Tycoon

by Harold Robbins

  “Doug, I want his ass,” Jack said bluntly.

  Humphrey nodded. “I thought you would. And I don’t blame you. But let’s look at something. You and I know that in this broadcasting season the Lear Network has some of the most popular shows on television. We don’t get the ratings because we don’t have stations in every market—”

  “We do all right where we do have stations,” said Jack. “Some hours, we’re the top station in Boston, top in Cleveland, top in Atlanta . . .”

  “Exactly,” said Humphrey. “And what shows are doing it for us? The Sally Allen Show, first and foremost. But besides that—Doin’ What Comes Natcherly, Thirty-Eight Special, and ’Round the World. Right?”

  Doin’ What Comes Natcherly was a situation comedy featuring a family of West Virginia coal miners and moonshiners who inherited a Park Avenue apartment building and came to Manhattan to live in it, thinking it would be their obligation to do all the cleaning and maintenance work themselves—to the horror of their wealthy and snooty tenants. Thirty-Eight Special was a police show. The title was a double entendre that could refer to the revolver carried by the policewoman heroine or to her prominent breasts. ’Round the World was a quiz show in which, at the end of a series of several appearances, the winning couple won a luxury trip around the world.

  Jack shrugged. “That’s the backbone of it.”

  “And what do those shows have in common?” Humphrey asked. He answered his own question. “You had The Sally Allen Show going before Painter came on board. The other shows were developed for us by Dick Painter.”

  “The man has an unmatched instinct for vulgarity,” said Jack.

  “And the public has an insatiable appetite for it.”

  “All right. But I want something, Doug. I want a letter of resignation from him. I want a letter that apologizes for attempting a low and dishonest trick, which he need not name. I’ll keep that letter for the day when I might need it.”

  “I’ll see to it that you get the letter,” Humphrey said grimly. “Would you like to take a swim before dinner?”

  Jack shrugged. “Why not?”

  Three

  DINNER WAS FOR FIVE: HUMPHREY, JACK, BOB, MARY, AND Emily.

  “I saw your daughter in Stage Lights,” Mary Carson said to Jack. “She made a fine impression.”

  “Thank you. It was a bit part, but it was something she wanted very badly.”

  “Did you see her pictures in Playboy?” Bob asked.

  Jack couldn’t tell if Bob was being ingenuous or if he was being nasty, because he resented having had to be bailed out by his brother this afternoon.

  “No,” said Mary Carson.

  “I did,” said Humphrey. “She’s stunning. I think we should arrange an appearance for her on The Sally Allen Show.”

  “Wouldn’t that look as if she’s there only because she’s my daughter?”

  “The fact that she’s your daughter shouldn’t deny her an opportunity,” said Mary Carson.

  “I don’t know if she can do anything,” said Jack. “She’s a model. In Stage Lights all she had to do was look good.”

  “At which she’s an expert,” said Bob.

  “It’s your call, your judgment,” Humphrey said to Jack.

  Jack nodded. “I’ll talk to her.”

  After dinner Mary and Emily left the table. The men stayed, with brandy and cigars, and Humphrey raised again the subject of merging LCI and Carlton House.

  “It’s a perfect fit. You could move production of The Sally Allen Show out of that Kansas City warehouse and onto one of the CH soundstages.”

  “We’re thinking of leasing at least one of those soundstages to another television production company,” Bob explained. “CH doesn’t make as many films as it used to, and we can’t afford to maintain unused facilities.”

  “Why lease to a competitor? Whether we merge the companies or not, you could lease the facilities to LCI.”

  “A sweetheart deal?” Jack asked.

  “No. I happen to know Carlton House can use cash. This would be a way of transferring some from LCI to CH.”

  “Why not bring in some cash from outside?” Jack asked.

  “I think Mr. Humphrey is right,” said Bob.

  Four

  JACK WOKE AT 7:45 A.M. SOMEONE WAS KNOCKING ON HIS bedroom door. It was Humphrey, who told Jack he had a telephone call from Anne. He could pick it up on his bedside phone, line two. His hand trembled as he reached for the phone.

  “Jack, something perfectly horrible has happened. Kimberly is dead! So is Dodge Hallowell.”

  “How? What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Harrison Wolcott called. He said they’d had heart attacks.”

  “Both of them?”

  “That’s what he said. He was very upset, of course. He asked us to get the word to John and Joni.”

  “Joni’s in the apartment in New York, I suppose. Would you mind calling her? I’ll try to reach John. I’ll try to reach Harrison, too.”

  Five

  ANNE REACHED JONI JUST AS SHE WAS LEAVING THE APARTment to keep a modeling appointment.

  “Joni, I have terrible news. Your mother is dead. So is Dodge Hallowell.”

  “That’s too bad . . . I guess.”

  “It is too bad. It comes as a terrible shock to your grandparents, both of whom are rather fragile.”

  Joni was silent for a moment, then said, “Anne, I am not going to the funeral. That may as well be understood.”

  “That’s your decision to make, Joni. But I wish you’d consider this. Not going will not be a statement to your mother, who won’t know what statement you’re making. On the other hand, you’ll hurt your grandparents’ feelings, and you’ll be letting down your father and brother. Will you be home this evening? I’ll call to tell you what the arrangements are.”

  Six

  NEVER IN HIS DREAMS HAD JOHN SEEN HIMSELF AT THE CONtrols of an aircraft like this one, and he was aware that the navy had conferred a significant honor on him when it assigned him to one of the first F4D Skyrays to be delivered aboard an aircraft carrier. It was a delta-wing interceptor, propelled by so powerful an engine that it held a world speed record, having flown in excess of 750 miles per hour. It was also capable of climbing almost vertically and held world records for rate of climb.

  Naturally, the F4D was a demanding aircraft. He had been assigned to it only five weeks ago, had trained in it at the San Diego Naval Air Station, and was now practicing carrier operations.

  The ship was ahead of him and below. Five miles ahead of him another F4D was about to land—a tiny silvery bird hard to make out at this distance. The carrier was the Yorktown, the second U.S. aircraft carrier by that name, the first having been lost during the Battle of Midway. It was an Essex-class carrier. John had served aboard the Essex as a midshipman, so the layout of the ship was familiar to him. Sort of. Most of the Essex-class carriers had been modified. The landing deck had been angled 8 degrees off the line of the keel, an arrangement that made for more efficient and safer operations.

  The aircraft ahead of him was being waved off. Something was wrong with his approach. The signal lights went blank and now came on again. John realized the signals were now for him. He was three miles out and too high. He cut power and felt the Skyray settling, losing altitude. He felt it was settling too fast, so he adjusted his power. The signals hadn’t told him that; he had felt it in the seat of his pants. Pilots were urged not to fly by instinct but by the book, but John knew his feeling for what his aircraft was doing was almost always right.

  The lights indicated he was at the proper altitude for the distance. He was slightly to the right of course, which meant the wind had shifted. He did not turn the nose into the wind but lowered his left wing into it and added some right rudder—cross controls. The wings were a little less efficient that way, so he added a bit more power. The lights changed, indicating he was on the glide slope and lined up on course. Good. Now all he had to do was hold it that way
.

  For some reason, an approach to landing always seemed slow, even leisurely, with plenty of time to fly the airplane—time to make corrections. He knew, though, that from the time he turned on his approach course until the instant he hit the deck he had only two minutes.

  Now he had ten seconds. It was too late to be waved off. He was committed. Crossing the threshold of the deck, he chopped his power and raised his nose. The Skyray fell like a rock and hit the deck with a bone-jarring jolt. He pulled the stick into his crotch until he felt the little tailwheel bang on the deck. The arresting hook caught a wire. He was thrown forward in his harness.

  Deck crew surrounded the plane. They towed it off the landing deck. Another Skyray was less than a mile out.

  “Lieutenant Lear,” called a crewman who climbed up to help him out of the cockpit, “you are to report immediately to the Protestant chaplain, sir.”

  Whatever that meant, John knew it could not be good news.

  “Sit down, son. I’m afraid I have very bad news for you. Your mother has died. And your stepfather as well. Get your gear together. A chopper will take you in to San Diego. A navy flight for Washington is taking off within the hour. You can be on it. When you get to Washington, there’ll be a flight to New York. Your wife has been notified and will be waiting at the airport in San Diego to go with you. You’ve been granted thirty days’ compassionate leave. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  John shook his head.

  The chaplain put both his hands on John’s. “Why don’t we share a moment of prayer?”

  Seven

  JACK AND ANNE HAD FLOWN TO SAN DIEGO FOR JOHN AND Linda’s wedding two months ago. Until now the couple had not had time to come east, and Linda had never seen the house in Greenwich. Also, she had never met Joni.

  “She’s very beautiful, John. I’m glad for you.”

  “You told me to find a girl.”

  “And you did. Wonderfully.”

  “It didn’t work out between you and Frank Neville, I guess.”

  “He’s a little prick.” She grimaced dramatically and then hugged her brother.

  Joni made a point of finding a time to be alone with Jack. They sat down in the library, behind closed doors.

  “Simultaneous heart attacks, huh?” Joni said skeptically. “If you believe that, you believe in the tooth fairy.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Are you going to try to find out what happened?”

  “I’m not sure it’s any of my business,” Jack said softly.

  Joni lifted her chin and blew an impatient sigh. “If there’s some kind of horrible scandal being covered up, we ought to know what it is. Anyway, John needs to know.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Jack promised.

  Eight

  DAN AND CONNIE HORAN ATTENDED THE FUNERAL. JACK hadn’t seen them in more than ten years. When he spoke to them, they shook his hand and were cordial.

  “Could we have a little private conversation later?” he asked them.

  “About what?”

  “About what happened here.”

  Dan drew a deep breath. “Why not? You and I can slip off and have a drink after the service.”

  Anne, John, Linda, and Joni went to the Wolcott home when the funeral was over. Jack said he would join them in an hour and left the cemetery with Dan Horan. They sat at the bar in the Common Club. Jack had not been in the club for many years but paid his dues every year and was still a member.

  “You’ve been decent about Kathleen,” Dan said. “She has no idea who you are, and you’ve never forced yourself on her or us. We appreciate that.”

  “I’m capable of being decent,” said Jack dryly.

  “We . . . have different values.”

  “Granted. Understood. All right. Tell me something. How did Kimberly die? It’s obviously a secret.”

  “More than a secret,” said Dan. “It’s a monumental scandal. I don’t know the details, but the Boston police have covered it up under six layers of obfuscation. The world has changed, but the Wolcotts still have the power to cover up a scandal.”

  “The simultaneous heart attacks—”

  “No one believes that. Murder and suicide maybe. Maybe there were drugs involved. Alcohol, Carbon monoxide. But . . . not simultaneous heart attacks.”

  “Okay. I don’t really have to know the details. John wants to know. He . . . has a sense of—I don’t know what you’d call it. Anyway, he’s grieving. His wife is pregnant, and she is very curious about the mother-in-law she never met. Joni, frankly, doesn’t give a damn. She’s sorry her mother is dead, but—Well, I’m not going to pursue it. Did you see Joni’s Playboy pictures?”

  Dan nodded solemnly.

  “Kimberly’s reaction destroyed anything that remained of their relationship. Dan, I appreciate your seeing me. Give the little girl a kiss for me—without telling her it’s from me, of course.”

  Nine

  TWO WEEKS LATER JACK SAT IN THE LIVING ROOM IN THE Manhattan town house. Joni was in California. Rebecca Murphy, the private investigator, sipped Scotch and talked.

  She had not aged. After fourteen years she remained the solid, acne-marked woman who still wore her light brown hair in tight curls. Jack had always wondered what kind of private life she had, but he had never asked. He’d told her he would be going home to Greenwich for the night and that she could sleep in the town house.

  “Yeah, I found out what happened,” she said. “It’s not pretty.”

  “I was afraid it wouldn’t be.”

  “The maid and cook arrived about seven-thirty, their usual hour, so they could have a hearty breakfast ready when Mr. and Mrs. Hallowell came down a little after eight o’clock. But something was wrong. The maid found the door to the master bedroom suite open. The door to the attic was locked. She understood the significance of that. She knocked on the door. No response. She went down and told the cook, and the two of them came up and knocked again. When they got no answer, they called the police.”

  “And . . .”

  “The police found Hallowell stretched out on the floor. The autopsy said myocardial infarction. Mrs. Hallowell was hanging from two pairs of handcuffs on her wrists and locked on two big screw eyes in two rafters, arms spread like Christ on the Cross. Stark naked. She had screamed, probably—and screamed and screamed and screamed. Eventually she just hung on the handcuffs. That cut off her circulation. Blood clots formed and went to her heart. She died about three A.M., after hanging there maybe five hours or more. Her back and her bottom were laced with ugly welts. A whip was found beside Hallowell’s body. He’d been whipping the hell out of her. The exertion or— Anyway, he had a heart attack and died, leaving her hanging there with no way of getting loose.”

  “God! I—”

  “Mr. Wolcott didn’t have to ask the detectives or the coroner to cover it up. They didn’t want to release the story.”

  Jack closed his eyes. “I’ll tell my children you managed to confirm the simultaneous heart attack story.”

  TWENTY - NINE

  One

  1956

  JACK AND ANNE DECIDED TO CELEBRATE THE HOLIDAYS WITH an extended party. They invited John and Linda to come and stay as long as they could, and John managed to get ten days’ leave. Anne called Linda’s parents in Pensacola and invited them, too. They expressed their gratitude but did not come. Joni said she could take a few days off and spend them in Greenwich. Bob and Dorothy Lear were invited but chose not to come. Anne called Harrison Wolcott to invite him and Edith, but he said Edith could not travel that far.

  So the household for a week included Jack and Anne; Little Jack and his sister, Anne, who was called Liz; John and Linda; and Joni.

  For a noon-to-midnight party on the Saturday before Christmas, they invited Curt and Betsy Frederick, Cap and Naomi Durenberger, Herb and Esther Morrill, Mickey and Catherine Sullivan, and several neighbors. Jack also called Sally Allen and invited her to come and bring Len.

&n
bsp; Priscilla took charge of party arrangements, as always, and suggested that for Saturday night a houseboy be added to the staff. She and the cook could use help that one night.

  Every year Anne lit a menorah on the days of Hanukkah. She had bought their menorah, on her trip to Berlin in 1946. It had tiny oil lamps instead of candles, so was more nearly in the tradition of the holiday than were the ones with candles. Guests observed, some of them with a little surprise, that both a menorah and a Christmas tree were alight in the same room. On the days of Hanukkah, Anne and Jack exchanged small gifts and on Christmas Day, much grander ones. Joni was familiar with this holiday tradition. It surprised Linda, but she told John she loved it and would follow it in their home.

  The arrival of Sally Allen was the highlight of Little Jack’s holiday. He was ten years old and had watched The Sally Allen Show many times, though he had remained skeptical that his father knew the star or had anything to do with her show. His sister Liz accepted the arrival of a television star in their home as something entirely normal and to be expected.

  Little Jack and Liz were were not to be regarded anymore simply as “the children”; they were young people who already had ideas about who they were and who they wanted to be. They had been allowed to see the Playboy spread of Joni. Little Jack had screwed his eyes shut and said, “Ooooh!” Liz had said, “Lovely, lovely! Am I going to have boobs like hers someday?”

  Both of them were handsome children, and their parents were proud of them. No part of the holiday celebration was off-limits to them. They went to bed whenever they felt sleepy and not a moment before. Their governess, Mrs. Gimbel, remained with the family, not so much because she was needed as because she had become a member of the household.

  Len Leonard, Sally’s former husband and the father of her child, bore only a slight resemblance to the burlesque comic Jack had encountered in Toledo. He looked healthier and happier and was well dressed, as Sally had said he would be when he had money, but he still slicked down his hair with oil. He approached Jack when he saw him standing alone for a moment.