“Good
morning, Mrs.
Kirkbridge
, my name is Nat
Cartwright,
I’m the chief executive of Russell’s Bank in
Hartford, Connecticut.
We
have a proposition we thought your company might be interested in, and as I’m
in New York later today, I hoped you would be able to spare me a few minutes.”
“Can
I call you back, Mr. Cartwright?” she replied in a crisp English accent.
“Of
course,” said Nat, “I look forward to hearing from you.”
He
wondered how long it would take Mrs.
Kirkbridge
to
discover that he was the chief executive of Russell’s Bank. She was obviously
checking, because she didn’t even ask for his telephone number. When the phone
rang again his secretary said, “Mrs.
Kirkbridge
on
the line.”
Nat
checked his watch; it had taken her seven minutes.
“I
could see you at two thirty this afternoon, Mr. Cartwright; would that suit
you?”
“Suits
me just fine,” said Nat.
He
put the phone down and buzzed Linda.
“I’ll
need a ticket on today’s eleven-thirty train to New York.”
Nat’s
next call was to
Rigg’s
Bank in San Francisco, who
confirmed his worst fears.
They
had been instructed to send the money to
Banco
Mexico
only moments after it had been deposited with them. From there, Nat knew it
would follow the sun until it finally disappeared over the horizon. He decided
it would be pointless to call in the police unless he wanted half the banking
community let in on the secret. He suspected that Julia, or whatever her real
name was, had also worked that out.
Nat
got through a great deal of the backlog caused by his absence before leaving
the office to catch the train to New York. He made it to the offices of
Kirkbridge
and Co. on 97th Street with only moments to
spare. He hadn’t even had time to take a seat in reception before a door
opened. He looked up to see an elegant, well-dressed woman standing in the
doorway. “Mr. Cartwright?”
“Yes,”
he said, rising from his seat.
“I’m
Julia
Kirkbridge
; would you like to come through to
my office?”
The same crisp English accent.
Nat could
not recall how long ago it was that a director of any company had come to
collect him in the reception area rather than sending a secretary, especially
one working out of New York.
“I
was intrigued by your call,” said Mrs.
Kirkbridge
as
she ushered Nat through to a comfortable seat by the fireplace. “It’s not often
a Connecticut banker comes to New York to visit me.”
Nat
took some papers out of his case, as he tried to assess the woman sitting
opposite him.
Her
clothes, like those of her impersonator, were smartly tailored, but far more
conservative, and although she was slim and in her mid-thirties, her dark hair
and dark eyes were a total contrast to the blond from Minnesota.
“Well,
it’s quite simple really,” began Nat.
“Hartford
City Council has put another site on the market that has planning approval for
a shopping mall. The bank has purchased the land as an investment and is
looking for a partner. We thought you might be interested.”
“Why
us?” asked Julia.
“You
were among the original companies that bid for the Robinson’s site, which,
incidentally, has proved to be a great success, so we thought you might want to
be involved in this new venture.”
“I’m
somewhat surprised that you didn’t think of approaching us before you made your
bid,” said Mrs.
Kirkbridge
, “because had you done so,
you would have discovered that we had already considered the terms far too
restrictive.” Nat was taken by surprise. “After all,” continued Mrs.
Kirkbridge
, “that is what we do.”
“Yes,
I know,” said Nat, buying time.
“May
I ask how much it went for?” asked Mrs.
Kirkbridge
.
“Three point six million.”
“That
was way above our estimate,” said Mrs.
Kirkbridge
,
turning a page of the file on the table in front of her.
Nat
had always considered himself a good poker player, but he had no way of knowing
if Mrs.
Kirkbridge
was bluffing. He only had one card
left. “Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” he said, rising from his
place.
“Perhaps
you haven’t,” said Mrs.
Kirkbridge
, who remained
seated, “because I’m still interested in listening to your proposal.”
“We’re
looking for a fifty-fifty partner,” said Nat, resuming his seat.
“What
does that mean exactly?” asked Mrs.
Kirkbridge
.
“You
put up $1.8 million, the bank finances the rest of the project, and once the
debt has been recouped, all the profits will be divided fifty-fifty.”
“No
bank
fees,
and the money loaned at prime rate?”
“I
think we would consider that,” said Nat.
“Then why don’t you leave all the details with me,
Mr. Cartwright, and I’ll come back to you.
How
long have I got before you need a decision?”
“I’m
meeting two other possible investors while I’m in New York,” said Nat. “They were
also bidders for the Robinson’s site.”
From
the expression on her face, there was no way of telling if she believed him.
Mrs.
Kirkbridge
smiled. “Half an hour ago,” she said, “I
had a call from the chief executive of the Hartford City Council, a Mr. Cooke.”
Nat froze. “I didn’t take the call as I thought it would be prudent to see you
first.
However,
I find it hard to believe that this was the type of case study they expected
you to analyze at Harvard Business School, Mr. Cartwright, so perhaps the time has
come for you to tell me why you really wanted to see me.”
Annie
drove her husband to City Hall, and it was the first time they had been alone
all day. “Why don’t we just go home?” said Fletcher.
“I
expect every candidate feels that way just before the count.”
“Do
you know, Annie, we haven’t once discussed what I’m going to do if I lose.”
“I’ve
always assumed you’d join another law firm. Heaven knows enough have been
knocking on your door. Didn’t Simpkins and
Welland
say they needed someone who specializes in criminal law?”
“Yes,
and they’ve even offered me a partnership, but the truth is that politics is
what I enjoy doing most. I’m even more obsessed than your father.”
“That’s
not possible,” said Annie. “By the way, he said to use his parking space.”
“No
way,” said Fletcher, “only the senator should occupy that spot. No, we’ll park
down one of the side streets.” Fletcher glanced out of the window to see dozens
of people walking up City Hall steps.
“Where
are they going?” asked Annie. “They can’t all be close relations of Mrs.
Hunter.”
Fletcher
laughed. “No, they’re not, but the public are allowed to watch the count from
the gallery.
It’s
evidently an old Hartford tradition,” he added as Annie finally found a parking
space some distance from City Hall.
Fletcher
and Annie held hands as they joined the crowds heading into the hall. Over the
years, he had watched countless politicians and their wives holding hands on
election day
, and often wondered how many performed the
ritual simply for the cameras. He squeezed Annie’s hand as they strolled up the
steps trying to look relaxed.
“Do
you feel confident, Mr. Davenport?” asked a local newscaster, thrusting a
microphone into his face.
“No,”
said Fletcher honestly.
“Nervous as hell.”
“Do
you think you’ve beaten Mrs. Hunter?” tried the reporter again.
“I’ll
be happy to answer that question in a couple of hours’ time.”
“Do
you believe it’s been a clean fight?”
“You’d
be a better judge of that than me,” said Fletcher as he and Annie reached the
top step and walked into the building.
As
they entered the hall, there was a ripple of applause from some of those seated
in the gallery.
Fletcher
glanced up, smiled and waved, trying to look confident, even though he didn’t
feel it.
When
he glanced back down, the first face he saw was Harry’s. He looked pensive.
How
different City Hall felt from the day of the debate. All the chairs had been
replaced by a horseshoe of long tables.
In the center stood
Mr. Cooke, who had presided over seven previous elections.
This would be
his last, as he was due to retire at the end of the year.
One
of his officials was checking the black boxes, which were lined up on the floor
inside the horseshoe. Mr. Cooke had made it clear during the briefing he had
given both candidates the previous day that the count would not begin until all
forty-eight ballot boxes had arrived from their polling stations and had been
authenticated. As the poll closed at 8 P.m. this procedure usually took about
an hour.
A
second ripple of applause broke out, and Fletcher glanced around to see Barbara
Hunter enter the room, also displaying a smile of confidence as she waved to
her supporters in the gallery.
Once
all forty-eight boxes had been checked, their seals were broken by the
officials and the votes emptied onto the tables ready for counting. Seated on
either side of the horseshoe were the hundred or so counters. Each group
consisted of one representative from the Republican
party
,
one from the Democrats and a neutral observer standing a pace behind them. If
an observer was unhappy about anything once the counting had begun, he or she
would raise a hand and Mr. Cooke or one of his officials would go to that table
immediately.
Once
the votes had been emptied onto the tables, they were separated into three
piles-a Republican pile, a Democratic pile and a third, smaller pile of
disputed ballot papers.
Most
of the constituencies around the nation now carried out this entire process by
machine, but not Hartford, although everyone knew that would change the moment
Mr. Cooke retired.
Fletcher
began walking around the room, watching as the different piles grew. Jimmy
carried out the same exercise, but strolled in the opposite direction. Harry
didn’t move as he watched the boxes being unsealed, his eyes rarely straying
from what was taking place inside the horseshoe. Once all the boxes had been
emptied, Mr. Cooke asked his officials to count the votes and place them in
piles of one hundred.
“This
is where the observer becomes important,”
Harry
explained as Fletcher came to a halt by his side. “He has to be sure that no
ballot is counted twice, or two aren’t stuck together.” Fletcher nodded, and
continued his perambulation, occasionally stopping to watch a particular count,
one moment feeling confident, the next depressed, until Jimmy pointed out that
the boxes came from different districts and he could never be sure which ones
had come from a Republican stronghold and which from a Democratic area.
“What
happens next?” asked Fletcher, aware that Jimmy was attending his fourth count.
“Arthur
Cooke will add up all the ballots and announce how many people have voted, and
calculate what percentage that is of the electorate.” Fletcher glanced up at
the clock-it was just after
eleven,
and in the
background, he could see Jimmy Carter on the big screen, chatting to his
brother Billy. The early polls suggested that the Democrats were returning to
the White House for the OF first time in eight years. Would he be going to the
Senate for the first time?
Fletcher
turned his attention back to Mr. Cooke, who appeared to be in no hurry as he
went about his official business. His pace did not reflect the heartbeat of
either candidate.
Once
he had gathered up all the sheets, he went into a huddle with his officials,
and transferred his findings onto a calculator, his only concession to the
1970’s. This was followed by the pressing of buttons, nods and mutters, before
two numbers were written neatly on a separate piece of paper.
He
then walked across the floor and up onto the stage at a stately pace. He tapped
the microphone, which was enough to bring silence, as the crowd was impatient
to hear his words.
“God
damn it,” said Harry, “it’s been over an hour already. Why doesn’t Arthur get
on with it?”
“Calm
down,” said Martha, “and try to remember that you’re no longer the candidate.”
“The
number of people who cast votes in the election for the Senate is 42,429, which
is a turnout of 52.9%.” Mr. Cooke left the stage without another word, and
returned to the center of the horseshoe.
His
team then proceeded to check the piles of one hundreds, but it was another
forty-two minutes before the chief executive climbed back onto the stage.