Dreams Die First
Page 32
“But you are?”
He nodded. “Nobody takes anything from me.”
“You mean you give nothing to nobody.”
“Semantics.”
“Love,” I said.
His voice was cool. “What’s that?”
“If you have to ask, you’ll never know.”
“Do you have anything more to say?”
I shook my head.
“Then you’d better go. It’s twenty-four hundred miles to New York and if you don’t make your luncheon on time, you’re finished.”
I started for the door. A picture of the grubby faces and three pairs of staring eyes flashed through my mind and I had a sudden jolt of memory. I stopped. “There is one thing you can tell me, Uncle John,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“You were sucking my baby prick that day my father found us on the beach, weren’t you?”
He didn’t blink, but I saw him turn pale. It was enough. I went out of his office and down the stairs without looking back.
I fought back the tears that burned my eyes. I had really wanted to love him.
The Collector had enticed the piano player to his table. He gave me a wave as I went by. I pushed my way through the crowded bar. There was a gang of leather boys standing near the door. The tears blurred my vision and I stumbled into one of them.
I stepped back. “Pardon me,” I said.
“De nada,” he said, averting his face quickly. But not before I recognized him. I saw the shining stud lettering over his breast pocket. J. V. KINGS. It was the same boy who had picked me up near Verita’s apartment a thousand years ago. I hesitated for a moment, thinking of going back and warning Lonergan. But it was his war, not mine. And I’d had enough of fighting other people’s wars.
I went outside and got into the car. “Okay, Tony,” I said. “The airport.”
I called Eileen from a pay station in the terminal. “I’m on my way to New York. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
“Good luck,” she said. “I love you.”
“I love you,” I said and put the phone back on the hook.
The advantage of a charter plane was that it had a beautiful comfortable bed. I slept all the way to New York and when I got off the plane, I saw the headline in the New York Daily News. Lonergan was dead. I didn’t even buy the newspaper to read the story.
I arrived at the luncheon just as they were serving dessert. I heard the surprised buzz as I came into the room. I kept my eyes straight ahead, and went directly to the dais. There was an empty seat with my name on a place card near the center of the long table.
A moment later the man next to me rose to his feet and rapped the gavel for attention. The room grew quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said tersely, “Mr. Gareth Brendan.”
There was no polite applause. A sea of faces stared at me in deadly silence as I made my way to the microphone.
“Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen, I will be brief. As you know, Gareth Brendan Publications Limited’s first public stock offering is a tremendous success. And I wish to express my appreciation to all of you who worked so hard to make that success. Thank you.”
I paused. The silence was deafening.
“But unfortunately, certain factors have arisen which becloud the value of that offering. I am a naïve man in many ways. I like to feel that there are those among you who care even more for your clients’ welfare than for your own commissions.
“I was told by Mr. Courtland that the offering is irrevocable and can only be canceled by one man. Me. As of this moment, it is still my stock and my company. So I take this opportunity to inform you that this offering is hereby officially withdrawn from sale.”
A hum spread through the room, forcing me to raise my voice to be heard over it. “So that no one suffers any financial losses in connection with this offering I also offer to reimburse any and all legitimate expenses incurred by the underwriters in connection with it. Thank you.”
I turned from the dais and started to make my way to the exit. The hum rose to a roar. I caught a glimpse of Courtland. He was stunned; a seventeen-million-dollar pallor suffused his face.
Reporters crowded around, grabbing at my coat and shouting questions. I pushed through them and made my way out the door without comment.
***
The telephone was ringing when I got to the hotel. It was Eileen. “I heard some of your speech on the newscast,” she said. “I’m very proud of you.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m stupid.”
“No. You’re beautiful.” Her voice changed. “You heard about your uncle?”
“Yes.”
“It’s terrible.”
“No, it’s not,” I said and meant it. “Lonergan screwed up enough lives, including mine. But no more.”
She was silent.
“I’ll be leaving in about an hour. How about meeting in Vegas and we’ll have a little fun?”
“Haven’t you lost enough money for one day?”
“That’s not the kind of fun I’m talking about. I mean like getting married.”
There was a moment of startled silence. “You mean it?” she asked incredulously.
“Of course I mean it. I love you.”
Harold Robbins, Unguarded
On the inspiration for Never Love a Stranger:
“[The book begins with] a poem from To the Unborn by Stella Benson. There were a lot of disappointments especially during the Depression—fuck it—in everyone’s life there are disappointments and lost hope…. No one escapes. That’s why you got to be grateful every day that you get to the next.”
On writing The Betsy and receiving gifts:
“When I wrote The Betsy, I spent a lot of time in Detroit with the Ford family. The old man running the place had supplied me with Fords, a Mustang, that station wagon we still have…. After he read the book and I was flying home from New York the day after it was published, he made a phone call to the office on Sunset and asked for all the cars to be returned. I guess he didn’t like the book.”
On the most boring things in the world:
“Home cooking, home fucking, and Dallas, Texas!”
On the inspiration for Stiletto:
“I began to develop an idea for a novel about the Mafia. In the back of my head I had already thought of an extraordinary character…. To the outside world he drove dangerous, high-speed automobiles and owned a foreign car dealership on Park Avenue…. The world also knew that he was one of the most romantic playboys in New York society… What the world did not know about him was that he was a deadly assassin who belonged to the Mafia.”
On the message of 79 Park Avenue:
“Street names change with the times, but there’s been prostitution since the world began. That was what 79 Park Avenue was about, and prostitution will always be there. I don’t know what cavemen called it; maybe they drew pictures. That’s called pornography now. People make their own choices every day about what they are willing to do. We don’t have the right to judge them or label them. At least walk in their shoes before you do. 79 Park Avenue did one thing for the public; it made people think about these girls being real, not just hustlers. The book was about walking in their shoes and understanding. Maybe it was a book about forgiveness. I never know; the reader is the only one who can decide.”
Paul Gitlin (Harold’s agent) on The Carpetbaggers after first reading the manuscript:
“Jesus Christ, you can’t talk about incest like this. The publishers will never accept it. This author, Robbins, he’s got a book that reads great, but it’s a ball breaker for publishing.”
From the judge who lifted the Philadelphia ban on Never Love a Stranger, on Harold’s books:
“I would rather my daughter learn about sex from the pages of a Harold Robbins novel than behind a barn door.”
On writing essentials:
“Power, sex, deceit, and wealth: the four ingredients to a successful story.”
“I don’t want to write and put it in a closet because I’m not writing for myself. I’m writing to be heard. I’m writing because I’ve got something to say to people about the world I live in, the world I see, and I want them to know about it.”
Harold Robbins titles from RosettaBooks
79 Park Avenue
Dreams Die First
Never Leave Me
Spellbinder
Stiletto
The Betsy
The Raiders
The Adventurers
Goodbye, Janette
Descent from Xanadu
Never Love A Stranger
Memories of Another Day
The Dream Merchants
Where Love Has Gone
The Lonely Lady
The Inheritors
The Looters
The Pirate