Authors: Harold Robbins
I grinned up at him. “Half a flash is better than none.”
The humor didn’t faze him. He was all business. “Twenty for French, thirty for Greek, forty for the round trip.”
“You’re stupid, buster,” I said pleasantly. “For all you know I could be a vice cop.”
His face turned white under his tan and he pulled his bikini up so quickly I could hear it snap against his gut. “You’re not—”
“No, I’m not.”
He sighed with relief. “Jesus! You had me going there for a minute.”
I reached for another piece of chicken.
“Man, I usually don’t do this sort of thing,” he said. “But I need the bread. My landlady is hollering for the room rent.”
“I’ll give you twenty for the loan of your surfboard for a few minutes,” I said.
“You’re on.”
I got to my feet, took my money out of my pocket, peeled off a twenty and stuck the rest in my Jockeys. “Help yourself to a beer and some chicken,” I said, picking up the board. “I won’t be too long.”
The surf was colder than I remembered its being when I was a kid. I paddled out to where the breakers were forming and waited for the wave. I wiped out four times before I caught one that I managed to ride almost to shore. That was enough for me. I quit and came out.
“How was it?” he asked. “You didn’t look bad out there.”
“I think I’ll leave it to you kids. I’m getting too old for that sort of thing.”
“You’re okay for an old guy. I like you. What do you say we get it on? No charge.”
I guess from where he was thirty-seven was a long way. “No, thanks. I’ve just made up my mind. I’m giving up boys.”
“Why?”
“Because they spoil you for girls.”
“That’s stupid,” he said. “You’ll be missing half the fun.”
Out of the mouths of babes. What he said made sense.
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“Half a mile down the beach.”
He played with my cock on the short drive to his place and the moment the door closed behind us he fell to his knees in front of me. He pulled down my Jockeys and my cock leaped free. He caught it in his mouth. With one hand, he cupped my balls and used two skilled fingers of the other to go up my ass in search of my prostate. I grabbed his head, going deep into his throat.
He pulled away, coughing and catching his breath. “What a beautiful fat cock,” he said. “I love it.” He threw himself on the bed lying on his back, his legs raised in the female position. “Fuck me! I can’t wait!”
I moved into him slowly. He pulled me down on him and I felt the hardness of his cock pressing against my belly as we picked up the rhythm. It seemed as if only a few seconds passed when he cried out. “I can’t hold it! I’m coming! I’m coming!”
I felt his cock begin to throb against me like a jack hammer as the burning semen began to spurt from it. At the same moment his fingers found my prostate and pressed. I went halfway up the wall emptying myself into him.
I never made it to my mother’s for dinner.
***
It was four o’clock in the morning when I let myself into the bungalow at the hotel. I peeked into our bedroom. In the faint light I could see Eileen, sleeping. Softly I closed the door and went to the other bathroom to shower.
I saw her shadow through the glass of the shower stall. “Are you all right?” she called over the noise of the water.
“I’m fine.”
“Your mother was worried about you.”
I didn’t answer.
“So was I,” she added.
“I’m sorry,” I said, coming out of the shower. She handed me a towel and I began to rub myself dry.
“She made me promise that I’d have you call her in the morning.”
“I’ll do that.”
She went back to our bedroom and when I got into bed a few minutes later, she moved close to me. I drew her head down to my shoulder. I felt the tears on her cheeks. “Hey, why are you crying?”
“I love you. And I can’t bear to see the way you are. You’ve got everything you’ve ever wanted. I just don’t understand why you’re unhappy.”
I kissed her hair and brushed the tears from her cheeks. But there was nothing I could say to her. I didn’t know why any more than she did.
Her fingers reached up and touched my cheek lightly. “Poor Gareth,” she whispered with sleepy tenderness. “So many wars.”
CHAPTER 49
There’s a difference between old money and new money. New money buys antiques and restores them to pristine condition so that one might almost imagine Louis Quinze sweeping through the door and putting his royal ass on the couch. Old money buys antiques and leaves them the way they are with wood unpolished, material faded and cushions so lumpy that your ass feels as if it’s perching on a pile of cobblestones.
Martin Courtland was old money. But sitting behind his desk in his office on one of the upper stories of 70 Wall Street, he didn’t have to worry about cobblestones. His chair was the only new piece of furniture in the room. He smiled as I sat on the edge of my chair and signed the last of the papers. Then he pressed a button to have a flunky take the papers away.
Courtland leaned back in his chair and smiled at us. “That finishes it,” he said in a satisfied tone. “From now on everything’s automatic.”
I shifted on my chair and glanced at Eileen. She didn’t seem any more comfortable than I was. “What does that mean?”
“Your signatures on those papers are irrevocable orders to the underwriters to transfer the moneys they collected from the sale of the stock to your company,” he explained. “That’s why I asked you to come into New York early so that we could get it out of the way. Now when you appear before the analysts’ luncheon the day after tomorrow you know the money is in your pocket. And there’s nothing that anyone can do about it except you.”
“Me?”
He nodded. “You are the only one with the power to revoke this order.” He got to his feet. “Is there anything I can do to make your stay in town more comfortable?”
The meeting was obviously over. It was just like the magazine business. We were already last month’s issue. “We’re okay,” I said.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t have lunch. But we have time for a quick drink.” Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the phone. “Bring in the bottle of Glenmorangie.” He looked over the desk at me. “That’s my special occasion scotch.”
Then he saw us to the door of his office and we went down to the street where the limo was waiting. The car pulled away before we even told the driver where we were going.
The sidewalks were jammed with people. Nothing like California. Here everybody moved. It was a bright sunny day, but with the tall buildings surrounding us, the street looked as if it were in the twilight zone. “Fun City,” I said. “The Big Apple. What do you say we go out and turn it on?”
“Can’t we go back to the hotel and get some sleep first?” she asked plaintively. “That red-eye from California wore me out.”
We had arrived at the airport at six-forty-five in the morning and we’d just had time to make it to the hotel, shower, change and get down to Wall Street by nine. I looked at my watch. It was ten o’clock. A couple of hours’ sleep wouldn’t hurt before lunch.
I lowered the window that separated us from the driver. “Back to the hotel, please.”
The answer was typically New York. “We’re on the way,” he said. “I figured that’s where you were going.”
***
It seemed as if I had just closed my eyes when the telephone began banging in my ear. I reached over and picked it up. “Yes?”
“Gareth?”
“Yes.”
“Martin Courtland here.” His voice crackled with tension. “Have you been watching the twelve o’clock news?”
“I’ve been asleep,” I said.
“There’s a news teletype in the lobby,” he said. “Take a look at it and call me back.”
He clicked off abruptly. I put down the receiver. Eileen hadn’t moved. Silently I got out of bed, dressed and went downstairs. I got out of the elevator and walked to the teletype near the Park Avenue entrance.
The machine chattered away, largely ignored by the people who hurried back and forth, apparently more interested in their own world than the one outside. The machine was pouring out figures on the Federal Reserve Bank. I picked up the long sheet hanging over the back and read it. The story hit me between the eyes.
FROM UPI * NEW YORK 12 NOON
TREASURY DEPARTMENT OFFICIALS ANNOUNCED AT NOON TODAY SEIZURE OF WHAT MAY TURN OUT TO BE THE BIGGEST HAUL OF ILLEGAL NARCOTICS IN THE HISTORY OF THE DEPARTMENT. IN A MASSIVE OPERATION REMINISCENT OF MILITARY OPERATIONS DURING WORLD WAR TWO, RAIDS WERE CONDUCTED IN THREE MAJOR CITIES IN THE UNITED STATES AND TWO FOREIGN COUNTRIES. THE FBI AND THE NARCOTICS DIVISION OF THE TREASURY DEPARTMENT IN COOPERATION WITH SCOTLAND YARD AND THE NEWLY FORMED OPERATION CONDOR GROUP OF THE MEXICAN NATIONAL POLICE TIMED THE RAIDS FOR EXACTLY ELEVEN A.M. E.S.T. PREMISES RAIDED WERE THE LIFESTYLE CLUBS IN NEW YORK, CHICAGO, LOS ANGELES AND LONDON, THE LIFESTYLE HOTEL IN MAZATLAN, MEXICO, THE RETREAT, A RELIGIOUS MISSION IN MAZATLAN, AND THE PRIVATE ESTATE OF SENOR ESTEBAN CARILLO, A FIRST COUSIN OF THE GOVERNOR OF MAZATLAN. THE LIFESTYLE CLUBS AND HOTEL ARE OWNED BY GARETH BRENDAN PUBLICATIONS, PUBLISHERS OF MACHO MAGAZINE AND OTHERS. NUMEROUS ARRESTS WERE MADE AND MORE ARE EXPECTED MOMENTARILY. DRUGS SEIZED WERE LARGE AMOUNTS OF HEROIN, COCAINE, MARIJUANA, AMPHETAMINES AND QUAALUDES WITH A STREET VALUE ESTIMATED AT BETWEEN TWO AND THREE HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS. POLICE IN EACH OF THE MAJOR CITIES ORDERED THE PREMISES OF THE LIFESTYLE CLUBS CLOSED PENDING FURTHER INVESTIGATION.
FOLLOW-UP *** MEXICO CITY
MEXICAN POLICE REPORT THREE DEAD AND TWO WOUNDED IN GUN BATTLE AT SCENE OF DRUG RAID. A HEATED GUN BATTLE IN WHICH MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED ROUNDS WERE EXCHANGED RESULTED IN THE DEATH OF TWO PRIVATE GUARDS IN THE EMPLOY OF SENOR CARILLO AND BROTHER JONATHAN, A MISSIONARY AT THE RETREAT. TWO MEXICAN POLICEMEN WERE WOUNDED. BROTHER JONATHAN WAS IDENTIFIED AS JOHN SINGER, A FORMER SERGEANT OF THE LOS ANGELES POLICE FORCE WHO RETIRED WHILE UNDER INVESTIGATION BY THE LAPD ON CHARGES OF SHAKEDOWN OF DRUG PUSHERS. THE CHARGES WERE LATER DROPPED.
FOLLOW-UP *** NEW YORK AND WASHINGTON
JUSTICE DEPARTMENT OFFICIALS PROMISE SPEEDY ARRAIGNMENT OF MANAGERS OF LIFESTYLE CLUBS AND OTHERS ARRESTED IN THIS MORNING’S DRUG RAID WHICH RESULTED IN THE CONFISCATION OF THREE HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS OF NARCOTICS. A HIGH DEPARTMENT OFFICIAL CLAIMS THAT THE BACK OF THE SO-CALLED MEXICAN CONNECTION MAY BE PERMANENTLY BROKEN. THE MEXICAN CONNECTION REPLACED THE FRENCH CONNECTION BROKEN MORE THAN THREE YEARS AGO IN A CRACKDOWN IN FRANCE AS THE PRINCIPAL SOURCE AND SUPPLY OF DRUGS IN THE UNITED STATES.
FOLLOW-UP *** NEW YORK
GARETH BRENDAN PUBLICATIONS LTD., OWNERS OF THE LIFESTYLE CLUBS AND HOTEL CLOSED TODAY AFTER MASSIVE DRUG RAID, IN ONE OF THE MOST SUCCESSFUL STOCK OFFERINGS IN RECENT HISTORY HAS SOLD TWO MILLION SHARES TO THE PUBLIC FOR ONE HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS. MR. BRENDAN, WITH THREE MILLION SHARES OF THE COMPANY STILL IN HIS PERSONAL POSSESSION, IS PRESIDENT AND CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER OF THE COMPANY. THE STOCK WILL BE POSTED ON THE BIG BOARD FOR THE FIRST TIME NEXT MONDAY.
I tore the sheets from the teletype and went back upstairs. Eileen was awake when I came into the suite. “What’s happening?” she asked. “The telephones have gone crazy. It seems like everybody in the world is trying to reach you.”
I handed her the teletypes. “Read that.”
“Verita wants you to call her right back,” she said. “It’s urgent.”
I nodded, went to the phone and punched out Verita’s direct line. “Gareth,” I said.
“You know what happen?” It was the first time in a long while I’d heard her lapse into an accent.
“Yes. I just found out.”
“You better come back real quick. All hell is breaking loose.”
“I’ll be there on the next plane.” I thought for a moment. Her fiancé had been one of the hottest criminal attorneys in California before he was elected to the bench. “Your friend the judge. Do you think he can arrange to meet me at the airport when I come in?”
“I theenk so.”
“Good. I’ll let you know what flight as soon as I make the reservations.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice. “Julio fucked us.”
“You haven’t heard the news?” Surprise was in her voice.
I was up to my ass in news. “What news?”
“Julio was machine-gunned to death when he came out of his garage less than an hour ago by two men in a car. The police were on their way to arrest him and they say he was killed to keep him from talking.”
“Oh, shit.” That had to mean that Julio wasn’t the loner he led the Chicanos to believe. There must have been some ties to the mustaches. This was a gangland-style killing. “Okay. I’ll call you back in a few minutes as soon as I have flight confirmation.”
I put down the telephone. It began to ring the moment the receiver touched the cradle. I picked it up and put it down, disconnecting the call without answering it. Then I dialed the hotel operator. “Hold all calls on twenty-one, -two and -three until further notice. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
As soon as she hung up, I dialed Courtland. While waiting for him to get on the phone, I told Eileen to book us on the next flight to LA and to let Verita know.
“How can a thing like this happen?” Courtland asked.
“I don’t know. But I’m on my way back to the Coast to find out.”
“If this isn’t cleared up to everyone’s satisfaction by the time the stock is posted on the board, the board of governors will have no alternative but to suspend the stock from trading.”
“Does that mean we have to give the money back?” I asked.
He sounded horrified. “We don’t do things like that on the Street. We honor our commitments.”
Like their seventeen million dollars’ worth of commissions, I was thinking but didn’t say anything.
“But it is very embarrassing,” he added.
“I’ll keep you posted,” I said and hung up.
Eileen came back into the room. “There’s a three o’clock and a five o’clock. But we’ll never make the three o’clock. We have to pack.”
“Fuck packing,” I said. “We’ll make the three o’clock.”
***
ETA Los Angeles was 5:52 P.M. Not 5:50, not 5:55. Airlines had their own ways of calculating time. They always took off on the five-minute unit, but they always landed on the five-minute unit plus two. I guess they had their reasons, but on this flight it didn’t matter. We ran into heavy headwinds and pulled up to the gate at 6:41. I looked at my watch and wondered what that did to their computers.