Гарольд Роббинс - The Raiders

Toni sat beside her stepmother, dressed almost identically in a red polo shirt and brief white shorts.

Sitting in one of the two fishing chairs, wearing tennis whites — shorts and shirt — with a Red Sox baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, smoking a small cigar, his face deeply wrinkled from squinting into the sun, was the man Morgana had wanted to meet: Senator Jack Kennedy of Massachusetts.

Senator Kennedy had barely failed to take the 1956 vice-presidential nomination away from the farcical Estes Kefauver, and it was widely supposed he would claim a spot on the 1960 Democratic ticket. He had only one hurdle to leap: reelection in Massachusetts in the fall.

Morgana had been impressed, as Toni had told her she would be. Toni had known Jack Kennedy from the time of his arrival in the Senate in 1953, when she was still an aide to Senator Holland. More recently she met with him from time to time as a political reporter for The Washington Post . She had learned to mimic his Boston-Harvard accent, and one time he had overheard her doing it. From that time, they counted each other as friends.

"You should hear Toni do me ," he had said to Dr. and Morgana Maxim just after they came aboard the boat. "If I wanted to do a radio speech, I could let her do it, and I could take a day off."

Toni had laughed. "Let him explain to you that there's no such thing as a Harvard campus, just the 'Haa-v'd yaad,' " she had said. "Sometimes he takes his daag for a ride in the caa."

Kennedy had laughed heartily. "See? A little change in voice, and she could take my place at any microphone."

He had caught the bonito. They had tossed it back.

"Plans?" Morgana asked Kennedy.

He shrugged. "Life is short," he said. "Art is long. Who knows?"

Jack Kennedy remained astride Toni, though he had withdrawn from her and his drooping penis gleamed with their fluids.

"Would Dr. Maxim and Morgana be angry if they knew about this?" he asked.

"Morgana'd be disappointed if we didn't," said Toni. "She'll be a delegate for you, and she'll lead other delegates."

"What about, uh, Jonas Cord the Third?"

"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies. I don't ask you— "

"No, you don't, and I appreciate that, Toni." This was the third time they had been together this way, and each time it had been a completely satisfying experience, made more satisfying by their mutual understanding that they did it honestly: for the pleasure of the moment, with no thought of any kind of commitment. He was a handsome, personable, virile man, and her pleasure in him was enhanced by her hunch that one day she would look back on these hours and be glad she had fucked with one of the century's preeminent leaders, maybe even a President.

Another reason for their satisfaction was the certainty that they could trust each other.

"What can I do for you, Toni?" he asked.

"Uhhmm ..." She chuckled. "You've done quite enough, thank you."

He grinned broadly, showing his teeth. "I had something, uh, different in mind. A different kind of thing. I mean— "

"Jack ... I'm not from Massachusetts. You don't have to do me favors."

"You've done some very nice favors for me," he said.

"Meaning I did something I didn't enjoy so you could enjoy it?" she asked. "C'mon, Jack. Women like to play the old game: pretending they can hardly bear to do it and are making a big sacrifice for you, making themselves martyrs. But don't kid yourself. Women like it just as much as men do. Anyway, this woman does."

"I'm glad to hear it."

She nudged him playfully.

"Are you going to marry Jonas Cord the Third?" he asked.

"I haven't decided," she said.

"His father is like my father," said Jack Kennedy. "Life in that family would be exciting ... but tough and demanding. Challenging, Toni. Challenging."

"Speaking of challenges. The Cords are being challenged to get out of Las Vegas."

"Mafia turf," said Kennedy.

"Hoffa," said Toni. "The Teamsters are making it difficult for Cord Hotels to build the InterContinental. No strikes. Just ... coincidences."

"My brother Bobby would be interested. So would Senator McClellan. I'll talk to Bobby about it."

"Do that, will you, Jack? I'd appreciate it. And have Bobby keep me informed, okay?"

Ben Parrish enjoyed driving Jo-Ann's Porsche 356. He appreciated fine cars. It was the only car he'd ever driven in which you might actually turn off music on the radio and just listen to the engine. It handled beautifully, too. You didn't have to steer it around a turn; you just pointed it where you wanted it to go, and the little coupe would obediently slip through the curve — provided you didn't ask too much of it and make the rear end come around.

Because he was driving the Porsche, Ben had decided to return to Santa Monica by way of Mulholland Highway and Topanga Canyon Road. He was doing just fine, too, pushing seventy most of the time, up to eighty occasionally, and conceding sixty or below only when he had to.

His mind was on his wife. She was waiting for him, ready with an ice-cold vodka martini, for sure, and something more besides that would melt the ice in that martini.

He'd fallen into shit and come out smelling like roses. He could stand the old man: Jonas. He had to grit his teeth to be polite and deferential, but he could do it. He could function as a Cord errand boy. There was money in it. And status. And there'd be an inheritance. The girl — Jo-Ann — was a handful in more ways than one; but she was the most eager to satisfy of any piece of tail he'd ever had; and whether she'd married him for his long schlong or to shoot a finger at her father, she was a good wife in most senses of the term.

She was—

What the hell was this? A car had come up behind him and was blinking its lights. The guy wanted to pass. Yeah? Well, he'd play hell, too. Whatever that was back there, it was what men who knew cars called Detroit Iron, and no Plymouth or Dodge was gonna pass this Porsche, no matter how much somebody had souped it up.

On the other hand— He was in no condition to race, really, Porsche or no Porsche. He was in firm control of it, for sure, but he'd had too much vodka to stretch the car or himself. What the hell? Let the guy pass. If he had any brains, he'd know he'd been let past.

Ben slowed a little and edged to the right. The car came up on his left. It was a Plymouth — what a car to be passing a Porsche! — but obviously modified, its unmuffled engine roaring. He glanced, trying to get a look at the driver. What? Some crazy kid?

Crazy! Running alongside of him, the Plymouth suddenly lurched right and slammed the Porsche. Ben fought for control and kept away from the guardrail. He floored the accelerator, knowing he could, if he had to, outrun any goddamned Plymouth ever modified; but as the Porsche gained speed the Plymouth veered right again and slammed hard. Ben couldn't control it. The Porsche rammed the guardrail. Metal flew. Glass flew. He hurtled forward and felt his arm break against the steering wheel.

Jonas sat across the desk from a thirty-two-year-old assistant district attorney named Carter. The bespectacled young black man was sufficiently awed to have crushed his cigarette when he noticed that Mr. Cord did not smoke.

"Have you heard my name, maybe?" Jonas asked.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Cord. Absolutely."

"Well, don't think of me as a guy who's come in your office to throw his weight around. That's not why I'm here. You're going to do what you have to do, your duty, and I didn't come to suggest you do anything else. I'm hoping, though, that my name suggests to you that I'm not the kind of man who'd come to your office and make wild, stupid statements he couldn't back up."