve. I'm going to bed.” She paused, then added, “I have one more suggestion. I suggest you shower and brush your teeth before you join me. If you can't do anything else, at least you can make good use of that circumcised dick.”

1934

O
N
J
UNE
10, J
ACK RECEIVED A TELEGRAM:

LA
61034 1000
AM

LIFE OF JOHANN LEHRER RAPIDLY COMING TO END STOP DAILY WEAKER STOP IF YOU WISH TO SPEAK WITH HIM WHILE HE IS STILL ALIVE URGE YOU TRAVEL HERE SOONEST STOP

MICKEY

Mickey Sullivan was Erich Lear's factotum and Jack's lifelong friend.

At noon the next day Jack boarded an American Airlines Condor biplane for the flight to Los Angeles. The route was Boston to New York to Washington to Nashville to Dallas to Douglas, Arizona, to Los Angeles, with a stop at each city. Because the flying continued overnight—a recent and daring innovation in air travel—the airplane was equipped with seats that converted into comfortable berths. After the ten passengers had eaten a hearty meal, complete with liquors and wine, they were invited to retire. Somewhere over Virginia or Tennessee the berths were made up, and the passengers donned their
pajamas and lay down to sleep. Those who were still asleep were wakened at Dallas and told their flight was more than half complete. They ate breakfast, lunch, and a late-afternoon snack with cocktails aboard the Condor and touched down in Los Angeles in time to have dinner there.

Before he left the airport, Jack dispatched a telegram to Kimberly:

LA
61234 915
PM

HAVE ARRIVED HERE SAFELY STOP WILL RETURN BY TRAIN
STOP ALL MY LOVE TO YOU AND LITTLE JOHN

JACK

Mickey Sullivan met him at the airport. Only after Jack had sent his telegram did Mickey tell him he had not arrived in time. “The old man died about four hours ago.”

“Did he say anything about me?”

“He didn't say anything about anybody. Your father and your brother tried to talk to him the last couple of days. He knew they were talking to him—his eyes followed them—but he ignored them. That's the way death is, Jack. Nothing special. People just retreat inside themselves and spend their last hours with their own private thoughts.”

Mickey Sullivan was eight years older than Jack. He had sandy hair and a square, bland, honest face. Many people said that Erich Lear's demands on his time and energy had ruined his marriage, which had ended in divorce.

“Your father is angry,” Mickey said as they walked to his car.

“Fancy that. Pissed off or horny. The only two conditions he knows.”

“They've looked at your grandfather's will. He left your brother a million dollars and you half a million, saying he gave you a half a million advance on your inheritance in 1931. Your father is very upset that neither of you told him about that.”

“My grandfather didn't want him to know.”

“Well, he thinks it was a betrayal. The residue of the estate, which is what
he
gets, won't amount to a million.”

“He got his. He's the president and chief stockholder of Lear Ship Breaking and Salvage.”

“They are going to sit shivah. Will you stay?”

“I can't stay that long. In fact, since the old man is dead I'm tempted to ask you to drive me to the railroad station so I can start back tonight.”

“I don't see how you can do that, Jack,” Mickey said gravely.

“Well, take me to the Ambassador. I've got a reservation. Stay and have dinner with me, will you? I don't want to face my father and brother before tomorrow.”

Over dinner Jack told Mickey a little about the house on Louisburg Square and about his son. Mickey told Jack about what was happening with the California Lears.

“The business is going great. You know your father. He's bidding to break up the
Mauretania.
And I'll bet he gets it. What the man sets out to do, he does. He ought to be happy, too. He's up to his usual tricks.”

“Who now?”

“You wouldn't believe it. She's nineteen years old. Luscious. I mean,
luscious!
I'm ashamed to say I set it up for him. My mother didn't raise me to be a procurer.” Mickey shook his head.