It was only in 1994 that the money radically changed Sandy Raven’s life. That year, Forbes magazine added his name to their golden honor roll of the four hundred richest people in America.
Yet even this formidable publication could not specify his net worth to the last penny. But since the humblest person on their list was worth $300 million, it could be said without fear of contradiction that Sandy was extremely well off.
The night before the issue appeared, his lawyer, Nat Simmons, who had been privileged to see an advance copy, called him with the sensational news.
Sandy’s reaction startled the attorney.
“Dammit, Nat. Can’t we stop them?”
“First of all, the thing’s been printed in a zillion copies. But why would you want to? People kill—or at least lie—to make this stupid list. Are you afraid women will start to lust after your money?”
“Yeah,” Sandy replied sardonically. “Something like that.”
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about on that score,” Nat reassured him.
“What do you mean?”
“Because they already do. Anyway, my professional advice is that when the audience applauds, you should take a bow. Good night, Sandy. I hope you sleep off the lousy mood you’re in.”
Sandy hung up and walked out on to the patio, where Sidney, against doctor’s orders, was sneaking in a few rays of California sun, and offhandedly told him the news.
“That’s great, sonny boy,” the old man enthused. “Who would have dreamed that the son of a small potato guy like me would—”
“Come on, Dad,” Sandy cut him off. “You’re the real businessman in this family. I just got lucky.”
“Yeah,” Sidney remarked. “Like King Midas.”
“Dad, if you recall,” Sandy said, “King Midas was a very unhappy man.”
“Maybe,” Sidney replied, “that’s because there was no Mrs. Midas.”
As usual, the Los Angeles Times gave a big play to the local citizens who had made that year’s “Four Hundred.”
Now elevated to the pantheon of plutocracy, Sandy was besieged by telephone calls from adoring well-wishers—many of whom he had forgotten he even knew.
He told Maureen not to put any of the callers through, so he could at least have a few hours of hands-on time in the lab.
She disobeyed him only once. “I know what you said, but this one I know you’ll want to take.”
He was certain it wasn’t Kimiko, since she used his home phone. In fact they had spoken earlier that morning. So he barked: “Unless it’s from Stockholm, I can’t imagine anyone I’d like to speak to.”
“I can,” she replied knowingly.
“Try me,” he challenged.
She answered simply, “Kim Tower.”
It opened a torrent of feelings. The object of his childhood longings, the princess who, in reverse fairytale fashion, had turned out to be a dragon. And nearly destroyed his father. The lodestone of his strongest passions of love and hate, whom for sanity’s sake he had tried to banish from his consciousness. Now she who had ignored or—on some rare occasions—deigned to recognize him only to disparage him, was suddenly telephoning of her own accord.
“Okay,” Sandy capitulated. “Put her through.”
He could feel his blood pressure mounting as he waited for the connection.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she purred. “How does it feel to be the talk of the town?”
“I don’t know. How should I feel?”
“Like a nuclear firecracker,” she suggested, and segued quickly into further greetings, asking sweetly, “How’s Sidney? I hear he’s doing a great job at CBS. Give him my best regards.”
Sandy was too astounded to be outraged. Her presumption was breathtaking.
“I’ll pass it on,” he said dryly.
“You’ll never guess why I’m calling you,” she said coquettishly.
“Don’t tell me.” Sandy could barely hide his sarcasm. “The studio wants to do the story of my life.”
She laughed. And the sound was still like crystal.
“Actually, that’s not such a bad idea,” she responded with glossy Hollywood hypocrisy. “Rags-to-riches is always boffo stuff. But anyway, why don’t we get together, break bread, and talk about old times?”
Old times? Sandy thought to himself. What do we have to reminisce about? But then she had lit the fires again. And for reasons conscious and unconscious, he thought, what the hell.…
“That would be great, Rochelle.”
“What about tonight at the Bel Air? It’s Friday, and we can stay up extra late.”
“Fine with me. I only hope you recognize me after all these years.”
“Dollface,” she replied, “lately your picture’s been in the paper more than mine. After all, I’ve never been on the cover of Time. See you at eight. By the way, it’s my treat. Ciao.”
“What the hell do you think she wants?” Sandy asked his father.
“Whatever it is,” said the older man, “it’s dollars to doughnuts her body’s included.”
“What?” His father’s blunt cynicism unsettled him.
In truth, in the many years they had known each other, he had dreamed of making love to her. But time had so metamorphosed the protagonist of his fantasies that he could no more conceive of a sexual encounter with “Kim Tower” than he would with a female divinity depicted on a Grecian urn.
He arrived early to find that she had arrived even earlier and was already ensconced in a corner where she could survey the room.
Her hair was light blond at the moment, and even at a distance she looked like the magnificent superstar she might have become had it not been for her consummate lack of talent.
Still, she had the aura of success about her, glittering like the precious rocks she wore everywhere—especially the necklace with the diamond ankh, the popular Egyptian love symbol, which pointed like a jeweled road sign directing the attention of all who beheld her to the cleft between her magnificent breasts.
This time she offered him her glowing cheeks to kiss. Simultaneously, the sommelier poured the champagne. By the time they were seated, Rochelle could already raise a glass and toast his success.
“To the greatest star I know.” She smiled.
“A slight exaggeration,” Sandy retorted with graceful humility.
“You know, I always knew you’d make it, Sandy,” she continued. “I mean, even when we were classmates, you were so brilliant that I figured you for either winning the Nobel Prize or getting elected President.”
At this hyperbole, Sandy could only comment, “Well, I don’t think we have to worry about either of those happening.”
“Come on,” she contradicted him. “If the Swedish Academy can honor a maverick like Kary Mullis, they can overlook your extreme wealth and still honor your fantastic brain.”
Once again he marveled at the breadth of her knowledge. She may have merely digested news bites, but she had the mind of a computer database and was fully aware of the idiosyncratically colorful character who had won the Nobel Prize for chemistry in 1993.
She gazed at her grade school admirer as if seeing him with new eyes. And while she was doing so, he admired the expertise of her plastic surgeon. There was not the slightest scar in sight, though she had been remolded to look twenty years younger than their mutual age.
She, on the other hand, was lying through her brilliantly capped teeth when she cooed, “You know, you haven’t changed a bit. Do you use your own magic formula?”
Sandy self-consciously touched the crown of his head as if trying to cover the growing bald spot, and thought to himself, Ah, that’s it. She wants the Fountain of Youth. Does she actually think I’m going to give her free samples?
“Rochelle,” he said with a diversionary smoke screen of flattery, “it’s my professional opinion that good genes are better than any medicine. And you are terrifically endowed. I mean, I don’t think you’ll ever age.”
“Really?” She smiled. “Do you really think so?”
His feelings were stirred. Gradually he could feel his defenses weakening. He was so bedazzled that he temporarily suppressed his anger at her long-ago cruelty to his father. And, despite everything, he still wanted her.
“I have an idea,” she said, leaning closer to him. “Let’s go to my place for coffee. You haven’t seen it, have you?”
Goddamn stupid question, he thought to himself, but played along.
“As a matter of fact, I have.” He surprised her. “I mean, when Life did a spread on your spread. It looks fabulous.”
“Wait till you see the view,” she murmured. “In any case, shall we talk some business first?”
“Why not?” By now he was bursting with curiosity at the reason for her sudden rediscovery that he existed.
“As I’m sure you know, I’ve got a sensational record as head of production. I’ve given the boys on the board some really terrific Christmas and Fourth of July presents.”
“Yeah, your instinct’s phenomenal,” Sandy commented, still wondering where all this was leading.
“Well, it’s not that they don’t pay me a living wage. But dammit, I’m just a salaried employee,” she continued, making it sound as if she were the janitor. “The big money goes to the studio bosses.
“For a long time now I’ve been looking for an opening to make my move, and I think the time is really right. I happen to know that our chief stockholder, the intrepid George Constantine, is financially overstretched and is trying to lay off big chunks of the company.”
“Well, then now’s your chance,” Sandy said encouragingly. “Why don’t you go for it?”
“With what?” she inquired in an unconvincingly helpless tone. “Even with my track record, the banks are still fundamentally sexist. To them I’m some kind of female airhead who’s had a few lucky breaks. If I had a penis, I’d be golden. But as it is, I can’t get anybody to subsidize me for an LBO.”
Ah, Sandy realized, it’s my money.
“I don’t even know what an LBO is,” he lied. “Isn’t it a cable TV network?”
“No, silly,” she answered with an indulgent smile. “Don’t you have bankers and portfolio managers and stuff? ‘Leveraged buyouts’ are how the rich get richer. And with your kind of collateral, you could easily raise enough cash to relieve Constantine of his holding.” She paused, looking at him meaningfully.
“Naturally, you and I can make some arrangement. Stock options and so forth. But that goes without saying. I mean, what are friends for? If nothing else, I’ve given you the inside tip-off, right?”
“Right,” Sandy answered in a strangely flat tone.
“Well?”
Sandy evaded her question, stroking his cheek in a deliberate gesture of deep thought. “It’s something to sleep on.”
“I agree. Do you have a driver waiting?” she asked, subtly changing the subject.
“No. Actually, I drove myself.”
“Rolls?” she inquired.
“Chevy.”
“You’re quite a character, Sandy. I have so much admiration for people who live beneath their means.” She flashed a brilliant smile. “I’ve got a Lamborghini that can make it from here to my place in under five minutes. Are you interested?”
“Rochelle,” he replied in the understatement of his life, “I’ve always been interested.”
But in ways not even you could imagine.
In a town that imposed draconian punishments for speeding, she drove jauntily down Sunset Boulevard, then cornered expertly up Benedict Canyon to a pair of iron gates that opened automatically at the touch of a dashboard button.
Sandy could not help but appreciate the symbolism.
Not that he would have expected it to be any other way, but her home was just like a lavish movie set, with a second swimming pool right in the middle of the living room.
And yet not a servant in sight.
“Come on, dollface,” she murmured sweetly. “Let me show you what a great cup of coffee I can make with just a few spoons of Nescafé.”
He followed her into a room whose sophisticated machinery could well have surpassed the kitchen of the hotel at which they had just dined. Everything sparkled: glass, metal, hidden lights, the works.
“You were married once,” she remarked offhandedly.
“Yeah,” Sandy nodded. “It didn’t agree with me. Or to be more specific, it didn’t agree with her. But I’m certainly not bitter. I’ve got the most wonderful daughter.”
“Oh, really?” she gushed. “You must tell me all about her.” Quickly adding, “Sometime. But for the moment, let’s be selfish.”
“In what way?” Sandy inquired.
“What about a little skinny dip?” she asked with nonchalant eroticism. Before he could respond, she gracefully undid the zippers and stepped out of her dress.
Despite her long-ago appearance in Playboy, he was still self-conscious about seeing his childhood friend unclothed. Somehow he felt he was spying on the young and innocent—was she ever really innocent?—Rochelle Taubman whose homework he had cheerfully done and whom he had once dreamed of seducing. But whether it was the aerobics, genetics, or merely plastic surgery—her body was magnificent.
“Come on, honey,” she coaxed. “What are you waiting for?”
“I don’t know, Rochelle,” he answered softly. “But I think I’d prefer to pass.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “What’s the matter, Sandy? Scared you’re not man enough?”
Her taunt helped him at his moment of indecision. He stood up. “No, Rochelle,” he answered. “I think it’s the other way around. You’re not woman enough.”
“What?” she shrieked with outrage. “I always knew you didn’t have any balls. You’re nothing but a chickenshit little eunuch. Go to hell.”
At this point his soul had broken free.
“Thanks a lot for the dinner,” he said.
“Did you hear me?” she shouted furiously. “I said go to hell.”
He stared at her with genuine indifference and answered, “You know the funniest thing, Rochelle—I’ve been there all this time, and only just realized it.”
Sandy knew he had his work cut out for him that weekend, and drove straight to the airport without even going home. He made the necessary arrangements on his car phone.
He called Kimiko to explain he had to fly urgently to New York and would try to return by the following evening.
“Is everything all right?”
“It will be by the time I get back,” he said warmly.
“Do you want me to pick you up at the airport?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I would like that very much.”
The following Monday, since Kim’s first meeting of the day was off the lot, she did not pull up to the studio gate until nearly eleven. Usually the minute he caught sight of her red Lamborghini, the guard would lift the barrier so she could zoom through without having to change gears.
Today, for some reason, the barrier remained in place.
“What’s happening?” she called out in mock anger. “Have you lost your touch? Open the drawbridge.”
“Uh, hello there, Miss Tower,” the officer said uneasily. “How’re you doing?”
Kim had exhausted her patience and good humor with this minion. Instead of responding to his question, she merely barked, “Up, Mitch. Move your ass.”
The sentry remained by the side of her car, a part of him savoring the moment. It was a role he had played on countless occasions, but never on so grand a level.
“Miss Tower, I don’t know exactly how to say this, but …” He paused and then concluded, “you’re not on my docket.”
“I … what?”
The man nodded. “As you know, the lists are changed each morning. I guess you don’t work here anymore.”
Kim had a short fuse, and she exploded. “Listen, mister, I’m giving you exactly ten seconds to cut this misplaced April Fool’s gag and let me in—or you’ll never work in this town again.”
The security guard stood steadfast. In fact, his tone became more solemn. “With respect, ma’am, you’re blocking the entrance. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to move.”
“Balls!” she snapped, reaching for her car telephone. “I’m going to get George Constantine on the phone right now and we’ll see who leaves this spot first.”
Naturally, the studio boss’s line was preprogrammed number 1, and Kim immediately reached him on the other coast. After the tycoon said a brief hello, he remained impeccably calm as the wrath of hell poured into his ear.
After a moment he took a breath. “Listen, sugar,” he explained cordially, “you of all people should know the way the system works. It’s a revolving door—one day you’re in, the next you’re out. I’m afraid this is your day to be out.
“But as a token of my gratitude I’d like to give you some valuable advice. If I were you, I’d use the twenty-four hour hiatus before we make our announcement to fly to Paris and buy dresses or whatever makes you happy. You don’t want to be here when the spit hits the fan.”
The phone went as dead as Kim Tower’s status in the town.
Mitch was staring at her, his face fully showing the satisfaction that his superior rank had now been established. Before retreating, Kim had to ask him the sixty-four-million-dollar question.
“By the way,” she said with artificial sweetness, “can you tell me who’s head of production as of this morning?”
“Oh,” said Mitch with a poker face. “I guess you mean Mr. Raven.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Sidney Raven, Miss Tower,” he replied. “Now you have a nice day.”