The Inheritors Page 3

Suddenly she was crying. She turned her face into the pillow, smothering her sobs.

  I sat down on the bed and lifted her head against my shoulder. She was trembling.

  “I’m frightened, Steve,” she whispered. “I’m so scared I’m going out of my skull. If they hurt me, I’ll die. I know it. I can’t take pain.”

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you, baby.” I soothed her gently.

  “I sat here all morning thinking about it and if Raoul hadn’t come I would have gone out the window.” She caught her breath. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  I pulled her off the bed into the bathroom and held her head while she threw up into the toilet bowl. After a moment there was nothing left in her. She began to shiver. I threw a robe around her and held her until she stopped.

  “I’ll be all right now,” she said.

  I looked at her. She was pale but her eyes were clear. “You shower and get dressed. I’ll have some hot coffee ready for you by the time you come out.”

  She stopped me in the bathroom door before I could leave. “Did you get the job, Steve?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m glad,” she said.

  I stood outside the bathroom until I heard the water running in the shower. Then I went into the kitchen, found the coffeepot and plugged it in.

  ***

  Hospital waiting rooms are the same all over the world. By the time the doctor came down I had the sign on the wall memorized.

  THIS IS AN ACCREDITED BLUE CROSS HOSPITAL.

  He came into the room, still in his surgical greens. He glanced around, noting the other people waiting, and nodded to me. “Come on down to my office, Steve.”

  I followed him into the small oak-paneled room. He closed the door carefully and turned to me. “You can lose the worried look, Steve. She’s fine.”

  I felt the weight lift from my shoulders. “No problems?”

  “None at all,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “We even put it on the books. A simple D and C for fibroids. We’ll keep her overnight. She can go home in the morning.”

  “Can I use your phone?” He nodded and I made the call I promised.

  He looked at me when I put down the phone. “Her father?”

  I nodded.

  “She’s afraid of him,” he said. “But then, she’s a very frightened girl. You seem to be the only one she has any confidence in at all.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “You hear a lot of things up there,” he said. “The Pentothal loosens them up. She said at first it made her a little high like marijuana, then she said she wasn’t afraid anymore and that the only other times she wasn’t afraid was when she was high or with you.

  I said nothing.

  “I know a good psychiatrist in town. If you can persuade her to see him, he might be able to help her.”

  I stared at him. I knew Bill ever since I was a kid. But this was the first time I thought of him as a doctor. I wondered what there was about doctors that made all of them think they could play God.

  “The one reason she probably trusts me,” I said, “is because I mind my own business. I never try to tell her what she should do.”

  He shrugged. “I’m sorry. I thought you were her friend.”

  “I am. And my idea of being a friend is to be there. No matter what. Not to carp, not criticize, not to direct. Just be there.”

  “But she’s just a child.”

  “She’s twenty-two,” I said. “And her mind was made up long before I knew her. And like everyone else, she has the right to choose her own road.”

  “Even if it’s the road to self-destruction?”

  “Even that.” I hesitated a moment. “Don’t you see, Bill, that the only way I can help her is if she asked me? Otherwise I’ll be just like everyone else she’s known in her life.”

  He was silent while he thought that one over. Then he nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “Of course. She’s in room twenty on the second floor. But don’t stay too long, she needs rest.”

  “I won’t.”

  “By the way,” he added. “Now that we’re legitimate, does she have Blue Cross?”

  I laughed. “I don’t know, but I doubt it. Just send the bill to me. I’ll see that you get paid.”

  He laughed too.

  “Thank you, Bill,” I said and went upstairs.

  She seemed to be sleeping when I entered the semi-darkened room. Her jet-black hair framed her pale thin face. I could see the childlike shadows under her closed eyes. I stood there looking down at her.

  Her eyes opened and the blue of them was startling in the white face. She moved her hand gently toward me. “Hello, Steve. You waited. I’m glad.”

  I took her hand. It was cool and fragile. “I said I would.” I sat down in the chair next to the bed. “How do you feel?”

  “I hurt a little bit,” she said. “But it’s not too bad. They gave me something and I’m just beginning to come down.” She turned her lips to my hand. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to fuck again—after this?”

  “Do you want an appointment?” I laughed. “I think I’ll be able to fit you in next week.”

  “I’m not joking, Steve,” she said intensely.

  “Neither am I,” I said.

  Suddenly I felt the hot tears against my hand. “I want a baby the next time, Steve. This is such a terrible waste. I don’t want to go through it again, ever.”

  I was silent.

  Her voice was almost muffled by the pillow. “Will you marry me, Steve? I’ll be a good wife to you, I promise.”

  I put both hands on her face and turned it to me. Her eyes were wide and a little bit frightened. “This is no time to talk about it,” I said gently. “You’ve just been through a bad scene. Let’s talk about it when you’re better.”

  Her eyes searched mine. “I won’t change my mind.”

  I smiled at her. “I hope not,” I said. Then I bent and kissed her lips. “Now try to get some rest.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  I went down the steps between the jockeys and into Twenty-One. Chuck was waiting at the door for me. He put an arm around my shoulder. “I got your table set up in the back corner of the bar,” he said. “Jack Savitt’s there waiting. He’s two martinis up on you.”

  “Thanks, Chuck,” I said.

  “Anytime, buddy,” he smiled, his eyes already going over my shoulder to the new people coming in behind me.

  I walked through the bar, which was packed three deep. The captain came rushing up to pull out the table.

  Jack looked up, his gray crew cut somehow matching his tweed jacket. His voice was edgy. “Well?”

  I sat down. “Relax,” I said. “We did it.”

  “The whole thing?” His voice was soft and had a kind of wonder. “The way we talked about it?”

  I nodded. “President, Sinclair TV.”

  “My God!” he said. “Just like that?”

  The waiter put two martinis down on the table in front of us. Jack held up his hand. “Double it,” he said. He grinned at me. “Was I right about how to handle him?”

  I held the martini toward him. “You were right.” Let him feel good about it. He didn’t have to know I had an extra ace up my sleeve. But I was under no illusions. Barbara got me that job as much as anything else. I swallowed the drink. It felt good going down.

  “You talk money, contract, terms?”

  I shook my head. “What for? That’s your job.”

  “Good boy,” he smiled. “Don’t you worry. We’ll make a good deal for you.”

  “I’m sure you will,” I smiled back at him. More than anything else he was an agent. And like every agent once you got the job, he was going to get it for you.

  “Where the hell were you all afternoon?” he asked. “All I got was the message to meet you here and then you dropped out of sight. This was no time to shack up with a broad. My ulcers were developing ulcers.”

  I laughed. �
��No broad. I had some personal business that couldn’t keep.” Another martini appeared in front of me as if by magic. I picked it up and looked at him. “Now I want you to turn your staff loose and put some information together for me. I want a complete rundown on network personnel. Programming, sales, research, advertising and engineering, both coasts. Then the same thing station by station across the country. After that, I want a program breakdown, production and rating, program by program nationally and by market. On top of that I want a list of all pilots, planned and in work, and I want it complete, Sinclair and all other networks.”

  It was his turn to crow. He reached down to the seat beside him and came up with a black leather-bound loose-leaf book almost three inches thick. I looked down at the gold lettering on the cover. It was the first time I saw it in print and it was a real charge.

  Confidential for

  MR. STEPHEN GAUNT

  President, Sinclair Television

  “I’m way ahead of you, boy,” he grinned. “It’s all there, everything you asked for. That’s the kind of service you get from World Artists Management. I’ve had our whole research department on it ever since you told me last week about the appointment with Sinclair. Now I’ve got all my boys standing by and we’re ready to spend the night with you going over the whole thing, point by point.”

  I smiled at him. “I should’ve known better than to think you wouldn’t be ready.”

  “Not only that,” he said. “I’ve red-flagged the shows that I think will be big winners that we can get on for next season.”

  “Good,” I said. “But what about the rest of this season?”

  His voice took on a pontifical tone. “Come on now, it’s October. There’s not enough time to get anything good ready before next season. You can’t do anything about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re putting me on,” he said. “You know as well as I do that the season has been all locked up for months.”

  “I don’t know nothing,” I said. “All I know is that I’m going in there and I’ll be on the firing line, a target for every guy that resents my walking in. And you know Sinclair better than I do. He expects me to do something.”

  “He doesn’t expect miracles.”

  “What do you want to bet?”

  He said nothing.

  “Why do you think I got the job?” I asked. “I’m supposed to be a miracle man. Look what I did for Greater World.”

  He swallowed his martini, still silent.

  “Which movie company is in trouble right now?” I asked.

  He stared glumly down into his drink. “They’re all in trouble. Not one of them has a smell of real profits this year. They’re all going crazy trying to figure out a way to rearrange their bookkeeping so they don’t look sick.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I want you to go out tomorrow morning and buy as many top features for me as you can get your hands on. The only condition is that they’re all post-48’s.”

  “You’re joking,” he said flatly.

  I knew what he meant. Up to now the film companies had not released to television any movies produced after 1948. I let my voice grow cool. It was time he learned who was boss. “The one thing I don’t joke about is my business.”

  It worked as well for him as it had for Sinclair. There was a subtle change in his voice. “It’ll take a fortune.”

  “That’s unimportant. Have you seen Sinclair’s latest statement? Over one hundred million in cash.”

  “Then what will you do with them when you get them?”

  “I’ll blow Saturday night from nine to eleven and put them in.” I noticed he said “when,” not “if.”

  His voice was shocked. “But that’s going back on everything TV has done up to now. They’ve been creaming the picture business on their own.”

  “You mean the other networks have,” I pointed out. “Sinclair is in the shithouse. The only thing they got is money and I intend to use a little of it to get them a share of the market.”

  “But it’s all wrong,” he protested. “We can develop our own shows.”

  I knew what was bugging him. Pictures didn’t deliver a ten percent packaging fee and he didn’t like to give up that juicy money coming in every week. “That’s right,” I said. “But next year. You said yourself there’s no time this year.”

  “The whole industry will be laughing at you.”

  “Let them. I couldn’t care less. The name of the game is ratings. They won’t be laughing when the Nielsens come in.”

  “When do you want to go with them?” he asked.

  I could see his mind ticking over. The greater the pressure, the bigger the price, and he was going to get his cut on the other end. That was his business and it didn’t matter to me as long as he delivered. “January,” I said.

  “That’s not much time. It’ll be expensive.”

  “You said that before.” I picked up my martini. “You know that slogan the movie companies use? ‘Movies are your best entertainment.’ Well, I believe them.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said glumly, swallowing his drink.

  “I know I’m right. Now let’s order dinner and you call your boys and tell them to meet us over at my apartment at eleven o’clock.”

  He reached for the telephone on the table. “What’s that address again? Twenty-five Central Park West?”

  “No,” I said. “Penthouse B, Waldorf Towers.”

  I almost laughed at the look of surprise on his face. “I didn’t know you moved,” he said.

  “That’s just one of the things I did this afternoon. I like to be within walking distance of the office.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  This time when I came into the lobby, they knew me. The two girls at the desk looked up and smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Gaunt,” they said, almost in chorus.

  “Good morning,” I replied.

  The guard who took me upstairs yesterday came out from behind the desk. “Good morning, Mr. Gaunt,” he said. “I have the key to your elevator. I’ll show you how it works.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” I said.

  He smiled, pleased that I remembered his name. I followed him to the back of the corridor. There was another elevator next to the one we had used. He took the key from his pocket and placed it in a lock where the call button usually was. He turned it. The doors opened. I followed him inside.

  “All you have to do is press the Up button,” he said. “There are no stops between the lobby and your floor. You do the same in reverse when you come down.”

  I nodded, then I smiled. “No bells on this one?”

  “No, sir,” he said straight-faced. “That’s only in Mr. Sinclair’s elevator. He had it installed last year after a crank came in with a gun.”

  I waited for a moment, but he didn’t continue. I wondered what it was that Sinclair did that almost led to his getting shot. He handed me the key.

  “Your visitors will be directed to the executive reception area on the forty-seventh floor,” he said. “From there, they take another elevator that runs only between the five floors to fifty-one. That elevator is always attended, all the others in the building are self-operated. There are only three keys to this elevator, one for yourself, one for Miss Fogarty, your executive secretary, and the last one is always at Main Lobby reception.” He pressed a button and the doors opened again. “Is there anything else I can tell you?”

  “One thing,” I said. “On what floor is my office?”

  A look of faint surprise came onto his face. “Fifty, of course, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” I said and punched the Up button.

  Miss Fogarty was waiting for me as the elevator doors opened. She was in her late twenties, tall, slim, brown-eyed with darkly burnished auburn hair tied neatly with a black ribbon behind her head, a simple Dior dress in basic black with one unobtrusive gold pin on her shoulder. “Good morning, Mr. Gaunt,” she said. “I’m Sheila Fogarty, your number one.”

&
nbsp; I held out my hand. “Good morning, Miss Fogarty,” I said.

  Her hand was cool and slightly damp. I suddenly realized that she had to be as nervous as I was. I began to feel better. I smiled at her and she returned my smile. “Let me show you around,” she said.

  She turned and I noticed she had a good ass and that the seams of her stockings were straight on good legs and slim ankles. “The layout on this floor is exactly like Mr. Sinclair’s on the floor above. Yours is the only suite of offices.”

  I followed her down the corridor. Everything was white, highlighted only by paintings. Someone with taste had evidently gone to a great deal of expense to select them. If I wasn’t wrong there were some genuine Miros and Picassos.

  She caught my gaze. “All the paintings are from Mr. Sinclair’s private collection.” She opened the first door. “This is the projection room.”

  I glanced inside. It was neat and luxurious, holding about twenty-two people in armchair comfort. I nodded and she closed the door and led me to the next room.

  “This is the large conference room,” she said. The table inside seated twenty people. “Between this and the small conference room, there is a private kitchen, and a permanent chef is on standby everyday for lunch if you should want to have it in.”

  The small conference room seated ten people and was a miniaturized version of the other. We walked back toward the elevator.

  “Off the reception area,” she said, “there are three private waiting rooms so that your visitors need never run into each other.” She opened a door. “They’re all very much alike.”

  They were also like the one I had been in on the floor above. A cool blonde was now sitting at the desk in the reception area. She got to her feet as we came near.

  “This is Miss Swensen, your receptionist,” Miss Fogarty said. “Miss Swensen, Mr. Gaunt.”

  The blonde smiled. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gaunt.”

  I returned her smile. She, too, was a carbon of the girl in Sinclair’s office. “My pleasure, Miss Swensen.”

  We crossed the reception area. She opened another door. “This is my office,” she said.

  There was another girl in the office. She looked up as we came in. She rose to her feet as we approached. “This is Ginny Daniels, my assistant, your number two. Miss Daniels, Mr. Gaunt.”