George Hackman looked up, recognized Villiers, and swarmed all over him in his enthusiasm. Villiers pushed him away gently, and Ginger said, “Don’t be gauche, darling,” calling her husband “darling” with steely emphasis and absenting the r from the word. She stared angrily at him, but Hackman was grinning obliviously; Ginger gripped his sleeve, turned him around, handed him her empty glass, and said, “Darling, why don’t you reach deep down in your heart and get me some ice cubes?” She smiled sweetly.
Hackman shifted his glance from Villiers to his wife and halved his smile. “Imagine you needing ice cubes.” Then, with elephantine cheek, he turned deliberately to stare at the actress’s breasts before he looked up again and said to Villiers, “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”
En route through the crowd, he said, “She says she’s got nothing to wear, and it takes her three Goddamned hours to put it on. Damn glad to see you, Mace. Glad you came.” He elbowed a path to the built-in bar. It was racked with cheap liquor, without apology. Hackman went around behind it and started filling glasses, roaring in his bumptious voice, “Now, this is what you call an income-tax cocktail-two drinks, and you withhold nothing.” He guffawed.
A man by Villier’s elbow said, “Anybody can make a fortune in the market, George, but it takes a genius to mix a good Manhattan.”
“You bet your ass,” Hackman said. “The secret is, you don’t pour the vermouth, you just pretend to pour it.” He emitted another bark of laughter, turned to Villiers, and said in a low, confidential growl, “Why the hell can’t I convince Ginger a pretty secretary can be just as efficient as an ugly one, hey?” He winked elaborately.
Villiers eased back to the end of the bar and stood isolated by his aloofness. For a moment he looked speculatively across the room at the red-haired actress. She was swivel-hipped and large-breasted and impregnated with sensuality; but her hair was bottled, the thick mouth was outlined with a great smear of red like a gunnery target, and her eye makeup seemed to be compounded of shoe polish and reinforced concrete. Villiers lost interest and looked away. A man beside him said in his ear, “Christ, the heat.” Villiers didn’t even look at him.
He caught snatches of talk: “The servant class is dying off a lot faster than the upper class.” “… went up seven points in fourteen days!” “… can’t get the Goddamned car fixed at all, not a single competent mechanic left in Westchester County.”
Hackman handed him a drink. “Wrap yourself around this, old buddy.” He looked up and saw his wife approaching and said, “Cheese it, the fuzz,” and disappeared into the crowd; Villiers had a last glimpse of him resting a casual, proprietary hand on a girl’s rump.
Ginger came up to Villiers and let her shoulders slump. “Christ, Mace.”
He gestured with the drink Hackman had handed him. “How high the moon, Ginger?”
“About four Scotches,” she said. “Forgive me, I’m a little drunker than usual tonight. I’ve got a summer cold, which I’ve been curing with Scotch. God, look at this mess. All these Yo-Yos lying to each other, talking all the time about how much they hate parties. They’re all trying to sell something. What ever happened to the gay old times? What ever happened to the real laughs, Mace?”
“If you don’t like it, you can divorce him.”
“And go back to the chorus line and the runway at Macy’s? Thanks a lot.”
“You’ll suit yourself, I suppose,” he said, and put the drink down on the bar, untouched. “I expected to see Colonel Butler here.”
“He’s here-that little bald character over there talking to the Winslows. Shall I introduce you to him?”
“No. Where’s the guest bedroom?”
She gestured with her drink. “Down that hall, the last door on your right.”
“Tell Butler I’m there. Don’t let anybody else hear you.”
She lifted her eyebrows. Villiers moved off toward the hallway. He glanced back once and saw that Ginger was standing very still, looking at him, unblinking. Her lips parted; she followed him with her eyes when he turned away.
He found the guest room and went in, switching on a table lamp and choosing his spot. When knuckles rapped on the door, he had just finished moving the two chairs to new positions in the room. He opened up and said without smiling, “Come on in.”
“You’re Villiers. I’ve seen your picture in the Times. I’m Lew Butler.” The colonel offered his hand, and Villiers, out of politics, took it; the colonel made a childish contest of strength of it, and Villiers matched him grip for grip until the colonel smiled slightly and relaxed his hold. Villiers indicated a chair and crossed the room to sit down. He had so positioned the chairs that most of the light in the room fell on Colonel Butler’s face when he sat down. If Butler was aware of the deliberate placement of furniture, he made no sign of it. He was a trim, short-bodied man with a well-taken-care-of body that bespoke gym workouts and rubdowns; his suit was well cut, conservative, Brooks Brothers; his voice had that curious combination of command abruptness and Southern twang which seemed to be the standard patois of the armed services.
He said, “I had to postpone a trip to British Columbia to hunt bighorns for this. I hope you’ve got something important to say.”
“I have,” Villiers said, and added without expression, “I’m glad you could make it.”
“I don’t much care for this clandestine way of doing things. Always been a straight-from-the-shoulder man, myself.”
“You were the one who didn’t want anybody to know about this meeting.”
The colonel made a quick, impatient gesture, like a short judo chop. “Let’s get at it. What’s on your mind?”
Villiers took his time answering. He was sizing the man up. Butler had manicured fingers and a diamond tiepin. His shoes were $125 Johnston-Murphys. The necktie was silk, possibly Dior. Clearly a man who liked to spend money: if he spent that much on his attire, he probably had ambitions of owning his own private steam yacht to take him on his trophy-hunting safaris. Probably had tens of thousands invested in his hunting wardrobe and armory. All of which suggested a direction of approach. Villiers said, “Heggins Aircraft is a tired old company. You let yourself be tapped to head it because five years ago there were plenty of Pentagon contracts to be had and you liked the sound of the seventy-five-thousand-a-year salary that went with the job. When the contracts started to come in, in fact, you liked it so much you bought into the company with borrowed capital. By last year you’d bought enough stock, mainly through stock options, to control the board of directors as well as the management of the company. You moved up from president to board chairman because you owned fifteen percent of the stock and got the proxies of another forty percent. But you had to borrow money to do it, using your fifteen percent as collateral. All of which makes you control-rich but cash-poor. Let me finish. It strikes me you might welcome someone to come in and take the clunker off your hands, if it would allow you to retire with a pocketful of cash and negotiable securities instead of the mountain of debts you’ve got now. You’ll correct me if I’ve given offense. I’m offering you cash in hand.”
“For control of Heggins?”
“Of course.”
“I own only fifteen percent of it, and that’s in hock. How can I sell the company when I don’t own it?”
A bit of a smile touched Villiers’ mouth for the first time. “You’re not dealing with a country boy now, Colonel. Your pretended innocence is misplaced. As long as you control your own board of directors, you can sell the company to anybody you please. Let’s not waltz, shall we?”
The heavy roll of Butler’s lips compressed. “Why do you want it? You said yourself it’s in bad shape. Not that I agree, but if that’s your opinion I don’t see why you’d be interested in the company.”