Once Is Not Enough (50 page)

“I’m not really on anything, Tom. I mean . . . I’ve taken a few shots . . . Linda told me about it. . . .” Then she went
on to explain about Keith and all the important people who used the two Dr. Alperts.

Tom took her in his arms and held her close. “Look, baby, right now I feel like I could make love to you all night. That I could start writing my next book and never stop . . . that I could dive off the highest hill at Miramar in Acapulco . . . catch the current as well as any of the professional Mexican divers. It’s a great feeling. And I’ve had it before. I was a correspondent during World War Two. I used to take bennies and get a little of this kind of jolt. The bomber pilots who made the early morning raids ate them like gumdrops. Maybe they hadn’t slept too well the night before, figuring it might be their last. But they popped those bennies in their mouth at four
A.M
., and an hour later, when they took off, they were soaring into that wild blue yonder positive that no bullet could hit them. Hell, half of them felt as if they didn’t even need the plane. I feel the same way now. I could . . . well . . . hell . . . let’s not waste the shot.” And he threw her on the bed.

The following morning, the effect of the shot seemed to have worn off for Tom. But January was still in a constant state of enthusiastic energy. Tom sat her down and tried to explain the danger. “Look, I’m six foot two and weigh a hundred and ninety pounds. So my system absorbed it quickly. But you . . . you can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, and that shot is loaded with methamphetamine, I’m sure. It’s not addictive like the hard stuff . . . but when it wears off, the withdrawal signs are like a bitch of a hangover.”

“But can they really hurt me?”

“As a steady diet they could kill you. It races the pulse . . . makes your heart beat triple . . . Now look, if you want to get high, do it with booze. You can’t drink enough to hurt you. I can—and do—but then I’ve lived my life. Now, no more shots . . . Promise?”

“I promise.”

That night they had room service and they had barely finished dinner when he jumped up and pulled her toward the bedroom. “Tom.” She laughed as she followed him. “The waiter will come in . . .”

“Let him. We’ll close the bedroom door. Maybe it’s the
bourbon activating what’s left of the shot. But whatever it is, I don’t want to blow it.”

They didn’t hear the doorbell. They didn’t even hear the bedroom door open. Then everything happened so fast that she could barely put things together. She was aware of the lights going on. Someone pulling Tom off her. Seeing a fist send a bone-crunching blow to Tom’s jaw. Tom staggering and spitting blood. Then she gasped. It was Mike! . . . standing there . . . his fists clenched . . . staring at them both.

“Mike!” The word stuck in her throat.

Tom had recovered and lunged after Mike, but Mike’s fist slammed into his face again. Tom struck back, but Mike crouched like a street fighter. Tom wasn’t able to touch him, and Mike came after Tom with a maniacal fury. His fist smashed into Tom’s face again and again. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Tom stood up as Mike pummeled into him. He tried to lash out, but his timing was off. His face was a bloody smear. Mike’s fist smashed into his jaw again . . . into his stomach . . . back to his face . . . back to the jaw-it was more violent than anything she had ever imagined. And she stood watching it in a stupor as if it wasn’t quite real. It was all happening so fast. Tom flailing out . . . beginning to falter under Mike’s merciless onslaught . . . Mike pulling Tom to his feet . . . his fist crashing against Tom’s face again and again. The blood was pouring from Tom’s mouth. His eye was cut. She saw him stand groggily against the wall and spit teeth. She rushed to her father. “Let him alone . . . stop it! STOP IT!” She screamed.

Mike let go and Tom slipped against the wall to the floor. January knelt beside him. She looked up at her father. “Do something . . . help him . . . oh God, you’ve knocked out all of his front teeth.”

Mike walked over and pulled her to her feet. “They’re caps. They’ve probably been knocked out before.” Then suddenly for the first time he seemed to realize she was naked. His face went dark with embarrassment. He turned away. “Put your clothes on. I’ll wait in the next room.”

“Just like that!” she shouted. “You come in here and half kill
the man I love . . . and then give orders. Why? Are you jealous?” She jumped in front of him. “Is that it? Well, I never burst into your bedroom and beat up Dee. I come to Palm Beach and smile like a good little girl.”

“He’s a bum!”

Tears were running down her face. “I love him. Don’t you understand? I love him . . . and he loves me.”

He pushed past her and looked at his watch. “Get dressed. I’ve got the plane waiting.”

“Why did you come here?” she sobbed.

“Because when I talked to you on the phone yesterday you sounded spaced out. I was afraid you were in some drug scene. I couldn’t get here fast enough. Now I wish I hadn’t come. But I’m here. So let’s cut out. We’ll forget any of this happened. Come back to Palm Beach with me.”

“No way,” she said.

He looked at his watch. “I’ll sit in the Polo Lounge for half an hour. If you don’t come by then, I’ll leave. But if you have any brains at all, you’ll pack your things and tell him to call his wife to come and get him. I’ll be waiting in the Polo Lounge—for exactly one half hour.” He slammed the door of the bungalow.

For a moment she stared after him. Tom had made it to the bathroom. She rushed after him and got a wet towel and held it to his face. He put on a robe and with her help made it back to the bedroom.

“Tom . . . your teeth . . .”

He tried to smile and winced. “Like the man said . . . caps. I can get them fixed. It’s my jaw . . . I think it’s broken . . .”

“Oh, Tom!”

“Don’t worry . . . it’s been broken before. Your father’s got a good punch.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I hate the bastard,” he said. “But I guess I would have done the same thing if it had been my daughter.”

“You’re not mad?”

He shook his head. “No. He’s just brought things to a head. I’ve always had a hunch that maybe I was just a replacement. Now I know. So you better get dressed and go to him.”

“Tom . . . I love you. I told him I loved you.”

“That line you pulled about his wife was the clincher, honey.”

“What line?”

“Skip it.” He turned away.

She got into her slacks and shirt. He looked at her and nodded. “So long.”

“I’ll be back,” she said.

“Back?”

“Yes. I just want to see him . . . to tell him I’m staying.”

“If you don’t show in half an hour he’ll know that.”

“But I’ve got to tell him.”

He grabbed her hand. “Listen, baby. This is it. This is the moment when you make the big choice. It’s me or Daddy . . . not both. Because if you go out there, you’ve made your choice.”

“I’m just going to tell him . . . I mean, I can’t let him go off like this. I can’t let him just sit and wait.”

“If you walk out, there’s no coming back,” he said slowly.

“But Tom, I have to talk to him. Can’t you understand?”

“You love me, right?” She nodded anxiously. “Okay,” he went on. “Someone just came in here and beat the shit out of me because you loved me. Now, if you walk out on me—even for ten minutes—to make peace with that guy—then you make a bum out of me.”

“But he’s not just a guy . . . he’s my father.”

“Right now he’s the guy who smashed me up . . . and you’re my girl. Mike knows the rules. You walk out there for any goddam reason and it’s like another clout at my jaw.” He looked at the clock. “You’ve got twenty minutes left.”

She hesitated. She thought of Mike sitting in the bar waiting. Then she looked at the bruised man on the bed. She nodded and walked slowly back to him. He held her in his arms and they both lay very still listening to the minutes tick by. . . .

When he left Bungalow Five, Mike went to the men’s room and let cold water run over his hand. It was beginning to swell . . the knuckles were split in several places. His hand felt
like it was busted. He hated to think how Tom Colt’s jaw must feel.

He went to the Polo Lounge and ordered a Scotch. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes had passed. She’d come. She was probably seeing to it that Tom Colt was fixed up. He hadn’t meant to mangle the guy. But he had seen Tom Colt in fights before. No one had a chance against him. So he knew he had to keep hitting. All along he had expected Colt to let one fly that would demolish him. He kept expecting it—and it was that expectation that had driven him on. If he had thought about it, he might have hesitated in tangling with Colt. But the sight of him on top of his daughter . . . something had just snapped and he hadn’t been able to
stop
hitting him.

He was amazed that he had come out of it with nothing more than a busted hand. But then, when a guy has just shot a load he’s not exactly in fighting form. He felt sick in the stomach thinking of him with January. Her body was so slim and beautiful . . . too clean and nice for a man like Colt to handle.

He looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes. She was probably packing now. He ordered another drink. Was the captain looking at him with sympathy? No . . . it was all in his mind. They probably didn’t even know she was his daughter. A guy sitting alone in the Polo Lounge always looks like he’s been stood up. But he wouldn’t be stood up. Any second now she’d come dashing in . . . and he would smile and not even discuss it. Hell, he had made plenty of mistakes in his time. He certainly couldn’t lecture her.

Twenty minutes. Why was she cutting it this thin? Well, all that mattered was getting her back. And it was going to be different from now on. He’d take her to Cannes in May. They’d talk about that on the trip back to Palm Beach. He’d tell her about his luck, the way it was coming back.

Twenty-five minutes! Jesus, it couldn’t be that she
wasn’t
going to show! No . . . She’d come. She was his daughter . . . she belonged to him. But what was that crack she had made about Dee? Was she jealous of Dee? She had no reason to be . . . she knew damn well he didn’t love Dee. He wasn’t jealous of Tom Colt . . . he was just sick about her being with a man
like him. He was too old . . he had a wife . . . he was a drunk . . . and he had shacked up with every kind of broad around. He wasn’t fit to touch his daughter.

The half hour was gone. He stared at his watch as if he couldn’t quite believe it. He looked toward the door. He’d give her five more minutes. He ordered a third drink. Christ, he never drank three drinks in half an hour. His hand was throbbing, but the pain in his gut was worse. Because he knew she wasn’t going to show. But he’d have the drink . . . it would give him an excuse to hang on an extra ten minutes.

He nursed it for fifteen minutes and ordered another. He was giving her an hour. Bullshit . . . he was giving himself time. He was too stunned to move. He had to think this thing out. His little January . . . turning him down for Tom Colt. He had always felt she’d walk out on the world for him. And he’d do the same for her. It had always been that way . . . it
had
been that way! But now Tom Colt had the corner suite at the Plaza. Tom Colt had Bungalow Five. Tom Colt’s book was number one on the list. Yes, Tom Colt was a winner . . . and Mike Wayne was just Dee Milford Granger’s husband.

Okay. She wasn’t coming out. She belonged to Tom Colt for now. But when the romance phased itself out—as it had to in time—how would he go about reestablishing their old relationship? Would she ever forgive him for breaking in like that? Would she ever respect him like she did that drunken bum in there? To stay with a guy who’s had his teeth knocked out . . . she had to care for him. Or feel pity. No. January wouldn’t stay out of pity. She was
his
daughter, and he had never stuck with anyone out of pity. She was with Tom Colt because she respected the sonofabitch. Well, why not? He was number one. And he was probably also a great cocksman. He winced as he thought about it in relationship to his daughter. But he forced himself to face the facts. Tom Colt always charmed the broads. No doubt about it . . . he was great in that department. And January . . . well . . she was his daughter. So she probably dug sex, too. He clenched the glass so hard it broke. Now his bad hand was cut on the inside as well. The waiter rushed to him . . . Mike brushed it off . . . it was just an accident. He wrapped his handkerchief around his
hand, dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and left the hotel. He had waited one hour and fifteen minutes.

He thought about it as he drove to the airport. How did he go about getting her back? No woman had ever walked out on him before. And he’d never forget the way she looked at him. As if she was seeing a stranger.

He lit a cigarette and tried to think it out. To start with, he’d have to win back her respect. He could do it. His luck had changed. So far he had won over one hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars gambling on golf, gin, and even backgammon. If he kept this up . . . He ground out his cigarette. If he kept this up he’d be nowhere! If your luck was hot you had to push it. In the old days he’d have pushed this streak and run it into a couple of million. What was he doing sitting around like a dame . . . hoarding his winnings . . . putting them into a safe deposit box in his daughter’s name? What good was the money if she despised him? And if he kept up this penny ante stuff, he’d never win back her respect.

He got to the airport and walked across the field to his plane.

“Back to Palm Beach?” his pilot asked.

“No,” Mike snapped. “Get clearance for Las Vegas. We’re going there for a few days.”

He sat in the plane as it made the turbulent flight. He remembered when he used to fly to Vegas from the Coast every weekend. One thing—being married to Dee, his markers would be good. He was going to shoot the whole works. He’d build up a big bankroll for Cannes. He was playing for big stakes again . . . perhaps the biggest in his life. He was rolling the dice for his daughter.

Twenty-two