Master of the Game

For the next two years, Tony Blackwell felt he was on a giant treadmill that was taking him nowhere. He was the heir apparent to an awesome conglomerate. Kruger-Brent’s empire had expanded to include paper mills, an airline, banks and a chain of hospitals. Tony learned that a name is a key that opens all doors. There are clubs and organizations and social cliques where the coin of the realm is not money or influence, but the proper name. Tony was accepted for membership in the Union Club, The Brook and The Links Club. He was catered to everywhere he went, but he felt like an imposter. He had done nothing to deserve any of it. He was in the giant shadow of his grandfather, and he felt he was constantly being measured against him. It was unfair, for there were no more mine fields to crawl over, no guards shooting at him, no sharks threatening him. The ancient tales of derring-do had nothing to do with Tony. They belonged to a past century, another time, another place, heroic acts committed by a stranger.

Tony worked twice as hard as anyone else at Kruger-Brent, Ltd. He drove himself mercilessly, trying to rid himself of memories too searing to bear. He wrote to Dominique, but his letters were returned unopened. He telephoned Maître Cantal, but Dominique no longer modeled at the school. She had disappeared.

Tony handled his job expertly and methodically, with neither passion nor love, and if he felt a deep emptiness inside himself, no one suspected it. Not even Kate. She received weekly reports on Tony, and she was pleased with them.

“He has a natural aptitude for business,” she told Brad Rogers.

To Kate, the long hours her son worked were proof of how much he loved what he was doing. When Kate thought of how Tony had almost thrown his future away, she shuddered and was grateful she had saved him.

In 1948 the Nationalist Party was in full power in South Africa, with segregation in all public places. Migration was strictly controlled, and families were split up to suit the convenience of the government. Every black man had to carry a bewy-shoek, and it was more than a pass, it was a lifeline, his birth certificate, his work permit, his tax receipt. It regulated his movements and his life. There were increasing riots in South Africa, and they were ruthlessly put down by the police. From time to time, Kate read newspaper stories about sabotage and unrest, and Banda’s name was always prominently mentioned. He was still a leader in the underground, despite his age. Of course he would fight for his people, Kate thought. He’s Banda.

Kate celebrated her fifty-sixth birthday alone with Tony at the house on Fifth Avenue. She thought, This handsome twenty-four-year-old man across the table can’t be my son. I’m too young. And he was toasting her, “To m-my f-fantastic m-mother. Happy b-birthday!”

“You should make that to my fantastic old mother.” Soon I’ll be retiring, Kate thought, but my son will take my place. My son!

At Kate’s insistence, Tony had moved into the mansion on Fifth Avenue.

“The place is too bloody large for me to rattle around in alone,” Kate told him. “You’ll have the whole east wing to yourself and all the privacy you need.” It was easier for Tony to give in than to argue.

Tony and Kate had breakfast together every morning, and the topic of conversation was always Kruger-Brent, Ltd. Tony marveled that his mother could care so passionately for a faceless, soulless entity, an amorphous collection of buildings and machines and bookkeeping figures. Where did the magic lie? With all the myriad mysteries of the world to explore, why would anyone want to waste a lifetime accumulating wealth to pile on more wealth, gathering power that was beyond power? Tony did not understand his mother. But he loved her. And he tried to live up to what she expected of him.

The Pan American flight from Rome to New York had been uneventful. Tony liked the airline. It was pleasant and efficient. He worked on his overseas acquisitions reports from the time the plane took off, skipping dinner and ignoring the stewardesses who kept offering him drinks, pillows or whatever else might appeal to their attractive passenger.

“Thank you, miss. I’m fine.”

“If there’s anything at all, Mr. Blackwell…”

“Thank you.”

A middle-aged woman in the seat next to Tony was reading a fashion magazine. As she turned a page, Tony happened to glance over, and he froze. There was a picture of a model wearing a ball gown. It was Dominique. There was no question about it. There were the high, delicate cheekbones and the deep-green eyes, the luxuriant blond hair. Tony’s pulse began to race.

“Excuse me,” Tony said to his seat companion. “May I borrow that page?”

Early the following morning, Tony called the dress shop and got the name of their advertising agency. He telephoned them. “I’m trying to locate one of your models,” he told the switchboard operator. “Could you—”

“One moment, please.”

A man’s voice came on. “May I help you?”

“I saw a photograph in this month’s issue of Vogue. A model advertising a ball gown for the Rothman stores. Is that your account?”

“Yes.”

“Can you give me the name of your model agency?”

“That would be the Carleton Blessing Agency.” He gave Tony the telephone number.

A minute later, Tony was talking to a woman at the Blessing Agency. “I’m trying to locate one of your models,” he said. “Dominique Masson.”

“I’m sorry. It is our policy not to give out personal information.” And the line went dead.

Tony sat there, staring at the receiver. There had to be a way to get in touch with Dominique. He went into Brad Rogers’s office.

“Morning, Tony. Coffee?”

“No, thanks. Brad, have you heard of the Carleton Blessing Model Agency?”

“I should think so. We own it.”

“What?”

“It’s under the umbrella of one of our subsidiaries.”

“When did we acquire it?”

“A couple of years ago. Just about the time you joined the company. What’s your interest in it?”

“I’m trying to locate one of their models. She’s an old friend.”

“No problem. I’ll call and—”

“Never mind. I’ll do it. Thanks, Brad.”

A feeling of warm anticipation was building up inside Tony.

Late that afternoon, Tony went uptown to the offices of the Carleton Blessing Agency and gave his name. Sixty seconds later, he was seated in the office of the president, a Mr. Tilton.

“This is certainly an honor, Mr. Blackwell. I hope there’s no problem. Our profits for the last quarter—”

“No problem. I’m interested in one of your models. Dominique Masson.”

Tilton’s face lighted up. “She’s turned out to be one of our very best. Your mother has a good eye.”

Tony thought he had misunderstood him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your mother personally requested that we engage Dominique. It was part of our deal when Kruger-Brent, Limited, took us over. It’s all in our file, if you’d care to—”

“No.” Tony could make no sense of what he was hearing. Why would his mother—? “May I have Dominique’s address, please?”

“Certainly, Mr. Blackwell. She’s doing a layout in Vermont today, but she should be back”—he glanced at a schedule on his desk—”tomorrow afternoon.”

Tony was waiting outside Dominique’s apartment building when a black sedan pulled up and Dominique stepped out. With her was a large, athletic-looking man carrying Dominique’s suitcase. Dominique stopped dead when she saw Tony.

“Tony! My God! What—what are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Some other time, buddy,” the athlete said. “We have a busy afternoon.”

Tony did not even look at him. “Tell your friend to go away.”

“Hey! Who the hell do you think—?”

Dominique turned to the man. “Please go, Ben. I’ll call you this evening.”

He hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Okay.” He glared at Tony, got back in the car and roared off.

Dominique turned to Tony. “You’d better come inside.”

The apartment was a large duplex with white rugs and drapes and modern furniture. It must have cost a fortune.

“You’re doing well,” Tony said.

“Yes. I’ve been lucky.” Dominique’s fingers were picking nervously at her blouse. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thanks. I tried to get in touch with you after I left Paris.”

“I moved.”

“To America?”

“Yes”.

“How did you get a job with the Carleton Blessing Agency?”

“I—I answered a newspaper advertisement,” she said lamely.

“When did you first meet my mother, Dominique?”

“I—at your apartment in Paris. Remember? We—”

“No more games,” Tony said. He felt a wild rage building in him. “It’s over. I’ve never hit a woman in my life, but if you tell me one more lie, I promise you your face won’t be fit to photograph.”

Dominique started to speak, but the fury in Tony’s eyes stopped her.

“I’ll ask you once more. When did you first meet my mother?”

This time there was no hesitation. “When you were accepted at École des Beaux-Arts. Your mother arranged for me to model there.”

He felt sick to his stomach. He forced himself to go on. “So I could meet you?”

“Yes, I—”

“And she paid you to become my mistress, to pretend to love me?”

“Yes. It was just after the war—it was terrible. I had no money. Don’t you see? But Tony, believe me, I cared. I really cared—”

“Just answer my questions.” The savagery in his voice frightened her. This was a stranger before her, a man capable of untold violence.

“What was the point of it?”

“Your mother wanted me to keep an eye on you.”

He thought of Dominique’s tenderness and her lovemaking—bought and paid for, courtesy of his mother—and he was sick with shame. All along, he had been his mother’s puppet, controlled, manipulated. His mother had never given a damn about him. He was not her son. He was her crown prince, her heir apparent. All that mattered to her was the company. He took one last look at Dominique, then turned and stumbled out. She looked after him, her eyes blinded by tears, and she thought, I didn’t lie about loving you, Tony. I didn’t lie about that.

Kate was in the library when Tony walked in, very drunk.

“I t-talked to D-dominique,” he said. “You t-two m-must have had a w-wonderful time 1-laughing at me behind my back.”

Kate felt a quick sense of alarm. “Tony—”

“From now on I want you to s-stay out of my p-personal l-life. Do you hear me?” And he turned and staggered out of the room.

Kate watched him go, and she was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of foreboding.