3
Jo-Ann sat beside her father on a couch and drank Scotch. She was pleased with herself. Both her parents were pissed. She had married the man with the biggest cock in California and had made it plain to him that he had better, by God, cleave to her like the Bible said or she would, by Christ, cut it off. She was a Cord. He had better understand that. Jonas might not like it that she was a Cord, but she was, and she was just as much a bitch as he was a son of a bitch, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He was counting her drinks. So was Monica. So was Bat. To hell with all of them.
She was a Cord, but she didn't need the Cords. She had every quality they had, and she was married to a highly competent flimflam artist. Jonas wanted to destroy Ben but obviously was not so sure he wanted to destroy his daughter's husband. Anyway, the hand of Jonas did not reach everywhere.
4
His body rarely reminded Bat of the shattered rib and ripped flesh he had suffered on the Ludendorff Bridge. But occasionally it did: with sharp spasms, then throbbing in his right side. The pain came at odd times, usually not more than once every few weeks. He felt it tonight, and he related it to having lifted a heavy suitcase with his right arm as he left the plane that had delivered him and Toni to the ranch landing strip.
He moved to the fireplace and exchanged idle words with Bill Toller and Ben Parrish, studying the others in the room with the same intensity with which they were observing him and each other. He wore a gray tweed cashmere jacket and charcoal-gray slacks, a white shirt, and a narrow regimental-stripe tie.
He saw his father often, not less frequently than once every other week, and he had seen him at his worst, depressed and probably frightened. He had seen him snatch a nitroglycerine pill from a bottle and jam it into his mouth. Lately, though, he had observed distinct improvement. Jonas had lost one-third of his heart capacity, the doctors said. He should moderate his activity, they said. Bat had watched him closely and knew what he was doing. Jonas was testing himself. He knew what he cared about, what counted for him; and he knew how much he was willing to give up to survive. He was the kind of man who wouldn't value life without bourbon, rare steaks, a lot of vigorous sex, and, above all, the satisfaction of challenging, competing, and winning.
"You know what?" he had said to Bat one day in the suite atop The Seven Voyages. "I get it up just fine. I didn't lose a bit of that. In fact, I had her go down on me before I left the hospital. The doctors would have— "
"How would she have felt if— "
"I know, I know," Jonas had said impatiently. "We talked about that. I told her it was okay with me. What a way to go!"
Bat had grinned. "You are irrepressible," he had said.
Jonas had laughed. "Damn right."
His father had given him authority to make the changes he had recommended; but, as he had expected, the older man looked over his shoulder every minute and intervened regularly. He won his father's approval often, but it was never unqualified approval. There was always some little thing that could have been done better.
For example—
"You passed up an opportunity. Lucky I saw it."
"What are you talking about?" Bat asked.
"Cord Aircraft."
"What the hell? You agreed to phase it out. I got eight million five for the plant and machinery, most of it obsolete. Sold the whole works to Phoenix Aircraft. Everybody I know says I got a damned good deal. We're out of the airplane business, and we got eight and a half million cash."
Jonas shook his head. "Well, you don't know anything about airplanes. You know what I did with the eight and a half million?"
Bat shook his head. "I'm afraid to ask."
"I bought twenty-five percent of Phoenix."
"Why? We were getting out of the airplane business. You agreed— "
"I asked the guys from Phoenix to stop by and show me what they were planning. I discovered I was talking to some aviation geniuses. They're gonna build a sleek little low-wing two-seater configured with the seats fore and aft, to be flown with a stick instead of a yoke. That little airplane will sell. I offered them their eight and a half million back, for twenty-five percent and a seat on the board of directors. God, were they happy!"
"So, are we supposed to be happy? We're back in the airplane business, where we were losing money, and— "
"Bat!" Jonas interrupted. "Can't you see a no-lose proposition when it's staring you in the face? All we invested in their airplane is the money they paid us for the plant. If this great little plane they want to build is a success, we have a percentage. If it isn't, all we invested is the old building with a lot of obsolete old machine tools. You've gotta watch for deals like that. They come along once in a while."
Another plaything. Another enthusiasm that would cost money. Another time when it would have been a big mistake to say so.
When the Wall Street Journal and other newspapers reported that Cord television sets would no longer be made, the market for the sets vanished. Retailers unloaded the sets they had at sharply discounted prices and ordered no more. Jonas was extremely annoyed and suggested someone had intentionally leaked the news. The family took a loss on the deal, and Jonas blamed Bat. He hadn't done it right. He'd let it get away from him.
"Somebody fucked us, Bat. Somebody who works for us. You've gotta be always on the lookout for that. You're too goddamned trusting. Look around for the guy that owes us, that we've bailed out of trouble. You think that wins us his loyalty? No. The other way around. He hates us. I'd first trust the guy we screwed, then the guy we saved from a screwing."
5
Jonas sat at the head of the table. Bat at the other end. The cook, without the supervision of Robair, had carved a big turkey, and a temporary man serving in a white jacket as a waiter set it on the table on a silver tray. Platters and bowls were filled with dressing, potatoes, gravy, vegetables, cranberry sauce, celery, radishes, olives, and hot rolls. Red wine, white wine, and champagne were in cradles or in buckets of ice.
Jonas surveyed the spread with a critical eye for a long moment, then seemed to be satisfied. He tapped a glass with a spoon. "Let me say how pleased I am that we are all together this evening. I wish we could do it more often. Let's plan on it. Next year we will gather in New York."
He didn't offer to say grace, and no one suggested it. The family and their friends set about eating.
Toni had noticed before that Jonas, Monica, and Jo-Ann — and five years ago, Nevada — ate like ranch hands: diligently filling their plates and moving food to their mouths as if they had but limited time. They spoke little while they were eating, and when they did speak it was usually to express satisfaction with a dish. ("This is good, isn't it? Tell Martha she did a first-rate job.") They were not rude in their manners; they just ate purposefully. They were purposeful people.
In this, Bat was not like them. He savored his food and wine and took his time. Toni was pleased that she and Bat and Bill Toller were still very much in the middle of their meal when Jonas, Jo-Ann, and Monica were finished and were allowing the man to take their plates.
"Well," said Jonas, glancing around the table. "Maybe this is as good a time as any, while we're all together, to announce a change or two I've decided to make in the organization of the businesses."