Even more than on previous occasions they had met, Heyward decided, the name "Big George" seemed apposite in every way. Physically their host was a mountain of a man at least six and a half feet in height, his chest, arms, and torso like a village blacksmith's. His head was half the size again of most other men's and his facial features matched prominent, large eyes, swift-moving and darkly shrewd, the mouth wide-lipped and strong, as accustomed to issuing commands as a Marine drill sergeant's, though on larger issues. Equally clearly, surface joviality could be banished instantly by powerful displeasure.
Yet he stopped short of coarseness, nor was there any sign of overweight or nab. Through the enfolding towel robe, muscles bulged. Heyward observed, too, that Big George's face betrayed no fat layers, his massive chin no jowls. His belly appeared flat and taut.
As to other bigness, his corporate reach and appetite were reported daily in the business press. And his living style aboard this twelve-million-dollar airplane was unabashedly royal.
The masseur and majordomo quietly disappeared. Replacing them, like one more character emerging on stage, was a chef a pale, worried pencil of a man, immaculate in kitchen whites with a high chef's hat which brushed the cabin ceiling. Heyward wondered just how big the onboard staff was. Later, he learned it totaled sixteen.
The chef stood stiffly beside Big George's chair, proffering an out-size black leather folder embossed with a golden Q. Big George ignored him.
"That trouble at your bank." Quartermain addressed Roscoe Heyward. "Demonstrations. All the rest. Is everything settled? Are you solid?"
"We were always solid," Heyward answered. 'That was never in question." "The market didn't think so."
"Since when was the stock market an accurate barometer of anything?"
Big George smiled fleetingly, then swung to the petite Japanese hostess. "Moonbeam, get me the latest quote on FMA.
"Yes, Mister Q." the girl said. She went out by a forward door.
Big George nodded in the direction she had gone. "Still can't get that tongue of hers around Quartermain. Always calls me 'Mister Q.' " He grinned at the others. "Manages nicely elsewhere, though."
Roscoe Heyward said quickly, "The reports you heard about our bank concerned a trifling incident, magnified beyond importance. It happened also at a time of management transition."
"But you people didn't stand firm," Big George insisted. "You let outside agitators have their way. You went soft and surrendered."
"Yes, we did. And I'll be frank to say I didn't like the decision. In fact, I opposed it.
"Stand up to 'em! Always clobber the bastards one way or another! Never back down" The Supranational chairman drained his martini and the majordomo appeared from nowhere, removed the original glass and placed a fresh one in Big George's hand. The drink's perfect chill was apparent from its outside frosting.
The chef was still standing, waiting. Quartermain continued to ignore him.
He rumbled reminiscently, "Had a sub-assembly manufacturing plant near Denver. Lots of labor trouble. Wage demands beyond all reason. Early this year, union called a strike, the last of many. I told our people the subsidiary which ran it warn the sons of bitches we'll close the plant down. Nobody believed us. So we made studies, planned arrangements. Shipped tools and dies to one of our other companies. They took up the manufacturing slack. At Denver we closed. Suddenly no plant, no jobs, no payroll. Now, the lot of 'em employees, union, Denver city, state government, you name it are down on their knees pleading with us to reopen." He considered his martini, then said magnanimously, "Well, we may. Doing other manufacturing, and on our terms. But we didn't back down."
"Good for you, George!" the Honorable Harold said. "We need more people to take that kind of stand. The problem at our bank, though, has been somewhat different. In some ways we're still in an interim situation which began, as you know, with Ben Rosselli's death. But by spring next year a good many of us on the board hope to see Roscoe here firmly at the helm."
"Glad to hear it. Don't like dealing with people not at the top. Those I do business with must be able to decide, then make decisions stick."
"I assure you, George," Heyward said, "that any decisions you and I arrive at will be adhered to by the bank."
In an adroit way, Heyward realized, their host had maneuvered Harold Austin and himself into the stance of supplicants a reversal of a banker's usual role. But the fact was, any loan to Supranational would be worry-free, as well as prestigious for FMA. Equally important, it could be a precursor of other new industrial accounts since Supranational Corporation was a pacesetter whose example others followed.
Big George snapped abruptly at the chef. "Well, what is it?"
The figure in white was galvanized to action. He thrust forward the black leather folder he had been holding since his entry. "The luncheon menu, monsieur. For your approval."
Big George made no attempt to take the folder but scanned its contents held before him. He stabbed with a finger. "Change that Waldorf salad to a Caesar." "Oui, monsieur."
"And dessert. Not Glazed Martinique. A Souffle Grand Marnier." "Certainly, monsieur."
A nod of dismissal. Then, as the chef turned away, Big George glared. "And when I order a steak, how do I like it….”
"Monsieur" the chef gestured imploringly with his free hand "I have already apologize twice for the unfortunate last night." "Never mind that. The question was: How do I like it..'
With a Gallic shrug, repeating a lesson learned, the chef intoned, "On the slightly well-done side of medium-rare." "Just remember that." The chef asked despairingly, " 'Ow can I forget, monsieur?" Crestfallen, he went out.
"Something else that's important," Big George informed his guests, "is not to let people get away with things. I pay that frog a fortune to know exactly how I like my food. He slipped last night not much, but enough to ream him out so next time he'll remember. What's the quote?" Moonbeam had returned with a slip of paper.
She read out in accented English, "FMA trading now at forty-five and three quarters."
"There we are," Roscoe Heyward said, "we're up another point."
"But still not as high as before Rosselli bit the bullet," Big George said. He grinned. "Though when word gets out that you're helping finance Supranational, your stock'll soar."
It could happen, Heyward thought. In the tangled world of finance and stock prices, inexplicable things occurred. That someone would lend money to someone else might not seem to mean much yet the market would respond.
More importantly, though, Big George had now declared positively that some kind of business was to be transacted between First Mercantile American Bank and SuNatCo. No doubt they would thrash out details through the next two days. He felt his excitement rising.
Above their heads a chime sounded softly. Outside, the jet thrum changed to lower tempo.
"Washington" Avril said. She and the other girls began fastening the men to their seats.
The time on the ground in Washington was even briefer than at the previous stop. With a 14-carat-VIP passenger, it seemed, top priorities for landing, taxiing, and takeoff were axiomatic.
Thus, in less than twenty minutes they had returned to cruising altitude en route to the Bahamas.
The Vice-President was installed, with the brunette, Krista, taking care of him, an arrangement which he patently approved.