What Old Man Skaggs had believed to be poetry was, in fact, a collection of impressionistic jottings, Black Jack Cadmus's version of a journal. The entries varied from incomplete sentences to several pages of inspired prose; on some days he'd written nothing. The handwriting was expansive and backslanted, so ornate as to verge on the calligraphic.
He was most expressive when writing about land purchase and management: how he'd cadged three hundred acres of orchard out of a San Fernando farmer at a bargain price by charming the man's wife 'told her the pie was the best I'd ever eaten and complimented the baby. She leaned on the rube and we cut the deal that afternoon'; the maximum number of bungalows that could be constructed on a desert plot in the east end of the Valley; the most economical way to supply water to his projects; a
Mexican crew boss who knew where to get cheap labour.
By comparison, his personal life had received short shrift in the sections that I read; his marriage, the births of his sons, even the beginnings of his wife's mental deterioration were most often relegated to single-sentence status.
One exception was a rambling August 1949 analysis of his relationship with Souza:
Like myself, Horace has pulled himself up out of the gutter. We self-made men have plenty to be proud of. Give me one bootstrap yanker for a hundred of those California Club pansies sucking their allowances straight from Mama's teat; Toinette's old man was one of those, and look how fast he slid down once he was forced to deal with the real world! But I think the experience of climbing to the top also leaves us with some scars, and I'm not sure old Horace has learned to live with his.
His problem is that he's too damned hungry - too damned intense! Took the thing with Toinette way too seriously. She told me he misunderstood; she never thought of him as anything more than a chum. Then to run like a mutt to fish-faced Lucy, only to have her throw him over for the medico! He smiles through it all, like a good little gentleman, but it worries me. I know he's always thought I should have cut him in as a full partner. But lawyering - even good lawyering -just doesn't put you on a par with the man who does all the thinking and the risk taking! Even after the war I continue to outrank him.
So I figure down deep he's got to hate my guts, and I'm wondering how to diffuse it. I don't want to cut the ties; he's a first-class manoeuverer and a good friend to boot. Asking him to be Peter's godfather was what the hoity-toities would call a gracious gesture on yours truly's part, but the bottom line is bucks. So maybe I'll add on to his Wilshire parcel as a bonus, it's prime, but I'll have a lot more soon when the Spring St. deal goes down. A little charity camouflaged as
gratitude could go a long way. Got to keep H. in his place but also make him feel important. Now if only he'd hitch himself up with a nice girl - preferably one that has nothing to do with me!
Milo returned, green eyes suffused with excitement.
'That was Platt. The blood tests are positive for anti-cholinergics. Lots of it. He was blown away, wanted to know when it would be okay to write it up for a medical journal.'
He sat down.
'So now' - he smiled - 'we've got more than theory.'
'When will they be giving Jamey the Antilirium?'
'Definitely not today, probably not tomorrow. The head injury complicates things; it's hard to know how much of the stupor comes from the concussion and how much from the dope. They want him to be stronger before they give his nervous system another jolt.'
He eyed the book in my hands.
'Learn anything?'
'So far only that Jack Cadmus's and Souza's view of their relationship don't jibe.'
'Yeah, well that sometimes happens, doesn't it?'
He held out his hand, and I gave him the diary.
'Now that we've got method, it would be nice to firm up some motive before I call in Whitehead and the gang. How far'd you get?'
'August ninth 'forty-nine.'
He found the place, backtracked, a few pages, read for a while, and looked up.
'Arrogant son of a bitch, wasn't he?'
'The scars of a self-made man.'
Twenty minutes later he found the first entry on Bitter Canyon.
'All right, here we go - October twelfth 1950: 'I'm in a good position on the Bitter Canyon base because Horn-burgh came to me rather than vice versa. That means the army wants to get rid of it quickly and they know I can come up with quick cash. But why? From the way Horn-
burgh threw around the Hail, Comrades bunkum, he'll be trying to jew me down by playing on my sense of patriotism. When he does, I'll turn it back on him. Ask him if a decorated hero isn't entitled to a fair deal from his Uncle Sam. If he keeps on buddying up, I'll ask him what he did in the war; Horace has checked around and says he was a West Point pansy who spent his entire tour pushing paper in Biloxi, Miss.' '
Milo turned a page.
'Let's see, now he's off on something else - a downtown office building . . . he's going to have to bribe someone to get a zoning variance . . . okay, here it is again: 'Horn-burgh took me for a tour of the base. When we got close to the lake, it seemed to me that he looked a little antsy, though it may have been the heat and the light. The water's like a giant lens; when the sun hits it a certain way, it's blinding - damn near unbearable - and a milquetoast like Hornburgh is used to being pampered. As we drove, his jaw kept flapping; the man may be a colonel, but he blabs like a woman. Gave me the whole song and dance about the potential for development: houses; hotels, maybe even a golf course and country club. I let him go on then said, 'Sounds like the Garden of Eden, Stanton.' He nodded like a dummy. 'Then how come' - I smiled - 'the army is so damned eager to dump it?' He stayed smooth as cream, yammered about needing to let go of the land due to congressional restrictions and peacetime budget concerns. Which is a lot of gobbledygook, because the army does as the army damn well pleases - hell, they say Ike will be the next pres, so it can only get better. So the whole situation bears watching''.'
Milo hunched forward and peered at the diary.
'Back to the office building again.' He frowned, running his index finger over the yellowed pages. 'The bribe worked . . . Here's something on the wife. They were invited to a party at the Huntington Sheraton, and she stood in a corner and wouldn't talk to anyone. It pissed him off . . . C'mon, Bitter Canyon, where are you . . . Wouldn't it just be my luck for that to be all of it?'
He perused silently through September and October, pausing from time to time to quote a passage out loud. The quotes painted Jack Cadmus as the quintessential robber baron - ruthless, single-minded, and self-obsessed - with occasional lapses into sentimentality. The man's feelings toward his wife had been a combination of rage, bafflement, and compassion. He professed his love for her but viewed her weakness with contempt. Terming his marriage 'deader than Hitler', he described the mansion on Muir-field as 'a damned crypt' and berated Antoinette's doctors as 'Harvard-educated quacks who pat my back with one hand while dipping into my pocket with the other. All they have to offer are idiot grins and jargon.' He'd escaped the emotional void by embracing work, power brokering and putting together one deal after another, playing the high-stakes poker game known as big business with an almost
erotic zeal.
'Aha, here we go again,' said Milo. 'Wednesday, November fifteenth: 'I've got Hornburgh and the damned U.S. Army by the short hairs! After plenty of phone bluffs I agreed to come down for another tour of the base. Once I arrived, Hornburgh made a pathetic attempt at flexing his own muscles - sent word that he'd be tied up in ordinance inventory for a while and had his driver zip me around in a jeep. Far as I could tell, nothing much was going on; the place looked empty. Then we passed a group of wooden bungalows on the east end and a passel of MPs marched out from between the buildings, all stiff and deadly serious. Looked like an escort, so I took a gander, and when I saw who they were guarding, I nearly jumped out of the jeep and went for his throat.
'That evil little weasel Kaltenblud! We zipped by fast, so I only saw him for a second, but I'd know that face anywhere - Lord knows I looked at it enough times! He was on our roundup list for Nuremberg, but we never got him - always seemed to be one step ahead. It made me suspect the damned CIA pansies had spirited him away in order to use him for dirty work, but questions to that effect got the usual hush-hush gobbledygook. Now, the prooP.
