Besides, ten thousand dollars a month was not enough, not when a single Edo spear went for sixty-five thousand dollars
"In the past," Littlefield continued, "you have said that the wording of the waiver was unacceptable, the conditions much too stringent."
"I'm sure I reacted much more strongly than that," Tucker said. "I probably indicated that it was not only unacceptable but immoral and almost criminal as well."
The lawyer's smile was brittle. "Well Your father has now drafted a new waiver which should be more to your liking and which should not stand between you and your allowance." He opened a manila folder that lay atop his desk, took out a single sheet of yellow paper, leaned across the desk and tried to hand it to Tucker. "If you'll take a moment to read this, you'll see how generous the offer really is."
"Why don't you read it to me?" Tucker asked, not bothering to rise out of his chair to accept the paper.
Littlefield colored slightly, then settled back. "Rather than bore you with the legalese, why don't I summarize the main points?"
"Fine," Tucker said.
Littlefield put the paper down and peered at his buffed and manicured nails for a moment. "First of all, your monthly allowance is being raised to fifteen thousand dollars so that it will be more in line with what you have often said you require. This takes quite a toll of the trust earnings, but it is a compromise your father is willing to make."
Tucker waited.
Discreetly clearing his throat behind one hand, Littlefield looked down at the legal document again. "Second, all of the money thus far paid to you in uncashed allowance checks will be made available in one lump sum." He raised his eyes from the paper, stared at Tucker, sighed when he received no encouragement. He shook his head, leaned back in his chair. "Furthermore, your father no longer requires that you come to work for him as soon as you accept the allowance. In fact, he does not require that you work for him full time at all."
"But part time?" Tucker asked sourly.
Littlefield nodded. "Just two days a week."
"I see."
"Even on that sort of schedule, you should gradually be able to learn the workings of your father's companies and get a grasp of the management of the family fortune."
Tucker held up one open palm, silencing the lawyer. "I don't want to get a grasp of the management of the family fortune," he said wearily. "I thought that was clear by now. As you must know, the last thing I want to become is a money manager like the old man. I want to enjoy life. "I don't want to spend all my time in banks and board rooms, working up ulcers. That attitude may frighten my father. It does frighten him. That's why he wrangled that signature from my mother when she was dying. But there is no way he can manipulate me to get me into his world."
"You're turning down this offer?" Littlefield asked.
"Precisely."
"I wish you would reconsider-"
"No chance," Tucker said, getting to his feet.
"You've judged your father too harshly."
"You think so?" Tucker asked, looking down at the lawyer, trying to control his anger. "He was so damned wrapped up in his schemes for making more and more money that he. lost all touch with his family. And out of touch, he eventually lost the ability to love us. We were a family of strangers. He sent me to boarding schools, saw me on holidays, never wrote me letters If my mother had not been gentle and weak, she'd have divorced him, because she had become as much of a stranger to him as I had. They hardly ever talked. They went days without seeing each other. He kept a string of mistresses, so that he didn't even need her to sleep with him. Hell, he flaunted those women as if he not only didn't love her but also wanted to hurt her." If his mother had been more like Elise, Tucker thought, she would have freed herself of the old man. Why couldn't she have been stronger? "You think I've judged him too harshly? Christ, I've been easy on him."
"Isn't it an expression of love for your father to want you to eventually take over the family businesses?" Littlefield asked. "Don't you think that-"
"No love involved," Tucker said. "It's simply a matter of his pride. He's determined to dominate me. He won't rest until he has forced me to do what he wants. Littlefield, my father lost touch with me so long ago that he doesn't even realize yet that I'm a man with a mind of my own. He insists on thinking of me as a bad little boy who must be punished, threatened, and cajoled into doing as he's told." He turned away and walked across the ice-blue carpet to the door.
"Michael," the lawyer called when Tucker twisted the knob. "One more thing."
He turned around. "What is it?"
Littlefield had gotten out of his chair, was standing very stiff and straight. "However you may be earning a living-it's far less admirable than the way your father makes his."
Feeling his heartbeat suddenly increase, Tucker released the doorknob and said, "What on earth is so despicable about dealing in primitive art?"
Littlefield smirked. "We both know that you can't be making so terribly much from that."
"Do we?" Tucker asked, both frightened and amused by the turn that the conversation had taken.
"Sooner or later we'll discover where all your money comes from," Littlefield said, his reedy voice taking on a nasty undertone. "And then you may have to compromise."
"Are you insinuating that I'm involved in something illegal?" Tucker hoped his voice conveyed genuine surprise.
Littlefield said nothing, just stood there with that maddeningly superior smile on his face. He would have made a good head waiter or doorman for a fancy restaurant, Tucker thought.
"Why don't you put the cops onto me? Or even the Internal Revenue Service?"
"We don't want you in jail," Littlefield said. "We just want you where you belongin the family again."
"You people think you can conduct human relationships like you would a business merger," Tucker said. "You're all barbarians." He opened the door and slammed it when he went out. He would have to start watching for tails again. It sounded as though his father were ready to hire another batch of private investigators to get to the truth about his son's life.
From a public telephone booth on the edge of Central Park, Tucker called Frank Meyers to tell him that everything was on for the next Wednesday in California, and then he went home. Because the usual gray-green polluted overcast was gone and the autumn sun was streaming down like golden curtains between the buildings, he decided to walk. He kept looking behind for one of his father's private detectives, but he could not spot anyone who might have been tailing him. The early Friday afternoon rush had begun, the sidewalks crowded with people who were in a hurry to get nowhere, but he was still reasonably certain that he was not being followed.
Back at the apartment, he mixed himself a drink and sat in the den thinking about Meyers and Edgar Bates and the new job. He turned the Oceanview Plaza operation over and over in his mind, worrying it like a cat with a large ball of string. There were a few loose ends. However, he was happily unable to tie them in. The plan was good.
Elise arrived home just before five o'clock, came into the den and perched on the arm of his easy chair. "How did it go with Littlefield?"
"Terribly."
"I thought they wanted to compromise."
"That was the problem," Tucker said.
They went out to the Spanish Pavilion for dinner, drank" a great deal of sangria, and went home for a sound night's sleep. That set the tone for the remainder of the weekend. They went to a couple of good films, did some light reading, watched an old horror movie on television, made love more than once, and generally lazed around.