Гарольд Роббинс - The Raiders

As Toni undressed, Bat stirred coals, added wood, and knelt and blew on the coals, coaxing up a lively blaze in the little fireplace.

"What was all that about?" she asked when he stood and began to take off his clothes.

"I could say much ado about nothing. Actually, it's about something. He gives me a more impressive title, but he isn't giving up an iota of control."

"Was it a sort of Christmas present?" she asked. "The title?"

"You could think of it that way," said Bat. "He wants my allegiance. He could have assured it better another way."

"What way?"

"He could have arranged a transfer to me of a block of the CE stock. I hold just ten shares. So does each of the directors, except Judge Gitlin who owns two hundred. All the rest of it, my father owns himself. That's how he keeps absolute control. Absolute control."

"He won't give up control while he lives. You know that. You couldn't expect him to."

"No, of course not. But if I held ten percent of the stock, I'd feel more secure."

Bat hung his clothes over a chair and sat down on the bed beside Toni. She beckoned him to lie back, to cuddle with her.

"If you held forty percent, he could still fire you any time he felt like it," she said.

"Right."

"But why did he shut you out of television production?" she asked. "The Glenda Grayson Show was your idea. You've done as much with Cord Productions as anybody could."

"I can think of two reasons," Bat said. "In the first place, he likes the glamour aspect of it. He was always bored with businesses like explosives and plastic, though for a long time they were his basic moneymakers. He liked the airline. He liked building airplanes and flying them himself as the test pilot. And he liked making pictures."

"That's one reason. What's the other?"

"As head of Cord Productions, I hired Jo-Ann. He's going to dump her. He doesn't want her anywhere near the business, any aspect of it."

"Does he hate her?"

"No, but he doesn't trust her. You can understand why."

"What kind of a job was she doing?" Toni asked.

"Good enough. Competent. But he won't let her work for him, and I don't think Monica will give her a job, either."

"She has a good education," said Toni. "Nothing prevents her from getting a job not working for her parents."

"She doesn't have to work. She can live very comfortably on what our father gives her. Of course, I understand how frustrated she has been, living on an allowance."

"Bat ..."

"Hmm?"

"You're not very happy, are you?"

"Well. I'm not accustomed to observing Christmas Eve by hearing a talk on the reorganization of the business."

"Yes, and you're full of tension. I've got a present for you. Just lie back and loosen up."

She put a pillow on his legs and laid her head on it, pressing her face against his belly. "I want to be comfy," she said in a low voice. "I figure on this taking a long time."

She opened her mouth and took his penis in. He saw what she meant by taking a long time. She licked very gently for a minute or so, then stopped licking and lazily nibbled his foreskin with her lips. She turned her big brown liquid eyes upward and watched his reaction. She smiled. Bat relaxed. She bent his penis to one side so she could lick along its length without having to lift her head from the pillow.

Bat moaned. He wouldn't think about his father anymore tonight.

JONAS ASSUMED PERSONAL CONTROL OF TELEVISION production. He began to fly regularly to Los Angeles, where he stayed in the Cord hotel suite and spent days at the studio. He did not fire Jo-Ann as Bat had thought he would. He ordered Arthur Mawson, now executive producer of the Glenda Grayson Show , to give him frequent and detailed reports on what she did, but he kept her in her job. He did not stop by her office to see her every time he came to Los Angeles — only occasionally.

Sometimes Angela came to Los Angeles with him. Usually she did not.

St. Patrick's Day fell on a Monday. Jonas did not celebrate it as a holiday, but he was conscious of it and regretted being alone in the suite on an evening when most people were drinking Irish whiskey, eating corned beef and cabbage, and pretending to be Irish. He had arranged not to be alone. Margit Little was with him.

They sat on a couch, where he had invited her to sit, with a bottle of Old Bushmill's, two glasses, and some crackers and cheese. Margit was wearing what was characteristic of her: black dance leotards with a maroon skirt. Her light-brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. She frowned over the whiskey in her glass.

He had been working on this for some time — that is, on getting her to come alone to his suite. She had been just eighteen when Bat signed her up for the Glenda Grayson Show , and she was not yet twenty-two now. She looked sixteen, which was the age she was represented to be on the show. She had the lithe body of a dancer and a pretty, open, innocent face. It was hard to believe Bat had not had this girl, but he swore he hadn't.

"It's traditional," he said of the Irish whiskey.

She pinched her lips and wrinkled her nose. "It's strong," she said.

"Well ... just a toast and then you can have something more to your liking. A toast— To you, Margit. To your career."

"Thank you," she said softly after she took a small and cautious sip.

"Can we talk in confidence?" he asked. "I mean in complete confidence. Neither of us will ever tell anybody anything we may say in the next few minutes."

"Yes ..." she said hesitantly.

"Fine," he said, nodding. "In confidence. I took over Cord Productions because I decided my son had run out of ideas. The Glenda Grayson Show is a success, and it makes some money, but it's getting a little stale. Glenda is getting a little stale. And her money demands are becoming unreasonable."

"Mr. Cord— "

"Jonas," he interrupted.

"Oh, sir, I couldn't!"

"Please. Hearing you call me Mr. Cord or, worse yet, sir makes me feel a hundred years old." He put a hand on hers. "Please, Margit."

She nodded. "Jonas."

"Okay," he said with a reassuring smile. "Now. In any case, Cord Productions can't go on forever with all its eggs in one basket. Whatever we do about the Glenda Grayson Show , we've got to start producing new shows. Can you guess what I've got in mind?"

She shook her head, but her widened eyes suggested she had guessed what he was about to say.

"The Margit Little Show ," said Jonas. "Maybe a half hour weekly. Say you did a comedy skit every week, with a guest star. Not a continuing family situation like on the old show but a different idea with you as a different character each week. With dancing, of course. I'm thinking of you as a solo, in a simple classic dance number to open the show, then something of a production number with your guest to close the show — with the sketch in between. I bet you can sing, too, huh?"

"Well ... I have taken voice lessons."

"Okay. The Margit Little Show . You know, when I say I'm going to produce something, I'm going to produce it. I don't just play around."

Margit sampled the Old Bushmill's again, a little more boldly.

Jonas poured himself a second drink. "We will have to address a little problem," he said.

She nodded solemnly and fixed her eyes on him, waiting to hear what the problem was.

"What kind of a contract do you have with Sam Stein?"

She frowned. "None. He took me on as a kid and promoted a career for me, and we've never had a written agreement. I mean, he's been something like a father to me."

Jonas grinned. "He didn't want you to come up here alone, did he?"