Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

  He nodded and went out. I closed my eyes and slept. I couldn’t have been out for long when I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  “Gareth.” Eileen’s voice was soft. “Wake up. The doctor wants to talk with you.”

  I fought my way out of the fog. “Get me a cup of coffee.” The butler brought it immediately. It helped but not enough. I opened the small drawer and snorted two spoons. My head cleared immediately. I went into the bedroom.

  Denise was still sleeping. The doctor’s face was very serious. He spoke rapidly and Marissa translated for him.

  “She is a very sick girl. She is suffering from malnutrition, as well as some form of viral dysentery which has caused her to lose considerable fluids. It is possible that she is also running a fever from an infection, either traumatic or viral or both. He recommends that she be hospitalized immediately.”

  “Where is the nearest hospital?” I asked.

  “La Paz,” Marissa answered. “He can call for the ambulance plane.”

  La Paz was two hundred miles away. “How long would it take?”

  “The plane could be here this afternoon,” she said.

  “Call the airstrip and find out if my plane is ready to take off now.”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed while Marissa phoned. “Is there anything you can do now?” I asked the doctor.

  He looked blank. He didn’t understand a word I was saying. Marissa came back. “They can be ready to leave within the hour.”

  “Tell them to be ready,” I said.

  Marissa nodded and went back to the phone. “They’ll be ready,” she said.

  “Good. Now ask the doctor if there is anything he can do for her now?”

  “The only thing he suggests is getting some saline solution into her. He doesn’t want to use any medication until he runs some tests.”

  I nodded.

  “The doctor asks if there is room for him to accompany her on the plane. He would like to make sure that her condition remains stable.”

  “Tell him I would be grateful.”

  “May I come, too?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  The doctor spoke to Marissa, then turned and left. “He’s going to his pharmacy and get some bottles of saline solution. He’ll be back in time to go to the airstrip with us.”

  “Get the big limo for us. I want Denise to be able to stretch out on the back seat.”

  “Okay. Do I have time to run up to the hotel and get a change of clothes? I’m still wearing Eileen’s jeans.”

  “Don’t be too long,” I said. I waited until she was gone; then I turned to Eileen. “You’re coming with us.”

  She looked at me silently for a moment, then at Denise. “What do you think is wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know. But we’ll find out.”

  “The doctor said she’s running a temperature of a hundred and three. I don’t like it. That’s too high.”

  “I’ve seen them go higher with paratyphoid in Vietnam,” I said. “They get over it.”

  “I don’t trust Mexican hospitals.”

  Neither did I. I waited until the pilot switched off the no-smoking sign and the doctor had rigged up the saline drip. Then I got out of my seat, went forward and told the pilot to change course for Los Angeles and to radio ahead to have an ambulance meet us at the airport.

  When I got back to my seat, the doctor was visibly upset. He looked out the window and spoke rapidly to Marissa.

  “The doctor says that La Paz is to the east and that we have changed course and are flying north,” she said.

  “That’s right. I changed my mind. We’re going to Los Angeles.”

  Marissa’s voice was surprised. “Why?”

  “I promised her I would take her home,” I said.

  We were in the waiting room in the private pavilion of the UCLA medical center for almost an hour before Dr. Aldor came down. The clock on the wall read one o’clock. Marissa and the doctor were probably already back in Mazatlán. I had asked the pilot to take them back as soon as he refueled.

  Ed gestured from the doorway. “Let’s find a quiet place to talk,” he said.

  Eileen and I followed him through the crowded corridors until we came to a door marked private—doctors only.

  We sat down at the table and he looked at us with sad brown eyes. “She’s a very sick young lady.”

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  “We’re not sure yet,” he answered. “I suspect infectious hepatitis complicated by malnutrition and heavy drug abuse. There are evidences of some kidney and liver malfunction. I have her in intensive care and we’re watching her very carefully.

  “She seems heavily sedated,” he went on. “I tried to speak to her, but she couldn’t respond. She managed to come out of it long enough to ask me where she was and when I told her she was here, she went back to sleep.”

  “She wanted to come home,” I said.

  “I need a little information on her. Do you know what sedative the doctor gave her on the plane?”

  “None that I know of,” I answered. “He rigged up some kind of temporary saline drip, but the only sedative I know of was the shot he gave her last night. He said that would last about six to eight hours, so that should have worn off by now.”

  Ed thought for a moment. “That’s strange. Sure there wasn’t anything else in that bottle besides saline solution?”

  Eileen spoke up. “He did change the original bottle once on the way up.”

  “When was that?” I asked her.

  “When you went forward to the pilot’s cabin to telephone Dr. Aldor. He said something about that bottle not working properly.”

  “What time was that?” Ed asked.

  “About halfway through the flight. We were an hour and fifteen minutes out of Los Angeles.”

  Ed nodded. “An hour and fifteen minutes on Thorazine could account for the way she is reacting. Do you have any idea of what drugs she was on?” he asked, looking at me.

  “You name them. Grass, mescaline…” I remembered something and fished in my pocket. I put the yellow-papered joint on the table. “How about four a day of those for starters?”

  He picked it up gingerly and sniffed at it. “What is it?”

  “Grass and something else, I don’t know what. Maybe the lab can find out. All I know is that I took just two tokes from one that she gave me and it almost put me away. I was dizzy when I got to my feet.”

  “I’ll have it analyzed. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “You know as much as I do.”

  “One more question. Any idea how long she’s been on this stuff?”

  “It’s been more than two years since we last saw her. Maybe all that time.”

  He got to his feet. “You two look pretty beat. Go home and get some rest. And don’t worry, we’ll take good care of her.”

  “Thanks, Ed.” I held out my hand. He gave me a reassuring grip. I smiled. “Just get her straight. She’s a good girl.”

  “It may take some time, but I think we can do it. She’s young enough and strong enough.”

  We started for the door. In the hallway I paused. “Don’t spare the expenses. I want her to have everything. Private nurses around the clock. Just tell them to send all the bills to my office.”

  “Okay. I’ll check with you tonight and let you know how she’s doing.”

  “Can we visit her?”

  “Better hold off until tomorrow. She should be in shape to talk by then.” He pressed my hand again and went off down the hall.

  Lonergan’s car was waiting at the entrance when we came out. The chauffeur was behind the wheel and the Collector was leaning against the door. The Collector opened the back door when he saw us. “Welcome home,” he said.

  “How’d you know where to find us?” I asked.

  “Your office. Lonergan called and asked us to pick you up. He figured you’d be too cheap to get a car.” He closed the door and climbed into the fr
ont seat next to the chauffeur. “He asked us to take you to his place for a meeting.”

  “Not this time, Bill,” I said. “We’re going home to sleep. Business can wait until morning.”

  47

  The elevators in the new Century City office buildings boasted that they were the fastest in California. Even so, they were nothing compared to New York and Chicago. Californians just aren’t vertically oriented.

  The floor lights flashed as we went up.

  17—GARETH BRENDAN

  PUBLICATIONS LTD.

  Production

  18—GARETH BRENDAN

  PUBLICATIONS LTD.

  Sales and Accounting

  19—GARETH BRENDAN

  PUBLICATIONS LTD.

  Executive Offices

  The door opened and I stepped into the nineteenth-floor reception area. A large lucite panel listed the corporate divisions in burnished gold lettering.

  GARETH BRENDAN

  PUBLICATIONS LIMITED

  MAGAZINES:

  MACHO

  MACHO BOOK CLUB

  LIFESTYLE DIGEST

  LIFESTYLE PRESS INC.

  GIRLS OF THE WORLD QUARTERLY

  LIFESTYLE RECORD CLUB

  NIGHT PEOPLE

  LIFESTYLE PRODUCT SALES

  LIFESTYLE CLUBS AND HOTELS:

  NEW YORK LIFESTYLE CLUB

  LIFESTYLE TOURS AND TRAVEL

  CHICAGO LIFESTYLE CLUB

  LOS ANGELES LIFESTYLE CLUB

  LIFESTYLE CHARTER AIRLINES

  LONDON LIFESTYLE CLUB

  MAZATLÁN LIFESTYLE HOTEL

  LIFESTYLE MEDIA PRODUCTIONS

  As I walked toward the crescent-shaped reception desk, I could see the snow glistening at the top of Mount Baldy forty miles to the east. It was one of those freaky smog-free days that happen in Los Angeles more than Eastern propaganda admits. There were places for three call directors at the fourteen-foot reception desk, but only one chair was occupied at the moment.

  I glanced up at the clock on the wall. Nine twenty. The office did not open officially until nine thirty. There would be three girls at the desk at all times from then on. No visitor was ever sent into an office alone. They were always escorted by one of the receptionists. And they were dynamite-looking chicks, a girl who had modeled for one of our magazines or a recruit from one of our clubs. It was a matter of image. Once a visitor saw our receptionists there was no doubt about our business.

  There were already eight people waiting for appointments. They were seated in various conversational groupings which allowed them privacy for conversation or perusal of the magazines on the small coffee tables in front of them. The walls were covered with paintings, blowups of our magazine covers and centerfold girls all carefully toned down for obvious reasons. To those who wanted it a pretty girl in a maid’s uniform served coffee or tea from a rolling Lucite wagon.

  The girl behind the reception desk was new. It was clear from her tone of voice that she did not recognize me, despite the fact that there were a number of photographs of me among others on the walls. “Good morning. May I help you?”

  “Is Denise in yet?” I asked.

  “If you’ll take a seat, she should be here in a few minutes.”

  “No, thank you,” I said, taking the gift box from under my arm. “Would you mind giving this to her, please?”

  “Not at all.” She picked up the package and put it on the floor behind the desk.

  “Thank you.” Fishing in my pocket for my special key, I crossed the reception area to the private elevator that would take me to my office in the penthouse on the floor above.

  “Pardon me, sir,” the receptionist called after me. “The down elevators are behind the screen.”

  I glanced back at her. Her finger was already on the panic button. One touch and two special guards would be there in less than a minute. “I know that,” I said.

  “That elevator is for company executives only,” she said.

  I smiled and held the key up so that she could see it. “Young lady,” I said, turning the key in the lock, “I am the company.”

  I stepped into the elevator and, before the doors closed, caught a glimpse of her staring at me with an open mouth. I hit the button and went up to the penthouse floor.

  The special police were waiting as I stepped from the elevator into my secretaries’ office. They relaxed when they saw me. “The new girl didn’t recognize you.”

  “I gathered that. At least we know she’s on the job.”

  The Bobbsey twins were at their desks which flanked the door to my office. “Good morning, Mr. Brendan,” they chorused as I went by.

  “Good morning,” I said, closing the door behind me. I crossed the room and sat down behind my desk. I looked around at the Chippendale furniture with which the office was decorated and shook my head in disgust. Some gay decorator had talked Eileen out of two hundred grand for all this. I hated it, but she said it had dignity.

  I spun the chair around and looked out the window to the west. As I said, it was one of those freaky days in Los Angeles. The sun was already hanging like a fiery yellow globe in the blue sky. It would be hot as hell today. The water of the Pacific was sparkling, out beyond the airport, and a big jet was coming in for a landing.

  I turned back to the desk and punched out the airport code for our charter airline. The screen lit up, giving me arrival and departure times for all our charter flights for the next twelve hours. Our Lifestyle Tour from Hawaii wasn’t due into LAX until eleven o’clock. I turned it off, got up and peered at the airport through the telescope which was mounted on a tripod near the window. The plane was a Pan Am 747 and I followed it in until it disappeared just before touchdown. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t one of ours. I got a big thrill out of just watching them.

  I returned to my chair just as one of the twins came in with a silver coffee service. Carefully she poured a cup of coffee, added one cube of sugar, then stirred and placed it in front of me.

  “Good morning, Dana,” I said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Brendan.” She laughed. “I’m—”

  “Don’t tell me. I know. You’re Shana.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Brendan.”

  I picked up the coffee and sipped at it. Four years and I still couldn’t tell them apart. I was convinced now that they were playing games with me.

  “Dana’s coming in with the mail and messages,” she said. “And the meeting with the underwriters is at ten o’clock in your conference room.”

  I nodded.

  She took a folded newspaper from under her arm and opened it on the desk in front of me. “We thought you’d get a kick out of this headline in today’s Wall Street Journal.”

  It was a featured story in the first column on the front page. The headline was in bold type: sex makes it big on the street. A smaller headline followed: “Brendan Publications First Public Offering 1000% Oversubscribed.”

  The intercom buzzed. I pressed the button. “Denise on the inside line for you.”

  I picked up the phone. “Happy anniversary,” I said.

  Denise was bubbling. “You remembered.”

  “How could I forget? You’re my special baby.”

  “I can’t believe that it’s been two years,” she said. “It seems like only yesterday that I came back.”

  “May the next two years pass just as quickly and as happily,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’d come up there and kiss you if I didn’t know how busy you were.”

  “How is she?” Shana asked as I hung up.

  “She’s doing just fine. But everything takes time. She sees the psychoanalyst three times a week. They shoveled a lot of shit into her head down there and it’s not that easy to get out.”

  Shana nodded sympathetically. “Shall I have Dana come in now?”

  “No. Save everything until after the meeting with the underwriters.”

  She left the office, closing the door quietly behind her. Denise
’s voice echoed in my ear. “I’d come up there and kiss you if I didn’t know how busy you were.”

  Shit. I never had it so good. But why, when I was sitting right here on the top of the world, did I feel so cut off from it?

  The intercom buzzed again. “Verita on the inside line.”

  “Buenos días,” I said.

  She laughed. “If you’re not too busy, I’d like to see you for a moment before the meeting.”

  “Come on up.”

  She came in, carrying her usual folder. I watched her as she walked toward the desk. This poised, assured woman was completely different from the girl at the unemployment window I’d once known. She wore a black, smartly tailored dress that accented her femininity and at the same time let you know she was totally businesslike.

  “You’re lookin’ good,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She came right to the point. “I thought you might like to see the first-quarter results before the meeting. There’s a summary on the first page if you don’t want to go through the whole report.”

  The heading of the report was simple. Net profits before taxes. I read down the column.

  Publishing Group

  $7,900,000.

  Lifestyle Group

  2,600,000.

  All Others

  1,500,000.

  Total

  $12,000,000.

  “We’re selling out too cheap,” I said.

  She smiled. “Macho’s circulation for the three months averaged out at four million one hundred and fifty thousand copies. Girls of the World Quarterly made another big profit contribution. Even at the six-dollar new price, we sold almost seven million copies.”

  “I’m not complaining.” I smiled.

  “Our net after taxes should be about seven million,” she added.

  “Leave this with me. I think the underwriters might be interested in knowing about it.”