Don't Call Me Madame Page 5

  “Know something?” she said. “When I’m with you I have fun, I really have fun.”

  “Me too in reverse,” he said.

  Her eyes came up and held his like a kiss.

  “Brother, I’ve got a thing for you.”

  “Sister, have I got a thing for you!”

  “Peter, why don’t you invite me back to your pad?”

  “You’re invited.”

  “Well, he’s finally broken down.”

  “Have I?”

  “He’s finally going to spend.”

  Business is business and ethics is ethics and principle principle, and nobody can say this lovely girl ever once wavered from ethics or principle.

  Each to his own. He sighed.

  “Forget it.”

  Disappointment crowded her face.

  “Shit, man. Didn’t you ever spend for a girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’ve you got against me?”

  “You I like too much.”

  “Men! Men are mad! Honey, I’ll break you down. One day, I promise, I’ll break you down.”

  “Possible.”

  A frown around the blue eyes, quite serious now. “Look … if … sort of, you’re short of funds — hell, I lend you the hundred.”

  A crazy kid? Mixed up ethics?

  What a delightfully crazy kid!

  “Not short,” he said.

  “Stubborn bastard.”

  “Me? Or you?”

  Silence now. They finished their coffee.

  She took the napkin from her lap, patted her lips, put it on the table.

  Primly she said, “I’m past my bedtime. Will you take me home, sir?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  SEVEN

  AT seven o’clock in the morning, sunshine permeating the drawn blinds, Clinton Quentin Wilson roused up from his slumbers in the armchair. Blinkingly he looked about. The room was empty. He looked toward the bed. It was unoccupied. Good girl. A smart little girl. She was gone and he was thankful.

  He took the used bottle of warm champagne to the bathroom, set it on the sink. He removed his two plates of false teeth, placed them into a glass of warm water, placed the glass of water and teeth into the medicine cabinet. He gargled with the leftover champagne, rinsed, spat. He went back to the bedroom, sat on the bed, took up the phone and called down.

  “Please ring me at one o’clock,” he said. “Please keep ringing until I answer.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the switchboard girl.

  “Thank you,” he said and hung up.

  He took the little black bag to the closet, went back to the bed, slid into the cool clean sheets and slept until the ring of the phone woke him.

  “One o’clock, Mr. Wilson,” said the switchboard.

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Wilson.

  “Thank you,” said the switchboard and clicked off.

  He showered. He brushed his teeth and put them back into his mouth. He felt good, calm and refreshed. Today was the day, the culmination of all the conferences in New York. Today at four-thirty he would meet with Richard V. Starr of Starr Conglomerates Ltd. He had met before with Richard V. Starr, but not this trip. This would be the first meeting this trip, and the last. It would either add a million dollars to the deal, or it would not. Starr’s offer of fifteen million for the purchase of Wilson Spark Plugs was sufficient, but R. V. Starr did not know that and C. Q. Wilson had not let loose a hint to let him know it. C. Q. Wilson had been advised, during this trip to New York, that R. V. Starr, despite his austere façade, was a volatile man subject to a dramatic approach, and C. Q. Wilson had in mind a dramatic if puerile approach. Cripes, Starr Conglomerates Ltd. was a billion-dollar corporation. What in hell did a million more or less mean to them? And Richard V. Starr was the full boss of Starr Conglomerates Ltd. just as Clinton Quentin Wilson was the full boss of Wilson Spark Plugs, and Starr Conglomerates wanted Wilson Spark Plugs, and even at sixteen million they would be getting a hell of a good deal, and surely Richard V. Starr was wise enough to know that.

  Well, we’ll see what happens, thought Clinton Quentin Wilson. One way or another, I lock up this deal today. Hell, I’m a rich man. I’ve put in my time. After all these long years, ladies and gents, I have had it. You can’t live forever. At my age the specter of the coffin shimmers imminent. But I’m still strong and healthy and ready for all play and no work. I am ready to go out and graze in green pastures. He grinned a cherubic grin of sparkling dentures at his reflection in the mirror, and shaved.

  In the bedroom he put on a pair of lounging pajamas and called room service. He ordered brunch and it was a large order, fastidiously articulated. Orange juice, freshly squeezed. Six link-sausages, well done. Four eggs, scramble them lightly. Two English muffins, butter on the side. And a double pot of coffee. He was a big man with a big appetite, but, savoring in advance the food to come, he attended to business. He was a businessman and he had unfinished business, minor, but for him necessary. He called Goldie Dorn.

  “Goldie? Wilson here. C. Q. Wilson.”

  “Hi! How are you, Mr. Wilson.”

  “The young lady you sent me, your Sandi …”

  “A complaint, Mr. Wilson?”

  “Quite the contrary. An exquisite young woman.”

  “Well, thank you, sir.”

  “Not at all, madame.”

  “Please don’t call me madame.”

  “Your selection of a substitute for Barbara couldn’t have suited me more perfectly.”

  “Well, thank you, sir.”

  “Not at all, madame.”

  “Please don’t call me — ”

  “When I’m in town, she’ll be the one for me.”

  “Right Got it.”

  “One other thing, Goldie.”

  “Sir?”

  “About Barbara.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “For her nuptials, from me to her, a belated gift. Please give her five hundred dollars.”

  “Jesus, you’re a doll, Mr. Wilson.”

  “I’ll send along my check to you.”

  “Of course you will. A living doll, Mr. Wilson.”

  “That’s it for now. Goodbye, my dear.”

  “Bye, Mr. Wilson.”

  His brunch was delivered and he signed the chit, tipping liberally. He ate, enjoying every morsel, called down to room service and had the trolley taken away. Then, promptly at two-thirty the masseur arrived as per appointment. C. Q. was rubbed in aromatic oils, pounded and kneaded, bathed in hot water, showered in cold water, and vigorously curried within thick Turkish towels. Then the masseur, paid, departed, and C. Q. Wilson, dressed in his best, went out to a taxi which presented him at the PanAm Building at twenty-five minutes after four.

  Starr Conglomerates Ltd. was the fortieth floor of the PanAm Building and Mr. C. Q. Wilson was immediately ushered into an anteroom which was the office of Miss Belle Knight, Mr. Richard V. Starr’s executive secretary.

  “You’re a bit early, Mr. Wilson.”

  “I like to be prompt, Miss Knight.”

  “Please, won’t you sit down? He’ll be with you in a moment.”

  “Thank you.”

  He sat in a comfortable armchair and comfortably admired Miss Belle Knight. Miss Belle Knight had red hair and green eyes and an aphrodisiac figure, and if Mr. R. V. Starr was not executively humping his executive secretary, or had not in his time executively humped his executive secretary, then Mr. R. V. Starr was an unregenerate flying fairy; but, according to C. Q. Wilson’s industrious industrial spies, and they were many, necessary, and highly paid, Mr. R. V. Starr was not a flying or creeping or stationary fairy: he was very masculine and all male.

  C. Q. Wilson had quite a book on R. V. Starr. Starr was forty-eight years of age, a Princeton graduate, once married, once divorced, and never remarried. There was a single child of the marriage, a son who lived with the ex-wife somewhere in Europe, the son and the wife both independently and fabulously wealthy. Starr
resided strictly alone in an eight-room co-op on the eighth floor of a rigidly exclusive apartment house at 940 Park Avenue. His one permanent employee did not live with him, but lived near, around the corner on East 81st Street in an apartment for which R. V. Starr paid the rent. This employee was his chauffeur and sometime bodyguard, a burly factotum, surname Franzio, christened Benito but called Benny. Aside from Benny, according to Wilson’s industrious industrial spies, there was no one close to the monkish Starr, although the monkish Starr was not in other respects monklike: he lived high, wide, and handsome, a debonair man-about-town, a distinguished know-all and be-all, a superb if discreet swinger among the swingiest of the international jetters, a member of the over-world best clubs, and a member of the nether-world worst clubs …

  There was a two-tone tinkle at Miss Knight’s desk.

  She lifted a phone, listened, said, “Yes.”

  She hung up, stood up, and Wilson made a round mouth in tacit appreciation of a shape God-given but Lucifer-delineated in sexual temptation.

  “If you please, Mr. Wilson.”

  He came to his feet, silently compared her to his erstwhile Sandi, and fairly declared her the loser. Somehow, fleetingly, that made him happy. A touch of the occult, a shimmer of intuition, a metaphysical portent of things to come in this final encounter with Richard V. Starr. His entry in the beauty stakes was on top. He was on the winning side.

  “He’ll see you now, Mr. Wilson. This way.”

  She led him to a door, opened the door, let him through and closed the door behind him, and as always, and this was not the first time, he was aghast. Not at the gorgeous furnishings, but at the goddamn size of the office. It was deep, long, broad, vast. It made his office in Detroit — and it was a big one — look like a cubbyhole.

  Richard V. Starr was not at his desk.

  He was standing at a window, nonchalantly gazing out.

  A striking-looking fellow, thought C. Q. Wilson, a devilishly handsome man. Tall and slender and straight as a razor. Lean shanks, broad shoulders, and a full head of white hair fashionably cut. It was the white hair that made his appearance so striking, for his face was young, brown, strong-boned and tight-skinned with black eyebrows, black eyes, and a high-boned hawklike nose.

  “Mr. Wilson,” he said. “Good to see you.”

  “My pleasure indeed, Mr. Starr.”

  “Please.” Starr gestured to an armchair beside his desk.

  Wilson sat. Starr came around and settled into the high-backed leather swivel chair behind the desk.

  “Well, Mr. Wilson, here we are, alone, no lawyers, just us. You’ve had time to think about my offer, now it’s up to you, because you alone have the last say. Wilson Spark Plugs is C. Q. Wilson, a closed corporation, a family corporation — you are Wilson Spark Plugs and it’s your decision that can make this deal or break it.”

  Wilson nodded, smiled. He put on his best, quaint, ingenuous Foxy Grandpa expression. He was playing his game in his own way. “I … er …” he stammered. “I’m not … quite … satisfied with the offer.”

  And Richard V. Starr played his game in his own way.

  He let the old guy sit and stew. He took a long thin cigar from a humidor and took his time lighting it. He was very anxious to acquire Wilson Spark Plugs. His first offer had been ten million, he had permitted himself to be worked up to fifteen million, and he was willing to go to twenty million (if only the old boy knew that). He had many methods to cajole a prospective seller: his method with C. Q. Wilson had been to stay away, keep his distance, play him cool, and let the lawyers do most of the haggling. His book on Wilson had the old guy as a church-goer, a family man, a conservative, a pottering fat old fuddy-duddy, and he had therefore eschewed the personality treatment. He could have wined and dined C. Q. Wilson, taken him off on jaunty jaunts, bedded him down with some of the most luscious tail in all the land. He smoked his cigar and smiled. C. Q. Wilson had probably never been exposed to a twat other than his wife’s, and even that must now be a dim faint memory. The old bird would probably throw a convulsion at the sight of a naked broad. And so he had played him with a cool hand, keeping his own flamboyant personality out of the way, and letting the lawyers hammer away at the bargaining table.

  Now he said, “Not satisfied, Mr. Wilson?”

  Good, thought Wilson, I made him come to me, I made him open up first. Now I will give him the dramatic touch, the childish little dramatic touch, because I’m a childish old man (who by this childish maneuver can add a million dollars to the purchase price; heck, if only he knew that I’m perfectly satisfied with the offer as is).

  “Mr. Starr, I’m a man who likes round figures.”

  “Fifteen million. Isn’t that a round figure?”

  “Not tax-wise?”

  “What-wise?”

  “Tax-wise it would not leave me with a round figure.”

  “I don’t understand.” (But he did.)

  “Capital gains, Mr. Starr. Twenty-five percent to the government. Now that wouldn’t leave me with a round figure, would it? I’m somewhat superstitious that way. I don’t like rough edges hanging off the sides. Perhaps I’m a childish old man. But on a big deal I always like a round figure.”

  “And just what is the round figure you would like, sir?”

  “Sixteen million. Four to Uncle Sam. Twelve to me. All clean. Smooth. No rough edges. All round figures.”

  Starr laughed.

  And pointed a finger.

  “You’ve got a deal.” He had just saved four million dollars.

  Wilson gaped, closed his mouth, opened it.

  “I thank you, sir.” He had just earned an extra million.

  And they sat there, each the businessman, each obviously satisfied.

  Then Wilson said, “I’ve heard tell of your quick, sudden, hair-trigger decisions.” And gently waved his jowls. “Must say I admire …”

  “Simply, sir, I liked your approach. No bullshit. No cover-up of facts, figures, books, ledgers, statistics of profit and loss.” He laughed. “Superstition. What a way to do business. Well, the hell, sir, I’m superstitious myself — but not superstitious enough to do a bad deal. At sixteen million I don’t believe I’ve done a bad deal — and don’t believe you have either.” He came around the desk. Wilson stood up and they shook hands. “We have completed our transaction,” Starr said. “You’ll be in touch with your lawyers, I’ll be in touch with mine, and they’ll get together on the paper work. But the essentials of the deal are done. My congratulations, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Starr took him out to the anteroom.

  Belle Knight said, “You have one more appointment, Mr. Starr.”

  “Yes, I know. Well, goodbye for now, Mr. Wilson.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Starr.”

  They shook hands again and Wilson went away.

  At five-thirty Richard V. Starr went down to the Rolls Royce waiting at the curb. Benny Franzio scrambled out, touched fingers to the visor of his car, gave his boss the late afternoon paper, opened the door for him, closed the door, and scrambled back into the front seat. The Rolls moved slowly. The traffic was heavy.

  Starr lit a cigar and looked idly out the window. The window was closed, all the windows were closed, the air-conditioner working noiselessly, the din of the city shut away. Starr opened the paper, saw the feature story on the third page, and was no longer idle. He bit hard on the cigar and it stayed clenched in his teeth. His back grew rigid, he sat upright taut, a bitter burning assailed his eyes as he read.

  It was a horrible crime, a grisly murder in room 501 of the Hotel Shirley on West 47th Street. A chambermaid had discovered the bloody mess on the blood-soaked mattress and the body had since been identified as that of Lois Maxwell, occupation unknown. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear, her belly ripped open, and she had been disemboweled. It was a sex crime, the sexual molestation patently evident, but the story hinted of worse. There were hints of cannibalism. There were hints that a
section of the entrails had been eaten.

  Richard V. Starr slowly folded the newspaper and set it down on the seat beside him. He rolled down a window, threw out his cigar, rolled up the window. He opened a compartment, took out an address book, peered, used the car-phone and called the office of Peter Chambers. He got the answering service, and he hung up. Once again he consulted the address book, and called Peter Chambers at home. After three buzzes, Chambers’s voice came on. “Hello?”

  “Dick Starr here.”

  “Hi. Hello, Mr. Starr.”

  “Can you come over, Pete?”

  “Where do you want me, Mr. Starr?”

  “My apartment.”

  “What timer?”

  A pause. Then: “I’m en route. In my car. And the fucking traffic is miserable. Six-thirty? Can you make it at six-thirty?”

  “Right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  EIGHT

  CHAMBERS hung up.

  Richard V. Starr.

  That meant money.

  Starr was a star client, but an infrequent client.

  Chambers had done bits and pieces for Richard V. Starr at stipends that were always enormous. Starr paid big — but big! He was a business acquaintance but also a social acquaintance; actually, they had met socially. Starr lived it up large in all the places in town: the best, the worst, the hip, the square. He knew everybody and they all knew him, but whatever the site of his drop-in for amusement — best, worst, hip, square — he was fawned upon, licked, lapped, treated with trembling obeisance. Why? Who was Richard V. Starr? Did he know where important dead horses were buried? Were his political connections so powerful that they inspired fear? Did he own the goddamn joints, a silent partner? Or was it because he was youthful and handsome and showered down on all and sundry a blizzard of money like ticker tape at a hero’s welcome. Hell, about the blizzard of money, why the hell not? He was only a multimillionaire continuously engaged in adding millions to the multimillions. He was Richard V. Starr and Richard V. Starr was Starr Conglomerates Ltd.

  Chambers removed his clothes, showered, and put on new clothes properly befitting a visit to Richard V. Starr. He went out and was lucky and got a cab quickly and arrived on time at 940 Park. He rode up to the eighth floor, pushed the mother-of-pearl button, was appraised from within through the mirrored see-through peephole, waited while three separate locks snapped, and then the door opened.