Eastlake was Linda’s idea of paradise. She had a number of friends living there. We just couldn’t live anywhere else, she told me. So I bought a house with a horrifying mortgage that would cost me $10,000 a year in fees, property tax and outgoings.
We moved in and Linda was happy. The furniture took all my savings. I had to admit that the house was marvellous and I was proud to be the owner, but at the back of my mind, I kept thinking of the cost. We had neighbours: young people like ourselves, but I suspected the husbands were better off financially than I was. Every night we either entertained or were entertained. Linda, of course, wanted a car of her own. I bought her an Austin Mini Cooper. She was never satisfied. She wanted way-out gear: her friends were constantly changing their clothes, so why shouldn’t she? She couldn’t cook and hated housework so we had Cissy, a large black woman who came in her beat-up Ford every other day and cost me $20 a visit. My $30,000 a year that had looked so good when I had signed Chandler’s contract shrank to nothing.
But, at least, the magazine was a success. I had been lucky to find two top-class reporters, Wally Mitford and Max Berry, to work with me. Chandler’s detective agency fed me with a stream of information. Chandler lent me his advertising expert who really knew his job. Financially, the magazine had no problems. With Mitford and Berry helping, I lifted the lid off a lot of corruption and consequently made a lot of enemies. This I had to accept. I went after the Administration and the politicians. After the fourth issue, I knew I was a hated man, but I kept strictly to facts and there was nothing anyone I attacked could do about it.
Sitting in the sun, taking stock, I saw how vulnerable I was if some enemy began to probe into my private life. I was burdened with a $3,000 overdraft. I was living beyond my means. I didn’t seem able to control Linda’s spending. If some columnist wanted to be spiteful he could hint that Linda and I were falling out and I knew that would upset Chandler whose married life was blameless.
In the next issue of The Voice of the People, due out at the middle of the month, I was attacking Captain John Schultz, the Chief of Police. I was raising inquiring eyebrows that he was able to run a Cadillac, live in a $100,000 house, send his two sons to the University and his wife wore mink. Chandler had told me to go after Schultz whom he hated. What I had written was the truth, but attacking the Chief of Police was asking for personal trouble. I knew, once the magazine was on the streets, I would have to be very, very carefuclass="underline" no parking offences, no driving even after one drink: every cop in the city would be told to gun for me.
As I sat by the empty swimming pool, I wondered if what I was doing made sense. I hadn’t Chandler’s Quaker mentality. I was in this for the money. It was fine for him: he could take care of any libel action and he was a natural crusader: I wasn’t.
Tomorrow was the first of the month. It would be the day of reckoning when I paid my last month’s bills. I went over to my desk and spent the next two hours listing what Linda and I owed: The amount exceeded the quarterly payment from Chandler by $2,300. I analysed my outgoings. Apart from Linda’s extravagance, the worst inroad was liquor and meat bills. When you entertained ten to fifteen people twice a week, providing them with vast steaks and unlimited liquor, you really ran away with the money, plus Cissy, plus the monthly payments on my car and Linda’s car, plus living expenses and provision for income tax and property tax, I wondered I wasn’t more in the red.
I sat back feeling trapped. I would have to do something, but what? The obvious thing was to sell the house and move into a small apartment in the city, but by now I was regarded as a big success by the people of Eastlake and could I afford to raise the white flag and quit?
The telephone rang. It was Harry Mitchell.
‘Hi! Steve! Are you coming over? Do I put a steak on for you?’
I hesitated, looking at the litter on my desk. What was the point in sitting here, making sums?
‘Sure, Harry, I’ll be right over.’
As I replaced the receiver, I thought tomorrow could bring a solution, — although common sense told me it wouldn’t.
I would have to talk to Linda and this was something I dreaded. I knew she would make a scene. I still vividly remembered our last major quarrel. But she had to be told. We had to cut down expenses. She had to cooperate.
I locked up the house, went to the garage and got in my car. I liked Harry and Pam Mitchell. He earned big money in real estate. I suppose he earned three times what I did. They never had less than thirty people to their Sunday barbeques.
I drove over to his place, telling myself without any hope that tomorrow was another more hopeful day.
Jean Kesey, my secretary, was in my office, arranging my mail as I came in on this Monday morning.
A word about Jean: she was around twenty-six years of age, tall, dark with a good figure, a good face without being pretty and she was one hundred percent efficient. She had come from the Chandler stable, having worked for him as his fourth secretary and he had parted with her reluctantly, telling me he was making me a valuable present and a valuable present she was.
‘Morning, Steve,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘Mr. Chandler wants you. “As soon as he comes in, I want him.” His very words.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘It’s all right. I know by his voice. No trouble.’
I looked at my watch. It was 09.08.
‘Doesn’t he ever sleep?’
She laughed.
‘Not often... he’s waiting.’
So I went down to my car and drove over to the Chandler building.
His secretary, a middle-aged woman with eyes like the points of ice picks waved me to his office door.
‘Mr. Chandler is expecting you, Mr. Manson.’
Chandler was behind his big desk, reading his mail. He looked up as I came in, rested his bulk back in his executive chair and waved me to the visitor’s chair.
‘Steve, you’ve done a swell job. I’ve just read the proofs about Schultz. I think we’ve got this sonofabitch on the hot seat. It’s well done.’
I sat down.
‘I could also be on the hot seat, Mr. Chandler.’
He grinned.
‘Sure... that’s what I want to talk to you about. From now on, you’re going to be a marked man. The cops will be told to hate you. They’re scared of me, but not of you. I’m willing to bet Schultz will resign in a few weeks, but before he goes, he’ll try to hit back at you. I want to take care of this.’ He paused to study me. ‘Have you any personal problems?’
‘Who hasn’t?’ I said. ‘Yes, I have personal problems.’
He nodded.
‘Nothing worse than money?’
‘No.’
‘Sure? Level with me, Steve. You have done a damn fine job with my magazine. I’m on your side.’
‘It’s just money.’
‘That’s what I thought. That lovely wife of yours is running you into debt, isn’t she?’
‘I’m running myself into debt, Mr. Chandler.’
‘That’s right. People these days overspend. They live beyond their means. Their wives compete with the other wives and it costs. Don’t imagine I don’t know the problem although it doesn’t nor ever will happen to me. That article you wrote rates a bonus.’ He flicked a cheque across his desk. ‘Fix your debts, and from now on control your wife. She’s a beauty, but no woman should be allowed to run wild.’
I picked up the cheque. It was for $10,000. ‘Thank you, Mr. Chandler.’
‘This mustn’t happen again. Remember what I said: goldfish have no hiding place and you’re living in a goldfish bowl. I’m bailing you out, giving you a new start, but if you can’t control the situation from now on, you’re not the man for me.’