The Carpetbaggers

THE SUN WAS BEGINNING TO FALL FROM THE SKY INTO the white Nevada

desert as Reno came up beneath me. I banked the Waco slowly and headed due east. I

could hear the wind pinging the biplane's struts and I grinned to myself. The old man

would really hit the roof when he saw this plane. But he wouldn't have anything to

complain about. It didn't cost him anything. I won it in a crap game.

I moved the stick forward and came down slowly to fifteen hundred feet. I was over

Route 32 now and the desert on either side of the road was a rushing blur of sand. I put her

nose on the horizon and looked over the side. There it was, about eight miles in front of

me. Like a squat, ugly toad in the desert. The factory.

CORD EXPLOSIVES

I eased the stick forward again and by the time I shot past, I was only about a hundred

feet over it. I went into an Immelmann and looked back.

They were at the windows already. The dark Mexican and Indian girls in their brightly

colored dresses and the men in their faded blue work clothes. I could almost see the whites

of their frightened eyes looking after me. I grinned again. Their life was dull enough. Let

them have a real thrill.

I pulled out at the top of the Immelmann and went on to twenty-five hundred feet. Then I

hit the stick and dove right for the tar-pitched roof.

The roar from the big Pratt & Whitney engine crescendoed and deafened my ears and the

wind tore at my eyes and face. I narrowed my lids and drew my lips back across my teeth.

I could feel the blood racing in my veins, my heart pounding and the juices of life starting

up in my gut.

Power, power, power! Up here where the world was like a toy beneath me. Where I held

the stick like my cock in my hands and there was no one, not even my father, to say me

no!

The black roof of the plant lay on the white sand like a girl on the white sheets of a bed,

the dark pubic patch of her whispering its invitation into the dimness of the night. My

breath caught in my throat. Mother. I didn't want to turn away. I wanted to go home.

Ping! One of the thin wire struts snapped clean. I blinked my eyes and licked my lips.

The salty taste of the tears touched my tongue. I could see the faint gray pebbles in the

black tar of the roof now. I eased back on the stick and began to come out of the dive. At

eight hundred feet, I leveled off and went into a wide turn that would take me to the field

behind the factory. I headed into the wind and made a perfect three-point landing.

Suddenly I was tired. It had been a long flight up from Los Angeles.

Nevada Smith was walking across the field toward me as the plane rolled to a stop. I cut

the switches and the engine died, coughing the last drop of fuel out of its carburetor lungs.

I looked out at him.

Nevada never changed. From the time I was five years old and I first saw him walking

up to the front porch, he hadn't changed. The tight, rolling, bowlegged walk, as if he'd

never got used to being off a horse, the tiny white weather crinkles in the leathery skin at

the corner of his eyes. That was sixteen years ago. It was 1909.

I was playing around the corner of the porch and my father was reading the weekly Reno

paper on the big rocker near the front door. It was about eight o'clock in the morning and

the sun was already high in the sky. I heard the clip-clop of a horse and came around to thefront to see.

A man was getting off his horse. He moved with a deceptively slow grace. He threw the

reins over the hitching post and walked toward the house. At the foot of the steps, he

stopped and looked up.

My father put the paper down and got to his feet. He was a big man. Six two. Beefy.

Ruddy face that burned to a crisp in the sun. He looked down.

Nevada squinted up at him. "Jonas Cord?"

My father nodded. "Yes."

The man pushed his broad-brimmed cowboy hat back on his head, revealing the crow-

black hair. "I hear tell you might be looking for a hand."

My father never said yes or no to anything. "What can you do?" he asked.

The man's smile remained expressionless. He glanced slowly across the front of the

house and out on the desert. He looked back at my father. "I could ride herd but you ain't

got no cattle. I can mend fence, but you ain't got none of them, either."

My father was silent for a moment. "You any good with that?" he asked.

For the first time, I noticed the gun on the man's thigh. He wore it real low and tied

down. The handle was black and worn and the hammer and metal shone dully with oil.

"I'm alive," he answered.

"What's your name?"

"Nevada."

"Nevada what?"

The answer came without hesitation. "Smith. Nevada Smith."

My father was silent again. This time the man didn't wait for him to speak.

He gestured toward me. "That your young'un?"My father nodded.

"Where's his mammy?"

My father looked at him, then picked me up. I fit real good in the crook of his arm. His

voice was emotionless. "She died a few months back."

The man stared up at us. "That's what I heard."

My father stared back at him for a moment. I could feel the muscles in his arm tighten

under my behind. Then before I could catch my breath, I was flying through the air over

the porch rail.

The man caught me with one arm and rolled me in close to him as he went down on one

knee to absorb the impact. The breath whooshed out of me and before I could begin to cry,

my father spoke again.

A faint smile crossed his lips. "Teach him how to ride," he said. He picked up his paper

and went into the house without a backward glance.

Still holding me with one hand, the man called Nevada began to rise again. I looked

down. The gun in his other hand was like a live black snake, pointed at my father. While I

was looking, the gun disappeared back in the holster. I looked up into Nevada's face.

His face broke into a warm, gentle smile. He set me down on the ground carefully.

"Well, Junior," he said. "You heard your pappy. Come on."

I looked up at the house but my father had already gone inside. I didn't know it then but

that was the last time my father ever held me in his arms. From that time on, it was almost

as if I were Nevada's boy.

I had one foot over the side of the cockpit by the time Nevada came up. He squinted up

at me. "You been pretty busy."I dropped to the ground beside him and looked down at him. Somehow I never could get

used to that. Me being six two like my father and Nevada still the same five nine. "Pretty

busy," I admitted.

Nevada stretched and looked into the rear cockpit. "Neat," he said. "How d'ja get it?"

I smiled. "I won it in a crap game."

He looked at me questioningly.

"Don't worry," I added quickly. "I let him win five hundred dollars afterward."

He nodded, satisfied. That, too, was one of the things Nevada taught me. Never walk

away from the table after you win a man's horse without letting him win back at least one

stake for tomorrow. It didn't diminish your winnings by much and at least the sucker

walked away feeling he'd won something.

I reached into the rear cockpit and pulled out some chocks. I tossed one to Nevada and

walked around and set mine under a wheel. Nevada did the same on the other side.

"Your pappy ain't gonna like it. You messed up production for the day."

I straightened up. "I don't guess it will matter much." I walked around the prop toward

him. "How'd he hear about it so soon?"

Nevada's lips broke into the familiar mirthless smile. "You took the girl to the hospital.

They sent for her folks. She told them before she died."

"How much do they want?"

"Twenty thousand."

"You can buy 'em for five."

He didn't answer. Instead, he looked down at my feet. "Get your shoes on and come on,"

he said. "Your father's waiting."

He started back across the field and I looked down at my feet. The warm earth felt goodagainst my naked toes. I wriggled them in the sand for a moment, then went back to the

cockpit and pulled out a pair of Mexican huarachos. I slipped into them and started out

across the field after Nevada.

I hate shoes. They don't let you breathe.

2

I KEPT RAISING SMALL CLOUDS OF SAND WITH THE huarachos as I walked

toward the factory. The faint clinical smell of the sulphur they used in making gunpowder

came to my nose. It was the same kind of smell that was in the hospital the night I took her

there. It wasn't at all the kind of smell there was the night we made the baby.

It was cool and clean that night. And there was the smell of the ocean and the surf that

came in through the open windows of the small cottage I kept out at Malibu. But in the

room there was nothing but the exciting scent of the girl and her wanting.

We had gone into the bedroom and stripped with the fierce urgency in our vitals. She

was quicker than I and now she was on the bed, looking up at me as I opened the dresser

drawer and took out a package of rubbers.

Her voice was a whisper in the night. "Don't, Joney. Not this time."

I looked at her. The bright Pacific moon threw its light in the window. Only her face was

in shadows. Somehow, what she said brought the fever up.

The bitch must have sensed it. She reached for me and kissed me. "I hate those damn

things, Joney. I want to feel you inside me."

I hesitated a moment. She pulled me down on top of her. Her voice whispered in my ear.

"Nothing will happen, Joney. I'll be careful."Then I couldn't wait any longer and her whisper changed into a sudden cry of pain. I

couldn't breathe and she kept crying in my ear, "I love you, Joney. I love you, Joney."

She loved me all right. She loved me so good that five weeks later she tells me we got to

get married. We were sitting in the front seat of my car this time, driving back from the

football game. I looked over at her. "What for?"

She looked up at me. She wasn't frightened, not then. She was too sure of herself. Her

voice was almost flippant. "The usual reason. What other reason does a fellow and a girl

get married for?"

My voice turned bitter. I knew when I'd been taken. "Sometimes it's because they want to

get married."

"Well, I want to get married." She moved closer to me.

I pushed her back on the seat. "Well, I don't."

She began to cry then. "But you said you loved me."

I didn't look at her. "A man says a lot of things when he's humping." I pulled the car over

against the curb and parked. I turned to her. "I thought you said you'd be careful."

She was wiping at her tears with a small, ineffectual handkerchief. "I love you, Joney. I

wanted to have your baby."

For the first time since she told me, I began to feel better. That was one of the troubles

with being Jonas Cord, Jr. Too many girls, and their mothers, too, thought that spelled

money. Big money. Ever since the war, when my father built an empire on gunpowder.

I looked down at her. "Then it's simple. Have it."

Her expression changed. She moved toward me. "You mean — you mean — we'll get

married?"

The faint look of triumph in her eyes faded quickly when I shook my head. "Uh-uh. Imeant have the baby if you want it that bad."

She pulled away again. Suddenly, her face was set and cold. Her voice was calm and

practical. "I don't want it that bad. Not without a ring on my finger. I'll have to get rid of

it."

I grinned and offered her a cigarette. "Now you're talking, little girl."

She took the cigarette and I lit it for her. "But it's going to be expensive," she said.

"How much?" I asked.

She drew in a mouthful of smoke. "There's a doctor in Mexican Town. The girls say he's

very good." She looked at me questioningly. "Two hundred?"

"O.K., you got it," I said quickly. It was a bargain. The last one cost me three fifty. I

flipped my cigarette over the side of the car and started the motor. I pulled the car out into

traffic and headed toward Malibu.

"Hey, where you going?" she asked.

I looked over at her. "To the beach house," I answered. "We might as well make the most

of the situation."

She began to laugh and drew closer to me. She looked up into my face. "I wonder what

Mother would say if she knew just how far I went to get you. She told me not to miss a

trick."

I laughed. "You didn't."

She shook her head. "Poor Mother. She had the wedding all planned."

Poor Mother. Maybe if the old bitch had kept her mouth shut her daughter might have

been alive today.

It was the night after that about eleven thirty, that my telephone began to ring. I had just

about fogged off and I cursed, reaching for the phone.Her voice came through in a scared whisper. "Joney, I'm bleeding."

The sleep shot out of my head like a bullet. "What's the matter?"

"I went down to Mexican Town this afternoon and now something's wrong. I haven't

stopped bleeding and I'm frightened." I sat up in bed. "Where are you?"

"I checked into the Westwood Hotel this afternoon. Room nine-o-one."

"Get back into bed. I'll be right down."

"Please hurry, Joney. Please."

The Westwood is a commercial hotel in downtown L.A. Nobody even looked twice

when I went up in the elevator without announcing myself at the desk. I stopped in front of

Room 901 and tried the door. It was unlocked. I went in.

I never saw so much blood in my life. It was all over the cheap carpeting on the floor, the

chair in which she had sat when she called me, the white sheets on the bed.

She was lying on the bed and her face was as white as the pillow under her head. Her

eyes had been closed but they flickered open when I came over. Her lips moved but no

sound came out.

I bent over her. "Don't try to talk, baby. I'll get a doctor. You're gonna be all right."

She closed her eyes and I went over to the phone. There was no use in just calling a

doctor. My father wasn't going to be happy if I got our name into the papers again. I called

McAllister. He was the attorney who handled the firm's business in California.

His butler called him to the phone. I tried to keep my voice calm. "I need a doctor and an

ambulance quick."

In less than a moment, I understood why my father used Mac. He didn't waste any time

on useless questions. Just where, when and who. No why. His voice was precise. "A

doctor and an ambulance will be there in ten minutes. I advise you to leave now. There'sno point in your getting any more involved than you are."

I thanked him and put down the phone. I glanced over at the bed. Her eyes were closed

and she appeared to be sleeping. I started for the door and her eyes opened.

"Don't go, Joney. I'm afraid."

I went back to the bed and sat down beside it. I took her hand and she closed her eyes

again. The ambulance was there in ten minutes. And she didn't let go of my hand until

we'd reached the hospital.

3

I WALKED INTO THE FACTORY AND THE NOISE and the smell closed in on me

like a cocoon. I could feel the momentary stoppage of work as I walked by and I could

hear the subdued murmur of voices following me.

"El hijo."

The son. That was how they knew me. They spoke of me with a fondness and a pride, as

their ancestors had of the children of their patrones. It gave them a sense of identity and

belonging that helped make up for the meager way in which they had to live.

I walked past the mixing vats, the presses and the molds and reached the back stairway to

my father's office. I started up the steps and looked back at them. A hundred faces smiled

up at me. I waved my hand and smiled back at them in the same way I had always done,

ever since I first climbed those steps when I was a kid.

I went through the door at the top of the stairway and the noise was gone as soon as the

door closed behind me. I walked down the short corridor and into my father's outer office.

Denby was sitting at his desk, scribbling a note in his usual fluttery fashion. A girl sat ata desk across from him, beating hell out of a typewriter. Two other persons were seated on

the visitor's couch. A man and a woman.

The woman was dressed in black and she was twisting a small white handkerchief in her

hands. She looked up at me as I stood in the doorway. I didn't have to be told who she was.

The girl looked enough like her mother. I met her eyes and she turned her head away.

Denby got up nervously. "Your father's waiting."

I didn't answer. He opened the door to my father's office and I walked through. He closed

the door behind me. I looked around the office.

Nevada was leaning against the left wall bookcase, his eyes half closed in that deceptive

manner of alertness peculiar to him. McAllister was seated in a chair across from my

father. He turned his head to look at me. My father sat behind the immense old oak desk

and glared. Outside of that, the office was just as I remembered it.

The dark oak-paneled walls, the heavy leather chairs. The green velvet drapes on the

windows and the picture of my father and President Wilson on the wall behind the desk.

At my father's side was the telephone table with the three telephones and right next to it

was the table with the ever present carafe of water, bottle of bourbon whisky and two

glasses. The whisky bottle was about one-third filled. That made it about three o'clock. I

checked my watch. It was ten after three. My father was a bottle-a-day man.

I crossed the office and stopped in front of him. I looked down and met his angry glare.

"Hello, Father."

His ruddy face grew even redder. The cords on his neck stood out as he shouted, "Is that

all you got to say after ruining a day's production and scaring the shit out of half the help

with your crazy stunts?"

"Your message was to get down here in a hurry. I got here as quickly as I could, sir."But there was no stopping him now. He was raging. My father had that kind of a temper.

One moment he would be still and quiet, and the next, higher than a kite.

"Why the hell didn't you get out of that hotel room when McAllister told you? What did

you go to the hospital for? Do you know what you've done? Left yourself wide open for

criminal charges as an accomplice abetting an abortion."

I was angry now. I had every bit as much of a temper as my father. "What was I

supposed to do? The girl was bleeding to death and afraid. Was I supposed to just walk out

of there and leave her to die alone?"

"Yes. If you had any brains at all, that's just what you'd have done. The girl died,

anyway, and your staying there didn't make any difference. Now those goddam bastards

outside want twenty thousand dollars or they'll call for the police! You think I've got

twenty thousand dollars for every bitch you plug? This is the third girl in a year you got

caught with!"

It didn't make any difference to him that the girl had died. It was the twenty grand. But

then I realized it wasn't the money, either. It went far deeper than that.

The bitterness that had crept into his voice was the tip-off. I looked at him with a sudden

understanding. My father was getting old and it was eating out his gut. Rina must have

been at him again. More than a year had passed since the big wedding in Reno and nothing

had happened.

I turned and started for the door without speaking. Father yelled after me. "Where do you

think you're going?"

I looked back at him. "Back to L.A. You don't need me to make up your mind. You're

either going to pay them off or you're not. It doesn't make any difference to me. Besides, I

got a date."He came around the desk after me. "What for?" he shouted. "To knock up another girl?"

I faced him squarely. I had enough of his crap. "Stop complaining, old man. You ought

to be glad that someone in your family still has balls. Otherwise, Rina might think there

was something wrong with all of us!"

His face twisted with rage. He lifted both hands as if to strike me. His lips drew back

tightly across his teeth in a snarl, the veins in his forehead stood out in red, angry welts.

Then, suddenly, as an electric switch cuts off the light, all expression on his face vanished.

He staggered and pitched forward against me.

By reflex, my arms came out and I caught him. For a brief moment, his eyes were clear,

looking into mine. His lips moved. "Jonas — my son."

Then his eyes clouded and his full weight came on me and he slid to the floor. I looked

down at him. I knew he was dead even before Nevada rolled him over and tore open his

shirt.

Nevada was kneeling on the floor beside my father's body, McAllister was on the

telephone calling for a doctor and I was picking up the bottle of Jack Daniel's when Denby

came in through the door.

He shrank back against the door, the papers in his hand trembling. "My God, Junior," he

said in a horrified voice. His eyes lifted from the floor to me. "Who's going to sign the

German contracts?"

I glanced over at McAllister. He nodded imperceptibly. "I am," I answered.

Down on the floor, Nevada was closing my father's eyes. I put down the bottle of whisky

unopened and looked back at Denby.

"And stop calling me Junior," I said.BY THE TIME THE DOCTOR CAME, WE HAD LIFTED my father's body to the

couch and covered it with a blanket. The doctor was a thin, sturdy man, bald, with thick

glasses. He lifted the blanket and looked. He dropped the blanket. "He's dead, all right."

I didn't speak. It was McAllister who asked the question while I swung to and fro in my

father's chair. "Why?"

The doctor came toward the desk. "Encephalic embolism. Stroke. Blood clot hit the

brain, from the looks of him." He looked at me. "You can be thankful it was quick. He

didn't suffer."

It was certainly quick. One minute my father was alive, the next moment he was nothing,

without even the power to brush off the curious fly that was crawling over the edge of the

blanket onto his covered face. I didn't speak.

The doctor sat down heavily in the chair opposite me. He took out a pen and a sheet of

paper. He laid the paper on the desk. Upside down, I could read the heading across the top

in bold type. DEATH CERTIFICATE. The pen began to scratch across the paper. After a

moment, he looked up. "O.K. if I put down embolism as the cause of death or do you want

an autopsy?"

I shook my head. "Embolism's O.K. An autopsy wouldn't make any difference now."

The doctor wrote again. A moment later, he had finished and he pushed the certificate

over to me. "Check it over and see if I got everything right."

I picked it up. He had everything right. Pretty good for a doctor who had never seen any

of us before today. But everybody in Nevada knew everything about the Cords. Age 67.

Survivors: Wife, Rina Marlowe Cord; Son, Jonas Cord, Jr. I slid it back across the desk tohim. "It's all right."

He picked it up and got to his feet. "I'll file it and have my girl send you copies." He

stood there hesitantly, as if trying to make up his mind as to whether he should offer some

expression of sympathy. Evidently, he decided against it, for he went out the door without

another word.

Then Denby came in again. "What about those people outside? Shall I send them away?"

I shook my head. They'd only come back again. "Send them in."

They came in the door, the girl's father and mother, their faces wearing a fixed

expression that was a strange mixture of grief and sympathy.

Her father looked at me. "I'm sorry we couldn't meet under happier circumstances, Mr.

Cord."

I looked at him. The man's face was honest. I believe he really meant it. "I am, too," I

said.

His wife immediately broke into sobs. "It's terrible, terrible," she wailed, looking at my

father's covered body on the couch.

I looked at her. Her daughter had resembled her but the resemblance stopped at the

surface. The kid had had a refreshing honesty about her; this woman was a born harpy.

"What are you crying about?" I asked. "You never even knew him before today. And

only then to ask him for money."

She stared at me in shock. Her voice grew shrill. "How can you say such a thing? Your

own father lying there on the couch and after what you did to my daughter."

I got to my feet. The one thing I can't stand is a phony. "After what I did to your

daughter?" I shouted. "I didn't do anything to your daughter that she didn't want me to.

Maybe if you hadn't told her to stop at nothing to catch me, she'd be alive today. But no,you told her to get Jonas Cord, Jr, at any cost. She told me you were already planning the

wedding!"

Her husband turned to her. His voice was trembling. "You mean to tell me you knew she

was pregnant?"

She looked at him, frightened. "No, Henry, no. I didn't know. I only said to her it would

be nice if she could marry him, that's all I said."

His lips tightened, and for a second I thought he was about to strike her. But he didn't.

Instead, he turned back to me. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cord. We won't trouble you any more."

He started proudly for the door. His wife hurried after him. "But, Henry," she cried.

"Henry."

"Shut up!" he snapped, opening the door and almost pushing her through it in front of

him. "Haven't you said enough already?"

The door closed behind them and I turned to McAllister. "I'm not in the clear yet, am I?"

He shook his head.

I thought for a moment. "Better go down to see him tomorrow at his place of business. I

think he'll give you a release now. He seems like an honest man."

McAllister smiled slowly. "And that's how you figure an honest man will act?"

"That's one thing I learned from my father." Involuntarily I glanced at the couch. "He

used to say every man has his price. For some it's money, for some it's women, for others

glory. But the honest man you don't have to buy — he winds up costing you nothing."

"Your father was a practical man," McAllister said.

I stared at the lawyer. "My father was a selfish, greedy son of a bitch who wanted to grab

everything in the world," I said. "I only hope I'm man enough to fill his shoes."

McAllister rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You'll do all right."I gestured toward the couch. "I won't always have him there to help me."

McAllister didn't speak. I glanced over at Nevada. He had been leaning against the wall

silently all the time. His eyes flickered under the veiled lids. He took out a pack of makin's

and began to roll a cigarette. I turned back to McAllister.

"I'm going to need a lot of help," I said.

McAllister showed his interest with his eyes. He didn't speak.

"I'll need an adviser, a consultant and a lawyer," I continued. "Are you available?"

He spoke slowly. "I don't know whether I can find the time, Jonas," he said. "I've got a

pretty heavy practice."

"How heavy?"

"I gross about sixty thousand a year."

"Would a hundred thousand move you to Nevada?"

His answer came quick. "If you let me draw the contract."

I took out a pack of cigarettes and offered him one. He took it and I stuck one in my

mouth. I struck a match and held it for him. "O.K.," I said.

He stopped in the middle of the light. He looked at me quizzically. "How do you know

you can afford to pay me that kind of money?"

I lit my own cigarette and smiled. "I didn't know until you took the job. Then I was sure."

A returning smile flashed across his face and vanished. Then he was all business. "The

first thing we have to do is call a meeting of the board of directors and have you officially

elected president of the company. Do you think there might be any trouble on that score?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so. My father didn't believe in sharing. He kept ninety per

cent of the stock in his own name and according to his will, it comes to me on his death."

"Do you have a copy of the will?""No," I answered. "But Denby must. He has a record of everything my father ever did."

I hit the buzzer and Denby came in.

"Get me a copy of my father's will," I ordered.

A moment later, it was on the desk — all official, with a blue lawyer's binding. I pushed

it over to McAllister. He flipped through it quickly.

"It's in order," he said. "The stock is yours all right. We better get it probated right

away."

I turned to Denby questioningly. Denby couldn't wait to answer. The words came

tumbling out. "Judge Haskell in Reno has it on file."

"Call him and tell him to move on it right away," I said. Denby started out. I stopped

him. "And when you get through with him, call the directors and tell him I'm having a

special meeting of the board at breakfast tomorrow. At my house."

Denby went out and I turned back to McAllister. "Is there anything else I ought to do,

Mac?"

He shook his head slowly. "No, not right now. There's only the German contract. I don't

know too much about it but I heard your father say it was a great opportunity. It's got

something to do with a new kind of product. Plastics, I think he called it."

I ground out my cigarette in the ash tray on the desk. "Have Denby give you the file on

it. You look at it tonight and give me a breakdown tomorrow morning before the board

meeting. I'll be up at five o'clock."

A strange look began to come over McAllister's face. For a moment, I didn't know what

it was, then I recognized it. Respect. "I'll be there at five, Jonas."

He got up and started for the door. I called to him before he reached it, "While you're at

it, Mac, have Denby give you a list of the other stockholders in the company. I think Iought to know their names before the meeting."

The look of respect on his face grew deeper. "Yes, Jonas," he said, going out the door.

I swung around to Nevada and looked up at him. "What do you think?" I asked.

He waited a long moment before he answered. Then he spit away a piece of cigarette

paper that clung to his lip. "I think your old man is resting real easy."

That reminded me. I had almost forgotten. I got up from the chair and walked around the

desk and over to the couch. I picked up the blanket and looked down at him.

His eyes were closed and his mouth was grim. There was a slightly blue stain under the

skin of his right temple, going on up into the hairline. That must be the embolism, I

thought.

Somehow, deep inside of me, I wanted some tears to come out for him. But there weren't

any. He had abandoned me too long ago — that day on the porch when he threw me to

Nevada.

I heard the door behind me open and I dropped the blanket back and turned around.

Denby was standing in the doorway.

"Jake Platt wants to see you, sir."

Jake was the plant manager. He kept the wheels turning. He also listened to the wind and

by now the word must be racing all over the plant.

"Send him in," I said.

He appeared in the doorway beside Denby as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

He was a big, heavy man. He even walked heavy. He came into the office, his hand

outstretched. "I just heard the sad news." He crossed over to the couch and looked down at

my father's body, his face assuming his best Irish-wake air. "It's a sad loss, indeed. Your

father was a great man." He shook his head mournfully. "A great man."I walked back behind the desk. And you're a great actor, Jake Platt, I thought. Aloud I

said, "Thank you, Jake."

He turned to me, his face brightening at the thought of his act going over. "And I want

you to know if there's anything you want of me, anything at all, just call on me."

"Thank you, Jake," I said again. "It's good to know there are men like you in my corner."

He preened almost visibly at my words. His voice lowered to a confidential tone. "The

word's all over the plant now. D'ya think I ought to say something to them? You know

them Mexicans and Indians. They're a might touchy and nervous and need a little calming

down."

I looked at him. He was probably right. "That's a good idea, Jake. But I think it would

seem better if I talk to them myself."

Jake had to agree with me whether he liked it or not. That was his policy. Not to disagree

with the boss. "That's true, Jonas," he said, masking his disappointment. "If you feel up to

it."

"I feel up to it," I said, starting for the door.

Nevada's voice came after me. "What about him?"

I turned back and followed his glance to the couch. "Call the undertakers and have them

take care of him. Tell them we want the best casket in the state."

Nevada nodded.

"Then meet me out in front with the car and we'll go home." I went out the door without

waiting for his reply. Jake trotted after me as I turned down the back corridor and went out

onto the stairway leading to the plant.

Every eye in the factory turned toward me as I came through that doorway onto the little

platform at the top of the staircase. Jake held up his hands and quiet began to fall in thefactory. I waited until every machine in the place had come to a stop before I spoke. There

was something eerie about it. It was the first time I had ever heard the factory completely

silent. I began to speak and my voice echoed crazily through the building.

"Mi padre ha muerto." I spoke in Spanish. My Spanish wasn't very good but it was their

language and I continued in it. "But I, his son, am here and hope to continue in his good

work. It is indeed too bad that my father is not here to express his appreciation to all you

good workers himself for everything you have done to make this company a success. I

hope it is enough for you to know that just before he passed away, he authorized a five-

per-cent increase in wages for every one of you who work in the plant."

Jake grabbed my arm frantically. I shook his hand off and continued. "It is my earnest

wish that I continue to have the same willing support that you gave to my father. I trust

you will be patient with me for I have much to learn. Many thanks and may you all go

with God."

I started down the steps and Jake came after me. The workers made a path as I walked

through. They were silent for the most part; occasionally, one would touch me

reassuringly as I passed by. Twice I saw tears in someone's eyes. At least my father didn't

go uncried for. Even if they were tears in the eyes of someone who didn't know him.

I came out of the factory into the daylight and blinked my eyes. The sun was still in the

sky. I had almost forgotten it was there, it seemed so long ago.

The big Pierce-Arrow was right in front of the door, with Nevada at the wheel. I started

across toward it. Jake's hand on my arm stopped me. I turned toward him.

His voice was half whining. "What did you have to go and do that for, Jonas? You don't

know them bastards like I do. Give 'em an inch, they'll want your arm. Your father was

always after me to keep the pay scale down."I stared at him coldly. Some people didn't learn fast enough. "Did you hear what I said in

there, Jake?"

"I heard what you said, Jonas. That's what I'm talking about. I— "

I cut him off. "I don't think you did, Jake," I said softly. "My first words were 'Mi padre

ha muerto.' My father is dead."

"Yes, but— "

"That means exactly what it says, Jake. He's dead. But I'm not. I'm here and the only

thing you better remember is that I'm exactly like him in just one way. I'll take no crap

from anyone who works for me, and anyone who doesn't like what I do can get the hell

out!"

Jake learned fast. He was at the car door, holding it open for me. "I didn't mean anything,

Jonas. I only— "

There was no use explaining to him that if you pay more, you get more. Ford had proved

that when he gave his workers raises the year before. He more than tripled production. I

got into the car and looked back at the factory. The black, sticky tar on the roof caught my

eye. I remembered it from the plane.

"Jake," I said. "See that roof?"

He turned toward it and peered at it. His voice was puzzled. "Yes, sir?"

Suddenly I was very tired. I leaned back against the cushions and closed my eyes. "Paint

it white," I said.

5

I DOZED AS THE BIG PIERCE ATE UP THE TWENTY MILES between my father'snew house and the factory. Every once in a while, I would open my eyes and catch a

glimpse of Nevada watching me in the rear-view mirror, then my eyes would close again

as if weighted down by lead.

I hate my father and I hate my mother and if I had had sisters and brothers, I would hate

them, too. No, I didn't hate my father. Not any more. He was dead. You don't hate the

dead. You only remember them. And I didn't hate my mother. She wasn't my mother,

anyway. I had a stepmother. And I didn't hate her. I loved her.

That was why I had brought her home. I wanted to marry her. Only, my father said I was

too young. Nineteen was too young, he had said. But he wasn't too young. He married her

a week after I had gone back to college.

I met Rina at the country club two weeks before vacation was over. She came from back

East, someplace in Massachusetts called Brookline, and she was like no one I had ever met

before. All the girls out here are dark and tanned from the sun, they walk like men, talk

like men, even ride like men. The only time you can be sure they are something else is in

the evenings, when they wear skirts instead of Levi's, for even at the swimming pool,

according to the fashion, they look like boys. Flat-chested and slim-hipped.

But Rina was a girl. You couldn't miss that. Especially in a bathing suit, the way she was

the first time I saw her. She was slim, all right and her shoulders were broad, maybe too

broad for a woman. But her breasts were strong and full, jutting rocks against the silk-

jersey suit that gave the lie to the fashion. You could not look at them without tasting the

milk and honey of their sweetness in your mouth. They rested easy on a high rib cage that

melted down into a narrow waist that in turn flared out into slim but rounded hips and

buttocks.

Her hair was a pale blond that she wore long, tied back behind her head, again contraryto fashion. Her brow was high, her eyes wide apart and slightly slanted, the blue of them

reflecting a glow beneath their ice. Her nose was straight and not too thin, reflecting her

Finnish ancestry. Perhaps her only flaw was her mouth. It was wide — not generous-wide,

because her lips were not full enough. It was a controlled mouth that set firmly on a

tapered, determined chin.

She had gone to Swiss finishing schools, was slow to laughter and reserved in her

manner. In two days, she had me swinging from the chandeliers. Her voice was soft and

low and had a faintly foreign sound that bubbled in your ear.

It was about ten days later, at the Saturday-night dance at the club, that I first knew how

much I wanted her. It was a slow, tight waltz and the lights were down low and blue.

Suddenly she missed half a step. She looked up at me and smiled that slow smile.

"You're very strong," she said and pressed herself back against me.

I could feel the heat from her loins pouring into me as we began to dance again. At last, I

couldn't stand it any more. I took her arm and started from the dance floor.

She followed me silently out to the car. We climbed into the big Duesenberg roadster

and I threw it into gear and we raced down the highway. The night air on the desert was

warm. I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes. Her head was back against the seat, her

eyes closed to the wind.

I turned off into a date grove and cut the motor. She was still leaning back against the

seat. I bent over and kissed her mouth.

Her mouth neither gave nor took. It was like a well on an oasis in the desert. It was there

for when you needed it. I reached for her breast. Her hand caught mine and held it.

I lifted my head and looked at her. Her eyes were open and yet they were guarded. I

could not see into them. "I want you," I said.Her eyes did not change expression. I could hardly hear her voice. "I know."

I moved toward her again. This time, her hand against my chest, stopped me.

"Lend me your handkerchief," she said, taking it from my breast pocket.

It fluttered whitely in the night, then dropped from sight with her hands. She didn't raise

her head from the back of the seat, she didn't speak, she just watched me with those

guarded eyes.

I felt her searching fingers and I leaned toward her but somehow she kept me from

getting any closer to her. Then suddenly, I felt an exquisite pain rushing from the base of

my spine and I almost climbed halfway out of the seat.

I took out a cigarette and lit it with trembling fingers as she crumpled the handkerchief

into a small ball and threw it over the side of the car. Then she took the cigarette from my

mouth and placed it between her lips.

"I still want you," I said.

She gave the cigarette back to me and shook her head.

"Why?" I asked.

She turned her face toward me. It shone palely in the dark. "Because in two days I'm

going home. Because in the stock-market crash of twenty-three, my father lost everything.

Because I must find and marry a rich husband. I must do nothing to endanger that."

I stared at her for a moment, then started the engine. I backed the car out of the date

grove and set it on the road for home. I didn't say anything but I had all the answers for

her. I was rich. Or I would be someday.

I left Rina in the parlor and went into my father's study. As usual, he was working at his

desk, the single lamp throwing its light down on the papers. He looked up as I came in.

"Yes?" he asked, as if I were someone in his office who had intruded in the midst of aproblem.

I hit the wall switch and flooded the room with light. "I want to get married," I said.

He looked at me for a moment as if he was far away. He had been, but he came back fast.

"You're crazy," he said unemotionally. He looked down at his desk again. "Go to bed and

don't bother me."

I stood there. "I mean it, Dad," I said. It was the first time I had called him that since I

was a kid.

He got to his feet slowly. "No," he said. "You're too young."

That was all he said. It would never occur to him to ask who, what, why. No, only I was

too young. "All right, Father," I said, turning toward the door. "Remember I asked you."

"Wait a minute," he said. I stopped, my hand on the doorknob. "Where is she?"

"Waiting in the parlor," I answered.

He looked at me shrewdly. "When did you decide?"

"Tonight," I answered. "Just tonight."

"I suppose she's one of those silly little girls who show up at the club dance and she's

waiting on pins and needles to meet the old man?" he asked.

I rose to her defense. "She's not like that at all. As a matter of fact, she doesn't even know

that I'm in here asking you."

"You mean you haven't even asked her yet?"

"I don't have to," I answered, with the supreme confidence of my years. "I know her

answer."

My father shook his head. "Just for the record, don't you think you had better ask her?"

I went out and brought Rina back into the room. "Rina, this is my father; Father, this is

Rina Marlowe."Rina nodded politely. For all you could tell from her manner, it could have been high

noon instead of two o'clock in the morning.

Father looked at her thoughtfully. There was a curious expression on his face I had never

seen before. He came around his desk and held out his hand to her. "How do you do, Miss

Marlowe?" he said in a soft voice. I stared at him. I had never seen him do that with any of

my friends before.

She took his hand. "How do you do?"

Still holding her hand, he let his voice fall into a semi-amused tone. "My son thinks he

wants to marry you, Miss Marlowe, but I think he's too young. Don't you?"

Rina looked at me. For a moment, I could see into her eyes. They were bright and

shining, then they were guarded again.

She turned to Father. "This is very embarrassing, Mr. Cord. Would you please take me

home?"

Stunned, unable to speak, I watched my father take her arm and walk out of the room

with her. A moment later, I heard the roar of the Duesenberg and angrily I looked around

for something to vent my spleen on. The only thing available was the lamp on the table. I

smashed it against the wall.

Two weeks later, at college, I got a telegram from my father.

RINA AND I WERE MARRIED THIS MORNING. WE ARE AT THE WALDORF-

ASTORIA, NEW YORK. LEAVING TOMORROW ON LEVIATHAN FOR

EUROPEAN HONEYMOON.

I picked up the telephone and called him."There's no fool like an old fool!" I shouted across the three thousand miles of wire

between us. "Don't you know the only reason she married you was for your money?"

Father didn't even get angry. He even chuckled. "You're the fool. All she wanted was a

man, not a boy. She even insisted that we sign a premarital property agreement before she

would marry me."

"Oh, yeah?" I asked. "Who drew the agreement? Her lawyer?"

Father chuckled again. "No. Mine." His voice changed abruptly. It grew heavy and

coarse with meaning. "Now get back to your studies, son, and don't meddle in things that

don't concern you. It's midnight here and I'm just about to go to bed."

The telephone went dead in my hands. I stared at it for a moment, then slowly put it

down. I couldn't sleep that night. Across my mind's eye unreeled pornographic pictures of

Rina and my father in wild sexual embrace. Several times, I woke up in a cold sweat.

A hand was shaking me gently. Slowly I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was

Nevada's face. "Wake up, Jonas," he said. "We're home."

I blinked my eyes to clear the sleep from them.

The last piece of sun was going down behind the big house. I shook my head and stepped

out of the car. I looked up at the house. Strange house. I don't think I'd spent more than

two weeks in it since my father had it built and now it was mine. Like everything else my

father had done.

I started for the steps. Rina had thought of everything. Except this. My father was dead.

And I was going to tell her.THE FRONT DOOR OPENED AS I CROSSED THE VERANDA. My father had built

a traditional Southern plantation house, and to run it, he had brought Robair up from New

Orleans. Robair was a Creole butler in the full tradition.

He was a giant of a man, towering a full head over me, and as gentle and efficient as he

was big. His father and grandfather had been butlers before him and even though they had

been slaves, they had instilled in him a pride in his work. He had a sixth sense for his

duties. Somehow, he was always there when he was wanted.

He stepped aside to let me enter. "Hello, Master Cord." He greeted me in his soft Creole

English.

"Hello, Robair," I said, turning to him as he closed the door. "Come with me."

He followed me silently into my father's study. His face impassive, he closed the door

behind him. "Yes, Mr. Cord?"

It was the first time he had called me Mister, instead of Master. I looked at him. "My

father is dead," I said.

"I know," he said. "Mr. Denby called."

"Do the others know?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I told Mr. Denby that Mrs. Cord was out and I haven't said anything

to the other servants."

There was a faint sound outside the closed door. Robair continued speaking as he moved

swiftly toward it. "I figured you would want to break the sad news yourself." He threw the

door open.

There was no one there. He stepped quickly out the door. I followed him. A figure was

hurrying up the long staircase that curved around the entrance hall to the upper floor.Robair's voice was low but held the whip of authority. "Louise!"

The figure stopped. It was Rina's personal maid.

"Come down here," he commanded.

Louise came down the steps hesitantly. I could see the terrified look on her face as she

approached. "Yes, Mr. Robair?" Her voice was frightened, too.

For the first time, Robair let me see how he kept the servants in line. He moved almost

lazily but his hand met her face with the impact of a pistol shot. His voice was filled with

contempt. "How many times do I tell you not to listen at doors?"

She stood holding her hand to her face. The tears began to run down her cheeks.

"Now you get back to the kitchen. I'll deal with you later."

She ran toward the kitchen, still holding her face. Robair turned back to me. "I apologize

for her, Mr. Cord," he said, his voice once more deep and soft. "Ordinarily, my servants

don't do such a thing, but that one is pretty hard to keep in her place."

I took out a cigarette and almost before I had it in my mouth, Robair struck a match and

held it for me. I dragged deep. "That's all right, Robair. I don't think she'll be with us much

longer."

Robair put out the match and carefully deposited it in an ash tray. "Yes, sir."

I looked at the staircase speculatively. Oddly enough, I hesitated.

Robair's voice came over my shoulder. "Mrs. Cord is in her room."

I looked at him. His face was an impenetrable butler's mask. "Thank you, Robair. I'll go

up and tell her."

I started up the staircase. His voice held me. "Mr. Cord?" I turned and looked down at

him.

His black face gleamed. "What time shall I serve dinner, sir?"I thought for a moment. "About eight o'clock," I answered.

"Thank you, sir," he said and started for the kitchen.

I knocked softly at Rina's door. There was no answer. I opened it and walked in. Her

voice came from the bathroom.

"Louise, bring me a bath towel."

I walked into the bathroom and took a large towel from the stack on the shelf over her

dressing table. I started for the enclosed bathtub just as she slid back the glass door.

She was gold and white and gleaming with the water running down her body. She stood

there for a moment surprised. Most women would have tried to cover themselves. But not

Rina. She held out a hand for the towel.

She wrapped it around her expertly and stepped from the tub. "Where's Louise?" she

asked, sitting down at the dressing table.

"Downstairs," I answered.

She began to dry her face with another towel. "Your father wouldn't like this."

"He'll never know," I answered.

"How do you know I won't tell him?"

"You won't," I said definitely.

It was then that she began to sense something was wrong. She looked up at me in the

mirror. Her face was suddenly serious. "Did something happen between you and your

father, Jonas?"

She watched me for a moment; there was still a puzzled look in her eyes. She gave me a

small towel. "Be a good boy, will you, Jonas, and dry my back? I can't reach it." She

smiled up into the mirror. "You see, I really do need Louise."I took the towel and moved closer to her. She let the big bath towel slide down from her

shoulders. I patted the beads of moisture from her flawless skin. The scent of her perfume

came up to me, pungent from her bath warmth.

I pressed my lips to her neck. She turned toward me in surprise. "Stop that, Jonas! Your

father said this morning you were a sex maniac but you don't have to try to prove it!"

I stared into her eyes. There was no fear in them. She was very sure of herself. I smiled

slowly. "Maybe he was right," I said. "Or maybe he just forgot what it was like to be

young."

I pulled her off the seat toward me. The towel fell still further until it hung only by the

press of our bodies. I covered her mouth with mine and reached for her breast. It was hard

and firm and strong and I could feel her heart beating wildly beneath it.

Maybe I was wrong but for a moment, I thought I could feel the fires in her reaching

toward me. Then, angrily, she tore herself from me. The towel lay unheeded on the floor

now. "Have you gone crazy?" she spit at me, her breast heaving. "You know at any minute

now he could come walking through that door."

I stood very still for a second, then let the built-up pressure in my lungs escape in a slow

sigh. "He'll never come through that door again," I said.

The color began to drain from her face slowly. "What— what do you mean?" she

stammered.

My eyes went right into hers. For the first time, I could see into them. She was afraid.

Just like everyone else that had to look into an unknown future. "Mrs. Cord," I said slowly,

"your husband is dead."

Her pupils dilated wildly for a moment and she sank slowly back onto the seat. By

reflex, she picked up the towel and placed it around her again. "I can't believe it," she saiddully.

"What is it that you can't believe, Rina?" I asked cruelly. "That he's dead or that you

were wrong when you married him instead of me?"

I don't think she even heard me. She looked up at me, her eyes dry, but there was a gentle

sorrow in them — a compassion I never knew she was capable of. "Was there any pain?"

she asked.

"No," I answered. "It was quick. A stroke. One minute he was as big as life and roaring

like a lion, and the next— " I snapped my fingers. "It was like that."

Her eyes were still on mine. "I'm glad for his sake," she said softly. "I wouldn't have

wanted him to suffer."

She got to her feet slowly. The veil came down over her eyes again. "I think you'd better

go now," she said.

This was the familiar Rina, the one I wanted to take apart. The distant one, the

unattainable one, the calculating one. "No," I said. "I haven't finished yet."

She started past me. "What is there to finish?"

I seized her arm and pulled her back toward me. "We're not finished," I said into her

upturned face. "You and me. I brought you home one night because I wanted you. But you

chose my father because he represented a quicker return for you. I think I've waited long

enough!"

She stared back at me. She wasn't afraid now. This was the ground she was used to

fighting on. "You wouldn't dare!"

For an answer, I pulled the towel from her. She turned to run from the room but I caught

her arm and pulled her back to me. With my other hand, I caught her hair and pulled her

head back so that her face turned up to mine. "No?""I'll scream," she gasped hoarsely. "The servants will come running!"

I grinned. "No, they won't. They'll only think it a cry of grief. Robair's got them in the

kitchen and not one will come up unless I send for her."

"Wait!" she begged. "Please wait. For your father's sake?"

"Why should I?" I asked. "He didn't wait for me." I picked her up and carried her into the

bedroom. Her fists and hands scratched at my face and beat against my chest.

I threw her on the bed, the white satin cover still on it. She tried to roll off on the other

side. I grabbed her shoulder and spun her back. She bit my hand and tried to scramble

away when I pulled it back. I placed my knee across her thighs and slapped viciously at

her face. The blow knocked her back on the pillow. I could see the white marks left by my

fingers.

She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them, they were clouded and

there was a wildness in them that I had never seen before. She smiled and her arms went

up around my neck, pulling me down to her. Her mouth fastened against mine. I could feel

her body begin to move under me.

"Do it to me, Jonas!" she breathed into my mouth. "Now! I can't wait any more. I've

waited so long." Her searching fingers ran down my hip and found my core. She turned

her face into the pillow, her movements becoming more frenetic. I could hardly hear her

fierce, urgent whisper. "Hurry, Jonas. Hurry!"

I started to get up but she couldn't wait for me to get my clothing off. She pulled me

down again and took me inside her. She was like a burning bed of coals. She drew my

head down to her neck.

"Make me pregnant, Jonas," she whispered into my ear. "Make me pregnant like you did

to those three girls in Los Angeles. Put your life into me!"I looked into her face. Her eyes were clear and there was a taunting triumph in them.

They reflected none of the passion of the body beneath me. Her arms and legs tightened

around me.

She smiled, her eyes looking into mine. "Make me pregnant, Jonas," she whispered.

"Like your father never would. He was afraid someone would take something away from

you!"

"What— what?" I tried to get up but she was like a bottomless well that I couldn't get out

of.

"Yes, Jonas," she said, still smiling, her body devouring me. "Your father never took any

chances. That's why he made me sign that agreement before we got married. He wanted

everything for his precious son!"

I tried to get up but she had moved her legs in some mysterious manner. Laughing,

triumphant, she said, "But you'll make me pregnant, won't you, Jonas? Who will know but

us? You will share your fortune with your child even if the whole world believes it to be

your father's."

She rose beneath me, seeking and demanding my life force. In a sudden frenzy, I tore

myself from her, just as my strength drained from me. I fell across the bed near her feet.

The agony passed and I opened my eyes. Her head was turned into the pillow and she

was crying. Silently I got to my feet and left the room.

All the way down the hall to my room, I kept thinking, my father cared, he really cared.

Even if I didn't see it, he loved me.

He loved me. But never enough to show it.

By the time I got to my room, the tears were rolling down my cheeks.I WAS ON THE TINY INDIAN PINTO THAT I HAD WHEN I was ten years old,

galloping insanely across the dunes. The panic of flight rose within me but I didn't know

what I was running from. I looked back over my shoulder.

My father was following me on the big strawberry roan. His jacket was open and

blowing in the wind and I could see the heavy watch chain stretched tight across his chest.

I heard his voice, weird and eerie in the wind. "Come back here, Jonas. Damn you, come

back!"

I turned and urged the pinto to even greater speed, I used my bat unmercifully and there

were tiny red welts on the horse's side from where I had hit him. Gradually, I began to pull

away.

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, Nevada was beside me, riding easily on his big black

horse. He looked across at me calmly. His voice was low. "Go back, Jonas. It's your father

calling you. What kind of a son are you, anyway?"

I didn't answer, just kept urging my horse on. I looked back again over my shoulder.

My father was pulling his horse to a stop. His face was very sad. "Look after him,

Nevada." I could hear him only faintly, for there was a great distance between us. "Look

after him, for I haven't the time." He turned the strawberry roan around and began to

gallop away.

I stopped my pony and turned to look after him. He was already growing smaller in the

distance. Even his outline was fading in the sudden tears that leapt to my eyes. I wanted to

cry out after him, "Don't go, Father." But the words stuck in my throat.

I sat up in bed, my skin wet with perspiration. I shook my head to get the echo of thedream out of it. Through the open window I could hear the sound of horses coming from

the corral in back of the house.

I went over to the window and looked out. The sun was at five o'clock and casting a long

morning shadow. Down in the corral, several of the hands were leaning against the fence,

watching a rider trying to break a wiry bay colt. I squinted my eyes against the sun.

I turned from the window quickly. That was the kind of medicine I needed. Something

that would jar the empty feeling out of me, that would clean the bitter taste from my

mouth. I pulled on a pair of Levi's and an old blue shirt and started from the room.

I headed down the corridor to the back stairs. I met Robair just as I came to them. He

was carrying a tray with a glass of orange juice and a pot of steaming coffee. He looked at

me without surprise.

"Good morning, Mr. Jonas."

"Good morning, Robair," I replied.

"Mr. McAllister is here to see you. I showed him into the study."

I hesitated a moment. The corral would have to wait. There were more important things I

had to do. "Thank you, Robair," I said, turning for the front staircase.

"Mr. Jonas," he called after me.

I stopped and looked back at him.

"If you're goin' to talk business, Mr. Jonas, I find you always talk better if you got

something in your stomach."

I looked at him, then at the tray. I nodded and sat down on the top step. Robair set the

tray down beside me. I picked up the glass of orange juice and drained it. Robair poured

the coffee and lifted the cover from the toast. I sipped at the coffee. Robair was right. The

empty feeling was in my stomach. It was going away now. I picked up a slice of toast.If McAllister noticed the way I was dressed, he made no comment about it. He came

directly to the point. "The ten per cent of minority stock is divided as follows," he said,

spreading some papers on the desk. "Two and one half per cent each, Rina Cord and

Nevada Smith; two per cent each, Judge Samuel Haskell and Peter Commack, president of

the Industrial Bank of Reno; and one per cent to Eugene Denby."

I looked at him. "What's the stock worth?"

"On what basis?" he asked. "Earnings or net worth?"

"Both," I answered.

He looked down at his papers again. "On the basis of average earnings the past five

years, the minority stock is worth forty-five thousand dollars; on the basis of net worth

maybe sixty thousand dollars." He lit a cigarette. "The earning potential of the corporation

has been declining since the war."

"What does that mean?"

"There just isn't the demand for our product in peacetime that there is in war," he

answered.

I took out a cigarette and lit it. I began to have doubts about the hundred thousand a year

I was paying him. "Tell me something I don't know," I said.

He looked down at the papers again, then up at me. "Commack's bank turned down the

two-hundred-thousand-dollar loan your father wanted to finance the German contract you

signed yesterday."

I put the cigarette out slowly in the ash tray. "I guess that leaves me a little short, doesn't

it?"

McAllister nodded. "Yes."My next question took him by surprise. "Well, what did you do about it?"

He stared at me as if I were psychic. "What makes you think that I did?"

"You were in my father's office when I got there and I know he wouldn't call you just to

settle with that girl's parents. He could have done that himself. And you took the job. That

meant you were sure of getting your money."

He began to smile. "I arranged another loan at the Pioneer National Trust Company in

Los Angeles. I made it for three hundred thousand, just to be on the safe side."

"Good," I said. "That will give me the money I need to buy out the minority

stockholders."

He was still staring at me with that look of surprise in his eyes when I dropped into the

chair beside him. "Now," I said, "tell me everything you've been able to find out about this

new thing my father was so hot about. What was it you called it? Plastics?"

8

ROBAIR SERVED A RANCH-STYLE BREAKFAST: STEAK AND eggs, hot biscuits.

I looked around the table. The last plate had been cleared away and now Robair discreetly

withdrew, closing the big doors behind him. I drained my coffee cup and got to my feet.

"Gentlemen," I said, "I know I don't have to tell you what a shock it was yesterday to

find myself suddenly with the responsibility of a big company like Cord Explosives. That's

why I asked you gentlemen here this morning to help me decide what's best for the

company."

Commack's thin voice reached across the table. "You can count on us to do what's right,

son.""Thank you, Mr. Commack," I said. "It seems to me that the first thing we have to do is

elect a new president. Someone who will devote himself to the company the same way my

father did."

I looked around the table. Denby sat at the end, scribbling notes in a pad. Nevada was

rolling a cigarette. He glanced up at me, his eyes smiling. McAllister sat quietly next to

him. Haskell and Commack were silent. I waited for the silence to grow heavy. It did. I

didn't have to be told who were my friends.

"Do you have any suggestions, gentlemen?" I asked.

Commack looked up at me. "Do you?"

"I thought so yesterday," I said. "But I slept on it and this morning I came to the

conclusion that it's a pretty big nut to crack for someone with my experience."

For the first time that morning, Haskell, Commack and Denby brightened. They

exchanged quick looks. Commack spoke up. "That's pretty sensible of you, son," he said.

"What about Judge Haskell here? He's retired from the bench but I think he might take the

job on to help you out."

I turned to the Judge. "Would you, Judge?"

The Judge smiled slowly. "Only to help you out, boy," he said. "Only to help you out"

I looked over at Nevada. He was smiling broadly now. I smiled back at him, then turned

to the others. "Shall we vote on it, gentlemen?"

For the first time, Denby spoke up. "According to the charter of this company, a

president can only be elected by a meeting of the stockholders. And then only by a

majority of the stock outstanding."

"Let's have a stockholder's meeting, then," Commack said. "The majority of stock is

represented here.""That's a good idea," I said. I turned to the Judge, smiling. "That is if I can vote my

stock," I added.

"You sure can, boy," the Judge boomed, taking a paper from his pocket and handing it to

me. "It's there in your father's will. I had it admitted to probate this morning. It's all legally

yours now."

I took the will and continued. "All right, then, the director's meeting is adjourned and the

stockholder's meeting is called to order. The first item on the agenda is to elect a president

and treasurer of the company to replace the late Jonas Cord."

Commack smiled. "I nominate Judge Samuel Haskell."

Denby spoke quickly. Too quickly. "Second the nomination."

I nodded. "The nomination of Judge Haskell is noted. Any further nominations before

the slate is closed?"

Nevada got to his feet. "I nominate Jonas Cord, Junior," he drawled.

I smiled at him. "Thank you." I turned to the Judge and my voice went hard and flat. "Do

I hear the nomination seconded?"

The Judge's face was flushed. He glanced at Commack, then at Denby. Denby's face was

white.

"Do I hear the nomination seconded?" I repeated coldly.

He knew I had them. "Second the nomination," the Judge said weakly.

"Thank you, Judge," I said.

It was easy after that. I bought their stock for twenty-five thousand dollars and the first

thing I did was fire Denby.

If I was going to have a secretary, I didn't want a prissy little sneak like him. I wanted

one with tits.Robair came into the study, where McAllister and I were working. I looked up. "Yes,

Robair?"

He bowed his head respectfully. "Miss Rina would like to see you in her room, suh."

I got to my feet and stretched. This sitting at a desk for half a day was worse than

anything I'd ever done. "O.K., I'll go right up."

McAllister looked at me questioningly.

"Wait for me," I said. "I won't be long."

Robair held the door for me and I went up the stairs to Rina's room. I knocked on the

door.

"Come in," she called.

She was sitting at her table in front of a mirror. Louise was brushing her hair with a big

white brush. Rina's eyes looked up at me in the mirror.

"You wanted to see me?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered. She turned to Louise. "That's all for now," she said. "Leave us."

The girl nodded silently and started for the door. Rina's voice reached after her. "And

wait downstairs. I'll call when I want you."

Rina looked at me and smiled. "She has a habit of listening at keyholes."

"I know," I said, closing the door behind me. "What is it you wanted to see me about?"

Rina got to her feet. Her black negligee swirled around her. Through it I could see she

was wearing black undergarments, also. Her eyes caught mine. She smiled again. "What

do you think of my widow's weeds?"

"Very merry-widowish," I answered. "But that isn't what you asked me up for."

She took a cigarette and lit it. "I want to get out of here right after the funeral.""What for?" I asked. "It's your house. He left it to you."

Her eyes met mine through a cloud of smoke she blew out. "I want you to buy the house

from me."

"What'll I use for money?"

"You'll get it," she said flatly. "Your father always got it for the things he wanted."

I studied her. She seemed to know exactly what she was doing. "How much do you

want?" I asked cautiously.

"One hundred thousand dollars," she said calmly.

"What?" I exclaimed. "It isn't worth more than fifty-five."

"I know," she said, "But I'm throwing in something else - my stock in the Cord

Explosives Company."

"The stock isn't worth the difference!" I exploded. "I just bought twice as much this

morning for twenty-five thousand!"

She got to her feet and walked over to me. Her eyes stared coldly up at me. "Look,

Jonas," she said coldly, "I'm being nice about it. Under the Nevada law, I'm entitled to

one-third your father's estate, will or no will. I could break the probate of the will just like

that if I wanted to. And even if I couldn't, I could tie you up in court for five years. What

would happen to all your plans then?"

I stared at her silently.

"If you don't believe me, why don't you ask your lawyer friend downstairs?" she added.

"You already checked?" I guessed.

"Damn right I did!" she snapped. "Judge Haskell called me as soon as he got back to his

office!"

I drew in my breath. I should have known the old bastard wouldn't let go that easy. "Ihaven't got that kind of money," I said. "Neither has the company."

"I know that," she said. "But I'm willing to be reasonable about it. I'll take fifty thousand

the day after the funeral and your note endorsed by the company for ten thousand a year

for the nest five years."

I didn't need a lawyer to tell me she'd had good advice. "O.K.," I said, starting for the

door. "Come on downstairs. I'll have McAllister prepare the papers."

She smiled again. "I couldn't do that."

"Why not?" I demanded.

"I'm in mourning," she said. "How would it look for the widow of Jonas Cord to come

downstairs to transact business?" She went back to her vanity table and sat down. "When

the papers are ready, send them up."

9

IT WAS FIVE O'CLOCK WHEN WE GOT OUT OF THE TAXI in front of the bank

building in downtown Los Angeles. We went through the door and walked back to the

executive offices in the rear of the bank. McAllister led me through another door marked

PRIVATE. It was a reception room.

A secretary looked up. "Mr. McAllister." She smiled. "We thought you were in Nevada."

"I was," he replied. "Is Mr. Moroni in?"

"Let me check," she said. "Sometimes he has a habit of leaving the office without telling

me." She disappeared through another door.

I looked at McAllister. "That's the kind of secretary I want. She's got brains and a nice

pair of boobs to go with them."He smiled. "A girl like that gets seventy-five, eighty dollars a week. They don't come

cheap."

"Yuh gotta pay for anything that's good," I said.

The secretary appeared in the doorway, smiling at us. "Mr. Moroni will see you now, Mr.

McAllister."

I followed him into the inner office. It was large, with dark, wood-paneled walls. There

was a big desk spang in the middle of it and a small man with iron-gray hair and shrewd

dark eyes sitting behind it. He got up as we came into the room.

"Mr. Moroni," McAllister said, "this is Jonas Cord."

Moroni put out his hand. I took it. It wasn't the usual soft banker's hand. This one was

hard and callused and the grip was strong. There were many years of labor contained in

that hand and most of them had not been behind a desk. "It's good to meet you, Mr. Cord,"

he said with a faint trace of an Italian accent.

"My pleasure, sir," I said respectfully.

He waved us to the chairs in front of his desk and we sat down. McAllister came right to

the point. When he had finished, Moroni leaned forward across his desk and looked at me.

"I'm sorry to hear about your loss," he said. "From everything I've heard, he was a very

unusual man."

I nodded. "He was, sir."

"You realize, of course, this makes quite a difference?"

I looked at him. "Without trying to stand on a technicality, Mr. Moroni, I thought the

loan was being made to the Cord Explosives Company, not to either my father or me."

Moroni smiled. "A good banker makes loans to companies but he always looks at the

man behind the company.""My experience is limited, sir, but I thought the first objective of a good banker was to

achieve adequate collateralization for a loan. I believe that was inherent in the loan

agreement that Mr. McAllister made with you."

Moroni smiled. He leaned back in his chair and took out a cigar. He lit it and looked at

me through a cloud of smoke. "Mr. Cord, tell me what you believe the primary

responsibility of the borrower is."

I looked at him. "To make a profit on his loan."

"I said the borrower, Mr. Cord, not the lender."

"I know you did, Mr. Moroni," I said. "But if I didn't feel I would make a profit on the

money you're going to lend me, there'd be no point in my taking it."

"Just how do you expect to make that profit?" he asked. "How well do you know your

business, Mr. Cord?"

"Not as well as I should, Mr. Moroni. Certainly not as well as I will next week, next

month, next year. But this much I do know. Tomorrow is coming and a whole new world

with it. There'll be opportunities to make money that never existed in my father's time.

And I'll take advantage of them."

"I presume you're referring to this new product you're acquiring by the German

contract?"

"That's part of it," I said, even if I hadn't thought of it until he mentioned it.

"Just how much do you know about plastics?" he asked.

"Very little," I admitted.

"Then what makes you so sure it's worth anything?"

"Du Pont and Eastman's interest in the American rights. Anything they're interested in

has to be worth something. And, your agreement to lend us the money to acquire thoserights. As soon as I clear up a few things here, I intend to spend two or three months in

Germany learning everything there is to know about plastics."

"Who will run the company while you're away?" Moroni asked. "A great deal can

happen in three months."

"Mr. McAllister, sir," I said. "He's already agreed to join the company."

A kind of respect came into the banker's face. "I know my directors may not agree with

me, Mr. Cord, but I've decided to give you your loan. It has certain elements of

speculation that may not conform to what they consider sound banking practices, but the

Pioneer National Trust Company was built on loans like this. We were the first bank to

lend money to the producers of motion pictures and there's nothing quite as speculative as

that."

"Thank you, Mr. Moroni," I said.

He picked up the telephone on his desk. "Bring in the Cord loan agreement and the

check."

"You will note," he said, "that although the loan is for three hundred thousand dollars,

we have extended your credit under this agreement to a maximum of five hundred

thousand dollars." He smiled at me. "One of my principles of banking, Mr. Cord. I don't

believe in budgeting my clients too closely. Sometimes a few dollars more make the

difference between success and failure."

Suddenly I liked this man. It takes one crap-shooter to recognize another. And this man

had it. I smiled at him. "Thanks, Mr. Moroni. Let's hope I make a lot of money for both of

us." I leaned over and signed the loan application.

"I'm sure you will," Moroni said and pushed the check across the desk at me.

I picked it up and gave it to McAllister without looking at it. I got to my feet. "Thankyou again, Mr. Moroni. I'm sorry I have to run but we have to get back to Nevada tonight."

"Tonight? But there aren't any trains until morning."

"I have my own plane, Mr. Moroni. That's how we came up. We'll be home by nine

o'clock."

Moroni came around his desk. There was a look of concern on his face. "Better fly low,

Mr. Cord," he said. "After all, we just gave you a lot of money."

I laughed aloud. "Don't worry, Mr. Moroni. It's as safe as an automobile. Besides, if

anything happens to us on the way down, just stop payment on the check."

They both laughed. I could see the look of nervousness cross McAllister's face, but to his

credit, he didn't say anything.

We shook hands and Moroni walked us to the door. "Good luck," he said as we walked

out into the reception room.

A man was sitting on the couch. He got to his feet slowly. I recognized Buzz Dalton, the

pilot whose plane I had won in a crap game. "Hey, Buzz," I called. "Don't you say hello to

your friends?"

A smile broke over his face. "Jonas!" he exclaimed. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

"Diggin' for a little scratch," I said, taking his hand. "You?"

"The same," he answered, a dejected look coming over his face again. "But no luck so

far."

"Why?" I asked.

Buzz shrugged. "I got a mail contract. L.A. to Frisco. Twelve months guaranteed at ten

thousand a month. But I guess I'll have to pass it up. I can't get the dough to buy the three

planes I need. Banks think it's too risky."

"How much do you have to borrow?""About twenty-five grand," he said. "Twenty for the planes and five to keep them flying

until the first check comes in."

"Yuh got the contract?"

"In my pocket," he said, taking it out.

I looked at it. "It sounds like a good deal to me."

"It is," he answered. "I got it all worked out. I can net five grand a month after expenses

and amortization. Here's the paper I worked out on that."

The figures seemed right to me. I had a good idea what it cost to run a plane. I turned

around and looked at Moroni. "You meant what you said in there? About my additional

credit? There's no strings on it?"

He smiled. "No strings at all."

I turned back to Buzz. "You got your money on two conditions," I said. "I get fifty per

cent of the stock in your company and chattel mortgage on your planes amortized over

twelve months, both payable to the Cord Explosives Company."

Buzz's face broke into a grin. "Man, you got yourself a deal!"

"O.K.," I said. I turned to Mr. Moroni. "Would you be kind enough to arrange the details

for me? I have to be back tonight."

"I'll be glad to, Mr. Cord." He smiled.

"Make the loan for thirty thousand dollars," I said.

"Hey, wait a minute," Buzz interrupted. "I only asked for twenty-five."

"I know," I said, turning back to him with a smile. "But I learned something today."

"What's that?" Buzz asked.

"It's bad business to lend a guy just enough money to give him the shorts. That's takin' a

chance and you both can lose. If you really want him to make it, lend him enough to makesure he can do the job."

My father had the biggest funeral ever held in this part of the state. Even the Governor

came down. I had closed the plant and the little church was packed to the rafters, with the

overflow spilling out into the street.

Rina and I stood alone in the small pew down in front. She stood straight and tall in her

black dress, her blond hair and her face hidden by the black veil. I looked down at the new

black shoes on my feet. They were my father's shoes and they hurt. At the last minute, I'd

discovered I didn't have anything in the house except huarachos. Robair had brought the

shoes down from my father's closet. He had never worn them. I promised myself I would

never wear them again, either.

I heard a sigh run through the congregation and looked up. They were closing my father's

coffin. I had a last quick glimpse of his face, then it was gone and there was a curious kind

of blankness in my mind and for a moment I couldn't even remember what he looked like.

Then the sound of weeping came to my ears and I looked around out of the corners of

my eyes. The Mex women from the plant were crying. I heard a snuffle behind me. I half

turned. It was Jake Platt, tears in his whisky eyes.

I looked at Rina standing next to me. I could see her eyes through the dark veil. They

were clear and calm. From the congregation behind us came the sound of many people

weeping for my father.

But Rina, his wife, didn't weep. And neither did I, his son.IT WAS A WARM NIGHT, EVEN WITH THE BREEZE THAT came in through the

open windows from across the desert. I tossed restlessly on the bed and pushed the sheets

down from me. It had been a long day going over plans

with McAllister until it was time for him to leave. I was tired but I couldn't sleep. Too

many thoughts were racing through my mind. I wondered if that was the reason I used to

hear my father pacing up and down in his room long after the rest of the house had gone to

bed.

There was a sound at the door. I sat up in bed. My voice jarred the stillness. "Who is it?"

The door opened farther and I could see her face; the rest of her dissolved into the

darkness along with the black negligee. Her voice was very low as she closed the door

behind her. "I thought you might be awake, Jonas. I couldn't sleep, either."

"Worried about your money?" I asked sarcastically. "The check's over there on the

dresser along with the notes. Just sign the release and it's yours."

"It isn't the money," she said, coming still further into the room.

"What is it, then?" I asked coldly. "You came to say you're sorry? To express your

sympathy? Is this a condolence call?"

She was standing next to the bed now and looked down at me. "You don't have to say

things like that, Jonas," she said simply. "Even if he was your father, I was his wife. Yes, I

came to say I'm sorry."

But I wasn't satisfied with that. "Sorry about what?" I flung at her. "Sorry he didn't give

you more than he did? Sorry that you didn't marry me instead of him?" I laughed bitterly.

"You didn't love him."

"No, I didn't love him," she said tightly. "But I respected him. He was more a man than

anyone I ever met."I didn't speak.

Suddenly she was crying. She sat down on the edge of the bed and hid her face in her

hands.

"Cut it out," I said roughly. "It's too late for tears."

She put her hands down and stared at me. In the darkness, I could see the wet silver

sparkle rolling down her cheeks. "What do you know it's too late for?" she cried. "Too late

to love him? It isn't that I didn't try. It's just that I'm not capable of love. I don't know why.

It's the way I am, that's all. Your father knew that and understood it. That's why I married

him. Not for his money. He knew that, too. And he was content with what I gave him."

"If that's the truth," I said, "then what are you crying for?"

"Because I'm frightened," she said.

"Frightened?" I laughed. It just didn't fit her. "What are you afraid of?"

She took a cigarette from somewhere in her negligee and put it in her mouth unlit. Her

eyes shone at me like a panther's eyes must in a desert campfire at night. "Men," she said

shortly.

"Men?" I repeated. "You — afraid of men? Why, you're the original teasing— "

"That's right, you stupid fool!" she said angrily. "I'm afraid of men, listening to their

demands, putting up with their lecherous hands and one-track minds. And hearing them

disguise their desire with the words of love when all they want is just one thing. To get

inside me!"

"You're crazy!" I said angrily. "That's not the only thing we think of!"

"No?" she asked. I heard the rasp of a match and the flame broke the darkness. She

looked down at me. "Then look at yourself, Jonas. Look at yourself lusting for your

father's wife!"I didn't have to look to know she was right. I knocked the match angrily from her hand.

Then, all at once, she was clinging to me, her lips placing tiny kisses on my face and

chin, her body trembling with her fears. "Jonas, Jonas. Please let me stay with you. Just for

to-night," she cried. "I'm afraid to be alone!"

I raised my hands to push her away. She was naked beneath the black negligee. Her flesh

was cool and soft as the summer desert breeze and her thrusting nipples rasped across the

palms of my rising hands.

I froze, staring at her in the darkness. There was only her face before me, then the taste

of her salty tears on her lips and mine. The anger inside me washed away in the cascading

torrent of desire. And with only my devil to guide us, together we plunged into the fiery

pleasures of our own particular hell.

I awoke and glanced at the window. The first flicker of dawn was spilling into the room.

I turned to look at Rina. She was lying on my pillow, her arm flung across her eyes. I

touched her shoulder lightly.

She took away her arm. Her eyes were open; they were clear and calm.

She got out of bed in a smooth, fluid motion. Her body shone with a young, golden

translucence. She picked up her black negligee from the foot of the bed and slipped into it.

I sat there watching her as she walked over to the dresser.

"There's a pen in the top right drawer," I said.

She took out the pen and signed the release.

"Aren't you going to read it?" I asked.

She shook her head. "What for? You can't get any more than I agreed to give you."

She was right. She had forgone all rights to any further claims in the estate. Picking upthe check and the notes, she walked to the door. She turned there and looked back at me.

"I won't be here when you get back from the plant."

I looked at her for a moment. "You don't have to go," I said.

Her eyes met mine. I thought I caught a hint of sadness in them. "No, Jonas," she said

softly. "It wouldn't work out."

"Maybe," I said.

"No, Jonas," she said. "It's time you got out from under the shadow of your father. He

was a great man but so will you be. In your own way."

I reached for a cigarette on the bedside table and lit it without speaking. The smoke

burned into my lungs.

"Good-by, Jonas," she said. "Good luck."

I stared at her for a moment, then I spoke. My voice was husky from the cigarette.

"Thank you," I said. "Good-by, Rina."

The door opened and shut quickly and she was gone. I got out of bed and walked over to

the window. The first morning red of the sun was on the horizon. It was going to be a

scorcher.

I heard the door open behind me and my heart leaped inside my breast. She had come

back. I turned around.

Robair came into the room carrying a tray. His white teeth flashed in a gentle smile. "I

thought you might do with a cup of coffee."

When I got down to the plant, Jake Platt had a gang of men up on the roof, painting it

white. I grinned to myself and went inside.

That first day was hectic. It seemed that nothing went right. The detonator caps we hadsent to Endicott Mines were faulted and we had to rush-ship replacements. For the third

time that year, Du Pont underbid us on a government contract for pressed cordite.

I spent half the day going over the figures and it finally boiled down to our policy on

percentage of profit. When I suggested that we'd better re-examine our policy if it was

going to cost us business, Jake Platt protested. My father, he said, claimed it didn't pay

them to operate on a basis of less than twelve per cent. I blew up and told Jake Platt that I

was running the factory now and what my father had done was his own business. On the

next bid, I'd damn sure make certain we underbid Du Pont by at least three cents a pound.

By that time, it was five o'clock and the production foreman came in with the production

figures. I'd just started to go over them when Nevada interrupted me.

"Jonas," he said.

I looked up. He had been there in the office all day but he was quiet and sat in a corner

and I had even forgotten that he was there. "Yes?" I answered.

"Is it all right if I leave a little early?" he asked. "I got some things to do."

"Sure," I said, looking down at the production sheets again. "Take the Duesenberg. I'll

get Jake to drive me home."

"I won't need it," he said. "I left my own car in the lot."

"Nevada," I called after him. "Tell Robair I'll be home for dinner at eight o'clock."

There was a moment's hesitation, then I heard his reply. "Sure thing, Jonas. I'll tell him."

I was through earlier than I had expected and pulled the Duesenberg up in front of the

house at seven thirty, just as Nevada came down the steps with a valise in each hand.

He stared at me in a kind of surprise. "You're home early."

"Yeah," I answered. "I finished sooner than I thought"

"Oh," he said and continued down the steps to his car. He put the valises in the back.I followed him down and I could see the back of his car was filled with luggage. "Where

you going with all that stuff, Nevada?"

"It's mine," he said gruffly.

"I didn't say it wasn't," I said. "I just asked where you were going."

"I'm leavin'."

"On a hunting trip?" I asked. This was the time of the year Nevada and I always used to

go up into the mountains when I was a kid.

"Nope," he said. "Fer good."

"Wait a minute," I said. "You just can't walk out like that."

His dark eyes bore into mine. "Who says I can't?"

"I do," I said. "How'm I going to get along without you?"

He smiled slowly. "Real good, I reckon. You don't need me to wet-nurse you no more. I

been watchin' you the last few days."

"But— but," I protested.

Nevada smiled slowly. "All jobs got to end sometime, Jonas. I put about sixteen years

into this one and now there's nothing left for me to do. I don't like the idea of drawing a

salary with no real way to earn it."

I stared at him for a moment. He was right. There was too much man in him to hang

around being a flunky. "You got enough money?"

He nodded. "I never spent a cent of my own in sixteen years. Your pappy wouldn't let

me."

"What are you going to do?"

"Join up with a couple of old buddies. We're takin' a Wild-West show up the coast to

California. Expect to have a real big time."We stood around awkwardly for a moment, then Nevada put out his hand. "So long,

Jonas."

I held onto his hand. I could feel the tears hovering just beneath my eyelids. "So long,

Nevada."

He walked around the car and got in behind the wheel. Starting the motor he shifted into

gear. He raised his hand in farewell just as he began to roll.

"Keep in touch, Nevada," I yelled after him, and watched until he was out of sight.

I walked back into the house and went into the dining room. I sat down at the empty

table.

Robair came in with an envelope in his hand. "Mr. Nevada left this for you," he said.

Numbly I opened it and took out a note written laboriously in pencil:

DEAR SON,

I ain't much of a man for good-bys, so this is it. There ain't nothing any more for me to

do around here so I figure it's time I went. All my life I wanted to give you something for

your birthday but your pappy always beat me to it. Your pappy gave you everything. So

until now there was nothing you ever wanted that I could give you. In this envelope you

will find something you really want. You don't have to worry about it. I went to a lawyer

in Reno and signed it all over good and proper.

Happy birthday.

Your friend,

Nevada Smith

I looked at the other papers in the envelope. They were Cord Explosives Company stockcertificates endorsed over to my name.

I put them down on the table and a lump began to come up in my throat. Suddenly, the

house was empty. Everybody was gone. My father, Rina, Nevada. Everybody. The house

began to echo with memories.

I remembered what Rina had said, about getting out from under the shadow of my father.

She was right. I couldn't live in this house. It wasn't mine. It was his. For me, it would

always be his house.

My mind was made up. I'd find an apartment in Reno. There wouldn't be any memories

in an apartment. I'd turn the house over to McAllister. He had a family and it would save

him the trouble of looking for one.

I looked down at Nevada's note again. The last line hit me. Happy birthday. A pain

began to tie up my gut. I had forgotten and Nevada had been the only one left to

remember.

Today was my birthday.

I was twenty-one.