Jake liked May. He knew that the stories about her, both the good and bad, were exaggerated wildly.
Those who didn’t like May said she was a vulgar exhibitionist, a spoiled and ruthless creature, who had to be pampered and spot-lighted every minute of the day. Friends of hers, and they were many, said she was a generous, amusing woman, quick to help anyone who was down, and dangerous only to stuffed shirts, bullies, and prudes.
The truth lay somewhere in the middle, Jake guessed. May was a good deal of a phony, but amusingly so. Her chatter about art and literature, her first editions and signed paintings, were all cultivated with a frank eye to their publicity value, and her demand for attention, while not always charming, was hardly ruthless.
On the other hand, she had a sharp sense of humor, and her flair for sarcasm was usually reserved for people who deserved it.
The truth was that May was born to be looked at, to be admired, to be discussed and speculated about, and unless all this was happening at the same time, May was apt to be miserable.
Jake gave up his reflections as the cab drew to a stop before the Executives’ Building. He had no idea what May’s interference might mean to the Riordan account. But it was a safe guess that from now on things would be exciting.
Jake stepped from the elevator at the thirty-fourth floor and walked briskly toward the solid glass portals which bore the inscription: Gary Noble and Associates, Public Relations.
The reception room was dark but, upon entering the long, panelled hallway that led past the art and fashion departments, Jake could see light coming through the half-open door of Noble’s office, at the end of the corridor. There were voices and laughter coming from the inside and, also, the aroma of Noble’s twenty-eight-year-old Scotch.
Jake walked down the dark hallway and, after rapping on the half-open door, stepped into Noble’s office. He saw two men and a woman with drinks in their hands, and Gary Noble, who was working behind the bottle-cluttered bar that was normally hidden by a sliding section of the mahogany panelled walls.
“Well, there you are,” Noble said heartily. Gary Noble was not impressive physically, but his energy and enthusiasm were as overwhelming as a tidal wave. He was short, bulky, and fiftyish, with effectively disarranged white hair, and eyes that were startlingly blue against his darkly tanned skin. Gripping Jake’s arm, he pulled him toward the center of the office. “Jake,” he said, “I want you to meet the Riordans.”
The tall, powerfully built man standing at Noble’s desk, Jake recognized as Dan Riordan, clubman, industrialist and tycoon. Now Riordan looked tired and anxious; his thick black hair needed combing and his hard, strangely pale face was lined with worry. Standing together at the windows were a slender brunette of perhaps thirty-five, and a sandy-haired young man in a dinner jacket. They had been studying the world globe which, for some reason, Noble considered necessary to his office.
“Our senior account executive, Jake Harrison,” Noble said.
Riordan shook Jake’s hand with a quick, powerful grip, and smiled briefly. He seemed to be controlling his nerves, or his patience, with difficulty.
Noble led Jake to the couple at the window and made the introductions with a nice deference to the lady, who was Denise, Mrs. Riordan. The young man was Riordan’s son, Brian.
Denise Riordan murmured something and smiled at Jake. She was attractive in a smooth, polished fashion, and nearing forty, but her deeply tanned skin and slim figure made her appear younger. Underneath her excellently styled black faille suit, her body had the relaxed suppleness of a dancer, and her bare legs were evenly tanned and beautifully shaped.
Brian Riordan was tall, thin, with sandy hair and light gray eyes. He wore his dinner jacket with grace and was in the process of getting thoroughly drunk.
He beamed at Jake good-naturedly. “Now, I suppose we’ll have to get down to business. Probably means the drinking is over.”
“Not on your life,” Noble said, with a bellow of Rotarian cheer. “Let me fix that glass of yours. There are some things more important than business, damn it”
Jake knew that not even the sight of his mother lying under the wheels of a truck would slow Noble down on the way to a lucrative business appointment; but Noble had the gift of infusing his banalities with a desperate conviction that made people unconscious of their pointlessness.
Dan Riordan cleared his throat, and said, “I think we’d better talk about business, Noble.” He added drily, “I hate to spoil the party, but I’m rushed for time.”
“Right,” Noble said. “Let’s pitch right in.”
Jake lit a cigarette to cover his smile.
Denise Riordan walked to the brown leather sofa that extended along one wall and sat down, crossing her legs. Brian took a seat in a chair on the other side of the room and yawned comfortably.
“City air gets me,” he said, to no one in particular.
Noble was refilling glasses, so Jake said, “You don’t live in town then?”
“No. I live in Wisconsin, at Dad’s lodge. I come into Chicago once every week or so to get sociably drunk.”
Denise glanced at Riordan, who was leaning against Noble’s desk, and frowning at the floor, obviously not listening to the conversation. “When do I get to see the lodge?” she asked him, smiling. “I’ve seen the patio in Palm Springs and the hut in the Everglades, but no lodge.”
Riordan glanced at her, and his face cleared as he smiled. “It’s not a very exciting place. Perhaps Brian will have us up some weekend if you’re curious.”
“Delighted,” Brian said.
Noble distributed the filled glasses, then pulled the leather chair from his desk and pushed it over to Riordan; but Riordan shook his head.
“I can talk better standing,” he said. He took a sip from his drink, then faced Noble, his feet spread wide apart and his shoulders squared.
“Here it is,” he said. “Last week the manager of my Washington office called me, and told me that the Hampstead Committee had come across some deals of ours that they wanted explained. Two days later they sent a preliminary investigating team to Chicago headed by a fellow named Gregory Prior. Prior is in town now, and has sealed my books and is getting ready to go through them with a fine tooth comb. When he completes that end of the investigation he’ll report to Washington and, if they think they have a case against me, I’ll be called before the committee for a hearing.”
Noble had been nodding sympathetically. He said, “The government has a mania for investigating people. However, what’s Prior likely to find when he looks into your books?”
“He’ll find I cut corners,” Riordan said. “Hell, the Nazis and the Japs were cutting corners, weren’t they?” He tapped a thick blunt forefinger into the palm of his hand. “Here was the situation I faced: I had a contract to make barrels for the U.S. Army, and our boys needed those barrels bad. This was the winter of 1944, remember. Rundstedt had driven a wedge between our troops in the Ardennes, and the whole damn First Army was ready to crack. Goebbels was shouting that they’d have Antwerp by Christmas, Paris by the first of the year. Things were bad. I couldn’t beg or borrow the quality of steel that was specified in my contract, so I went ahead and made barrels with a cheaper grade of steel. I made the barrels, by God, and they were a damn sight better than no barrels at all.”
Riordan stopped talking, took a cigar wrapped in tin foil from his vest pocket and began to unwrap it quickly. There were patches of angry color in his cheeks, and he was breathing harder.
Brian Riordan opened his eyes and smiled at his father. “You’ve got an interesting point there,” he said. “I wonder if some G I who got blown up with one of those barrels would agree with you that they were better than none at all?”