Never Enough Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  I

  II

  THREE

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  FOUR

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  FIVE

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  II

  III

  IV

  V

  SIX

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  SEVEN

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  EIGHT

  I

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  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  NINE

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  IV

  V

  TEN

  I

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  IV

  V

  VI

  ELEVEN

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  IV

  V

  TWELVE

  I

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  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  THIRTEEN

  I

  II

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  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  FOURTEEN

  I

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  IV

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  VII

  FIFTEEN

  I

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  IV

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  VII

  VIII

  IX

  SIXTEEN

  I

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  IV

  V

  SEVENTEEN

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  VII

  VIII

  IX

  EIGHTEEN

  I

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  VII

  NINETEEN

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  IV

  TWENTY

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  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  TWENTY-ONE

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  IV

  V

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  VII

  VIII

  TWENTY-TWO

  I

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  VII

  VIII

  TWENTY-THREE

  I

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  IV

  V

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  VII

  TWENTY-FOUR

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  IV

  V

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  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I

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  IV

  V

  VI

  TWENTY-SIX

  I

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  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I

  II

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  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I

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  IV

  V

  VI

  TWENTY-NINE

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  VII

  VIII

  IX

  Forge Books by Harold Robbins

  SIN CITY

  Copyright Page

  TEENS BEAT NAVY VET TO DEATH!

  Rampaging Wyckoff teenagers, drunk on beer, beat a navy veteran to death in the parking lot of a Pizza Palace Saturday night.

  What began as a Saturday-night rumble, arising from the fact that the veteran sat on the fender of a car belonging to Cole Jennings, 18, resulted, after a savage beating, in the death of James Amos, 24, a veteran of four years service in the United States Navy.

  Cole Jennings has entered a guilty plea to involuntary manslaughter. His companions David Shea, William Morris, and Anthony DeFelice, have not been charged.

  James Amos, father of the slain young man, says that his son had an exemplary record in the navy and has never had any kind of trouble at home.

  “Anyway … it’s all settled,” said Cole. “Three years probation, after which the record will be erased. I’m accepted at Princeton. And—” He turned to Dave. “Your scholarship is intact, and you’ll be going to Rutgers.”

  Dave nodded. “I won’t forget this, Cole.”

  Cole looked at him. “Yeah sure.” He knew in his heart that Dave would never look back.

  “Robbins has the ability to hold his readers absorbed.”

  —The Chicago Tribune

  “His characters are compelling, his dialogue is dramatic, and his style is simple and straightforward.”

  —The Los Angeles Times

  PROLOGUE

  JANUARY 15, 2000

  David Shea took the last sip of his Dom Pérignon from the crystal flute. He watched as Marilyn Henry, a tall blond with an athletic body that showed she worked out at the gym every day, and Carrie Blake, equally as tall and with an equally well-toned body, jet-black hair, and a cherub face, cleared the table. Both were models. He looked out across his balcony. His apartment on the eighteenth floor looked out over the East River. The twinkling lights of the city painted a spectacular view of Manhattan.

  He turned as Marilyn filled the flute with more champagne. He looked across the table at Ron Bryant, his attorney. He appeared deep in thought. Only his graying temples betrayed his handsome, youthful face. He had chosen Ron Bryant after Cole had refused to represent him any longer. He made his choice because Ron was a self-made man. He had served as a colonel in the air force before going to law school at Oklahoma University, and he represented Chase Manhattan after the fall of the oil business in Oklahoma during the eighties.

  “Okay, Counselor, what’s on your mind? You have been distracted since you walked in the door.”

  Ron looked over toward the two girls in the kitchen. He got up and started toward the balcony. “Let’s go outside.”

  He and Dave both pulled out cigars. Ron lit his Cuban. Dave, who had never smoked in his life until a few months ago, lit up his cigarillo. He took a deep drag.

  They both stared out at the view. “Giuliani is after you,” Bryant said finally.

  “It’s not the first time someone has been after me.” Dave shrugged.

  “I know, but you’re a great target for a man who is considering running for the Senate. Wall Street is a safe target. You saw what he did to Milken and Boesky. He was relentless. The good guys get the bad guys. A politician’s dream and the voters love it.”

  “I am a good guy. I’ve made millions for peopl
e. I am the ‘American Dream.’ I came from nothing, I made my own opportunities. I was born with my assets, looks and charm and determination. I didn’t have a trust fund or a pedigree,” Dave said in his own defense.

  “You’ve stepped on a lot of people along the way. You’re exposed.”

  “They have nothing. Anybody who could give them any information is in just as deep as I am, and none of them would want to be exposed. People in high places keep their mouths shut.”

  Dave turned and faced into the apartment. Marilyn and Carrie had settled on the sofa. Marilyn was rubbing Carrie’s leg.

  “There’s a better view right here.” Dave smiled as he took another drag from the cigarillo.

  Ron turned to look into the living room. Marilyn’s hand had traveled up under Carrie’s skirt. Carrie lifted her skirt, revealing her black lace-top hosiery. She wore no underwear other than the hosiery. Carrie reached out and began to play with Marilyn’s hardening nipples under her tight cotton T-shirt.

  “Are you familiar with Tabatha Morgan?” Ron questioned.

  “ADA. She called Janelle in once and questioned her about me. But I resolved that problem.”

  “Maybe not, her name came up,” Ron said distantly.

  Marilyn took off her T-shirt and began to moan as Carrie gently grazed her nipple with her teeth.

  Dave thought for a moment. “Let’s see what we can get on this ‘would-be’ senator.”

  They walked inside and joined the two ladies.

  ONE

  SATURDAY EVENING, APRIL 20, 1974

  Four of them were together that Saturday evening: Dave Shea, Cole Jennings, Bill Morris, and Tony DeFelice. These four had minor reputations as more than troublemakers.

  Dave Shea was a handsome young man, tall and muscular, a football player. He was very charismatic. Every girl’s dream was to date Dave Shea. He had been his school’s quarterback for two years, during which his team lost only one game. In his senior year the team went undefeated. Besides that, he was an outstanding scholar. He was inducted into the National Honor Society in his junior year. His special subjects were mathematics, chemistry, and physics. As of April he had accepted a football scholarship at Rutgers University. Without the scholarship he would have been unable to go to college. But he had the scholarship and his future seemed assured.

  But he had a dark side. It wasn’t alcohol. The fact was that Dave was a cheat. He did it on the football field, where he had an exceptional talent for knowing when officials weren’t looking and then clipping, face-mask violations, even for punching an opposing player in the nose. In close contact with a defensive lineman, he started his “trash talk.” Calling people names until he would get them to react. A trick that could get a star defense man ejected from the game, while Dave stood gaping and shaking his head, wondering what had caused the foul. In the chemistry lab he knew what results were expected from a problem in qualitative analysis and pretended to have achieved that result, when he really hadn’t. He was in fact a good player and a good student, but he had his little tricks to make himself look even better.

  “You’re good enough, Shea,” Cole said one day. “Why not play it straight … ?”

  “Look, Jennings. Your family will send you to college, no matter what. You’re smart, too, but you don’t need a scholarship. I do. I have to cover myself … be better than good …”

  “Gotcha. But you are good enough!”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m looking for a little insurance on it. The son of a wholesale grocery salesman who drives around the county begging for little orders … Hey! They add up their nickels every month, hopin’ there’s enough to make the payment on the car. I don’t want to live like that, Jennings!”

  He didn’t want to live without sex either. He first shoved his big penis into a girl when he was thirteen years old.

  She was seventeen.

  “Jesus Christ! The guys said you’re … Hey, I can’t take all that, Shea.”

  “Bet ya can,” he said, with a hard-on that ached for release.

  He began to enter her slowly until he was buried deep inside her.

  “God almighty! Hey! I wouldn’t have believed it!”

  Eventually, Amy, who also declared she couldn’t possibly, did. And complained it hurt. But he couldn’t get enough, and after the first time neither could she.

  Cole Jennings played basketball and was good at it. He was tall, six feet six, and had an indefinable agility on the polished floor that brought him recognition as a valuable player. His blond hair fell over his forehead as he dribbled toward the basket, dodging this way and that, avoiding the players trying to guard him, until at the last moment he passed the ball to a teammate close to the goal and charged in to take the rebound if the shot missed. He made most of his points by capturing rebounds and jamming the ball through the basket.

  He, too, was an excellent student. One of them, Dave or Cole, would be valedictorian of their high school class.

  As Dave had suggested, Cole did not need a scholarship, athletic or academic, to go to college. His father was senior partner in a major realty firm. His family could and would pay his tuition at any school he wanted to attend.

  From the time he was old enough to drive, Cole had his own car. That night he was driving his graduation present, already given him though graduation was seven weeks away. It was a black Pontiac TransAm. His parents had always indulged their son. His graduation was no exception.

  Cole was a responsible, thoughtful young man, and even if he could burn rubber he didn’t. Conservative, compared to Dave.

  Dave envied Cole when he saw the beautiful black TransAm. Someday, he thought … someday … but he never even got to drive his father’s old Chevy. That car was too important to making a living for his father to allow his son to drive it.

  Bill Morris played both football and basketball, though he was not the star that Dave and Cole were. He spent most of his time on the bench. Even so, he “went out” for sports and was considered a jock. All of these four were. He was not the scholar his two friends were, either; and his parents had been squirreling away money for years, in anticipation of his college tuition. Bill would not win a scholarship.

  He was a solid young man, not heavy enough for football and not tall enough for basketball. On the basketball floor he wore plastic-rimmed eyeglasses held in place by a rubber strap behind his head. On the football field he wore no glasses and relied on a slightly blurry vision of the developing play. Since he was a guard and all but invariably was blocked after he did or did not block his man, it made little difference. He was dark-haired, and oddly was already showing, on his forehead, the initial evidence of baldness.

  Of the four, many would have called Tony DeFelice the one most likely to succeed. They were all jocks, but Tony was a jock in a very different sense. He was a Golden Gloves boxer with a promising future.

  He was a welterweight, knife-thin, with muscles as hard as the steel of a knife. Many were afraid of him, but he had been trained to restrain himself and never use his boxing skills outside the ring. His ambition was to go to the Olympics and then to turn professional.

  He was an extremely intense young man, with hard eyes. People who knew him well were aware that he had a ready sense of humor and found amusement in all manner of things and people.

  His family owned a score of packer trucks and collected trash and garbage over a wide area of Bergen County. They were said to be “connected.” They were a family of shrewd, hardworking Italian immigrants, who had hauled first in a single mule-drawn wagon and had gradually worked their way up to the considerable business they now owned.

  On this humid April Saturday night it was the same old thing: nothing to do. They were silent as they listened to Bruce Springsteen sing his latest hit. The four boys had bought six-packs of beer and drunk twenty bottles between them. The remaining four bottles were on the floor of the backseat of Cole’s car. A little after ten Cole drove into the parking lot of Pizza Palace on the edge of Wyckof
f.

  The Palace might more realistically have been called the shack. It had only four small tables. Customers were expected to take delivery of their pizzas and drive them home. The boys ordered two pizzas and returned to the car to wait the twenty minutes until their pizzas would be ready. They opened their last four bottles of beer and talked about whether or not they should drive off during the twenty minutes and buy another six-pack or two.

  They had sat there, drinking their last beers and talking aimlessly when Jim Amos came alongside the car.

  “Well, if it ain’t Slaw,” he said in a beer-slurred voice. Slaw was a nickname sometimes fastened on Cole. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t make an issue of it. “New wheels, Slaw?” Amos goaded.

  Amos was twenty-four years old and had served four years in the United States Navy. He was known in the town and area as a drunk and a bully. He would walk up to a smaller and younger boy on the street and ask him what was the finest service in the United States Armed Forces. The boy might not know that Amos had been in the navy and might say United States Marines or something else. If he didn’t say navy, Amos might deck him.

  Or he might say, “You’re wrong, and I’ll let you buy me a few drinks to make up for it.”

  In any case, Jim Amos was a bully. He’d been beaten up two or three times, for having taken a swing at the wrong man; but that had not discouraged him, and he remained a two-bit punk, looking for someone to intimidate.

  Tonight he was feeling aggressive.

  “Slaw and his Three Muskeeters. Mommy and Daddy get this for baby boy?” he said as he hopped up on the fender and sat.

  Dave came out of the passenger side, fast, and rushed around the car. “Get your ass down from there, Amos,” he yelled.

  “Y’ gonna make me?”

  “I’m gonna make you.”