The Big Enchilada

going on “ere that they’ll be curious about.”
    That did it. He slumped in his chair, all the color drained from his face. He laughed in what was supposed to be a hearty, jovial way but sounded instead like a death rattle.
    “Come on, Hunter, I was only joking. You know that.”
    “So was I, Maycroft.” I laughed in a way that caused him to cringe.
    “You won’t be making any phone calls, will you?”
    “Come on. Let’s cut the shit, huh? Get on with it.”
    He could have been helpful, like I asked in the first place, and everything would have been simple. But he got to thinking about his $200 pair of shoes, and how big a man he is, and how his dignity is somehow on the line, and so he digs his heels in. I mean, who’s he impressing? Himself, I guess. Maycroft’s a jerk, but I didn’t get much satisfaction from humiliating him. All I wanted was some information, which he was now about to give me.
    He had taken a slim file folder from a drawer and placed it in front of him. As he flipped through the material to refresh his memory, the immersion in the familiar world of corporate dealings served to restore his confidence and composure. Our battle of wills was temporarily forgotten, and he spoke easily, the professional playing on his home field.
    “You wanted to know about Medco Pharmaceutical Supplies, right?”
    “Right.”
    “Ordinarily, I would not have been able to help you. Medco is a privately owned company, which means that their records are private, and I would not have access to them. It is also a small company, and we do not usually concern ourselves with small, private firms. However, I can give you a little information for two reasons. One, I am acquainted with Dr. Edmund Mustard, the former owner—we have played golf -together on occasion. Two, because of the proposed take-over by Megaplex that you were asking about.”
    “Why that?”
    “Because Megaplex is so large, so important a corporate entity, that anything they do—or think of doing—is of considerable interest.”
    “I see.”
    “I doubt it, but I will continue. As you probably know, Medco is a small firm that produces component chemicals for use by the bigger drug companies. At one time, this was, within its modest limits, a profitable enterprise, and Dr. Mustard was able to do very well for himself—he would not have been able to join our country club had it been otherwise. However, with time, many of Medco’s biggest buyers began to produce the materials themselves, and Medco’s business declined, as did that of several other similar firms. Dr. Mustard, who was sole owner of the company, was interested in getting into other fields, and when Megaplex made a fair offer for Medco, he was happy to accept.”
    “Why would Megaplex want a company that was going nowhere fast?”
    “At the time that the take-over was considered, Megaplex was moving into the pharmaceutical field in a big way, and the acquisition of Medco would have served a purpose in conjunction with several other companies they were getting.”
    “Then why did the deal not go through?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I remember meeting Mustard the day after he learned that Megaplex was calling off negotiations. He was most upset. Everything had looked definite, and then Megaplex simply backed out.”
    “Why?”
    “They gave no reason. Or at least Dr. Mustard said they gave no reason.”
    “Who was negotiating for Megaplex?”
    Maycroft looked in the file. “Adrian Sweet. He’s a senior vice-president. A very sound man, if a little conservative. Perhaps he saw something in the books he didn’t like.”
    “And then what happened?”
    “As far as we were concerned, nothing. Once Megaplex lost interest, so did we. However, shortly after the deal fell through, I again saw Dr. Mustard at the club, and he was in excellent spirits. He had just sold his company to one of his employees.”
    “Simon Acker.”
    “That’s right. And Mustard seemed to be overjoyed to be getting out, and also to be getting out with very close to his asking price.”
    “Which was?”
    “I really couldn’t say. Somewhere between half a million and a million, I would imagine. Not very much. The building w as not owned, only rented on a long lease, and, as I said, business had been declining. If Mustard got anything around that, he had good reason to be happy.”
    “You may not think that’s a lot of money, but Acker was ° n *y the managing director, and he