Гарольд Роббинс - The Raiders

"Let's hold that idea in abeyance. Jimmy," said Vulcano. "The other ideas Brother Morris has just mentioned may prove the better solution. Crude tactics are not acceptable when foxy tactics will do as well."

"Let's have a means and a means, Don Carlo," said Hoffa, picking up the expression the don himself had used. "One of the things Maurie's thought up and my idea in reserve."

"Don't call me Maurie," said Chandler coldly.

Hoffa grinned. "Don't worry about it, buddy," said Hoffa. "You're the best-connected guy I ever heard of, whatever we call you."

"Gentlemen," said Vulcano. "We are in agreement. Before we go back aboard that uncomfortable little airplane, I want to enjoy a nice steak, a nice bottle of wine, and one of those nice girls who are eyeing us and looking for an invitation to join us at this table."

"Goddammit, I said no . I told you I didn't want Jo-Ann on our payroll— "

"Until she dried out," Bat interrupted. "Well, she dried out. I made her commit herself to a drying-out clinic, and she stayed there for a month."

"What makes you think she won't go right back to her old habits?" Jonas asked.

"She might very well do just that if nobody gives her a chance," said Bat.

"You should have checked with me first."

"What good is it to be number-two man in the company if I can't hire a public relations girl?"

"It's not a business matter," said Jonas. "It's a personal matter, a family matter."

"Are you telling me to butt out of family matters?"

"She's my daughter! "

"She's my sister."

"Half sister."

Bat nodded. "So. Not good enough?"

Jonas got up and walked to the window. He had learned Morris Chandler's little trick of staring through the telescope while he took a moment to control his emotions and put his thoughts in order.

Not good enough? What kind of question was that? Unhappily, he knew what kind of question it was. He knew what his son implied. What was he supposed to do? Apologize? He changed the subject.

"I have some information for you," he said, turning away from the telescope and returning to the couch where he had been sitting. "Your television star has been shacking up in your beach house."

"How do you know?"

"It's my business to know. It's your business to know. She works for us. I've had men watching her. And you haven't? You don't know she shacks up in your house?"

"Well ... That's her business."

"No. It's not her business. It's your business. It's our business. She works for us. She's a property. Besides, I thought you had some kind of personal commitment from her."

Bat shook his head.

"Okay. I don't care who she lets hump her. Except— Guess who the guy is?"

"Who?"

"Jo-Ann's friend Ben Parrish."

"Parrish! For God's sake! That son of a bitch!"

"Right. The guy who's screwin' Glenda Grayson is also screwin' Jo-Ann and also screwin' you."

"That son of a bitch," Bat muttered.

"I wouldn't be surprised if there's not more to it," said Jonas. "Parrish has a reputation for hustling. What you want to bet he's trying to get her agency contract or something like that?"

"What can we do about it?" asked Bat.

"I've already done something about it," said Jonas.

The offices for Cord Productions were on the grounds of the Cord soundstages in West Hollywood. Jo-Ann had a small office with a window overlooking the parking lot. Arthur Mawson, producer for the Glenda Grayson Show , was accustomed to handling his own public relations, but he had his orders from the younger Mr. Cord and gave Jo-Ann as much responsibility as he could. What she did mostly was take telephone calls from reporters and answer fan letters.

Glenda Grayson's interviews and mail were handled by her agent Sam Stein and his PR staff. Guest stars also had their own staffs. Jo-Ann's responsibilities involved only inquiries and mail directed to the production company. It was not a demanding job, and she looked for ways to give it more stature, to give herself a more active role in the business.

Whether she improved the job or not, Jo-Ann felt good about herself. For the first time since she was in school, she had a reason for getting up every morning, a reason for bathing and doing her makeup and dressing. She had lost weight during her stay in the clinic. They had insisted she play tennis and swim, and they served planned meals with calories counted.

She was still fond of Scotch, but for the time being she was able to recognize her limit and stop. "If you can stop when you should stop, you're not an alcoholic," she said. She'd be damned if she'd call for orange juice when everyone else was having a drink. That would be too humiliating. She wouldn't go to AA either, though the doctors at the clinic had urged her to. She'd gone to one meeting and decided AA was a cult.

Her father hadn't seen her, but at twenty-three she'd made a new image for herself. She had bought new clothes, and they fit her sleekly. She'd had her hair redone, too: cut shorter and curling under her ears. This morning she was wearing a cream-white flared linen skirt and a tight baby-blue cashmere sweater. Her bra lifted her breasts and thrust them out. Ben liked this outfit, so she wore it often, particularly when she expected to see him during the day.

Her telephone rang. The receptionist told her a young woman who had no appointment was asking to see her: a Cynthia Rawls, who said she was a reporter for the Hollywood Sketch . Jo-Ann was glad enough to have a call from a reporter and told the receptionist to send her in.

Cynthia Rawls was a gum-chewing bespectacled girl who seemed to think she played reporter by wearing a pencil in her hair above her right ear and carrying a steno pad in her left hand.

She handed Jo-Ann a card. "You know our paper?" she asked.

Jo-Ann nodded. The Sketch was a supermarket tabloid. "I've seen it," she said. "I'm not a regular reader."

Cynthia Rawls nodded. If she read derision in Jo-Ann's comment, she showed no reaction. "We like to check our facts," she said earnestly. "Believe it or not, we check our facts closer than most any other paper. In our line, you can't afford to publish if you don't check your facts."

"I can understand," said Jo-Ann.

"So ... I tried to check with Mr. Stein, but he just won't talk. This has to do with Glenda Grayson, you understand. Your star?"

"What makes you think I can — or will — tell you anything Sam Stein won't tell you?"

"Maybe you can't — or won't," said Cynthia Rawls. "But I figure I have an obligation to run the story by you." She handed Jo-Ann a couple of typewritten pages. "If you want to deny any of that, we'll check the facts further."

Jo-Ann scanned the sheets.

Cozy, cozy, cozzy! Things have gotten really cozy between TV superstar /// Glemnda Grayson and Hollywood hiustler Benjamimn Parrish, otherwizse known as agent, sometime smalltime producer, and all-around man-about-town.

No more "quickies" in hot-sheet motels for the one-time stripper and her new man. She madkes Benny-boy welcome these days in the beachfront house she used to sheare with money-boy Jonas "Bat" Cord.

So far as we know, Mr. Cord has raised no objection. Like his notorious father, Jeonas Cord II, "Bat" has many irons in the fire. Monogany is not a Cord family tradition.

Our sources for this story are beyond question. Our informer nails it cold.

"I'm sorry about the way I use your family name," said Cynthia Rawls. "I guess it can't be any surprise, though, can it?"

Jo-Ann stared at the young woman with cold eyes, for the better part of a minute, before she said, "I want to know the name of your informer."