ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

Time never passes as quickly as when it's running out, he thought. Somehow, everything seems sharper, clearer to the mind, even decisions are arrived at more easily. Perhaps it was because the responsibility for them couldn't come home to roost. No one can win an argument with a grave.

He felt the pain race through him like a knife. He didn't flinch but from her face, he knew that she knew. A strange kind of communication had grown between them. Words weren't necessary. There were times he thought she felt the pain, too.

"Maybe you'd better go to bed," she said.

"Not just yet. I want to talk to you."

"O.K.," she said. "Go ahead."

"You're not going back to the hospital, are you?"

"I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."

"You'll never be happy in a job like that again. I've spoiled you. There's nothing like a lot of money."

She laughed. "You're so right, Charlie. I've been thinking about that. Nothing's going to seem right ever again."

He studied her thoughtfully. "I could leave you something in my will, or even marry you. But my children would probably make a federal case out of it and say you influenced me. All you'd get is a lot of grief."

She met his gaze. "Thanks for thinking about it, anyway, Charlie."

"You need to make a lot of money," he said. "Why did you decide to be a nurse? You always wanted to be one?"

"No." She shrugged her shoulders. "What I really wanted to be was another Helen Wills. But I got a scholarship to St. Mary's, so I went."

"Even being a tennis bum takes money."

"I know. Anyway, it's too late now. I'd be satisfied if I could just make enough to hire the best pro around and play two hours every day."

"See!" he said triumphantly. "That's a hundred bucks a day, right there."

"Yeah. I’ll probably end up back at the hospital."

"You don't have to."

"What do you mean?" she asked, looking at him. "That's all I ever trained for."

"You started training for something else long before you studied nursing. Becoming a woman."

"Well, I couldn't have trained so well, then," she said wryly. "The first time I ever acted like a woman, I got my head knocked off."

"You mean Dr. Grant in Frisco?"

"How do you know about that?"

"Mostly a guess," he said. "But the paper automatically checks up on everyone who comes near me. Grant's got that reputation and the fact that you worked for him and left in such a hurry led me to that surmise. What happened? His wife catch you?"

She nodded slowly. "It was horrible."

"It always is when you're emotionally involved," he said. "It's happened to me more than once." He refilled his glass with champagne. "The trick is not to become emotionally involved."

"How do you do that?"

"By making it pay," he said.

"What you're saying, then, in effect, is that I should become a whore?" she said in a shocked voice.

He smiled. "That's only the Catholic in you that's talking. In the back of your mind, even you have to admit that it makes sense."

"But a whore?" she said, her voice still shocked.

"Not a whore, a courtesan or its modern equivalent, the call girl. In ancient civilizations, being a courtesan was a highly respected profession. Statesmen and philosophers alike sought their favors. And it isn't only the money that made it attractive. It's a way of life that's most complete. Luxurious and satisfying."

She began to laugh. "You're nothing but a dirty old man, Charlie. When do you bring out the French postcards?"

He laughed with her. "Why shouldn't I be? I was a dirty young man, too. But I was never stupid. You have all the equipment necessary to become a great courtesan. The body, the mind – even your nurse's training won't be wasted. True sex demands a greater intellectualism than simple animal rutting."

"Now I know it's time for you to go to bed." She laughed. "Next thing I know, you'll be suggesting I go to a school to learn all about it."

"That's an idea." He chuckled. "They're always after me to endow one college or another. Why didn't I think of it? The Standhurst College of Sex. Otherwise known as the Old Fucking School." He began to laugh heartily, then suddenly he grimaced in pain. His face whitened and beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. He hunched over in his wheel chair.

In a moment, she was at his side, pushing up the sleeve of his robe, exposing his arm. Quickly she shot the syrette of morphine into his vein. His bony fingers gripped her arm, trying to push it away, as he stared at her with agony-laden eyes.

"For Christ's sake, Charlie," she said angrily. "Give yourself a break. Stop fighting it!" His grip relaxed for a moment and she emptied another syrette into him. She looked into his eyes and saw him fighting the comfort the drug would bring him. She took his fragile, thin hand and raised it swiftly to her lips.

He smiled as the drug began to cloud his eyes. "Poor little Jennie," he said softly. "Any other time and I’d have made you my queen!" His fingers brushed her cheek gently. "But I won't forget what we were talking about. I'm not going to let you go to waste just because I'm not going to be around to enjoy it!"

Three days later they were having lunch on the terrace when she saw the gray Rolls-Royce come to a stop in the driveway. A smartly dressed chauffeur opened the door and a woman stepped out. A few minutes later, the butler appeared on the terrace. "A Mrs. Schwartz to see you, Mr. Standhurst."

Standhurst smiled. "Set another place, Judson, and ask Mrs. Schwartz if she'll join us."

The butler bowed. "Yes, Mr. Standhurst."

A moment later, a woman came through the doorway. "Charlie!" she said, unmistakable pleasure in her voice. She held her hands out toward him as she walked. "How good to see you."

"Aida." Standhurst kissed her hand. "Forgive my not getting up." He looked into her face. "You're as beautiful as ever."

"You haven't changed a bit, Charlie. You can still keep a straight face and lie like hell."

Standhurst laughed. "Aida, this is Jennie Denton."

"How do you do?" Jennie said. She saw a woman, perhaps in her middle or late fifties, quietly and expensively dressed. The woman turned, her smile warm and friendly, but Jennie suddenly had the feeling that there was little about her that the woman didn't take in.

She turned back to Standhurst. "Is this the girl you spoke to me about on the phone?"

Standhurst nodded.

The woman turned back to Jennie. This time, her eyes were openly appraising. She smiled suddenly. "You may have lost your balls, Charlie," she said in a conversational tone of voice, "but you certainly haven't lost your taste."

Jennie's mouth hung open as she stared at them. Standhurst began to laugh and the butler reappeared at the doorway, carrying a chair. He held it for Mrs. Schwartz as she sat down at the table.

"A sherry flip for Mrs. Schwartz, Judson." The butler bowed and disappeared. Standhurst turned to Jennie. "I suppose you're wondering what this is all about?"

Jennie nodded, still unable to speak.

"Twenty-five years ago, Aida Schwartz ran the best cat house west of the Everleigh sisters in Chicago."

Mrs. Schwartz reached over and patted his hand. "Charlie remembers everything," she said to Jennie. "He even remembered that I never drink anything but a sherry flip." She looked down at his glass on the table. "And I suppose you still drink champagne in a tall glass over ice?"

He nodded. "Old habits, like old friends, Aida, are hard to give up."

The butler placed a drink in front of her. She raised the glass daintily to her lips and sipped. She looked at the butler and smiled. "Thank you."

"Thank you, madam."

She raised her eyebrows in good-humored surprise. "This is very good," she said. "You don't know how hard it is to get a decent cocktail, even in the most expensive restaurants. It seems that ladies drink nothing but Martinis nowadays." She shuddered politely. "Horrible. In my time, no lady would dream of even tasting anything like that."