Brian Freemantle: Two Women

The Harvard Club, in which he waited that night, just off New York’s Fifth Avenue, represented an unaccustomed luxury, as did most of his regular meeting places with George Northcote. Burcher liked the meetings and he liked Northcote. Northcote was a man who, like himself, had been presented long ago with an opportunity, taken it and prospered. He was surprised at Northcote’s lateness: Northcote had never before delayed an appointment and was now running later than the rescheduled time. But at that moment he appeared at the maitre d’s station.

‘Sorry I’m so damned late,’ apologized Northcote, approaching with his hand outstretched in greeting.

‘Not a problem,’ insisted the quietly spoken Burcher, who represented – through their combined consigliori – the five Mafia Families of New York.

George Northcote was a meticulous dawn starter (‘I originated the early-worm philosophy’) but when Carver made his first attempt at nine thirty he was told Northcote hadn’t arrived: there’d been no warning of a delay, either. Carver was told the same when he called fifteen minutes later and again at ten. Carver telephoned Northcote’s apartment on West 66th Street to be told by Jack Jennings, the butler, that he’d missed Northcote by minutes but that he was on his way.

Northcote came on to Carver’s inter-office phone at ten thirty. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘There isn’t one.’

‘George! You know damned well there is a problem, a big one! Why are you signing off double-accounted figures if the companies aren’t going public?’

‘It’s totally the opposite to what you think: what you imagine you’ve worked out. Which isn’t important. I’ve said I’m resolving it.’

‘I’m looking forward to hearing how it went.’

There was a pause in the still subdued, no-longer hectoring voice. ‘I think it would be a good idea to postpone lunch.’

‘I don’t. Nothing’s being postponed, George. I’ve made the reservation and we’re going to keep it. And you’re going to tell me what the hell’s going on.’

‘You think you can talk to me like this!’

‘In these circumstances, yes.’

‘You feel good?’

The rumble-voiced belligerence, too long in coming, momentarily silenced Carver before giving him his platform. ‘No, George. I don’t feel good about any of this. You know how I feel? I feel so sick so deep in my stomach that any moment I might physically throw up.’

‘You watch – and listen – to too much television.’

‘Stop it, George! We’re not talking television. We’re talking one great heap of shit you’ve gotten this firm, yourself – us all – into

…’ Carver stopped as the thought came to him. ‘And gotten Jane into, as well. The booking’s for one o’clock, at the club.’

‘I’ve things to do. I’ll see you there.’

Carver gave way to his anger. ‘Don’t be late, George. I don’t want anything to be too late.’

Northcote wasn’t late. The meticulous timekeeper was actually early but Carver was intentionally ahead of him by more than thirty minutes, ensuring their table was beyond overhearing, nursing his mineral water until his father-in-law arrived, trying to rehearse himself for a scene for which there was no script. Too late acknowledging the emptiness of the gesture to be just that, empty, he matched Northcote’s previous day’s refusal to stand. Northcote compounded Carver’s belated embarrassment by pointedly standing beside their table, refusing the chair withheld as an invitation to sit from the frowning maitre d’.

As he finally sat Northcote said to the man: ‘I’ll have Macallan. Large. With a water back.’

Carver said: ‘Gin Martini. Large. Straight up with a twist.’

Father-in-law and son-in-law remained looking at each other, unspeaking, for several minutes before Carver said: ‘So tell me.’

‘There’s a few things that still need sorting out. Not a problem.’

‘I’m getting a little tired of being told there isn’t a problem.’

‘And I’m getting tired of telling you there isn’t one.’

‘What are the few things still needing to be sorted out?’

‘Understandings.’

They pulled back for their drinks to be served.

Carver said: ‘What’s understandings mean?’

‘Agreements.’

‘With whom? About what?’

‘The dissolution.’

‘For fuck’s sake, George: talk in words that make sense! Are you – the firm – out?’

‘There are still some things that need to be agreed.’

There was another long silence.

Carver said: ‘They don’t let you go, these people, do they?’

‘They’re going to.’

‘I don’t believe you. You don’t believe yourself!’

Without knowing what it was, they both disinterestedly ordered that day’s special when the head waiter returned and at the same time nodded to the house claret.

‘They don’t have a choice.’

‘George! I’ve got to know!’

Northcote shook his head, gesturing for another whisky. There was a tremble in his hand of which Carver hadn’t been aware before. Don’t over-interpret, Carver told himself. ‘George?’

‘They know it’s all over,’ insisted Northcote. ‘They want all the files and records…’ The block came. ‘The… the…’

‘Evidence,’ finished Carver. He nodded again in acceptance of the wine, without tasting it.

‘It solves the problem. That’s how it was always going to be. Separating the firm. No evidence, either way.’

For a moment Carver could not respond, silenced by the other man’s seemingly easy acceptance of what he considered a disaster threatening – even impending.

‘So you give them all our records dating back…’ Carver paused, stopped by an abrupt question. ‘Dating back how long, George? When did it all start…?’

‘A long time ago,’ said Northcote. ‘And it took a lot more years to build up to what it became. There aren’t many records with us any longer. But enough.’

‘Where?’ demanded Carver, remembering his fruitless computer search.

‘Safe.’

What was missing from the older man’s voice, Carver asked himself. Guilt? Remorse? Embarrassment? Acknowledgement of wrongdoing? All of them, Carver decided. If there was an intonation, it was of pride, in whatever it was he had created. He’d always accepted that his father-in-law was self-confident to the point of overwhelming arrogance, which Alice had more than once accused him of being as well, but this went beyond that. But then, Carver further asked himself, how could Northcote be otherwise, after the unstoppable international success he’d achieved, now with offices in every one of the world’s financial capitals? But this… Carver was stopped again by another numbing, unthinkable uncertainty. ‘You told me you were trapped into it… that you didn’t realize it was criminal?’

‘That’s what it was… how it happened.’

‘When – remember we’re talking precisely, exactly – did you realize what you were into?’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘George! For fuck’s…’ Carver abruptly stopped with the arrival of their food, which they discovered to be rack of lamb. As soon as the waiter was out of earshot Carver said: ‘George. Tell me true. Don’t tell me things weren’t like I imagine them to be or that I’m misunderstanding or that I shouldn’t be as pig-sick worried as I’m worried at this moment. How long ago?’

‘Maybe twenty years.’

‘How long ago?’ persisted Carver. ‘Precisely. Exactly.’

‘Twenty-two. But it was a longer evolving process, to get everything set up.’ The attitude reflected in the voice now was truculence.