Гарольд Роббинс - The Raiders

Jonas grinned. "I guess I have to hire you, then. Otherwise, you can't pay me."

"Well ... You're not a Las Vegas casino. You don't hold people prisoner until they pay off their chits. Do you? You don't break legs either, I imagine."

"You think Chandler would do that?" he asked.

She shrugged. "He's your friend."

"Do you know why I'm here?"

She nodded. "I also know if I told anybody you're here, I'd be lucky if all I wound up with is two broken legs."

"I don't do business that way, Mrs. Wyatt," said Jonas coldly.

"No. I don't suppose you do. But Chandler does. Why do you think he trusted me, telling me who was up here and sending me up?"

"Maybe I'm an innocent," he said.

"Maybe you are. Were you ever in Vegas when Bugsy Siegel was running the Flamingo?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I never was."

She nodded. "I was. I've always liked to come here. My husband brought me here and introduced me to gambling. Bugsy was dangerous. Bugsy killed people. The town has changed since they got rid of Bugsy Siegel. They had to kill him. He was bad for business. But only because he was too public. It wasn't that he beat up on people and killed them — or had them killed — that got him his death sentence. It was that he did it too openly. When it's done now, it's done quietly."

Jonas shook his head. "I can't think Morris Chandler — " He stopped. What he had in mind was that he couldn't believe a man Nevada Smith trusted could be what she suggested.

"He doesn't make all the decisions here," she said. "He's a partner, not the sole owner." She sighed. "I'm being stupid. You want a secretary that won't blab everything she knows, and here I am doing it."

"You're not Chandler's confidential secretary," said Jonas.

"I won't kid you. I'd like to be yours. Uh ... Chandler spoke of ... other requirements."

Jonas smiled. "Well. Let's say what he mentioned isn't required. It would be appreciated."

She stared at him evenly for half a minute, a quizzical smile on her face. Her tongue flicked out between her lips. "Would you want me to live here?" she asked.

"I have two bedrooms."

She grinned. "Yeah. You have a certain reputation, Mr. Cord."

"The job is yours," he said. "I'll appreciate your calling me Mr. Cord when others are with us. When we're alone ... Jonas."

"My name is Angie," she said.

ANGIE MOVED INTO THE SUITE THE AFTERNOON AFTER her interview. She slept in the second bedroom that night. The next night she slept with Jonas.

That the new executive secretary was an exceptionally attractive woman and lived in the suite with Mr. Cord came as no surprise to the four young executives who arrived in Las Vegas within the week. As Angie had said, Jonas had a certain reputation.

Making all the arrangements took some time, but by the end of his second week in Las Vegas Jonas was firmly in control of all his businesses. He called his companies on the scrambler telephones. The four young executives could go anywhere any time as couriers, flying the De Havilland junket flight to Mexico City and catching flights from there to anywhere Jonas wanted them to go.

He was not the subject of an FBI manhunt. He was just a missing witness in an investigation few in Congress or in the press thought was very important. Such newspapers as did run stories about his disappearance treated it as a joke on the Senate. One page-five headline read, cord strings out senate snoops.

Another read, noah in de ark, jonas in de whale?

He could not even be held in contempt of Congress, since he had never received a subpoena.

Angie first saw the newspaper report that Monica had filed for divorce.

She and Jonas were sitting at breakfast, he following his lifelong habit of eating a hearty breakfast, she contenting herself with juice, coffee, and a Danish. She did not have any provocative nightgowns or peignoirs, and they slept nude. She came out to breakfast in her white nylon panties, he in his boxer shorts. He was reading The New York Times , she the Los Angeles Times .

"Oh, Jonas!"

"What?"

She handed over the newspaper, pointing at the story.

CORD DIVORCE Mrs. Jonas Cord Files for Divorce

Mrs. Jonas Cord, nee Monica Winthrop, has filed an action in Los Angeles Superior Court, asking for a divorce. Alleging adultery, cruelty, and abandonment, Mrs. Cord asks for a decree of divorce, child custody, division of California property, and alimony.

Mr. Cord's whereabouts are unknown. He left his Bel Air home shortly before United States marshals arrived to serve on him a summons to testify before a Senate subcommittee investigating airline operations and has not been seen since. He is believed to be living in the vicinity of Mexico City. Jerry Geisler, Mrs. Cord's attorney, said there would be no problem about obtaining jurisdiction over Mr. Cord, since under California law he can be served his summons by publication.

Jonas shrugged and handed the newspaper back to Angie. " 'Adultery, cruelty, and abandonment,' " he muttered. "She can't prove any one of them."

Angie put her hand on his. "I'll swear under oath that we've never slept together," she said.

He smiled wanly. "You won't have to do that, Angie. It's good of you — and loyal — but you won't have to do it. My lawyers will negotiate a settlement. Monica knows better than to demand too much. She'll be reasonable."

"Did you love her ... ever?"

Jonas nodded. "Twice. I married her twice."

Angie frowned and nodded at the newspaper. "It's none of my business. I shouldn't ask you questions. But — It mentions child custody."

"Monica doesn't need to demand child custody. The girl will be eighteen years old soon. Anyway, I wouldn't demand she come to live with me. I want her to visit me — that is, if she wants to, but only if she wants to."

He glanced over the newspaper story again, frowning, then laid the paper aside. His lips were tight.

"I'm sorry, Jonas," Angie whispered.

"If you want to be sorry the marriage has broken up, okay, be sorry. If you want to be sorry for me, don't. If you want to be sorry for her, don't."

Angie blinked, squeezing tears from her eyes. "I shouldn't ask you personal questions," she said. "I'm happy to be with you, whatever the answers are."

He stood, walked behind her, lifted one of her breasts in each hand, and nuzzled her alongside the throat. "You ask me anything you want. If I don't want to answer, I won't."

Angie looked up and grinned. "Or lie," she said. "Or lie," he agreed, chuckling.

Sure. Lying was an alternative. It was one he sometimes took. He did not want to know everything about Angie. He put through some inquiries and found out that the life story she had given him was not the truth. He didn't condemn her for that. He could understand why she didn't want to tell the truth. He was confident that he could trust her. Nevada thought so, too, and that counted for a lot.

Edgar Burns died of shrapnel wounds at Chateau-Thierry on June 6, 1918, two weeks after his daughter Angela was born and twenty-six years to the day before her first husband would die on Omaha Beach. Her young mother remarried, and Angie was twelve years old before they told her about her real father. In school she was Angie Damone. She never used the name Burns.

Damone was a bootlegger, operating in Yonkers and sanctioned by no less a figure than Arnold Rothstein. When Rothstein was killed, Damone was sanctioned by a don of the Castellamarese group, and he continued to distill gin until the repeal of Prohibition. After Repeal, the don gave him a share of the bookmaking in Yonkers. Angie grew up understanding that her family lived just as well as the families of the lawyer, the dentist, and the real estate agent who were their neighbors on a tree-lined residential street in White Plains. Her father — stepfather, as she came to understand — was in the import-export business. So she believed. So the neighbors believed.