Гарольд Роббинс - The Raiders

"One sixty-five at my hotel, one ten at the Flamingo, you say. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."

"A loan," said Virgilio.

"We can talk about it again sometime when the cash is flowing. In the meantime, don't even think about it. I'll take care of it."

From the villa in Mexico City, Jonas telephoned Morris Chandler on Tuesday, using the scrambler telephone.

"What are we carrying on the books in the name of Virgilio Escalante?" he asked.

"We don't have books for that kind of thing," said Morris.

"Then I'm sure you've got it in your head, Morris — that kind of money."

"Hundred sixty-five," said Morris.

"Write it off," said Jonas.

Morris Chandler said nothing for a long moment, then said, "Well, you own the place."

"Right. Now, I understand that Señor Escalante owes a hundred ten at the Flamingo. Call and offer them fifty for it."

"They won't go for it."

"See if they do."

"Okay," Morris sighed. "You're the boss."

"Let me ask you something," said Jonas. "How much are we carrying for our Mexican junketeers?"

"Oh, I'd say another five hundred thousand. More than that, actually."

"And how much do we make from them in a year?"

"Offhand —"

"Enough to justify flying a plane back and forth from Mexico City twice a week, right? Enough to justify rooms, meals, drinks, gifts, right? Well then, it's enough to invest a hundred sixty in one of their high rollers. It's business , my friend, business."

When Bat came to the villa on Friday evening, Angie was there again. She had come down on the Thursday junket flight and would return to Las Vegas on Tuesday.

From the moment when Bat walked into the living room, Jonas saw that his son was angry. Dressed in a gray suit of some shiny material, with a narrow black necktie, Bat looked more Mexican than Jonas had ever seen him. He didn't sit down and spoke to Angie.

"I hope you won't be offended, Angie, but I would like to speak with my father alone ... for a few minutes."

Angie rose, nodded, and quietly left the room.

"Why?" asked Jonas.

Bat stepped over to the chair where his father was sitting. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He handed the envelope to Jonas. "There," he said. "There's twenty-five thousand in cash. That's all I could raise for the moment. The balance is represented by a note for two hundred fifty thousand. I'll pay as soon as I can. With interest."

Jonas didn't open the envelope. He thrust it toward Bat, who stepped back and didn't take it.

"May I ask what the hell this is for?"

Bat glared. "Virgilio ... Padre ... put a touch on you for his Las Vegas gambling losses. It was a despicable thing to do. I'm not sure you didn't do something worse, though. You gave it to him."

"I made him a loan."

"Do you have a note?"

"No. A deal like that doesn't need a note. It's a deal between gentlemen."

"Virgilio is no gentleman," said Bat. "His father, the man I called Abuelo — grandfather — would have horsewhipped him for asking money from you, from you of all people! And you gave it to him! 'A deal between gentlemen.' Bullshit!"

Jonas flared. "Who the hell are you to talk to me that way?"

"I want a straight answer to a straight question."

"Let me hear your straight question," Jonas muttered, his face glowering and red.

"The two seventy-five thousand cleared accounts between you and Virgilio, didn't it? It wiped the books clean. He married my mother, knowing she was pregnant by you. He brought me up in his household and treated me as if I were his son. He paid my tuition — well, part of it. Most of that was paid with Batista money, and we know how that is earned. But you and Virgilio. You're even, aren't you? My straight question is Can you tell me you didn't think of it that way? You hand over two seventy-five thousand and you feel no more obligation to Virgilio Escalante. Isn't that the way you figured?"

Jonas shook his head. "In the first place," he said, "you know nothing about casino gambling if you think high rollers like Virgilio have to pay a hundred cents on the dollar. I bought his markers from the Flamingo for fifty thousand. Morris Chandler would have sold him his markers at my hotel for a hundred ten or a hundred twenty. Your note is more than a hundred thousand too rich."

"That's not a straight answer to my straight question," Bat snapped angrily. "What the hell's the difference how much you paid? You paid him off! Didn't you ?"

"If you've made up your mind to that, why should I even answer?"

Bat stiffened as he drew a deep breath. He stood for a full quarter of a minute breathing heavily. "Because," he said hoarsely between clenched teeth. "Because — All right. If you give me your word on it, I will believe you. I have no choice."

Jonas smiled, almost imperceptibly. So — His son. Formidable. He had backed his father — not just his father but Jonas Cord — into a corner.

Almost. "I will give you my word on a condition," said Jonas.

"Which is?"

"Which is that you take this money and this note back. Virgilio will repay me. If he doesn't, it's a business risk I took, for reasons that are sufficient for me — and which have nothing to do with you."

Bat nodded. "All right," he muttered. He reached for and accepted the envelope.

Jonas looked up and met Bat's eyes with his. "I did not pay off Virgilio Escalante for what he did for your mother, for you, or for me."

"What choice do I have, but to believe you? I used to think I didn't want to meet you until I was in a position to tell you to go to hell. So now I'm in that position."

"Are you telling me to go to hell?" asked Jonas. Bat shrugged scornfully. "'What's the difference?"

IN THE LAW FIRM OF WILSON, CLARK & YORK THERE WAS no Wilson and no York. There was a Clark: the great-grandson of Depew Clark. The founders were all long since dead, none of them having lived past 1930. The custom was to keep their names on the firm letterhead, giving the dates of their lives to solve any possible ethical problem that might arise if someone was naive enough to believe his law business might be handled by one of the founders.

The firm's twenty-nine active partners were listed in a column down the left margin of the letterhead. A column down the right margin listed the associates. One of these was Jonas E. Cord.

He was spending a year in the offices of Wilson, Clark & York by reason of the agreement between that firm and Gurza y Aroza in Mexico City to exchange junior associates for one-year terms. Two Wilson, Clark & York lawyers were in Mexico City. Two Gurza y Aroza abogados were in New York.

The fall crop of associates were traditionally welcomed at a cocktail party held at the Harvard Club. There they met all the partners and all the more senior associates and were welcomed into the fraternity of the firm. The partners kept keen eyes on their new associates. They wanted to see how much the boys would drink and how drunk they got. In point of fact, the test didn't work, and everybody knew it didn't. Among the senior associates there was invariably someone disloyal enough to warn the new associates, so the boys drank sparingly. Usually it was the partners who got drunk.

Occasionally, lawyers from other firms came to the party. They came to see how well Wilson, Clark & York had done with its recruiting, but they were welcome.

Dave Amory came. "Bat!" he exclaimed as he strode across the threadbare carpet that was an clement of the dignity and cachet of the Harvard Club and seized Bat's hand. "I heard these pettifoggers had got you. Welcome to New York!"