ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

Bernie stared at me. "Where did you get that list?"

"Never mind where I got it."

The old man turned to his nephew. "See, David," he said in a loud voice, "see what a good wife can save from her house money."

If he wasn't such a thief, I'd have laughed. But a look at his nephew's face showed that the boy hadn't known about those particular assets. Something told me David was in for further disillusionment.

The old man turned back to me. "So my wife put away a few dollars. That gives you the right to rob me?"

"During the past six years, while your company was losing about eleven million dollars, it seems strange to me that your wife should be depositing about a million dollars a year in her various accounts."

Bernie's face was flushed. "My wife is very clever with her investments," he said. "I don't spend my time looking over her shoulder."

"Maybe you should," I said. "You'd find out she has deals with practically every major supplier of equipment and services to the Norman Company. You can't tell me you're not aware that she takes a salesman's commission of from five to fifteen per cent on the gross purchases made by this company."

He sank back into his chair. "So what's wrong with that? It's perfectly normal business practice. She's our salesman on such sales, so why shouldn't she collect a commission?"

I'd had enough of his crap. "All right, Mr. Norman," I said. "Let's stop fooling around. I offered you a better than fair price for your stock. Do you want to sell it or don't you?"

"Not for three and a half million dollars, no. Five and I might listen."

"You're in no position to bargain, Mr. Norman," I said. "If you don't accept my offer, I'll put this company into receiver ship. Then we'll see if a Federal referee finds anything criminal in your wife's so-called legitimate transactions. You seem to have forgotten that what you do with the company is a Federal matter, since you sold stock on the open market. It's a little different than when you owned it all yourself. You might even wind up in jail."

"You wouldn't dare."

"No?" I said. I held out my hand. McAllister gave me the Section 722 papers. I threw them over to Bernie. "It’s up to you. If you don't sell, these papers will be in court tomorrow morning."

He looked down at the papers, then back at me. There was a cold hatred in his eyes. "Why do you do this to me?" he cried. "Is it because you hate Jews so much, when all I tried to do was help you?"

That did it. I went around the table, pulled him out of his chair and backed him up against the wall. "Look, you little Jew bastard," I shouted. "I’ve had enough of your bullshit. Every time you offered to help me, you picked my pocket. What's bugging you now is I won't let you do it again."

"Nazi!" he spat at me.

Slowly I let him down and turned to McAllister. "File the papers," I said. "And also bring a criminal suit against Norman and his wife for stealing from the company."

I started for the door.

"Just a minute!" Bernie's voice stopped me. There was a peculiar smile on his face. "There's no need for you to go away mad just because I got a little excited."

I stared at him.

"Come back," he said, sitting down at the table again. "We can settle this whole matter between us in a few minutes. Like gentlemen."

I stood near the window, watching Bernie sign the stock transfers. There was something incongruous about the way he sat there, the pen scratching across the paper as he signed away his life's work. You don't have to like a guy to feel sorry for him. And in a way that was just how I felt.

He was a selfish, despicable old man. He had no sense of decency, no honor or ethics, he'd sacrifice anyone on the altar of his power, but as the pen moved across each certificate, I had the feeling his life's blood was running out of the golden nib along with the ink.

I turned and looked out the window, thirty stories down into the street. Down there the people were tiny, they had little dreams, minute plans. The next day was Saturday. Their day off. Maybe they'd go to the beach, or the park. If they had the money, perhaps they'd take a drive out into the country. They'd sit on the grass next to their wives and watch the kids having themselves a time feeling the fresh, cool earth under their feet. They were lucky.

They didn't live in a jungle that measured their worth by their ability to live with the wolves. They weren't born to a father who couldn't love his son unless he was cast in his own image. They weren't surrounded by people whose only thought was to align themselves with the source of wealth. When they loved, it was because of how they felt, not because of how much they might benefit.

I felt a sour taste come up into my mouth. That was the way it might be down there but I really didn't know. And I wasn't particularly anxious to find out. I liked it up here.

It was like being in the sky with no one around to tell you what you could do or couldn't do. In my world, you made up your own rules. And everybody had to live by them whether they liked it or not. As long as you were on top. I meant to stay on top a long time. Long enough so that when people spoke my name, they knew whose name they spoke. Mine, not my father's.

I turned from the window and walked back to the table. I picked up the certificates and looked at them. They were signed correctly. Bernard B. Norman.

Bernie looked up at me. He attempted a smile. It wasn't very successful. "Years ago, when Bernie Normanovitz opened his first nickelodeon on Fourth Street on the East Side, nobody thought he'd someday sell his company for three and a half million dollars."

Suddenly, I didn't care any more. I no longer felt sorry for him. He had raped and looted a company of more than fifteen million dollars and his only excuse was that he had happened to start it.

"I imagine you'll want this, too," he said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and taking out a folded sheet of paper.

I took it from him and opened it. It was his letter of resignation as president and chairman of the board. I looked at him in surprise.

"Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No," I said.

"You're wrong, Mr. Cord," he said softly. He crossed to the telephone on the table in the corner. "Operator, this is Mr. Norman. You can put that call for Mr. Cord through now."

He held the phone toward me. "For you," he said expressionlessly. I took the telephone and heard the operator's voice. "I have Mr. Cord on the line now, Los Angeles."

There was a click, then another, as the call went through on the other end. I saw Bernie look at me shrewdly, then walk toward the door. He turned and looked at his nephew. "Coming, David?"

Woolf started to get out of his chair.

"You," I said, covering the mouthpiece with my hand. "Stay."

David looked at Bernie, then shook his head slightly and sank back into his chair. The old man shrugged his shoulders. "Why should I expect any more from my own flesh and blood?" he said. The door closed behind him.

A woman's voice came on in my ear. There was something vaguely familiar about it. "Jonas Cord?"

"Speaking. Who's this?"

"Ilene Gaillard. I've been trying to locate you all afternoon. Rina- Rina- " Her voice broke.

I felt an ominous chill tighten around my heart. "Yes, Miss Gaillard," I asked, "what about Rina?"

"She's dying, Mr. Cord," she sobbed into the telephone. "And she wants to see you."

"Dying?" I repeated. I couldn't believe it. Not Rina. She was indestructible.

"Yes, Mr. Cord. Encephalitis. And you'd better hurry. The doctors don't know how long she can last. She's at the Colton Sanitarium in Santa Monica. Can I tell her you're coming?"

"Tell her I'm on my way!" I said, putting down the phone.

I turned to look at David Woolf. He was watching me with a strange expression on his face. "You knew," I said.