Tycoon (8 page)

Jack grinned. “But you're good at it. If I didn't have to catch a train for Boston in a couple of days, I'd ask you to set up one for me.”

Mickey glanced at his watch. “Not too late, really. I can probably set you up with—”

“Tomorrow night, maybe.”

“Okay. Listen. The man who's unhappy is your brother, Bob. And worse than him, your sister-in-law, Dorothy.”

“What? A couple who just inherited a million dollars is unhappy?”

“It's a matter of backbone. You had the backbone to walk out on your old man. Bob doesn't. In spite of the fact that Bob's got a business of his own, Erich sticks his nib in everything. Carlton House was set up with Erich's money, of course. Every time Bob signs a promising starlet, Erich wants to bang her—and after he does, he pushes Bob to give her a part she's not ready for. He even reads scripts and hounds Bob to turn them into pictures. Erich makes Bob's every day hell on earth.”

“What does he make
your
every day?”

“You know how it goes.”

“What's he paying you?”

“Eighteen thou.”

Jack pinched his chin between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. “Would you take twenty-four to move to Boston and come into the radio business?”

“Christ, yes!”

“How much time you need?”

“Well, I ought to give Erich thirty days' notice.”

“Fuck him. You don't owe him any more than I do. Get us a roomette on Thursday. You can send him a wire from Chicago.”

J
OHANN
L
EHRER WOULD BE BURIED IN A WOODEN COFFIN
with rope handles. It was his express wish. In accordance with another of his wishes, the coffin sat on a simple wooden trestle. But when it came to flowers his wishes were disregarded. After all, he was the grandfather of the head of Carlton House Productions, and Hollywood had sent vans loaded with floral tributes.

The chapel seated only two hundred, so loudspeakers had been set up outside so the eulogy and the Kaddish could be heard by hundreds more who had gathered on the lawn.

“So . . .” said Erich Lear. “My son the proper Bostonian, dressed to the nines. Look at the suit,” he said to Bob. “He makes us look cheap.”

“Out of respect for”—Jack said. He paused and nodded toward the coffin—“I won't tell you what I think of your judgment of my clothes or anything else.”

Erich glanced at the coffin. “Okay. Out of respect.” He extended his hand. “Our feelings today ought to be about him.”

“Yes. Professor of rational and revealed religion. Ragpicker.
Then, to use his own term, ‘junkman.' And finally so great a success that he could fund you in your business and me in mine. I'm proud to be his grandson.”

Bob scowled. “We hear you have a fine home in Boston. I don't believe you ever invited our grandfather to see it. Or your father or brother, for that matter.”

Bob Lear was as bitter as Mickey Sullivan had said he was. He had a pronounced capacity for petty nastiness, unlike his father, whose nastiness was never petty. Looking nothing like the other Lears, he was blond, plump, and bowlegged. His light-gray, double-breasted suit with white buttons emphasized his ungainliness.

“Kimberly and I will make you welcome . . . if you should choose to come,” Jack said frigidly.

A chapel attendant approached. “Yarmulke, sir?” he asked Jack, offering a black satin skullcap.

“Yes. Of course.”

The service was brief. When it was over, four men carried the coffin to the open grave a hundred yards away and lowered it into the earth.

As they walked back toward the chapel and the cars, Erich asked Jack how long he would stay in Los Angeles.

“I have to take tomorrow's train. Business. I don't have to tell you it demands a man's time and attention.”

“Mr. Lear!” A photographer lugging a big Graflex camera trotted across the lawn toward them. “A picture of the son and two grandsons?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Erich. “Why not?”

They posed: Erich in the middle, a son on either side.

“Well, then,” Erich said to Jack. “I take it you're not planning to come to the house tonight.”

Jack offered his hand to be shaken, and Erich took it. “We've managed to spend an hour together without unpleasantness. I'm glad to have seen you. And you too, Bob. Let's not tempt God to set us against each other during this trip.”

“As you want it,” said Erich brusquely. “Give me your yarmulke. I'll return it.”

“Oh, yes. Right. Here.” He saluted his father. “Next year in Jerusalem,” he said.

Erich and Bob watched Jack stride toward Mickey Sullivan's
car. Erich glanced around and raised his hand to summon the photographer.

“Make sure those pictures get in the mail, airmail, to Boston as fast as possible,” he said, handing the man a hundred-dollar bill.

M
ICKEY DROVE
J
ACK BACK TO THE
A
MBASSADOR.
H
E WENT
with him to his suite and watched him toss back two quick Scotches, then light a Camel. He puffed heavily as he paced the room.

“I know,” said Mickey. “It's tough all the way ‘round. Look. I offered to set you up with a broad tonight. Maybe I can get somethin' good for right now. Let me make a couple calls.”

Jack went to the bathroom and took a hot shower while Mickey made his telephone calls. When he returned to the living room, Mickey showed him a thumbs-up and grinned.

“She'll be here within the hour. Don't turn her away at first look. She's okay. I'll be back later. Let's go out to dinner our last night in L.A.”

Jack nodded and poured himself another Scotch.

The girl, who was obviously a teenager, was plump. She was not terribly attractive, though he could see something erotic about her that he might not have noticed if Mickey had not urged him to give her a second look. From her swarthy complexion and her dark brown eyes, he guessed she was of Latin American extraction, probably Mexican. She wore a loose white peasant blouse, an exceptionally full black skirt decorated with green and red stripes just above the hem, dark stockings, and shiny black patent-leather shoes.

“Mr. Lear? You expecting me?”

He nodded, showing her a reluctant smile. “I guess I am. Come in.”

She entered the suite and looked around. “This is nice,” she said simply.

He heard little clicks as she walked across the parquet floor. He stared at her shoes and realized they were tap shoes. “You are a dancer?” he asked.

“Yes. I dance for you first . . . if you want.”

“Do you dance on the stage?”

“Yes. You have never heard of me. But I think you will.”

“I hope so,” Jack said. “And your name is . . . ?”

“Consetta Lazzara.”

“You are very young,” he said.

She smiled wryly. “I am old enough for what you require, Mr. Lear.”

“What were you told I require?”

“Mr. Sullivan said you are depressed. You went to your grandfather's funeral today.”

“Well, Consetta, if you dance for me, will you dance nude?”

She grinned. “Yes. I knew you'd want it that way.”

She went to the radio and began to scan the stations for suitable music. She found it. She stripped off her clothes quickly—all but her black garter belt, dark stockings, and shiny black shoes—and began to dance, slowly and sinuously at first, then faster, tapping and whirling.

He was glad she hadn't brought castanets. Maybe she was wise enough to know they would damage the mood she meant to create. Her dancing was sensual; more than that, it was lascivious. Her chubby breasts bounced. So did her belly. She was conscious too of the erotic effect of showing off her round little bottom and from time to time bent forward to wiggle and flaunt it. She had the most generous bush of dark pubic hair he had ever seen. Except when she spread her legs as she danced, it hid her cleft completely.

She danced for maybe five minutes, then threw herself down on the couch, glistening faintly with sweat. “What do you want now, Mr. Lear?” she asked playfully.

“Guess.”

He led her into the bedroom, where she lay down on her back on the bed with no embarrassment or hesitation. Totally aroused, he tugged off his clothes with an urgency that made her laugh. She laughed again and offered her nimble little
hands to help him when he fumbled at drawing on his rubber. She pulled it on him with a dexterity that indicated she had done it before, more than once. In a moment he was on top of her, unable to delay himself. She grunted when he thrust in, but she did not complain. She closed her eyes and received his fervid strokes complaisantly, even as she shook under the impact of his ardor. He did not deceive himself that she enjoyed it as he did.

When he erupted, she sighed and put her arms around him to draw him down on her. His weight did not seem to bother her. When he rolled off, she astonished him by pulling off his condom, putting it in a bedside ashtray, then cleaning his shaft with her lips and tongue.

They lay quietly together for a time. She whispered to him that she would be happy to take him again. He said sure, in a little while. He lit a Camel and offered it to her. She took it, and he lit another for himself.

“Do you do this regularly, Consetta?”

“Only with people like you,” she said simply.

“Only with people like . . . what?”

“People who can help me.”

Jack nodded as if he understood perfectly what she was talking about, but his mind rushed to discern her meaning. He groaned inwardly. Mickey had told this girl—maybe had even told her parents, who might know what she was doing—that Jack's brother was head man at Carlton House.

“You want to make it in the movies?” he asked her. “Is that it?”

“Yes. I think what I need is an opportunity.”

“So you . . . And with others besides me.”

“Like any girl who wants to make it in Hollywood,” she said, as if it were common knowledge.

“Well, I'll see what I can do for you, Consetta. You understand that my chief interest is in radio. Do you sing?”

“I can sing.”

“Maybe we'll get you a start that way.”

“But it is the movies that I want more than anything. You understand?”

“Understood. Do you mind giving it to me with your mouth?”

“I know how to do that,” she said simply.

Jack grinned. “Okay.”

She did know how, for sure. Even though he had come only a few minutes before, he came quickly again. She fled to the bathroom to spit in the basin. When she came back, she stared at his cock and smiled and shook her head when she saw it was still erect.

They smoked two more cigarettes.

“How old are you, Consetta?”

“I'm not sure you want to know.”

“Tell me.”

“I'm sixteen,” she said quietly.

“Ahh. Well, I'll do whatever I can for you. Some money, incidentally.”

“No. I don't do it for money. I'm not a whore, Mr. Lear.”

“Of course not. I didn't mean to suggest you were. But would you accept, say, a hundred dollars just because you've pleased me more than you had to?”

“Well . . .”

“Okay, then.”

She dressed. “Mr. Lear,” she said, “how much should I consent to?”

“What do you mean, Consetta?”

“Well, somebody wants me to have my eyebrows plucked. They want to kill the hair on the front of my head, to make my forehead higher. They want me to lose weight. And somebody has said that Consetta Lazzara is not the name of a girl who is going to make it big. Somebody says I ought to change my name.”

“To what?”

“Well, I've heard several suggestions. One of them is that I should call myself Connie Lane.” She said the name as if it were a magical charm.

“C
HANGE OF PLANS,
” J
ACK SAID TO
M
ICKEY OVER DINNER.

“You can't come with me on the train to Boston tomorrow.”

“Change your mind?”

“No. I offered you a deal, and the deal goes. But you've got to stay around here awhile. A week, two weeks. Whatever it takes you to get Consetta Lazzara a chance in pictures. Uh . . . I know. Turn her over to Mo Morris and tell him I sent her. After that, take the first train to Boston.”

“What? Uh-oh. I get it. I guess I screwed up on that one, didn't I?”

“Mickey, I may call on you again sometime to get me laid. But please understand that my standards are higher than my father's. No more sixteen-year-old girls. A man may get away with that in California, but in Massachusetts it can put him in the slammer.”

“Sorry . . .”

“Right. On the other hand, Mick, she's got to be one of the best pieces of ass I ever had.”

“I'll set her up with Mo Morris,” said Mickey. “He's a hot agent. If anybody can get her into the movies, Mo can.”

K
IMBERLY MET
J
ACK AT THE STATION.
T
HEIR CAR WAITED OUTSIDE
—a chauffeur-driven Duesenberg.

“I suppose I could wait until we get home before showing you this,” she said. “But . . . page four.”

Page four carried a modest headline:

RADIO EXEC AT GRANDFATHER'S FUNERAL

Below the headline was a three-column photograph, the one taken on the lawn outside the funeral chapel, showing Erich and his two sons. The caption read:

CALIFORNIA SALVAGE TYCOON ERICH LEAR IS FLANKED BY HIS TWO SONS, MOVIE PRODUCER ROBERT LEAR, PRESIDENT OF CARLTON HOUSE PRODUCTIONS, AND JACK LEAR, PRESIDENT OF BOSTON'S WCHS, ON JUNE 13, AT THE FUNERAL OF FAMILY PATRIARCH JOHANN LEHRER, WHO DIED TUESDAY IN LOS ANGELES.