The Stallion (1996) (50 page)

“She
killed him, then. I didn’t. And it’ll be those kids’ word against—”

“The surviving trucker has not been able to explain why his license plates were in the cab with him and why his ICC numbers were covered with paper and tape—the same as the other rig, identification obscured. The trucker’s in jail. He knows he’s in big trouble, and he’s given a sworn statement—on the advice of his attorney.”

“Okay, he and the other one tried to run the Stallion off the road. What’ve
I
got to do with it?”

“Both truckers owned their rigs. Both owed on them. Odd. The mortgages on their rigs were both paid off a week before the accident. With cash—a hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars. The district attorney will be subpoenaing your bank records. You didn’t just happen to withdraw a hundred and fifty-five thousand dollars in cash recently, did you Loren?”

Roberta screamed.
“You did this?
You tried to kill those kids? You stupid, drunken, insane—”

Loren grinned. “Murder … It didn’t bother you before.”

Roberta spoke to Angelo and Betsy. “Burt Craddock. He tried to blackmail us.” She turned to Loren, her face rigid. “Put that goddamned gun down. You shoot Angelo, you won’t have one favorable witness. Not me, for damned sure. And don’t forget you’re in Florida. Down here they favor the death penalty.”

Loren stared at the pistol for a moment, as if maybe he was thinking of putting it in his mouth. Then he shrugged and laid it aside, and Betsy picked it up.

“You better put your toothbrush in a little bag, Loren,” said Angelo without a note of sympathy. “A Pennsylvania grand jury is going to return an indictment. Then Pennsylvania will ask for extradition.”

Betsy poured a water glass of Scotch and handed it to her
father. “Have a drink, old man,” she said scornfully. “That’ll make you feel better.”

Early in the evening of June 24, Anna Perino married Loren van Ludwige. The wedding was held under a red-and-white striped tent on the lawn behind the Perino home. A string quartet played, stopping only during the ceremony itself. All the women wore gowns, some with wide-brimmed hats. The sun still shone, and Amanda Finch remarked that the women in their many colors looked like flowers.

Anna had all the soft, appealing Mediterranean beauty of her ancestry. Her dark eyes were warm and fluid. Twenty years old, she was mature in every respect. Her physical maturity showed through her chaste white wedding dress.

Van was a tall and handsome young man, which was to be expected of a son of Betsy Hardeman and Max van Ludwige. Max was a handsome man, but the genes of the Hardemans predominated in Loren—as they did in every child of that clan. He had inherited his mother’s strong simple face and pale blue eyes.

The young couple were conspicuously, touchingly in love.

“Even
I
don’t recognize all these people,” Betsy said to Angelo. She and the Viscount Neville were sipping champagne. “I can’t introduce George.”

“Well, everyone’s here,” said Angelo. “Just about.”

Everyone
was
there—all the other children of both families; the eighty-five-year-old Jenny Perino, grandmother of the bride, happily holding court in a peacock chair, a beaming Max van Ludwige and his ever-handsome wife; the supremely elegant Prince and Princess Alekhine; the dignified Alicia Grinwold Hardeman and Bill Adams; Henry Morris and his family, all confused as to who most of the guests might be; a conspicuously impressed Amanda Finch, Marcus Lincicombe, and Dietz von Keyserling; the formally polite Keijo Shigeto, Toshiko, and their children; jolly Tom Mason; a bemused Alexandra McCullough; Signor Giovanni DiCostanzo and an exuberant few members of
the local Italian community, who brought generous cash gifts to the bride; and many neighbors and friends and classmates.

“Not
everyone,
thank God,” said Betsy. “But for the first time in my life I have halfway human feelings about my father. I mean,
in jail!
That’s more of a comedown than you meant for him, Angelo.”

“Well, he tried to—”

“Yes, I know. Even so.”

“He’s going to cop a plea, you know. Six, seven, eight years, he’ll be out.”

Betsy glanced around. “I’m sorry I mentioned him. I don’t want to think about him.”

The quartet, which had taken a break, now began to play dance music.

“You should dance,” said Angelo. “Since I had the floor put down, you should use it.”

The setting sun was still bright. The wind was warm and gentle and fragrant. Van danced with his new wife. Then Angelo danced with his daughter.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispered tearfully. “For everything. For so very much.”

“And thank
you,”
he murmured. “I’m very proud of you. You see, life is good … for the good.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

HAROLD ROBBINS
is the bestselling,
most enduring popular novelist of all time.
He lives in Palm Springs, California.