Never Too Rich (41 page)

“
You are?”

“
Oh, more than ever! First, I can’t
resist a challenge. And second, I truly believe that once we’re
past the initial start-up stage, we’ll be able to write our own
ticket. That’s when the really big bucks will come rolling
in.”

She looked at him narrowly. “I’ll want the company
named ‘Edwina G.’ “

“
Hmmm.” He considered that. “Not
bad,” he said, tapping a finger against his lip. “I like the sound
of it.”

“
And I like the sound of this: I
want to draw an annual salary of three hundred thousand dollars, to
be paid in weekly installments.”

“
Agreed.”

“
Half of which will be
automatically deducted to go toward owning a thirty-percent voting
share of the company,” she added.

He looked amused. “Anything else?”

She nodded. “Full medical and dental coverage, life
insurance, and retirement plan.”

“
Fine.”

“
Also, there’s the little matter of
profit sharing. Since this is a new and untried company, and liable
to go bust, I want five percent of the profits.”

“
Maybe I should get you a stall in
a bazaar.”

She ignored him.

“
Gross, not net.”

“
Gross . . . gross . . .” He looked
apoplectic.

“
Gross,” she said
flatly.

“
What makes you think you’re worth
all this?”

“
Because you need me. You’ll never
be able to pull it off by yourself and succeed.”

“
You
are
sure of yourself,
aren’t you?”

“
I also,” she continued calmly,
“want to be named president of the corporation, and have written
authority that all final decisions are mine to make. That includes
hirings and firings, design, manufacture, promotion, and dealing
with the stores. And last, but not least, in order to stand a
fighting chance in the kind of market we’re after, you’ll have to
up your three-million-dollar initial ante to at least five. And
that takes only the first year into account.”

“
And if I don’t agree to all these
demands?”

“
Then,” she said succinctly, “I
walk right out of here.”

“
You’re bluffing.”

She looked at him unblinkingly. “Try me.”

He looked down at his untouched rhubarb tart for
long moments and then looked back up and nodded. “All right, it’s a
deal.” He stared at her. “I’ll have my lawyers draw up the papers
right away.”

Her face broke into a grin that would have dazzled
old Scrooge himself. “I’d say we’re in business, then. Well? What
are you waitin’ for, pardner? Break out the champagne!”

Chapter 42

The demonstration had been orderly. For almost two
hours now, nearly fifty protesters had circled quietly in front of
550 Seventh Avenue. Now they went half-wild as Antonio de Riscal’s
limousine pulled up and he got out, unaware that he was their
target. Before he knew what was happening, a cry had gone up, the
protesters had surged out of the designated demonstration area, and
he suddenly found his way blocked by a furious, intractable human
wall.

“
Excuse me,” Antonio murmured,
trying to get through.

They wouldn’t move. He excused himself again, and
they closed ranks even further.

He stared at them in red-faced frustration, his
white-knuckled fists clenched at his sides. Some of them were
waving placards of ghoulish photographs of animals in agony. Others
carried signs reading FUR IS DEATH and ANTONIO DE RISCAL SELLS
MURDER! Still others were holding up gruesome steel traps and
shaking them noisily. A few were handing out fliers to passersby
who had gathered to watch. Then one of them began shouting,
“Kil-ler! Kil-ler!”, and the others took up the cry and began
chanting as one:
“
Kil
-ler!
Kil
-ler!”

“
Antonio de Riscal has just arrived
here at 550 Seventh Avenue, the scene of the latest in a series of
anti-fur demonstrations,” a forewarned television reporter said
earnestly into her microphone. “Mr. de Riscal, do you foresee
demonstrations of this kind as having any impact on your future
collections? And will this sway your opinion one way or the other
about continuing to design a collection of fur coats?” She thrust
the microphone into his face.

Antonio drew his head back and found himself glaring
directly into the lens of a video camera. Realizing that the tape
was rolling, he quickly forced an expressionless look.

“
At Antonio de Riscal, we neither
buy furs, nor raise them, nor sell them,” he replied stiffly. “We
simply supply a licensee with our designs.”

“
And could you name that
licensee?”

“
I . . . ah . . . would have to
check our records about that,” he said lamely. “You see, with
sixty-four licenses currently disposed of, it’s a little difficult
to keep track of who . . . er . . . is licensed to sell which
particular collection.” He gave her the approximation of a cold
smile.

“
Then I take it the name Palace
Furs does not jog your memory?” the reporter pressed.

“
Everyone has heard of Palace
Furs,” Antonio replied impatiently. “Like I said, I would have to
check our records.”

“
And if it is Palace Furs which
holds your license?” the reporter persisted. “Do you plan on
continuing or discontinuing the licensing of your name to
them?”

“
I really cannot speculate about
that at this time.”

“
Then does this mean you were
not
aware of the fact that Palace Furs has consistently been
cited by anti-fur groups for the particularly brutal treatment the
animals receive on their breeding farms?”

“
I have not heard of those
allegations, but I will certainly look into them.”

“
With anti-fur forces gaining in
strength and popularity nationwide, does this protest give you any
second thoughts about licensing your name to furriers?”

“
I’m sorry, but I’m really not
prepared to answer that either. Now, if you will please excuse
me—”

“
Just one more question,
Mr.—”

But Antonio had already turned away. The protesters
would not part, and he had to shove two of them aside in order to
fight his way into the building.

The reporter was saying into her microphone behind
him, “As you can see, an obviously bewildered and somewhat shaken
Antonio de Riscal has arrived at his Seventh Avenue headquarters in
the midst of a rather passionate anti-fur protest. But only time
will tell whether this protest, and others like it, will sway this
designer and others on this growing issue ...”

Antonio was fuming as he waited for an elevator, and
his usual composure was at the explosion point. No one had bothered
to warn him that a demonstration was in progress or that Palace
Furs was being singled out. Why hadn’t he been forewarned? There
had been ample opportunity for either Liz Schreck or Klas Claussen
to call him at home or on the car phone. Surely they knew what was
going on. Were none of them on their toes? Well, they would hear
about it, and good—that much was for certain.

By the time he stalked into his outer office four
minutes later, his pink face had turned crimson and his clenched
fists were trembling with rage.

“
Liz!” he said in a dangerous voice
as he advanced on his secretary’s desk. Reaching it, he placed both
hands flat on the surface and leaned across it. “Why the hell
wasn’t I called and warned to expect that . . . that motley crew of
demonstrators downstairs?” His white enamel teeth were bared and
his eyes were narrowed into slits.

With deliberate slowness Liz Schreck removed the lit
cigarette which was glued, semi permanently, to her lower lip. Her
pugnacious chin went up, her tightly coiled yellow-orange hair
positively writhed, and she squinted right back at him through a
cloud of blue cigarette smoke. “For your information,
Mr.
de
Riscal,” she retorted tartly in her smoker’s rasp, “I’ve spent the
last two hours fielding telephone calls from the press. Not only
that, but the switchboard’s been overloaded by animal activists
tying up the phone lines, so we couldn’t even
get
an outside
line. Mr. Claussen assured me that he would go down to the pay
phones in the lobby and call you.”

“
Well, he didn’t,
dammit!”

“
Then take it out on him, why don’t
you?” she snapped, busying herself with a stack of
paperwork.

“
Where is he?”

She glared up at him. “Where do you think he is? For
starters, you might try his office. Or maybe the men’s room.”

Antonio was momentarily immobilized by sheer rage.
Then, without warning, he slammed a hand so violently on the
desktop that she jumped. “Who do you think you are?” he shouted.
“The boss? Well, I suggest you listen, and listen well! Either you
do something about that attitude problem of yours or ...” He left
the threat dangling.

Liz pushed her chair back and stared at him. “Or
what?” she asked quietly.

Antonio straightened. “Infer what you wish.”

“
Then I suggest
you
listen
well,” Liz retorted. “I’ve worked in this madhouse for thirteen
years now, and I refuse to be talked to like that—even by you.” She
got up, bent over to get the clear plastic shopping bag imprinted
with yellow daisies out from the kneehole of her desk, and set it
on her chair. Then she started to pull open her desk
drawers.

“
And what do you think you’re
doing?” Antonio snapped.

“
What does it look like I’m doing?”
she sniffed. “I’m cleaning out my desk. As of this moment, I quit.
Accounting can send my final paycheck to my house.”

“
Have it your way. Just don’t
expect any severance pay.”

“
Did you hear me ask for any?” she
retorted.

They glared at each other, neither willing to back
down.

“
Can I get to my packing?” she
asked snappishly. “Or is there something else?”

Antonio was too furious to argue or cajole. “No!” he
said tightly, and every square inch of skin quivering, he turned
his back on her and marched off.

Headed for Klas’s office.

Eighteen floors below, Billie Dawn had just arrived
in front of 550 Seventh Avenue. Grabbing her oversize modeling
portfolio from the seat beside her, she slid her slender body out
of the hired limousine, thanked the driver, and stopped to stare at
the protesters, who had returned to pacing peaceful circles. Her
eyes took in the placards and gruesome blowup photos. When someone
thrust a pamphlet from the Animal Rights League into her hand, she
took a moment to glance through it.

She thought she was going to be sick.

There were photographs of minks in agony. Foxes
ensnared in traps. Baby seals being clubbed in front of their
mothers. Hundreds of raccoons stuffed into cages too small to house
them all. Horrifyingly scarred, burned, and mutilated animals.

But the horrors didn’t stop there.

There were gas chambers for efficient killing.

Assembly lines, complete with conveyor belts, where
the animals were cut open and skinned.

Photos of animals that had chewed off their own paws
to escape traps.

She stood there too sickened to move. It was
wholesale slaughter. A death camp for cute furry creatures.

And all so people could swathe themselves in
pelts.

“
Hold it, Tom!” the TV reporter who
had accosted Antonio said to her cameraman, who was in the process
of unloading his gear. “I don’t think we’re quite done yet. That’s
Billie Dawn, the model. I want to get her opinion on this issue.”
Years of covering the metropolitan beat had honed the reporter’s
instincts to the point at which she could smell a story before it
unfolded.

Cameraman in tow, she approached Billie Dawn, and
when she was standing beside her, she turned to the camera. “If you
look next to me, you’ll see that supermodel Billie Dawn has just
arrived at the scene of today’s protest.” She turned slightly to
face her. “Billie, I couldn’t help noticing your interest in this
demonstration. Do you have any personal opinions you want to share
with us on the use of furs as garments?” She held out the
microphone.

Billie Dawn looked long and hard into the camera,
then agitatedly flipped her waist-long hair back over her
shoulders. “Yes, I do!” she said with quiet vehemence. “It’s
disgusting! My God, those poor animals! Just look at this!” She
rattled the flier she had been handed. “I had no idea they were
being mistreated this way!”

“
Then I take it you’re on the side
of the activists?” the reporter second-guessed.

“
You bet I am!” Billie Dawn said
indignantly. “As a matter of fact, my agency was sending me to
Antonio de Riscal right now. Would you believe—to be fitted for fur
coats? Well, I can tell you one thing. That’s one photo shoot I
will
not
be doing!”

The reporter hid her jubilation. “Thank you, Billie
Dawn.” Turning back into the camera, she said, “From here at 550
Seventh Avenue, this is Marcia Rodriguez for NewsCenter Four.” She
paused, then said, “Come on, Tom!” She tapped her cameraman on the
arm and they half-ran to the press car. “What do you think of
that?” she marveled gleefully. “Is this hot stuff, or isn’t it?
Now, let’s get this tape to the editing room ASAP! Talk about
adding some zest to the six-o’clock news! Who knows? We might even
hit national!”