What You Pay For

By Walt Manning

Marcus Dunn came out of the slums of Kensington Philadelphia, with two things, a brain and a bad temper that didn’t go with it. A strange combination of the two got him into trouble and into Harvard.

What You Pay For traces his development from the slums through college, into the world of high finance and the beginnings of the Cable TV industry.
What You Pay For deals with violence, friendship, love, and betrayal. And Marcus Dunn must navigate his way through them all. But after living in the world of the very rich, he must return to the streets of Kensington to find his salvation.

““SUSPENSEFUL. A clever exploration of personal growth and survival from poverty to wealth, and perhaps back to poverty. The dialogue is fun and entertaining. Great summer reading”
— Charlie Reilly


“A REAL PAGE TURNER. An amazingly fascinating cast of characters.
— Joe Stead “Ramblings”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483436135

Book preview

Hemingway

CHAPTER

1

Some wine, Thatcher?

Thank you Charles, that would be nice.

President Charles Brendlinger got up from behind his desk, the same desk from behind which presidents of Harvard University for more than three hundred and fifty years had guided the destiny of one of the world’s most prestigious institutions of higher learning and in turn the destinies of future congressmen, senators, presidents, and even more important, of those who would control presidents: the men with the real power –the moneymakers. He walked to a French Breton sideboard, discretely placed in a far corner of the room, and carefully selected two glasses and half-filled each from a crystal decanter. As Brendlinger returned with the two glasses to the lounge chair opposite the other man he smiled.

Whenever I am about to ‘put the bite’ on one of our more generous alumni I do it here in this office if possible.

I’m very much aware of that, Charles, Thatcher Bryant laughed. "I didn’t think you asked me up here today to discuss who was going to teach the Finnegans Wake seminar next semester."

To be sure. But do you know why it’s always here?

Tradition. Seat of power. Habit. Hell, I don’t know. Why?

For the same reason you invite me to your home when you want to play tennis. Home court advantage. You are familiar with the court. You feel comfortable there. Here I feel comfortable, at ease. The alum is on the defensive. No matter how important he is, no matter how many companies he controls, when he walks in here he feels like an undergraduate again and I have him. And it works. With everyone but you.

Bryant laughed out loud. That’s because you’ve squeezed so much money out of me, Charles, that you’ve lost the home court advantage, he smiled pleasantly. I’ve paid for this room. I feel it’s now my home court.

No, it’s more than that. Others, who have contributed as much and some even more than you, are uncomfortable here. You simply cannot be intimated. You are completely comfortable with yourself. You are probably more comfortable with yourself than any man I have ever met. Brendlinger’s sincerity was obvious.

Thank you, Charles. I take that as a compliment.

It was meant as one.

But next you are going to tell me that Harvard has done well by me and therefore… That brings us to the point of this meeting. How much?

Ha, Ha. You can certainly come directly to the point, Thatcher. And you are quite correct. That is precisely what I was going to say next. However, that does not make my statements any less true. And you must admit that Harvard has done well by you. Just as I must admit that you have certainly reciprocated and done well by Harvard.

Bryant’s hand went through his wavy, silver hair as it often did when he was deep in thought.

Hmmm. Perhaps.

Perhaps? Perhaps what?

Nothing.

Well in that case…as you already know, we will soon be in need of a new structure in which to house a science center. We are hoping that the entire cost of the new building would be pledged before we even break ground. And, naturally, we were hoping that you would start things off.

You know, Charles, I’ve been thinking about what you said before, about Harvard doing so well by me. I wonder about that. I really do.

You’re joking. I would say that if anyone is the embodiment of what the University can do for a man, help to mold him so to speak, you are that man. You are an extremely wealthy and powerful man, Thatcher. I truly don’t see how you can question what the University has done for you.

Now, now, Charles, don’t get excited. You’ll get your pledge and I do not question the education that I received here. If I did, believe me, my son would not be enrolled for the fall semester. But all that you say that I am, I am because of my father before me, and his father before him. It’s in the genes, Charles. Harvard is nothing more than another step in the process. It is a magnificent finishing school for those who have a heritage behind them.

Nonsense! It’s the old argument of heredity versus environment and I certainly agree that heredity has something to do with it, but your environment in everything that counts, molds you. The value and discipline in the home, the proper prep school, of course, but mainly the University. That is where the leaders of our country are molded, Thatcher. Not in the womb.

It’s an interesting question… A sharp banging on the office door interrupted him. As the door was pushed open, they could hear the voice of Brendlinger’s secretary at close to a hysterical pitch.

You simply cannot force your way in here, Mr. Dunn. And certainly not without an appointment.

Excuse me, Thatcher. What seems to be the trouble, Miss Alderfer?

I’m terribly sorry, Dr. Brendlinger. I tried to tell him. He just won’t listen.

Listen to what, Miss Alderfer? He asked patiently.

I told him that you have nothing to do with it. Absolutely nothing. And he certainly could not see you without an appointment even if you did.

Did what, Miss Alderfer? Did what? His tone was beginning to show exasperation although by now he was well aware that Miss Alderfer never came to the point when she was excited.

Oh, admissions policy, Doctor! He’s been rejected and can’t seem to accept that fact.

Brendlinger looked at the young man who certainly did not appear to be a likely candidate for admission to Harvard. Perhaps some state college somewhere or other but Harvard, preposterous!

I’m sorry, Sir. But I can’t get anywhere with the people in admissions and you were the only one I could think of to talk to.

Brendlinger was taken aback by the young man’s soft voice and infectious smile. At least he seemed to have manners.

Mister…Mister?

Dunn, Sir. Marcus Dunn.

Well, Mr. Dunn, I am very sorry that the admissions committee saw fit to reject your application but you must understand that every year more than twenty thousand prospective students apply to Harvard University, and of that number a little over than four percent are accepted.

With fifteen hundred board scores and an A- average?

That is most impressive, Mr. Dunn, but other things are taken into consideration by the committee. And I am afraid that Miss Alderfer was quite correct. I have absolutely nothing to do with admissions and I am quite busy so if you will excuse me now. Good day.

Other things! Other things! Yeah, sure. Other things like who the fuck was your old man, and did he go to Harvard, and how much fuckin’ money does he make. And, oh, don’t forget, did you go to the right fuckin’ prep school! You have nothing to do with it! Who are you trying to kid, you ball less bastard!

The young man’s eyes were blazing. Brendlinger could not believe the transformation that had taken place. All pretense of civility had disappeared and before him stood a raging animal. His words seemed to bounce off the walls and hang there for an eternity. All of the blood had drained from Miss Alderfer’s face. She knew that she should call security but her hand refused to move in the direction of the phone.

Mr. Dunn, would you be kind enough to allow me to talk to President Brendlinger alone for a moment? Perhaps something can be worked out.

Marcus Dunn’s eyes turned toward the voice belonging to a man that he had not noticed before.

Sure, a few minutes for you to go back into the office, have a laugh, and call the cops. I may not have gone to one of your fancy prep schools, Pal, but I’m not dumb.

Believe me, Son, no one is laughing and you have my word there will be no calls made by anyone. As he spoke Thatcher moved past Brendlinger and toward the boy, his hand outstretched. You have my word on it.

The boy hesitated for a moment then took the proffered hand. What do I have to lose?

Absolutely nothing. Charles, could we go inside for a moment? It was not a question.

Brendlinger, who had stood in stunned silence since the boy’s outburst, followed him into the inner office.

My God! I need more than a wine after that. He returned to the sideboard and removed a tumbler and a bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch. He filled the tumbler with ice and a more than generous amount of the bottle’s contents. How about you, Thatcher?

No, thank you.

Brendlinger took a large gulp of the amber colored liquid. I am afraid that I needed that. Did you ever see anything like it? He’s nothing more than an animal. He seemed so polite at first. And he wants to go to Harvard. Can you imagine anything more preposterous? Brendlinger reached for the phone.

"What are you doing?’

Calling security, of course.

Take your hand off that phone, Charles.

What? Why, for heaven’s sake.

Because I gave my word and that call could possibly cost you a new building.

You’re serious?

I certainly am.

He moved his hand away from the phone. What are we going to do, just leave him sitting out there?

Do you recall the conversation we were having just before the young man arrived, Charles? About heredity versus environment and about how big a part the University does or does not play in what we become?

"Of course, he responded with a quizzical look on his face.

Do you still have the same strong beliefs?

Brendlinger did not like the feeling that seemed to start in the pit of his stomach and stretch out from there until it had permeated his entire body. The feeling that Bryant was setting him up for something. Something that he was not going to like. Certainly I do. He replied uneasily.

Then here is the perfect opportunity for you to prove it. Assuming the boy has the scores he claims and the I.Q. to back them up, which I am sure he does, accept him for the fall term.

You have got to be joking. I won’t even consider such a thing and even if I would I am sure that, even with financial aid, he could not afford to attend. And I would never be able to find a suitable roommate, one with whom he wouldn’t feel totally out of place.

But if the boy is as bright as I think he is, passing will be no problem. And if the reason he was rejected was, as he claims, family and social background, which I agree is a very valid reason for rejection, then he presents us with a perfect opportunity to resolve our debate. And as for the money, dream up some grant or other that he will become the recipient of. Needless to say, I will fund it. And let him room with Thatch. Some of Mr. Dunn’s aggressiveness is just what my son needs. I might just as well get something for my money. Or are you afraid that you can’t make a gentleman out of him in four years, Charles?

Of course not. But he is simply not worth the effort. What has the University to gain by admitting such a ruffian?

"I would just like to see if it can be done, and in order to show that I am quite serious about the whole thing, I am willing to put my money where my beliefs lie.

If you can make a gentleman out of him, to both our satisfactions, by the time of his graduation, I will pay the entire cost of your new building. If, on the other hand, you cannot, you receive no contributions from me for the next ten years.

Brendlinger studied the man before him for several moments before he spoke. You are aware, I am sure, that what you are proposing is a five million dollar bet.

I am aware that should I lose, that is what it will cost me. And if I win I save perhaps three million or so over a ten-year period. But I do not expect to lose.

You really believe that the University does not mold future leaders? That we are little more than a finishing school, to use your own words?

That was a little harsh. But what I believe is that the University polishes and educates. It cannot create or even truly mold. That happens long before anyone arrives here.

By God you are wrong and I will be more than happy to put your name on our new building to remind you just how wrong you are.

Bryant was surprised at the emotions that the President’s words contained. He had always liked the man but thought him rather weak. He hadn’t realized just how strong his commitment and belief in the University were. Hell, that was reason enough for him to continue to make his contributions even after he won the bet. Besides, his tax lawyers would expire on the spot if he didn’t. You only get what you pay for and perhaps this little experiment will be worth the price.

CHAPTER

2

Ten Years Earlier-Philadelphia

Al ‘Whitey’ Monaghan lounged in the open doorway to John’s NEWSPAPER AND CIGAR STORE and watched the two young boys in the center of the crowd on the opposite corner. The two were fighting, or rather the older of the two was fighting, the other was simply taking a beating. The young kid was game and time and time again would lower his head and rush furiously at his adversary only to have the other step aside and pummel him about the side of his head.

A Route 47 trolley rumbled into the intersection and annoyed Whitey by momentarily blocking his view. He had fought more than fifty pro bouts and had been a street brawler long before anyone had suggested that he could make some money for hitting people. Not that he ever made that much. Only the very top boxers made any real money in Whitey’s day and he wasn’t one of those. He had been a good club fighter and had held his own with some of the really good ones on their way up and in some cases on their way down. They used to say that Al Whitey Monaghan always put on a good show. He was tough and aggressive but he had a habit of blocking with his head instead of with his gloves. His face showed it. He had one cauliflower ear and a nose that was flat and pushed to one side. The scar tissue over his right eye made that eyebrow seem to be perpetually climbing toward his grey crew cut. He still liked the fights but sometimes felt that he would rather watch a good street brawl than see some of the present day pros dance around each other for ten boring rounds.

The trolley car passed. The younger boy was now on the ground. The victor and some of the onlookers were jeering at him as they turned to walk away. Whitey smiled. The youngster, with cat like agility and ferocity, was up off the ground and on to the other’s back before he had time to react. Senseless, only a matter of time before the other’s strength and size would nullify the advantage of surprise. But Whitey liked the boy’s heart as well as his quickness. It was a shame he didn’t know how to handle himself. But just as the older combatant’s bulk was about to turn the tide in his favor once again, he crumbled to the ground, eyes bulging, both hands clutching his groin. That young kid was mean. Whitey laughed to himself. He had the natural instincts of a street fighter. The old man shook his head. The sins of the father came from somewhere into his conscious thoughts as he walked back into the store.

*****

Oh. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! You’ve been fighting again. Just look at you! His mother’s voice greeted Marcus Dunn as he tried to enter, unnoticed, through the front door.

No I haven’t, Mom. I’ve been playing ball.

Don’t lie to me, Marcus. Sweet Mother of God! Why do you do these things? Do you want to end up like your father? You know I’ve warned you about fighting.

What am I supposed to do, Mom? If they push me around I gotta fight back.

Don’t you be talking back to me young man. Stay away from those hooligans and there’ll be no fights. Pray that you have the strength to turn the other cheek as your Lord Jesus did! He prayed to his heavenly father for help. You must learn to do the same.

Yea and look where it got him. Getting nailed to a tree ain’t…isn’t my idea of a good time.

Blasphemy! she screamed as the back of her hand caught him flush on the mouth. Pray! Pray! That’s your only hope. Pray that he will lead you in the path of righteousness. Ask his forgiveness before it’s too late.

Marcus stood there and stared at her. There was no use talking or trying to explain when she went off like this. He didn’t know how his father had put up with her before he died. Had she always been like this? He didn’t think so but anymore he couldn’t remember.

Her name had been Mary Maguire. Or at least that’s what the nuns at St. Theresa’s had called her. If someone left an infant on the steps of an Irish order of nuns, it stood to reason that the child had to be both Irish and catholic and so the good nuns christened her Mary, in honor of the Blessed Virgin. Maguire had been the family name of the previous Mother Superior who they had buried not a month before little Mary had arrived. It seemed only fitting that this should be her name. The nuns, and in particular the newly promoted Mother Superior, Sister, or rather Mother Veronica, were greatly taken by the child and although there were over a hundred girls in their charge at St. Theresa’s orphanage it was obvious to all that wee Mary was the favorite.

The ensuing years did nothing to change Mary’s status at St. Theresa’s. She grew into a bright, cheerful, affectionate and pious young lady. By the time she was fourteen everyone was sure that on her sixteenth birthday Mary would enter the novitiate and become a nun. But during her fifteenth year Mother Veronica sent for her. Is something troubling you, Child? You haven’t seemed yourself of late.

Mary’s eyes were fixed on her shoes. She neither looked up nor answered. She merely shook her head from side to side. Mary had always felt a sense of peace and comfort in Mother Superior’s small office with its two comfortable old leather chairs, its floor to ceiling bookcases filled with old leather bound books, most of which she had borrowed and read at one time or another, and its well-worn wooden floor with the oval shaped woven rug covering one small section between the chairs. The room smelled of old furniture and wax and was always dimly lit except for the mahogany desk, which was bathed in light from the desk lamp when Mother was working. Mother Veronica sat in the straight-backed wooden chair behind the desk looking across its smooth top at the now obviously uncomfortable young girl.

We have been friends for a long time, Mary. We have shared a great many things, both good and bad. Whenever you had a problem, you would always sit in that same chair and talk to me about it. Now you are becoming a young woman. The world is not as simple as when you were a child. Many things have changed, and will continue to change, things inside you as well as outside. But the love and caring of the Lord Jesus for you never changes, Mary. Nor does my love and caring for you. Whatever the problem I am sure you have prayed for help and guidance.

The young girl nodded her head. Oh, I have, Mother. I have. Her eyes continued to look downward. Suddenly she burst into tears. I’m so ashamed, Mother. Please forgive me. Her sobs racked her slender form and she dropped to her knees. Please, Mother, forgive me. And pray that God will forgive me too. I’m…I’m…impure, she stammered through her tears. I pray for help but God sees only my impure thoughts and he has deserted me.

Mother Veronica came around the desk and knelt down next to the sobbing girl. She put her arms around her and placed Mary’s head on her shoulder. Come, come, Child. God has not forsaken you. Nor have I, she gently stroked her soft brown hair as she spoke. Tell me now, in what way could you possibly been impure.

When I’m in bed at night, Mother. I feel things. I think things.

What kind of things, Mary?

Impure things, Mother, the girl began to sob again.

And what do you do about these thoughts?

I pray that they will go away.

And do they?

Yes, for a while. But sometimes I wake up later on and they’re there again. Mary’s body began to shake uncontrollably once again.

Calm yourself, Child. These thoughts are all a part of growing up. You remember when you were just a little girl and you were sometimes, on a very cold morning, tempted to pretend that you were ill so that you could stay in your nice warm bed instead of getting up and going to school?

Mary nodded.

Well as you grow older the devil tempts you in more devious ways. He uses your own growing body and emotions to lure you away from God’s law. But as long as you don’t give in, Mary, as long as you pray for God’s help, everything will be fine.

It was a little less than a year later when Mother Veronica invited Mary into her office for tea.

Well, Mary, you’re a sixteen year old woman now and in a few months you’ll be a high school graduate. What are your plans?

Mary almost dropped her tea. I always thought…that is, all the sisters always said…I thought, her lower lip began to quiver.

That you would enter the novitiate?

Yes, Mother. That’s what I’ve always wanted.

Are you sure, Child? Is it all you’ve ever wanted or all that you’ve ever know?

Mary fought back the tears that were about to overflow. Oh, Mother, it’s because you think that I’m not worthy.

Nonsense, Mary, Mother Veronica laughed. I know of no one who seems more worthy. But you know nothing of the outside world. This convent has been your only life. You have never been to a dance or had a soda with a young man.

But, Mother Veronica, I want to do God’s will. I don’t want those other things.

How will you know God’s will if you never know anything of his world but our little section of it? Mary, I’ve arranged for you to work for the Jefferson’s over the summer. They are a good Catholic family and they need help in their bakery. Most of the time you’ll have nothing to do but wait on customers. And the Jefferson’s have an extra room so you can live with them.

The dam holding back the torrent of tears could hold no longer. Please, Mother, please. I don’t want to live anyplace else. I don’t want to leave. Please don’t make me.

"Stop this nonsense