Stock Holder Chapter 1

It was almost twelve o'clock of a rain-lashed, starless Florida night in October, 1962. Within three weeks the annual swarm of tourists would descend on the Palm Beach area, but this was still the slack season.

There were only four men in the hushed, dimly lit Colonnades Beach Hotel dining room. They sat around a table near the wall-sized window that over-looked the lonely beach. Outside, the Atlantic winds howled, the surf roared and rumbled, but here were heard only the civilized sounds of heavy silver laid on a padded tablecloth, the clink of ice cubes in glasses, the murmur of obsequious voices. The table where the men sat was littered with ashtrays, half-empty water glasses and the remnants of the dinner three of them had eaten. They had been in the dining room since the rain had started, at six that morning.

The three who had eaten were tired and fidgety. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the stale air above their heads. They were dressed much alike, in dark suits and blue shirts, and had the smooth, well-manicured look of executives who maintain country club memberships and do a good deal of business on the golf course. They were stiff from sitting, their eyes were reddened by smoke and they kept examining their watches as if to indicate it was time to go. A stranger observing the scene would have wondered why they didn't, for the fourth man in the group hardly seemed the type to detain them.

The stranger would have been puzzled by what the man was doing there in the first place. At best he had the look of a retired postman living on Social Security, at worst that of an elderly beach bum. Old, wizened, with skin darkened to mahogany by the Florida sun, he had been sitting for eighteen hours and now seemed to have fallen into a trance. Occasionally he ran his fingers through his thinning white hair or leaned an elbow on the table and cupped his chin in his hand, but for long periods he sat absolutely still.

He wore an almost white, well-wrinkled shirt, open at the collar, unpressed pants and scuffed shoes. He had a short neck and a mustache that didn't appear worth the effort. He was five-ten when he straightened up, which was seldom, and he had a comfortable paunch.

The old man hadn't spoken more than a dozen times all day and then only to ask questions. He had remained motionless, his face drained of expression, and his three companions couldn't tell if he'd been listening or off in some private reverie. Irritation crinkled the edges of their voices ; they began to wonder if he was drunk. He had been drinking since early afternoon. Now, sunk in a melancholy haze, he stared out at the lashing rain. He glanced up at the approach of a bow-tied waiter carrying a telephone.

"For you, Mr. MacArthur," the waiter told him.

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Stolkin in New York."

The old man sat as if lost in thought. He made no move for the telephone, stared unseeing at the inch-long ash on his filter-tip cigarette and didn't appear to notice as it crumbled into his scotch. The others exchanged glances of revulsion, except for the waiter who kept his face carefully impassive.

The three men settled back to wait for him to make up his mind. Into his hooded eyes came a glimmer of interest. He remembered other telephone calls, late at night, from Ralph Stolkin, and wondered what this one was about. He thought he had a pretty good idea. His tablemates had none at all. They knew Ralph Stolkin by reputation and tried to imagine a connection between him and the old man. It was a futile exercise.

Ralph Stolkin was described by the Wall Street Journal as a "Chicago financier." In reality he was a playboy, a yacht-sailing, jet-setting con man who was lucky not to be in jail. His father-in-law, Abraham Koolish, had received a ten-year prison sentence for his part in the Sister Kenny Foundation mail fraud, which certain cynical Chicagoans contend Ralph Stolkin masterminded. In 1952 Stolkin had a thirty percent controlling interest in RKO Radio Pictures, which he had purchased from Howard Hughes. Stolkin was elected president of RKO but was forced to resign when news of some of his earlier business activities came to light. He was now the major stock-holder in National Video Corporation and in MPI Industries, Inc. He owned 109,538 shares of National Video, 854,309 shares of MPI.

The three executive types began drumming their fingers on the table, partly from curiosity, partly from impatience. "Shall I tell him you've gone to bed?" the waiter asked smoothly.

For a moment the old man seemed to consider it. Then from under his failed mustache came the beginnings of a smile. "No," he said, twisting out the stub of his cigarette. He lifted the receiver.

"How are you, Ralph?"

"John, baby ! Great to talk to you again."

John MacArthur lit a fresh cigarette. He hunched over the table, the telephone crooked in the hollow of his shoulder as if he were too tired to think about holding it. "What do you want, Ralph?"

"Aren't you glad to hear from me? How've you been, anyway? Screwing any widows?"

"My neck's the only thing that gets stiff any more. What do you want?"

"I need money, John. I need it bad. The tax collector means business this time."

"I haven't any money, Ralph. You know that. What little I have goes to support Catherine and me in our retirement."

"A million dollars. I need a million dollars right away. It's life or death. I've got good collateral."

John MacArthur stretched, made no attempt to disguise a yawn. "I can't loan that kind of money. I don't have it."

"I said I have collateral. Good collateral."

"And I said I don't have it. Besides, I'm retired. I don't work anymore. I'm just trying to enjoy my last years."

"It's desperate, John. IRS is plenty sore."

John MacArthur's companions had stopped fidgeting and they could hear Ralph Stolkin's voice on the phone get higher and more excited. John MacArthur gathered them in with a look that seemed to include them in some private game of his own. His eyes sparkled with mischief : just watch this, they seemed to say. "Ralph, why don't you try the bank?" he asked, swallowing a laugh and holding the phone out so everyone could hear the obscene rejoinder.

"Goddammit," Stolkin spluttered, "this is important. Don't play games. . ."

"I can't help you." John MacArthur took a drink of his ash-laden scotch. "Maybe Louis Feil ..."

"Would you call him?"

"It's past midnight."

"This is urgent."

"For you, Ralph. Not for me."

"Okay. For me."

"I'll call him for old times' sake. For old times' sake, Ralph. You phone him in twenty minutes. I can't promise anything. It's up to Louis."

"Tell him you know me. That I'm good for it." "It's up to him."

"Twenty minutes. I'll call him."

John MacArthur replaced the receiver, drained his drink, gestured to the waiter, who took the empty glass and hurried away with it. Then he leaned forward and put the tips of his fingers together as if in an attitude of prayer. He stared out the window at the whirling surf, the straining palm trees, the black night.

The waiter returned with the drink. John MacArthur took a long pull from it, sighed and rubbed his stomach. "Well," he said, "it's about time for dinner. Lamb stew," he told the waiter.

"The chef's gone to bed. Maybe I could fix a sandwich?"

"Get the chef's ass out of bed," John MacArthur said mildly. "He's only had three customers all day.

Now that he's got a fourth he can do a little work."

Meditating on the temperament of chefs, the waiter walked slowly away, shaking his head, resigned.

John MacArthur lit a cigarette from the remains of the old, swallowed some scotch, reached for the phone and gave the hotel operator a number to call in New York.

"I was asleep," Louis Feil said.

"Ralph Stolkin wants money."

"Oh?"

"He'll call you in a few minutes." John Mac-Arthur hung up, stretched, smiled at the others. "No more business tonight," he said genially. "I'm an old man and these hours really are too much."

The three acted as one: with fury. They had sub-mitted their proposition from California, and four days ago they had received a response : "Get here right away or no deal."

They had made hurried flight reservations, had traveled all night and met John MacArthur the next morning. "How much are you prepared to offer?" he asked.

The three had been surprised. "We told you what we'd pay," one said. "You told us to get here right away."

"Sure I did. But I didn't say your proposition was satisfactory. Now—here's what I'd like." John MacArthur proceeded to outline stiffer, harsher terms.

Frantic long-distance calls, pleading, arguing, and, finally, the three had received authority to meet the new demands. They met with John MacArthur the next morning. "That's what I told you I'd like," he said. "Now—here's what I'll take." Again he demanded more.

The three had been angry. But by last night they had obtained the additional authority. "Good," John MacArthur told them. "Let me sleep on it." He had gone to his room in the hotel, pleased with himself, and had gone to bed. But sleep evaded him. Some-thing was wrong. Suddenly he realized what it was. "Hell," he said out loud, "I'll bet you could get even more if you made them wait a little longer."

So the three sat and watched him eat the lamb stew. "Listen," one said. "We came in good faith. I think we're entitled to an answer."

"You've got one. I haven't made up my mind yet." "Tomorrow?"

"I'm busy tomorrow. You fellows go back to Los Angeles. I'll call you when I've thought it over."

"Thought it over? We've met your terms. Look, we could...."

"Sue? Go ahead. I've got thirty-five hundred law-suits now. Yours will make thirty-five hundred and one."

John MacArthur was smiling, but his tone was final. Unless they wanted to risk being cut off entirely there was nothing they could do. They sat silent, sullen, watched as he ate, listened as he began to talk. They were forced to admit he could be a clever conversationalist. He was witty, earthy, proficiently profane. He finished his meal, wiped his plate industriously with a piece of bread and managed to get blotches of gravy on both cuffs of his shirt. He held them up for the others to see. "Anyway, it was time to have it washed."

John MacArthur was well into a second after-dinner drink and was still talking when the phone the waiter had left on the table began to ring. He didn't wait for Ralph Stolkin to identify himself. "How did Louis Feil treat you?"

"Goddammit, John, I wanted a loan, not a mortgage on my soul."

"Did the two of you get together?"

"He wants twenty percent. For thirty days—thirty goddam days—and he wants twenty percent." "Louis is a cautious man."

"He's a damn pirate."

"Ralph.. . ." John MacArthur's tone was soothing, comforting, vastly sympathetic. He could picture Ralph Stolkin, red-faced, furious. He could also picture Louis Feil, sleeping serenely.

"John, this is rape."

"Only one way to handle rape—relax and enjoy it." "Twenty percent for thirty days is. . . ."

"You could try the bank. Or did we discuss that?" "Fuck you."

"You'd like that."

"Dammit, John, I've got good collateral. I told you that. Don't you believe me?"

"I wouldn't believe you if you were knee-deep in Bibles."

"I just want.. ."

"You listen. I did you a favor. I told Louis Feil you were a friend of mine. I can't do any more than that. Whatever deal the two of you make isn't my concern. I'm retired. Louis handles these things."

"John. . . ."

John MacArthur hung up. He knew Ralph Stolkin would accept his terms, and he smiled as he reflected on how easy it was to make two hundred thousand dollars. What he couldn't know was that the deal would turn out even sweeter. For Ralph Stolkin had no intention of using the money to pay IRS. Instead he would buy a yacht. By the time Louis Feil got around to collecting what was owed, interest, penalties and legal fees would bring the total to six and a half million dollars.

John MacArthur looked at his guests. "I should go to bed now. I'm an old man."

The three men didn't want to leave. They started to talk about another meeting. Any time would be all right, they said. But their host insisted he was tired, he'd call them in California. He stood up, dismissing them, and they tendered reluctant goodbyes. He watched them leave, sat down again and finished his scotch.

It had been a good day. Ever since he had been a very little boy he had tried to do as well as he could each day. It gave him a warm feeling, a feeling of satisfaction to make each twenty-four-hour period a new and profitable adventure. Sometimes, as he had often said, he didn't like the rules, especially the one that judged a man by his bank balance. But then he didn't make the rules. He only lived by them.

He gazed down at the table, looked over the remains of food on the plates. The waiter had discreetly vanished. John MacArthur took a plastic bag from his pocket and scraped a partially eaten salad into it. Then he got up and walked from the dining room, the bag swinging at his side. As he went out he nodded to each haggard-eyed employee that he passed. In the lobby he stopped in front of a mirror.

"John," he said sternly, "you're a son-of-a-bitch." He grinned, tapped the glass. "But I like you," he said, and headed toward his room.

For the unknown billionaire, John MacArthur, one of the three richest men in America, it had been a typical day.