Yet, at the end of two or three hours of questions, of answers, of figures, of explanations, the truth at last was out, and not even Mildred’s stammering evasions could change it: All four units of the corporation, even the Laguna restaurant, would be showing a profit if it were not for the merciless milking that Mildred was giving them in order to keep up the establishment in Pasadena. Once this was in the open there was a long, grave pause, and then Wally said: “Mildred, you mind if we ask a few questions about your home finances? Kind of get that a little straightened out?”
“That’s nobody’s business but mine.”
“None of it’s anybody’s business, so far as that goes. If we just went by what was our business, we’d have gone to court already, asking for receivers, and strictly kept our questions to ourselves. We didn’t do that. We wanted to give you a break. But looks like we’re entitled to little consideration too, don’t it? Looks like we could go into what we think is important. Maybe you don’t think so. Maybe that’s where the trouble is. It’s you that’s behind the eight ball, not us.”
“... What do you want to know?”
“How much does Veda pay in?”
“I don’t charge my own child board, I hope.”
“She’s the big expense though, isn’t she?”
“I don’t keep books on her.”
“This is what I’m getting at: Veda, she’s making plenty. She had some dough, that I got for her, and she was smart the way she invested it. She’s dragging down $500 a week from Pleasant, and even after she pays all them agents, teachers, and chiselers, she must have quite a lot left over. Well, wouldn’t you be justified in deducting an amount to pay for her keep? If you did, that would kind of ease the pressure all around.”
Mildred opened her mouth to say she couldn’t do any deducting, that she had nothing to do with Veda’s income. Then, under Wally’s bland manner she noted something familiar, something cold. As her heart skipped a beat, she knew she mustn’t fall into any traps, mustn’t divulge any of her arrangements with Veda. She must stall, say this was something she hadn’t thought of before, insist there were legal angles she would have to look into before she would know how she felt. So mumbling, she kept watching and saw Mr. Rossi look at Mr. Eckstein. Then she knew what this was about. Wally was engineering a little deal. The creditors were to get their money, the corporation was to be placed on a sounder basis, and Veda was to foot the bill. It didn’t occur to her that there was an element of justice in this arrangement: that the creditors had furnished her with goods, and were entitled to payment; that Veda earned large sums, and had run a lengthy bill. All she knew was that hyenas were leaping at her chick, and her craftiness, her ability to stall, deserted her. She became excited, said that no child of hers was going to be made the victim of any such gyp, if she had anything to do with it. Then, looking Wally in the eye, she went on: “And what’s more, I don’t believe you or anybody has any right, even any legal right, to take what belongs to me, or what belongs to my child, to pay the bills of this business. Maybe you’ve forgotten, Mr. Wally Burgan, that it was you that had me incorporate. It was you that had the papers drawn up and explained the law to me. And your main talking point was that if I incorporated, then my personal property was safe from any and all creditors of the corporation. Maybe you’ve forgotten that, but I haven’t.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten it.”
Wally’s chair rasped as he stood to face her, where she was already standing, a few feet back from the big round table. “I haven’t forgotten it, and you’re quite right, nobody here can take one dime of your money, or your personal property, or Veda’s, to satisfy the claims they got, makes no difference how reasonable the claims may be. They can’t touch a thing, it’s all yours and a yard wide. All they can do is go to court, have you declared a bankrupt, and take over. The court will appoint receivers, and the receivers will run it. You’ll be out.”
“All right, then I’ll be out.”
“You’ll be out, and Ida’ll be in.”
“... Who?”
“You didn’t know that, did you?”
“That’s a lie. She wouldn’t—”
“Oh yes she would. Ida, she cried, and said at first she wouldn’t even listen to such a thing, she was such a good friend of yours. But she couldn’t get to you, all last week, for a little talk. You were too busy with the concert. Maybe that hurt her a little. Anyway, now she’ll listen to reason, and we figure she can run this business as good as anybody can run it. Not as good as you, maybe, when you’ve got your mind on it. But better than a stagestruck dame that would rather go to concerts than work, and rather spend the money on her child than pay her creditors.”
At the revelation about Ida, tears had started to Mildred’s eyes, and she turned her back while Wally went on, in a cold, flat voice: “Mildred, you might as well get it through your head you got to do these things. You got to cut down on your overhead, so you can live on what you make. You got to raise some money, from Veda, from the Pierce Drive property, from somewhere, so you can square up these bills and start over. And you got to cut out this running around and get down to work. Now, as I said before, there’s no hard feelings. We all wish you well. Just the same, we mean to get our money. Now you show us some action by a week from tonight, and you can forget it, what’s been said. You don’t and maybe we’ll have to take a little action ourselves.”
It was around eleven when she drove up to the house, but she tapped Tommy on the shoulder and stopped him when she saw the first floor brightly lit, with five or six cars standing outside. She was on the verge of hysteria, and she couldn’t face Monty, and eight or ten polo players, and their wives. She told Tommy to call Mr. Beragon aside, and tell him she had been detained on business, and wouldn’t be in until quite late. Then she moved forward, took the wheel, and drove out again into Orange Grove Avenue. It was almost automatic with her to turn left at the traffic circle, continue over the bridge, and level off for Glendale and Bert. There was no light at Mom’s, but she knew he was home, because the car was in the garage, and he was the only one who drove it now. At her soft tap he opened a window, and told her he would be right out. At the sight of her face, he stood for a moment in his familiar, battered red bathrobe, patted her hand, and said goddam it this was no place to talk. Mom would be hollering, wanting to know what was going on, and Pop would be hollering, trying to tell her, and it just wouldn’t work. He asked Mildred to wait until he got his clothes on, and for a few minutes she sat in the car, feeling a little comforted. When he came out, he asked if she’d like him to drive, and she gladly moved over while he pulled away from the curb in the easy, grand style that nobody else quite seemed to have. He said it sure was one swell car, specially the way it held the road. She hooked her arm through his.
“Veda has to kick in.”
They had driven to San Fernando, to Van Nuys, to Beverly, to the ocean, and were now in a little all-night cocktail bar in Santa Monica. Mildred, breaking into tears, had told the whole story, or at least the whole story beginning with Veda’s return home. The singular connection that Monty had with it, and particularly the unusual circumstances of her marriage, she conveniently left out, or perhaps she had already forgotten them. But as to recent events, she was flagitiously frank, and even told about the two $2,500 checks, as yet undiscovered by Miss Jaeckel. At Bert’s whistle there was a half-hour interlude, while he went into all details of this transaction, and she spoke in frightened whispers, yet gained a queer spiritual relief, as though she were speaking through the lattice of a confessional. And there was a long, happy silence after Bert said that so far as he could see, there had been no actual violation of the law. Then solemnly he added: “Not saying it wasn’t pretty damn foolish.”