Free The Stallion (1996) by Harold Robbins

by powerful floodlights and drank piña coladas, then ordered a big lobster with a bottle of white wine. His waitress said she’d seen him drive at Daytona. She said she had a Pontiac Firebird in the parking lot and would love to be a passenger with him driving. He thanked her and said he’d be glad to take her up on that sometime when he hadn’t been drinking.
    He had a bottle of Scotch in his room but had had enough to drink. He took off his clothes and stretched out on the bed. A pro football game was on television, and he punched up the pillows and began to watch.
    He’d watched less than a quarter when he heard a knock on the door.
    “Who is it?”
    “Roberta Hardeman.”
    Angelo was taken aback, but he called, “Hold it a minute. I’ve got to get dressed.”
    She was dressed as she had been on the lanai: in the stretch pants and full shirt. “Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”
    Angelo nodded and stepped aside from the door. “Where’s Loren?”
    “Sleeping the sleep of the innocent,” she said. “Or to put it another way, he’s sleeping one off. He never knows what he misses.”
    Angelo nodded toward the couch, but sat down in the chair. “What do we have to talk about, Mrs. Hardeman?”
    “The first thing is that I’m Roberta, not Mrs. Hardeman. Can you offer me a drink? Or should we go to the bar?”
    “I’ve got Scotch. No ice.”
    “It’s a cardinal sin to put ice in Scotch,” she said.
    “Water?” he asked.
    “A teaspoonful.”
    “Admire my crystal ware,” he said as he handed her adrink in a plastic glass. He had poured himself one, too. “Cheers. Now, what can we talk about?”
    “Can you believe that I love Loren Hardeman?”
    “No.”
    “Okay, I know why you would think so. I know what he did to you. Even having heard the story from his point of view, I think it was a despicable thing to do. But … I didn’t marry him for his money. I have money of my own.”
    “Good for you. You may need it,” said Angelo coldly, taking a sip of Scotch.
    Roberta stared into her glass for a moment, then drank. “Whatever you think of him—and are entitled to think of him—you don’t want to kill him. Am I right?”
    Angelo shrugged. “Don’t worry. If I ever had any thought of calling my friends of the Honored Society to get rid of him, that was a long time ago. I healed. I have a new life.”
    She smiled and nodded. “So does he.”
    Angelo looked her up and down, unsubtle in what he was doing: making a crass and intimate appraisal. “I bet he does,” he said.
    “You appreciate,” she said quietly.
    “Sure.”
    “Another subject, for a little later,” she said. “Right now, what I want to talk to you about is Loren. I know what he did to you: that he had you beaten up, hurt, scarred. That’s the price you paid for Number One’s unconscionable manipulations. The old man used you. You know he did. He used Loren, too. Do you have any idea what price Loren paid?”
    “Tell me.”
    “He was emasculated. The old man left him in charge of the company, but first he cut off one of his balls. That’s what he did to Number Two—only both balls, as you well know. The old man is evil, Angelo.”
    Angelo shook his head. “Old, frustrated, unhappy … yes. Evil? I don’t think so.”
    “You really care about him, don’t you?”
    “I admire him,” said Angelo. “He outsmarted me. I have to have some respect for a man who can do that. That’s why I have no respect for your husband. He could never outsmartme. He might try to have me killed, but he could never outsmart me.”
    “Your modesty is overwhelming,” she said, tossing back her Scotch. “Can I have some more of this?”
    He got up and took their glasses to the bathroom, where the bottle waited.
    “Angelo,” she said while he was still in the bathroom. “Loren is going to be castrated again. Do you understand?”
    “I can’t say that I do. Or that I care.”
    “The old man gave him control of Bethlehem