Never Enough

by Harold Robbins

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “They are not teetotalers. There’ll be drinks.”

  “I could use something.”

  The Shea family liked her. She was little and cute and ingratiating. They did not guess, as she whispered to Dave, that when he met her she was fifteen years old and stark naked.

  In the kitchen his mother talked to Dave alone. “She is a very nice little girl. I hope she is the end of your womanizing. That other one, the Rooshyan, should spend the rest of her life in prison.”

  “Well …”

  His mother was peeling potatoes. “I do wish you would drive over here now and then and visit your children. You do owe them that much.”

  “I don’t want to confuse them,” he said. “Amy has probably taught them I’m a villain, and I shouldn’t deny her that. They have the money to live comfortably and be well educated.”

  “And that is all your obligation?”

  “We live different kinds of lives,” he said.

  He looked around the modest kitchen of his childhood home, which had once been his motivation to do better: the linoleum floor, the sink with two taps, the simple cabinets, the table on which most family meals were eaten, the gas range, the fridge; and he compared it to the kitchen in the apartment he shared with Janelle now. His mother had not seen it and would not like it.

  “You have moved away, David,” she said, “in more ways than one.”

  “Janelle and I would like to be married here, in the church.”

  “If you wish. But I don’t think that is a good idea. It would be the first time you have set foot in the church in … in how many years? You are not a Christian, my son. I think it would be better if you were married by a magistrate, somewhere in New York.”

  II

  The guests who would go to the Four Seasons gathered in the apartment Dave and Janelle shared.

  Cole and Emily were there. Tony and Margot DeFelice came. Julian Musgrave had been invited and appeared, somewhat to Dave’s surprise. He had also invited Bob Leeman, and Bob had come, bringing with him a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old girl wearing a microskirt that exposed the crotch of her panty hose when she uncrossed her legs.

  Most interesting to Dave was Alicia Griffith, Janelle’s mother: the woman who had sold her teenaged daughter into social slavery.

  They had not met until now. The woman was only a little older than Dave, say forty-one or-two. She wore her blond hair short. She had contact lenses in her eyes, as Janelle had told Dave. She was a solid, compact person, with a figure that would appeal to the men she allowed to toy with her—and still did, as Janelle had confided. Her breasts were much larger than her daughter’s, her belly prominent, her legs stocky. She wore a colorful brocade dress. Her skirt was mini, not micro. Dave’s impression was that she was not showing herself this evening as she showed herself at PTA meetings. She was liberated here as she could not be as a third-grade teacher in a public school.

  “Janelle has done well for herself” she said to Dave. “I guess I haven’t been too bad a mother.”

  “I guess not,” he agreed.

  “Will you invite me to the wedding?”

  “Of course. Of course we will.”

  Alicia Griffith took a big gulp of Scotch. “You’re an operator, Dave. Take care of her.”

  “I will, but I don’t think she needs anyone to take care of her. Janelle is too smart to depend on anybody.”

  “We’re vulnerable, Dave, all of us. Maybe you, too.”

  “I love her, Alicia. There is no question about that.”

  “I know how you met her. That guy over there—”

  Bob Leeman saw her nodding toward him and came over. “I am very grateful to you, Alicia,” he said.

  The three of them looked toward Janelle. She was delicious in a little dress Dave had helped her pick out. It was black velvet, miniskirted, and clinging. When she showed her legs she did not show panty hose but the tops of black laced stockings held up by black straps from a garter belt. She did not allow the skin of her legs above the stockings to be seen casually, but occasionally it was visible. Dave had prescribed the costume.

  Alicia moved over to talk to her daughter.

  “I introduced you to Alexandra also,” Leeman said to Dave. “I am sorry how that one worked out. But this one—”

  “I owe you, Bob,”

  Leeman grinned. “We are going to make a bundle on the Reitsch thing. Just keep the stupid son of a bitch at work.”

  Emily replaced Leeman. “I went up to see her, Dave.”

  “I’d as soon you didn’t.”

  “You can’t imagine what’s happened to her. She has been destroyed.”

  “She did it to herself.”

  “She doesn’t deny it. She knows why she’s in prison. But … They’ve cut off her hair. I don’t mean they’ve shaved her head, but they’ve cut it so it’s above her ears: her beautiful hair. That wonderfully intelligent woman mops floors!”

  “Emily … what do you expect me to do? I crawled around on the floor while she fired shots at me.”

  “She was grateful to know you forgive her. She’ll pay the price.”

  “Do you expect to see her again?”

  “Yes. She has no other visitors.”

  “Tell her to count on the money. I’ll see that she gets it. When she is released, she’ll be comfortable for the rest of her life.”

  “And that’s all there is to it?”

  “What else, Emily? What more can I do?”

  “Dave, sometimes I think you have no feelings.”

  He stared back at her blankly.

  III

  Ben Haye sat at a table with Dave Shea in the Pen and Pencil, on Forty-fourth Street. He was a man roughly Dave’s age. They had known each other, distantly, for many years, since Haye had played football for West Virginia and had opposed Dave on the field and then met with him for a beer afterward. He had come to New York directly from the university and had taken a job with Kidder, Peabody, where he was an investment banker. The two men had shared lunch twice or three times a year in recent years, talking mostly about football.

  “We are now a subsidiary of GE, you know,” Haye said. “The place used to be … how would you say? Collegial? Well, it’s not anymore. I was called in to hear my bonus number. Two million. Can you believe it? Two fuckin’ million! I generated ninety four million in business, and they hand me two million?” Ben still spoke with the West Virginia accent he had brought from home. He had never taken any pains to change its

  Dave nodded sympathetically. He knew that Ben and his family lived in Greenwich, Connecticut, where two million dollars was not going to make any great splash. Though he had never met her, Dave knew also that Ben was married to a fecund Ohio Valley princess, the daughter of a man whose company manufactured glassware that was respected and bought all over the western world. Ben was the father of six children.

  “I felt like telling them to shove it and walk out the door. Then I decided—”

  “Don’t get mad. Get even,” Dave suggested.

  “I’m looking for someone who can take a position in a company. I mean, buying or selling on some insider information won’t be enough. The way this has got to work is, I give you detailed information, you trade through your contacts, you make one hell of a profit, and you pay me the bonus I didn’t get from Kidder, Peabody.”

  “What are we talking about, in money?”

  “A hundred million.”

  “I can’t swing that, Ben.”

  “I didn’t expect you to. But you know people who can.”

  “I’ll look into it. You and I can’t be seen together. You can call me and say you’re Mr. Blivins. If I call you, I’ll say I’m Mr. Blivins.”

  “Deal.”

  IV

  Bob Leeman sat down over hors d’oeuvres in Dave and Janelle’s apartment. Because he didn’t drink, Janelle had put before him a bottle of Perrier water, with a bucket of ice. Because he didn’t eat much, there would have
been no point in inviting him for dinner, or inviting him out for dinner. He came alone, without one of his little girls.

  Harcourt Barnham would go into orbit if they knew Dave was playing host to Leeman, so it was the first time he had seen their apartment.

  “Lovely,” he said, looking around. “It takes a bit of chutzpah to display that.”

  He referred to the nude painting of Alexandra, which was about the only item from that marriage that appeared in the apartment. Janelle had demanded it. It hung prominently in their living room. Alexandra faced the viewer defiantly, with an open, amused smile, her hands clasped behind her head, her hips tilted forward. Janelle called her the bitch and never failed to identify her to visitors—

  “She’s the woman who tried to kill Dave. She’s doing big time in Bedford Hills.”

  Here, that evening, Janelle was modestly dressed in a black knit pantsuit.

  “Jesus, man, you’re talking about a hundred million!” Leeman said. “I don’t have to tell you the difference between that and ten.”

  “Ninety,” said Janelle dryly.

  “We’re not small-timers, Dave,” Leeman went on. “But I can’t raise a hundred million. And you can’t. I guess I know a guy who can. But—He might decide to eat us alive.”

  “Nobody ever won anything without taking a chance.”

  Leeman nodded. “I’ll try to set it up. A meet. I’ll try.”

  After Bob Leeman left, Janelle pulled off her pantsuit. “I want to go out somewhere good,” she said. “Like Sparks. Like … well, somewhere. I’ll give you head first. And you give it to me. I’m horny. You maybe and then me. Okay?”

  She leaned back on the couch and spread her legs. He knelt before her and began to dart his tongue around her already engorged clitoris. She tasted different tonight, for some reason. It was all right. He ran his tongue over all her parts. She stiffened and moaned. She shook with her orgasm.

  Then she returned the favor.

  V

  Dave met Lawrence—never called Larry—Doubler at his estate in Back Country Greenwich, where he had a house that stood on a high hill and had a view of Long Island Sound five or six miles away. They sat down on white-painted wrought-iron chairs on a stone-paved terrace.

  The man was a legend. It was a privilege to meet him. He had replaced Ivan Boesky and Michael Milken as the king of junk bonds and mergers. It was said of him that he probably had access to a hundred billion dollars.

  Doubler might have been an unprepossessing man except that his light blue eyes could fix and stare so hard that it was a rare person who was not disconcerted. Summer afternoon it might be, but he wore a black three-piece suit, white shirt, rep tie, and polished black shoes. He was slender and tall. His clothes were tailored and fit him perfectly. He was completely self-contained, totally self-confident. He liked his estate, obviously. He said nothing, but his pride was obvious.

  He smoked a cigarette and sipped from a martini mixed with Bombay gin. He had offered the same for Dave, who accepted it though he would rather have had Beefeater.

  Dave had not come to this meeting with no idea who this man was. He was a Mormon from Las Vegas, though obviously no longer faithful as his martini and cigarette testified.

  “I know who you are,” Doubler said suddenly, after a few minutes of polite chat. “You’ve done well. I met Alexandra Fairchild a few times. I guess I won’t see her again. Tragedy. I understand you’re married now to one of Leeman’s little girls. Strange, that man. He abuses children, then makes them stars. The one you’ve married is a triumph for him. A triumph for you, I imagine.”

  “She’s a genius,” said Dave.

  “I’d like to meet her. Let’s set up a dinner.”

  “We’d be honored.”

  “Well … what is it you have? Information that can lead to—what?” Doubler looked at him inquisitively.

  “I have a very unhappy friend at Kidder, Peabody. He wants to use what he knows to make himself the big bonus they didn’t pay him for last year. He’s not talking about playing a stock. He’s talking about taking over a company. I don’t have that kind of money. I don’t have access to it.”

  “So we are talking about a major move.”

  Dave nodded.

  “Out Of which, you expect to get … ?”

  “Can we call it a commission? I will get the information. You will move as you see fit. You will pay me—I will trust in your discretion. Out of what you pay me, I will take care of my friend, I may tell you that he is ready to betray Kidder, Peabody because his bonus was only two million dollars.”

  Doubler grinned and shook his head. “When I broke into this business, a two-million-dollar bonus was a dream. Now your friend is angry because that’s all he got.”

  “He generated a hundred million.”

  “So. Let’s see what he has. Do you know?”

  “He hasn’t told me yet.”

  “Obviously neither of us can make a decision until we know what he is talking about.”

  “When he hears that you are interested, he will tell us everything.”

  “Good. We will have to be entirely circumspect, of course. I want you to bring your young wife here to dinner. I want to meet her. But it will have to be … confidentially. Officially, publicly, you and I have never met.”

  “And never will, I suspect.”

  “Well … ‘never’ is a big word. We’ll see.”

  VI

  Ben Haye came to the Sheas’ apartment for dinner—Chinese food to be delivered, because Janelle didn’t cook much. He didn’t trust his fecund princess wife in business discussions and hadn’t brought her with him, though she was included in the invitation.

  Janelle was wearing her little black minidress and occasionally showing the bare skin above her stockings. She had decided she enjoyed that.

  He glanced around, taking in the painting of Alexandra. “You’re a lucky man, Dave. I wonder if you know how lucky you are.”

  Janelle smiled. “Remember the line in Twelve O’Clock High when the general says something to the effect, ‘I don’t believe in luck. I think a man makes his own luck.’ Something like that. Well … Dave is not especially lucky, Ben. Dave makes his own luck.”

  “Which has taken courage, a willingness to take risks, that I’ve never had,” Haye said sorrowfully.

  “Okay. Maybe you will now. Lawrence Doubler is interested in whatever proposition you may have. You talked about taking a major position. I can’t. He can. But he’s not going to do it without full disclosure.”

  “Okay. Here’s the deal. I don’t have to tell you what Otis Mining and Manufacturing is. OMM. They have a money-making, successful operation, but they’ve invested heavily in opening new mines in South America, and they’re short on cash. Raiders have taken notice. OMM wants to float a stock issue and has come to Kidder, Peabody. KP is not averse. Montgomery has suggested he might just buy the whole issue. If he did that, his position in OMM would not be control but close to it. You know what he did to TWA.”

  “Does OMM know he might do this?”

  “No. KP doesn’t know it. There are others, who have been a little more public. Anyway, OMM is ripe for a takeover raid. If Doubler outbid Montgomery …”

  “Okay. What’s in this for us?”

  “I assume, Dave, that Doubler will pay you a—What shall we call it? A commission? Out of which you pay me what KP didn’t.”

  “It’s a felony, you know,” said Janelle.

  Haye’s face hardened. “Maybe it’s been my mistake that I’ve never committed one before.”

  “Implying that I have,” said Dave.

  “I don’t imply anything, Dave. I offer an opportunity.”

  VII

  Dave rented a Mercedes for the drive to the Doubler estate in Greenwich. He didn’t believe in owning cars. Living in Manhattan, he didn’t need one. Anyway, they tied up capital that could be put to better use. Besides that, they identified a person. Someone could note the license number and f
ind out that you were at such a place at such a time.

  They arrived at seven. Dave had warned Janelle that Doubler was never casual. He appeared for dinner in a dark suit. She wore a rose-colored cashmere dress that fit her like a coat of paint but had a skirt long enough that she would not show the skin between the tops of her stockings and her panties.

  Lawrence Doubler waited for them on the terrace where Dave had met him. His wife, Helen, was with him. She was a construct. Everything about her had been done by professionals: her hair, her makeup, her clothes … maybe even her postures and tone of voice. Her blond hair was too perfect and could not have been long away from the hands of a coiffeur. It was sculpted: medium length, just covering her ears. Her brows had been plucked into two fine lines, as though drawn with pencil. She wore a faint coloring of purple eye shadow. Her lashes were stiff and black. Her pink lipstick gleamed. Her white lace dress might have been a bridal gown except that few brides her age, which had to be in her forties, would have been wed in miniskirts. Nor in stockings dramatized by a dark floral pattern.

  She offered Janelle a cigarette, which Janelle accepted, even knowing Dave wouldn’t like it. The cigarette was custom-made, in lime-green paper. It was even imprinted with the name, and Janelle smoked a Helen cigarette.

  The drinks and hors d’oeuvres, then later the dinner, were served by two young women anachronistically dressed as French maids: that is, in white caps, white serving aprons over black dresses with micro-skirts flared out by white crinoline petticoats, dark sheer stockings, and black pumps.

  It came to Dave’s mind that everything about Lawrence Doubler was an anachronism. Even his control of a vast amount of money, which he had acquired by anachronistic means. He had heard he still had connections in Vegas. He was not anonymous, but his name occurred infrequently in the business press. He tried to avoid notice.

  That he was a power could not be doubted. His business judgment would be conservative. He did not give money to politicians. He didn’t own any. He did no lobbying. He acted as if government were extraneous, useless; he didn’t need it.