Spellbinder
Spellbinder
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
Spellbinder
Harold Robbins
Copyright
Spellbinder
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 Mobipocket edition: 9780795341298
Many thanks to the man who wears the hat, Bradley Yonover.
CONTENTS
Book I
JESUS FOR LOVE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Book II
JESUS FOR MONEY
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Book III
JESUS FOR POWER
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Harold Robbins, Unguarded
Harold Robbins titles from RosettaBooks
Book I
JESUS FOR LOVE
Chapter One
“Preacher!” The hoarsely whispered shout hung heavily in the shadowed humid jungle air.
There was a rustle in the underbrush that sent the birds abruptly shrieking into the trees, then silence. Preacher’s voice was low and calm. “Where are you?”
“Over here. In the hole. Hurry, Preacher. I’m hurt real bad.”
A moment later, Preacher’s head and shoulders appeared over the edge of the small crater. He peered down at the wounded black soldier and nodded silently. He elbowed himself forward and tumbled clumsily into the crater, rolled over and sat up, the white band with the red cross on his arm barely visible for the mud covering it. He slipped the medical pack from his shoulders and placed it on the ground beside him. “Where are you hit, Washington?” he asked without looking up from the pack he was opening.
The soldier grabbed at his arm. “I’m gonna die, Preacher,” he said in a frightened voice. “Will you hear my confession?”
“You crazy, Joe?” Preacher looked at him. “You’re not Catholic, I’m no priest.”
“So what?” Joe whispered. “You’re a preacher anyway, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not,” Preacher answered. “I’m not a minister.”
“But they call you Preacher,” Joe insisted. “We all know you’re always carryin’ a Bible with you.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Preacher said.
“But you’re a Conchie, you won’t carry a gun or nothin’. You got to be some kind of religious to make them let you get away with that.”
“I don’t believe in killing,” Preacher said shortly. “That’s all.” The kit was open in front of him. “Now tell me where you were hit.”
“In the back,” Joe said. “First it hurt like hell, now I feel the numbness spreading all through my body. That’s how I know I’m gonna die. When it reaches my heart, I’m finished. I don’t care what kind of preacher you are, you gotta hear my confession. I don’t want to go to hell with all them sins on my soul.”
“Suit yourself,” Preacher said. “But turn over first so I can see where you got hit.”
Joe rolled over, groaning as he moved. “Jesus, it hurts,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, Preacher. That just slipped out.”
“It’s all right,” Preacher said, looking down. The seat of Joe’s pants was soaked in blood. He took a pair of scissors from the kit and began to cut away the material.
Joe began to mumble. “Forgive me for my sins, O heavenly Father. I drank and cursed and took Thy name in vain. I committed the sin of fornication in Saigon with two sisters and sodomized both and made them suck my—”
“You can stop now,” Preacher said suddenly. “You’re not going to die.”
Joe turned and stared up at him. “How do you know?”
“Nobody ever died from getting shot in their fat black ass,” Preacher said, reaching for a swab and beginning to clean the buttock with an antiseptic.
Joe jumped. “That burns.”
“Hold still,” Preacher said. “I want to get a compress on it to stop the bleeding.”
“Can I have a smoke?” Joe asked.
“Sure thing.”
“There’s a couple of joints in the pocket of my blouse. Can you get one out for me?”
Silently, Preacher opened the pocket flap and gave him a joint. Joe stuck it between his lips and with his other hand came up with a small lighter. A brief flash and the joint was lit. He took a deep toke and sighed comfortably. “That’s better.”
A few minutes later Preacher finished taping on the compress. “You’ll have to stay on your stomach,” he said. “I don’t want you to get any dirt on your ass. You can pick up too many infections from this ground out here. I’ll send the stretcher-bearers back for you.”
Joe leaned on his elbow and looked at him. “You’re an okay guy, Preacher,” he said, extending the joint. “Care for a toke? This is super shit.”
Preacher shook his head. “No, thanks.” He began to repack his medical kit.
Joe’s voice was very relaxed. “Just what religion are you?” he asked curiously.
Preacher looked at him. “My mother was Greek Orthodox, my father Methodist. But the only church in the town I grew up was Unitarian, so that’s where we went. So I guess that’s what I am.”
“Are all Unitarians Conchies?”
“No,” Preacher answered. “That’s just what I believe. Christ said—”
Joe laughed. “I was brung up Baptist. I heard all them speeches. You’re not goin’ to preach to me, are you?”
Preacher looked at him for a moment. “No.”
“Think they’ll send me home?” Joe asked.
“Pro
bably.”
“That’s not so bad then. A Purple Heart and a trip home for a shot in the ass, is it?”
“Not so bad.” Preacher snapped the medical kit shut.
“I think I’ll join up with the Black Muslims when I get back. They the big niggers back home now.” He watched Preacher start to get up. “Careful, Preacher, keep your head down,” he warned. “Those Vee-yet bastards can see in the dark.”
The faint echo of the shot came almost as soon as the words were out of Joe’s mouth. The bullet slammed into Preacher’s arm, turning him half around and knocking him to the ground.
He lay still for a moment, then sat up painfully and looked down at the blood welling through the sleeve of his blouse. He glanced at Joe. “Now you tell me.”
With his free hand he pulled open the kit and took out the scissors again. Quickly he cut the sleeve away from his arm. Blood was spurting from a bullet hole in the fleshy upper portion. “You’ll have to help me fix a tourniquet.”
“Sure thing, Preacher.” Joe crawled over to him and between them they managed to fix a tourniquet and stop the flow of blood. “Jesus, Preacher, I’m sorry.”
Preacher managed a grin. “It’s God’s will.” He paused for a moment. “I’ll take a puff of that joint now.”
The soldier relit the joint and passed it to him. He watched Preacher take several tokes. “Is your arm hurt bad?”
Preacher looked at him. “Not too bad. At least I’ll be able to sit on the plane home.”
Joe stared at him. “I just thought of somethin’. My balls is numb. You think I got it there too?”
Preacher laughed. “No chance. Not with an ass as fat as yours.” He passed the joint back.
Joe sucked on the joint. “How long do you think it will take for them to come and get us?”
“Not long,” Preacher said. “They know I came up here.”
“Grass always makes me horny,” Joe said. “I was just thinkin’ about those girls. You know, the ones I was confessing to you about. I think I’m beginnin’ to get a hard-on.”
“I told you you were all right.” Preacher laughed and took the joint from Joe’s fingers. He took a few deep tokes and leaned back against the wall of the small crater. “Think pure thoughts,” he said. “That’s what my mother always used to say.”
He dried himself with the towel as he came out of the shower, then spread it over the toilet seat and sat down. Carefully he began to examine his penis. The foreskin was red and inflamed and painful as he peeled it back to examine the glans. That, too, was swollen and purple-veined. It was no use, he thought as he began to spread a thin layer of Vaseline on himself. He was doing it too much. Each day he swore to himself he would stop, but then the very next day it was the same thing all over again. Like just now, in the shower.
He was doing everything just right. Ice cold water. Freezing cold. Then it happened the moment he began to soap his genitals. Almost before he knew it he was doing it, using the slippery soapsuds to carry him away. Then the wildly spurting semen spattered against the white tiles, leaving him empty and ashamed. He stared down at himself. It wasn’t what he had wanted at all. Then the urine burst forth, painful and burning and mixing yellow with the water going down the drain. It hurt, it hurt so bad.
He stepped from the shower, his resolution to stop growing firm again. But even as he thought it, he knew he could not stop. It would happen again in school. He would run to the toilet after seeing the girls in their tight little gym suits. And then in the afternoon down at the candy store, where they all met and sipped their Cokes and girls teased with their twitching boobs and asses, sending him back to the toilet again. There were times he couldn’t even wait and it would happen while he was sitting at the table with them and he felt the spurting sticky wetness suddenly flooding into his underwear. He was sick. He was sure of it. He was sick.
“Constantine!” His mother’s voice filtered through the bathroom door.
He hated that name. His mother was Greek Orthodox, from Chicago, and had named him after her father. He never used it at school. There all the kids called him Andy, short for Andrew, his middle name.
“Constantine! Better hurry. You’ll be late for school.”
“I’ll be right out, Mother,” he called back.
He came down into the kitchen and sat down at the table. His mother placed three fried eggs and bacon steaming from the frying pan in front of him. He reached for the hot buttered biscuits and began to eat ravenously. “Where’s Dad?” he asked between mouthfuls.
“Your father left early for a meeting down at the Unitarian church,” she said. “They offered to make him a trustee if he would formally join the church.”
“Is he going to do it?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said. “After all, we’ve been going there for years. Your father says it really doesn’t make any difference. It’s Christian.”
“It’s also the only church in town,” he said.
She nodded, sinking into a chair across the table from him. “That’s true.”
“What about you?” he asked. “How do you feel about it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But the nearest Greek Orthodox church is in Chicago. That’s six hundred miles away.”
He looked at her. “It’s not the same thing though, is it?”
She shook her head. “Not really.”
“Then what’s the fire? We’ve been getting along fine the way we are.”
“Your father’s business is getting very important in the town. And the trustees of the church feel he should give them his support.”
“And if he doesn’t join up?”
“I don’t know,” she said in a troubled voice. “You know them as well as I do. They could turn cold in a minute. Like they did with that Jew, Rosenbloom. After six years he had to close up his business and move away.”
He finished his breakfast and got to his feet. “Maybe it’s not so bad.”
“Maybe,” she said. She looked up at him. “There’s something I have to talk to you about.”
“What’s that?” he asked, suddenly cautious.
She didn’t look up at him; her voice seemed suddenly embarrassed. “Mandy showed me the sheets she took from your bed this morning.”
“What about them?” he asked defensively.
She still didn’t meet his eyes. “They were all stained. Mandy says it’s been going on a long time.”
“Why don’t that nigger mind her own business and do the laundry just like she’s supposed to?” he snapped angrily.
“She thought I should know,” his mother said. “I didn’t tell your father because you know how angry he would get. You have to do something to stop it.”
“I can’t help it, Mama,” he said. “I don’t have anything to do with it. It happens while I’m asleep.”
His mother looked up at him. “You can help it, Constantine. Just think pure thoughts. Nothing but pure thoughts. That’s all.”
He returned her gaze thinking of all those girls at school with their teasing twitchy little bodies. “It’s not that easy, Mama.”
“You can do it, Constantine,” she said. “Just think pure thoughts.”
Chapter Two
The hot bright sun beat down on Fisherman’s Wharf as the patrol car pulled into a no-parking area and came to a stop on the opposite side of the street. It was near three o’clock and the lunchtime crowds were pouring out of the restaurants, bright in their tourist shirts and hats, comfortably picking at their teeth and wandering along the streets peering into the souvenir shops and stalls.
“They’re doin’ business,” the sergeant said in a satisfied voice to the patrolman who was driving the car. “Nice to see.”
“Yeah,” the patrolman said. He couldn’t have cared less. The sergeant had been on this beat for years. He got all the gravy.
“DiMaggio’s still the big draw,” the sergeant said. “They still come to see Joltin’ Joe, even now.”
“Ye
ah.” The patrolman’s voice was still noncommittal. All he wanted was a smoke, but no chance with the sergeant along.
They sat there silently for a moment. “Do you see that?” the sergeant asked suddenly.
The patrolman looked. He saw nothing. “What?”
“Over there. In the crowds off the wharf.”
“I still don’t see nothin’.”
“Those girls with the long granny dresses. They’re shakin’ tin boxes. There’s about six, seven of them.”
“So?”
“I never seen them before,” the sergeant said.
“There’s always kids around beggin’,” the patrolman said.
“Not like this,” the sergeant said. “They seem organized. Like they have a plan. See the way they split up and hit the crowds? If the first one doesn’t nick you, another follows up right away.”
The patrolman became curious. “Think they’re dips?”
The sergeant watched them carefully. “Don’t think so. They keep too far apart and they never come close to the mark. They hold the tin box in their hands way out in front of them.”
“They’re all pretty girls,” the patrolman said. “Clean-looking too. Not like most of the flower children and dopers.”
“Yeah,” the sergeant said. “I wonder what the scam is.”
“We can roust a couple of them and find out.”
“No,” the sergeant answered. “Let’s wait and see what they do.”
The patrolman couldn’t stand it any longer. “Mind if I have a smoke, Sergeant?”
The sergeant looked at him with a pitying glance. “Okay. But keep the cigarette down. I wouldn’t like the lieutenant coming by and seeing it.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.” There was genuine gratitude in the patrolman’s voice. He bent down alongside the wheel and lit the cigarette, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs. He took another quick drag and then looked sideways up at the sergeant. “What’s happening?”
“The kids are doing all right. The marks are dropping the coins right into the slot.”
The patrolman took another drag on the cigarette, then carefully pinched it out and straightened up. “Thanks, Sergeant, I really needed that.”