Never Enough

by Harold Robbins

  “Musgrave is the sole stockholder,” she said.

  “Even so, he is supposed to elect a board of directors. And the directors are supposed to elect officers.”

  “Who signs the checks?” she asked.

  “He just authorizes banks to honor signature cards. Each agency has a check signer, but the man is not a treasurer.”

  “How does Becker get away with this?”

  “Small town,” said Cole. “He walks to his office every morning: a tall, distinguished-looking man with wavy white hair; and every morning he stops in a flower shop where they have a rosebud waiting for his buttonhole. He knows everyone. He has a good morning for everyone. Six months ago I represented a family who’d just built a house. I asked Becker for a release of mechanics’ liens. He’d never heard of such a thing and tried to smile me off. I had to prepare the documents, and he got the contractors to sign them.”

  “Charismatic, I believe you said.”

  “Every morning at ten he goes to Duke’s Coffee Shop and sits down with local businessmen, who take him at face value. Once a week he lunches with his Rotary Club. Other days he lunches in various places, where he is expected and welcomed. He works several fund-raising campaigns. He plays golf.”

  “Well … he’s gone, and you’ll be well paid to straighten out the mess.”

  “You won’t believe what he had the nerve to say to me. He told me he expected to be kept on a retainer, so he could advise me on aspects of the Musgrave businesses.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him he’d be lucky if I didn’t have Musgrave sue him for malpractice.”

  III

  MAY, 1990

  Emily’s concern that the Sheas would sooner or later propose that they trade partners continued to trouble her.

  When Dave and Alexandra returned from Leningrad, they brought gifts: an elaborately hand-carved and-painted wooden animated toy for Little Cole, that he could activate by pulling a string; a set of nested dolls for Little Emily, and for Cole and Emily, a pair of sable hats. When Alexandra suggested that night that they stop being coy and simply enjoy each other’s nudity, neither Emily nor Cole could say no.

  Dave and Alexandra closed the apartment on the Upper West Side and moved into a larger apartment on East Seventy-second Street, where they had a view of the East River from their living room.

  Harcourt Barnham had promoted Dave. He was now allowed to supervise accounts of a small number of millions of dollars. He chose investment strategies and invested pretty much as he saw fit. Occasionally he would run an idea past Axel Schnyder, asking if a particular investment would be good for his account in Zurich. He didn’t do it often. He didn’t want Schnyder to suspect he was using the expertise of Trust Management AG to govern his New York investment decisions. On the other hand, sometimes he used a report from Schnyder to suggest a sound investment for the clients of Harcourt Barnham. Schnyder was investing the money in his Deutsche Bank account in European companies Dave had never heard of. Also, Schnyder was taking for Dave modest positions in currencies—and making quick profits.

  Dave had opened his Zurich account with $1,000,000. Now, a year later, it was worth $1,575,000. Of that $200,000 represented the profit on the Texaco deal, and about $125,000 from suggestions to Schnyder from things Dave learned at the bank, but the rest of the increase represented what Axel Schnyder and Trust Management AG could do.

  The fact that Dave was paying no taxes on his profit left the entire amount intact for further ventures.

  This Saturday evening Dave, Alexandra, Emily, and Cole went to a performance of Cats, and when they returned to the apartment Alexandra ordered in the most elaborate display of Chinese food that could be imagined. They ate with the ivory chopsticks that Alexandra provided. They talked about the play.

  “I noticed something in the Times this morning that you may not have caught,” Cole said to Dave.

  “And what was that?”

  “A former vice president—you must have known him—named, uh … Miley, shot himself yesterday.”

  “My God!” Emily cried.

  Dave frowned. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Emily had tears in her eyes.

  “C’mon, hon.” Cole looked at her. “You never even met him.”

  “He … was … a human being.”

  Dave shook his head. “Miley made a big mistake,” he said. “He ignored personal relationships. He cared nothing about having friends. When the shit hit the fan, nobody would stand up for him. A man in his position should have been able, in time, to switch to another bank or to a brokerage. But he’d made no friends. Nowhere. He was a cold fish.”

  “He must have left a wife,” Emily whispered.

  “Yes, but don’t worry about her,” Dave said. “Financially, I mean. He had a golden parachute. Even the circumstances in which he left the bank couldn’t have divested him of that. He didn’t have to live on Social Security. And neither will she.”

  “But—”

  “He brought his troubles on himself,” Dave said curtly, staring Emily down.

  Alexandra left the table and went over to the disc player and put on the soundtrack of Cats. She walked over and closed the curtains. As she stood in the middle of the room, she began to take off one piece of clothing at a time until she was completely nude. They all watched. Each of them was aroused.

  She walked over to Emily and began to unbutton her blouse. She placed Emily’s hand on her naked breast. Under the soft touch of Emily’s hand Alexandra’s nipple thrust forward. Her breath quickened as she unsnapped Emily’s bra.

  The two men began to stroke themselves as they watched the two women.

  Alexandra had begun to suck on Emily’s nipple. Emily could feel the juices begin to flow inside her. Alexandra reached under Emily’s skirt and pulled down her panties, then she led her to the sofa. As she lay back on the sofa, Alexandra opened the fleshy lips of her vagina. She began to probe inside of her. Emily began to moan. Then she spread her legs wide and with her tongue brought Emily to a shuddering orgasm.

  No one said a word as Alexandra then moved to Cole and kissed him fully on the mouth allowing Emily’s juices to mingle with his own. His penis was fully erect and she quickly used her hand to bring him to an orgasm.

  As she came to Dave, she saw the excitement in his eyes. She reached inside herself and brought her fingers up to his lips. He sucked each finger. Then she placed her hand around his neck and mounted his throbbing penis. They both exploded simultaneously.

  Cole, Amy, and Dave were completely awed by Alexandra’s performance. Dave poured brandies for everyone and turned on the television. Johnny Carson was doing his monologue.

  “Cole …” Dave said. The next morning Dave and Cole were drinking coffee. “How would you like to give me three or four days of your time? I don’t mean give, of course. I mean at your hourly rate, plus expenses.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Ever hear of a computer called Sphere?”

  Cole shook his head.

  “At one time it rivaled Apple as the machine most likely to compete successfully with IBM. It still has great features—or so I’m advised by people who know something about this. But it needs development. In some ways it’s obsolete. The problem is, it’s cash-poor. It needs an infusion of capital. I think I can get that for it. But there’s another problem. It’s a closely held corporation. It belongs to a guy named Tom Malloy in Houston.”

  “And …?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d fly down to Houston and meet with this guy. I got an idea somebody might be interested in acquiring Sphere. The problem may be Malloy. From all I hear, he’s a genius and an egomaniac.”

  “And a Texan,” said Emily.

  Dave grinned. “And a Texan. And he has big pride in this thing he built.”

  IV

  Cole checked in at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in downtown Houston—picking up a message to call Dave before he met Malloy.
The glass-enclosed elevators traveled up and down through a floor-to-ceiling lobby, giving occupants a view of the entire lobby area: including a sunken cocktail lounge shielded from the rest of the lobby by huge potted shrubs. He took note of the glassed-in restaurant on the second floor, where he would meet Tom Malloy for dinner.

  It was after six-thirty in Houston, after seven-thirty in New York, and he rang Dave and Alexandra’s home number.

  “What kinda town is it?” Dave asked.

  “Big. Texas big. It sprawls all over hell and back. The cabdriver tried to stiff me on the drive from the airport, but the doorman shot him down. Anyway—?”

  “There’s another possible buyer interested in Sphere. Damndest thing you could possibly imagine! Ever hear of a chain of sexy lingerie shops called Cheeks?”

  “I bought Emily a nightie in one in Manhattan, for Christmas.”

  “Okay. The chain is owned by a family named Cooper. The story is that they’re connected, but people say that kind of thing about everybody, so I don’t take it seriously. Jerry Cooper built the company from nothing, and now it’s cash-rich and looking to diversify. He’s a guy without much education, but he’s sharp. His son, Len Cooper, has got education and smarts.”

  “And they want to take over Sphere?”

  “Let me tell you how to play Malloy,” said Dave. “The Sphere computer is his baby. If the Coopers take over, they’ll use the Sphere name, which may be the company’s chief asset; and they may very well scrap the Sphere computer. If my guys take it over, they’re prepared to guarantee Malloy they’ll keep his baby alive.”

  “You sent the wrong guy down here, Dave. I don’t know anything about computers.”

  “You know people, my friend. Just don’t forget that Malloy has an ego a mile wide. Play it!”

  Cole wished Dave had been there to meet Tom Malloy, who was nothing like the Texan Dave seemed to have expected. He did not appear dressed like Gene Autry, but in a charcoal-gray, three-button suit with narrow lapels, a white shirt, a regimental tie. He was six feet five or so and by no means rawboned and leather-skinned as Texans were reputed to be. In fact, he carried a little extra weight, though his suit was tailored to accommodate it. He had not asked his barber to try to hide the premature baldness that was coming for a man in his early forties.

  That he was a Texan was demonstrated by his wife, Betsy, who had been an Oilers cheerleader, as both Tom and Betsy were anxious to have him understand. She was maybe thirty-five years old, as Cole judged. She did not wear a beehive hairdo—of which he had already seen several since he arrived in Texas—but her hair was luxuriant. It had also been stripped: not bleached, stripped. Her eyebrows did not betray her as a brunette, because she had no eyebrows, almost. They were thin arched lines, colored with dark eyebrow pencil. Her lipstick, applied with a brush, he guessed, was glistening pink. Her white silk minidress was without sleeves and was held up by two gleaming strands of tiny pearls. It stretched low across breasts thrust up and forward into overstated points by nylon and rubber. The skirt rode high on sleek legs clad in black panty hose. Cole struggled to keep his eyes above the table and not below where sometimes she showed her hips, even her crotch.

  Tom Malloy spoke without a trace of Texas accent. Betsy spoke as Cole had supposed all Texans did.

  “Ah love jee-in,” she said when the waiter came to take their drink orders. “Sumpin’ ’bout it. Ah don’ know. They say Scotch whiskey is jus’ Bourbon with some iodine added.”

  Tom laughed at his wife’s bon mot. “Actually,” he said, “Bourbon is Scotch with maple syrup poured in it.”

  “Which is whaa Ah drank jee-in,” said Betsy.

  The restaurant was excellent. Though oysters were out of season, they had a dozen apiece, on the halfshell, with a bottle of chilled Chablis.

  Eventually, Tom turned the conversation to business—

  “I understand your client is interested in investing in Sphere. Can you tell me the name of your client?”

  “Not at the moment,” said Cole. “I’m sorry, but I’m obliged to hold that information in confidence for the moment.”

  “What do you know about Sphere?”

  “Only that you developed an excellent computer that was once regarded as superior to IBM machines. It’s a highly respected design. The problem is, it’s obsolete. In order to bring it up-to-date, you will have to commit a lot of capital. My client may have a source of that kind of money.”

  “It’s not obsolete,” said Tom calmly but with cold firmness. “The problem is, it’s exactly the opposite; Sphere is more advanced than the IBM computers and the IBM clones. Apple might be competitive. But Apple has the same problem we have, which is the Microsoft monopoly. We did not design Sphere to run on DOS, as Apple didn’t. Apple has now compromised and will run on DOS as an alternative. We could do that. I’m afraid we have no choice but to do it.”

  “I know very little about computers,” said Cole. “Would you allow an expert to come and examine yours?”

  “Fine,” said Tom. “Your guru won’t be the first one. Now—we are having a little pool party tomorrow evening. Come early, and I’ll show you the Sphere. Then … barbecue.”

  “I’ll have to buy a swimsuit,” said Cole.

  “Don’t think of it. We keep a lot of them, in all sizes, for men and women.”

  V

  Cole knew nothing of the geography of Houston, but his sense of direction told him that the cab was taking him west from the city center. Shortly he was delivered to an address in a posh suburb characterized by manicured woods and three-to-four-acre lots, each house out of sight of all its neighbors. The Malloys lived in a sprawling one-floor house shaded by tall, ancient oaks—except in the rear where the land had been cleared to afford sunny space for a large swimming pool with a redwood deck.

  Tom came to the door to welcome him. He was wearing Top-Sider boat shoes, tight blue jeans, and a golf shirt. Betsy greeted Cole inside the house. She was dressed in the uniform of an Oilers cheerleader: abbreviated. shorts that hugged her hips well below her navel, a fringed vest fastened only just under her breasts, and white boots.

  The house was furnished in what Cole took for a Texas style: rough-knit Indian blankets for throw rugs and wall hangings, couches and chairs upholstered in brown leather, and two bronze cowboy sculptures that may have been originals and worth two fortunes. The living room was dominated by a huge fieldstone fireplace.

  “Glad you came informal like I said. C’mon back to my office, and I’ll introduce you to my baby.”

  The office had a western style. A cattle skull and a pair of spreading longhorns hung from one wall. Cole took note of diplomas that may have explained why Tom did not speak like a Texan. He had graduated from Amherst, then from the University of Chicago with a degree in electrical engineering.

  “Say hello to Sphere.”

  The computer sat on a table under the longhorns. It was unlike any desktop computer Cole had ever seen. He could make no judgment of its functionality, but it looked different, for sure. Most computers were enclosed in beige steel cases, square and functional and unimaginative. The Sphere was enclosed in dark green transparent plastic. The components—transformer, rectifier, disk drives, modem, and circuit boards—were all visible. The case was by no means a sphere, but it was gently rounded. The whole design had an elegance of appearance that set it apart from all other small computers.

  “The problem, if in fact it is a problem, is in the operating system,” said Tom. “We found DOS clunky, so we designed our own. It works great. But it won’t run any off-the-shelf software, like Lotus 1-2-3, Word, WordPerfect, Quicken, and the like. You have to use our proprietary software. Unfortunately, that makes a lot of people nervous.”

  “Is your software as good as those others?”

  “When we designed it, it was far more capable than anything else available at that time. But in five years, the others have been totally redesigned and are far more sophisticated than they were. We haven
’t been able to redesign all that much.”

  “For want of capital,” said Cole.

  “You got it,” said Tom.

  “So you can use investors.”

  “I won’t surrender control. I built this business, and I would rather see it fail and have to liquidate than have to give control to someone else.”

  “I’ll convey that to my client,” said Cole.

  “So … enough business for today. You do swim?”

  A few minutes later Tom came to the room assigned to Cole and led him out to the pool. They were wearing tight, skimpy Speedos, Cole’s in a gaudy abstract pattern of dark and royal blue, maroon, and white. The Lycra stretched over his lower belly, hips, and genitalia. He tugged at the waistband to keep his pubic hair from showing and was uncomfortably aware that he could not tug the vestigial legs down enough even to begin to cover his nates. If Tom had not been wearing the same, in green and white, Cole would not have ventured outside his door.

  “Odd thing,” said Tom. “I swim pretty well, but I never did learn to dive. I can’t even dive off the edge of the pool without flopping on my belly.”

  Cole would learn in a moment that Betsy neither dived nor swam. If she had dived she could have lost at least the top of her spectacularly scanty white bikini.

  Other guests had arrived. Some of them were diving off the Malloys’ high board.

  A woman went off the low board. She hit the water with a splat and splash and swam vigorously to the edge of the pool.

  “Meet Liz McAllister,” Tom said to Cole. “She’s vice president for technology, Gazelle, Incorporated. You asked if we’d mind an expert looking into Sphere. That’s what Liz is doing.”