The Inheritors

by Harold Robbins

  “What are you watching, Daddy?” Myriam asked.

  “The news,” he said.

  “‘Sea Hunt’ is on,” Junior said. “Channel Two.”

  “You can watch it after the news,” Sam said.

  “It’ll be half over by then,” Junior said.

  Sam grinned and rumpled the boy’s hair. “Okay. You can go and watch on your set if you want.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.” Junior was gone before the words were out of his mouth.

  Sam looked at his daughter. “How about you? Don’t you want to watch it too?”

  “I’d rather stay here with you,” she said.

  Sam looked at her. This was not usual. Ordinarily she and her brother took off as soon as he gave the word. She climbed down from the edge of the chair into his lap. They sat silently for a few minutes; when a commercial came on, she pulled at his arm.

  “Daddy, are we rich?”

  Sam grinned. “I don’t think so.”

  “Poor?”

  “We’re not poor.”

  “Then if we’re not poor, we’re rich,” she said, finality in her voice.

  “I never thought of it like that,” he said. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “Are we as rich as Uncle Roger?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Aunt Anne just left before you came home. She and Mummy were talking. She said Uncle Roger had more money than we do.”

  “That’s right. But there’s nothing wrong in that.”

  “She also said Uncle Roger was tired of supporting us.” There was a puzzled look on her face. “I thought you supported us.”

  “I do,” he said. “That’s why I go to work every day.”

  “Then why was Mummy crying?”

  “She was?”

  The child’s attention was caught by the television screen. Sam turned her face back to him. “When was Mummy crying?”

  “Aunt Anne said that if you didn’t act nice to Uncle Roger, he would not give you any more money. And then we would be poor because you would lose everything.”

  “She said that?” Sam’s voice was soft.

  “Yes,” Myriam answered. “Then she left and Mummy began to cry.”

  Sam sat there silently for a moment. He took another sip of his drink and watched the screen. But it didn’t register. Anne wasn’t that far wrong. If he couldn’t get the money to finish the picture, they could very well be poor. Perhaps not poor in the sense that he remembered his parents had been when he was a child, but poor compared with what they had now.

  Myriam stirred on his lap. “I think I’ll go and watch ‘Sea Hunt.’”

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “We won’t be poor?” she asked. “Like those little children in India that we take up collections in school for? All starving and with no clothes to wear?”

  “Don’t worry. That’ll never happen.”

  “I’m glad.” She smiled suddenly. “I don’t think I would like that very much.”

  ***

  “You didn’t eat,” he said as they left the dinner table.

  “I wasn’t hungry.” Denise followed him into the living room.

  He turned on the TV and lifted the cover from the ice bucket. “It’s all melted,” he said, annoyed.

  “I’ll get some more.” She took the bucket from the coffee table and left the room.

  He flipped channels until he found something he was interested in watching, then sat back on the couch. He put some Scotch in a glass and held it in his hand until she came back with the ice. He put several cubes in the glass and stirred it with his fingers.

  “That’s a sloppy habit,” she said.

  “Adds a bit of flavor.”

  She turned and looked at the screen. “Another Western? Don’t you ever watch anything else?”

  “I like Westerns,” he said defensively.

  “I’m going to bed.” She left the room before he had a chance to answer.

  He sat there a second, watching the screen, then got to his feet and followed her to the bedroom, the glass still in his hand.

  “Okay,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Get it off your chest.”

  She turned to him from the closet where she had just hung her dress. “I don’t like the way you’ve been acting. You don’t talk to anybody anymore. You do things without thinking of anyone else. You act as if you’re the only person who knows anything.”

  He took a sip of his drink.

  “You’ve changed,” she said. “I don’t know what got into you. You never used to be like that.”

  “Is that what your brother told you?” he asked.

  “I haven’t spoken to Roger,” she snapped.

  “No. You spoke to Anne. He told her what to tell you.”

  “Anne can see things without anyone having to tell her what to say. So can I.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You can call Roger and explain things to him. He’s hurt. Maybe then he’ll give the check back to you.”

  “No,” he said. “There’s nothing to explain. Roger took that check because he wanted to. I didn’t force him. Roger was right. It’s me who was wrong. But not only then. All the time. I should never have a partner. I’m not the type. I have to be my own boss. That was why I went into business myself in the first place.”

  “But he was your partner. He had all that money tied up.”

  “I paid him back,” he said. “You know that. Every penny he ever put in. That two hundred thousand was his share of the business before we went into this picture.”

  “Roger says Stephen Gaunt has turned your head with his promises,” she said.

  “Roger is full of shit!” he snapped, angry for the first time. “Stephen’s promised me nothing. He’s only said that he likes the picture so far, that’s all.” He drained the last drop of liquor in his glass. “Roger should have stayed in the real estate business. That’s all he knows.”

  “But what about the money?” she asked. “You need it to finish the picture.”

  “I’ll find it somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, looking at her. “But I’ll find it. And on my own terms. From now on, the only partner I’ll ever have is you.”

  He put the drink down and walked over to her. She came into his arms and he drew her head down to his chest.

  “I’m worried, Sam,” she said.

  “So am I,” he confessed. “But talk to Myriam tomorrow morning. She overheard you and Anne talking and thinks we’re going to be poor. There’s no point in having her worry too.”

  “She heard us?”

  Sam nodded. “She told me you were crying. She thought she might have to go without clothes and be hungry.”

  Tears suddenly came to Denise’s eyes. “The poor child.”

  She went over to the dresser and picked up a tissue. “I’m all right now,” she said. She blew her nose. “I think I could use a drink.”

  They went back into the living room and he fixed drinks for the two of them. They sat down just as a new program came on.

  “My God, another Western,” she said, getting up to change channels.

  “Don’t change it,” he said. “Steve told me about this one. It’s a new kind of Western. Psychological. He thinks it’ll be very big.”

  She watched it for a few minutes, then turned to him. “It looks like every other Western to me. They’re still shooting at each other. Steve doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  But Sam didn’t even hear her. He was caught up in the events on the small screen in front of him. She was wrong. This show was different. He knew that Steve was right. It would be a big winner.

  Toward the end of the program, she turned to him. “Sam, what are you going to do?”

  He looked at her. “First, I’m going to Italy to take a look at the picture for myself and find out what’s really happening and exactly how much more we’ll need to finish. Maybe I
can find a way to cut some of the expense. We’ll see.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we’ll see what happens next,” he said. He turned back to the set to watch the climax of the show. The little screen had a hypnosis all its own. It took your mind off your problems into another world.

  And in a way it was just as well. For in the end it was Stephen Gaunt who found the solution for him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The little plane gave a sickening lurch as they dipped down over the mountains toward the small airfield at Palermo. The pilot swore in Italian as he adjusted the stabilizer, then turned to Charley and explained something rapidly.

  Charley nodded and turned back to Sam who was sitting directly behind him. “The pilot wishes to apologize for the bump,” he said. “He says it’s been several years since he’s flown one of these and he’s a little out of practice. He flies big Constellations usually. But he says not to worry, by the time we go back to Rome tomorrow, he will have practiced a little more.”

  Sam still felt the dip in his stomach and the faint taste of bile that had come up as the plane dropped. “Helluva time for him to tell us,” he said. “I don’t care how much he practices as long as he does it on his own time. Not with me in the plane.”

  The radio chattered and the pilot replied. He took the plane in a wide sweeping curve out over the sea.

  “What now?” Sam asked nervously.

  “Nothing,” Charley replied. “We just cleared for landing.”

  “What’s he gonna do?” Sam asked. “Land us on a fishing boat?”

  Charley laughed and looked down. It was a bright sunny day and the sea was a calm, clear blue. Here and there, the sails of a few small boats skipped by beneath them. Up ahead of them was Palermo, baking in the summer heat. Neatly the plane went between two mountains and dropped onto the field.

  Sam let his breath out in a sigh as the wheels touched the ground. They rolled toward the small building.

  Charley looked back at him. “The car will be waiting to take us to the hotel. You’ll have a chance to grab a quick shower before we drive to the location.”

  “Why don’t we go right up?” Sam asked.

  “It wouldn’t do any good,” Charley said. “It’s lunch time, nobody’ll be working.”

  The location was a small village in the mountains about an hour and a half ride up a winding narrow road from Palermo. They drove through the village square with its inevitable church and in a few minutes were at the scene.

  Sam blinked his eyes. A moment ago he would have been willing to swear he was back in the sixteenth century; everything, the people as well as the houses, seemed so old. And here, there were trailers, bigger than the village huts, big brute lamps, generators, reflectors. There in the field in front of him, aiming at a small hut, was the big Mitchell camera, protected from the sun by a black cover.

  The driver pulled his little Fiat to a stop just behind one of the trailers. He leaned forward and patted the dashboard of his car as if to congratulate it on getting them there. “Va bene,” he said.

  Sam got out of the car and looked around. Across the road from him, in a field, some men were playing bocce, others were just lying around in the shade, some had their hats pulled down over their faces and were sleeping. Those who were awake returned his gaze with idle curiosity. More would have been an effort in the heat.

  “That’s Nickie’s trailer in front of us,” Charley said, leading the way.

  Sam followed him and they went up the small steps. Inside it was dark and cool; the first room was fixed up as an office with two small desks and a typewriter. It was empty.

  Charley went over and knocked on the door to the second room. “Hey, Nickie,” he called. “Are you awake?”

  There was a scuffling sound from the other room. A moment later, a girl came from it. “Signor Luongo,” she nodded. She went over to the desk, sat down behind the typewriter, and began to comb her hair.

  A moment later, Nickie came out. He was wearing slacks and a sport shirt, but his feet were bare and his eyes were sleepy. He smiled when he saw Sam. “Ah, Sam, it’s an unexpected pleasure,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Sam took it. “I thought I’d take a run over and find out how we were doing.”

  Nickie looked at him. “It’s good well. A little bit slowly perhaps, but we are getting very good film.”

  “The film is good,” Sam said. He didn’t say anything about being behind schedule. Time for that later. “I’d like to take a look around.”

  “My pleasure,” Nickie said. He turned to the girl and shot a few rapid words at her. She nodded and turned back to her typewriter as they went out.

  “This is the small house that The Sisters live in,” Nickie said as they walked toward the camera. “We took off the roof so that we could shoot inside. It’s a real house.”

  Sam looked around. The bocce game was still going on across the road. “Why aren’t they working?” he asked.

  “They’re waiting for the director to call them for the next shot,” Nickie said.

  “What’s holding him up?” Sam asked.

  “I’ll find out.” Nickie exchanged a few words with one of the men slouching in the shade near the camera. He turned back to Sam. “They’re waiting for the sun to be right. In about another half hour.”

  “What the hell are all those brutes doing out here if you wind up waiting for the sun?” Sam asked.

  “We use them for fillers and night shots,” Nickie answered. “But Pierangeli insists on the real thing wherever possible.”

  “How much film did you get in the can today?”

  “A few scenes,” Nickie said.

  “How many minutes?”

  “Maybe two.”

  “And this scene? How long will it run?”

  “Maybe a minute, maybe less.”

  “And for that you wait for the sun?” Sam asked angrily. “I thought you were going to protect me? The picture is already double the budget. Where is my protection?”

  “We had bad breaks, Sam,” Nickie said uncomfortably. “The weather, we had a lot of rain when we wanted sun, sun when we wanted rain—”

  “Why the hell didn’t you shoot with the weather instead of waiting for it?”

  “That’s the way Pierangeli works,” Nickie said. “I can’t change him. Nobody can.”

  “I’d like to see him,” Sam said angrily.

  “He’s over in Marilu’s trailer,” Nickie said. “They’re rehearsing.”

  Pierangeli had already left Marilu by the time they reached her trailer. Her maid greeted them. Marilu was resting, she exclaimed. “E vero, il Maestro and the Signor Ulrich, the German actor, have been rehearsing with her over an hour and now they have gone to give her a chance to compose herself before the shooting begins again.”

  “What the hell were they rehearsing that got her so tired she has to rest?” Sam asked.

  Charlie shot him a look, but no one answered, and they started back toward the set. Charley fell behind and whispered as they were walking. “Pierangeli is a realist,” he explained.

  “So?”

  “This is the scene after she and the German were screwing in the field back of the house and she comes in all fucked and glowing and her sister accuses her of going with her guy.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Sam asked.

  Charley looked at him. “You mean—he really had them do it?”

  Charley nodded. “Pierangeli believes the camera will see it on her face.”

  “But what about Nickie? Surely, he—”

  “It’s for the film, for art. There’s nothing personal in it.”

  “I’ll have to tell that to Denise sometime,” Sam said. “But she’ll never believe it.”

  Men were already at work by the time they reached the set. The cameraman and his helpers had the cover off the camera and were busy with the lenses. The soundmen were wheeling their portable recorder into position. Other men were straightening up the grou
nd in front of the house, sweeping the small steps, oiling the door hinges so that they would not squeak at the wrong moment.

  Sam looked around. He did not see Pierangeli. “Where’s the director?”

  Nickie pointed.

  Sam followed his hand. Pierangeli was sitting on the ground, his back against the small stone-wall fence in front of the house. His knees were drawn up and his head rested on his arms crossed on the knees. His wide-brimmed black hat was pulled down over his face, shielding him from the sun.

  Sam started toward him. Nickie stopped him. “Not now,” he said. “Il Maestro is getting in the mood. We never interrupt him before he shoots a scene.”

  Sam stood there watching. After about five minutes Pierangeli raised his head. He looked around at all the workmen as if he were surprised to find them there. Then slowly he got to his feet.

  He walked behind the camera and peered through the viewfinder. He said something to the cameraman and, leaving him, walked over to the doorway in the front of the house. He kicked some dirt back that the men had swept away. Then he glanced up at the sun, squinting, and turned back to look at his shadow against the house. Apparently everything was all right, for he made an invisible signal as he walked back behind the camera. There was a piercing blast on a whistle.

  “Silenzio!” an assistant’s voice roared.

  A second later all that could be heard was the faint hum of a motor, then that too died away. Without looking around, Pierangeli held up his hand. “Avanti,” he said in a quiet voice, bringing his hand down sharply.

  The door opened and the girl who was playing the younger sister came out, a pail in her hand. She threw the water out across the steps. She started back when she heard the sound. She looked up.

  Sam turned and followed her gaze. Marilu was coming through the gate in the stone fence. There was something about the way she looked, something about the way she moved, her hips and legs and breasts swinging. No one had to be told. Everybody knew it just by looking at her.

  Sam turned again and looked at the little man standing next to the camera. Under the wide-brimmed hat all he could see was the man’s eyes. They were watching. Everything. As a camera sees everything.

  Sam turned and gestured to Charley. They walked back across the road out of earshot. “Come on,” Sam said. “We’re going back to Rome.”