The Raiders

by Гарольд Роббинс

  "When he came out here to make the arrangements for her, he called me, but he couldn't spare an hour to see me."

  She was naked now. So was he. He stood facing her. She reached up and touched his mammoth penis, then tipped her head to beckon him to sit down beside her. He sat down and began to fondle her breasts.

  "We're gonna have a good time," Glenda said softly. "We don't need the Cords. We're gonna have a good time!"

  "Damn right we are," he said. "A good time. Both of us have been screwed by the Cords — more ways than one."

  "Anybody's been screwed by you's been screwed," she said, squeezing him gently to be sure he was rigid and ready. "So, c'mon. Make me the envy of every girl in California."

  He kissed her on the neck and ran his hands over her body one more time. He nodded. " 'Kay," he grunted.

  Glenda scooted across the bed, lay down on her back, and spread her legs. He mounted her and slowly shoved his oversized organ into her until she groaned in protest. He pulled back a little but then began strokes, each one invading her a little more deeply. She moaned and whimpered — but only softly — and he continued until his belly touched hers and all of him was inside her. He was gentle. He had to be. And he didn't take long. By the time she decided he was hurting her too much, he was finished.

  "My god, Ben!" She pressed both her hands to her crotch. She gleamed with sweat. "Like I said, a girl who's been screwed by you has been screwed."

  "You're bein' screwed more ways than one," said Ben. His thoughts had remained on what he had been saying before she called on him to perform. "You know somethin', kid. You are Cord Productions. You're the only successful show they've got. When the time comes for contract renewal, you ought to hold them up for a bundle."

  "The thought has occurred to me," she said.

  "The show was an experiment, a gamble," said Ben. "But you're a hot property right now. But showbiz is fickle, as I don't have to tell you, and you should make every dime you can while you can."

  22

  1

  THE AIRPORT JUST ACROSS THE ARIZONA LINE SOUTH OF Las Vegas where Jonas had landed in 1951 when he was ducking subpoenas was still there and was still used the same way. A sleek, fast private plane landed about noon.

  The first man off the plane was Carlo Vulcano, capo of the Vulcano Family that controlled Cleveland's East Side. Wizened and white-haired, he was of medium height, but he looked short because he walked with his shoulders hunched and his head thrust forward. His suspenders held his trousers up almost to his armpits, and he carried a white handkerchief in his left hand, which he pressed to his mouth from time to time because he drooled.

  Next was John Stefano, underboss of Detroit's Cosenza Family. He was a swarthy, dark-haired man with shifting brown eyes, about fifty years old. He paused just outside the airplane to light a big cigar.

  Morris Chandler was waiting on the tarmac. He strode forward to greet Vulcano and Stefano. Jimmy Hoffa, cocky, happy, and wearing a big grin, passed him and reached Vulcano first.

  The four men walked to the private club in the house at the end of the ramp. They sat down in solid maple chairs at one of the tables covered with a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. Stefano reinforced the fire in his cigar by holding it in the flame of the candle stuck in a Chianti bottle.

  "Not a bad place," said Vulcano, glancing around the dining room. "Are those girls hookers?"

  "For sure," said Chandler.

  "Ah, good."

  "A private place," Stefano remarked half sarcastically. "You're hopin' Cord won't find out you're meeting with us, right?"

  "Right," Chandler admitted.

  "What's he do, hire private dicks?" Stefano asked.

  "He doesn't have to," said Chandler. "He's got his own guys. Nothing much happens that he doesn't know."

  "Well ... we are sorry about Dave Beck," said Vulcano to Hoffa. "Unfortunately, he was not a man to listen to advice."

  "Nobody's advice," said Hoffa. "The lawyers have no confidence the appeals are gonna work. He'll die in the slammer, I imagine." He shook his head. "Nobody's advice."

  "So. You will assume the presidency of the Teamsters Union now," said Vulcano. "Is there any problem?"

  Hoffa shrugged. "What problem?"

  "Do you need any help?"

  "There was never a man who couldn't use and appreciate a little help," said Hoffa. "But I've got it in line pretty good."

  "Okay," said Stefano. "We came out here to talk about something else."

  "The Cords," said Hoffa. "I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch, so help me!"

  Carlo Vulcano, hunched over the table, leaned toward Hoffa. "Business, my friend," he muttered, his lips fluttering so a trickle ran from the corner of his mouth. "Killing a man is very bad for business. If you want to work with us, you will have to subdue your temper and your resentments and put out of mind all thought of killing."

  Hoffa smiled his toothy smile. "It was a figure of speech, Don Carlo."

  Vulcano nodded, accepting the assurance. "We don't speak for everyone," he said to Chandler, "but there is agreement among many of the men of honor that further intrusion into Vegas by the Cords will be detrimental to our interests."

  "To put the thing in the simplest words," said Stefano, "the revenues from the hotels are secondary to us. We need the casinos for money laundering and other purposes."

  "You may not be able to count on Cuba much longer," said Chandler. "Meyer Lansky couldn't persuade the Cords to invest in the Riviera, and I'd have thought that was as sweet a deal as anybody could make, what with Lansky's connections and expertise. I can only figure the Cords know something even Lansky doesn't know."

  "Which would be what?" asked Vulcano.

  "Bat's mother is Batista's niece. Maybe they got inside information," said Chandler.

  "Naah," said Stefano.

  "It is essential," said Vulcano, "that we have a way and a way. I make it a point always to have a means to an end and a means in reserve." He was a man who was accustomed to pontificating and to being solemnly heard when he did. "These people the Cords threaten our interests. What is the best way to cope with them?"

  "It's a shame we can't do it the old way," said Chandler.

  "Put that from your mind," said Vulcano. "The question is How can we apply pressure to these people?"

  "Jonas Cord has a daughter in a drying-out clinic in California," said Chandler. "She has given herself to a Hollywood hustler named Benjamin Parrish. The illegitimate son, Jonas Third, called Bat, sleeps with Glenda Grayson. Jonas Second himself keeps Angela Wyatt as a private and confidential secretary — and sleep-in lover. She has a federal criminal record." Chandler shrugged. "We may be able to find some advantage in one or more of those things."

  "We can call down strikes on their heads," said Hoffa. "They can't build their Intercontinental Vegas without— "

  "Let's hold that idea in abeyance. Jimmy," said Vulcano. "The other ideas Brother Morris has just mentioned may prove the better solution. Crude tactics are not acceptable when foxy tactics will do as well."

  "Let's have a means and a means, Don Carlo," said Hoffa, picking up the expression the don himself had used. "One of the things Maurie's thought up and my idea in reserve."

  "Don't call me Maurie," said Chandler coldly.

  Hoffa grinned. "Don't worry about it, buddy," said Hoffa. "You're the best-connected guy I ever heard of, whatever we call you."

  "Gentlemen," said Vulcano. "We are in agreement. Before we go back aboard that uncomfortable little airplane, I want to enjoy a nice steak, a nice bottle of wine, and one of those nice girls who are eyeing us and looking for an invitation to join us at this table."

  2

  "Goddammit, I said no. I told you I didn't want Jo-Ann on our payroll— "

  "Until she dried out," Bat interrupted. "Well, she dried out. I made her commit herself to a drying-out clinic, and she stayed there for a month."

  "What makes you think she won't go right back to her old habits?
" Jonas asked.

  "She might very well do just that if nobody gives her a chance," said Bat.

  "You should have checked with me first."

  "What good is it to be number-two man in the company if I can't hire a public relations girl?"

  "It's not a business matter," said Jonas. "It's a personal matter, a family matter."

  "Are you telling me to butt out of family matters?"

  "She's my daughter!"

  "She's my sister."

  "Half sister."

  Bat nodded. "So. Not good enough?"

  Jonas got up and walked to the window. He had learned Morris Chandler's little trick of staring through the telescope while he took a moment to control his emotions and put his thoughts in order.

  Not good enough? What kind of question was that? Unhappily, he knew what kind of question it was. He knew what his son implied. What was he supposed to do? Apologize? He changed the subject.

  "I have some information for you," he said, turning away from the telescope and returning to the couch where he had been sitting. "Your television star has been shacking up in your beach house."

  "How do you know?"

  "It's my business to know. It's your business to know. She works for us. I've had men watching her. And you haven't? You don't know she shacks up in your house?"

  "Well ... That's her business."

  "No. It's not her business. It's your business. It's our business. She works for us. She's a property. Besides, I thought you had some kind of personal commitment from her."

  Bat shook his head.

  "Okay. I don't care who she lets hump her. Except— Guess who the guy is?"

  "Who?"

  "Jo-Ann's friend Ben Parrish."

  "Parrish! For God's sake! That son of a bitch!"

  "Right. The guy who's screwin' Glenda Grayson is also screwin' Jo-Ann and also screwin' you."

  "That son of a bitch," Bat muttered.

  "I wouldn't be surprised if there's not more to it," said Jonas. "Parrish has a reputation for hustling. What you want to bet he's trying to get her agency contract or something like that?"

  "What can we do about it?" asked Bat.

  "I've already done something about it," said Jonas.

  3

  The offices for Cord Productions were on the grounds of the Cord soundstages in West Hollywood. Jo-Ann had a small office with a window overlooking the parking lot. Arthur Mawson, producer for the Glenda Grayson Show, was accustomed to handling his own public relations, but he had his orders from the younger Mr. Cord and gave Jo-Ann as much responsibility as he could. What she did mostly was take telephone calls from reporters and answer fan letters.

  Glenda Grayson's interviews and mail were handled by her agent Sam Stein and his PR staff. Guest stars also had their own staffs. Jo-Ann's responsibilities involved only inquiries and mail directed to the production company. It was not a demanding job, and she looked for ways to give it more stature, to give herself a more active role in the business.

  Whether she improved the job or not, Jo-Ann felt good about herself. For the first time since she was in school, she had a reason for getting up every morning, a reason for bathing and doing her makeup and dressing. She had lost weight during her stay in the clinic. They had insisted she play tennis and swim, and they served planned meals with calories counted.

  She was still fond of Scotch, but for the time being she was able to recognize her limit and stop. "If you can stop when you should stop, you're not an alcoholic," she said. She'd be damned if she'd call for orange juice when everyone else was having a drink. That would be too humiliating. She wouldn't go to AA either, though the doctors at the clinic had urged her to. She'd gone to one meeting and decided AA was a cult.

  Her father hadn't seen her, but at twenty-three she'd made a new image for herself. She had bought new clothes, and they fit her sleekly. She'd had her hair redone, too: cut shorter and curling under her ears. This morning she was wearing a cream-white flared linen skirt and a tight baby-blue cashmere sweater. Her bra lifted her breasts and thrust them out. Ben liked this outfit, so she wore it often, particularly when she expected to see him during the day.

  Her telephone rang. The receptionist told her a young woman who had no appointment was asking to see her: a Cynthia Rawls, who said she was a reporter for the Hollywood Sketch. Jo-Ann was glad enough to have a call from a reporter and told the receptionist to send her in.

  Cynthia Rawls was a gum-chewing bespectacled girl who seemed to think she played reporter by wearing a pencil in her hair above her right ear and carrying a steno pad in her left hand.

  She handed Jo-Ann a card. "You know our paper?" she asked.

  Jo-Ann nodded. The Sketch was a supermarket tabloid. "I've seen it," she said. "I'm not a regular reader."

  Cynthia Rawls nodded. If she read derision in Jo-Ann's comment, she showed no reaction. "We like to check our facts," she said earnestly. "Believe it or not, we check our facts closer than most any other paper. In our line, you can't afford to publish if you don't check your facts."

  "I can understand," said Jo-Ann.

  "So ... I tried to check with Mr. Stein, but he just won't talk. This has to do with Glenda Grayson, you understand. Your star?"

  "What makes you think I can — or will — tell you anything Sam Stein won't tell you?"

  "Maybe you can't — or won't," said Cynthia Rawls. "But I figure I have an obligation to run the story by you." She handed Jo-Ann a couple of typewritten pages. "If you want to deny any of that, we'll check the facts further."

  Jo-Ann scanned the sheets.

  Cozy, cozy, cozzy! Things have gotten really cozy between TV superstar /// Glemnda Grayson and Hollywood hiustler Benjamimn Parrish, otherwizse known as agent, sometime smalltime producer, and all-around man-about-town.

  No more "quickies" in hot-sheet motels for the one-time stripper and her new man. She madkes Benny-boy welcome these days in the beachfront house she used to sheare with money-boy Jonas "Bat" Cord.

  So far as we know, Mr. Cord has raised no objection. Like his notorious father, Jeonas Cord II, "Bat" has many irons in the fire. Monogany is not a Cord family tradition.

  Our sources for this story are beyond question. Our informer nails it cold.

  "I'm sorry about the way I use your family name," said Cynthia Rawls. "I guess it can't be any surprise, though, can it?"

  Jo-Ann stared at the young woman with cold eyes, for the better part of a minute, before she said, "I want to know the name of your informer."

  "Oh, you have to understand I can't tell you that."

  "Yes, you can. You face two alternatives, Miss Rawls. I think you know that playing games with the Cords is not wise. If my father can't defeat you in a libel suit, he might just buy your newspaper. He's done it before, you know. It's not a freedom of the press issue. My father might decide to convert the Hollywood Sketch into the weekly Dairy Reporter. What do you know about cows, Miss Rawls?"

  Cynthia Rawls tried at first to play the bold reporter. She shrugged and smirked. Then she licked her lips, deflated, and asked, "What is the second alternative?"

  "Give me the name of your source," said Jo-Ann, "and I might be able to cooperate with you. You've got a little story. I might be able to make it a big one."

  As the reporter pondered, Jo-Ann congratulated herself. She was a by-God Cord! This was the way Cords played it. And she'd destroy Ben Parrish — for she had no doubt that what this girl reporter had written was true.

  "Miss ... Miss Cord, I— "

  "Who is your source?"

  "Miss Cord ... You've got me between a rock and a hard place."

  Jo-Ann raised her chin. "When you get a few more years behind you, Miss Rawls, you will become accustomed to that. This is an easy one. You've got alternatives. Most people don't."

  "It's more difficult than you realize. The source called my editor. He recorded the call, like he records all that kind of calls. He played the tape for me. You're not gonna believe who it was
."

  "Well, try me," said Jo-Ann icily.

  "Miss Cord ... It was your father!"

  Jo-Ann could not dissemble. The reporter saw her flush and stiffen. "So," she muttered. "My father. You think it was my father on the phone."

  "Do you deny it?"

  Jo-Ann considered for a brief moment, then shook her head. Of course she wouldn't deny it. It made sense more than one way. "I don't deny it. More than that, I can tell you that everything he said is absolutely true. I can tell you something more. Ben Parrish has a certain, uh, reputation. I'm sure you know what that is."

  "That he's hung like a horse?"

  "He'd make a stallion jealous. Do you want to know how I can testify to that?"

  "I'm afraid to ask," said Cynthia Rawls.

  "You can guess. At the same time, I'm glad you came here today. I'd suspected somebody was leaking a story, but I didn't know for sure. Especially, I didn't know who."

  "But your father knew. How could he know what you didn't know?"

  "I told you it's always a mistake to mess around with Jonas Cord. He finds out what he's interested in finding out. He didn't tell me. He wanted me to read it in the newspaper."

  "How's he gonna react when he reads this extra stuff I'll be putting in the story?"

  "He won't buy out the paper over that."

  "Well gee, thanks, Miss Cord. I'm glad we met."

  4

  "He told her he was in love with her. She believed him."

  Jo-Ann would meet Ben only over lunch, only in a public place where there could not be a scene. There was a scene anyway, of sorts. People stared at them. Some laughed. They were surrounded in the restaurant by people who would have sworn they never looked at a supermarket tabloid, but they glanced at Ben Parrish and Jo-Ann Cord and recognized them as two of the people shown on the front page of this week's Sketch.