Читать книгу Glory Boys - Harry Bingham - Страница 17

Ted Powell was six foot, an athletic mid-fifties, and had a face that smiled almost constantly. The smile was deceptive. That was a thing Willard would learn to remember. Ignore the smile. Look at the eyes. The smiles were like a gentleman’s agreement. They looked nice and meant nothing.

‘Welcome to Powell Lambert,’ said Powell, as they strode along to his corner office. ‘Your first time on the Street, I imagine. You get here OK? No trouble parking?’

‘Parking? I came by cab.’

‘Oh! Cab?’

‘Sure. I –’

‘And I assumed you’d come by airplane! What? Our roof isn’t good enough for you?’

‘I – uh –’

Willard smirked in embarrassment, but Powell had begun to laugh away at his own joke. ‘It’s a good roof. Nice and flat. Or have you decided to quit falling off skyscrapers? Ha, ha, ha! Hell of a stunt that.’ He zoomed his hand vertically down like a stone. ‘America’s favourite ace! Ha, ha, ha!’

‘I guess we should have paid for the catapult.’

‘That was a stinker of a movie, eh, Will? A stinker.’ Powell’s face didn’t change as he said this. It was still smothered by smiles and tobacco smoke.

‘Well you know, I wouldn’t quite –’

‘You want to know my favourite bit? It was the bit where Blondie has to jump off the clock-tower and there you are right underneath in an airplane. You know –’ Powell leaned forward. His face grew serious and he wagged his finger for extra emphasis. ‘You know, I think you were right about the catapult. I just don’t think that would have been realistic.’

Willard leaned back. He prided himself on a sense of humour, but Powell was pushing things too far. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t like the movie,’ he said stiffly.

‘Ha, ha, ha! I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I said it was a stinker. I liked it. Boy! I liked it.’ He roared with laughter, a series of guffaws that subsided into chuckles and then into silence. ‘So … you’re six weeks late on your first repayment. Second instalment due in two and a half weeks.’

‘Yes. That’s what I wanted to come and talk about.’

Powell’s cigar had run into some kind of problem, and he was puffing away over a lighted match to get things started again. ‘Hmm? Eh? Oh, needn’t have done, Will. No need.’

‘Well, obviously, our income fell rather short of what we’d hoped.’

Powell was shaking his head. It wasn’t clear if he was taking issue with Willard’s words or the disobedience of his cigar. ‘No, no… Not our income. Your income.’

‘Very well, if you prefer, but in any case –’

Powell was done with his cigar. He waved it at Willard. ‘I made you a loan. If I’d been dumb enough to come in for some equity, then you could say our income. That’s the beauty of lending. I don’t care if the movie was a beaut or a stinker, you pay me back just the same.’

‘And I fully intend to.’

‘Right. Otherwise you end up bankrupt.’ Powell was still smiling.

‘I hardly think you need to speak to me in those terms.’

‘I’m calling in the loan. The whole of it. Due in two and a half weeks. Margaret, my secretary, will give you written notice before you leave.’

‘But I have eight months. We agreed. There were to be at least eight months.’

Powell wagged a finger. ‘You’re in default. The rules change. Read the contract.’

Once again the suggestion of migraine came to press on Willard’s temples. Somewhere in the last few weeks and months, his world had changed. Not for the better. Very much for the worse.

‘Powell, may I be candid?’

‘Call me Ted.’

‘Ted, I’d like to be candid.’

‘Nothing to stop you.’

‘I haven’t any money. Nowhere near enough.’

‘Bad thing to tell your banker, my boy.’

‘I guess I figured you already knew.’

Powell smiled. He was very calm for a man owed almost two hundred thousand dollars by someone with no money. Willard noticed this and felt even more unsettled.

‘I guess you could run along to Pappy. From what I hear, it’s been another great year for guns and bombs.’

‘Yes.’

Willard knew that Powell was right. After a sharp collapse in profits after the end of the war, the Firm had begun to rebuild. ‘Strengthen the Old; Build the New’ was Thornton’s watchword. By 1922, Willard’s father had proudly announced that the Firm’s profits would equal those of 1916. Since then, each year had continued better than the one before.

‘Look, I have spoken to Father and he’s offered to bail me out if necessary. Most handsomely, as a matter of fact.’

‘Excellent. Money in two and a half weeks, then.’

Willard shook his head. Up until a few weeks ago, life had seemed simple. He had looks, he had luck, he had charm, he had money. But things had grown complex; horribly so. Life had come to seem like a puzzle with a million moving parts and only one correct solution.

He hadn’t simply accepted his father’s ultimatum. The choice of cheques and the conditions that rode with them felt humiliating and unfair. But all his arguing had been useless – and, as a matter of fact, it hadn’t really been an argument. An argument takes two and the businessman hadn’t even bothered to raise his voice. Willard might as well have been throwing sand against granite for all the difference he’d made.

So the scene ended as it had begun, with a choice. Willard could bail himself out and give up his future throne. Or he could take the smaller cheque, extricate himself from his mess with Powell, and take his proper place beside his father, the heir anointed.

‘Listen, Ted, my father has offered to clear my debt, but I’d sooner, if I can, clear the debt myself.’

Powell stopped puffing, stopped smiling. His face was suddenly very cool, very still.

‘You wish to clear the debt yourself?’

‘Yes. Yes, Ted, I do.’

‘I see. And how do you propose to do that, may I ask?’