Butterfly (55 page)

33

Paris to Marseilles. Across the Mediterranean to Ouahran. Then by train or auto or foot

across the rim of Africa to Casablanca in French Morocco. Here, the fortunate ones, through

money or influence or luck, might obtain exit visas and scurry to Lisbon and from Lisbon to the

New World. But…the others wait in Casablanca and wait…and wait…

She paused before the closed door and checked herself. It had been raining outside

and she was afraid her carefully rolled hair might have fallen. But everything was in place,

and the little hat and veil over her face weren’t even damp. Straightening the smart jacket

and smoothing down the skirt, she reached for the doorknob.

She was nervous. It had taken her a week to arrive at this point; her heart was racing so

fast she thought she might faint.

The door swung open upon a small café. There weren’t any other patrons at the tables

or the bar, but there was life here nonetheless, in the slowly revolving ceiling fans, in the

giant potted palms and hanging ferns, in the player piano against the far wall playing a

familiar tune. She quietly closed the door behind herself and looked around anxiously.

Food had been set out: a platter of spiced sausages, a wedge of Brie, Strasbourg liver pate

and toast points, smoked oysters. The champagne cocktails had already been poured; she

knew they would be a perfect blend of sugar, bitters, cognac and chilled champagne with

a lemon peel.

The setting was exquisite. All it needed was—

The door in the far wall opened and he came in. He didn’t see her at first; his look was

one of deep preoccupation. The sight of him made her heart jump. And suddenly her

mouth ran dry. He was so handsome in his white tropical suit.

Then he looked up and froze.

She tried to speak. “I…ah…”

He waited, gazing darkly at her.

“Rick, I have to talk to you,” she said finally, breathlessly.

He seemed to consider that. He strode to the bar and picked up one of the champagne

glasses. “I saved my first drink to have with you,” he said. “Why did you have to come to

Casablanca? There are other places.”

She twisted the strap of her purse. She could hardly breathe, she was so excited. “I

wouldn’t have come if I’d known that you were here.”

“Funny about your voice, how it hasn’t changed. I can still hear it.” His tone became

sarcastic. “‘Richard, I’ll go with you anyplace. We’ll get on a train together and never

stop-’”

“Don’t, Rick! I can understand how you feel.”

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His dark eyes flashed. He put the glass down and walked toward her. “You understand

how I feel. How long was it we had, honey?”

“I didn’t count the days.”

“Well, I did. Every one of them. Mostly I remember the last one…”

“Richard,” she cried. “I tried to stay away. I thought I would never see you again. That

you were out of my life.” Tears came to her eyes.

He was standing close now; she could sense his passion, could see how he was strain-

ing to control himself. The song on the piano seemed to grow louder—“As Time Goes

By.” The fans turned slowly overhead; the smoke from his cigarette seemed to fill the

room. His eyes were dark and angry and challenging. It was so good, so
perfect.

She started to cry.

He took her in his arms and she buried her face in his neck. “Oh Richard, the day you

left Paris—if you knew what I went through—if you knew how much I loved you—how

much I still love you…”

His kiss cut off her words. Suddenly all anger and bitterness and regrets vanished, and

all they were, were two people desperately in love in a world gone mad. They made love

urgently, hurriedly, as if their time together were short. When he lowered her to the floor

her mind was flooded with dizzying visions—of a French policeman, of men in Gestapo

uniforms, of a dreamy-eyed man lighting a cigarette, of a young girl dramatically singing

the “Marseillaise.” She clung to him and called him Rick. The song repeated itself end-

lessly on the player piano. The champagne sparkled in the glasses, waiting to be con-

sumed, with the food, in a little while. She was giddy with ecstasy. It was her most

treasured dream come true. It was just as had been promised. And when she whispered

into his ear, “Say it, Rick, say it,” and he said, so perfectly, “Of all the gin joints in all the

towns—” she closed her eyes and knew exactly where she was going to be every Thursday

night from now on.

Here at Butterfly.

34

Beverly Hills: 1978

The corporate headquarters of Highland Enterprises was housed in a new black-glass

building on Wilshire Boulevard. There were red-brick fountains out front, a multilevel

parking garage, a spacious lobby with a newsstand, a pharmacy, and security guards, and

six elevators that went up thirty flights. Highland Enterprises shared the twentieth floor

with only one other tenant—the Kenya Consulate and Tourist Commission.

Ann Hastings breezed through the large double doors and entered the hushed, car-

peted reception area. She was greeted by Esther, the black receptionist, who, with her

African print dresses and cornrowed hair, looked as if she really belonged in the offices

across the hall. Before going to her own office, which had a view of Beverly Hills and

Hollywood, Ann stopped by to say hello to Beverly. She was not surprised to find her

friend already deeply involved in something with Carmen and Maggie, and she knew why

their heads were together. It was Ann who had done the research and provided Carmen

with the data they were now going over.

Carmen glanced up, said “Good morning” to Ann, then went back to the list of fig-

ures she had been in the process of explaining to Beverly and Maggie.

Beverly looked up and waved. Ann continued on her way to her own spacious office,

where, with the help of two secretaries, she oversaw the strict quality control of the vast

Royal Burger chain.

It was a crisp, green-blue-golden day in Los Angeles, the rare sort of day that made

Southern Californians who worked in buildings like this one unable to concentrate. But

Beverly had no trouble concentrating on what Carmen was saying—Beverly never had

trouble concentrating on anything. As the cool recirculated air whispered out from vents

and wafted over the expensive furniture and fresh cut flowers and Navajo rugs in the large

corner office of the chairman of the board of Highland Enterprises, the chairman herself

was paying careful attention to what her accountant was telling her.

Beverly had learned a lot from Carmen. Although everyone had been impressed and a

little awed by Carmen’s rapid progress through school, starting sixteen years ago when she

was barely literate and ending up graduating from the UCLA business school with hon-

ors, Beverly had not been a bit surprised. She had known what Carmen was capable of. It

had been evident back in Hazel’s aroma-filled kitchen. All it had taken to set Carmen free

was a sense of self-worth and a chance at an education. And the freedom to
dream.

Despite having a baby to take care of and a job to hold down at a Royal Burger stand,

Carmen had taken classes full-time, studied around the clock, and made harsher demands

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on herself than even her teachers had. The result was an uncanny business acumen that

was one of the mainstays behind Beverly Highland’s success. Beverly herself often won-

dered where she would be right now if she hadn’t found Carmen on that fateful day in

Dallas.

Today they were working out their strategy for maneuvering certain enterprises into

Danny Mackay’s personal ownership. Without his knowing it.

“Okay,” Carmen said, “now, this is what you are going to need. Ann has broken it

down into types of food you will need: so much beef, so many tomatoes, heads of lettuce,

and so on to supply each franchise.” She pointed to items on the list with the gold

Dunhill pen Ann Hastings had given her when she passed her CPA exam. It matched the

classy gold chain around her slender wrist. In fact, everything about Carmen Sanchez was

classy these days. She wore her rich black hair up on her head and set it off with long,

slender earrings; she forsook wearing a dress for very wide Palazzo pants and a slinky silk

blouse that was unbuttoned daringly low. She didn’t look like the forty-year-old mother

of a teenage daughter.

“Now, I’ve done some research and I’ve found what I think is the best management

company for our needs.” Carmen pointed to the name she had written on the fact sheet.

“They can tell you how much acreage you will require, and where to buy it. They will run

the farms very scientifically, using computers and the latest methods. You can be guaran-

teed the best possible yield and the best products for your restaurants.”

Beverly and Maggie studied the sheets Carmen had drawn up. This was a new kind of

venture for them, something altogether different from anything they had gotten involved

in before.

Beverly became thoughtful again. Carmen had explained to her all about vertical inte-

gration and horizontal integration, and about the difference between them. The example

Carmen had used was in the instance of a small appliance manufacturer. If that company

wished to buy out another small appliance manufacturer, then that was called horizontal

integration. But if that small appliance manufacturer bought the plant that made the

metal for those appliances, thus supplying its own firm with the raw materials, then that

was called vertical integration. And that was exactly what the three women were planning

to do on this technicolored May morning in the twentieth-floor office of Highland

Enterprises. They were going to create a company that would be the sole supplier of beef

and vegetables to the gigantic Royal Burgers chain.

A company that would be worth millions and that Beverly had no intention of

keeping.

She was creating it only to sell it to Danny Mackay.

“He must not touch Royal Burgers,” Beverly said very seriously to her friend.

Carmen gravely shook her head. She knew how precious that company was to all of

them: it was their future, their security. “Don’t worry,
amiga.
He will get the farming

company only.”

“And all of its holdings?”

Carmen nodded almost sadly. She and Beverly and Maggie didn’t like dealing in such

things: a porno magazine, a chain of beauty salons that was really a front for illegal massage

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parlors, and a square block of the most wretched slums in East Los Angeles. But it was nec-

essary for them to own them. They were part of the plan.

They were going to see to it that Danny Mackay, who was acquisition-mad and buy-

ing up any properties he could get his hands on, jumped at this choice company and

bought it sight unseen.

“And Fanelli?”

“In case Danny Mackay’s staff wishes to investigate some of the farming company’s

investments, we will encourage them to come and take a look at Fanelli. They will look

around, see a very profitable, legitimate men’s shop, and will go back to Houston satisfied.

The rest they will never find out about.” Beverly closed the folder and turned to her sec-

retary. “What do you think, Maggie?”

What did she think? Like her two friends, Maggie thought it was a necessary move.

Once again, Danny Mackay was up to no good and he had to be stopped. Seven years ago

Beverly had staged a resurrection in Danny’s church for the sole purpose of exposing him

as a fraud. But Danny had attempted no more miracles. The publicity from that night’s

raising of the dead had not been good; the press had shot salvos at Danny that caused him

to drop such theatrics altogether. And besides, Maggie suspected, he must have decided

he didn’t need to resort to such trickery anymore, not with his new TV show and sudden

skyrocketing of fame.

But now he was involved in other dealings, dealings that hurt unsuspecting people

and from which Danny was profiting mightily. Such as forcing companies into bank-

ruptcy and buying them for a pittance, or squeezing someone out of his land because