JC1 The Carpetbaggers

by Robbins, Harold

  David turned toward the ocean as she came and stood beside him. "I’ve known some geniuses, too," he said. "Uncle Bernie, who started Norman Pictures, was a genius. He did everything it now takes ten men to do. And Jonas Cord is a genius, too, in a way. But I’m not sure yet in what area. There are so many things he can do, it's a pity."

  "I know what you mean. My father said almost the same thing about him."

  He looked down at her. "It's sad, isn't it?" he said. "Two ordinary nongeniuses, standing here looking out at the Pacific Ocean."

  A glint of laughter came into her eyes. "And such a big ocean, too."

  "The biggest," he said solemnly. "Or so some genius said. The biggest in the world." He held up his glass. "Let's drink to that."

  They drank and he turned again to the ocean. "It's warm, almost warm enough to swim."

  "I don't think the ocean would object if two just ordinary people went for a swim."

  He looked at her and smiled slowly. "Could we?"

  She laughed. "Of course. You'll find swimming trunks in the locker in the utility room."

  * * *

  David came out of the water and collapsed on the blanket. He rolled over on his side and watched her running up the beach toward him. He held his breath. She was so much a woman that he had almost forgotten she was also a doctor.

  She dropped beside him and reaching for a towel, threw it across her shoulders. "I didn't think the water would be so cold."

  He laughed. "It's wonderful." He reached for a cigarette. "When I was a kid, we used to go swimming off the docks in the East River. It was never like this." He lit the cigarette and passed it to her.

  "Feel better now?" she asked.

  He nodded. "It's just what the doctor ordered." He laughed. "All the knots came untied."

  "Good," she said. She dragged on the cigarette and passed it back to him.

  "You know, Rosa," he said, almost shyly, "when my mother asked me to dinner to meet you, I didn't want to come."

  "I know," she said. "I felt the same way. I was sure you'd be a real slob."

  She came down into his arms, her mouth tasting of ocean salt. His hand found her breast inside her bathing suit. He felt a shiver run through her as the nipple grew into his palm, then her fingers were on his thigh, capturing his manhood.

  Slowly he reached up and slipped the suit from her shoulders and drew it down over her body. He could hear her breath whistling in her chest as he pressed his face against her breasts. Her arms locked around his head, closing out the night. Suddenly, her fingers were frantic, leading him to her, her voice harsh and insistent. "Don't be so gentle, David. I'm a woman!"

  13

  Rosa came into the cottage and went directly into the bedroom. She glanced at the clock on the night table. It was time for the six-o'clock news. She turned on the radio and the announcer's voice filled the room as she began to undress:

  Today the pride of the German army, Rommel, the "Desert Fox," got his first real taste of what it felt like to eat desert sand as, in the midst of a whirling, blinding sandstorm, Montgomery began to push him back toward Tobruk. Obviously inadequately prepared for the massive onslaught, the Italians, supporting Rommel's flanks, were surrendering en masse. With his flanks thus exposed, Rommel had no choice but to begin to fall back to the sea. In London today, Prime Minister Winston Churchill said

  She flicked off the radio. War news. Nothing but war news. Today she didn't want to hear it. She turned and looked at her naked body in the mirror over the dresser.

  She pressed her hand to her stomach. It felt strong and somehow full to her. She turned sideways and studied herself. She was still flat and straight. But in a little while, she would begin to get round and full. She smiled to herself as she remembered the surprise she had heard in Dr. Mayer's voice. "Why, Doctor, you're pregnant!" There had been a look of amazement in his eyes.

  She had laughed. "That's what I thought, Doctor."

  "Well," he sputtered. "Well!"

  "Don't be so shocked, Doctor," she said, almost dryly. "These things are known to happen to many women."

  Then she was surprised by the sudden feeling of pride and happiness that swept through her. She had never thought she would feel like this. The thought of having a child had always frightened her. Not a physical kind of fear but rather that pregnancy might keep her from her work, interfere with her life.

  But it turned out to be not like that at all. She was proud and happy and excited. This was something only she could do. There had never been a man, in all medical history, who had given birth to a child.

  She threw a robe around her shoulders and went into the bathroom, turning on the tub water. Almost languidly she sprinkled the bath salts into it. The fragrance came up and tickled her nostrils. She sneezed. "Gesundheit!" she said aloud to herself and pressed her hands to her stomach.

  She laughed aloud. The baby wasn't even shaped inside her yet and already she was talking to it. She looked at her face in the bathroom mirror. Her skin was clear and pink and her eyes were sparkling. She smiled again. For the first time in her life, she was glad she was a woman.

  Carefully she stepped into the tub and sank into the warm water. She would not soak too long. She wanted to be at the telephone at seven o'clock when David called from New York. She wanted to hear the happiness in his voice when she told him.

  * * *

  David looked down at the blue, leather-bound book of accounts. Six million dollars' profit this year. Almost two million last year. If nothing else, the figures proved how right had been the deal he made with Bonner three years ago.

  True, Bonner made almost as much for himself. But he had a right to it. Almost all that profit had come from his own big pictures, those he had produced and financed himself. If only David had been able to persuade Jonas to come up with the financing when Bonner offered it to them. If he had, the profit this year would have been ten million dollars.

  Only one thing troubled David. During the past year, Cord had been gradually liquidating part of his stock as the market rose. He'd already recovered his original investment and the twenty-three per cent of the stock he still owned was free and clear. Ordinarily, in a company this size, that meant control. But someone was buying. It was the story of Uncle Bernie all over again. Only this time, Jonas was on the wrong side of the fence.

  One day, a broker named Sheffield had come to see David. He was rumored to be the head of a powerful syndicate and their holdings in the company were considerable. David had looked at him questioningly, as he sat down.

  "For almost a year now, we've been trying to arrange a meeting with Mr. Cord to discuss our mutual problems," Sheffield said. "But no one seems to know where he is or how he can be reached. We've never even received an answer to our letters.''

  "Mr. Cord is a busy man."

  "I know," Sheffield said quickly. "I’ve had dealings with him before. The least I can say is that he's erratic." He drew a gold cigarette case from his pocket and opened it. Carefully he took out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He lit the cigarette and as carefully put the case back in his pocket. He blew a cloud of smoke toward David. "Our patience is at an end," he said. "We have a considerable investment in this company, an investment that will tolerate neither a dilettante operation nor an obvious neglect of profit opportunities."

  "It seems to me the investors have very little to complain about," David said. "Especially in view of the profits this year."

  "I commend your loyalty, Mr. Woolf," Sheffield said. He smiled. "But we both know better. My group of investors was willing to advance the financing needed for certain pictures which might have doubled our profit. Mr. Cord was not. We are willing to work out an equitable stock and profit-sharing plan for certain key executives. Mr. Cord is not. And definitely we are not interested in burdening the company with certain expenses, like those at the Boulevard Park Hotel."

  David had been wondering how long it would take him to get around to that. It was an open sec
ret in the industry. Cord's harem, they called it.

  It had begun two years ago, when Jonas tried to get a suite in the hotel for a girl and was refused. Using the picture company as a subterfuge, he then rented several floors of the staid establishment on the fringe of Beverly Hills. On the day the lease was signed, he had the studio move in all the girls on the contract-players' list.

  There had almost been a riot as thirty girls swarmed into as many apartments under the shocked eyes of the hotel management. The newspapers had a field day, pointing out that none of the girls made as much in a year as each apartment would have ordinarily cost in a month.

  That had been two years ago but the lease ran for fifteen years. Admittedly, it cost the company a great deal of money. The hotel would have been only too willing to cancel the lease but Jonas would have no part of it. Gradually most of the girls moved out. Now most of the apartments were empty, except when Jonas came across a girl he thought had possibilities.

  David leaned back in his chair. "I don't have to point out, of course, that Mr. Cord receives no remuneration or expenses from the company."

  Sheffield smiled. "We would have no objections if Mr. Cord rendered any service to the company. But the truth is that he is not at all active. He has not attended a single board meeting since his association with the company began."

  "Mr. Cord bought the controlling interest in the company," David pointed out. "Therefore, his association with it is not in the ordinary category of employees."

  "I'm quite aware of that," Sheffield said. "But are you quite sure control of the company still remains in his hands? We now have as much and perhaps more stock than he has. We feel we're entitled to a voice in management."

  "I'll be glad to relay your suggestion to Mr. Cord."

  "That won't be necessary," Sheffield said. "We are certain, because of his refusal to reply to our requests for a meeting, that he is not interested."

  "In that case, why did you come to me?" David asked. Now the preliminaries were over; they were getting down to the heart of things.

  Sheffield leaned forward. "We feel that the success of this company is directly attributed to you and your policies. We have the highest regard for your ability and would like to see you take your proper place in the company as chief executive officer." He ground out his cigarette in the ash tray before him. "With proper authority and compensation, of course."

  David stared at him. The world on a silver platter. "That's very gratifying," he said cautiously. "What if I were to ask you to leave things as they are? What if I were to persuade Mr. Cord to adopt some of your suggestions? Would that be satisfactory to you?"

  Sheffield shook his head. "With all due respect to your sincerity — no. You see, we're firmly convinced that Cord is detrimental to the progress of this company."

  "Then you'd launch a proxy fight if I didn't go along with you?"

  "I doubt that it would be necessary," Sheffield said. "I have already mentioned that we own a considerable amount of the stock outstanding. Certain brokers have pledged us an additional five per cent." He took a paper from his pocket and handed it to David. "And here is a commitment from Mr. Bonner to sell us all of the stock in his possession on December fifteenth, the day of the annual meeting, next week. Mr. Bonner's ten per cent of the stock brings our total to thirty-eight per cent. With or without the five per cent you own, we have more than sufficient stock to take control of the company. Even with proxies, Mr. Cord would not be able to vote more than thirty per cent of the stock."

  David picked up the sheet of paper and looked at it. It was a firm commitment, all right. And it was Bonner's signature. He pushed the paper back to Sheffield silently. Suddenly, he remembered the old Norman warehouse, where he had first gone to work. The king must die. But now it was no mere platform boss, it was Jonas. Until this moment, he had never let himself think about it. Jonas had seemed invulnerable.

  But all that had changed. Jonas was slipping. And what Sheffield was saying in effect was, string along with us and we'll make you king. David took a deep breath. Why shouldn't it be he? It was something he had felt ever since that first day in the warehouse.

  * * *

  Rosa put the newspaper down on the bed and reached for a cigarette. She looked at the clock. It was after eight. That made it after eleven o'clock in New York. David should have called by now. Usually, if he expected to be out late, he would let her know.

  Could something have happened to him? Could he be lying hurt in the streets of New York, three thousand miles away, and she'd never know until it was too late?

  She picked up the telephone and called him at his hotel in New York. She heard the rapid relay of the telephone across the country, then the phone ringing in his suite. It rang for a long time.

  "Hello," he said. His voice was low and cautious.

  "David, are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," he said.

  "I was worried. Why didn't you call?"

  "I’m in the middle of a meeting."

  "Oh. Are you alone? Are you in the bedroom?"

  "Yes," he answered, in the same low, cautious voice. "I’m in the bedroom."

  "Are you sitting on the bed?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm lying on the bed." She waited for him to ask the usual question. This time he didn't, so she told him, anyway. "I have nothing on," she whispered. A sudden warmth rose up in her. "Oh, David, I miss you so. I wish you were here beside me."

  She heard the faint sound of a striking match. "I'll be out there by the end of the week."

  "I can't wait, David. Can you?"

  "No," he said, still cautiously.

  "Stretch out on the bed for a moment, David," she whispered. "I want you to feel me as I feel you."

  "Rosa— "

  "Oh, David," she whispered, interrupting. "I can see you now. Hard and strong. I can feel you pouring life into me." She closed her eyes against the flush of heat spreading upward from her loins. She could hear his breathing in the telephone. "David," she whispered. "I cannot wait."

  "Rosa!" His voice was harsh. "I— "

  Her voice was warm and languid. "Freud would have a wonderful time with me," she whispered. "Are you angry with me, David, for being so greedy?"

  "No," he said.

  She took a deep breath. "I’m glad," she said. "I have wonderful news to tell you, darling."

  "Can it wait until tomorrow, Rosa?" he said quickly. "I’m in the middle of an important meeting."

  She hesitated in stunned silence.

  He took it for acquiescence. "That's a good girl, darling," he said. "Bye now."

  There was a click and he was off the line before she could answer. She stared at the telephone in bewilderment for a moment, then put it down slowly.

  She reached for the cigarette still smoldering in the ash tray. The acrid smoke burned in her throat. Angrily she ground it out. She turned her face into the pillow and lay there silently.

  I shouldn't have called him, she thought. He said he was busy. She got up from the bed and went into the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror.

  You ought to be able to understand, she told herself. There have been times you've been too busy to come to the telephone when he called. You, of all people.

  Almost surprised, she saw the tears well up into her eyes and begin to run down her cheeks. Then they overwhelmed her and she sank to her knees, her face against the cold porcelain bathtub. She covered her face with her hands.

  Was this what it meant to be a woman?

  14

  Maurice Bonner sat up in the bed and watched the girl walk over to a chair and sit down. He studied her appreciatively. The girl was naked. And beautiful. The strong, full breasts resting on the finely boned rib cage. The flat, hard stomach swelling abruptly into the surprising rise of her pubis, then tapering gently into the thighs of her long, slim legs.

  He watched the muscles of her back suddenly come into play as she turned to pick up a pack of cigarettes from the table. H
e nodded to himself. She was beautiful, all right. Perhaps not in the ordinary sense of the word but beautiful as a whore had any right to be. And never was.

  "Christ, you're ugly," the girl said, looking at him.

  He grinned, exposing the crooked, uneven teeth in his long horse face. What she said was nothing new. He was not unaware of it himself; he could see it in his mirror. He threw back the sheet and got out of bed.

  "Here, cover yourself," the girl said, flinging a towel at him. "You look like an ape with your cock hanging down like that." He caught the towel deftly and wrapped it around his waist. "Was it any good?" he asked curiously, taking a cigarette from the package.

  She didn't answer.

  "Was it worth it?"

  "I guess it was," she said unemotionally.

  He went back to the bed and sat down on the edge. "Is that all it is to you?" he asked. "Just another John?"

  She stared at him. "You're supposed to be a pretty hep guy. You want the truth?"

  He smiled again. "The truth, of course."

  "You're all the same to me," she said, meeting his gaze steadily. "You might as well be goosing me with a Coca-Cola bottle for all the difference it makes."

  "Don't you feel anything, ever?"

  "Sure," she answered. "I'm human. But not with the customers. I can't afford it. They pay for perfection." She ground out the cigarette in the tray. "When I feel I got to get my kicks, I take a week off and go out to one of those dude ranches that cater to married women on holiday. There's always some cowpoke out there who thinks he's making it big for me. And he is, because I don't have to give him the best. But the Johns pay. You're entitled."

  "But aren't you cheating the Johns?"

  She smiled at him. "Do you feel cheated?"

  "No," he said. Then he added quickly, "I don't know. I didn't know you were acting."

  "I wasn't acting," she said, taking another cigarette. "I was working. That's my job."

  He didn't speak.

  She lit the cigarette and gestured toward him. "Look," she said. "You eat a good dinner. Afterwards, you say to your friends, that was a great steak. The greatest. You don't mind talking about it. You even tell your friends where you had it so they can get themselves one. Right?"