GERALD'S LITTLE PROBLEM

So it was that everything Robert Harding the Third touched either melted at the caress of his fingers or turned to gold. Though it is as well to point out that thanks to the good fortune of his birth and his natural physical attributes Robert really did not have to work very hard to make anything at all happen. But that would be too cruel to this man. In truth, he worked extremely energetically to make his world come true. The bond deal had been nothing special. It was fun turning a company worth nothing into millions and then watching others get their greedy fingers burnt. Robert had never had a need for money. It had always been there. It was just that he had heard that Wall Street could be fooled and he had never liked the uncle who had left him his pathetic business. And Robert had decided that he would screw Gerald Kenworthy one day.
Gerald had been at school with him and had severely embarrassed him during auditions for the school play. Robert had been asked to play the part of someone who had just had his fingernails torn out. One thing Robert did extraordinarily well was to play a whole soap opera of parts. He was a one man repertory theatre. But he could never act to someone else’s direction. In other words, when Robert Harding wished to fake it, or to lie, he could do so with consummate ease. But when asked to pretend, he never had the desire, never had the heart to make it work.
So at the age of twelve he was up on the stage of his prep school being urged sarcastically by the lank-haired over-theatrical English teacher who doubled as the school’s Head of Drama, to act this part of a torture victim.
Another problem for Robert was that he was barely aware of what pain actually was. A doting mother, the one quite prepared to believe her son would never indulge in sex, except perhaps to procreate another child just like Robert, for her to enjoy, had always been on hand to protect him.
The size of his father’s wallet had ensured the best treatment. Doctors and dentists used to receiving Mr Robert Harding the Second’s Christmas presents of stocks and shares were not disposed to let his little son run home crying that ‘the doctor’ or ‘the dentist’ had hurt him. So the part the show off teacher was forcing him to play was an impossibility. Which was extremely unfortunate for Robert because Gerald Kenworthy sniggered. He was in the front row and Robert not only heard him snigger but saw him try to cover it up. That one snigger set off the whole class. Gerald had been severely beaten up by Robert for his mistake. But the incident had gone into Robert’s memory bank and for the rest of his life he would try to get his own back. No matter how hard he tried he would never succeed, at least not to himself.
So now Gerald was paying the price yet again. Except Gerald had no idea this was what was really happening. He thought Robert was his best friend. That was the trouble with Robert. Rather too many people thought he was their one true friend.
Robert was suffering no such worries as he climbed out of the car which had just pulled up on Rodeo Drive in one of the many suburbs of Atlanta. The automatic garage door swung down and temporarily sank Robert and his young companion into darkness. Robert flicked the switch on the remote control and the room was bathed in a bright light as the door to the utility room swung open.
‘It always frightens me, that,’ Sally said to him, touching his right arm with her left hand. ‘You should have an automatic light on in here or open up a window.’
‘I like the black and the silence. It’s also soundproof.’
‘And what, I might ask, is that in aid of?’
‘That’s for me to know and you to never bother about.’
‘Sometimes you worry me Robert, you really do.’
They went inside. Robert checked his answering machine. Very few people knew he owned the house in Atlanta. His neighbours hardly saw him. They knew him as an international pharmaceutical salesman who worked too hard to spend time at home. He was not surprised to find there were only three messages. One from Anthony Marshall asking what progress he had made on the ‘latest order’. The two others were both from Gerald Kenworthy asking for him to contact him urgently. It was week two of a constant barrage of calls from Gerald. Robert needed to have his victim shivering in fright before he could get what he wanted.
He listened to the messages again before deciding that perhaps now was the right time to put the second part of his plan into action.
He slumped in the armchair in the study after telling Sally not to bother him for an hour, and telephoned Gerald’s home knowing he would get his worried little shrew of a wife.
Twenty minutes later the call came through from Gerald, all breathless and scared.
Robert reflected on how he could make people squirm, even from a few thousand miles away at the other end of a telephone.
‘Yes Gerald. I am back in the country.’
‘I’ve been trying to contact you for days.’
Liar, Robert nearly said, feeling like adding: You’ve been trying to contact me for two weeks. But let it pass.
‘Why. What’s the problem?’
‘They’re onto us, Robert.’
‘Onto us? About what, exactly, my friend?’
‘You know very well.’
‘Gerald. I jet around the world doing deals every day. You may sit in the Pentagon taking the taxpayers’ dollars for drinking cups of coffee, making free international phone calls and putting your children through private school but I actually have to earn a living. Now, tell me what the bloody hell is bugging you.’
Robert sat back in the chair sensing the squirming lump of jelly working late in his office, knowing his wife was worried but afraid to confide in her. Gerald started to explain what had been going on. Robert closed his eyes and dreamt of Sally. They had been bloody lucky not to have been caught this afternoon, he thought. ‘Bloody lucky,’ he told himself out loud.
Gerald took his time explaining to Robert what Robert, unknown to him, had been doing to wind him up. When he had finished Robert let slip a couple of authoritative ‘I see’s’ and then paused long enough for Gerald to ask if he was still there.
‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘I don’t know, Robert. But they’re just as much a threat to you as they are to me.’
‘I doubt that old boy. Anyway, if they publish what they know I’ll simply have to retire to the ranch. Live the rest of my life in splendid luxury, doing nothing but getting up at midday and going to the bar.’
Robert sensed rather than heard the exasperation at the other end of the telephone line. As Gerald started to explain how important it was to him to keep his job Robert’s mind wandered to the top drawer on the right-hand side of his big oak desk. Inside it were copies of Gerald’s recent bank statements including copies of loan agreements for his car and house and credit cards. Robert knew damn well how important it was to Gerald to keep his job. The statements were in a special file. Robert had a whole cellar full of such information on people throughout the world. Right now Gerald was caught in Robert’s garlic crusher and would soon come out smelling of sweet perfection, in little pieces too small for anyone to worry about.
‘I could do something for you, if you really wanted that.’
‘What?’
‘I could buy the incriminating information from whoever is selling it.’
‘Would you? It would be incredibly expensive.’
Robert clenched his left fist. ‘Gerald. Please don’t lecture me about money.’
‘I would be terribly grateful.’
‘Actually Gerald there is something you could do for me.’
‘Anything. Anything at all if you can get this sodding horror out of my life.’
‘It would involve doing some things which you would not normally be expected to do.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘You have access to the illegal immigration documents.’
‘It is one of my responsibilities, yes. What of it?’
‘I have some names I wish to have included.’
‘But you could do that yourself.’
Robert was again clenching his fist. ‘Look Gerald. Do I have to explain everything to you. If I could do something like this without asking you do you think I would be asking you? Do you? It is illegal and you must not talk about it.’
‘I don’t know, Robert. It could get me into the most dreadful trouble.’
‘Ok. Ok. Let’s leave for a while. Next time the person calls about the story just try and fob them off.’
‘No. No, wait. Maybe there is something I could do.’
‘Gerald, make up your bloody mind.’ Robert had won him over.
Half an hour later he put down the telephone on his sworn childhood enemy and dialled the number Anthony had left on his answering machine earlier in the day.
The delay in answering was not more than a couple of seconds. The conversation was short but explicit.
‘It’s done. The customer can be told all will be ready by the first of next month. The supplier can meet all our requirements.’ There was an almost imperceptible drawing in of breath at the other end of the telephone line, or it could have been an electronic whisper, Robert could not tell.
‘Thank you, Robert. You have proved your worth yet again.’