Free Tycoon by Harold Robbins Page A

cutting records and submitting them by mail. A dozen times she had met broadcasters who were enthusiastic about her comedic talent—until they saw her. The maid uniforms she wore to slip in and out of WCHS were her own; she had worked in them for years.
    Jack took the attitude that the money was more important than the principle. “Let’s make a pisspot full of dough, kiddo,” he said to Carolyn. “When your bank account’s healthy, then’s the time to make a point.”
T WO
    I N J UNE, J ACK WENT TO W HITE P LAINS TO REVIEW THE PRO gramming and management of WHPL. Since it was summertime, he had his chauffeur drive him there in the Duesenberg. It was something of an adventure, making their way down U.S. 1, the Boston Post Road, through Providence, New Haven, and the shoreline towns of the Connecticut Gold Coast.
    Since he would be gone four days, Jack decided to take along a pleasant companion—the comely blond divorcée, Betsy Emerson.
    A thick glass separated the driver’s compartment from the passenger compartment, and during most of the trip Jack kept the blind lowered, so the chauffeur could neither see nor hear him and Betsy in the rear seat.
    This made it possible for Jack to keep Betsy’s skirt pulled up to the edge of her panties and to fondle her legs. The privacy made it possible, too, for her to fondle his crotch. They talked about many things, most of them funny, but after their lunch stop Betsy turned thoughtful.
    â€œI thought about saying no to this invitation,” she said soberly without lifting her hand from the stiff cock she was stroking through the fabric of his pants.
    â€œI can think of one or two reasons why you might have said no. Which one bothered you?”
    She brushed his cheek with a light kiss. “Kimberly. What we’re doing to Kimberly.”
    Jack slipped his fingers inside her panties and ran them over her cunt. She was wet. “I thought seriously about not inviting you,” he said. “For the same reason.”
    â€œAnd?”
    He pulled his hand out of Betsy’s panties. “What am I doing to Kimberly? Doesn’t there come a time when I’m entitled to ask what’s she doing to me?”
    â€œAnd that’s why you—”
    â€œNo, that’s not why I invited you, not why I arrange to be with you whenever I can. I’m not using you, Betsy. I need you. I need to be close to a woman who doesn’t think I’m . . . Well, doesn’t think I’m . . . You know what I mean.”
    She ran her hand down his cheek and across his neck. “Is it that bad?”
    â€œWhat do you think? You’ve seen . . .”
    Betsy nodded emphatically. “I’ve seen. And heard. And it pisses me off!”
    â€œIt’s worse when you can’t see and hear. It’s worse in private. I’m not a Wolcott. I’m not a Bayard. I’m the grandson of Johann Lehrer, who was a rabbi. Harrison Wolcott accepts that and doesn’t scorn it. But Kimberly—”
    Betsy interrupted. “The other evening she said to Connie and me that she guessed she never would be able to teach you to fold your pocket handkerchief right. ‘He’s got a certain capacity for the crude,’ she said. ‘No matter how hard I try, I can’t entirely civilize him.’ Connie agrees with me that she ought to be proud of you. You ought to fuck Connie, too. If Kimberly found out you were diddling both of us, that’d get to her.”
    â€œWhy did she marry me, Bets?”
    â€œI can think of two reasons. In the first place, Kimberly was always obsessed with the idea that some guy would marry her for her money—her father’s money. When you came along, she knew she didn’t have to worry about that, because you had money of your own. She even knew how much, Jack. At least she said she did. She told me you had half a million, all your own, plus more