Brian Garfield: Villiers Touch

Isher said, “It’s brutal, Mace-the man’s just died!”

“He’s been dead for months. I won’t weep for him.”

They sat in uneasy silence until the ticker started. Hackman was instantly on the phone, barking orders; Isher was glued to the Quotron.

After a time Isher said, “I don’t see any quote on NCI at all. But the whole damn market’s sliding a little. Have you got a newswire somewhere, George? Maybe the news already got through-but that’s damn fast work on somebody’s part. We should have had a couple of hours.”

Hackman closed his palm over the telephone mouthpiece and said dismally, “That’s it. They’ve suspended.”

“What?” Villiers, for the first time, displayed alarm on his face.

Hackman said, “There was an emergency meeting of the board of governors of the Stock Exchange at eight this morning. They voted to suspend trading in NCI common.”

“Then that’s it,” Isher said. “God knows when they’ll reopen it for trading. Your margin factors will call their loans any minute now. You’ve got to pay off and raise more cash someplace else. You’re all through, Mace, can’t you see it? The NCI deal is finished. You’ve got no more credit. You’ve got to pull out-all the way out. You’ll be lucky to save enough for a bus ticket back to Montreal.”

“I don’t like your tone,” Villiers said, his voice gritting. ’Remember this, Sidney-if anything happens to me, it happens to you, too. Don’t be in a hurry to pull the gangplank-you may want to get back on board.”

The phone rang again; Hackman snatched it up and barked. Then he made a face. “For you, Mace.”

Villiers took the receiver. “Yes? What is it?”

“Mr Villiers? Harold Ward, here, in Montreal. I’m Salvatore Senna’s attorney. The Canadian securities police have raided Mr. Senna’s brokerage office. He asked me to call you-the entire staff is in custody pending the setting of bail.”

“Thanks. I’ll get back to you.”

He hung up and sat down and said in a dead-flat monotone, “They’ve raided our Montreal room. They won’t find much to tie me into it, but they’ll keep it closed down for a while.”

“There goes your last source of quick cash,” Isher said. “Get out, Mace. Get out, can’t you see it yet?”

Villiers was slightly pale; but his jaw crept forward to lie in a long, hard line, and he said, “Don’t make any funeral arrangements until you’re sure you’ve got a corpse, Sidney. My God, any man who loses his cool in this business should never have got into it in the first place. Finance is no place for a nervous loser. If you’re that scared, you’re in the wrong game.”

“Even a fool knows enough to quit when he’s got no chips left to play with.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve still got a good chance. They’ve suspended trading on the Exchange, but they can’t suspend trading over the counter. They can’t stop us from going right ahead with the Heggins tender exchange. For that matter, it should be twice as attractive to NCI stockholders now-their only chance to unload at a profit, because the Big Board has to resume trading sometime, and when they do, NCI will open a good spread below where it closed last Friday. The whole world knows that much. We’re offering to bail them out, we’re giving them an opportunity they’ve got to snap up.”

Isher just watched him morosely, winking and hacking. In the end he said, “The little ones will grab it, the twenty-five percent. But the institutions will hang on, Mace. They know it’ll go back up to where it was before-as long as you don’t get your hands on it. None of them will sell one lousy share to you, Mace, not for double the price in Heggins convertibles.”

George Hackman averted his beefy red face. “He’s right, Mace. I hate to admit it, but this time he’s right. Cut your losses, buddy. Quit while you’re ahead.”

“I’ll quit,” Villiers replied, “when I get ahead.” His face was tight, a stern mask of arrogance, giving away nothing at all of the furious anxiety inside. There was still a chance-a long shot. With far more confidence than he owned, he snapped, “The twenty-five percent is all I need. I’ll buy the rest for cash.”

“Whose cash?” Isher demanded.

Villiers walked with careful, even strides to the door. “By this time tomorrow,” he said, “it’ll be mine.” And went.

Naomi lay on the bed pouting at the typewriter across the room. On days like this it was just as well to stay away from it. Maybe after lunch she’d feel better about it and write half a chapter.

She heard a knock at the door, a sharp impatient rapping, and she could tell from the sound who it was. She let him in.

He looked taut and pale; he seemed reluctant to pry his teeth apart when he spoke. “I want to use your phone.”

“You look terrible,” she said. “You look like the world just fell down around your ankles.”

He went straight to the phone and turned the dial once, held the receiver to his ear, and said, “I want Information in Montreal.”

She pushed the door shut and watched him; a slow frown of suspicion creased her brow. Villiers barked into the phone, “Montreal, Canada, for God’s sake. What have you heard from your head lately, sweetheart?… Directory Assistance, Information, is there one good reason on earth why I should care what you call it?… Yes, hello, give me the number of Harold Ward. He’s an attorney. No, I don’t know his address.”

He stood with his eyes shut as if frozen in statuary, pressing the phone to his ear. His eyelids fluttered just slightly. She had never seen him so agitated.

His eyes shot open. “Put me through to Ward. This is Mason Villiers… Sweetheart, I don’t give a shit if he’s in conference with the Prime Minister. Put me through to him or I’ll have your pretty head in a sack.”

His eyes closed once more, and opened. He gave her a glance, but he didn’t really see her at all. His shoulders tensed, and he turned half away from her. “Ward. Where’s Senna? Where can I reach him?… You mean he’s still in jail? What the hell kind of a lawyer do you think you are? Look, I don’t care if the magistrate’s gone fishing up on the Great Slave Lake, I want Senna out within the next sixty minutes… Don’t give me that. Take cash out of your safe and grease whoever has to be greased. Senna will reimburse you. Just get him out, tell him to call his contacts in New York, and tell him to set up a meeting for me with Civetta tonight. And tell him I’ll have his balls if he doesn’t come through. It has to be tonight. Tell him to call George Hackman when it’s set up, and leave the details with Hackman. Damn it, stop blubbering and get it done.”

He slammed the receiver down hard enough to make the bell ring. Naomi said, “Civetta. He’s a gangster.”

“Shut up.”

“What’s wrong, Mace? I’ve never seen you like this before. Are you all right?”

“I’m all right,” he muttered. “I’m fine. The whole world’s trying to break me down, but they’re not going to do it. They think they’ve got me by the balls. Well, we’ll see. By God, we’ll see.”

She said, “It’s about time. You’ve been getting away with murder for years.”

He brought his head around and seemed to recognize her for the first time. His face closed up; he said in a voice once more under control, “Not murder. You don’t know business people. They’re too stupid to get sore-they gripe about thieves, but none of them wants to stop the thief. They just try to figure out how they can get in on his act. They may be losing blood by the quart, but they’re still eager to come in. They’ve never stopped me before, and they’re not going to stop me this time. Come here.”