Джон Макдональд - S*E*V*E*N

He came in alone on the executive jet, Gus and Kelly up front. First time he had ever been the lone passenger. Wyatt Ross all alone, amid the leathery black luxury of the lounge chairs. Strange not to have the members of the strike force along. Geri Housner, incomparable executive secretary. Stanley Silverstaff, knowing ratios and leverage and cash flow. Stannard on legal. Haines on systems analysis, product mix, production potential. Nucleus of the team, other experts added as needed.

Tried to read over the transcript of the last hearing, looking for hidden tricks in the questioning, looking for inconsistencies in his own answers. Slowed his skilled speed-reading down to minimum, down to subvocal level, but comprehension still fractional. Put it back into the dispatch case. Concentration will be impossible until this thing is settled, solved, brushed under a high-cost rug.

Pressure change in the ears. Change in pitch of jet engines and wind whistle. Lazy voice on the intercom, “Coming in, Mr. Ross.”

Tighten the belt and look down at the tilting earth, at the gaudy jumble of the toy hotels of the resort city. Bright blue water in morning sun. Improbable green of the golf courses, and the endless tan and rust and solitude of the desert all around.

At rest on the apron for private aircraft, rotors whining down into silence, heat striking through the metal carapace. Gus came back and undogged the door, cranked the steps down, carried the suitcase and dispatch case out to the wire gate. Wyatt Ross waved a taxi over, told Gus to tell Kelly to count on takeoff at nine tomorrow morning.

Ross went blank at the driver’s question, felt a panic out of all proportion to the seriousness of the small lapse of memory. Felt he could as readily forget the name of the city he was in, wife’s name, names of the two small sons. Took out the black notebook. Hotel Contessa Royale, please.

Rocks and ferns, pools and fountains, upward swoop of driveway to stop in the shade of architectural redwood, and there he was handed over to doorman, bell captain, bellhop, desk clerk.

W. R. Ross. Dallas. “Yes sir, that will be 911. I hope you will enjoy your stay with us. Yes, there is one message. Here you are, sir. Desk! Take Mr. Ross to 911, please.”

Large room, tufted yellow rug, sliding glass opening onto a small sun terrace. Hushed, chilly, asceptically clean. Dressing room. Ice maker. Bidet. Color television. Many mirrors.

He kept seeing himself in the mirrors, seeing movement and turning with a start and seeing Wyatt Ross. Just like the pictures which had appeared over the past six years in Business Week, Forbes, Time, Newsweek. With the adjectives. Vital. Daring. Imaginative. Fast-moving. Aggressive.

And just like the newspaper photographs recently. Wyatt Ross subpoenaed in Senate hearing on stock manipulation. Securities & Exchange Commission launches investigation of misuse of insider information. Justice Department blocks acquisition of Kallen Equipment by Wyro International Services, Inc. Board of Governors of the NYSE suspends trading in Wyro. Attorneys for Kallen Equipment claim that Wyatt Ross, chief executive officer of Wyro, made fortune in dummy margin accounts in three brokerage houses.

He opened the sealed envelope he had been given at the desk. Feminine handwriting. Hotel stationery.

Mr. Ross:

I will expect you at eleven this morning in 938. Do not phone my room, please.

Twenty minutes. He unpacked too quickly. Once again he tried to read the transcript of the last hearing. Just words, without meaning. He prowled, not looking into any of the mirrors. At two minutes before eleven he put the five-inch reel of tape into the side pocket of his suit coat and walked down the corridor to Miss McGann’s room.

She opened the door a few inches and looked out at him, and then pulled it wide to let him in. A tall woman, younger than he had expected. Strong-bodied, big-bosomed blonde with a pretty and impassive face, cool blue eyes, careless hair, brief green skirt with a big brass buckle, yellow sleeveless blouse, yellow sandals.

“Mr. Russo asked me to check and be sure you have a good reason to be here,” she said.

“One of the men on my board lives here. Sam Wattenberg. He isn’t well. He doesn’t travel. He has a large stock interest in Wyro, and he’s very upset. I’m seeing him at his home at five this evening.”

“May I have the tape, please?”

He handed it to her. She went over to the couch. She had cleared the long coffee table and set up electronic equipment on it. Two reel-to-reel recorders. A small amplifier. A piece of laboratory equipment which looked like an unfinished television receiver. Two small speakers on the floor.

As she threaded the tape onto one of the decks, he said, “It’s just a lot of standard husband and wife talk. Russo said to just turn on that machine and make sure she talked.”

Miss McGann made no reply. She started the tape, adjusted the amplifier controls, then leaned back on the couch, arms folded, eyes half-closed. And the breakfast table voices of Wyatt and Mary Lou Ross, husband and wife, came into the room with a special clarity, a startling presence. The small routines of domesticity. The man had fixed the dishwasher but it still wasn’t working right Denny’s new tooth looked as if it was coming in sideways. Maria wants three days off to go visit her sick sister down in Brownsville. She wants to borrow the bus fare.

And then a part that made him edgy and uncomfortable.

“Darling, you look so tired. And you seem so kind of remote. I suppose it’s all this trouble with the government. They’re sort of persecuting you, aren’t they?”

“That’s a good word, honey.”

“Is it... real bad trouble?”

“Pretty bad.”

“They’re saying such ugly things about you in the newspapers. It hurts me when they say things like that. I know you’re not like that.”

“Thanks.”

“Wyatt, darling?”

“What is it?”

“It’s all a lot of misunderstandings, isn’t it? I mean you haven’t ever done anything... sneaky and underhanded, have you? I shouldn’t even ask you that. I know you better than that.”

“I’m absolutely clean, honey. Believe me.”

“I do. Then this is just something... we have to go through, and they’ll find out they’re wrong about you. I think I would just die if you ever did anything crooked. I love you and I know you couldn’t. I shouldn’t spoil your breakfast by even talking about it. I’m sorry.”

“You have a right to ask, honey. You have a right to be reassured.”

“Well, I wish it was over, dam it.”

Wyatt’s face felt hot. The conversation turned to trivialities — to invitations they couldn’t accept, to when the dog should have his shots, to what to send her mother for her birthday this year.

The tape ended. Miss McGann said, “That sounds like a nifty little wife, Mr. Ross.”

“She is a nifty little wife indeed.”

“North Carolina?”

“Until she was about fifteen, and then her family moved to Atlanta.”

“Nifty little wife isn’t going to take this very well, is she?”

“I’m paying Russo a very large piece of money to get me out from under. The deal does not include my listening to your personal appraisals, Miss McGann.”

“Correction, dearie. I’m not on your conglomerate payroll. I am a specialist, and I am damned good, and I get paid very very well. You got too confident and you got too cute and you got caught. You can lose your ass, fellow. Russo knows it, you know it, and I know it. I think your Mary Lou is better than you deserve, and I think you will be doing her a favor by dropping her off the back of your sleigh, fellow. I say what I want when I want to, and take crap from no man alive. Now tell me you’re not used to being talked to like this. And I will tell you to relax and enjoy it. Now let me get to work.”