The Inheritors

by Harold Robbins

  “And you?”

  Nickie met his gaze. “You meet her alone. Believe me, it is better. This is your picture, not mine.”

  “But I thought you were to be the producer?”

  “I will,” Nickie said. “But I will be your employee. And it is just as well that Marilu understands this immediately. That way she will realize there is only one final authority.”

  “Thank you, Nickie,” Sam said. “I appreciate that.”

  Nickie smiled at him for the first time. “Don’t worry, Sam, it will be a commercial picture. Together we will see to it.

  They shook hands and Nickie left. Sam stretched out and was asleep in a moment.

  ***

  It hadn’t always been like that. As he fell asleep, he remembered the first time he had come to Rome. Almost four years ago.

  The flight had been miserable. He found himself squeezed into an economy section seat between two Italian ladies who chattered incessantly and kept passing pieces of fruit back and forth in front of him. He cursed the stinginess of Roger, who had made the reservations for him. Roger could never see the necessity of first-class air travel. After all, the flights never lasted that long.

  He landed in the blazing heat of an August morning and the chauffeur and car that were to meet him at the airport never showed. He climbed hot and sweating into a taxi, which took him to the Excelsior Hotel.

  A reception clerk showed him to the room. He stared at it in dismay. It was narrow and dark, facing a rear courtyard. “There is a mistake,” he said. “I ordered a suite.”

  “No, signore,” the clerk said politely, showing him the reservation. “This is what has been ordered.”

  Sam looked at it. Roger had done it again. He was willing to bet now that he hadn’t even ordered a car to meet him. He gave the confirmation back to the clerk. “I would like a suite.”

  Sam followed him downstairs to the reception desk. The assistant manager was definite. “There are no suites available, signore.”

  Sam gestured with his hand. The corner of the hundred-dollar bill peeked from it. The assistant manager saw it. “Perhaps something could be found, eccellenza,” he said, turning to study the chart.

  Sam watched him as he shuffled cards in the frame. “I want the best you have. I will be holding some very important meetings.”

  “The Ambassador suite is available,” the assistant manager said. “But it is very expensive.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Very well, signore.” He turned back to Sam. “For how long will you need it?”

  “A week, maybe ten days.”

  “It will be payable in advance, signore.”

  Sam took out his Diner’s Club card.

  The manager shook his head. “I am sorry, signore. We do not accept credit cards.”

  Sam took out his checkbook from an inner pocket.

  “No personal checks, signore. Unless credit has been arranged in advance.”

  “You do accept traveler’s checks?” Sam asked sarcastically.

  The irony was lost on the assistant manager. “Si, signore.”

  Sam put the attaché case on the counter between them. He opened it and let the man catch a glimpse of the neat rows of traveler’s checks it contained. He pulled out one package and snapped the case shut. He countersigned a check quickly and passed it across to the man.

  “But it’s for a thousand dollars, eccellenza,” the assistant manager said. “The suite is only—”

  “That’s okay,” Sam interrupted. “It’s the smallest I have. You just apply it and let me know when that’s used up.”

  “Si, eccellenza,” the assistant manager said, almost breaking himself in half bowing. He personally escorted Sam up to the suite and pocketed the hundred-dollar bill with effusive bows.

  Sam ordered a bar set up in the living room and when he went into the bedroom, the valet was already unpacking his bags. He looked around him with satisfaction. This was more like it. Roger would blow a cork when he found out what it cost, but it didn’t matter. He would have to learn.

  He began to get rid of his clothes. They were sticky and uncomfortable from the flight. He went into the shower and by the time he came out, the telephone began to ring.

  And it was never to stop ringing as long as he was there. The thousand-dollar traveler’s check had done its job well. And so had the assistant manager. It was better than being announced on the six o’clock news.

  The first call he took was from Charley Luongo.

  CHAPTER THREE

  He came out of the shower and wrapped himself in the immense robe that served double duty as a bath towel. The bar was already set up and he poured himself a heavy Scotch and took it over to the window and looked out.

  His view faced the American embassy and the Via Veneto as it curved toward the old city. The sight of the American flag somehow cheered him and he raised his glass and silently toasted it.

  The ringing of the telephone called him back into the room. He picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Benjamin? This is Charley Luongo.” The accent was unmistakably Brooklyn.

  “Charley Luongo? Do I know you?”

  “No, Mr. Benjamin. But I know of you. You are an American producer who is coming to Italy to look at some films.”

  “You are well informed,” Sam said. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can give me a job,” Charley said.

  “Doing what?” Sam asked.

  “Anything. You name it.” Charley’s voice was serious. “I translate, chauffeur, guide, negotiate, secretary, pimp, I have experience. Two years assistant production manager on Ben Hur, one year sales department and advertising, Columbia Pictures, two years independent production, Cinematrografica Italiana. Good references. Besides, I’m honest. I’m not like these local guineas who will steal you blind if you don’t keep your hands in your pockets all the time.”

  “You’re not Italian?”

  “I’m Italian, but I was brought up in the States. I came here before the war with my parents. I was just sixteen. I was drafted into the American Army when they invaded.”

  “Okay,” Sam said. “I’d like to see you.”

  Almost before Sam put down the telephone, the doorbell rang and he was there. He was tall and slim, with brown eyes and fair hair, slightly balding.

  They shook hands and studied each other. “How did you find out about me?” Sam asked.

  “The assistant manager is the brother-in-law of the girl I’m living with. He called me as soon as you were checked in.”

  “If you’re as good as you say you are, how come you’re not working?”

  “The Italians get first crack at the jobs,” Charley said.

  “But you said you were Italian,” Sam said.

  “I am,” Charley answered. “But I hold an American passport. My father was naturalized.”

  “I don’t know,” Sam said doubtfully.

  “Why don’t you try me for a week?” Charley said. “Then, if you’re not satisfied, we’ll call it quits. I don’t get so much. I’ll work for forty thousand lire a week.”

  Sam thought. That wasn’t very much. About eighty dollars. “Okay.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Benjamin,” Charley smiled.

  The telephone rang. Without hesitation, Charley picked it up. A rapid exchange in Italian followed. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and turned to Sam. “A producer wants to show you a picture.”

  “What picture?”

  “It’s called Crazy Baby.”

  “Is it worth looking at?”

  “No,” Charley said. “He’s been trying to unload it for two years now. Every major company passed it up.”

  “Tell him I’m not interested,” Sam said.

  Charley spoke a few more words into the telephone and put it down. “Maybe I could be of help if I knew what you were looking for?”

  “A big exploitation picture in color. I want a lot of production values, costumes, and naked broads.
Something I can buy cheap and promote the hell out of in the States.”

  “Okay,” Charley said. “Now I know. Maybe I can help you. I know a guy that’s got four hundred grand in a costume picture called Icarus. It’s the legend about the Greek boy who wanted to fly like a bird and the feathers melted in the sun. It’s got everything you want. And the producer is busted. He’ll take anything you will give him.”

  “I like it already,” Sam said. “Get him on the phone and arrange a screening for me.”

  Charley took a small book out of his pocket, opened it and put it down next to the phone. He called the operator and gave him the number.

  “Would you like a drink?” Sam asked.

  “No, thank you,” Charley said. He tapped his stomach. “I have an ulcer.”

  Sam grinned at him. “I guess you’re American, all right.”

  That was where they began. Sam was fortunate because Charley was as good as his word. They were able to buy Icarus at the right price and later make an almost equally good deal for a sequel, Wings of Icarus. It was then that Sam gave him a bonus of a thousand dollars and raised his salary to two hundred a week. He made him managing director of the Italian company with one small office off the Via Veneto and Charley was his for life.

  ***

  The room was dark and he felt the hand pressing on his shoulder. He rolled over and sat up.

  “It’s almost eight o’clock,” Charley said. “Marilu will be here any minute.”

  “Jesus, I better shower,” Sam said. He got out of bed. “Make a reservation for me at Capriccio’s for dinner.”

  “I ordered dinner served up here,” Charley said.

  Sam looked at him. “Do you think that’s wise? She’s not just another cunt, you know.”

  “She’s an Italian actress,” Charley said flatly.

  “But what about Nickie?”

  “It was his idea, wasn’t it?”

  Sam didn’t answer, he started for the bathroom. “If she comes, you keep her busy until I’m dressed.”

  “Okay,” Charley said. “I’m taking Roger out to dinner. We’ll be at Gigi Fazzi around the corner if you should want us.”

  As it was, Marilu was an hour late and Sam was half bombed by the time she arrived. He had been as nervous as an adolescent. He drank Scotch after Scotch and now the whole world had a rosy glow.

  When the knock came at the door, he rose to his feet, weaving slightly. Charley opened the door and she came in.

  The breath caught in Sam’s throat and in a moment he was terribly sober. She had that effect on him. It was unbelievable. Again the sheer beauty and femaleness of her brought a physical pain to his gut.

  She came right to him. He kissed her cheek, his nostrils filling with the warm scent of her. “I’m so glad you’re not angry with me, Sam.”

  He smiled. “Who can be angry with so beautiful a woman?”

  She returned his smile. “You’re becoming very Italian, Sam.”

  She walked over to the tables. “Champagne and caviar!” she exclaimed. Like a child, she took a small spoon, scooped the caviar to her mouth. “Delicious!”

  She didn’t seem to notice that Charley and Roger had disappeared. Still at the table, she poured two glasses of champagne and turned, holding one toward him. “A toast, Sam.”

  He took the glass although he hated champagne, or for that matter, wine of any kind. “What shall we drink to?”

  “To our film together,” she said.

  They drank. She lowered the glass and looked at him. “I am very happy.”

  “I am too,” he answered.

  The telephone rang and he answered it. He had placed the call to Stephen Gaunt in New York early that afternoon and it had finally come through. “I’ll take it in the bedroom,” he said. “If you will excuse me?”

  She nodded and he went into the other room and picked up the telephone. “Steve?”

  The secretary’s voice said, “Just a moment, Mr. Benjamin, I’ll put him on for you.” There was a click and it was Steve. “How’s the pasta over there, Sam?”

  “Haven’t had time to try it yet,” he said. “I called to find out what you thought of the script.”

  “The Sisters?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s strong meat. But I like it. The only thing I wonder about is Marilu Barzini. I know she’s great running around naked, but can she act?”

  Sam glanced up. He noticed the door moving slightly. “Hold on a minute,” he said, putting the phone on the bed.

  He walked back to the door and opened it suddenly. Marilu almost fell into the room. She looked at him, a startled expression on her face.

  He smiled, and taking her hand, led her back into the room with him. He sat down on the bed and picked up the telephone. “I’m sorry, Steve,” he said. “You were saying?”

  “Is there someone there?” Steve asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Can you talk?”

  “Yes,” he answered. “What about Marilu?”

  He held the phone out so that she could hear what Steven had to say. “Like I said, if she can act, it’s got a chance, but it needs lightening up. And some real ballsy sex, not so much of that goddamn imagery.”

  “If I can deliver what you want, will you come in with me?”

  “I can’t now, Sam. You know my board of directors. Once you have the picture, though, it’s another story.”

  “Will you give me a commitment for four hundred thousand subject to delivery?”

  “Two fifty is the best I can do. Providing the script meets with our approval. Of course it’s all subject to the final viewing of the film.”

  “What if I told you I think she’ll come up with an Academy Award for her performance in this picture?”

  “If she delivers, I can believe it. You going to go through with it?”

  “Yes,” Sam said. “After all, isn’t it what you told me to do? Get out of the shlock business into something respectable?”

  Steve laughed. “Okay, Jewish Father. One way or the other, count me in.”

  “For three hundred,” Sam said.

  “Three hundred,” Steve laughed. “Good luck. And give that broad I hear breathing into the phone one for me, will you?”

  The phone went dead in his hand and he put it down. He looked up at Marilu. “Well?”

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “The president of one of the big American companies.”

  “Why is it that no one will believe that I can act?” she said angrily. “All they think I am is a body.”

  “There’s nothing wrong in that.”

  “But sooner or later they must come to something else. Look at Lollobrigida, Loren—they are appreciated as fine actresses also.”

  “And you will be too,” he said soothingly. “After we make this film.”

  Her anger was suddenly gone. “Do you really think so, Sam?”

  He nodded.

  “And that I will win the Academy Award?”

  It was then he knew he had her. “If you do what I say.”

  Dramatically she sank to her knees before him. “I will do anything you say, Sam. You are my mentor, my guide.” She buried her face in his lap.

  His reaction to her was so swift as to take even him by surprise. She turned her face up to him, a secret smile in her eyes. He found himself blushing. “I am also a man,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said calmly, her fingers finding his zipper and opening it. “First you are always men.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He always had big dreams. And the first was about his height. In his dreams he was always six feet two inches, lean, hard, and broad-shouldered, the kind of man the girls looked after and sighed. It didn’t take him long to realize that no matter how many stretching exercises he did he would never be more than the five feet six inches heredity had bestowed on him. It was then that he made up his mind, if he couldn’t be six feet two, he could act six feet two.

 
Fortunately for him, heredity had also bestowed on him a square, powerful frame and the strength of a young bull. If it were not for that he would have been killed before he was sixteen. The neighborhood in the East Bronx made no allowances for his size when measured against the loudness of his mouth. By the time he graduated from high school, he figured out that he couldn’t beat everyone in the world and began to control his quick tongue. From that time on, he began to do well.

  He graduated from the City College of New York, then Fordham Law. He passed the bar examination of the State of New York and after two years clerking in a cousin’s law office quit the law profession forever. There was not enough in it for him. He was not interested in the small matters that would come his way and the big ones would always go to the already established attorneys.

  It was 1933 and the depression blanketed the country. He considered himself lucky to find a job as an assistant manager of a local movie theater on Broadway near One hundred and thirty-seventh Street. The only reason he got the job was because he had promised the owner of the small chain of theaters, three in all, that he would throw in for free and, on his own time, such legal services as the boss would require. All for the magnificent salary of $22.50 per week.

  In 1934 came the projectionists’ strike, then the whole industry erupted. The theater manager left rather than cross the picket line and Sam found himself promoted. Now he was a big man. Thirty dollars a week. And oddly enough, he loved the business.

  He loved motion pictures. Every one of them. Good or bad. He saw them all when they finally played in his theater. Some of them two or three times. And once again he began to find himself dreaming.

  It had been like that the morning he came out of the subway on the corner across the street from the theater. It was warm, and the shimmering heat already lay on the city streets.

  He stood on the corner and looked across at the theater. The biggest sign of all was a banner strung underneath the marquee: 20° COOLER INSIDE!

  Above that in neat, white, block letters, the feature was advertised.

  JAMES CAGNEY · LORETTA YOUNG

  TAXI

  Early Bird Matinee 25¢

  Selected Short Subjects

  He crossed the street and stopped at the box office. “Good morning, Marge.”