I, Randolph Blake

Chapter 1

A Unique Distinction

Whew. What a night. Back in Kansas, the Methodist preacher used to say, "Be sure your sin will find you out." Starting to look like he had a point.

It began about half an hour past closing time tonight. It began with a surprise visit from old Howell.

I knew him on sight. No big feat - lots of folks who've never met Thurston Howell III would know him on sight. Cover of Time, cover of Fortune, and so on. But I knew him because I worked for him back in New York. That is, until about eighteen months ago, when the Sybil Wentworth business blew up in my face. Even then, he didn't dump me; just exiled me to Honolulu to run this penny-ante boating-supply store. Being that it is in Honolulu, he may have thought he was exercising clemency.

Still, despite the personal connection, I was surprised to see Howell himself. That guy owns half the world - oil, mines, commercial real estate, plantations, factories that make everything from million-dollar fighter jets to batteries for your radio. I'm one measly little manager in a boating-supply chain that's a footnote to a footnote in the Howell Industries annual report. If Howell Industries wanted to fire me, they employ maybe a thousand hatchet men to do that sort of thing. Maybe Howell thought a hatchet man sent to Hawaii would cheat on the expense account.

He had his wife in tow, but the personal visit from Howell was such a shock, I actually didn't notice her. Not until later.

He wasted no time on amenities. "Well, Mr. Randolph Blake. You have a unique distinction, sir: manager of the one and only store in the entire Howell Boating Emporium chain that has been losing money. You've been dipping into the till."

"The till"? What was this, Victorian melodrama? But Howell always talked like that.

"Dipping into the till, indeed," I said. "You insult me, sir."

He did, too. I never stole a dime from any till. I was much sneakier than that.

What I was actually doing was selling high-end equipment to certain business associates of Rita's dad at extremely steep discounts, for cash. Sometimes a little of that cash actually went into the till, on the pretext that it was a down payment for the merchandise - in fact, the only payment the Howell Boating Emporium would ever see for that particular item. (Well, how was I supposed to know some guy would make a down payment, walk off with my merchandise, and never be heard from again?) The rest of the cash - well, I kept that. Or, to be precise, passed it along to my bookie.

I varied the M.O., naturally, so it wouldn't look like I was repeatedly falling for the same con. Some of the merchandise went onto the books as "lost" or "damaged in transit." If the store was actually losing money, I guess we were too greedy. But Arthur's associates are pretty greedy, and not easy guys to say "no" to.

But back to Howell. "Insult you, Blake? Yes, and I'll insult you more. You're a cad, a scoundrel, a sneak thief." He shook his finger at me. "If you think I'm going to stand for this, you're dead wrong. My accountants are on your trail, Blake. I have more and better accountants than anyone. They'll wrap your whole sordid scheme up in a bow and present it to the prosecuting attorney, courtesy of Howell Industries. You're going to prison, sir. Yes - prison!"

Maybe - and my heart quailed for a moment. But maybe not; my future father-in-law has a little clout around here, probably more than a complete outsider like Howell. Of course, Arthur could just as easily have me clipped as put the fix in for me. But my hole card there was being engaged to Rita.

That gave me the courage to talk back to Howell. "Well, sir, you may be able to send me there - if you bribe the judge enough. Unless, of course, the judge is an old school chum of yours. In that case, I should be safe - frankly, I doubt whether anyone who knows you would do you such a favor, however high the bribe."

Lovey Howell, silent until now, spoke.

"You're a horrible, nasty man," she hissed. "You deserve a sound thrashing."

"A thrashing?" Howell said. "I shall do even more than that!"

Very dramatic. What he actually did was walk to the pay phone by the door and ask his wife for a dime.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I haven't a dime," she said.

"Well. I'll simply have to use the car phone, then. Come along."

I suppose I could have offered him a dime from the till, as long as it wasn't a personal phone call. But I thought I wouldn't.

I wonder who he was going to call. Well, I guess I'll find out soon enough.

I'm not too worried about getting fired anyway. After the wedding, Rita and I are going to Vegas with Arthur, and he's planning to put me to work in a casino. More fun, more money. No, Howell can have his crummy boating store back whenever he wants it.

What really shook me up tonight was Lovey. If she only knew the right people, she could make sure I get that "thrashing" she wished on me. And if she could, I know damn well she would.

I know Lovey. The venom in that well-bred voice had nothing to do with anything I've stolen, or even what I said to her husband.

It was all about Sybil.