Passing Through the Flame Read Online Free PDF Page A

machine-rolled joint from a golden cigarette case. The effect, he hoped, was of an unabashed show biz type who was nonetheless at home in high financial circles.
    He had even considered redecorating the private dining room, sitting like an eagle’s nest atop the Eden Tower, overlooking the Sunset Strip. One whole wall was a huge picture window that looked north over Sunset Boulevard at the picturesque houses and twisted topography of the Hollywood Hills, a much better daytime view than the more spectacular southern exposure, which overlooked the vast sprawl of lowland Los Angeles. The other walls were done in pecky cypress and wine-colored velvet, the carpeting was a luxuriant black, and the chandelier that hung from the domed white ceiling was a confection of genuine crystal, none of your crummy glass imitations.
    The walls, however, were hung with the original paintings from Eden album covers and replicas of Gold Records. All very well for impressing the usual people he brought here—industry people, show business types, major groups he was trying to sign up, very high-class pieces of ass—but it seemed a bit too commercial for entertaining the likes of Carbo and Williams. A few original Picassos and a Klee or two might be more to the point, and it was all tax deductible anyway.
    But several lower-level people involved in the deal had already eaten here; to redecorate would have been to run the risk of Carbo and Williams taking note of the fact that the place had been redecorated; which would have marked him as a pretentious show biz parvenu, bad karma indeed. After kicking it around for a while, Taub had decided to stand pat.
    He was already seated at the round table in the center of the room when George showed Carbo and Williams in. He rose, shook hands, sat down with them, and asked what they’d like to drink, a nice warm touch.
    “Wild Turkey on the rocks, just a little water,” Williams said.
    “I’d like a small goblet of Demerara rum with a dash of bitters, slightly cut with about a tablespoon of coconut milk,” Carbo said, suppressing a smile. “Of course, if your barman can’t come up with that, a very dry vodka martina will do.”
    “And I’ll have an aquavit, George,” Taub said smoothly, deciding that he didn’t like Carbo. The man was clearly a smart-ass. But Hector kept every conceivable liquor and mixer on hand for just such eventualities. Carbo would soon find himself drinking his disgusting little exercise in snottiness.
    “Let me come right to the point, Mr. Taub,” Carbo said. “If the purchase goes through, my company will be doing the developing, and Mr. Williams’ bank will do the major share of the financing. So while we technically can’t speak for all the principals involved, our recommendations will probably be decisive.”
    “And since you’re the principal interested party on Eden’s end,” Williams said, “the three of us can hack it out together with some assurance that none of us are talking to secondary figures; is that correct?”
    “That’s right,” Taub said, with a lot more firmness than he felt. There was something peculiar going on here. These guys had to know that Horst was dead set against the deal, that it was presently a standoff on the board of directors. They were granting him more power than he had. Does that mean that they have less power than they pretend? Or what?
    The drinks arrived: Williams’ bourbon, Taub’s aquavit bitter-cold in a tiny tulip-shaped glass with bits of herring on the side, and Carbo’s rum mess in a frosted wine glass. Taub watched with a certain satisfaction as Carbo sipped his drink.
    Surprisingly, Carbo smiled, gave a little nod of his head. Gak! He actually liked the thing!
    “As things stand now,” Carbo said, “the deal looks attractive from my point of view, assuming, of course, that we can settle on a reasonable figure. The location may not be as prime as it was when Twentieth sold off the land for Century City, but