Tycoon by Harold Robbins

white silk-satin dress with a loose V neck, a sleeveless bodice, and a clinging skirt that flaunted her slim hips and long slender legs. Jack was stirred by the sight of her.
    â€œJack . . . how many Scotches have you had this evening, darling?” Kimberly asked with a pinched little smile.
    â€œI haven’t been counting. Have you?”
    â€œNo, not really. But I hope that’s the last one.”
Six
    J UST BEFORE MIDNIGHT, IN THE SITTING ROOM ADJOINING their bedroom, Jack flung his jacket on the floor. “ Goddammit! Enough ! Enough goddamned faultfinding.”
    Kimberly unhooked and unzipped her dress, and with it hanging loose she went into the bedroom. “You’re in a foul mood,” she called back.
    â€œWhy wouldn’t I be? You go out of your way to humiliate me.
    â€œHow did I humiliate you?” she asked with a calmness that begged for a challenge.
    â€œYou said to Betsy that I wouldn’t know chinoiserie from Duncan Phyfe—”
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œYes, I do. I don’t suppose I’d always recognize a piece as Duncan Phyfe, but I know what chinoiserie is. I ought to; I paid enough for an item of it.”
    Kimberly returned, knotting the cord at the waist of her blue silk dressing gown. “Do you have other complaints?” she asked.
    He’d tossed his clothes on the floor as he spoke, and now he stood before her naked, flaunting his cock. “Barbara handed me a canapé from her plate, and I took it and ate it. You didn’t have to ask me where my plate was. What was I supposed to do, accept a canapé from her plate and put it down on mine before I picked it up again and ate it? Is that what I was supposed to do?”
    â€œWhat was more, you didn’t have a napkin.”
    â€œWell, I had a drink, didn’t I? And in front of the Horans you asked me how many I’d had and advised me not to have any more.”
    â€œIt’s well that I did, too, isn’t it? Listen to yourself.”
    â€œ I am not drunk, Kimberly!”
    â€œI’ll take your word for it. But I thought you looked to me to make a gentleman of you. That was part of our deal. You asked me to. And you are still a long way from—”
    â€œNot in public, Kimberly! Not in front of other people!”
    â€œAh. I see the distinction. I put you on show tonight, my husband. I showed off a man who can afford a home on Louisburg Square, decorated as this one is, who knows how to dress and how to receive and converse with guests—as he didn’t know three years ago. I showed off a man who may not know exactly who Duncan Phyfe was but who recognizes chinoiserie and the several different kinds of Oriental carpets we have—and has the money to buy them. I presented you to Boston tonight. And you came off pretty well, Jack. And frankly, it was among people who doubted you could. The thanks I get is a petulant series of little complaints from a man who is, no, not drunk but is on the verge of it. If I advised you to make that Scotch—your fourth or fifth or whatever it was—your last one, it’s a damned good thingI did, because you could have destroyed everything we’ve worked and spent to achieve. I’m going to bed.” She paused, then added, “I have one more suggestion. I suggest you shower and brush your teeth before you join me. If you can’t do anything else, at least you can make good use of that circumcised dick.”

FIVE

One
    1934
    O N J UNE 10, J ACK RECEIVED A TELEGRAM:
    LA 61034 1000 AM
    LIFE OF JOHANN LEHRER RAPIDLY COMING TO END STOP DAILY WEAKER STOP IF YOU WISH TO SPEAK WITH HIM WHILE HE IS STILL ALIVE URGE YOU TRAVEL HERE SOONEST STOP
    MICKEY
    Mickey Sullivan was Erich Lear’s factotum and Jack’s lifelong friend.
    At noon the next day Jack boarded an American Airlines Condor biplane for the flight to Los Angeles. The route was Boston to New York to Washington to Nashville to Dallas