Гарольд Роббинс - The Raiders

"Jo-Ann's in school. She — "

"She's taking her out of school, transferring her credits to some school in the East."

"I'll take care of the Monica problem. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not. I'm just telling you what she said."

"Okay. You want to know where I am?"

"If I need to know. Otherwise I don't. I've told people I don't know. I'd like to continue doing that."

"Do you mind passing along some orders?"

"Not at all."

Jonas stood looking down on the swimming pool, convinced now the man who had brought the telescope to the suite had brought it to do some plain and fancy girl watching. Two-piece bathing suits were in style, and some of the girls around the pool were spectacular. Looking at them made a man horny.

"Okay," he said to Phil. "I want some people to join me. I'd like to have Sheila." He meant his personal and private executive secretary, in the Los Angeles office. "But I'm afraid that, apart from Monica, she's the one person they might follow. Besides, she's got a child, and I can't ask her to leave it."

"Do you want her to know where you are?"

"No. I want her to communicate through you. As my lawyer, you have privileged communication with me. No. The guys I want to join me are Buzz Dalton from Inter-Continental, Clint McClintock from Cord Electronics, Bill Shaw from Cord Aircraft, and Len Douglas from Cord Explosives."

"I get you," said Phil. "Second-level men from each company. None of your top executives."

"Bright, knowledgeable young fellows," said Jonas. "None with family obligations that would prevent their spending some time with me. Tell them to bring along the paper about pending stuff. They'll know what that is."

"Okay, but where do they go?"

"Make notes," said Jonas. "They come one at a time. Dalton first, Shaw next, then McClintock, then Douglas. On Tuesdays and Thursdays at noon there's a flight from Mexico City to where I am. It does not go from the Benito Juarez International Airport. They'll have to get to the Tialpan Airport. A sixteen-passenger De Havilland comes in about noon. Tell them to identify themselves to the agent that comes with the De Havilland. From that point they can relax. They'll be brought to me. Tell them to bring summer-weight clothes. They'll only need one suit. Do I have to tell them not to talk to the people they meet?"

"It sounds like you're settling in for a long stay," said Phil.

"Long enough to screw the bastards that are trying to screw me," said Jonas.

Jonas quickly grew bored with living in the suite. He could only call the offices that had installed the descramblers. He could think of a thousand other calls he wanted to make, and he gave orders to his people at the offices with descramblers to telephone this person and that, saying they had heard from him and he had ordered them to relay a message. It was not a satisfying way to do business.

On his fourth night in the suite, Morris Chandler offered to be host for dinner, which he would have room service bring up.

"What you need up here is a cute girl," he said to Jonas.

"What I need is an executive secretary," said Jonas.

Chandler laughed. "A horizontal secretary."

"No, seriously. A secretary. I can't bring in my executive secretary, and I need a woman who's competent and I can trust."

Chandler glanced at Nevada and shrugged. "If you say so," he said.

They ate lobster, which were flown in on ice and were kept live in a tank in the hotel. Chandler and Nevada talked a little about old times in New Orleans. Jonas guessed that was where they had met, in Storyville, in one of the celebrated old whorehouses. At least, both of them had been there in the early years of the century. Both remembered a whore who had always worn a black satin mask trimmed with lace and received her callers while reclining nude on a red plush settee. The rumor had been that she was the wife of a prominent New Orleans cotton broker.

They remembered musicians: a pianist named Ned and a trumpet player named Charley. They spoke of something called herb sainte , which Jonas deduced was a fiery liquor as destructive of a man's mind as the wormwood-tainted absinthe the French used to make, which was now illegal in every country in the world. They laughed about how it had got them in trouble.

Abruptly Chandler broke off the reminiscences and spoke to Jonas. "You want an executive secretary? Trustworthy and competent, you said. How 'bout one that's honest and competent and you can trust — and would probably be glad to sleep with you, too?"

"They don't make 'em like that," said Jonas.

"Trust me," said Chandler. "I'll send somebody up for you to interview in the morning."

He did. She arrived at half past nine, and she was more of a surprise to him than Morris Chandler had been.

"Mr. Cord? My name is Mrs. Wyatt. Mr. Chandler sent me up to be interviewed as a possible executive secretary."

She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and Jonas formed a quick determination that he would take her to bed as soon as he possibly could. Golden-blond hair surrounded the perfect features of her face. She was flawless. He couldn't see anything wrong with her, unless maybe it was that her eyebrows were distinctly darker than her hair. She wore a putty-colored linen pullover and a tailored knee-length dark-gray skirt, white shoes with thin high heels, and smooth, sheer nylon stockings on long, sleek legs. She was no girl. She was probably thirty-two or -three. She wore on her face a look of worldliness, even of world-weariness, that suggested she had seen a lot and had a few things to regret.

"Come in, Mrs. Wyatt, and sit down," he said. "I just sent the table back down, but I can order us another pot of coffee if you'd like some."

"You needn't," she said.

"I think I will anyway. I could use some myself."

She sat down gracefully, crossing her legs below her knees the way girls in finishing schools were taught to do. Her skirt crept up a little, but she had it under control and showed no more leg than she wanted to.

Jonas picked up the telephone and ordered coffee, knowing a few small pastries would come with it.

"I'll be blunt, Mrs. Wyatt," he said. "Why did Morris Chandler recommend you?"

"He told me what your requirements are," she said plainly. "He judged I could meet them, and so do I."

"What is your experience?" he asked.

"I was a secretary with Boise-Cascade Corporation. The last four years I was there I was an executive secretary. Then I got married, and then I got divorced."

"Do you have any children?"

"No, sir. After my divorce, I worked again as an executive secretary, in the office of the state auditor of the State of California. I've had eleven years of secretarial experience, six of them as a confidential and private secretary to an executive."

"What are you doing in Las Vegas?"

"I'm stranded here," she said.

"How so?"

"I came here on a romantic trip with a friend. He wanted to gamble. So did I. I signed a chit to buy some chips. He promised me he'd pay my chit, just as soon as a check he'd given the hotel cleared. He lost everything he had with him, panicked, took off, and left me with an unpaid chit. I'm working it off as a waitress."

"How much is it?"

"Five hundred dollars. I've paid off sixty-five."

Jonas shook his head and picked up the telephone. He dialed Morris Chandler. "Morris, this is Jonas. Put the balance of Mrs. Wyatt's chit on my account."

"You hired her, then," said Chandler.

"We'll talk about that later."

He put down the phone and looked up to see her frowning at him, her chin high.

"That's how you do things, I imagine," she said. "Quick decisions. The only thing is, now I owe you four hundred and thirty-five dollars. That's how I do things."