Montaro Caine A Novel

27





THE EXECUTIVE DINING LOUNGE OF DAVIS INDUSTRIES WAS LOCATED on the tenth floor of the corporation’s Park Avenue headquarters in one of the priciest zip codes in Manhattan. But what Roland Gabler found most noteworthy when he arrived there for his one p.m. meeting with Bob Wildenmiller and his associates was how great the disparity could be between wealth and taste. There was an impersonal, corporate sheen to these rooms—the long table and chairs were undoubtedly expensive and yet were so lacking in distinctive qualities that they might as well have been chosen from a wholesalers’ mail order catalog. In Gabler’s domain, every objet d’art possessed a fascinating and sometimes dangerous history; what passed for artwork on these walls had probably been mass-produced on an assembly line. When Wildenmiller had called to request a meeting, Gabler had suggested that his own chef devise a menu; when Wildenmiller declined and Gabler agreed to meet at Davis headquarters, he was still looking forward to the discussion, but not to what would be served at lunch.

The dour individuals who greeted Gabler as he entered the room—Carlos Wallace, Verna Fontaine, Alan Rothman, Thomas Bolton, and Wildenmiller himself—made no greater impression on Gabler than the lounge itself or the two platters of lukewarm chicken Caesar salad set out on the conference table. Ice cubes were already melting in the pitchers of iced tea. These were sharpshooting businessmen; unlike some of the eccentric characters Gabler encountered in the collecting world, they didn’t know much about style and were likely to dispense with small talk and get straight to the point. True to Gabler’s expectations, it took barely more than a minute for Wildenmiller to say, “We’re interested in a recent addition to your collection, Roland.”

Gabler was used to taking his time in these sorts of discussions, engaging his potential adversaries in banter to take their measure. “What addition is that?” he asked.

“The one with what appears to be a very unusual history.”

“Forgive the immodesty, gentlemen, but all of my objects have very unusual histories, otherwise I’d be in the junk business.” Gabler laughed; the other men at the table did not.

“We would like to purchase it,” Wildenmiller said flatly, at which point Gabler abandoned the pretense of friendly discussion; clearly, this was to be solely a business conversation—disappointing but ultimately fine with him.

“It’s not for sale,” he said.

Wildenmiller took a mouthful of lunch, washed it down with swallows of iced tea, then rested his fork gently on his plate before speaking again. “You will need enormous resources to take full advantage of the potential represented there, Roland.”

Gabler kept his face blank while his eyes shifted about the table. “It sounds as if we’re on two different tracks,” he said. “To me, the real value of an object, such as the one you are discussing, is the extent to which it enhances my collection.”

“I understand,” Wildenmiller interrupted. “And fundamentally I agree with you. Rarity and beauty are, indeed, the object’s true values, even for an old accountant like me. However, let’s be practical. The chances of that coin remaining in your collection are very slim, given the likelihood of ownership disputes and the real possibility of public discovery. Therefore, secondary values of a more tangible nature than rarity and beauty might be all that will be left for you to hang on to. Your business is not equipped to take advantage of any of the possibilities that may be locked away in that rarity and beauty we all admire, while we, on the other hand, are fully equipped to exploit its potential.”

Gabler tried not to betray the elation he felt on hearing Wildenmiller’s words. “I don’t know what to say, except that I don’t agree with your assessment,” he said carefully. “If we are both operating from the same set of facts, then one of us is interpreting them incorrectly.”

“We have the same information as you have,” Wildenmiller said, “but we also have information that you do not have. Information you will not be able to uncover in time to successfully pursue this thing alone, even if you had the capacity to do so. Trust me, Roland, our offer, which will represent a substantial profit to you, is the only way things can work out to our mutual benefit.”

“Sorry, gentlemen, the item is not for sale.”

“Not even for, say, ten million dollars?” asked Wildenmiller.

“It is a priceless item, Bob.”

“For which you just paid two million dollars, if I’m not mistaken.”

Gabler remained silent.

“And in a very short time it may have no value at all to any of us,” Wildenmiller pressed on.

“You’re asking me to rush to judgment, as if I were a common hustler of trinkets,” said Gabler. “I assure you, I am not. Now, unless you can treat me with the respect I believe I deserve, there’s no point in continuing this discussion.”

“My apologies, if I’ve offended you,” Wildenmiller replied. “We have simply offered what we feel to be a very fair price, all things considered.”

“All things considered but not evenly balanced,” said Gabler. “Forgive me for saying so, but I couldn’t be less interested in your money, as unthinkable as that may sound to you. And I would like to disabuse you of the notion that no alternatives are open to me.”

Wildenmiller’s eyes lit up. “In that regard, Roland, I think it’s fair to tell you that we already know we’re not the only interested party.”

“Meaning?” asked Gabler.

“Meaning that our investigators have already told us that you have met with Montaro Caine and Howard Mozelle,” Wildenmiller said pointedly. “And I highly doubt that they offered you anything near the amount that we have offered you. We figure that they proposed some sort of partnership arrangement.”

Alan Rothman passed his linen napkin across his mouth, removing the salad dressing that had gathered on his lips. “Roland,” he said, “I think you should know that Caine and the doctor won’t be able to make good on anything they’ve proposed. Soon, Caine will not be in a position to honor any deal; he will no longer have a company to cover it.”

“No? Why not?” Gabler raised his eyebrows.

“The company will be changing hands shortly,” Thomas Bolton chimed in.

Carlos Wallace cleared his throat twice, always a reliable indication that he was ready to speak. “Let’s be candid,” he told Gabler. “What you’re really after is a better deal than the one they offered. Isn’t that true?”

Gabler let the question pass.

“If no agreement is reached between us,” said Wildenmiller, “let me repeat, your deal with Caine collapses the minute he is no longer CEO of Fitzer Corporation. So, with respect, I ask that you reconsider our offer.”

“Your offer is not acceptable. The item is not for sale,” Gabler repeated.

“At any price? Or at the price we have offered?” asked Wildenmiller.

Gabler hesitated. He searched their faces before he answered. “At that price,” he said evenly.

“At what price can we do business?” Wildenmiller asked.

Gabler was ready. “At the same price you offered, in addition to the same partnership arrangement that Caine and Mozelle proposed. I will retain a small percentage of all income that arises commercially from the exploitation of the coin and any of the elements it’s composed of.”

Now that the posturing was over and there was an actual deal to negotiate, the others at the table awaited a cue from Wildenmiller. Finally, he broke the silence and attempted to lighten the mood with a question:

“Well, so what do you think of our chef?” he asked.

“No contest,” answered Gabler. “Mine’s better.”