A Man of Affairs: A Novel

by John D. MacDonald, Dean Koontz (Introduction)

Overview

A Man of Affairs, one of many classic novels from crime writer John D. MacDonald, the beloved author of Cape Fear and the Travis McGee series, is now available as an eBook.
 
Beneath the Bahamas sun rages a titanic power struggle. A mastermind of the dog-eat-dog world of corporate corruption, Mike Dean uses every asset at his disposal—women, liquor, his own personal magnetism—to take businessmen’s minds off their troubles, soften their consciences, muddy their good sense, and bend them to his will. But one of his house guests refuses to see things Mike’s way. One of them won’t be bought. One of them has a mind, and a heart, of his own. And he’s determined to beat Mike at his own game.
 
Features a new Introduction by Dean Koontz
 
Praise for John D. MacDonald
 
“The great entertainer of our age, and a mesmerizing storyteller.”—Stephen King
 
“My favorite novelist of all time.”—Dean Koontz
 
“To diggers a thousand years from now, the works of John D. MacDonald would be a treasure on the order of the tomb of Tutankhamen.”—Kurt Vonnegut
 
“A master storyteller, a masterful suspense writer . . . John D. MacDonald is a shining example for all of us in the field. Talk about the best.”—Mary Higgins Clark

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780812984927
Publisher:	Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:	06/11/2013
Sold by:	Random House
Format:	eBook
Pages:	176
Sales rank:	607,065
File size:	2 MB

About the Author

John D. MacDonald was an American novelist and short-story writer. His works include the Travis McGee series and the novel The Executioners, which was adapted into the film Cape Fear. In 1962 MacDonald was named a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America; in 1980, he won a National Book Award. In print he delighted in smashing the bad guys, deflating the pompous, and exposing the venal. In life, he was a truly empathetic man; his friends, family, and colleagues found him to be loyal, generous, and practical. In business, he was fastidiously ethical. About being a writer, he once expressed with gleeful astonishment, “They pay me to do this! They don’t realize, I would pay them.” He spent the later part of his life in Florida with his wife and son. He died in 1986.

Date of Birth:

July 24, 1916

Date of Death:

December 28, 1986

Place of Birth:

Sharon, PA

Place of Death:

Milwaukee, WI

Education:

Syracuse University 1938; M.B. A. Harvard University, 1939

Read an Excerpt

ONE
 
I got out of my car and stood beside it on the gravel driveway and looked at the big frame house. I had not seen it in over two years, not since the death of Louise’s father put an end to those futile and meaningless conferences he used to hold in his home. The house and grounds had not changed. The blinds were closed against the heat of a midmorning Monday in May. The plantings were as formal and rich and well-tended as ever.
 
I tried to calm myself with a cigarette. It would do no good to rush in full of anger and indignation and confront Louise. Louise had too much experience with being bullied. Just a half hour earlier I had dropped into the bank to see Walt Burgeson, and he had been very uncomfortable as he had told me the sorry and disappointing news about Louise’s unexpected decision—the decision that might well spill all the apples out of our basket.
 
Though I had seen Louise here and there during the two years since her father’s death, I’d had no close contact with her. Louise had been off with Warren Dodge on a honeymoon in Italy when her father, Thomas McGann, met his tragic, slapstick death, a death that must have infuriated him during his final microsecond of awareness. The way it was reconstructed, he had dropped the soap and it had bounded out of the shower stall. When he stepped out he stepped directly onto it, and in falling struck his head squarely and irrevocably on the porcelained rim of the toilet. He had been a big and ponderous man, muscled like a steer.
 
I had a clear memory of how Louise and Warren Dodge had looked at the time of the funeral, after their flying trip home from Italy—Warren big and beefy, solemn and sullen, heavily scented with bonded whisky—Louise remote and subdued and pallid, more spiritless than even the death of her father would have seemed to warrant.
 
There are only seventy thousand people in Portston and so I had seen her around fairly often during the two years. And thought she looked unhappy. And heard the unsavory rumors about her marriage. I didn’t need the rumors. I knew what sort of man she had married.
 
I snapped the cigarette away, went to the door and pushed the bell. The door opened and a heavy Negro woman looked at me quite blankly. “I’d like to see Mrs. Dodge, please.”
 
“She busy now.”
 
“Go tell her Sam Glidden wants to see her right now!”
 
Some of my urgency and anger must have been apparent. I’m big and I’ve been told by intimates that I look a good deal rougher and tougher than I am. I saw a wider stripe of the whites of her eyes as she closed the door. She was back in a minute and a half to say, “She says you come back in the garden.”
 
I followed her through the house. There were glints of polish on the dark and heavy furniture, discreet gleams of brass and silver, a scent of cedar and wax and furniture oils. The house had a hushed feeling, a secret flavor.
 
The small walled garden behind the house was sunny and bright with flowers. Louise got up from an aluminum chaise longue webbed with white plastic and took my hand and smiled her careful smile and said, “A long time, Sam. Too long.”
 
“It’s good to see you, Louise.”
 
She indicated a chair for me and sat back on the chaise longue, still smiling. But I sensed she knew well why I had come. “Beer or anything, Sam?”
 
“Thanks, no.” I had to put her off balance a little bit. She was braced for argumentation. I offered her a cigarette and said, “I was remembering about once upon a time, Louise. The time when I was so in love with you I couldn’t even eat.”
 
Her greeny-gray eyes went round-wide with surprise. “Good Lord! When?”
 
“I was a senior in high, and you were a sophomore. You wore your hair a funny way. Braided and it went across here.”
 
“My coronet braid.”
 
“And you had a blue dress with white at the collar and white on the sleeves.”
 
“I haven’t remembered that dress for years. It was a favorite.”
 
“I suffered in silence. Sam Glidden had no business trying to get chummy with the McGann girl. We all knew your father sent you and your brother to public high school because he thought it was the democratic thing to do. Your brother had his own car, and you had your own crowd you ran around with, and as soon as the weather was warm enough you’d all go right from school to the country club to swim and play tennis.”
 
She laughed aloud and it made me feel slightly hurt. “What’s so funny?”
 
“Not what you think, Sam. Right about that time I had a grim little crush on you. But you were unattainable. Big popular senior, football hero. Big Sam Glidden wasn’t going to waste any of his time on a sappy little sophomore.”
 
“We should have found out about that,” I said. She looked at me and after a few seconds her smile looked as though it had been pasted on, and then she looked away. I knew she was about to ask me why I had come to see her, so I beat her to the gun and said, “I’ll never forget how much I owe your father, Louise.”
 
“He was … glad he could help you, Sam.”
 
I had worked at the Harrison Corporation plant—Thomas McGann, President—every summer while I was in high school. In my senior year I had a choice of football scholarships; but in the final high school game, I got hit and the cartilage of my right knee was badly torn. The word got around the conference I would be out of the game for two years at least. A football scholarship had been my only prayer of getting to college in spite of reasonably respectable marks. That was 1946 and I was nineteen. I’d been too young for World War II, and the bum knee kept me out of Korea later.
 
I applied for a job at Harrison, thinking I would save money for a year and then try college the following fall. I didn’t know that Thomas McGann was aware of my existence. When I applied for a job in June I got it immediately on the basis of my past working record with them, and three days later I was called out of the shop and sent up to Mr. McGann’s office. I soon found he’d followed my football career as well as my record with the company on summer jobs. And he knew my home situation. I was the only child of my mother’s first marriage. It had not been a good marriage. When I was eleven, after her fifth year of widowhood, she had married again, married a man she loved, a man who adored her. And there were, by that time, four half-brothers and half-sisters from that second marriage. It was a happy house without much money and without too much emotional room for me.
 
Mr. McGann offered a deal. He would get me into a good college of business administration and back me for what I needed through four years if I would agree to come back and work for the Harrison Corporation. When I was on salary I could start paying him back.
 
It took a long time for him to get it through my proud, thick head that it wasn’t charity. I took him up on it. When I was twenty-three I came back to work as assistant to the purchasing agent. Five years ago, when I was twenty-five, I paid him back the last dime.
 
In view of what he had done for me, I had to choose my words carefully in talking to Louise. “I’m grateful to your father, Louise, but that doesn’t alter my objective opinion of him. He was an overbearing, strong-minded, stupid man who refused all advice, good or bad, a man who came dangerously close to running a sound company into the ground.”
 
She stared at me for long seconds. She looked very lovely. She was wearing crisp white shorts with a red stripe down the sides, a red halter, red straw slippers. Her black and glossy hair was tied back with a white ribbon. She is not quite tall, and her bone structure is fragile and fine. Her flawless skin has a dusky, honeyed quality, and her legs are smooth and round and long. There is a look of brooding sensitivity about her face. I remembered how she was as a child, full of a dancing and endless vitality, a flame in shades of black and ivory. Now, in her, it is all muted. All fires are banked. But her new quietness does not give the impression of frigidity or sterility. At twenty-seven she has a way about her that is so much more provocative to me than any strip act that I could feel the annoying pulse-thud of awareness of her even while I was trying to make her understand what I had to tell her.
 
“You’d better explain that to me, Sam,” she said quietly.
 
“He insisted on surrounding himself with yes-men, in making it a one-man operation.”
 
“Then why have you stayed?”
 
“Because I gave him my promise. I have to tell you something that sounds like I’m giving myself medals, Louise. I’m considered very very good in the field. I’ve been scouted, and I have had some very handsome offers from some very sound businesses. I’m apparently one of those so-called bright young men that industry can’t find enough of. I can’t put my finger on what the special talent is. Maybe it’s just a combination of being able to think clearly, handle people and work hard. I stayed because I gave my promise.”