Dreams Die First
The most seductive, most dazzling novel from America’s master storyteller…
“Harold Robbins is a master!”
—Playboy
“Robbins’ books are packed with action, sustained by a strong narrative drive and are given vitality by his own colorful life.”
—The Wall Street Journal
Robbins is one of the “world’s five bestselling authors… each week, an estimated 280,000 people… purchase a Harold Robbins book.”
—Saturday Review
“Robbins grabs the reader and doesn’t let go…”
—Publishers Weekly
Dreams Die First
Harold Robbins
Copyright
Dreams Die First
Copyright © 2014 by Jann Robbins
Cover art, special contents, and electronic edition © 2014 by RosettaBooks LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover design by Alexia Garaventa
ISBN ePub edition: 9780795341038
Many thanks to the man who wears the hat, Bradley Yonover.
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
BOOK TWO
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Harold Robbins, Unguarded
Harold Robbins titles from RosettaBooks
BOOK ONE
The Down Side
CHAPTER 1
It was five o’clock in the afternoon when I woke up. The room stank of stale cigarettes and cheap sour red wine. I rolled out of bed and almost fell as I stumbled over the boy sleeping on the floor beside my bed. I stared down at him in surprise. He was naked and I couldn’t remember how or when he got there. Even worse, I didn’t recognize him.
He didn’t move as I walked across the room, rolled up the shade and opened the window. The song says it never rains in Southern California. Don’t you believe it. The way the wind blasted the water over me, it was like stepping under a cold shower. I swore and pushed the window down.
Some of the rain hit the boy, but it didn’t wake him. He merely rolled over on his side and curled into a ball, his knees tucked up against his chest. I circled around him to go into the bathroom. I still had half an hour to get over to unemployment and collect my check. If I rushed, I could make it.
Ten minutes later I was on my way out the front door. The Collector, whose new red ’68 Jaguar blocked the rush-hour traffic coming from the freeway onto Highland, was sitting and waiting for me. He raised his hand and I rushed across the rain-swept sidewalk and got into the car.
“I haven’t got my money yet,” I said before he could speak. “I was just on my way to unemployment.”
His shiny black face creased in an easy smile. “That’s okay, Gareth, I figured that. I’ll drive you.” He moved into traffic, disdainful of the blasting horns behind him.
“Business must be bad if Lonergan is sending you after the small fry.”
He was still smiling. “Lonergan believes that if you look after the pennies the dollars will take care of themselves.”
I had no answer for that. I’d been into Lonergan for so long I’d almost forgotten when it all began. Three, maybe four months ago, when I ran short after my first unemployment check. I’d never gotten caught up after that. It was like taking an instant ten-dollar cut. Every week I gave him my unemployment check for sixty dollars and he gave me back fifty in cash. If I could have made it one week without the fifty, I would have been even. But no way. Without it, it was wipeout time.
The Collector turned into the parking lot and pulled up in front of the entrance. “I’ll be right here,” he said. “Go get it.”
I jumped out of the car and dashed for the door. I made it just as the guard came to lock up. Verita, the Mexican girl, was at my regular window. “For Chris’ sake, Gary,” she complained. “Why you come so late?”
“Why do you think? I was out looking for a job.”
“Oh, yeah?” She pulled the forms out of the drawer and pushed them toward me. “It was raining and you stayed in bed for wan more fuck waiting for it to stop.”
“Only when you’re with me, baby,” I said, signing the form. “Ain’t no other lady can keep me coming back like that.”
She smiled as she gave me the check. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
I folded the check and stuck it in my pocket. “Not true. You ask them.”
“I make dinner home tonight,” she said. “Good enchiladas. Tacos with real beef. Red wine. You come?”
“I can’t, Verita. Honest. I got a meeting with a guy about a job.”
She made a face. “Whenever a man say ‘Honest’ to me, I know he lying.”
“Maybe next week,” I said, starting for the door.
“There won’t be no next week,” she called after me.
But I was already at the door and it wasn’t until I was back in the car that I found out what she meant.
The Collector had the pen ready for me. I took it, signed the check and handed it over to him. He looked at my signature and shoved the check in his pocket. “Good.” He nodded; then his voice went flat. “Now get out.”
I stared in surprise. “But you didn’t give me my fifty.”
“No more,” he said. “Your credit just ran out.”
“What’re you talking about? We got this standing arrangement.”
“Only as long as you get your checks. You don’t stay on top of things the way Lonergan does. He knows this is your last check and that you’re not eligible now for another three months.”
“Shit. What do I do now? I’m busted.”
“You could go back to work,” he said. “Instead of trying to pick up shit clap from small boys.”
There was nothing for me to say. It seemed Lonergan knew it all.
The Collector reached across me and pushed open the door. I started to get out and the Collector put a hand on my arm. “Lonergan tol’ me to tell you if you really want to go back to work to come an’ see him tonight about twelve thirty at his office in back of the Dome.”
Then he pulled the door shut and drove off, leaving me standing with the rain pouring down my face. I fished through my pockets and came up with
a mangled package of cigarettes. There were maybe three left. I went back against the building, out of the wind, and lit one.
When I looked up, I saw Verita driving out of the lot in her old Valiant. I waved. She stopped and I ran over and got in.
“My appointment isn’t until twelve thirty if your offer is still good,” I said.
***
She had a small studio apartment just off Olivera Street. If you angled yourself at the window, you could see the bright lights down the street, which was always busy. The Chicanos didn’t seem to mind the rain. After dinner was walk-around time. That was when they went—and stayed—out, dragging their kids with them until everything closed up at two in the morning. Then the poor ones took the kids home and those that could afford it made for the after-hours places. Mexicans didn’t like to sleep at night.
“Here’s Johnny!” Ed McMahon’s voice came from the television set at the foot of the bed behind me. I raised my head.
Her hands pushed me down between her legs again. “Don’t stop, Gary. That’s so good.”
I looked up at her. Her face held the grim concentration that came over it as she reached for an orgasm. I put three fingers into her and rolled her button gently between my teeth. I felt her body arch and spasm as she hit it. Her breath rushed out with an explosive gasp. I could feel the still-trembling buttocks in my hand. I waited a moment until she stopped and opened her eyes.
She shook her head slowly. “You do it so good, Gary. Nobody do it like you.”
I was silent.
Her fingers came down and tangled with my hair, brushing it back from my eyes. “I love to see your blond head down there between my legs. My hair is so dark and yours is so white.”
I rolled over and began to get out of bed.
She stopped me. “Do you have to go? It’s still raining. You can stay with me tonight.”
“I wasn’t lying. I have an appointment about a job.”
“Who gives job interviews at twelve thirty at night?” she asked skeptically.
I reached for my jeans. “Lonergan.”
“Oh.” She rolled out of bed and made for the bathroom. “I go wash my pussy. I be right back. I drive you over.”
We were silent in the car until she pulled to a stop in front of Lonergan’s place behind the Cinerama Dome. “You want me to wait for you?”
“No. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
She hesitated a moment. “He’s not a good man, Gary. Be careful.”
I looked at her questioningly.
“He waits for people who have no money. Then he sucks them in. I know boys and girls who are working the streets for him. Sometimes he has the Collector wait for them outside the office on the day they get their last check. Like he waited for you.”
I was surprised. I didn’t think she had seen him. “I don’t intend to walk the streets for anybody.”
Her eyes were shining. “You have money?”
“I’ll manage.”
She opened her purse and took out a ten-dollar bill. She pressed it into my hand. “Take it,” she said earnestly. “Nobody should see Lonergan without money in his pocket.”
I hesitated.
“It’s a loan,” she said quickly. “You pay me back when you get a job.”
I looked down at the ten, then nodded and put it in my pocket. “Thanks.” I leaned across the seat and kissed her.
The rain had eased off. I waited until she put the car in gear and drove away before making my way into the Silver Stud bar.
The bar was almost empty except for a few hustlers nursing their drinks. They looked me over quickly and just as quickly wrote me off. It was still too early for the rich queens to come down from the hills. I walked down past the bar. Lonergan’s office was upstairs off a staircase at the back of the room.
The Collector was sitting at a table in the dark near the staircase. He held up a hand to stop me. “Lonergan’s running late. He ain’t here yet.”
I nodded.
He pointed to a chair. “Sit down an’ have a drink.”
I looked at him with raised eyebrows.
His face broke into a smile. His teeth were sparkling white in the dark. “I’m buying. What’s your pleasure?”
“Scotch rocks.” I slipped into the chair.
The waiter put the drink in front of me. I took a mouthful and savored the taste. It felt crisp and clean.
“You look beat, man,” the Collector said. “Like you been eatin’ a little too much Mexican chili tonight.”
“How come you know so much about what I do? I must be real important.”
The Collector laughed. “You not important. Lonergan is. An’ he likes to be informed about people he plans to do business with.”
CHAPTER 2
Lonergan came in about one o’clock. He walked right past the table at which we were sitting without even a glance in our direction and went up the stairs, followed by his bodyguard. I started to get out of my chair.
The Collector waved me back. “When he want to see you, he’ll send for you.”
“He went by so fast he never even saw me.”
“He saw you. He sees everything.” He signaled for another drink.
I raised my glass and looked down the bar. It was beginning to get busy. The Beverly Hills and Bel Air queens were coming in after their society dinner dates. They had the air of those who having done their duty were now seeking a little fun. One of them who saw me looking must have thought I was casing him. He took a few steps toward me, then saw the Collector and went back to the bar.
The Collector gave a short laugh. “You pretty. With that white blond hair you can make a good buck playin’ cowboy.”
“Is that the kind of job Lonergan wants to talk to me about?” I asked.
“How the fuck do I know, man? He don’t take me into his confidence.”
Half an hour later the bodyguard signaled me from the foot of the stairs. I left my drink on the table and followed him up the steps. He opened the door of the office, closed it behind me and remained out in the hall.
The soundproofing and the faint hum of the air-conditioner unit cut out all noise from the bar. The room was starkly furnished and dominated by a large desk. A shaded round fluorescent lamp illuminated the papers on the desk blotter.
Lonergan was behind the desk, his face half hidden in the shadows. He looked up. “Hello, Gareth.” His voice was as noncommittal as his tie, white shirt and Brooks Brothers three-button jacket.
“Hello, Uncle John.” I made no move to the chair in front of the desk.
“Sit down,” he said.
Silently I sat down in the stiff-backed chair.
“Your mother hasn’t heard from you in more than two months.”
I didn’t answer.
There was no reproval in his voice. “She’s worried about you.”
“I thought you kept her informed.”
“I don’t,” he said flatly. “You know my rules. I never involve myself in family affairs. She’s my sister, you’re her son. If you have problems in communication, you solve them.”
“Then why bring it up?”
“She asked me to.”
I started to get up. He raised his hand. “We’re not finished. I said I had a proposition for you.”
“The Collector said it was a job.”
He shook his head. “People are stupid. They never get messages straight.”
“Okay,” I said.
His eyes glinted behind the small old-fashioned gold-rimmed glasses. “You’re getting kind of on in years for the role you’re playing. Somehow thirty-year-old hippies seem out of date.”
I didn’t answer.
“Kerouac, Ginsberg, Leary. They’re all rapidly disappearing into yesterday. Even the kids aren’t listening anymore.”
I fished the last cigarette from my pocket and lit it. I didn’t know what he was getting at.
“Where have all your heroes gone?”
“I never had any heroes.
Except you, maybe. And that went out the window when my father jumped.”
His voice was empty. “Your father was a weak man.”
“My father couldn’t face the thought of going to jail for you. He chose the quick way.”
“He could have done four to six on one hand. When he got out, he would have been in clover.”
“If it was so easy, why didn’t you do it?”
A shadowed smile crossed his lips. “Because I have a business to run. Your father knew that when we made our deal.”
I dragged on the cigarette without speaking.
He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “Do you know even the FBI gave up on you? They didn’t think you were worth keeping an eye on.”
I smiled. “That’s not very flattering, is it?”
“Would you like to know why?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “You were too intellectual. They said you’d never make a good revolutionary. You always saw both sides of a problem and found reasons for each of them.”
“Is that why they went to the trouble of fucking up the jobs I got?”
“That was before they had you figured. Now they don’t give a damn.”
“That doesn’t help me now. The damage is done. Every prospective employer has it in his record.”
“That’s why I sent for you.” He paused for a moment. “Maybe it’s time you went into business for yourself.”
“Doing what? You going to buy me a taxi, Uncle John?”
“How about a weekly newspaper of your own?”
My mouth hung open. “You’re putting me on.”
“No.” His voice was flat.
“There’s got to be a hooker in this somewhere.”
“Just one. I own the advertising. You can do what you like with the rest of the paper. Use it to say whatever you want to say. I don’t give a damn.”
“Advertising is where the money is. Where do I get mine?”
“Circulation. You keep the net receipts and I’ll throw in ten percent of the advertising revenue to help with the costs.”
“Who will own the paper?”
“You will.”
“Where does the money to start it come from?”
“It’s already started,” he answered. “You may have seen copies of it around. The Hollywood Express.”
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