When Mr. Perino was elected to the board of directors and then the presidency of XB, it was understood that the onetime racing driver held extensive outside interests, including a consulting business and a controlling interest in CINDY, Incorporated, a company that holds exclusive licensing rights to an epoxy resin material Mr. Perino used in the unsuccessful XB Super Stallion and proposes to use in a new electric-powered car he has committed XB to develop.

  Mr. Pringle suggests that should XB use CINDY, Inc.’s, material in the new car, that would involve a conflict of interests in violation of a corporate officer’s fiduciary duty to the stockholders.

  The auditors suggest also that Perino uses the XB corporate jet as personal transportation, flying him back and forth between Detroit and Westchester Airport as suits the convenience of his varying business interests. In a typical week, the auditors say, Mr. Perino arrives in Detroit late Monday afternoon or early Tuesday morning and flies back to New York Thursday evening or Friday morning. He rarely spends more than three days a week on corporate business, they say, and spends at least as much time on outside interests and personal matters.

  The article went on to suggest that the board of directors was considering calling Angelo Perino on the carpet at its next meeting.

  4

  For almost twenty years Angelo had been a guest speaker at least twice a year at a forum for bankers, investment counselors, and corporate executives. These weekly luncheon meetings were sources of information about a variety of industries. The automotive industry was the subject at least ten times a year, and Angelo had a reputation for giving an objective overall view.

  His first scheduled appearance after the publication of the article came ten days later, and he drew an unusually large crowd. Ordinarily, no recording was allowed, but this time he consented to having his talk recorded. He also consented to the presence of a television camera and live coverage of his speech on CNBC.

  The chairman of the meeting tapped a spoon on a glass and easily got the audience’s attention. These people had come to hear what Angelo Perino had to say.

  Wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a maroon-and-white striped tie, Angelo was an imposing figure as he stood confidently behind the lectern and adjusted the microphone.

  “I am, of course, here to give you my opinions on the state of the automotive industry. You will perhaps forgive me if I take a few minutes to respond to the Journal article calling me a playboy executive and suggesting I am guilty of all manner of wrongdoing.

  “First, let me say I am pleased to have met Ms. Wilma Worth. I want to congratulate her on her accurate reporting of what Mr. Mason Pringle had to say. I have no objection to what she wrote, with the possible exception that she might have checked with me to learn my viewpoint on the subject. I am confident she will report my statement today with equal accuracy and fairness.”

  The audience laughed—even Wilma Worth.

  “What issues should I address?” asked Angelo. “In the first place, let’s talk about conflict of interest. That’s a question of integrity. My wife and I do own a controlling interest in CINDY, Incorporated, and I do expect to use its epoxy resin materials in the new cars XB is going to build. Ladies and gentlemen, every single officer and director of XB Motors knows who owns CINDY and knows that I will make a reasonable profit selling materials to XB. What is more, at least ninety-five percent of the stockholders know it—and any who don’t know just haven’t taken the time to read their annual reports. Conflict of interest is a sneaky, secret thing. If everybody concerned knows every element of the deal, there is no such thing as conflict of interest. In this matter there has been full disclosure.”

  Wilma Worth tapped furiously—and conspicuously—on her laptop computer. She glanced around and saw and heard a spatter of applause. More than a few in the room had similar deals and had not liked to hear this one called a conflict of interest.

  “Why,” Angelo went on, “did I acquire the license for the Japanese process for manufacturing the epoxy resin material? The opportunity was first offered to XB Motors. But XB management at that time was flirting with a corporate raider with which the Japanese company was not willing to do business. Rather than see the opportunity lost, my wife and I invested personal funds in the license. It was maybe the best investment either of our families ever made, and XB is the beneficiary of our commitment of risk capital.”

  The applause was louder.

  Angelo paused, smiled, and looked down at Wilma Worth. “So I’m a playboy? I commute back and forth between New York and Detroit. Ladies and gentlemen, I also spend time in Tokyo, London, Zurich, Houston, Los Angeles, and Washington. Let us face facts. Detroit is a backwater. We can manufacture cars there, but we can’t finance their manufacture there, we can’t design them there, and we can’t acquire the new technologies manufacturing requires in a city that still thinks it’s the height of modernity and progress to unload ore boats with conveyor belts.

  “So I spend two or three days a week in New York or somewhere else besides Detroit. And I fly the corporate jet. Ladies and gentlemen, I get more useful work done in an hour between Detroit and New York than I do in two hours in either city. The phone rarely rings on the airplane—though it can and sometimes does.

  “I guess the XB auditors would rather I spend my time sitting around in Detroit Metro Airport or LaGuardia, waiting for a flight. Well, my friends, the auditors can stick that you know where.”

  Wilma Worth typed furiously, but she joined the people around her in laughter. Many of them stood to applaud.

  Angelo laughed. “How’d you like to be that auditing firm?” he asked. “They’re history. The original Loren Hardeman—the man we called Number One—always believed the automobile company he founded was his personal fiefdom and that he could use its assets as if they were his own. He could lie, cheat, and steal if he wanted to, because the company was his. He hired people who would not disagree with him. Starting next week, the corporate auditors for XB Motors, Incorporated, will be Deloite and Touche.”

  5

  Betsy arrived on the Concorde. She faced Angelo in his office, late that evening. He had not been able to get away from the phones and leave for Greenwich.

  “Call Cindy and tell her you have to stay in town. I need to talk with you, Angelo.”

  She had a suite in the Waldorf. They arrived there at ten o’clock, and she ordered dinner brought up. She poured Scotch and remained dressed.

  “Liar, cheat, and thief! My great-grandfather was a liar, cheat, and thief?”

  “He was exactly that,” said Angelo. “An examination of the old records proves it. Besides—”

  “Besides, what?”

  “Number One did think of the business as a personal fief. He cheated everybody he dealt with, including the government on taxes, because Bethlehem Motors was his and he wouldn’t answer to anyone about what he did with it. He was one of the last of the old-time robber barons. Henry Ford was worse.”

  Still wearing the off-white linen pants suit she had worn on the flight from London, Betsy gulped her Scotch and strode around the room. “Doesn’t the company’s reputation depend to some degree on Great-grandfather’s reputation? Or rather, didn’t it? You destroyed his reputation today. I haven’t seen the evening papers, but I can imagine what they’ll say.”

  “Betsy, tell me the truth.”

  He had never seen her cry before. Not really. Now Betsy shoved her glass aside and sobbed. “What do you want of me, Angelo? What do you want?”

  “Tell me the truth, that’s all.”

  “He was going to disinherit me. And my son. I mean Van. He was going to leave everything to my father. I—he had videotapes. Of you and me making love.”

  “I think I know what you did, Betsy. But let’s get it out in the open.”

  “What the hell do you think I did? You’ve guessed. I killed him. I smothered him with a pillow. While he was struggling, he had a heart attack.”

  “I thought so.”

  “But I left his fuckin’ reputation—”

  “Too long,” said Angelo. “I put an end to that, and that’s the end of Loren Hardeman the First.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  “Wouldn’t what?”

  “Tell on me…,” she whispered.

  “Call my son’s mother a murderer? Betsy! You murdered the man. I murdered his name.”

  “We’re partners?” she asked weakly.

  “Lovers,” said Angelo.

  6

  Wearing his underpants and a T-shirt, Loren scraped dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher. Roberta sat at the kitchen table, smoking a Chesterfield. She still had on the cocktail dress she had worn for the dinner party that had just ended.

  “I can’t believe you’ve done this thing,” she said. “What in the name of God did you have in mind?”

  Loren struggled to control his voice. “I’m going to have that son of a bitch, one way or another.” He picked up his glass and drank Scotch. “I’m gonna kill him before he kills me!”

  “He’s not out to kill you. He’s out to destroy you.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “You better believe it. He destroys you, he’ll still be the speaker at luncheon forums in New York. You have him killed, you’ll eat your lunches in a prison cafeteria for the rest of your life. Or you’ll pay heavy blackmail to those two scuzzball ‘private detectives’ as long as you live. We got away with Craddock. We’ll never get away with Perino.”

  “He’s stealing everything we have!”

  “Subtlety, lover, subtlety. Carpenter—”

  “You and your goddamned subtleties! Direct—”

  “Listen to me! You’re so fuckin’ drunk you’re about to fall down. I’d like a tongue in my crotch, but I don’t think you can handle it. I don’t want you throwing up on me. Listen to me! Turn around here and face me! Look at me! You’re lookin’ at the only chance you’ve got.”

  “I love you, Roberta!” he blubbered.

  “I want the names and phone numbers of your fumbling shamuses. And don’t you ever again try to keep something secret from me!”

  7

  Roberta met with Len Bragg and Trish Warner in the lounge of a Pontiac motel.

  “It’s very simple,” she said. “My husband gave you ten thousand dollars as expense money, then two hundred and fifty thousand dollars against five hundred thousand dollars to do the job. You fucked up. Not only did you not do the hit, you got yourself noticed by the Greenwich police. I want a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And I want you to disappear. No contact with my husband again. None with me. And, sure as Christ, none with Perino.”

  “Oh, that’s the deal?” Trish asked with a wide smile.

  “That’s the deal. In cash, this week.”

  Trish grinned. “Fuck you.”

  “I can make it stick, sis,” said Roberta grimly.

  “Really?”

  “Really. You took a swat in the face with a blackjack three years ago. That’s some other money my stupid husband put up: the cost of putting your nose and cheek back together, sort of. Who do you think did that job on you, Miss Warner?” Now she turned to Len. “Who do you think let you have one on the back of the head? You give me any problems, I’ll pass the word that you took out a contract on Angelo Perino and tried twice to carry it out. He can check with the Greenwich police, where there’s an officer who may very well remember that last year he saw a strange car outside the Perino house at dawn.” She shrugged. “I don’t even need that confirmation. The guys involved will take my word.”

  “They’d ask you why we took out a contract on Perino,” said Len.

  “Not necessarily. But even if they found out, Perino would tell his guys to do you, not my husband. There’s a certain … family relationship.”

  Len sighed and shook his head. “We’ve had a lot of expenses. How about an even hundred thousand dollars back, instead of a hundred and fifty thousand?”

  “No one ever accused me of being unreasonable,” said Roberta. “That’s a deal. But if I ever see or hear from either one of you again, or my husband does, the deal is off.”

  XXXII

  1991

  1

  “Where’s Angelo?” Amanda asked. She and Cindy were in her studio in Greenwich. Amanda was working on a portrait of a Wall Street banker. He had been there sitting for it when Cindy arrived, but now he was gone. Amanda continued to work, and Cindy sat on a couch and sipped brandy.

  “He’s in Houston, meeting with a gorgeous redhead.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “No uh-oh. She’s gay.”

  Amanda laughed. “So are we, dear.”

  “Not really. We’re bi. After all, I’m the mother of five children. And you’ve been seeing Dietz for eighteen years.”

  “Carpenter…?”

  “No,” said Cindy. She smiled a little wistfully. “He’s gorgeous, but … well, you’ll see.”

  “I appreciate the intra,” said Amanda. “I could use a little loot.”

  Amanda still sold her work regularly, but she was no longer the exciting novelty she had been in the late seventies. More and more she was doing portraits on commission, flattering her subjects enough to make them happy. The banker on her easel was a little more clear eyed and square jawed than he was in reality. She hated this kind of work. She still did the youthful nudes, and they still sold, but they weren’t in demand the way they had been when VKP Galleries first introduced them to the art-buying public.

  Robert Carpenter had admired her paintings in the gallery and had suggested he would like to meet her. He was due at seven, and after he had met Amanda and seen some of her recent work, he would take her and Cindy to dinner.

  He arrived on time, actually a little early. He wore a flawlessly tailored dark blue suit, white shirt, and regimental-stripe tie. He had been too long in the sun somewhere, and the vivid contrast between his beard and his skin made almost a chiaroscuro in red-and-white.

  “As soon as I saw your work, I decided to become a collector in a small way,” he said to Amanda as he accepted a brandy from her. He frowned at the portrait on the easel.

  “That’s a piece from my Norman Rockwell period,” said Amanda.

  “He’ll pay you well,” said Carpenter dryly.

  “Yes. Unfortunately, I have to sign it.”

  “Your nudes are masterful,” he said.

  “I have only two here.”

  “They sell quickly,” said Cindy.

  “Do you have any of your adolescents? The two at the gallery are fascinating.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have one right now,” she said. “But let me show you—he’s a college football player. He modeled for me last summer.”

  The painting was of a burly young athlete, thick from his neck to his calves. He stood with his legs apart, his hands on his hips, offering his muscular body for approval and saying with the tilt of his head and his lazy smile that he dared anybody not to approve it.

  “Striking,” said Carpenter.

  “And, this one—she’s a waitress. The word’s around that I pay well. She’d missed a payment on her car.”

  A measure of Amanda’s talent was that her best paintings were biographies of her subjects. Anyone looking at the painting of the waitress could imagine that the young woman had posed nude with painful reluctance, driven by necessity. Her straight mousy hair, unplucked eyebrows, and exaggerated red lipstick suggested that she was without sophistication. She faced the artist and the viewer with shame but also with conspicuous determination.

  “My God!” Carpenter muttered.

  “One of Amanda’s best, in my judgment,” said Cindy.

  “Over dinner we’ll talk about a price for the two of them,” said Carpenter.

  2

  “Trash!” yelled Loren.

  Carpenter glanced at Roberta and then settled a heavy-lidded insouciant gaze on Loren. “Do you think so? All right, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. My retainer has been used up. You owe me three months’ fees, and in three months more you’ll owe me six. I’ll take the Amanda Finch paintings in lieu of six months’ fees. Deal?”

  “Deal,” said Loren. “I don’t want the damned things in my house.”

  “You’ve just made a mistake,” said Roberta blandly to Loren.

  “I don’t give a damn. What am I getting for these … paintings?”

  “Some interesting things,” said Carpenter. “When I was with Mrs. Perino in Greenwich, I learned that Perino is working with a computer designer in Houston named Alexandria McCullough. You’ll find a flight to Houston on my expense statement. The redoubtable Alex McCullough is a notorious lesbian. But she and Perino have become very close friends.”

  “Not worth the cost,” said Loren. “What else?”

  “You’ll also find a flight to London. Mrs. Perino was open enough to mention that her husband was going to London. He visited the Viscountess Neville three times while he was there.”

  “He visited her child, his son,” said Loren.

  “Perhaps. But the viscountess also visited him in his hotel. She spent a morning with him at Dukes Hotel. And that evening he did not return to his hotel. He spent the night at the Savoy, in a suite with the Princess Anne Alekhine.”

  “That son of a bitch!”

  Roberta sighed and shook her head. “This is gossip, Mr. Carpenter,” she said. “It’s interesting, but hardly worth the price of a DeCombe and two Finches, plus expenses.”

  “All right. Have you seen Mr. Perino lately?”

  “Day before yesterday,” said Loren.

  “Was he wearing a bandage on his left hand? If so, did he say why?”