“Please thank him,” I answered. “But tell him I have transportation.”
The door closed. Bobby came back toward me, his eyes wide. “Are you really buying a newspaper?”
“Yes,” I said. “Not much of a paper, but it’s something.”
“I was art director of my college paper,” he said.
I laughed. “Okay. You got a job. You’re now the art director of the Hollywood Express.”
Suddenly we all were laughing and none of us really knew why. Except that maybe Verita was right. Our stars had crossed and somehow the world had changed.
6
I held the small gold spoon carefully to my nostril and took a deep snort. The cocaine exploded in my brain like a sunburst and I suddenly felt energized as if there were nothing in the world that I could not do.
Bobby and Verita had just finished off the dishes. When I began to laugh, they both turned to look at me.
“Dynamite,” I said. “Pure dynamite. Where’d you get it?”
“The dealer told me it was pure,” Bobby said.
I laughed again. “Superpure.” I gave the spoon and the vial of coke to him. “That’s rich.”
Bobby looked at Verita. She shook her head. “No, thanks. I get headaches.”
He had a snort and put it back in his jacket pocket. His eyes were shining. “Did you mean what you said?”
“What did I say?”
“About my being art director on your paper?”
“Sure, but I can’t pay a big salary.”
“That’s not important. It’s the opportunity I want. Nobody ever offered me a real job before.”
“Well, you’ve got it now.”
“What kind of paper is it?”
“Right now it’s an advertising throwaway. But that’s not what it’s going to be when I get through with it.”
“What will it be then?”
“A cross between the underground papers and Playboy. We’re going to hit people where they live. In the balls.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Playboy fudges,” I said. “They airbrush their articles just like they airbrush the pussies off their girls. The underground press shovels the shit so hard your fingers smell from just holding one of their rags. I think there’s a balance, a way of telling it how it is and at the same time not make the reader feel he’s covered with dirt.”
“But that’s not what Lonergan wants,” Verita said. “He wants the kind of paper that it is.”
“What Lonergan is buying is a laundry. Four pages of advertising to convert his cash. He doesn’t give a damn about the rest of it. You can print it on toilet paper for all he cares.”
“I don’t know,” Verita said doubtfully.
“I do. I’ve known him all my life. Money is his only passion.”
“You called him Uncle John,” she said.
“He’s my uncle, my mother’s brother.”
She took a deep breath. Now she understood. “You don’t like him?”
“I don’t feel one way or the other,” I said. But it wasn’t true. If anything, I felt too much. There was not one area in my life that Uncle John did not seem to touch. And that began even before I was born. First, with my mother, then, my father.
“I’m tired,” I said abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”
“I’d better be going home then,” Verita said quickly.
“No,” Bobby said. “You don’t have to go. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Shit, Verita, it’s too late for you to go,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I snapped. “Coke always makes me horny. Come to bed. I want to fuck the ass off you.” I started for the bedroom. When I saw the tears suddenly well up in Bobby’s eyes, I stopped. “What’s with you?”
“I love you, Gareth,” he wailed. “I want to be your slave. I want you to love me.”
I put an arm around his shoulders and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Bobby, but not that way. I feel like a big brother to you.”
He wiped at his eyes. “I never had a brother.”
“Neither did I.”
He smiled. “I like that. It’s pure.”
“Superpure. Like the coke. Now I’m going to bed.”
Verita followed me into the bedroom about ten minutes later. I couldn’t wait until I got her clothes off. My cock felt as if it were made out of stone. We fucked until I collapsed with exhaustion. But I still didn’t come. Cocaine did that to me. She was asleep almost before I rolled off her. I closed my eyes and zonked.
It seemed as if I had been asleep for hours when I felt a nuzzling at my balls. Still in the twilight zone, I put my hands in her hair and guided my cock into her mouth. Her mouth was warm and expert. At times I felt as if she were going to swallow me alive. “Oh, baby, you do that so good,” I murmured. Then I exploded. The orgasm seemed to drain all the fluids from my body, leaving me empty and exhausted. A few seconds later I dropped back into a deep sleep.
I woke up with the sun streaming into my eyes. I began to sit up. She opened her eyes. I bent over and kissed her forehead. “I never knew you could give head like that,” I said. “You blew everything, including my mind.”
Her eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”
“Last night.”
She shook her head.
I swung my feet off the bed and stepped on his back. He moved away without waking up. Then I put it all together. At first I was angry; then I began to laugh.
Verita was puzzled. “What is it?”
I pointed and she looked over the side of the bed at the naked boy. “Oh, Jesus,” she said; then she began to smile.
“The little bastard ripped me off,” I said.
“He ripped off both of us. You never came with me.”
“Damn!” I said.
“What are you complaining about?” she asked. “You got the best of both worlds.”
Bobby drove us into Beverly Hills in his Rolls convertible. I felt like one of the Beverly Hillbillies driving past Nate n’ Al’s and seeing all the New York refugees standing on line, waiting to get in for the Sunday service of lox, cream cheese and bagels.
When we got to my uncle’s office down the street, we found the building locked. I pressed the call button. A uniformed guard peered through the glass window.
“Lonergan,” I shouted.
He nodded and opened the door. “Mr. Brendan?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Lonergan’s expecting you. Penthouse floor.”
“I’m hungry,” Bobby said. “I’ll be over at the deli.”
“Okay,” I said and with Verita followed the guard to the elevator. My uncle’s bodyguard was waiting for us. Silently he led us through the corridor to Lonergan’s office and opened the door.
My uncle was behind his desk and Persky was with him. This was nothing like the Hollywood office. This one smelled of money—silk drapes, thick carpets and a Louis Quinze desk.
“Good morning,” I said.
My uncle waved us to chairs in front of his desk and pressed a button. A moment later a man came in the side door, carrying a folder of papers.
“My attorney, Mark Coler,” my uncle said. “He has all the papers ready. Purchase agreements, loan applications, everything.”
Looking at him, I thought, he really was kind of fantastic. Although I knew he couldn’t possibly have gone to bed before five in the morning, he looked as fresh as if he had twelve hours’ sleep. I also realized that he must have been very sure of this deal because there was no way he could have had all the papers prepared between last night and this morning.
Coler spread the documents on the desk in front of me. “You want to look them over?”
I pushed them toward Verita. “Miss Velasquez will check them for me.”
Coler glanced at her, then back at me. “Is she an attorney?”
Verita answered for herself. “I’ve graduated UCLA law school, but I haven’t tak
en the bar. I am a certified public accountant, however.”
He seemed impressed and fell silent while she looked at the papers.
I turned to Persky. “Did Mr. Lonergan tell you I would like you to stay on?”
“Yes,” Persky answered. “But I can’t afford it. I gotta make some bread. I’m six months behind on my child support and alimony.”
“I didn’t expect you to work for nothing.”
“What you plan on paying?”
I didn’t know what the going rates were, so I took a stab. “A buck and a half a week, plus a ride on the profits.”
“I can’t cut it. I got an offer of two-fifty from the Valley Times.”
I didn’t need anyone to tell me that two hundred and fifty dollars was way over my head. “A buck and a half is my top.”
“He’ll take it,” my uncle said before he could answer.
Persky started to object, but the expression on my uncle’s face stopped him. “I can’t cover my bills on that kind of money, Mr. Lonergan,” he said in a mild tone.
My uncle’s voice was cold. “You’ll cover less bills from a hospital bed, Persky. The only reason you’re getting off this easily is that I want this deal made.”
Persky looked at me. He knew when he was licked. “I’m working for you,” he said.
“Good.” I smiled. “We get lucky you’ll get more bread.”
“I got your word,” he said, holding out his hand. “Shake.”
“Everything seems okay,” Verita said. “But there’s one more thing that I think is necessary—an indemnification guarantee against the past debts and taxes of the company signed by Mr. Lonergan.”
Coler sounded annoyed. “Mr. Lonergan is not a principal in this deal. There’s no reason for him to sign a paper like that. Besides, you already have Mr. Persky’s signature.”
Verita looked at me for support. “Mr. Coler,” I said, “I can’t pay Mr. Persky enough money to make his signature worth the paper it’s written on. Mr. Lonergan told me I would have the paper free and clear. If I don’t get it that way, I don’t want it.”
“Mr. Lonergan never—” Coler began.
My uncle interrupted him. “Prepare the guarantee, Mr. Coler. I’ll sign it.”
“I can’t have it until tomorrow. There’s no one in my office today.”
“You’ll have it tomorrow, Gareth. Will my word do?”
“Yes, Uncle John.”
My uncle smiled. “Good. Then let’s sign the rest of the papers.”
I arranged to meet Persky at the office the next morning and by the time I left I owned a newspaper. We pushed our way through the crowd at Nate n’ Al’s and sat down at Bobby’s table.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“We’re in business,” I said.
7
It was a little more than two weeks later that Lonergan came down to the store, the first edition of the new Hollywood Express clutched in his hand. He pushed his way past the crowd of kids who were busy cleaning and painting to my desk at the back of the room.
He threw the paper down in front of me. “What the hell are you trying to pull?”
“You wanted the paper in a hurry. I got it out.”
“You call this a paper?” he stormed. “There’s nothing in it but my ads. Who the hell do you think’s going to look at that?”
“Who the hell looked at the others?”
“And your headline, ‘This edition was published solely in order not to disappoint the readers who had come to depend on us for a superior brand of toilet paper.’ I don’t think that’s funny.”
“I do.”
“It’s vulgar and in bad taste.”
“That’s right,” I agreed.
“You can’t expect me to pay you thirty-two hundred dollars a week for that. If you do, you have another think coming.”
“You’ll pay me, Uncle John,” I said quietly. “We have a firm contract which you signed. It says we publish four pages of classified in every issue. There’s nothing in the contract that says we have to print anything else.”
“I’m not going to pay.”
“Then you’re going to get sued. It’s a perfectly valid contract.”
Suddenly he began to smile. “Okay, I’ll pay. Now will you tell me what this is all about?”
“It’s going to take me eight to ten weeks to put together the kind of paper I want to publish. Until then I need the bread that your ads give me.”
“You could have told me that. I would have given you the time.”
“But not the money. Thirty-two grand is a lot of bread.”
“We still can’t put out a paper like this. It’s like waving a red flag in front of the IRS.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“If I advance you the money, will you hold up until the paper is ready?”
“No. Advances have to be earned out or repaid.”
He was silent for a moment. “If I give you twenty-five thousand cash free and clear, will you hold up?”
“No payback, no strings?”
“No strings.”
“Deal.”
He took a checkbook out of his inside pocket, wrote the check and handed it to me.
“Thanks, Uncle John.”
“I have only one consolation, Gareth,” he said. “If I had to get stung, at least it was all in the family.”
I laughed. “I’ve got the best example in the world, Uncle John.”
He looked around the store. “What are all these kids doing?”
“We’re dressing up the place. The kind of paper I want can’t be published from a shithouse.”
“Where’d they all come from?”
“The Reverend Gannon’s Youth Workshop. They work in their spare time for fifty cents an hour and contribute it to the church.”
“Your boyfriend’s father has better business sense than either of us.”
“You can’t beat Jesus Christ,” I said.
He looked back at the paper. “Do you have many of these left?”
“No.”
“Too bad. If I had known in time, we could have stopped them from going out.”
“Don’t worry about it, Uncle John. Nobody else will see them.”
“How can you be sure?”
I smiled. “I printed only twenty-five copies. And all of them were delivered to you.”
“Mr. Brendan.” The voice was soft. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Brendan.”
I looked up. It was one of the girls from Reverend Sam’s Youth Workshop. She stood in front of me almost apologetically, the tight jeans splitting her cunt and hugging her ass, the loose boy’s shirt accentuating the curve of her breasts. Her arms and face were smudged with paint.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Brendan,” she repeated. “But we’re ready to begin work back here.”
“Of course. Let me get my papers off the desk and I’ll be out of your way.”
“Can I help, Mr. Brendan?”
“Thanks. If you’ll carry these, I can manage the rest.”
She took a stack of folders from my hands. I picked up the typewriter and we went up the back stairs to the apartment. I spread out on one of the tables we had set up in what used to be the living room.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Brendan?”
“I don’t think so.”
She made no move to leave.
“Is there something else?” I asked.
“Bobby said that you were looking for a secretary but that you couldn’t afford to pay very much.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m a secretary. I graduated from Sawyer Business College.”
“You take shorthand?”
“Not too well. But I’m a very fast typist. Eighty words a minute.” She brushed her long brown hair back from her face. “And I know filing, too.”
“What’s your name?”
“Denise Brace.”
“Where do you live, Denise?”
&
nbsp; “At the workshop.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen next month.”
“How come you’re not living at home?”
Her dark eyes met mine. “I got pregnant. My father threw me out. Reverend Sam took me in and looked after me.”
“What about the baby?”
“Reverend Sam arranged for it to be adopted. It was the best thing. I was only sixteen when it happened.”
“And you’ve been at the workshop ever since?”
She nodded. “Reverend Sam is wonderful to me, to all of us. All he wants for us is to be happy and to serve the Lord.”
“And when you work, you give all your salary to him?”
“No. To the workshop.”
“Don’t you keep any for yourself?” I asked curiously.
“Why?” There was an earnest look on her face. “I don’t need anything. The workshop gives us everything we need.”
“Are there many like you in the workshop?”
“About sixty or seventy. More girls than boys.”
“And they all do the same thing that you do? Turn their money over to the workshop?”
She nodded.
“What do you do when you’re not working?”
“We spread God’s love. We sell tracts and pamphlets. We keep busy.”
“And all the money goes to Reverend Sam?”
“Not to him. Reverend Sam isn’t interested in money. It goes to the church and the workshop to help in the good work.”
Lonergan was right. Reverend Sam had a better thing going than either of us. I looked at her clear, guileless face. “You know you’re a very pretty girl,” I said.
“Thank you.” She smiled. But there was coquettishness in her smile.
“I don’t know whether I could have you work for me,” I said. “It would be too tempting. I might want to make love to you.”
“I’d like that,” she said simply.
“I mean real love, not just petting and kissing.”
“I know what you mean.”
“What about Reverend Sam? Isn’t that considered sinful?”
“Not to Reverend Sam. He preaches that our bodies have needs as much as our souls and that love can be expressed with both.”
Harold Robbins Thriller Collection Page 23
