Lev hesitated a long moment, then stubbed out his cigarette and said: ‘I guess we have a deal.’
Gus stood up. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘The President will be pleased.’
Greg thought: I did it!
They walked out of the club to their cars.
As they drove out of the parking lot, Greg said: ‘Thank you, Father. I really appreciate what you did.’
‘You chose your moment well,’ Lev said. ‘I’m glad to see you’re so smart.’
The compliment pleased Greg. In some ways he was smarter than his father – he certainly understood science and math better – but he feared he was not as shrewd and cunning as his old man.
‘I want you to be a wise guy,’ Lev went on. ‘Not like some of these dummies.’ Greg had no idea who the dummies were. ‘You’ve got to stay ahead of the curve, all the time. That’s the way to get on.’
Lev drove to his office, in a modern block downtown. As they walked through the marble lobby, Lev said: ‘Now I’m going to teach a lesson to that fool Dave Rouzrokh.’
Going up in the elevator, Greg wondered how Lev would do that.
Peshkov Pictures occupied the top floor. Greg followed Lev along a broad corridor and through an outer office with two attractive young secretaries. ‘Get Sol Starr on the phone, will you?’ Lev said as they walked into the inner office.
Lev sat behind the desk. ‘Solly owns one of the biggest studios in Hollywood,’ he explained.
The phone on the desk rang and Lev picked it up. ‘Sol!’ he said. ‘How are they hanging?’ Greg listened to a minute or two of masculine joshing, then Lev got down to business. ‘Little piece of advice,’ he said. ‘Here in New York State we have a crappy chain of fleapits called Roseroque Theatres . . . yeah, that’s the one . . . take my tip, don’t send them your top-of-the-line first-run pictures this summer – you may not get paid.’ Greg realized that would hit Dave hard: without exciting new movies to show, his takings would tumble. ‘A word to the wise, right? Solly, don’t thank me, you’d do the same for me . . . bye.’
Once again, Greg was awestruck by his father’s power. He could have people beaten up. He could offer eight million dollars of other people’s money. He could scare a president. He could seduce another man’s fiancee. And he could ruin a business with a single phone call.
‘You wait and see,’ said his father. ‘In a month’s time, Dave Rouzrokh will be begging me to buy him out – at half the price I offered him today.’
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with this puppy,’ Daisy said. ‘He won’t do anything I tell him. I’m going crazy.’ There was a shake in her voice and a tear in her eye, and she was exaggerating only a little.
Charlie Farquharson studied the dog. ‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ he said. ‘He’s a lovely little fellow. What’s his name?’
‘Jack.’
‘Hmm.’
They were sitting on lawn chairs in the well-kept two-acre garden of Daisy’s home. Eva had greeted Charlie then tactfully retired to write a letter home. The gardener, Henry, was hoeing a bed of purple and yellow pansies in the distance. His wife, Ella, the maid, brought a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses, and set them on a folding table.
The puppy was a tiny Jack Russell terrier, small and strong, white with tan patches. He had an intelligent look, as if he understood every word, but he seemed to have no inclination to obey. Daisy held him on her lap and stroked his nose with dainty fingers in a way that she hoped Charlie would find strangely disturbing. ‘Don’t you like the name?’
‘A bit obvious, perhaps?’ Charlie stared at her white hand on the dog’s nose and shifted uneasily in his chair.
Daisy did not want to overdo it. If she inflamed Charlie too much he would just go home. This was why he was still single at twenty-five: several Buffalo girls, including Dot Renshaw and Muffie Dixon, had found it impossible to nail his foot to the floor. But Daisy was different. ‘Then you shall name him,’ she said.
‘It’s good to have two syllables, as in Bonzo, to make it easier for him to recognize the name.’
Daisy had no idea how to name dogs. ‘How about Rover?’
‘Too common. Rusty might be better.’
‘Perfect!’ she said. ‘Rusty he shall be.’
The dog wriggled effortlessly out of her grasp and jumped to the ground.
Charlie picked him up. Daisy noticed he had big hands. ‘You must show Rusty you’re the boss,’ Charlie said. ‘Hold him tight, and don’t let him jump down until you say so.’ He put the dog back on her lap.
‘But he’s so strong! And I’m afraid of hurting him.’
Charlie smiled condescendingly. ‘You probably couldn’t hurt him if you tried. Hold his collar tightly – twist it a bit if you need to – then put your other hand firmly on his back.’
Daisy followed Charlie’s orders. The dog sensed the increased pressure in her touch and became still, as if waiting to see what would happen next.
