Never Enough

by Harold Robbins

  Cole shook his head. He knew Dave was playing his angle. He knew the estate couldn’t make an investment. “I just made an expensive move, Dave. I came home, bought a house, and started a business. I can’t take a flyer in anything.”

  “Understood. So how’re Emily and the kids?”

  “Great. And how’s Amy?”

  “Well … she’s not very happy. I don’t know what the hell she wants. She’s gotten a little lumpy, you may have noticed, if you’ve seen her. The kids are okay.”

  “Got a little something going on the side, Dave?”

  Dave grinned again. “You know, that’s a funny thing. No, I don’t. I’ve had opportunities, but … no. You?”

  “No.”

  “Monogamous through thick and thin, hmm?”

  “By choice.”

  “Someday some babe will come along. They always do.”

  “I’m not in a glamorous business like you’re in. Small-town lawyer. By choice.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Cole? I owe you. I can steer some business to you maybe. And when you’re ready to invest, I can put you onto some real deals.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  SEVEN

  I

  AUGUST, 1986

  Dave was fond of thick, rare steaks and loved to eat at Sparks, the famous Manhattan steak house. It was the site where Paul Castellano was gunned down on the street as he was emerging from his limousine to come in for a dinner meeting with other mob figures. Dave liked the way the wine was served at Sparks: in eight-ounce glasses. The waiters were brusque but attentive. Many thought it was a man’s restaurant, though many women came there.

  Bob Leeman had suggested this place for a meeting. He didn’t eat steaks and would content himself by nibbling on a Caesar salad and sipping wine sparingly, but Leeman was well known at Sparks; he brought guests there for lunch and dinner, often.

  “Don’t order yet,” he said to Dave. “There’ll be three of us.”

  “Really? You didn’t mention—”

  “You’ll be very happy to meet our dinner companion. Besides being a looker, she’s damned smart.”

  “She?”

  “In our line of business, sooner or later—let us hope later—we are going to need good public relations. Alexandra Fairchild is the best. She came out of obscurity and founded an aggressive p-r firm— Fairchild, Douglas & Jones. She’s so well thought of that she worked on the Reagan campaigns, both times. Her specialty is attack! She never defends. She goes for the throat. If you want to go after a client of hers, you better be clean as hell. She’ll change the whole focus, from what her client may have done wrong to what his accusers did wrong.”

  Alexandra Fairchild arrived. My God! She was a striking woman—brilliant shoulder-length red hair, a flawless face characterized by a wide mouth and full lips, a spectacular body, though it was in no sense on display. She appeared in a white sequined sweater, with a rose-colored dinner skirt.

  “I’ve heard your name, Mr. Shea.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “And until just now you never heard mine.”

  “Well … it didn’t come up.”

  “I’ve explained to Dave what you can do for us,” Leeman said.

  “Don’t forget the old cliché,” she said. “‘An ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure.’”

  “Meaning, in our case?” Dave asked.

  “Getting down to business quicker than I expected, it wouldn’t hurt you guys to establish yourselves as sterling citizens, contributors to the community.” She signaled a waiter and ordered a double Glenlivet on the rocks, then turned to Dave and said, “Better for your plumbing than that gin you’re drinking.”

  “An authority on liquor, too,” Dave said, half smiling.

  Alexandra shrugged. “Chacun à son gout,” she said.

  Leeman frowned. Apparently he didn’t know what she had said.

  “What do you suggest we do to make ourselves sterling citizens?” Dave asked.

  “Sponsor something,” she said. “A basketball team for inner-city kids. A Little League team. You provide the uniforms and equipment. It won’t cost you all that much. You buy and present trophies. Just a suggestion. There’s a thousand things you can do.” “You’re anticipating something,” said Dave.

  “Which is?”

  “That we might someday have to appear before a jury.”

  “It can happen. You guys are in a dicey business. Dennis Levine has been indicted for insider trading. Ivan Boesky is in trouble. There’s a fine line—”

  “We know where it is,” said Leeman.

  Alexandra shrugged again. “Forewarned is forearmed,” she said.

  Dave chuckled. “You seem to have a cliché for everything.”

  “That’s the p-r business,” she said. “You talk to people in terms they can understand. Speak a language they understand. You remember the old commercial for some deodorant or other. The woman smeared it on her forehead. A little later she said, ‘My faar-id is dry.’ She wasn’t wrong, but ninety-five percent of Americans call it a forehead—and were turned off. Tricks of the trade.”

  “So tell me a little about yourself, Miss Fairchild. It’s none of my business, but—”

  She smiled. “I’m thirty-two years old, married once, divorced once, and I have no progeny. I was born in Kiev and was brought to this country by my parents when I was eleven. I’m naturalized. I’ve spent twenty-one years trying to learn English, and I guess I speak it reasonably well, though you may catch me once in a while in some odd, unidiomatic expression. That used to amuse Ron Reagan, who would double over laughing when I said something awkward. I graduated from Columbia. My politics were, and are, very right-wing, coming as I do as a sort of refugee from the Soviet Union. Reagan was intrigued with the idea of having a Soviet citizen working on his campaign. He liked me. He helped me get started in my business. In the first campaign I was a hewer of wood and a drawer of water—another cliché. The second time I wrote speeches and designed ads. I still have connections with that crowd. I expect to work on the Bush campaign.”

  “Damned interesting,” Dave said.

  “Now you, sir. Give me your curriculum vitae.”

  “Not nearly as interesting. I’m from Bergen County, New Jersey. My father sold groceries wholesale for a living. I went to Rutgers on a football scholarship. Otherwise I couldn’t have gone to college. I’m married. I’ve got two kids. My wife and the kids live in New Jersey. I live mostly in an apartment in Manhattan.”

  “Too modest,” said Leeman. “This guy knows how to make deals. And he’s taught me something about being careful. I figure he’s got a hell of a future ahead of him. In a few years he’s learned more about how Wall Street works than I’ve learned in a great many more years.”

  Alexandra leaned back and regarded Dave with a curious eye. “Are you satisfied with your life so far, Mr. Shea?”

  “I’ll be better satisfied if you’d call me Dave.”

  She nodded. “Dave … So, Alexandra.”

  “If I may ask, what was your name in Kiev?”

  “Alexandra Petrovna Krylov. It means Alexandra, daughter of Peter Krylov. I haven’t legally changed it.”

  “I could call you Alex, couldn’t I?”

  “I’d as soon you didn’t. I’ve been called worse.”

  “I don’t know … Somehow it appeals to me.”

  “Uhh … you guys could do worse than get together, if you don’t mind my saying so,” said Leeman. “Alexandra … He’s got a wife, but it’s not one hell of a marriage.”

  “Give him one of your little girls, Bob?”

  “Yeah … and nothing.”

  “Got to stop that, Bob. Get publicity on that, and your public relations is shot to shit.”

  Dave smiled at Alexandra. “You like your steaks thick and rare?” he asked.

  “Is there any other way?”

  II

  NOVEMBER, 1986

  On Nove
mber 3, Dave flew to Nassau, Bahamas. He stayed only three days, long enough to go to the Nassau branch of Pictet & Compagnie and establish a Swiss bank account, in which he deposited fifty thousand dollars, under the name Joseph Windsor. He retained a Bahamian lawyer and formed a Bahamian corporation, which he called Windsor Nassau Associates. The lawyer found some Bahamian citizens to serve as directors and officers of the corporation.

  Now Dave could trade in securities, and it would be virtually impossible to trace the trading to him. Windsor Nassau bought the securities with funds transferred to it from Pictet. The corporation would buy and sell securities through various brokers.

  On the evening of November 18, Jack Silver came to Dave’s apartment. He was casually dressed in a gray turtleneck sweater. He sat down, and Dave mixed martinis for them.

  “So you’re going big-time, hey?” said Jack.

  “I’ve set up the vehicle.”

  “I suggest you sever your connection with Barnaby, Jenkins. They’re strictly small-time. They don’t make for a good introduction.”

  Dave nodded. “I’ve got resumes out. I have quite a track record—thanks in part to you—and have some nibbles. One of them is pretty promising. I may go with Harcourt Barnham.”

  “Investment bankers? Not a brokerage?”

  “Like Willie Sutton said, banks are where the money is.”

  “Well … we can do each other a lot of good,” said Jack.

  “You’ve done me a lot of good. I’ll return the favor.”

  “We can’t have it known that we communicate. We’ll have to set up some codes. For example, if you’re at Harcourt and I call you, I’ll say that Mr. Harrelson is calling.”

  “Harrelson.”

  “Right. And Harrelson will say something that you’ll be able to interpret.”

  “Okay. When I call you, I’ll say it’s Kimble.”

  “Kimble.”

  “Right.”

  “When we meet,” said Jack, “I think it ought to be here. I can come in and out of this building without taking any chance of running into anybody who knows me.”

  “Yeah. Banker types don’t live in places like this. I’m gonna get a better place, but I’ll keep this one.”

  “Fine. Now tell me something, Dave. Why did you and Leeman hire Alexandra Fairchild?”

  “Is it so well known?”

  “The word’s around.”

  “Okay. Alexandra convinced Bob Leeman we needed to look like sterling citizens.”

  Jack nodded. “In case you ever have to face a jury. Which brings up something else. You’re going to have to break off with Leeman. You’ll have a perfect excuse. Harcourt Barnham will insist on it. I mean Harcourt will really insist on it. Bob Leeman is the only bad mark on your resume. Harcourt won’t tolerate any identification with him.”

  “He’s made me a lot of money.”

  “You’ve made as much for him.”

  “I suppose,” Dave conceded.

  Jack went to the window and looked down on Mercer Street. “I imagine Harcourt Barnham will suggest you break off with Alexandra Fairchild, too.”

  “That’s not gonna happen, Jack,” Dave said grimly.

  Jack turned. “Don’t tell me!”

  “The business relationship, sure. But not the personal relationship.”

  “You and—You and Alexandra are a pair?”

  Dave nodded.

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  III

  DECEMBER, 1986

  Dave and Alexandra still favored Sparks, but this evening they had decided to be adventuresome and had crossed the Williamsburg Bridge to Peter Luger’s Steak House in Brooklyn. It was set up like a German bierstube, and following the canon of the house they sat over huge steins of real beer, not American slop but German beer with real beer flavor.

  “Well, it’s set,” Dave said to Alexandra. “First of January, I’m with Harcourt Barnham.”

  She raised her stein. “Congratulations, Dave. That’s a good move.”

  “There are conditions,” he said solemnly. “One of them is that I break all connection with Bob Leeman.”

  “Understandable,” she said.

  “There was another condition, and I didn’t accept it.”

  “Which was?”

  “That I break all connection with you. I refused to do it, Alexandra. I told them you would no longer be my public-relations representative, but—”

  “You won’t need one,” she said.

  “But I told them that you and I had a personal friendship and that I was unwilling to abandon it.”

  “What did they say to that?”

  “They said they were perfectly willing that you and I have a personal relationship … provided that you, too, break off with Leeman.”

  She frowned hard. “What’s so—?”

  He reached for her hand. “I told them it was not impossible that you and I might be married. They said fine. But not to a woman through whom information might be fed to Bob Leeman.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. “You haven’t spoken of marriage, Dave.”

  “I’m not divorced,” he said.

  “Your childhood sweetheart …” she murmured.

  He nodded, but he stared at her. Her copper-colored hair gleamed where it hung to her shoulders. She was wearing a cream-white cable-knit sweater that he recognized as something imported from Ireland, with tight black slacks. Also, a single strand of pearls hung around her neck.

  “And you have kids.”

  “They hardly know me.”

  “And your wife?”

  He shook his head. “She doesn’t know me anymore, either. I know it’s a cliché. I’m a guy promising marriage to one woman and promising to get free of another one. You deserve better than that, Alexandra. But I’ll keep my promise.”

  She took his hand and they left the table.

  They went to her apartment. She lived in the West Seventies, in an apartment far larger and far more luxurious than his digs on Mercer Street. Among its decorations were original posters advertising performances by the Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo, featuring among others Alexandra Danilova.

  He picked up the phone and called his own apartment to be sure Amy wasn’t there. She would answer the telephone. She didn’t answer, so Dave and Alexandra spent the night together. Most of the time he left about 4:00 A.M.

  Alexandra was a genuine redhead. Her pubic hair was like a burst of flame between her legs. When he first saw her breasts he wondered if she had implants. But she didn’t. They were heavy and solid—and real. She would take off her clothes for him, when he asked, but she was not enthusiastic about it. Right now, she kept her panties on and was in no hurry to slip them down.

  “You know something?” she asked. “You haven’t told me you love me.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have. I do.”

  “You do?”

  “Alexandra. I’d do anything for you. I mean, to have you for my wife.”

  IV

  Dave invited Cole to join him for dinner at Primavera, an outstanding Italian restaurant on First Avenue. He specified it was just for the. two of them; he wanted to talk to Cole privately.

  “I recommend everything on the menu,” he said. “Whatever you have, it’ll be good.”

  Cole had cut down sharply on his drinking, and a bottle of wine was already before them. “What are you doing at Harcourt Barnham?”

  “At the moment, I’m an analyst. But I’m going to be in mergers and acquisitions. That’s understood.”

  A waiter came. Dave ordered veal and pasta. Cole nodded and said he’d have the same.

  “Well … you said you wanted a private conversation.”

  “Yes. I want you to represent me in New Jersey. A matter of domestic relations.”

  Cole lifted his chin abruptly. “You want … ?”

  “It’s not called divorce anymore. It’s called ‘termination of marriage.’ I’m thinking of it being uncontested. I’ll—”

&nbs
p; “I can’t be your lawyer in that, Dave.”

  “Why not?”

  “Amy has already consulted me on the matter.”

  “She wants out? That’s great!”

  “She doesn’t necessarily want out. She asked me how it would work.”

  “Look. I’ll give her the house. I can give her some securities. I’ll pay child support. I’ll pay her reasonable alimony, for a reasonable time.”

  “I can’t be your lawyer,” Cole insisted.

  “I don’t care which one of us you represent, officially. In fact, I don’t know if I need a lawyer, if we can agree on everything. With you in the picture, we keep the matter in the family, so to speak. Why don’t you talk to her and explain—”

  “You mean you want me to tell her you want to terminate the marriage? Haven’t you told her yourself?”

  “I don’t want any tears, Cole.”

  “Dave, that’s goddamned cold-blooded.”

  “What good will it do for her to cry and beg me to stay with her?”

  “Don’t you have any feelings for her?”

  “We’ve grown miles apart,” Dave said realistically. “It doesn’t work anymore.”

  “Money will talk,” said Cole wryly.

  “It makes things easier.”

  EIGHT

  I

  MARCH, 1987

  The telephone rang on Dave’s desk at Harcourt Barnham. “There is a Mr. Harrelson on the line, sir.”

  “I’ll take it.” He picked up the phone. “Good morning, Mr. Harrelson. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m thinking of taking a small position in Procter & Gamble. I wonder if you’ve got any thoughts on it.”

  “It’s not a company I’ve researched.”

  “Well, I have a hunch about it and may take a flyer in P&G.”

  “Let me know how it turns out,” said Dave.

  He understood. Somehow, Jack had gotten some insider information on Procter & Gamble and was advising Dave to buy. During his lunch hour he carried a roll of quarters and placed a call to Windsor Nassau Associates. By this time he had used information he had learned at Harcourt Barnham to increase his account at Pictet & Compagnie from the original fifty thousand dollars to eighty-five thousand. He instructed the corporation to buy fifty thousand dollars’ worth of P&G. Then he called Pictet & Compagnie, identified himself as Joseph Windsor, gave his account number, and transferred fifty thousand dollars to Windsor Nassau.