Free Dreams Die First by Harold Robbins

mind that you can justify it.”
    “How do you know they’ll stick?”
    “They’ll stick. Ronzi’s nobody’s fool. He’s pulled out all the stops on this one.”
    “Ronzi’s Mafia,” he said disapprovingly.
    “So?”
    “You don’t want to get involved with people like that.”
    I laughed. “He warned me about people like you.”
    We heard Mother’s footsteps coming down the staircase. “Come to my office Monday. We’ll talk about it then,” he said.
    “There’s nothing to talk about. Besides, I’m busy. I’ve got the next issue to get out.”
    We rose to our feet as Mother came in the room. I had to admit that she was quite something. At fifty-two, she didn’t look a day over thirty-five. Her face was tanned and unlined, her hair as blond as it had been when I was a kid, and her body lithe from the tennis she played every day. She came toward me and turned a cheek to be kissed.
    “You look thin,” she said.
    She could do it every time. Suddenly I was fifteen years old again. All arms and legs and no tongue.
    She didn’t wait for me to answer. “Don’t you think he looks thin, John?”
    A faint smile curved his lips. “I wouldn’t worry about him if I were you,” he said dryly. “He seems quite capable of taking care of himself.”
    “He knows nothing about proper diet. I’ll bet he hasn’t eaten a green salad in months. Have you?”
    “I didn’t know green salads were fattening.”
    “Don’t be sarcastic, Gareth. You know perfectly well what I mean.”
    “Mother,” I said sharply.
    A sudden nervous tremor came into her voice. “What?”
    I swallowed my irritation, realizing that it was as difficult for her to communicate with me as it was for me to reach her. There was no mutual ground on which we could walk. Sad. Down deep sad. I kept my voice light. “You look beautiful, Mother.”
    She smiled. “Do you mean that?”
    “You know I do.”
    This was safe ground. Her ground. Her voice relaxed. “I have to. Youth is such a cult these days.”
    Not with the young, I thought to myself. “Let me fix you a drink,” I said.
    “I’ll have a glass of white wine. Less calories.”
    I went around behind the bar and was taking the wine from the refrigerator when the doorbell chimed. I opened the bottle and looked quizzically at my mother. I had thought there were just going to be the three of us.
    My mother read the question in my eyes. “I thought it would be nice if we had just one more person. To balance the table. A girl,” she said, taking the glass I offered her. “You remember her. Eileen Sheridan. She was really quite fond of your father.”
    This was no time to argue, but I remembered that Eileen had still had braces on her teeth when my father died. Mother greeted her at the door of the library. Eileen had changed since I’d seen her last. A lot.
    She held out her hand to me across the bar and smiled. Her teeth were California white and even. “Hello, Gareth. Nice to see you again.”
    “Eileen,” I said. Her hand had the Bel Air touch—a cross between the effusiveness of the Beverly Hills girls and the limp politeness of the girls from Holmby Hills. Sincere, polite, cool warmth, I thought. “What are you drinking?”
    “What are you drinking?” she asked. Right on. Find out what’s going in the establishment. Don’t make waves. Then I reminded myself that I’d done the same thing a few minutes before.
    “I’m on scotch; Uncle John’s into dry martinis; Mother’s having low-cal white wine.”
    “I’ll go along with the low-cal.”
    There was a pause. “That’s a beautiful Rolls you have out there,” she continued, making conversation.
    “Rolls? What Rolls?” Mother was annoyed. “You didn’t tell me you had a Rolls.”
    “You asked me to wear a tie, Mother,” I said. “How would it look if I thumb-tripped my way up here?”
    “If it’s not your car, whose is it?” My mother was not to be put off. Rich friends were okay.
    “A