Books by Harold Robbing 2 page

It didn't make any difference to him that the girl had died. It was the twenty grand. But then I realized it wasn't the money, either. It went far deeper than that.

The bitterness that had crept into his voice was the tip-off. I looked at him with a sudden understanding. My father was getting old and it was eating out his gut. Rina must have been at him again. More than a year had passed since the big wedding in Reno and nothing had happened.

I turned and started for the door without speaking. Father yelled after me. "Where do you think you're going?"

I looked back at him. "Back to L.A. You don't need me to make up your mind. You're either going to pay them off or you're not. It doesn't make any difference to me. Besides, I got a date."

He came around the desk after me. "What for?" he shouted. "To knock up another girl?"

I faced him squarely. I had enough of his crap. "Stop complaining, old man. You ought to be glad that someone in your family still has balls. Otherwise, Rina might think there was something wrong with all of us!"

His face twisted with rage. He lifted both hands as if to strike me. His lips drew back tightly across his teeth in a snarl, the veins in his forehead stood out in red, angry welts. Then, suddenly, as an electric switch cuts off the light, all expression on his face vanished. He staggered and pitched forward against me.

By reflex, my arms came out and I caught him. For a brief moment, his eyes were clear, looking into mine. His lips moved. "Jonas — my son."

Then his eyes clouded and his full weight came on me and he slid to the floor. I looked down at him. I knew he was dead even before Nevada rolled him over and tore open his shirt.

Nevada was kneeling on the floor beside my father's body, McAllister was on the telephone calling for a doctor and I was picking up the bottle of Jack Daniel's when Denby came in through the door.

He shrank back against the door, the papers in his hand trembling. "My God, Junior," he said in a horrified voice. His eyes lifted from the floor to me. "Who's going to sign the German contracts?"

I glanced over at McAllister. He nodded imperceptibly. "I am," I answered.

Down on the floor, Nevada was closing my father's eyes. I put down the bottle of whisky unopened and looked back at Denby.

"And stop calling me Junior," I said.

BY THE TIME THE DOCTOR CAME, WE HAD LIFTED my father's body to the couch and covered it with a blanket. The doctor was a thin, sturdy man, bald, with thick glasses. He lifted the blanket and looked. He dropped the blanket. "He's dead, all right."

I didn't speak. It was McAllister who asked the question while I swung to and fro in my father's chair. "Why?"

The doctor came toward the desk. "Encephalic embolism. Stroke. Blood clot hit the brain, from the looks of him." He looked at me. "You can be thankful it was quick. He didn't suffer."

It was certainly quick. One minute my father was alive, the next moment he was nothing, without even the power to brush off the curious fly that was crawling over the edge of the blanket onto his covered face. I didn't speak.

The doctor sat down heavily in the chair opposite me. He took out a pen and a sheet of paper. He laid the paper on the desk. Upside down, I could read the heading across the top in bold type. Death Certificate. The pen began to scratch across the paper. After a moment, he looked up. "O.K. if I put down embolism as the cause of death or do you want an autopsy?"

I shook my head. "Embolism's O.K. An autopsy wouldn't make any difference now."

The doctor wrote again. A moment later, he had finished and he pushed the certificate over to me. "Check it over and see if I got everything right."

I picked it up. He had everything right. Pretty good for a doctor who had never seen any of us before today. But everybody in Nevada knew everything about the Cords. Age 67. Survivors: Wife, Rina Marlowe Cord; Son, Jonas Cord, Jr. I slid it back across the desk to him. "It's all right."

He picked it up and got to his feet. "I'll file it and have my girl send you copies." He stood there hesitantly, as if trying to make up his mind as to whether he should offer some expression of sympathy. Evidently, he decided against it, for he went out the door without another word.

Then Denby came in again. "What about those people outside? Shall I send them away?"

I shook my head. They'd only come back again. "Send them in."

They came in the door, the girl's father and mother, their faces wearing a fixed expression that was a strange mixture of grief and sympathy.

Her father looked at me. "I'm sorry we couldn't meet under happier circumstances, Mr. Cord."

I looked at him. The man's face was honest. I believe he really meant it. "I am, too," I said.

His wife immediately broke into sobs. "It's terrible, terrible," she wailed, looking at my father's covered body on the couch.

I looked at her. Her daughter had resembled her but the resemblance stopped at the surface. The kid had had a refreshing honesty about her; this woman was a born harpy.

"What are you crying about?" I asked. "You never even knew him before today. And only then to ask him for money."

She stared at me in shock. Her voice grew shrill. "How can you say such a thing? Your own father lying there on the couch and after what you did to my daughter."

I got to my feet. The one thing I can't stand is a phony. "After what I did to your daughter?" I shouted. "I didn't do anything to your daughter that she didn't want me to. Maybe if you hadn't told her to stop at nothing to catch me, she'd be alive today. But no, you told her to get Jonas Cord, Jr, at any cost. She told me you were already planning the wedding!"

Her husband turned to her. His voice was trembling. "You mean to tell me you knew she was pregnant?"

She looked at him, frightened. "No, Henry, no. I didn't know. I only said to her it would be nice if she could marry him, that's all I said."

His lips tightened, and for a second I thought he was about to strike her. But he didn't. Instead, he turned back to me. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cord. We won't trouble you any more."

He started proudly for the door. His wife hurried after him. "But, Henry," she cried. "Henry."

"Shut up!" he snapped, opening the door and almost pushing her through it in front of him. "Haven't you said enough already?"

The door closed behind them and I turned to McAllister. "I'm not in the clear yet, am I?"

He shook his head.

I thought for a moment. "Better go down to see him tomorrow at his place of business. I think he'll give you a release now. He seems like an honest man."

McAllister smiled slowly. "And that's how you figure an honest man will act?"

"That's one thing I learned from my father." Involuntarily I glanced at the couch. "He used to say every man has his price. For some it's money, for some it's women, for others glory. But the honest man you don't have to buy — he winds up costing you nothing."

"Your father was a practical man," McAllister said.

I stared at the lawyer. "My father was a selfish, greedy son of a bitch who wanted to grab everything in the world," I said. "I only hope I'm man enough to fill his shoes."

McAllister rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You'll do all right."

I gestured toward the couch. "I won't always have him there to help me."

McAllister didn't speak. I glanced over at Nevada. He had been leaning against the wall silently all the time. His eyes flickered under the veiled lids. He took out a pack of makin's and began to roll a cigarette. I turned back to McAllister.

"I'm going to need a lot of help," I said.

McAllister showed his interest with his eyes. He didn't speak.

"I’ll need an adviser, a consultant and a lawyer," I continued. "Are you available?"

He spoke slowly. "I don't know whether I can find the time, Jonas," he said. "I've got a pretty heavy practice."

"How heavy?"

"I gross about sixty thousand a year."

"Would a hundred thousand move you to Nevada?"

His answer came quick. "If you let me draw the contract."

I took out a pack of cigarettes and offered him one. He took it and I stuck one in my mouth. I struck a match and held it for him. "O.K.," I said.

He stopped in the middle of the light. He looked at me quizzically. "How do you know you can afford to pay me that kind of money?"

I lit my own cigarette and smiled. "I didn't know until you took the job. Then I was sure."

A returning smile flashed across his face and vanished. Then he was all business. "The first thing we have to do is call a meeting of the board of directors and have you officially elected president of the company. Do you think there might be any trouble on that score?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so. My father didn't believe in sharing. He kept ninety per cent of the stock in his own name and according to his will, it comes to me on his death."

"Do you have a copy of the will?"

"No," I answered. "But Denby must. He has a record of everything my father ever did."

I hit the buzzer and Denby came in.

"Get me a copy of my father's will," I ordered.

A moment later, it was on the desk — all official, with a blue lawyer's binding. I pushed it over to McAllister. He flipped through it quickly.

"It's in order," he said. "The stock is yours all right. We better get it probated right away."

I turned to Denby questioningly. Denby couldn't wait to answer. The words came tumbling out. "Judge Haskell in Reno has it on file."

"Call him and tell him to move on it right away," I said. Denby started out. I stopped him. "And when you get through with him, call the directors and tell him I'm having a special meeting of the board at breakfast tomorrow. At my house."

Denby went out and I turned back to McAllister. "Is there anything else I ought to do, Mac?"

He shook his head slowly. "No, not right now. There's only the German contract. I don't know too much about it but I heard your father say it was a great opportunity. It's got something to do with a new kind of product. Plastics, I think he called it."

I ground out my cigarette in the ash tray on the desk. "Have Denby give you the file on it. You look at it tonight and give me a breakdown tomorrow morning before the board meeting. I’ll be up at five o'clock."

A strange look began to come over McAllister's face. For a moment, I didn't know what it was, then I recognized it. Respect. "I'll be there at five, Jonas."

He got up and started for the door. I called to him before he reached it, "While you're at it, Mac, have Denby give you a list of the other stockholders in the company. I think I ought to know their names before the meeting."

The look of respect on his face grew deeper. "Yes, Jonas," he said, going out the door.

I swung around to Nevada and looked up at him. "What do you think?" I asked.

He waited a long moment before he answered. Then he spit away a piece of cigarette paper that clung to his lip. "I think your old man is resting real easy."

That reminded me. I had almost forgotten. I got up from the chair and walked around the desk and over to the couch. I picked up the blanket and looked down at him.

His eyes were closed and his mouth was grim. There was a slightly blue stain under the skin of his right temple, going on up into the hairline. That must be the embolism, I thought.

Somehow, deep inside of me, I wanted some tears to come out for him. But there weren't any. He had abandoned me too long ago — that day on the porch when he threw me to Nevada.

I heard the door behind me open and I dropped the blanket back and turned around. Denby was standing in the doorway.

"Jake Platt wants to see you, sir."

Jake was the plant manager. He kept the wheels turning. He also listened to the wind and by now the word must be racing all over the plant.

"Send him in," I said.

He appeared in the doorway beside Denby as soon as the words were out of my mouth. He was a big, heavy man. He even walked heavy. He came into the office, his hand outstretched. "I just heard the sad news." He crossed over to the couch and looked down at my father's body, his face assuming his best Irish-wake air. "It's a sad loss, indeed. Your father was a great man." He shook his head mournfully. "A great man."

I walked back behind the desk. And you're a great actor, Jake Platt, I thought. Aloud I said, "Thank you, Jake."

He turned to me, his face brightening at the thought of his act going over. "And I want you to know if there's anything you want of me, anything at all, just call on me."

"Thank you, Jake," I said again. "It's good to know there are men like you in my corner."

He preened almost visibly at my words. His voice lowered to a confidential tone. "The word's all over the plant now. D'ya think I ought to say something to them? You know them Mexicans and Indians. They're a might touchy and nervous and need a little calming down."

I looked at him. He was probably right. "That's a good idea, Jake. But I think it would seem better if I talk to them myself."

Jake had to agree with me whether he liked it or not. That was his policy. Not to disagree with the boss. "That's true, Jonas," he said, masking his disappointment. "If you feel up to it."

"I feel up to it," I said, starting for the door.

Nevada's voice came after me. "What about him?"

I turned back and followed his glance to the couch. "Call the undertakers and have them take care of him. Tell them we want the best casket in the state."

Nevada nodded.

"Then meet me out in front with the car and we'll go home." I went out the door without waiting for his reply. Jake trotted after me as I turned down the back corridor and went out onto the stairway leading to the plant.

Every eye in the factory turned toward me as I came through that doorway onto the little platform at the top of the staircase. Jake held up his hands and quiet began to fall in the factory. I waited until every machine in the place had come to a stop before I spoke. There was something eerie about it. It was the first time I had ever heard the factory completely silent. I began to speak and my voice echoed crazily through the building.

"Mi padre ha muerto." I spoke in Spanish. My Spanish wasn't very good but it was their language and I continued in it. "But I, his son, am here and hope to continue in his good work. It is indeed too bad that my father is not here to express his appreciation to all you good workers himself for everything you have done to make this company a success. I hope it is enough for you to know that just before he passed away, he authorized a five-per-cent increase in wages for every one of you who work in the plant."

Jake grabbed my arm frantically. I shook his hand off and continued. "It is my earnest wish that I continue to have the same willing support that you gave to my father. I trust you will be patient with me for I have much to learn. Many thanks and may you all go with God."

I started down the steps and Jake came after me. The workers made a path as I walked through. They were silent for the most part; occasionally, one would touch me reassuringly as I passed by. Twice I saw tears in someone's eyes. At least my father didn't go uncried for. Even if they were tears in the eyes of someone who didn't know him.

I came out of the factory into the daylight and blinked my eyes. The sun was still in the sky. I had almost forgotten it was there, it seemed so long ago.

The big Pierce-Arrow was right in front of the door, with Nevada at the wheel. I started across toward it. Jake's hand on my arm stopped me. I turned toward him.

His voice was half whining. "What did you have to go and do that for, Jonas? You don't know them bastards like I do. Give 'em an inch, they'll want your arm. Your father was always after me to keep the pay scale down."

I stared at him coldly. Some people didn't learn fast enough. "Did you hear what I said in there, Jake?"

"I heard what you said, Jonas. That's what I'm talking about. I— "

I cut him off. "I don't think you did, Jake," I said softly. "My first words were 'Mi padre ha muerto.' My father is dead."

"Yes, but— "

"That means exactly what it says, Jake. He's dead. But I'm not. I'm here and the only thing you better remember is that I'm exactly like him in just one way. I’ll take no crap from anyone who works for me, and anyone who doesn't like what I do can get the hell out!"

Jake learned fast. He was at the car door, holding it open for me. "I didn't mean anything, Jonas. I only— "

There was no use explaining to him that if you pay more, you get more. Ford had proved that when he gave his workers raises the year before. He more than tripled production. I got into the car and looked back at the factory. The black, sticky tar on the roof caught my eye. I remembered it from the plane.

"Jake," I said. "See that roof?"

He turned toward it and peered at it. His voice was puzzled. "Yes, sir?"

Suddenly I was very tired. I leaned back against the cushions and closed my eyes. "Paint it white," I said.

I DOZED AS THE BIG PIERCE ATE UP THE TWENTY MILES between my father's new house and the factory. Every once in a while, I would open my eyes and catch a glimpse of Nevada watching me in the rear-view mirror, then my eyes would close again as if weighted down by lead.

I hate my father and I hate my mother and if I had had sisters and brothers, I would hate them, too. No, I didn't hate my father. Not any more. He was dead. You don't hate the dead. You only remember them. And I didn't hate my mother. She wasn't my mother, anyway. I had a stepmother. And I didn't hate her. I loved her.

That was why I had brought her home. I wanted to marry her. Only, my father said I was too young. Nineteen was too young, he had said. But he wasn't too young. He married her a week after I had gone back to college.

I met Rina at the country club two weeks before vacation was over. She came from back East, someplace in Massachusetts called Brookline, and she was like no one I had ever met before. All the girls out here are dark and tanned from the sun, they walk like men, talk like men, even ride like men. The only time you can be sure they are something else is in the evenings, when they wear skirts instead of Levi's, for even at the swimming pool, according to the fashion, they look like boys. Flat-chested and slim-hipped.

But Rina was a girl. You couldn't miss that. Especially in a bathing suit, the way she was the first time I saw her. She was slim, all right and her shoulders were broad, maybe too broad for a woman. But her breasts were strong and full, jutting rocks against the silk-jersey suit that gave the lie to the fashion. You could not look at them without tasting the milk and honey of their sweetness in your mouth. They rested easy on a high rib cage that melted down into a narrow waist that in turn flared out into slim but rounded hips and buttocks.

Her hair was a pale blond that she wore long, tied back behind her head, again contrary to fashion. Her brow was high, her eyes wide apart and slightly slanted, the blue of them reflecting a glow beneath their ice. Her nose was straight and not too thin, reflecting her Finnish ancestry. Perhaps her only flaw was her mouth. It was wide — not generous-wide, because her lips were not full enough. It was a controlled mouth that set firmly on a tapered, determined chin.

She had gone to Swiss finishing schools, was slow to laughter and reserved in her manner. In two days, she had me swinging from the chandeliers. Her voice was soft and low and had a faintly foreign sound that bubbled in your ear.

It was about ten days later, at the Saturday-night dance at the club, that I first knew how much I wanted her. It was a slow, tight waltz and the lights were down low and blue. Suddenly she missed half a step. She looked up at me and smiled that slow smile.

"You're very strong," she said and pressed herself back against me.

I could feel the heat from her loins pouring into me as we began to dance again. At last, I couldn't stand it any more. I took her arm and started from the dance floor.

She followed me silently out to the car. We climbed into the big Duesenberg roadster and I threw it into gear and we raced down the highway. The night air on the desert was warm. I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes. Her head was back against the seat, her eyes closed to the wind.

I turned off into a date grove and cut the motor. She was still leaning back against the seat. I bent over and kissed her mouth.

Her mouth neither gave nor took. It was like a well on an oasis in the desert. It was there for when you needed it. I reached for her breast. Her hand caught mine and held it.

I lifted my head and looked at her. Her eyes were open and yet they were guarded. I could not see into them. "I want you," I said.

Her eyes did not change expression. I could hardly hear her voice. "I know."

I moved toward her again. This time, her hand against my chest, stopped me.

"Lend me your handkerchief," she said, taking it from my breast pocket.

It fluttered whitely in the night, then dropped from sight with her hands. She didn't raise her head from the back of the seat, she didn't speak, she just watched me with those guarded eyes.

I felt her searching fingers and I leaned toward her but somehow she kept me from getting any closer to her. Then suddenly, I felt an exquisite pain rushing from the base of my spine and I almost climbed halfway out of the seat.

I took out a cigarette and lit it with trembling fingers as she crumpled the handkerchief into a small ball and threw it over the side of the car. Then she took the cigarette from my mouth and placed it between her lips.

"I still want you," I said.

She gave the cigarette back to me and shook her head.

"Why?" I asked.

She turned her face toward me. It shone palely in the dark. "Because in two days I'm going home. Because in the stock-market crash of twenty-three, my father lost everything. Because I must find and marry a rich husband. I must do nothing to endanger that."

I stared at her for a moment, then started the engine. I backed the car out of the date grove and set it on the road for home. I didn't say anything but I had all the answers for her. I was rich. Or I would be someday.

I left Rina in the parlor and went into my father's study. As usual, he was working at his desk, the single lamp throwing its light down on the papers. He looked up as I came in.

"Yes?" he asked, as if I were someone in his office who had intruded in the midst of a problem.

I hit the wall switch and flooded the room with light. "I want to get married," I said.

He looked at me for a moment as if he was far away. He had been, but he came back fast. "You're crazy," he said unemotionally. He looked down at his desk again. "Go to bed and don't bother me."

I stood there. "I mean it, Dad," I said. It was the first time I had called him that since I was a kid.

He got to his feet slowly. "No," he said. "You're too young."

That was all he said. It would never occur to him to ask who, what, why. No, only I was too young. "All right, Father," I said, turning toward the door. "Remember I asked you."

"Wait a minute," he said. I stopped, my hand on the doorknob. "Where is she?"

"Waiting in the parlor," I answered.

He looked at me shrewdly. "When did you decide?"

"Tonight," I answered. "Just tonight."

"I suppose she's one of those silly little girls who show up at the club dance and she's waiting on pins and needles to meet the old man?" he asked.

I rose to her defense. "She's not like that at all. As a matter of fact, she doesn't even know that I'm in here asking you."

"You mean you haven't even asked her yet?"

"I don't have to," I answered, with the supreme confidence of my years. "I know her answer."

My father shook his head. "Just for the record, don't you think you had better ask her?"

I went out and brought Rina back into the room. "Rina, this is my father; Father, this is Rina Marlowe."

Rina nodded politely. For all you could tell from her manner, it could have been high noon instead of two o'clock in the morning.

Father looked at her thoughtfully. There was a curious expression on his face I had never seen before. He came around his desk and held out his hand to her. "How do you do, Miss Marlowe?" he said in a soft voice. I stared at him. I had never seen him do that with any of my friends before.

She took his hand. "How do you do?"

Still holding her hand, he let his voice fall into a semi-amused tone. "My son thinks he wants to marry you, Miss Marlowe, but I think he's too young. Don't you?"

Rina looked at me. For a moment, I could see into her eyes. They were bright and shining, then they were guarded again.

She turned to Father. "This is very embarrassing, Mr. Cord. Would you please take me home?"

Stunned, unable to speak, I watched my father take her arm and walk out of the room with her. A moment later, I heard the roar of the Duesenberg and angrily I looked around for something to vent my spleen on. The only thing available was the lamp on the table. I smashed it against the wall.

Two weeks later, at college, I got a telegram from my father.

RINA AND I WERE MARRIED THIS MORNING. WE ARE AT THE WALDORF-ASTORIA, NEW YORK. LEAVING TOMORROW ON LEVIATHAN FOR EUROPEAN HONEYMOON.

I picked up the telephone and called him.

"There's no fool like an old fool!" I shouted across the three thousand miles of wire between us. "Don't you know the only reason she married you was for your money?"

Father didn't even get angry. He even chuckled. "You're the fool. All she wanted was a man, not a boy. She even insisted that we sign a premarital property agreement before she would marry me."

"Oh, yeah?" I asked. "Who drew the agreement? Her lawyer?"

Father chuckled again. "No. Mine." His voice changed abruptly. It grew heavy and coarse with meaning. "Now get back to your studies, son, and don't meddle in things that don't concern you. It's midnight here and I'm just about to go to bed."

The telephone went dead in my hands. I stared at it for a moment, then slowly put it down. I couldn't sleep that night. Across my mind's eye unreeled pornographic pictures of Rina and my father in wild sexual embrace. Several times, I woke up in a cold sweat.

A hand was shaking me gently. Slowly I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was Nevada's face. "Wake up, Jonas," he said. "We're home."

I blinked my eyes to clear the sleep from them.

The last piece of sun was going down behind the big house. I shook my head and stepped out of the car. I looked up at the house. Strange house. I don't think I'd spent more than two weeks in it since my father had it built and now it was mine. Like everything else my father had done.

I started for the steps. Rina had thought of everything. Except this. My father was dead. And I was going to tell her.

THE FRONT DOOR OPENED AS I CROSSED THE VERANDA. My father had built a traditional Southern plantation house, and to run it, he had brought Robair up from New Orleans. Robair was a Creole butler in the full tradition.

He was a giant of a man, towering a full head over me, and as gentle and efficient as he was big. His father and grandfather had been butlers before him and even though they had been slaves, they had instilled in him a pride in his work. He had a sixth sense for his duties. Somehow, he was always there when he was wanted.

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 473