The Inheritors

by Harold Robbins

  I opened the door. “You saw me,” I said and started to close it.

  But his foot was in the door now and his weight was against it, all two hundred pounds of him. I went back with the door.

  He straightened up, puffing. “That’s better,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  He looked at me. “It’s time you got out of here.”

  I walked away from him and back to the couch. He followed me. “Why don’t you leave me alone?”

  “I should,” he said. “You’re really no concern of mine.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “But I still need you,” he said.

  “That’s what Barbara said about you.”

  “She did?” He looked at me shrewdly. “She was smarter than I thought.” He walked over to the dining room table and looked at the remnants of food on the plates. “When did you eat last?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t remember. When I get hungry I call downstairs.”

  “Do you have any booze here?”

  “Behind the bar,” I said. “Help yourself.”

  He went to the bar and took down a bottle of Scotch and poured two glasses full to the brim. He came back to me. “Here, take one. You need a drink.”

  “I don’t want any.”

  He put the glass down and, sipping his own drink thoughtfully, wandered off into the apartment. After a few minutes I heard him in the bedroom, then it was quiet. I stared at the glass of whiskey and ignored him.

  Or tried to. But after about fifteen minutes and he still hadn’t come out, I went after him.

  There was a pile of clothing lying on the floor. He came out of her closet with another armful and threw it on top of the rest. He saw me and stopped.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I yelled. “Those are Barbara’s clothes!”

  “I know it,” he said, puffing a little. “But what good are they doing to do you? Unless you intend to wear them?”

  I began to put them back in the closet. He knocked them out of my arms and with surprising strength pushed me back. I swung at him, but he grabbed my wrists and held them.

  “She’s dead!” he said sharply. “She’s dead and you might as well accept it. She’s dead and you’ll never bring her back. So stop trying to climb into the grave with her!”

  “I killed her!” I said wildly. “If I hadn’t sent her away, she would still be alive. She wouldn’t have been alone when it happened.”

  “It would have happened anyway,” he said quietly. “Everybody dies in their own time.”

  “You know,” I said bitterly. “You Jews know everything. Even about death.”

  “Yes. Even about death,” he said gently and let go of my wrists. “We Jews have six thousand years of experience with death. We have learned to live with it. We had to.”

  “How do you live with it?”

  “We cry,” he said.

  “I forgot how. The last time I cried I was a little boy. I’m grown up now.”

  “Try it,” he said. “It will help.”

  “You’ll have to teach me,” I said nastily.

  “I will,” he said. He looked around the room and took a hat from my closet and put it on his head. He turned to face me.

  I stared at him. The too-small hat on his head, his ruddy shining face, the gleaming black-rimmed glasses. It was all too ridiculous. I almost began to laugh but something stopped me.

  “At every funeral and once a year on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, we say a certain prayer for the dead. It’s called Kaddish.”

  “And that makes you cry?” I asked.

  “It never fails,” he said. “Because it’s not only for your dead but it’s for all the dead since time began.” He took my hand, “Now say this after me—Yisgadal, v’yiskadash—”

  He waited and I repeated the words after him. “Yisgadal, v’yiskadahs—”

  I saw the tears come into his eyes behind his shining glasses. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice began to fail him. “Sh’may rabbo—”

  I felt the tears burning their way to my eyes. I put my hands up and covered my face. “Barbara!” I cried.

  I cried.

  I cried.

  I cried.

  New York, 1955–1960

  BOOK TWO

  SAM BENJAMIN

  CHAPTER ONE

  He woke from his sleep feeling drugged and heavy. He was quiet for a moment, then pushed himself up in the bed. The door opened and Denise stood there looking at him.

  “So you finally made it,” she said.

  He stared at her. “I feel lousy. I got a mouthful of stones.”

  “You ought to have,” she said without sympathy. “Must you try to drink all the whiskey in town in one sitting?”

  “Don’t hok me,” he said, without resentment. “I got a headache.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I’ll get you some aspirin.”

  She went into the bathroom and he struggled to his feet and stepped on the scale next to the bed. He looked down at the indicator and cursed. Two hundred and twenty pounds.

  Denise heard him as she came back into the room. “It’s the drinking,” she said, handing him the aspirin and a glass of water.

  He swallowed the aspirin, making a face. “I eat pretty good too.”

  “You eat too much, you drink too much,” she said. “You got to start somewhere. Dr. Farber says stop drinking. The weight’s too much for your heart. You’re not getting any younger.”

  “Don’t tell me,” he said wearily. “I know. Just tell Mamie to get me some breakfast.” He started for the bathroom.

  “Coffee and toast?”

  He stopped and looked back at her. “You know better than that. The usual. Four eggs, bacon, rolls, the works. I need the energy.”

  “It’s your funeral,” she said.

  “Then you’ll be a rich widow.”

  She smiled at him. “Promises, promises. Ever since we met that’s all I got from you.”

  He went to her and kissed her cheek. “Mama, get breakfast. You talk too much.”

  She touched his face and left the room. He stood there for a moment after she left, listening to her voice as she called instructions to the cook, then he went into the bathroom.

  As usual the telephone rang while he was sitting on the john. Denise’s voice came through the closed door. “It’s for you. Roger.”

  “Damn it,” he said. “Tell him I’ll be right out.” He pushed the flush and shouted over the roar of the water. “And call the phone company. I want an extension in here.”

  He went back into the bedroom and picked up the telephone. “Yes, Roger.”

  “We’re confirmed for the Rome flight. Alitalia, nine o’clock tonight.” Roger’s voice was hesitant. “You sure you want to go?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” he snapped.

  “We’re four hundred thousand to the good now,” Roger said. “You make that deal and it’s gone.”

  “We don’t make that deal and it will go away,” he said. “In dribs and drabs and we won’t know what happened to it. We got to keep movin’ or we lose it all.”

  “What makes you so hot to keep pushing?” Roger said.

  “I been waiting all my life for this chance,” he said. “And I’m not goin’ to pass it up.”

  “But half that money is mine,” Roger said.

  “I’ll guarantee your half,” he said, knowing full well that they were only words. If it went, he would have no money to guarantee Roger anything.

  Roger knew it too. “That Gaunt has got your head turned. What if he doesn’t come through?”

  “He’ll come through,” Sam said confidently. “He’s the one person around that can see beyond the edge of his nose. Besides, he’s lucky for me.”

  Roger knew when to stop. “What time will you be down at the office?”

  “In about an hour,” he said. “I’ll pack a bag and we’ll leave from th
ere.”

  When he put down the telephone, Denise had returned. “You’re still going through with it?”

  He nodded.

  “You don’t have to,” she said. “We have enough. The kids don’t need it.”

  “I need it. I’ve been around a long time and if I don’t make it now I’ll never make it. Just once I would like everybody to know I’m as good as they are.”

  She touched his hand. “You’re better.”

  He smiled. “You’re prejudiced,” he said and went back into the bathroom.

  ***

  He heard the faint “Ping” and was instantly alert. The cabin was dark and overhead the seat-belt sign had just gone off. He glanced over at Roger.

  Roger was asleep, in the awkward position most perfectly adapted for aircraft sleeping, his mouth slightly agape. He always bragged that he could sleep anywhere. As a boy he had slept on subways and after that everything was easy. Apparently he was right.

  It wasn’t like that with Sam. Something about hanging thirty-five thousand feet in the air in a heavy metal container did something to his gut. No matter how much he drank or how many pills he took, his eyes remained steadfastly open.

  Carefully he stepped out into the aisle over Roger’s outstretched feet and made his way forward through the dark cabin. Everyone seemed to be sleeping.

  He went through the curtains into the lounge, blinking at the light. The lone stewardess sitting there jumped to her feet.

  “Can I get you something, Signor Benjamin?”

  “You know my name?” he asked.

  “Si, signore,” she smiled. “Doesn’t everyone know the name of the famous prodottore?”

  It was real Italian con. Especially with his name on the passenger list. “Whiskey and water.”

  He sat down as she turned to the galley. He took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. She placed the drink in front of him. He put his glasses back on and almost finished the drink in one draft. He looked up at her. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”

  “Sleeping,” she said. “It’s still four and a half hours to Rome and there’s not much to do.”

  He nodded, finishing his drink. “Bring the bottle over here and sit down.”

  “It’s against regulations signore.”

  “It’s also against regulations for members of the crew to sleep while on duty. But we know about such things, don’t we?”

  She glanced at him, then nodded. “Si, signore.” She took the bottle of whiskey from the galley behind her and put it on the table between them. She sat down opposite him.

  He poured some whiskey into his glass. He sipped at it slowly this time. He was beginning to feel better.

  “You are going to begin production of another film, signore?”

  He nodded.

  “With Marilu Barzini?”

  It hadn’t been a con. She did know after all. “Yes.”

  “She is very beautiful,” the stewardess said. “And very talented.”

  “You speak as if you know her?” he guessed.

  “She and I used to make the rounds together,” she replied. “But she had much more determination than I. And much more beauty.”

  He studied her. There had been a faint hint of wistfulness in her voice. “Why did you stop?” he asked. “You are quite lovely yourself.”

  “Thank you, signore,” she said. “But I could not do what she did. I could not live on promises. This job gave me security.”

  “I will be at the Excelsior for a few days. Come and see me. Perhaps it is not too late.”

  “You are very kind, Signor Benjamin. Perhaps I will come and visit you. But for the career it is too late. I am quite content now.”

  “Are you?” He made a gesture with his hands and a hundred-dollar bill appeared between his fingers.

  She looked at it, then at him. “What is that for?”

  “Contentment,” he said, pushing it in front of her. He took her hand and guided it to his lap under the table. “I told you I thought you were lovely.”

  She made a motion as if to withdraw her hand, but he held it firmly while he opened the zipper and let himself free. She stared into his eyes behind the polished shining glasses, then her fingers tightened around the heat of his erection.

  “Better get a towel first,” he said quietly. “I’m a quick comer.”

  Ten minutes later he was back in his seat and sound asleep. He didn’t open his eyes until the big plane touched down at the Rome airport.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sam closed the script and put it down. “I need a drink.” Charley Luongo, his Italian representative, had the drink ready almost before the words were out of his mouth. “What d’yuh think, boss?” he asked, the Brooklyn accent still in his voice although he had not been in America since he was sixteen.

  “It’s strong stuff,” Sam said. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s not her usual style, that’s for sure,” Roger said.

  “Yeah.” Sam pulled at his drink.

  Marilu Barzini made her name running around naked in Italian epics like Icarus and Vesuvius. Then she went into several American films as a sex symbol. Now she wanted something more. To be an actress. And she was willing to make sacrifices. She was cutting her price from one hundred and fifty thousand dollars a film to fifteen thousand for this one just to get someone to do it. And despite that, until Sam came along, she had no takers. Now he knew why.

  It was downbeat. It was grim. Perhaps it would be great. But there was no way of telling whether it would become a commercial success or just another Open City or Bicycle Thief to play the art houses and gather a few critical posies.

  He looked over at Charley. “If there was some way we could brighten it up,” he said. “Get some humor into it.”

  “No chance,” Charley said. “She’s got her mind set on it. ‘Just like that, no changes,’ she says. Pierangeli, the director, agrees with her.”

  “He should,” Sam said. “He hasn’t made a money picture in his life.”

  “But he’s won every film award in Italy and Europe,” Charley said.

  “Great,” Sam said unenthusiastically. “Let him try hocking that to the banks.”

  “What are you going to do?” Roger asked.

  “I’m going with it,” he said. “I haven’t any choice. Win or lose, it’s going to be an important picture. How they did it I don’t know, but they got the best actors in Europe for it. It’s up to us to promote the ass off it so we don’t lose.”

  “You have a plan?” Roger asked.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “But it depends on the cooperation I get from her.”

  The telephone rang and Charley picked it up. “Pronto,” he said. He covered the mouthpiece. “They’re downstairs now.”

  “Tell them to come up,” Sam said. He went into the bedroom and closed the door, then into the bathroom and washed his face. He dried himself and then looked in the mirror. The lines of fatigue were in the corners of his eyes. Maybe after this was over he could get a little sleep.

  As usual, her sheer beauty stopped him as he came through the door. He held his breath for a moment. It was almost too much. No woman could be like that. But she was.

  “Sam,” she said in a warm voice. She held out her hand and leaned forward for his kiss.

  He kissed her cheek. “I don’t believe it,” he said truthfully. “You are too beautiful.”

  She smiled. She had learned to live with compliments and accept them as normal. “Thank you, Sam.”

  “Hello, Nickie,” he said. Niccoli was her husband everywhere except in Italy. They shook hands. He turned to the third man. “Signor Pierangeli,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  The director nodded shyly. He spoke very little English. “Signor Benjamin.”

  Marilu couldn’t wait. “The script, Sam, you read it? What do you think?”

  Sam looked at her. “I like it. But I don’t think it will go. I have some ideas that I want to
present to you and if we agree, we will go forward.”

  “No changes, Sam,” she said imperiously.

  He looked at her for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “If we can’t even discuss my thoughts, Marilu, then there isn’t the faintest chance of our ever making a deal.” He walked to the bedroom door and opened it. “And that means you’ll never make the picture because I’m the only one who believes you’re enough of an actress to do it. And enough of an actress to become the first foreign actress to win an Academy Award.”

  He shut the door behind him. He could feel the sweat standing out on his forehead. He went into the bathroom and washed his face. He wished he had a drink.

  There was a soft knock at the bedroom door. “Yes?” he called out.

  It was Nickie’s voice. “May I come in, Sam?”

  Quickly he took off his jacket and threw it into a chair. He pulled open his collar and tie and leaned back on the bed. “Come in.”

  Nickie came into the room. He was a slim, good-looking man and oddly enough a good producer. He did not have to depend on Marilu for his projects. It was the other way around. He had first seen the potential in her and brought her along from just another buxom Italian girl to the star she had become.

  “You have to understand Marilu,” he said in a soft voice. “She’s very emotional.”

  “I appreciate that,” Sam said. “But you must remember that I’m tired and exhausted. That I just flew four thousand miles and stayed awake all night to meet with her and if we can’t discuss anything, it’s useless.”

  Years of dealing with temperament gave Nickie the patience of Job. “I think she would like to talk with you now,” he said. “She already regrets her sharp remark.”

  “I think it would be better if we met after I had a little sleep,” Sam said. “Then I might be more patient myself.”

  “If I might make a suggestion, Sam,” Nickie said smoothly. “Meet her without Pierangeli. She will be less defensive and more willing to listen to reason without him around.”

  “You arrange it, Nickie. I’ll be ready anytime this evening from cocktails on.”

  “Cocktails and dinner,” Nickie said. “She will be here.”