ROBBINS Harold - The Carpetbaggers

"That will be three o'clock in the morning!" Max exclaimed.

I nodded. "Bring them to my suite in the hotel. I’ll be ready for them then."

Monica Winthrop was waiting in the suite. She got up from the couch and put out her cigarette as I came in. She ran over and kissed me. "Oh, what a beard!" she exclaimed in mock surprise.

"What're you doin' here?" I asked. "I was looking for you at the airport."

"I would have been there but I was afraid Daddy would show up," she said quickly.

She was right. Amos Winthrop was too much of a heller not to recognize the symptoms. The trouble was he couldn't divide his time properly. He let women interfere with his work and work interfere with his women. But Monica was his only daughter and, like all rakes, he thought of her as something special. Which she was. But not in the way he thought.

"Mix me a drink," I said, walking past her to the bedroom. "I'm going to slip into a hot tub. I smell so loud I can hear myself."

She picked up a tumbler filled with bourbon and ice and followed me into the bedroom. "I had your drink ready," she said. "And the tub is full."

I took the drink from her hand. "How'd you know when I got here?"

She smiled again. "I heard it on the radio."

I sipped at the drink as she came over to me. "You don't have to take a bath on my account," she said. "That smell is kind of exciting."

I put the drink down and walked into the bathroom, taking off my shirt. When I turned to close the door, she was right behind me. "Don't get into the tub yet," she said. "It's a shame to waste all that musky maleness."

She put her arms around my neck and pressed her body against me. I sought her lips but she turned her face away and buried it in my shoulder. I felt her take a deep, shuddering breath. She moaned softly and the heat came out of her body like steam from an oven.

I turned her face up to me with my hand. Her eyes were almost closed. She moaned again, her body writhing. I tugged at my belt and my trousers fell to the floor. I kicked them aside and backed her toward the vanity table along the wall. Her eyes were still closed as she leaped up on me like a monkey climbing a coconut tree.

"Breathe slow, baby," I said as she began to scream in a tortured half whisper. "I may not smell as good as this for years."

The water was soft and hot, and weariness washed in and out as it rippled against me. I reached behind me, trying to get to my back with the soap. I couldn't make it.

"Let me do that," she said.

I looked up at her as she took the washcloth from my hand and began to rub my back. The slow, circular motion was soothing and I leaned forward and closed my eyes. "Don't stop," I said. "That feels good."

"You're just like a baby. You need someone to take care of you."

I opened my eyes and looked up at her again. "I been thinkin' that, too," I said. "I think I'll get a Jap houseboy."

"A Jap houseboy won't do this," she said. I felt her tap my shoulder. "Lean back. I want to rinse the soap off."

I leaned back in the water, my eyes still closed. She moved the washcloth over my chest and then down. I opened my eyes. She was staring down at me.

"It looks so small and helpless," she whispered.

"That wasn't what you said a little while ago."

"I know," she said, still in that whisper, the foggy look coming back into her eyes.

I knew the look. I reached up and put my arm around her neck and pulled her down on the edge of the tub. I felt her hand go down and cover me with the washcloth as we kissed. "You're growing strong," she whispered, her mouth moving against mine.

I laughed and just then the telephone rang. We turned quickly, startled, and the water splashed up and drenched the front of her dress. Silently she took the phone from the vanity and gave it to me. "Yes?" I growled into it.

It was McAllister. He was down in the lobby.

"I said three o'clock," I snapped.

"It is three o'clock," he answered. "Can we come up? Winthrop's with us, too. He said he has to see you."

I looked over at Monica. That was all I needed. To have her father come up and find her in my room. "No," I said quickly. "I'm still in the tub. Take 'em into the bar and buy 'em a drink."

"The bars are all closed."

"O.K., then, I’ll meet you in the lobby," I said.

"The lobby's no place to close this deal. There's no privacy. They won't like it at all. I don't understand why we can't come up."

"Because I got a broad up here."

"So what?" he answered. "They're all broad-minded." He laughed at his pun.

"The girl's Monica Winthrop."

There was silence on the other end of the telephone. Then I heard him sigh wearily. "Christ!" he said. "Your father was right. You just never stop, do you?"

"Time enough for me to stop when I’m your age."

"I don't know," he said wearily. "They won't like the idea of meeting in the lobby."

"If it's privacy they want," I said, "I know just the place."

"Where?"

"The men's room, just off the elevators. I'll meet you there in five minutes. That'll be private enough!"

I put down the phone and got to my feet. I looked at Monica. "Hand me a towel," I said. "I gotta go downstairs and see your father."

I CAME INTO THE MEN'S ROOM, RUBBING MY CHEEK. I still had the five-day beard. I hadn't had time to shave. I grinned at the sight of them, all engrossed in their duties, not even looking around as I entered.

"The meeting will come to order, gentlemen," I said.

They looked over their shoulders at me, a startled expression on their faces. I heard one of them mutter a faint damn under his breath and wondered what minor tragedy brought that out.

McAllister came over to me. "I must say, Jonas," he said rather pompously. "You have a rather peculiar choice of meeting place."

I stared at him. I knew he was talking for the benefit of the others, so I didn't really mind. I looked down at his trousers. "Aw, Mac," I said. "Button your fly before you start talking." His face grew red and his hand dropped quickly to his trouser front.

I laughed and turned to the others. "I'm sorry to put you to this inconvenience, gentlemen," I said. "But I have a space problem up in my room. I've got a box up there that takes up almost the whole place."

The only one who got it was Amos Winthrop. I saw a knowing grin appear on his face. I wondered what his expression would be if he knew it was his daughter I was talking about.

By this time, Mac had recovered his aplomb and stepped in to take over. There were introductions all around and then we got down to business. As Mac explained to me, the three big chemical corporations had set up a separate company to sub-license from me. It was this company which would make the first payment and guarantee the royalties.

I had only one question to ask. "Who guarantees the money?"

Mac indicated one of the men. "Sheffield here," he said. "Mr. Sheffield is one of the partners of George Stewart, Inc."

I looked at Sheffield. Stewart, Morgan, Lehman were all good names down on the Street. I couldn't ask for better people financially. There was something about the man's face that seemed familiar. I searched my memory. Then I had it.

F. Martin Sheffield. New York, Boston, Southampton, Palm Beach. Harvard School of Business, summa cum laude, before the war. Major, U.S. Army, 1917-18. Three decorations for bravery under fire. Ten-goal polo-player. Society. Age now – from his appearance, about thirty-five; from the record, forty-two.

I remembered he'd come to visit my father about ten years ago. He'd wanted then to float a public issue for the company. My father had turned him down.

"No matter how good they make it sound, Junior," my father had said, "never let 'em get their hooks into you. Because then they run your business, not you. All they can give you is money when the only thing that counts is power. And that they always keep for themselves."