Читать книгу Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game - Сидни Шелдон, Tilly Bagshawe, Sidney Sheldon - Страница 11

The girl was red-headed. She had huge breasts that seemed to wriggle like puppies beneath her tight, angora sweater. Her black leather mini skirt was so short that Robbie could see the daisy pattern on her white cotton panties.

Her name was Maureen Swanson. She was captain of the cheerleading squad, the most popular girl in school. Every guy at St Bede’s wanted to fuck her brains out.

Almost every guy.

Maureen Swanson stared at Robbie. ‘Don’t I know you?’

Robbie looked at his shoes.

‘Hey. Rain Man. I’m talking to you. Hellooo?’

It was just his luck. Of all the hundreds, maybe even thousands of trains leaving Grand Central that afternoon, he had to pick the one with Maureen the Mammary Monster on board.

‘You’re the Blackwell kid, aren’t you?’

Robbie looked around for a means of escape but there was none. The carriage was packed with commuters. He was hemmed in like a sardine in a tin.

‘Bobby, right? Tenth grade?’

‘Robbie.’

‘I knew it!’ Maureen couldn’t have looked more triumphant if she’d just solved Fermat’s theorem or discovered the meaning of life. ‘Robbie Blackwell.’

Hearing the name Blackwell, other passengers turned to stare at Robbie. Some of them were squinting quite openly to get a better look. Was he really one of them?

‘Actually, my name is Templeton. And you don’t know me. We never met.’

Maureen rose to her feet, eliciting admiring stares from the more circumspect businessmen and wolf whistles from the braver ones. The women in the carriage glared at her as one.

‘Well, Robbie Templeton,’ she smiled lasciviously, easing herself down onto Robbie’s lap, ‘we can soon fix that.’

Robbie felt his insides liquefy. Not with desire. With fear. Why the hell hadn’t he thrown himself onto the rails when he’d had the chance? Anything would have been better than the death-by-smothering he was about to endure in the rift valley of Maureen Swanson’s cleavage.

‘Where are you headed?’

It was a good question. Where was he headed? He still had no idea. The train had started to slow. A disembodied voice informed the passengers they were approaching Bronxville.

‘Bronxville. This is my stop.’

Extricating himself from Maureen’s vise-like embrace, he began to elbow his way through the human wall of commuters, only just making it out before the carriage door closed. He stood on the platform as the train pulled away.

Thank God. She’s gone.

Maureen Swanson’s voice rang out behind him: ‘What a coincidence. This is my stop too.’

Robbie’s heart sank.

How had she made it off the train without him noticing? Who was she, Harriet Houdini?

Maureen Swanson was two years older than Robbie Templeton. Maureen Swanson was also a goddess. The type of girl who could have any guy she wanted. Of course, the guys Maureen Swanson wanted were college linebackers built like O.J. Simpson. Robbie was built more like Wallace Simpson. Handsome undoubtedly, but at fifteen still small and slight and looking every inch the tenth-grader that he was.

On the other hand, Robbie was also the heir to the Kruger-Brent fortune. For ten billion dollars, it appeared, Maureen Swanson was prepared to make an exception to her usual dating criteria. Robbie Templeton might not be built like a football player, but he was worth more money than most pros.

Maureen smiled. ‘I know a guy who lives around here. There’s always a party going on at his place. You wanna check it out?’

Robbie weighed up his options. He did not want to check it out. He did not want to go to a party, especially not with Maureen Swanson. He wanted to be left alone so that he could go and kill himself somewhere, quietly, without his last memory being a pair of Dolly Parton breasts or daisy-patterned panties from JCPenney. Was that so much to ask?

And yet … a party meant other people. Noise. Drugs. Distractions for Maureen.

Drugs.

Robbie shrugged. What the hell.

‘Sure, why not? I’ve got nothing better to do.’

When Peter Templeton got home that evening, he expected to find his son waiting for him.

‘Robert!’

He let the front door slam shut behind him.

‘ROBERT!’

Peter Templeton no longer felt guilty about slapping Robert this afternoon. He was against physical violence generally, especially as a form of parental control. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Robert had stood in his office, laughing at him. Actually laughing. After all the trouble he’d caused the family: the expulsions, the run-ins with the police, the shoplifting. After all the money and time that Peter had personally spent trying to help him: all the therapists and vacations and hundred-dollar-an-hour piano lessons: Robert still thought of the situation as one big joke.

Well the joke was on him this time. Peter Templeton had had enough.

Bounding up the stairs, two at a time, in the direction of Robbie’s bedroom, Peter ran into the housekeeper, Mrs Carter. She was standing on the landing. She looked apologetic.

‘I’m afraid Master Robert’s not here, sir. We haven’t seen him since he left for school this morning. Is something wrong?’

Peter scowled. ‘Damn right something’s wrong. He’s gone and got himself kicked out of St Bede’s. I doubt there’s a school left in the state of New York that would take him now. Frankly, I can’t say I blame them.’

‘Oh dear.’

Mrs Carter wrung her hands despairingly. She adored Robbie, but he did seem to be getting himself into an awful lot of scrapes lately.

‘Robbie? Is that you?’

Lexi had heard the front door slam and come running out of the nursery in her nightgown, eager to see her brother. As always, Peter’s heart lifted at the sight of her.

She looked more like her mother every day. She had Alex’s eyes and lips and hair. Alex’s smile, half coy, half knowing, top lip slightly curled. She even walked like her mother. But in temperament she was quite different. Where Alex had been gentle and soft, Lexi was fiery and energetic. Mrs Carter affectionately referred to her as ‘our little piranha.’ Even Peter, with his chronically rose-tinted paternal vision, could see that Lexi was not perhaps the model of a decorous young lady. ‘Spirited’ was the word he used. Less partial observers tended towards ‘spoiled’. ‘Willful’ was another favorite. ‘Totally out of control’ was not unheard of.

‘There’s my princess.’ Peter kissed the top of Lexi’s head. She smelt of warm cookies and talcum powder. He felt his anger melting away. ‘What are you doing out of bed so late?’

Lexi frowned, then pouted, her deep gray eyes welling with tears.

‘Robbie!’ she wailed. ‘I want Robbie! Where’s Robbie? Where is he?’

Peter felt the bitterness choking him. First Alex, now Lexi. Robert had sucked away their love like a vampire, leaving Peter with nothing. Only with immense effort did he keep the emotion out of his voice.

‘Robbie’s not here right now, sweetie. Would you like daddy to tuck you in? I could read that story you like. The one about Squirrel Nutkin?’

‘NO!’ It was a yell. ‘NOT Daddy! Rooobiiieee!’

Mrs Carter appeared, brusquely ushering Lexi back into her bedroom. Poor Mr Templeton. He looked like he’d just had acid thrown in his face. He had to learn not to take things so much to heart. Mrs Carter had four kids of her own. Like every mother, she knew that children could be spiteful and thoughtless, especially at Lexi’s age. You couldn’t take it personally.

Once Lexi was settled back in bed, Mrs Carter came downstairs. She found her boss in the study.

‘Is she asleep?’

Peter’s voice sounded odd. Deadened and dull. Mrs Carter noticed the tumbler of whisky in his hand, and the open bottle on the desk. The hairs on her arms began to tingle with foreboding.

‘Yes, sir. Sound asleep.’

Peter took a big slug of his drink. When he looked up, his eyes were glassy.

‘Good. Thank you. You can go.’

Suddenly, Mrs Carter didn’t feel right leaving Lexi alone in the house with her father. What if Mr Templeton passed out cold, and something happened to Lexi? She’d never forgive herself.

‘It’s all right, sir. I can stay for a while. At least until Master Robert gets home safely.’

Her husband, Mike, would be at home expecting his dinner. He was bound to make a fuss, but it couldn’t be helped.

‘I can fix you some supper if you like. There’s leftover beef in the pantry. I could whip you up a Stroganoff.’

‘No. Thank you.’

Peter drained his glass and immediately poured himself another.

‘Go home, Mrs Carter. I’ll see you in the morning.’

The words were polite, but the tone was liquid steel. The housekeeper hesitated.

She thought about Lexi, and poor Master Robert. Should she leave them here, alone, with their drunken father? Probably not. But if she forced the issue and demanded to stay, she might lose her position. Where would that leave her own kids? With Mike out of work, her salary was all they had.

She reached a decision.

‘Very good, sir. As long as you’re sure.’

The children would be all right. Course they would. She was blowing the whole thing out of proportion. Mike would get his precious dinner on time, and all would be right with the world.

Far be it from that lazy bastard to learn how to turn on a microwave.

Robbie sat up in bed, trying to focus.

‘I know you want it. You’ve been staring at me all evening. What are you waiting for?’

Maureen Swanson, naked from the waist up, crawled across the counterpane towards him. Her repellent, swollen udders swung beneath her like bloated bagpipes. When she peeled off her panties to reveal a neatly trimmed, rust-red bush, a pungent whiff of rotting fish assaulted Robbie’s nostrils. He felt the bile rise in his throat.

What am I waiting for? I’m waiting for Scotty to fix the Teleporter and beam me back to The Enterprise, that’s what I’m waiting for.

Unbidden, an image of William Shatner in a tight green shirt and spray-on pants popped into Robbie’s head. He smiled. Then Maureen came closer and the smile died on his lips.

‘It’s OK,’ she whispered huskily. ‘Everyone gets nervous their first time. You just relax and let Mama take care of you. Everything’s gonna be sweet.’

Oh God, no!

Even in his coke-fuelled haze, Robbie could see the filth under her fingernails as she slipped her hand beneath the waistband of his Calvin Klein undershorts.

‘What the hell?’

Maureen glowered at him accusingly. In the palm of her hand she cradled his limp penis, like a useless lump of silly putty.

‘Are you queer or something? You’re not even hard.’

‘Of course I’m not queer.’ Robbie found his voice at last. ‘I … I just … I think I took a bad pill, you know? I don’t feel so good.’

Talk about an understatement. The whole evening had been a nightmare, a fitting end to one of the worst days of his life. Maureen’s ‘friend’ turned out to be a small-time drug dealer and wannabe Mafioso called Gianni Sperotto, a rat-faced Italian kid with an acne scarred face, a nose that streamed like a faucet and breath so putrid you could practically see it. Gianni’s ‘apartment’ was the top floor of a condemned warehouse. In a year or two, no doubt, some hotshot real estate whiz would have developed the place into a chrome-walled bachelor pad and sold it for Park Avenue prices. Not even a shit-hole like Bronxville had been immune from the development fever that had swept America in the past decade. Overnight, it seemed, an entire generation had become millionaires by the simple expedient of knocking out a few walls and rechristening crumbling industrial relics as ‘loft-style penthouses.’

But not Gianni Sperotto. Gianni Sperotto was too busy shoveling coke up his nose to see the fortune right under it. His ‘party’ consisted of a bunch of half dead hookers and junkies shooting up on one of the scores of fetid mattresses littering the floor. The bed where Maureen had dragged Robbie was Gianni’s own sleeping area, cordoned off from the rest of the room by a cardboard screen, over which their host had thrown a pair of psychedelic velour curtains, a lone shot of color in the otherwise bleak and desperate squat.

There was no music, no dancing, no other even vaguely attractive men to distract Maureen from her prey. Robbie figured his only hope was to get her so looped that she forgot about him. It was a great plan, apart from one, tiny snag. In order to get Maureen high, he’d had to get high himself. Robbie got hazy after one strong joint. Maureen Swanson, by contrast, appeared to have the constitution of an ox. No, make that a team of oxen. The girl popped X like they were M&Ms and vacuumed up the Charlie like a pig rooting for truffles. The drugs had done nothing at all to dampen her ardor.

‘A bad pill, huh? We’ll see about that. Lay back and close your eyes.’

Too disorientated to resist, Robbie did as she asked. The next thing he felt was Maureen’s warm, wet tongue between his legs. Apparently, she saw his flaccid state as some sort of challenge.

If only I could rise to it!

When the curtain was yanked aside and the men burst in, Robbie’s first emotion was pure relief.

His second was panic.

‘Police!’ Robbie felt a rough, male hand on his arm. ‘Party’s over kids. Get up, stand against that wall and put your hands on your heads. Now!’

Robbie’s mind was racing. Years of Sunday nights religiously spent watching T.J. Hooker on Channel Seven told him that this must be a drugs bust. His pants were in a heap at the foot of the bed, with three ecstasy tablets tucked into the back pocket – Gianni Sperotto’s version of a party favor.

Bright side: I’m a minor. The worst they can give me is Juvenile Detention.

Not so bright side: They can give me Juvenile Detention!

For all his bravado in his dad’s office, Robbie Templeton was terrified by the thought of prison. To him it seemed far worse than suicide. Death meant peace. It meant being with his mother. But prison, even Juvie, for a pretty boy like him? They’d eat him alive. And that was before they found out he was a Blackwell and one of the richest kids in the country.

Spreadeagled half naked against the wall, he tried to concentrate. It wasn’t easy with Maureen Swanson screaming and cursing next to him like a banshee.

‘You assholes lay one finger on me, and I swear to God my dad will personally slice off your balls!’

The police captain laughed. ‘I’d advise you not to threaten us, sweetheart.’

‘Great ass,’ added the lieutenant. ‘How about you spread those legs a little wider?’

Robbie racked his brains. Did he have any ID in his jeans? Anything they could use to prove who he was? Man, it was hard to think when you were high.

Without warning, Maureen Swanson spun around and smashed her fist into the lieutenant’s face. The cheap cocktail ring she was wearing sliced into his eyeball like a knife through butter.

‘Jesus Christ, you little bitch! You blinded me!’

In the pandemonium that followed, Robbie seized his chance. Making a run for the open window, he dived through it head first.

A blast of cold night air hit his lower body. He remembered that he was naked from the waist down. When he opened his eyes, he remembered something else: Gianni Sperotto’s bedroom was six stories above ground.

The fall seemed to take for ever. Time stretched out in serene slow motion. Robbie knew he was going to die. The thought made him smile. He’d imagined this moment countless times; wondered if he would feel fear when the time came. But now that it was actually happening, he felt suffused with a deep, rich contentment. Almost joy.

The ground rose slowly to greet him, green and gray in the moonlight.

Then everything went black.

‘Dude?’

‘Hey dude? Can you hear me?’

Robbie was by a river, lying in the long grass. He was in South Africa, in the wilderness near Burgersdorp, the little Transvaal town where his mom used to take him as a small child. Once known as Klipdrift, this was the place where Jamie McGregor had first made his fortune. The birthplace of Kruger-Brent, the spot where it all began. The wind was blowing softly through the acacia trees. Above him, Robbie could see his mother’s face, the loveliest sight in the world. Her lips were moving. She was trying to talk to him. But her voice sounded strange. Unfamiliar.

‘You are one lucky son of a bitch, man. You coulda killed yo’self.’

His mother’s face was fading.

Mom! Come back!

But it was too late. Alex was gone, her loving gaze replaced by the curious stares of three black strangers, kids not much older than Robbie.

He was lying on his back, sprawled across some rhododendron bushes. Their springy branches must have broken his fall. When he tried to move, the pain in his left leg was agonizing. With some help he found he was able to stand.

‘You must be seriously high, bro.’ The oldest boy shook his head admiringly. ‘What d’you think, you was Superman or somethin’?’

His friends laughed loudly.

‘You do realize you’re buck naked? Or maybe I’m Superman? Maybe I got some of that kryptonite shit, X-ray vision goin’ on.’

More laughter.

‘Please,’ Robbie stammered. ‘Help me. The cops … they’ll be down here any second. One of you give me your pants.’

The boys looked at each other.

‘Say what? We ain’t giving you our goddamned pants.’

Robbie thought for a moment, then started pulling at the little finger of his left hand.

‘Here. Take this.’ He pressed a solid gold signet ring into the oldest boy’s hand. It had once belonged to Robbie’s great-great-grandfather, Jamie McGregor, and it bore the symbol of two fighting rams: Kruger-Brent’s crest. ‘It’s gold. It’s worth five hundred bucks at least.’

The boy looked at the ring.

‘Jackson, give Clark Kent here your pants.’

Jackson looked outraged. ‘Screw you! I ain’t giving him my goddamned pants.’

‘I said take ’em off! Now! Here come the cops, man.’

A pair of uniformed police were rushing out of Gianni’s building with flashlights. Robbie thought: They’re looking for a body.

The black kid slipped out of his jeans like a snake shedding its skin.

Robbie watched him sprint into the darkness, the Carl Lewis of Westchester County. Seeing three black figures disappearing across the scrubland, the cops gave chase. Robbie had a few valuable seconds in which to make his move.

He pulled on the pants. They were huge. Yanking the belt onto its tightest notch he could just about keep them up. Slowly, he began to walk. The pain in his leg was getting worse. Shutting out everything else, he focused his mind on Lexi and his mother. He couldn’t go to prison. He had to get away. Humming softly to the soundtrack playing in his head – Grieg’s piano concerto in A minor – he limped on into the darkness.

By the time Robbie got home, it was six in the morning.

Dawn had already broken over the West Village. In doorways, the homeless were starting to stir, bags of rattling bones trying to shake off the combined effects of sleep and booze, and move on before the first police patrols arrived. Robbie watched them. Not for the first time he thought how ironic it was that only a few feet of brick separated these hopeless hulks of human refuse from people like him: the richest of the rich. Those bums must think he had it all. What would they say if they knew how often he lay awake at night, in feather-bedded comfort, dreaming of blowing his brains out?

He had no keys. They had been in his pants, along with the ecstasy. Limping down to the basement, he punched a six-digit number into the keypad by the service door, which clicked open obligingly. Welcome home.

He wondered what was going on back in Bronxville. Had the cops caught up with his three black buddies? Unlikely. But that didn’t mean he was out of the woods. Maureen Swanson might have spilled the beans, told the police who he was and where to find him.

Whatever. If she had, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Creeping up the kitchen stairs to the entryway, he was relieved to find the house silent and in darkness. He’d almost reached the top of the main staircase when a voice rang out behind him.

‘I’m in the study, Robert.’

Shit.

Robbie’s heart sank, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

Please, please let him not have been drinking.

Peter sat on the red brocade couch. He was talking to his wife.

You know how difficult they are at this age, darling. I haven’t been firm enough with him in the past, that’s the problem. But it’s never too late to change.

Alex was agreeing with him. Standing by the window, in the green Halston dress he’d bought her for their tenth anniversary, she nodded encouragement. Where would he be without her? Her love and support meant everything to him. They gave him the strength he needed.

If it were just the trouble at school, I could forgive him. Even the drugs. But there’s Lexi to think about. He’s a terrible influence on her, Alex. He’s trying to take her away from me. I mean, I can’t allow that, can I?

Alex shook her head: Of course you can’t darling. But let’s not waste all night talking about Robert. Do you like my dress?

I love it. You know I do. You look so beautiful.

For you, Peter. I look beautiful for you.

‘Dad?’

Peter looked up. Alex had gone. The room swayed gently, like a ship. Everything was tinted with a sepia haze. It was like being inside an old photograph of the Titanic. Disaster had not yet struck, but it was imminent.

Peter Templeton waited for his son’s twin faces to merge into one before he spoke.

‘Where have you been?’

Robbie shifted mutely from foot to foot.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘With a girl.’

It wasn’t a lie. Not technically.

‘Which girl? Where?’

There was so much anger in Peter’s voice, Robbie found himself shivering.

‘In Bronxville. We took a train,’ said Robbie, deftly answering the second question but not the first. It wouldn’t help anyone to drag Maureen Swanson’s name into this. ‘Listen, Dad, I’m sorry about what happened at school today. Really. I don’t know why I do these things. Sometimes I …’

‘Sometimes you what?’

Peter’s rage was growing. He didn’t want to hear apologies or explanations. He wanted Robert to admit his guilt. To acknowledge that he deserved to be punished. Punished for monopolizing Alex’s affection. Punished for turning Lexi against him.

‘Sometimes I just can’t handle it.’ For the second time in twenty four hours, Robbie started to cry.

Don’t blub, for Christ’s sake. Be a man. You’ve brought this on yourself.

Behind a red brocade cushion, out of view, Peter Templeton’s hand tightened around the gun.

When he’d taken the Glock out of the safe a few hours earlier, he’d been fantasizing about killing himself. A bottle and a half of Scotch had robbed him of all rational thought and left him bitter and broken. He had failed. As a man, as a husband, as a father. The gun felt comforting in his hand. An escape. But then Alex had appeared, dear, sweet Alex. Peter had stuffed the pistol under the cushion so as not to scare her.

Now he reached for it again. The cool metal pressed against his palm.

Robert had come home.

Robert needed to be punished.

Peter only half heard what the boy was saying.

‘I’m not the same as the other kids. I don’t fit in at St Bede’s. I don’t fit in anywhere. Maybe it’s because I miss Mom so much. Maybe …’

Robbie let the sentence tail away. Peter had tossed the cushion aside. He had a gun in his hand and was waving it around wildly, like a conductor’s baton.

He said: ‘Please. Go on. This is interesting.’

Cold fear gripped Robbie by the throat. He held his breath.

‘Perhaps when you’re done you can explain to me why it is that my daughter doesn’t want to know me any more? Why you thought you had the right to steal Lexi from me?’

Robbie was shaking so violently he didn’t trust himself to speak. He’d seen his father drunk a thousand times, but before today Peter had never been violent. Maybe the slap he’d given Robbie in the office yesterday had unleashed some inner monster? Like a shark that gets a taste of blood, then plunges into a feeding frenzy.

Robbie chose his next words carefully

‘Lexi has nothing to do with this.’

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. When Peter responded, his voice was a roar. ‘Don’t tell me Lexi has nothing to do with this! Don’t you dare! She has everything to do with this. You’re stealing her away from me, just like you stole your mother.’

He fired a single shot at the ceiling above Robbie’s head. Shards of confetti-plaster rained down onto the boy’s shoulders.

Adrenaline pumped through Robbie’s veins like rock music.

He’s not just drunk. He’s deranged. He’s going to shoot me.

Killing himself was one thing. Being killed, especially by his own father, was quite another. In that instant Robbie realized with searing clarity that he did not really want to die at all. He was fifteen years old. He wanted to live. All he had to do now was figure out how.

The window to the street was behind him. If he turned and ran his father could put a bullet in his back. There was no escape. His only hope was to try to reason with him.

‘Dad, I never stole Mom from you. She loved you. She loved us both.’

‘Don’t you tell me how your mother felt about me! You know nothing.’ Peter pointed the gun directly at Robbie’s chest. ‘Alex and I were fine until you came along.’

‘Dad, please …’

The low whistle in Peter’s head was growing louder and louder, like a boiling kettle. He clutched his temples. The room swayed again.

I’m drunk. What the hell am I doing?

He glanced at the window, willing Alex to be there. He needed her advice, now more than ever. But she was gone.

‘Daddy, stop it! Stop shouting!’

Lexi appeared in the doorway clutching her favorite soft toy, a stuffed white rabbit.

The noise in Peter’s head was unbearable.

He said: ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. Come here.’

Robbie watched his little sister take a trusting step toward the couch. Without thinking, Peter turned around to face Lexi. The gun was now pointing in her direction.

Robbie had to save Lexi. Instinct took over. He let out a primal, savage scream, running at his father like a maddened bull.

Peter glanced up. The expression on Robbie’s face was curiously frozen, like a videotape on pause. The fear was gone. It had been replaced by something else. Determination perhaps? Or hatred? Peter wasn’t sure.

He heard the housekeeper’s voice: ‘No!’

Mrs Carter had had a terrible night. She hadn’t slept a wink, lying awake next to her husband, Mike, tossing and turning with guilt. She should never have left Mr Templeton alone with those kids. He was in no fit state to take care of them. By five o’clock she could take it no longer. Leaving a snoring Mike in bed, she pulled on yesterday’s clothes without even taking a shower and hurried across town. As she slipped her key into the front door, she heard a loud bang. Heart pounding, she followed the raised voices in the direction of the study. She burst in just in time to see her employer aiming a shiny, black pistol directly at his four-year-old daughter’s head.

Peter needed to think, but he couldn’t. The whistling in his head was so loud he wanted to cry. Suddenly, he was crying. He opened his eyes and looked at Lexi’s face.

She’s so like Alex.

A second shot rang out.

The whistling stopped.