Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double

by Harold Robbins

“No, I don’t know.”

  “I was thinking, if you wanted, you might become a doctor or a lawyer. It would make us happy and would be good for you.”

  “I don’t know. There’s time enough later to think about it,” I said. “Honestly, how bad is it? What did the doctor say?”

  “In some ways we were lucky. Your uncle has tuberculosis. But we caught it in a very early stage, and the doctor said he’ll be all right in a little while.”

  “That’s good—as long as he’ll be all right. I was worried.”

  She smiled. “Just between us, I must confess I was too. But I feel better today somehow. I was feeling pretty low last night.”

  “I know. I heard.”

  She smiled at me again. “There’s very little you miss, is there, Frankie?”

  I smiled.

  “You’re a strange boy. You’re kind of old for your age and kind of sweet, but I like it.”

  I went over to her chair and put my arm around her shoulders. “I kind of like you too.”

  She patted my cheek. “How about a glass of milk for the growing boy?” she asked.

  “Throw in some cookies and you’ve got a deal.”

  Just then my uncle came in. She got up and kissed him. “How did everything go, Morris?”

  “Pretty good,” he said after saying hello to me. “They’re going to give me fifteen thousand for the territory, and that is a good price. We’ll be able to get along on that for a while. But there’s one hitch. I went down to the children’s welfare bureau to notify them of my intention to move out of the state, and they asked me why. I told them. They told me that we couldn’t take Frankie with us.”

  I hopped out of the chair when I heard that. “Why?” I asked.

  He turned to face me. “It seems there’s a rule of the orphanage that says when a communicable disease crops up in a family that has adopted a child, the child’s care automatically reverts to them. You may have to go back to the orphanage for a while. But I don’t know. I’m going to see my lawyer in the morning, and we’ll probably have no trouble at all.”

  “I don’t care. I won’t go back to the orphanage.” I said.

  “You won’t have to, Frankie,” said my uncle. “We’ll see to that.”

  A week passed by. It was a busy week at home. We had made arrangements for a place to live not far from Tucson. My aunt had started with her early packing. We were to move in about two weeks. It was Saturday afternoon and I had been helping her. It was May. It was swell. We were all excited over the trip. The kids could talk of nothing else.

  About two o’clock my uncle came home. He was tired. He sat in a chair in the living room. Aunt Bertha had made him a hot cup of tea, and he was sipping it slowly. I was in the kitchen wrapping some dishes in paper and placing them in the barrels when he called me. I went in.

  Aunt Bertha came in with me. “Sit down,” my uncle said to me. I sat down on the couch, my aunt next to me. She took my hand and held it lightly.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, Frankie,” my uncle said slowly, “but I suppose I’ll have to, sooner or later, and I think you should know now. You won’t be able to come with us.”

  I started to say something, but Aunt Bertha squeezed my hand and said: “Let your uncle finish.” I remained silent.

  “As you know,” he continued, “I saw my lawyer in hopes that he would be able to straighten it out. But it was no use. There wasn’t anything we could do about it. The law was there and, right or wrong, we have to abide by it. I spoke and pleaded with different officials but it didn’t do any good. I was told you have to go back to the orphanage until you’re eighteen. Then you’ll be able to join us.”

  I had a funny feeling in my throat as if I were going to cry. I hoped I wouldn’t. Somehow I had felt all along that I would be able to go with them. I didn’t say anything.

  My aunt looked at me; she spoke, her voice soft and sympathetic. “In some ways, Frankie, it has its good points. You’ll be able to finish school here. You’ll be at home with your friends. And Uncle Morris spoke to Brother Bernhard—he’s very fond of you—and he promised to look after you and take care of you. In a little while you will graduate school, and then you’ll be able to come out with us. You can go to college out there. There are some very fine universities out there. And while you’re going to school here, we can pretend that you’re away at school, just as if you were away attending some college.”

  “I don’t care,” I said dully. “I don’t care about pretending anything. I don’t care about my friends. I won’t miss them, I’ll miss you. I want to be with you.”

  “We want you with us,” my aunt said gravely. “You don’t know how much. We’ve become very fond of you and we love you, but we can’t do anything about it. We have to do what the law says. We haven’t any choice.”

  I looked at them both. I could feel hot tears welling into my eyes. I started to speak but couldn’t. I just looked at them and the tears, filling my eyes, ran down my cheeks. I stood there silently, not sobbing, just crying with the tears running down my cheeks. They watched me, not speaking. Tears came to my aunt’s eyes too. I turned and ran to my room and threw myself across the bed.

  I heard my aunt and uncle come to the door. I heard her voice through the door. “Morris, I’d better go in and speak to him. Did you see the look on his face? It was as if he was a little boy locked out of his home.”

  “No,” my uncle said. “Let him alone. He’ll get over it soon. He’s a real man.” They walked away.

  Vaguely I thought about what he said. I was a real man. Yes, I was. But I was acting like a little boy that had been locked out. I was a man. I tried to control myself. I stopped crying and got out of bed. I went into the bathroom and washed my face. Then I went into the kitchen.

  My aunt and uncle were sitting at the table. They looked up when I came in. “Feeling better?” my uncle asked.

  I nodded yes. I was afraid to speak—I still didn’t trust my voice.

  “Sit down and have a cup of tea,” my aunt said.

  I did. It wasn’t until years afterward that I realized my uncle had purposely spoken loudly in the hall outside my door for my benefit. But I didn’t know it then. And I felt real bad. I didn’t want to go back to the orphanage.

  Then I was glad I hadn’t told anyone about my going away, for suddenly I didn’t want to tell anyone that I was going back to the orphanage. I didn’t want anybody to feel sorry for me.

  27

  It was Friday, May 13, 1927. We were all packed. My things were packed. My uncle was going to take me down to the orphanage with my things. They were leaving the next day. I wasn’t going to stay at the orphanage until after they had gone; all we were going to do was to take my things down.

  “Ready?” my uncle called.

  “Yes,” I said. I picked up my bag and took it down to the car. We were silent as we rode downtown.

  “I didn’t think this would happen,” my uncle said, as if he were apologizing for what had happened.

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. When we got down there I took my bag and we went up to Brother Bernhard’s office. He shook my uncle’s hand and then mine.

  He tried to be pleasant. “You’ll get your old room back, Frankie,” he said. “Supposing we take the things up there and you can put them away.”

  We went up to my old room. I put the bag on my old bed and opened it. Some kids came in, looked at us curiously, and then went out. I didn’t know them. They were probably newcomers. A boy came in that I knew—Johnny Egan. He came over to the bed. He had grown tall in the time I had been away. He was almost as tall as I.

  “Hello, Frankie,” he said. “Coming back?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He didn’t answer, just stood there watching a few minutes and then went out.

  I opened up the dresser drawers and unpacked the suitcase. I then hung my suits in the closet and put my shoes there. In a few minutes I was finished. I snapped the bag shut
and said to my uncle: “I’ll take it back home.”

  “No,” he said, “keep it. You’ll need it when you come out to join us.”

  We started back downstairs to Brother Bernhard’s office. My uncle had to sign some papers. He signed them and then we got up to go. He shook hands with Brother Bernhard.

  “Don’t worry about Frankie, Mr. Cain,” Brother Bernhard said. “We’ll look after him all right.”

  “I know you will,” my uncle said. “Frankie will be here tomorrow afternoon. He’s going to see us off at the train first and then he’ll come here.”

  “What time?” asked Brother Bernhard.

  “About three o’clock,” Uncle Morris said. “We leave about one.”

  “I’ll expect him then. Well, sir, I hope you’ll be feeling better soon.”

  They shook hands again.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, Francis,” Brother Bernhard said to me.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  We left the room. We walked out, down the stairs, through the gymnasium, and into the street. Some kids were playing basketball in the gym. The old dump hadn’t changed a bit.

  We drove home just as silently as we had come.

  It was the gloomiest evening we had ever spent at home. We went to bed early as we had to be up early.

  In the morning the movers came. By ten thirty the apartment was empty, and we all went down for breakfast. The only things they were taking with them were two valises for necessary changes. I went to Grand Central with them. There the train came in a little before twelve. We took the things aboard. It seemed as if only a few minutes had passed, but it was time for me to get off the train.

  I kissed the little girls good-bye and gave them each a small box of candy I had bought for them.

  “I’ll miss you, Frankie,” Irene, the older one, said, with arms around my neck.

  “I’ll miss you too,” I said rumpling her hair with my hand. I turned to my uncle and held out my hand. We shook. “Good-bye, uncle. Good luck. I hope you feel better.”

  He smiled. “So long, Frankie. Be a good boy. It won’t be too long.”

  My aunt was next. She put her arms around me and kissed me. She was crying. “I wish you were coming with us, Frankie,” she said.

  “I do too,” I said. I felt like crying myself, but didn’t because I didn’t want them to feel bad. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Oh! Frankie! Frankie!” she said kissing me again, “don’t thank us. We love you and want you with us. I’ll miss you terribly.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Just then the porter tapped me on the shoulder. “You’d better be getting off, sir. We’s about to start any minute.”

  I nodded to him. My aunt let me go. I stood up and looked around at them. “Well,” I said, “so long.” I could feel the tears coming into my eyes, so I turned and got off the train.

  I heard their good-byes in my ears as I walked down the platform to where their window was and waved at them. The kids had their faces pressed against the glass. My uncle was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t hear him through the closed window. The train started. My uncle opened the window. I ran along with it.

  “Don’t worry, Frankie,” he shouted, “it won’t be so long.”

  I was running fast by now to keep up with them. “No, it won’t,” I called back. “It won’t. It won’t.”

  I had reached the end of the platform, the train going into the tube. The last picture I had of them was waving at me and calling: “Good-bye, Good-bye.” I was out of breath. For a minute I stood at the end of the platform, and then I turned and started back. I had never felt so alone in my life.

  I got out into the bright sunlight and walked slowly across town. I reached the orphanage. For a little while I stood outside looking in. I shut my eyes and remembered my aunt kissing me good night. I remembered the pleasant little sounds and smells of home. The warming, somehow lovely, evenings we had spent together—me doing my homework, Uncle Morris reading the paper, Aunt Bertha marching the kids in to bed.

  I looked again at the orphanage—the bleak, gray, drab building, the old, brown, brick school next to it, the church on the corner, the hospital across the street. I remembered the gong calling us for meals, the carefully planned regularity of all our smallest actions, the preaching, lecturing, confining regulations. I hated the place. I wouldn’t go back. I wouldn’t.

  I looked at my watch. It was two o’clock. I ran over to the bank. I took out my bankbook. I went over to the stand and made out a withdrawal slip for two hundred dollars. I went over to the desk and got my money.

  I took the subway down to Grand Central. I was going to take the next train to Tucson. As I got near the ticket window I thought that was the first place they would look for me. I was running away. I didn’t know where to go I looked up at a sign. It said “Baltimore and Ohio Railroad.” There was a picture of a big, moon-faced colored porter grinning next to the words. I went over to the list of trains going out. There was a train going to Baltimore. It left at three ten. I went over to the ticket window.

  “Give me a ticket to Baltimore on the three-ten train,” I said.

  Interlude

  Janet

  Janet had listened to Martin speak through half-closed eyes. The soft, yellow glow of the candlelight cast quiet shadows on his face, and her mind was playing strange tricks upon her. The room had faded from her mind, and all the things she now held dear were yet to come.

  It was Monday at school. She had just come into the building when a messenger was sent up to fetch her to Mrs. Scott’s office. She went downstairs wondering why she had been sent for. It might have been something she had forgotten to do. There was no one in the outer office, so she went directly inside.

  Mrs. Scott was sitting at her desk. A strange man—a man she didn’t know—was seated in front of Mrs. Scott, and Marty and Jerry were standing near them. They looked up as she entered the room. Marty’s face was strained and white, and Jerry had a worried look about him.

  “Brother Bernhardt,” Mrs. Scott said rising to her feet, “this is Janet Lindell, the young lady I was telling you about.” She turned and spoke directly to Janet. “Brother Bernhard is from St. Therese Orphanage.”

  Janet smiled politely. “How do you do?”

  Brother Bernhard got to his feet. He was a tall man, broad with bushy, grayish black hair and eyebrows. His voice was deep and gruff. He spoke directly, a trifle sharply. “Ha’e ye seen or heard from Francis o’er the weekend?”

  “Why, no,” she answered, surprised at the question. “Is anything the matter?”

  Brother Bernhard sank to his seat dejectedly. Mrs. Scott answered her question. “Francis has apparently run away. As you know, he was to stay at the orphanage beginning Saturday. Saturday morning he accompanied his aunt and uncle to the station to see them off, and didn’t come back.”

  She was bewildered. “Maybe he went with them,” she suggested.

  Brother Bernhard shook his head. “We sent a telegraph to his uncle, and he isn’t with them.” His voice had a hurt note in it.

  “Didn’t he say anything to any of you?” Mrs. Scott appealed to all of them. “Did he ever talk about going away, where he’d like to go?”

  They didn’t answer. They had no answer. Suddenly Janet sat in a chair and began to weep.

  Jerry came over to her. “Don’t cry, Janet. He’ll probably show up later. You know how he is—independent. Maybe there’s something he wants to work out by himself.”

  “But he may be hurt or sick and no one knows who he is,” she sobbed.

  Jerry’s hand found hers and held it tightly. “Don’t worry, Janet. He’ll be all right. I know him.”

  She looked up through her tears at him. “Do you really think so?”

  He nodded gravely. She saw something in his face and eyes that caused her to look at him again. She saw his brow was wrinkled with worry. But it wasn’t for Francis, it was for her. She saw his eyes were deep with
pity. But it wasn’t for Francis, it was for her. She saw his face wrinkled with a new look of concern. She caught her breath sharply.

  This was the first time she knew how Jerry felt about her. She began to weep again—sorry for Jerry, for Francis, for herself.

  The room came back into focus. Martin was still talking, and, oddly enough, while her mind had been far away, she had heard and retained every word he had spoken. Martin took another drink of wine and continued to speak, and her mind went spinning off on another tangent.

  She and Jerry had naturally drifted together after that. They never spoke very much about Francis after a while until that night, a few days before she and Jerry were married.

  They had had dinner at Jerry’s home with his parents. Jerry had just been admitted to the bar and was going to work in a few weeks at the district attorney’s office. They were sitting in front of the large open fireplace in the living room, watching the logs crackle and blaze and throw off tiny little sparks. A long time had gone by and they hadn’t spoken a word, just sat there, shoulders touching, fingers intertwined.

  “What are you thinking about darling?” Jerry asked quietly.

  She turned and looked at him gravely. The light from the fire was dancing on his face. “Nothing, I guess.”

  He smiled. “You were so quiet I thought you had forgotten I was with you.”

  “Jerry,” she half laughed, “how could you? It’s just that—that the day after tomorrow we’ll be married, and I guess a girl has a right to look back at her youth and say good-bye to it before she settles down into married life.”

  “You’re sure, aren’t you?” he asked, a worried look on his face. “You haven’t any doubts?”

  “Jerry, darling,” she leaned toward him and kissed him. “Silly! Of course I haven’t any doubts. I love you. I’m just a little moody I guess.”

  He put his arm around her shoulder and leaned her head on him. “Forgive me, sweet. I’m just being foolish. I love you so much I wouldn’t want you to be unhappy. Even if it meant…”