they can’t suspend trading over the counter. They can’t stop us from going right ahead with the Heggins tender exchange. For that matter, it should be twice as attractive to NCI stockholders now-their only chance to unload at a profit, because the Big Board has to resume trading sometime, and when they do, NCI will open a good spread below where it closed last Friday. The whole world knows that much. We’re offering to bail them out, we’re giving them an opportunity they’ve got to snap up.”
Isher just watched him morosely, winking and hacking. In the end he said, “The little ones will grab it, the twenty-five percent. But the institutions will hang on, Mace. They know it’ll go back up to where it was before-as long as you don’t get your hands on it. None of them will sell one lousy share to you, Mace, not for double the price in Heggins convertibles.”
George Hackman averted his beefy red face. “He’s right, Mace. I hate to admit it, but this time he’s right. Cut your losses, buddy. Quit while you’re ahead.”
“I’ll quit,” Villiers replied, “when I get ahead.” His face was tight, a stern mask of arrogance, giving away nothing at all of the furious anxiety inside. There was still a chance-a long shot. With far more confidence than he owned, he snapped, “The twenty-five percent is all I need. I’ll buy the rest for cash.”
“Whose cash?” Isher demanded.
Villiers walked with careful, even strides to the door. “By this time tomorrow,” he said, “it’ll be mine.” And went.
32. Naomi Kemp
Naomi lay on the bed pouting at the typewriter across the room. On days like this it was just as well to stay away from it. Maybe after lunch she’d feel better about it and write half a chapter.
She heard a knock at the door, a sharp impatient rapping, and she could tell from the sound who it was. She let him in.
He looked taut and pale; he seemed reluctant to pry his teeth apart when he spoke. “I want to use your phone.”
“You look terrible,” she said. “You look like the world just fell down around your ankles.”
He went straight to the phone and turned the dial once, held the receiver to his ear, and said, “I want Information in Montreal.”
She pushed the door shut and watched him; a slow frown of suspicion creased her brow. Villiers barked into the phone, “Montreal, Canada, for God’s sake. What have you heard from your head lately, sweetheart?… Directory Assistance, Information, is there one good reason on earth why I should care what you call it?… Yes, hello, give me the number of Harold Ward. He’s an attorney. No, I don’t know his address.”
He stood with his eyes shut as if frozen in statuary, pressing the phone to his ear. His eyelids fluttered just slightly. She had never seen him so agitated.
His eyes shot open. “Put me through to Ward. This is Mason Villiers… Sweetheart, I don’t give a shit if he’s in conference with the Prime Minister. Put me through to him or I’ll have your pretty head in a sack.”
His eyes closed once more, and opened. He gave her a glance, but he didn’t really see her at all. His shoulders tensed, and he turned half away from her. “Ward. Where’s Senna? Where can I reach him?… You mean he’s still in jail? What the hell kind of a lawyer do you think you are? Look, I don’t care if the magistrate’s gone fishing up on the Great Slave Lake, I want Senna out within the next sixty minutes… Don’t give me that. Take cash out of your safe and grease whoever has to be greased. Senna will reimburse you. Just get him out, tell him to call his contacts in New York, and tell him to set up a meeting for me with Civetta tonight. And tell him I’ll have his balls if he doesn’t come through. It has to be tonight. Tell him to call George Hackman when it’s set up, and leave the details with Hackman. Damn it, stop blubbering and get it done.”
He slammed the receiver down hard enough to make the bell ring. Naomi said, “Civetta. He’s a gangster.”
“Shut up.”
“What’s wrong, Mace? I’ve never seen you like this before. Are you all right?”
“I’m all right,” he muttered. “I’m fine. The whole world’s trying to break me down, but they’re not going to do it. They think they’ve got me by the balls. Well, we’ll see. By God, we’ll see.”
She said, “It’s about time. You’ve been getting away with murder for years.”
He brought his head around and seemed to recognize her for the first time. His face closed up; he said in a voice once more under control, “Not murder. You don’t know business people. They’re too stupid to get sore-they gripe about thieves, but none of them wants to stop the thief. They just try to figure out how they can get in on his act. They may be losing blood by the quart, but they’re still eager to come in. They’ve never stopped me before, and they’re not going to stop me this time. Come here.”
Startled, she took a step and then stopped. He strode across the room, grasped her under the arms, and pulled her against him. His kiss was harsh and urgent.
Her mouth twisted while she let him strip her clothes off like rags. He thrust her toward the bed; and with sudden anger she stood her ground. “Why in hell did you have to come to me?”
“Shut up, Naomi.”
“All you want is a Goddamned ego massage. You stand there with your dingle sticking out and you want to prove something to yourself by using me as a box to make a deposit in.”
He slapped her across the face and laid both hands against her breasts and shoved her back onto the bed. He put one knee on the bed between her legs. In a strange sort of rage she closed her hand on his throbbing penis, hard. She squeezed.
His face changed, and she heard him utter an odd sound, somewhere between whine and groan. Driven by some sudden and extraordinary urgency, he fell across her, clutched her body, clung to her bitterly. Suddenly she understood. Her smile was hard; she saw him fight the flames leaping in him, and she squeezed his phallus with a fast, pulsing grip. Instantly she felt him shudder and gasp, and the warm issue of him ran wet along her hand.
Hard-breathing and pale, he rolled violently away. He refused to look at her.
She gave him a lidded glare. “You’re no good to anybody any more, Mace-not even yourself.”
“Shut up,” he whispered.
33. Russell Hastings
Russ Hastings sat in his little office with a hand wrapped around a beaded cold can of soda. Bill Burgess was staring at the Post headline-“JUDD SUCCUMBS”-as if he hadn’t already read the entire story twice. Hastings said, “I am going to miss him.”
“He must’ve been quite a guy.”
“He was a good man.”
“Not much you can add to that,” Burgess said, and glanced at the ticker. His shoulders stirred; he changed his tone: “Dow Jones down more than fourteen points today, Russ-Exchange Index down sixty-two cents. Amazing how much impact one man’s dying can have. I wish I’d met him. What’s that you’re reading? You look like you’re trying to memorize it off the page.”
“The Act of Nineteen-thirty-four. Ever read it?”
“On my list of favorite reading, it’s second only to God’s Little Acre,” Burgess said. “I confess I have not read it. You find something fascinating?”
“Rule Ten B-Five.”
“Oh, sure. Yes. Absolutely. Now I comprehend everything.” Burgess rolled his eyes upward and threw up his hands.
“It says here,” Hastings drawled, “all investors have an equal right to material information that might affect stock values. In other words, anybody who’s privy to inside information can’t act on it before it becomes public knowledge-otherwise he’s guilty of fraud.”
