The telephone on the desk roused the old man, and he stared at it with distaste for a moment before he picked it up.
“Mrs. Simmons is calling,” his secretary said.
Patty couldn’t know, McGraw told himself. And, goddammit, neither did he know yet for sure that Paul was the kind of scum who would foul up an honest job of work. That, like they said, remained to be proved, and a man was innocent until the proof was in. The hell he was. “Hi, honey,” McGraw said into the phone.
“You wouldn’t like to buy me lunch, would you, Daddy?” Patty’s voice, like Patty herself, was young, fresh, enthusiastic. “I’m at Grand Central, and Paul’s tied up with a business appointment.”
“And none of your friends are available,” McGraw said, “so finally you think of your old man, is that it?” Just the sound of her voice brought a smile to his mind to counteract some of the mental pain.
“That will be a day,” Patty said. “You know I would have married you myself if it hadn’t been for Mother.” And I almost wish I could have, she thought, but left that part unsaid. “Don’t be stingy.”
“All right, honey,” McGraw said. “I have a couple of phone calls to make.” One, anyway. “You get a table at Martin’s. I’ll be along shortly.”
“I’ll have a drink waiting.”
McGraw hung up and buzzed for his secretary. “Get me Paul Simmons, Laura.” He made himself wait quietly.
The secretary came back on the phone almost immediately. “Mr. Simmons is busy on the phone. I’ll try again in a few minutes?”
Reprieve? McGraw thought. Nothing of the goddam sort. It can’t be put off, he told himself. “No,” he said, “let me talk to his secretary.” And when the new pleasant voice came on, “Tell Paul,” McGraw said, “that I want to see him here in my office at one-thirty sharp.”
The secretary hesitated. “Mr. Simmons has a rather full schedule,’ Mr. McGraw. He—”
“Honey,” McGraw said, “you tell him to be here.” He hung up, hoisted himself out of his chair and started for the door. A short pleasant time with Patty, he thought, and then—what was the current word that was so popular?—confrontation. So be it. He squared his shoulders automatically as he walked through the doorway.
In his office Paul Simmons, on the phone, was saying, “I’ve booked a table and I’ve told Patty I had a business engagement, so I do think you owe me your company at lunch.”
“Do you indeed?” Her name was Zib Wilson, Zib Mariowe-that-was. “I was expecting a call from Nat.” Not quite true: she had been hoping for a call from Nat. “But,” she said, “I suppose he’s all tied up with the Tower opening.” She paused. “Come to think of it, why aren’t you?”
“I’m not wedded to my work the way some are. Your loving husband, for example.” Simmons paused. “Lunch, my sweet. Over the first drink I’ll tell you how much I love you. Over the second I’ll tell you in whispers what I’m going to do to you the next time I get you into bed.”
“It sounds fascinating.” There were piles of manuscripts on her desk, the August issue of the book was not yet locked up, nor could it be until she had at least one more piece of usable fiction. On the other hand, a BLT and a cup of bad coffee at her desk did not appeal. “You’ve convinced me,” Zib said. “Where? And when?” Funny, she no longer even thought about Nat and what his reaction would be if he knew she was straying from the fold. Bad fiction, she thought as she jotted down restaurant name and address. “Got it,” she said. “Ciao. And I’ll pay my share. As usual.”
Governor Bent Armitage, down from the capital for the Tower opening, met Grover Frazee for an early lunch at the Harvard Club on Forty-fourth Street. Over his martini the governor said, “The corporation reports you’ve been sending out haven’t really said much, Grover. How are rentals going at the Tower, or is it too early to tell?”
When he chose, Frazee thought, the governor could put on a diffident, baffled, bucolic act that would fool almost anyone. What was it they had called Wendell
Wilkie? The barefoot boy from Wall Street? Same thing. “The picture is still a trifle confused,” Frazee said.
The governor sipped his martini with appreciation. “It used to be,” he said, “that when you ordered a martini, that was it. Now you have to fill out a questionnaire: on the rocks or straight up? vodka or gin? olive, onion, or twist?” And then, with no change of expression, “I asked a question, Grover. Stop serving up ambiguities.”
It was a sore troublesome point. “Rentals,” Frazee said, “are going as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
The governor could smile like a Disney wolf, white fangs showing. “Twelve words that say exactly nothing. You’d have made a splendid politician. Rentals are not going well. Tell me why.”
“A variety of factors—” Frazee began.
“Grover. You are not addressing a formal stockholders meeting. You are talking to one interested stockholder in the World Tower Corporation. There is a difference. Prospective tenants are staying away in droves? I want to know the reasons. Too much space available? Rentals too high? Money tight? Uncertainty in the business community?” The governor was silent, watching Frazee’s face.
Frazee hesitated. The governor was a self-made man, and there were times, as now, when he set aside his jovial friendly front and allowed you to see some of the force that had carried him, almost, to the presidency of the United States. “All of those reasons,” Frazee said. He hoped that his unconcerned shrug was convincing. “Things will change. They have to. The Trade Center is feeling the same pinch.”
“The Trade Center,” the governor said, “is Port Authority. Do I need to list the Port Authority’s other assets? For them a less than full building complex can be tolerated almost indefinitely. We are a private corporation, and I keep thinking back to the Empire State Building sitting half-empty during the Depression.”
Frazee said nothing.
“What it means,” the governor said, “is that we seem to have picked a piss-poor time to build our shining great goddam building, no?” He finished his drink. “I promised myself two martinis,” he said, and crooked his forefinger at the nearest waiter.
Frazee sat quiet, vaguely depressed. He was not a fearful man, nor did he consider himself less than responsible. When problems arose, he was accustomed to dealing with them and not, like some, sweeping them under the rug. On the other hand, he did not rush into trouble as the governor was prone to do, because if you do not deliberately seek it, sometimes trouble passes you by. The rental situation in the World Tower was not happy-making, but neither was it critical. Yet.
“Cost overrun in construction?” the governor said.
There at least Frazee was on solid ground. “No,” he said. “We’ve held very tight to estimates.” It was a source of pride. “Careful design, careful planning.”
“All right. That’s a plus.” The governor smiled suddenly. “An unexpected plus. It gives a little room for maneuver, no?”
Frazee did not see how. He said as much with some asperity. His depression had turned to resentment at the apparent implication that he was overlooking the obvious.
“In some circles,” the governor said, “it is called wheeling and dealing. In others it is considered merely sensible accommodation to the facts of life. First, you survive, Grover. Remember that. It is true in politics and it is also true in building management. Since we have not run over in construction costs, we can afford to take a little smaller income on our rentals without hurting ourselves, no?”