The Inheritors

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by Harold Robbins


  I knocked the glass from her hand as she raised it toward her lips and the bottle from the other as she tried to put it behind her. I caught her hand as it came wildly at me with an outstretched claw and pulled her to me.

  “Let me go, you son of a bitch!” she screamed, twisting viciously, kicking at me. “I want a drink!”

  I held on to her. “No booze. That was our deal. You’re going on!”

  “I will not, you cocksucker!” she spit into my face. “I’m not going out there. You tricked me! They didn’t come to hear me sing, they came to eat me alive! They came to see a freak.”

  I let her have it. Open palm, right across the face. It made a crack like thunder in the small room and she spun across it and wound up half on and half off the couch against the wall.

  The overhead speakers blared, “One minute to air time!”

  I crossed the room and pulled her off the couch. She stared up at me, naked fear in her eyes. “You’re going on, you cunt! I didn’t pull you out of the gutter to go to black at airtime. You stand me up you don’t talk to lawyers, you talk to your undertaker!”

  I slapped her again just to let her know I meant it. Then I turned and dragged her after me toward the stage. The crowd in the doorway parted silently to let us pass.

  The crawl was already on the monitors when we reached the wings, the announcer’s voice came from the speakers. “STV proudly presents… JANA REYNOLDS… LIVE!”

  She twisted toward me. Her voice was shaking. “I can’t… I can’t… I’m frightened!”

  “That makes two of us,” I said, turning her toward the stage. I put my foot on her ass and shot her out over the wires and cables to the center stage.

  It was a miracle she didn’t fall. She just had time to straighten up and glance at me. I grinned and gestured a “thumbs up” at her. She turned toward the audience as the curtain arced open and up.

  The orchestra went into her theme song and for almost a minute you couldn’t hear her voice because of the thunderous applause. They all knew the song. “Sing from the Heart.” It had been her very own since she was fifteen years old.

  I stood there watching her. It was like not to be believed. Whatever else was wrong and crooked inside her it wasn’t her voice. Maybe not as young as it once was, maybe not as strong. But there was a magic there. A beauty, a sadness, a pain and a kind of joy too. For fourteen minutes until the first commercial, she just stood there and sang.

  When she came off, she was sopping wet and half fell into my arms. I could feel her shaking. The audience was roaring. “They liked me,” she whispered almost as if she couldn’t believe it.

  “They loved you.” I turned her back to the stage. “Go back out there and take a bow.”

  She looked up at me. “But it will throw the timing of the show off.”

  “To hell with it,” I said, pushing her toward the stage. “The name of the show is ‘Jana Reynolds… Live.’”

  She went back out and took her bow. When she came back, she was glowing.

  “Now get back to your dressing room for your change,” I said.

  She kissed me quickly on the cheek and hurried off. I looked after her. I never told her that her bow didn’t get on the air. The only thing that television never interrupts is the commercial.

  Then I went looking for the couple we had hired to keep an eye on her. I finally found them alone in a small viewing room at the rear of the stage. She was jumping up and down in his lap. They were too engrossed to hear me enter.

  I crossed the room swiftly, put a hand under each arm, and lifted her.

  “What the hell—” the man said.

  The girl sprawled on the floor.

  I looked at him as he tried to zip up his pants. “Where were you when the lights went out?” I asked.

  “We got her to the theater,” he said sullenly.

  The girl was on her feet now. “You weren’t supposed to leave her alone. Not for a minute,” I said.

  “She was all right when we put her in her dressing room,” she said.

  “That’s just it. You weren’t supposed to leave her,” I said. “You’re both fired.”

  Twenty minutes later I had a new pair of watchdogs. Carefully I laid it out for them. They nodded. They knew the score. This wasn’t the first time they had a job like this. This was Hollywood.

  “After the second show, you take her right back to the spa,” I said. The first show was beamed to the eastern and central time zones, there was still a second show to do for the coast. “You bring her back here on Tuesday for rehearsals and you stay with her. She does nothing alone. Eat, sleep, or sex without one of you there, understand?”

  I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to six. I’d have to get moving if I wanted to make the seven o’clock flight back to New York.

  I stopped and looked up at one of the monitors as I was leaving. She was singing again and she looked absolutely beautiful.

  Suddenly I was tired. I didn’t know how many more of these miracles I could take. I could sleep for a week. But there wasn’t time.

  I wanted to be in New York tomorrow morning for the flash Nielsens.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I took a pill to sleep on the plane, but it did no good. I couldn’t turn off my head. There was still so much to do. One show, one night even if it did turn out a big winner didn’t make a network. And in the back of my head a trouble was ticking.

  It was nothing I could put my finger on. It was all too easy. Maybe that was it. The hostess came up. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Gaunt?”

  I turned on a smile. “You can get me another double martini.”

  “But you already had one double, Mr. Gaunt,” she said. “Regulations allow only two drinks per.”

  “I know that,” I said. “But the way I look at it, we’re not breaking any rules. I still had only one drink.”

  She hesitated a moment, then nodded. I watched her walk away and giving up the thought of sleep, I opened the attaché case. I placed the papers on the table in front of me.

  The drink was cold and dry. I lit a cigarette and dragged on it. If only I could lose the feeling I had that something was wrong. I stared at the papers without really seeing them.

  On the top, everything seemed okay. The fall schedule was shaping up. It would be the best that Sinclair had ever put on. Maybe not the best, but the most commercial. I had kept all the solid shows, the good ratings, but the problem had been there were not enough of them. About seventy percent of the fall programming would have to be new.

  It had meant a complete change of direction for the network. It also meant a change of thinking for most of the executive personnel and more than half of them couldn’t cut it. That meant in addition to everything else I would have to find replacements for them if I wanted to take advantage of the resignations locked in my desk.

  To this point, Sinclair had been proud of the fact that their programming won the most kudos and critical acclaim. They boasted of more Peabody Awards than any other network. What they didn’t brag about was the fact that they also had the lowest ratings and billings. The new fall schedule was designed to change all that. I never knew any Peabody Award that sold an extra cake of soap.

  From now on, the critics could cry in their beer because there would no longer be such shows as “Great Adventures in American History.” How many times could Washington cross the Delaware and who cared? Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms, all three of them together if they came down from heaven or wherever they were and conducted the weekly “Sinclair Philharmonic Hour” couldn’t entice a single viewer from “Gunsmoke” or “77 Sunset Strip.” “The Classic Repertory Theater” didn’t stand a chance against Red Skelton or Sid Caesar and Imogene Coca.

  The critics would have to be satisfied with such programs as Chic Renfrew in the “Park Avenue Squatters” (a story of a Kentucky moonshining family who inherited a fortune); “The Flyboys” (a new kind of private-eye story involving jet pilots who fly their plane to a
dventure); and “The Sandman,” a story of a western bounty hunter.

  There were other goodies in store for them too. An hour-long country and western music program, originating in Nashville beamed right at the heartlands; “White Fang,” a dog story designed to yap at the heels of Lassie and Rin Tin Tin; and last but not least, “Sally Starr’s Family,” America’s favorite daytime soap opera now moving to prime time, three nights a week in color.

  It was commercial all right. That was the one thing I was sure of. As each program was carefully leaked to the advertising agencies on Madison Avenue, the interest mounted. Already we had more unofficial commitments for billings than we had ever had before in our history. All that remained to firm it up was to have the pilots ready in time for the buying season. And that began next month. February.

  Sometime in those weeks, each network would publicly announce its schedule for the coming fall and begin the rat race after sales. From then through April, the pilots would be shown and the juggling would go on as each of the networks played chess with its programs, moving one to one day, then to the other, to counter the opposition moves. Usually Sinclair was the last to announce its schedules.

  This time was going to be different. This time we would be first. I was going to announce our schedule at the end of January. By the time the others should be set, they would have to chase after us. We should be all sold out. I hoped.

  If I proved out wrong, thirty million dollars would go down the drain. And so would I. The only job I could get after that would be back at Mr. Lefferts’s radio station in Rockport and I doubted if even he would want me.

  Even the second double martini couldn’t loosen the tightness in my gut. It was gray morning by the time we landed in New York and I still hadn’t slept.

  Jack Savitt was at the gate when I came off the plane. “We got trouble,” he said, even before we shook hands.

  I looked at him. He didn’t have to tell me. It couldn’t be anything good that got him out of bed to be at the airport six o’clock of a Sunday morning. Inexplicably the tightness in my gut disappeared. Whatever it was would be in the open now.

  It was two words. Dan Ritchie. I had made one bad mistake. I had left his team intact. I should have canned all of them that first day. Silently I vowed never to make that one again.

  “When did it start?” I asked.

  “Wednesday morning. After you left for the coast. Joe Doyle called and said to hold everything. All deals were to be finalized out of Dan Ritchie’s office.”

  Joe Doyle was business affairs VP for the network. I had found him extremely capable and he was one of those I planned to keep. “Why didn’t you call me?” I asked.

  “At first I thought you knew about it,” he answered. “I knew you were up to your ears and I thought you pulled Ritchie in to help you out. After all, he had the experience. It wasn’t until Friday that I managed to get him on the phone and get the scam.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was using his holier-than-thou voice. He said the board of directors was very concerned over the financial commitments you were making and that they wanted everything held up until there was time to study them.”

  “That’s a crock of shit!” I exploded. “The board does what Sinclair tells them.”

  “I know it and you know it,” Jack said. “But what good does that do us when I have to firm up all the contracts for the shows or I blow them and my clients? He must have put a bug in Sinclair’s ear.”

  I was silent. None of it made sense. Sinclair wouldn’t have let me go this far if he had intended to pull the rug. He had to know it would cost him a fortune to buy out of some of those commitments.

  It was eight o’clock when I walked into my apartment and the phone was ringing. It was Winant. His voice was shaking with anger.

  “I thought I was doing a job for you,” he said.

  “You are,” I said. New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles were on in color last night.

  “So how come I got fired Friday night?” Winant asked.

  I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “What?”

  “I got fired,” he repeated. “Dan Ritchie called and told me I was through. He said something about my having acted improperly. That I did not get approval for the color program. I told him that you had approved it. He said that wasn’t enough. That I had been with the company long enough to know that board of directors’ approval was necessary for every capital outlay.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Now what do I do?” he asked.

  “Nothing. You report to your office tomorrow morning and do your work as usual. I’ll take care of it.”

  I looked over at Jack as I put down the telephone. “You heard?”

  He nodded, the worry deepening on his face. “What are you going to do?”

  For an answer I picked up the phone again and got Fogarty on the wire. “Can you get your girls together and meet me in the office in an hour?”

  “Of course,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone as if it were commonplace to come in on Sunday.

  “Good.”

  “Mr. Gaunt.” Her voice was excited.

  “Yes?”

  “I saw the Jana Reynolds show last night. She was wonderful. Congratulations. And the movie afterward with Clark Gable was fantastic.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  I took a hot shower and got into fresh clothes. When I came out, Jack was drinking coffee liberally laced with brandy.

  “Try some,” he said. “Best thing in the world to get you moving in the morning.” He held out a cup.

  I took a swallow and it went right down to my toes. I could feel the zing. He was right. “Come on,” I said.

  “What’s the script?” he asked, following me out of the apartment into the elevator.

  I grinned at him. “What is it they say is the only way to fight fire?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I took a pill and slept late on Monday morning. Deliberately, I didn’t get to the office until almost eleven o’clock. By that time all hell had broken loose.

  Fogarty had an unexpected sense of humor. “The explosion had to reach eight on the Richter scale,” she said as she brought in my coffee and the messages. “Mr. Sinclair wants you to call him.”

  I glanced out the windows. “It looks like snow,” I said.

  She knew what I meant. “If he calls again I’ll tell him you couldn’t find the dogsled.”

  “The Nielsens come in yet?” I asked.

  “Any minute. I have the first ARI reports. They look good.”

  They were on top of the stack of papers. I looked at them. They were more than good. If they were anywhere near correct we had stolen forty-four percent of the audience with the Jana Reynolds show, forty-one percent for the first hour of the movie, and thirty-eight percent for the second hour. It had to be something of a record. Sinclair had never bettered seventeen percent of any Saturday night hour.

  I began to breathe a little easier. It wasn’t over yet, but it was improving. I was glad now I had made personal calls to the presidents of the four major advertising companies. It was soft sell but hard truths. It was late yesterday afternoon when I began the calls.

  “I’m sending you an advance copy of our fall schedule,” I said. “You’re getting it twelve hours before the papers have it and twelve hours before the rest of the street. I’m making the same call to each of the other three biggest agencies and the same offer to each of them. I’m holding twelve and a half percent of primetime across the board per week at a ten percent discount from the rate list for each of you. This offer is good until four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, after that it’s straight rates. You study the schedule and I think you’ll agree with me that Sinclair is the money network for next fall.”

  Each came back with the same question. “What makes you so sure?”

  To each I gave the same answer. “Check your Nielsens on Monday. If we don’t sweep Saturday
night you can forget my offer. If you don’t buy Sinclair big for next year, you’re going to find it tough to explain to your clients.”

  The first call came before I finished studying the ARI reports. It was John Bartlett, president of Standard-Cassell, one of the four men I had telephoned. “Steve,” he said jovially, “I decided not to even wait for the Nielsens. I got faith.”

  He sure had. And it probably came from the same reports that I had. “Thanks, John.”

  “One thing,” he said. “I want first pick on programs.”

  “You got it,” I said. “On any program you buy fifty percent or better.”

  “That’s a holdup,” he said. “But I’ll take it if you can fit me in now on Jana Reynolds and the movie.”

  “I can place you on Reynolds and first-hour movie beginning next month. Second-hour movie I can do now.”

  “You have a deal,” he said.

  “Thanks, John. I’ll have Gilligan call your man to firm it up.” I put down the telephone. My hands were shaking. I never had sold thirty million dollars of television time in one deal before.

  The phone buzzed again. “Mr. Sinclair wants to see you,” Fogarty said dryly.

  “Tell him I’m in a meeting,” I said. “And have Gilligan of sales up here right away.”

  The phone buzzed almost before I put it down. “Mr. Sinclair hopes that you won’t be too busy to attend a special board of directors meeting at two thirty this afternoon.”

  “Tell him I’ll be there,” I said. I reached across the desk and poured myself some more coffee. It was flat and lifeless. I hit the signal and Fogarty came in.

  “See if that bottle of Hennessy’s X O is still behind the bar.”

  The brandy helped. I could feel myself lifting. It was snowing. I walked over to the window and looked out. The big soft flakes floated gently down. Gilligan came in. “You wanted me, Steve?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Come over here and look out.”

  He came over to the window and stood beside me.

  “Somewhere down there, the snow is falling on people,” I said. “And from up here we can’t even see them.”

 

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