Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

“Then you were here all night?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “It was beautiful. I was right, you know. She regrouped your energy particles. You came four times.”

  “I wasn’t keeping score,” I said sarcastically. “What were you doing? Peeking through the keyhole?”

  “I don’t have to,” she said seriously. “I’m tuned into your aura. I came with you kinetically each time.”

  “Oh, shit,” I said disgustedly. “Now I’ve got no privacy at all. Look, this just isn’t going to work.”

  “Don’t be so negative. We’re all good for each other. Everything will work out fine.” She stepped closer and touched me. “See? I know what I’m talking about. You’ve got a hard-on. I felt it in your aura when you came into the room.”

  I stared at her speechlessly.

  “Would you like a little fuck while the coffee is perking?” she asked seriously.

  I broke up. A puzzled look came over her face. I kissed the top of her head. “You know you’re beautiful,” I said. “But right now I’ve got to take a piss.”

  39

  Macho hit the newsstands the third week in April. The following Monday the advertising campaign went into full gear. Our ads appeared on fifty-five independent television stations, on four hundred and nine radio stations and in one hundred and sixty newspapers in key cities all over the country. It was a heavy saturation campaign designed to run a full week, but it didn’t turn out that way.

  By Wednesday we were off television completely. Only twenty-one newspapers were continuing to accept our advertising and only about one hundred and forty radio stations were still airing our commercials. By Friday police in various cities had confiscated the magazine from ninety-three newsstands and had arrested forty-two news dealers. The Hearst newspapers across the country ran an editorial decrying the fact that such a magazine could be advertised, without making any mention of the fact that they had run the ads themselves on Monday and Tuesday. On Sunday two detectives from LAPD served me with a warrant to appear in court the following Friday on charges of breaching the peace and committing a public nuisance. The story was picked up by the wire service and went out over the national media, TV, radio and newspapers. By Wednesday, two days before I was due to appear in court, Ronzi was screaming at me to go back to press. We were sold out. One million copies. Sold out.

  On Thursday night Phyllis Diller, substituting for Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show, came out for her opening monologue wearing a giant white cowboy hat and over her dress a plastic dry cleaning bag on which had been painted a yellow polka-dotted bikini. She carried a six-gun in each hand. Strutting belligerently into a close-up, she challenged the camera in a harsh, strident voice, “Are you man enough—to tear my bikini off?” The audience went wild as Doc Severinsen played “Pistol Packin’ Mama” in the background.

  We’d all gathered together to watch the program, having heard about it from one of the distributors in the East, who had seen it three hours ahead of us.

  “You gotta go back to press after this,” Ronzi said. “We can sell another five hundred thousand copies.”

  “No way. I just ordered them to run the next issue.”

  “That means we’ll have nothing on the stands for more than two weeks.”

  “That’s right.”

  He turned to Lonergan. “Can’t you make him listen?”

  Lonergan smiled. “He’s the publisher.”

  “Christ,” Ronzi complained, “we got another three hundred grand in our hands and you’re letting it slip through our fingers.”

  “I don’t think so. I think it will only whet their appetites. They’ll go for the next issue just to see what they missed.”

  “I can’t win,” Ronzi said in disgust.

  “You already have. You made yourself a five percent bonus on the first issue.”

  “Gimme the same deal on the next issue and I’ll get another million copies out for you.”

  I laughed at him. “That was a one-shot just to show you it could be done. No bonus. But I am going to give you a break. I ordered a print run of one million two-fifty.”

  “Now I know you’re nuts. What makes you think we can sell that many?”

  “You do. You wouldn’t be asking for the bonus again if you hadn’t figured it was a sure thing.”

  “What have you got on the cover?”

  “I’m staying with the same idea basically. Only this time the girl has her back to us; she’s bent over with her hands on her knees. She’s got a cheerleader’s pom-pom on her head as she’s looking back over her shoulder at us. She’s wearing a red mini-skirt that just covers her ass. The skirt is held on with an easy-off glue that can be removed by just peeling it away. The copy is practically the same. ‘Are you man enough—to tear my skirt off?’”

  He nodded his head approvingly. “I like it.”

  “Thanks. What’s the latest on the news dealers who were arrested?”

  “All except two have either had the charges dismissed or gotten off with a small fine. It’s cost us about eleven grand so far, including legal fees.”

  “What about the remaining two?”

  “Their hearings aren’t until next week. We don’t expect any trouble.”

  “Good. Send each of the arrested dealers a hundred dollars as a token of my appreciation for their support.”

  “That’s nuts. Word gets out, you’ll have dealers all over the country running to the cops and begging to get busted.”

  I laughed. “Do it anyway.”

  “Okay. It’s your money.”

  After he had gone, I said to Lonergan, “I hope I get off tomorrow as easily as the dealers.”

  “You have nothing to worry about,” he said calmly. “The charges will be dismissed.”

  And that was exactly what happened.

  I went into court with an attorney, but I could have gone alone. He never had a chance to say a word. After the charges were read and even before I was asked to enter my plea, the judge called the attorneys to the bench.

  I leaned forward to try to hear what was being said. The prosecuting attorney murmured something about publishing and causing the distribution of pornography. The judge responded. I could only catch a few words. “Does not apply under the statutes… breach of the peace and… public nuisance.” He gestured to the attorneys to leave the bench and banged the gavel even before they’d reached their tables. “The charges against the defendant are hereby dismissed on the grounds of being improperly drawn.”

  The reporters and TV camera crews were waiting in the corridor when I came out. They clustered around me.

  “Are you pleased with the judge’s decision?”

  “Of course,” I answered.

  “On what basis do you think the judge came to his decision?”

  I looked to my attorney. At last he had a chance to speak. “I think the judge dismissed the charges against Mr. Brendan because he realized that they were nothing but a harassment since they could not bring a successful action against Mr. Brendan in any other manner.”

  “Does this mean that your magazine will be back on sale at the newsstands?”

  “It was never off,” I said.

  “I tried to buy a copy on a number of stands, but there weren’t any,” the reporter said.

  “That’s because the issue has been sold out.”

  “If we should want a copy, where might we buy it?”

  “Try your neighbor. If he won’t sell it, maybe he’ll lend it to you.”

  “Do you intend to keep publishing the magazine?”

  “Yes. The next issue is on the presses now and should be at the news dealers in about two weeks.”

  “Will the cover of your next issue be as provocative as the last?”

  “I’ll let you judge for yourself,” I said. I opened my leather folder and took out the mock-up of the cover. I held it up so that they could see it. The flashbulbs began popping and I could see the news cameras zooming in.

  That was how the cover
of the next issue got on television. It sold out within the first week and every month after that we added fifty to a hundred thousand copies more to our circulation. Six months later Macho was selling an average of a million five hundred thousand copies a month and we were netting better than a half million dollars’ profit on each issue.

  By August I realized that we were big business. We outgrew the store downstairs and rented other vacant stores on the block and finally we were forced to rent still another store a few blocks away. The original store was where the accounting and editorial offices were located. Verita had seven clerks and two secretaries in her department; Eileen had twelve readers and writers and four secretaries. We fixed up another of the stores as a photographic studio for Bobby, who now had a staff of four photographers and three assistants, plus a propman, a set designer, a costumer, a photographic editor and two secretaries. Production and mechanicals with twelve employees went into still another store. The most recently acquired space housed the mail and cartoon and illustration departments. Including the two telephone operators, who were hidden at a switchboard under the staircase in the main store, we had a total of sixty-four employees.

  There was no way that Denise could keep the apartment in order. There were meetings all day and into the night. It was in a continual shambles, even with the help of the cleaning crew that came in at night.

  The heat of the August day had spilled over into the night and the air in the apartment was warm, even with the laboring of the air conditioners in the windows. The editorial meeting was drawing to a close. It was after midnight and the meeting had begun about nine. “Is there anything more before we wrap it up?” I asked.

  The young black man who ran the mail department spoke up. “I have something, Mr. Brendan,” he said hesitantly.

  This was the first time he had opened his mouth in the three months he had been attending the meetings. “Yes, Jack.”

  He glanced around at the others self-consciously. “I don’t know whether this is pertinent or not, but do you remember the series of articles we ran on marital aids and aphrodisiacs a few months back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since they began, we have been receiving approximately five, six hundred letters a week asking where they can be bought.”

  “Write up a form letter telling them to go to their nearest sex shop,” I said.

  “Almost all the letters come from small towns and places where they don’t have anything like a sex shop. They wouldn’t know what it was if they stumbled over it and even if they did, I have the feeling they would be too embarrassed to go inside.”

  I saw that he was leading up to something. “That makes sense,” I said encouragingly.

  “I started thinking about it,” he continued more confidently. “So I took me over to the sex shop down near the PussyCat Theater and had a little talk with the owner. He got real excited and offered to buy two full pages of advertising in each issue. When I told him that it was not our policy to accept advertising, he offered to set up a mail-order department and pay us a twenty percent commission on gross sales.”

  “That’s interesting.” I had a feeling, however, that he wasn’t finished.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “So I did some more checking. I found out where most of the stuff can be bought. I also found out there’s a hell of a markup—anywhere from two hundred percent to a thousand percent. So the twenty percent of the gross he’s offering us is like nothing.”

  “You have an idea?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “We’ve got a big cellar in the store on the next block. I can stock it with the most popular items and if we just fill the orders based on our letters, we can gross thirty or forty thousand a month and at least fifty percent of that would be net profit.”

  I nodded. Whether we went into the mail-order business or not, Jack wasn’t going to stay in his present job for long. He had something going in his head. “Good thinking,” I said. “You go into it with Verita and get a line on what the operation would cost. As soon as we have the facts on paper, I’ll make a decision.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  I looked around the room. “Anything else?”

  That was it and the meeting broke up. Only Bobby, Verita, Eileen, Denise and I were left. Eileen and Denise got busy removing the glasses and emptying the ashtrays. “What do you think of Jack’s idea?” I asked Verita.

  “It’s interesting. He mentioned it to me about two weeks ago. I told him to follow it up.”

  “You never said anything to me.”

  She smiled. “It was his idea.”

  Eileen and Denise came back and sank into two chairs. “You all look like wrecks,” Bobby said.

  “The days never stop,” Eileen said.

  He put his hand in his pocket and came up with a vial of coke and a gold spoon. “I think we could all use a snort. Our trouble is we’re all too busy to have fun anymore.”

  I spooned a hit into each nostril and passed the vial to Eileen. She took a spoon, so did Denise and Bobby, but Verita passed.

  I felt a small lift but not much. The coke had been cut all the way down. “What are you shooting tomorrow?” I asked Bobby.

  He grinned. “I think I have a goodie this time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you seen the twins over at Paul Gitlin’s office? The new legal secretaries. Dynamite-looking kids, about nineteen, twenty. I talked them into trying a session.”

  “Does Paul know about it?”

  “Hell, no.” Bobby laughed. “You know how straight he is. He’d kill me if he found out what I was doing. As it is, he’s got the twins so buffaloed that I had to promise to shoot them in disguise.”

  “How are you going to manage that?”

  “I’ve got a wild idea for the layout,” he said. “Wraparound sunglasses and wild wigs. And for the centerfold I shoot them together, one up on her knees, the other on her back with her legs spread. The first twin Supercunts.”

  I began to laugh. “It would be funny if Paul recognized them anyway.”

  He smiled. “If he does, then maybe he’s not as straight as we think he is. But I don’t think so. I had to promise the kids we’d give them a job if he cans them.”

  “Are they good secretaries?” I asked.

  “Paul says they’re the best he’s ever had.”

  “No problem then. We could use some good help. Maybe you ought to see to it that he does find out.”

  Bobby got to his feet. “I’m going to take off now. I want to drop into the Silver Stud and see what the action is like. Want to come along?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve about had it for the day.”

  “Me too,” Verita said. “I’m going to bed. The auditors are coming in early tomorrow to complete the statement for our first six months’ operation.”

  “How does it look?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid to tell you. It’s too good. I don’t believe it myself.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “Would you believe that your tax liability is over a million and a half right now? And there’s no place to bury it. We might just have to turn it over to the government.”

  “Maybe we won’t have to.” I smiled.

  “Then you know something I don’t. Tell me.”

  “I have an idea for another magazine.”

  “Goddammit! That does it!” Eileen exploded. “I’m packing and getting out of here tonight.”

  “What’s eating you?”

  “You, you asshole!” she snapped. “We’re living in this shitty little place like pigs without a minute to ourselves and you haven’t got it through your head yet that you’re rich and can live any way you want. You haven’t even bought yourself a car. You’re still bumming rides and cigarettes from everyone around you!”

  She stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her. A moment later Denise got to her feet and followed her. I turned to Verita. I really had never thought about it before. “Is it true what
she said? Am I rich?”

  Verita nodded. “You’re rich.”

  “How rich?”

  She took a deep breath. “You’ve got about two million dollars net after tax obligations and by the end of the year, the way we’re going, you’ll be worth at least double that.”

  “Jesus,” I said. I lit a cigarette and sat there for a long time after they left. Then I poured myself a scotch on the rocks and went to the bedroom.

  The closet door was open and Eileen’s clothes were scattered all over the floor. They were sitting on the edge of the bed, Eileen sobbing against Denise’s breast.

  “Hey, baby, I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Go away,” Eileen cried. “We hate you.”

  The next day we moved into a bungalow in the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  40

  Lifestyle Digest came out the day Denise left us.

  The first issue had a press run of two hundred and fifty thousand. Physically the magazine was more like Coronet than Reader’s Digest, but that was the only resemblance.

  There were ten pages of color photographs in the middle, equally divided between girls, men and love sets, both heterosexual and homosexual. The articles were culled from magazines all around the world. Not until I got into it did I realize how widespread the men’s magazine business had become. Every country and every language had at least one of its own. And we found that the articles which were designed to appeal to their own market had a peculiar fascination in translation. We also included pieces on subjects we did not touch in Macho. Lifestyle Digest made it a point to extol the values of the impossible dream—expensive cars, out-of-sight stereos, cameras and unusual vacations. Pure snob and easy to collect. The specialty magazines provided us with the features at almost no cost. In addition to this, we had a rap column where men and women could air their grievances, sexual and otherwise, advice and how-to columns that covered every subject from birth control to premature ejaculation. One hundred and fifty pages, all for seventy-five cents.

  The logo was simple. Lifestyle Digest. A magazine for people who enjoy life. The first cover was a simple black silhouette on a white circle of the heads of a man and a woman in profile, their lips touching gently.