The Inheritors

by Harold Robbins

  “It’s simple,” I said. “So simple I’m surprised they didn’t think of it themselves. All of them get exactly what they want. Period. Happy ending.”

  “Not that simple,” she said. “They get everything they want except the one thing they all seem to want the most. You.”

  I looked at her. “They don’t really want me. I’m an illusion they all carry in their heads. They’ll find that out as soon as they examine themselves.”

  “Is that what you are to me too, Steve?” she asked. “An illusion in my head?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I remember reading in the paper after I went back to San Francisco about the girl. The one who died. I cried for you, Steve. You must have loved her very much.”

  I looked at her without answering. Sure, I loved her so much that I was fucking another girl while she lay dead in the next room. I remembered the evening I went to the apartment on Fifth Avenue the day after her funeral to pay my condolences.

  ***

  Mamie opened the door and took my coat. Her warm black face was swollen with sorrow. “Evening, Mr. Gaunt,” she said.

  “Good evening, Mamie,” I said.

  “They’re in the living room,” she said.

  I walked through the apartment, noticing the mirrors covered with sheets and the pictures in the frames turned to the wall. The wide doors to the living room were open and I stopped in the doorway.

  The room seemed filled with people, sitting uncomfortably on wooden crates and boxes. A sudden silence fell over them and all faces turned toward me.

  I stood there awkwardly, not knowing whether to go in. Jewish ritual was something I knew nothing about.

  Denise came to my rescue. She rose and came to the door. She let me kiss her cheek and then, taking my hand, drew me into the room. “I’m glad you came,” she said. “I never had the chance to thank you for all you did.”

  The hum of conversation began again as quickly as it had stopped. But I could still feel the eyes on me. Sam rose clumsily from the wooden box as we approached him. He held out his hand.

  I took it. “My deepest sympathy, Sam.”

  He stood there blinking his eyes without letting go of my hand. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.” He looked up at me, then, letting my hand go, took off his heavy black-rimmed glasses and polished them with a handkerchief.

  “She was a good girl, Steve,” he said heavily. “She was sick.”

  I nodded. “Yes, Sam.”

  “That was it,” he said. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket and put his glasses back on. “She was sick,” he repeated, almost to himself.

  I saw Junior watching us from across the room. His face was drawn and pale and his eyes were red-rimmed. He nodded to me, without moving from the wall against which he leaned. I nodded back.

  “I’d like to talk to you, Steve. Privately,” said Sam. “Let’s go into the library.”

  I followed him into the other room. He closed the door. He turned to me. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He went to the door leading to the foyer. “Mamie!” he called.

  He didn’t have to tell her anything. She came with two drinks. He thanked her and she went out.

  We sipped at our drinks. He walked over to the desk and put his glass down. The words were not easy for him. “I don’t know how to do this—say this. I never had to do anything like it before.”

  I watched him without speaking.

  “I had a long talk with Dr. Davis,” he said. “She told me everything you tried to do for Myriam.”

  I was silent.

  “What I want to say… I mean… I’m sorry.” He picked up his drink again. “I don’t know what came over me. I went crazy. Out of my head. But I’m sorry. I wanted you to know that.”

  I took a deep breath. “It’s over, Sam. I’m sorry too. Sorry that it didn’t work. For her sake. Now there’s nothing we can do except leave it behind.”

  He nodded. “It won’t be easy. I don’t know whether we’ll ever really get used to it.”

  I was silent.

  “And now there’s something else,” he said. “Junior. He hasn’t spoken to me since that day you were here. Even now, he turns away whenever I come near him.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “I’m not so sure,” he said heavily. “I’m not so sure.” He took a deep breath. “But that’s my problem. Let’s go back into the other room.”

  He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “Someday, I’ll make it all up to you, Steve,” he said. “For everything. You’ve always been a good friend.”

  ***

  Good friend. I remembered his promise. But that had been three years ago and I hadn’t heard from him until this morning. I also remembered his promise two weeks after he made it, the day I sat in Spencer’s office.

  ***

  Spencer looked at my resignation on his desk, then up at me. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I think it’s the best thing under the circumstances.”

  “All you have to do is to persuade your friend not to go into court with Ritchie.”

  “How can I do that?” I asked. “When in all honesty I think he’s doing the right thing. I said at the board meeting I didn’t believe in blackmail. I still don’t.”

  “But the board voted for a settlement. Now the only thing that’s holding it up is Benjamin’s refusal. We’re even willing to pay off the entire liability in order to get it behind us. Then we can forget it.” He paused for a moment. “And you can forget about this.”

  “No,” I said. “I think you’re going to win in court. But whether you do or not, it doesn’t matter. That stands.”

  He got to his feet and walked over to the window and stood there looking out, his back to me. “Would it make any difference to you if I were to retire now and you were to take over my job?”

  I felt an actual physical pain in my throat. I knew what he was offering. He would be the scapegoat in my place if he were to leave now.

  “No,” I said.

  He came back from the window of my chair and looked down at me. “Why, son?” he asked gently.

  For a moment I couldn’t speak. Then I found my voice. “Because I let it fuck up my life, Dad. And it’s not fun anymore.”

  “What are you going to do then?” he asked. “You’re still a young man. Not even forty.”

  I got to my feet. “Go back to my house on the hill,” I said. “And see if I can find a way to live with myself.”

  ***

  A way to live with myself. I guess that had always been the key. But it was not that easy to find the key when you lived in a vacuum. And that was where I had spent the last three year years. Waiting for something. I don’t know what. Something to give me purpose.

  I turned and looked back into the house. Denise came down the stairs into the living room. She went over to Sam and said something to him. He nodded and went up the stairs.

  She came out onto the terrace and looked at me. I saw the tears in her eyes. Suddenly she leaned forward and kissed me. “I think it will be all right now,” she said.

  I smiled at her. “I’m glad.”

  “Junior’s coming home with me,” she said. She went back into the house and up the stairs.

  A few moments later Junior came down the stairs and out on the terrace. I stared at him in surprise.

  “For a minute there, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  He self-consciously rubbed his hand over his freshly shaven face. “It does feel strange,” he admitted. Even his hair was sort of combed. “I’m not selling out,” he said quickly.

  “I know,” I said.

  “I’m going back to college,” he said. “That’s where it’s at now. You see those pictures on TV? You gotta be active, man, if you want to contribute. There just ain’t no room no more for dropouts.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “I’m goin’ back to the hotel with Mom.” He stuck his hand ou
t toward me. “Thanks for everything, Steve.”

  I shook his hand. No more “Uncle Steve” I noticed. “You’re welcome,” I said.

  “Thank you too, Miss Kardin,” he said, turning to her.

  She smiled, nodding, and he ran back inside. He disappeared up the stairs. A few minutes later I heard a car pull from the driveway and Sam came back into the room.

  The four men sat together and talked. A few minutes later, Dave came out on the terrace.

  He smiled at me. “They all like your idea.”

  “Good.”

  “It will work,” he said. “They’ll fit it all together. Sinclair will put in the broadcasting and record companies, Sam will put in Samarkand, and Johnston will put in his publishing and tape manufacturing companies and supply the overall financing and corporate shelter. When it’s all done, it will be spun off into a completely autonomous tandem corporation with no more than twenty-five percent of the stock to remain in their hands, the balance to go to the public. They even like the name you suggest for the new company: Communications Corporation of America. It’ll be the biggest thing to hit the market since Ford went public.”

  “That’s fine,” I said.

  “There’s only one hitch,” said Dave.

  I looked at him.

  “It’s your idea,” he said. “And they feel that you’re the only man that can make it work.”

  I didn’t speak.

  “They sent me out here,” he said. “Because I’m the only one in there who is impartial.”

  I grinned at that. He was about as impartial as a fixed jury. He had nothing to gain from this but big deposits.

  “I think you ought to do it,” he said. “After all, you’re goin’ to have a big stake in this when you convert your twenty-five percent of stock in Samarkand and your fifteen percent of stock in Sinclair. You owe it to yourself to make sure it works.

  I still didn’t speak. They didn’t call him “The Shtarker” for nothing. He sold like crazy.

  “You said you were looking for fun. It’ll be all new and if you don’t find it there, it’s no place.” He paused for breath. “They want you to think about it. You don’t have to rush. They’ll wait inside for your answer.”

  I watched him walk back and turned to Lawyer Girl. Silently I took out a cigarette and lit it.

  I glanced into the room over my shoulder. The four men had their heads together. “Look at them,” I said. “Already they’re plotting to take over the world.”

  “At least they’re not dull,” she said.

  “They’re all tough, hard, selfish men, you know that.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But I know two of them, maybe even three who love you.”

  I looked at her.

  “And you love them too,” she said. “Even if you don’t admit it to yourself.”

  “They’ll fight each other and scratch and claw and try to eat me alive,” I said. “They’re savages.”

  “You can take care of yourself. Like Junior said. ‘You gotta be active, man, if you want to contribute. There just ain’t no room no more for dropouts.’”

  “Then you think I ought to take it?”

  She didn’t answer, just looked at me.

  I turned and looked out at Los Angeles. It was late. Or rather it was early in the morning. In the east the first faint signs of dawn began to appear.

  “And what about you?” I asked.

  “I’ll go back to San Francisco and read about you in the papers,” she said.

  I turned to look at her. “And if I asked you to stay?”

  Her eyes looked into mine. “For two or three days?”

  “Maybe more,” I said.

  “I can be tempted.”

  I looked at her for a long silent moment. “Don’t go away,” I said. “I’ll get rid of them.”

  Then I went back into the house and bound myself over to the Philistines.

  AFTERWORD

  This is the third and final novel of a trilogy covering a fictionalized history of an industry that has had perhaps the greatest influence on the minds and mores of man in our portion of the twentieth century—the motion picture.

  Beginning with The Dream Merchants, in 1949, a story of the pioneers of the motion picture industry; continuing with The Carpetbaggers, in 1961, a story of the people attracted to the motion picture industry by its gold and glamour; and concluding in 1969 with this novel, The Inheritors, which tells the story of today’s people, in an industry so enlarged in scope and influence that it no longer exists in its historical form, the author has endeavored to capture in words on paper the human beings of each of these eras. Whether he has been successful or not, only the reader can judge.

  The author would at this time like to express his appreciation and gratitude to Herbert M. Alexander, for giving so much of himself, his editorial skills, and literary knowledge without which these writings would have been much more difficult.

  HAROLD ROBBINS

  New York

  6 July, 1969

  Harold Robbins, Unguarded

  On the inspiration for Never Love a Stranger:

  “[The book begins with] a poem from To the Unborn by Stella Benson. There were a lot of disappointments especially during the Depression—fuck it—in everyone’s life there are disappointments and lost hope…. No one escapes. That’s why you got to be grateful every day that you get to the next.”

  On writing The Betsy and receiving gifts:

  “When I wrote The Betsy, I spent a lot of time in Detroit with the Ford family. The old man running the place had supplied me with Fords, a Mustang, that station wagon we still have…. After he read the book and I was flying home from New York the day after it was published, he made a phone call to the office on Sunset and asked for all the cars to be returned. I guess he didn’t like the book.”

  On the most boring things in the world:

  “Home cooking, home fucking, and Dallas, Texas!”

  On the inspiration for Stiletto:

  “I began to develop an idea for a novel about the Mafia. In the back of my head I had already thought of an extraordinary character…. To the outside world he drove dangerous, high-speed automobiles and owned a foreign car dealership on Park Avenue…. The world also knew that he was one of the most romantic playboys in New York society… What the world did not know about him was that he was a deadly assassin who belonged to the Mafia.”

  On the message of 79 Park Avenue:

  “Street names change with the times, but there’s been prostitution since the world began. That was what 79 Park Avenue was about, and prostitution will always be there. I don’t know what cavemen called it; maybe they drew pictures. That’s called pornography now. People make their own choices every day about what they are willing to do. We don’t have the right to judge them or label them. At least walk in their shoes before you do. 79 Park Avenue did one thing for the public; it made people think about these girls being real, not just hustlers. The book was about walking in their shoes and understanding. Maybe it was a book about forgiveness. I never know; the reader is the only one who can decide.”

  Paul Gitlin (Harold’s agent) on The Carpetbaggers after first reading the manuscript:

  “Jesus Christ, you can’t talk about incest like this. The publishers will never accept it. This author, Robbins, he’s got a book that reads great, but it’s a ball breaker for publishing.”

  From the judge who lifted the Philadelphia ban on Never Love a Stranger, on Harold’s books:

  “I would rather my daughter learn about sex from the pages of a Harold Robbins novel than behind a barn door.”

  On writing essentials:

  “Power, sex, deceit, and wealth: the four ingredients to a successful story.”

  On the drive to write:

  “I don’t want to write and put it in a closet because I’m not writing for myself. I’m writing to be heard. I’m writing because I’ve got something to say to people about the world I live in, the world I see, a
nd I want them to know about it.”

  Harold Robbins titles from RosettaBooks

  79 Park Avenue

  Dreams Die First

  Never Leave Me

  Spellbinder

  Stiletto

  The Betsy

  The Raiders

  The Adventurers

  Goodbye, Janette

  Descent from Xanadu

  Never Love A Stranger

  Memories of Another Day

  The Dream Merchants

  Where Love Has Gone

  The Lonely Lady

  The Inheritors

  The Looters

  The Pirate