Praise for Harold Robbins
“Harold Robbins is a master!”
—Playboy
“Robbins’ books are packed with action, sustained by a strong narrative drive and are given vitality by his own colorful life.”
—The Wall Street Journal
Robbins is one of the “world’s five bestselling authors… each week, an estimated 280,000 people… purchase a Harold Robbins book.”
—Saturday Review
“Robbins grabs the reader and doesn’t let go…”
—Publishers Weekly
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Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double
Harold Robbins
Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double
Kindle Edition
© Copyright 2020 (As Revised) Harold Robbins
Wolfpack Publishing
6032 Wheat Penny Avenue
Las Vegas, NV 89122
wolfpackpublishing.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
eBook ISBN 978-1-64734-862-5
Contents
I. Never Love A Stranger
Acknowledgments
What Came Before
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Interlude
Part II
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Interlude
Part III
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Interlude
Part IV
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Interlude
Part V
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Interlude
Part VI
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
What Came After
Harold Robbins, Unguarded
II. Stiletto
Praise For Stiletto
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Thank You!
About the Author
Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double
I
Never Love A Stranger
Contents
Acknowledgments
What Came Before
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Interlude
Part II
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Interlude
Part III
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Interlude
Part IV
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Interlude
Part V
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Interlude
Part VI
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
/> Chapter 80
What Came After
Harold Robbins, Unguarded
Many thanks to the man who wears the hat, Bradley Yonover.
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to express his gratitude to Mr. Robert L. Scottino, for his kind words and considerate encouragement during the long years it took to write this book.
What Came Before
Mrs. Cozzolina tasted the soup. It was rich and thick, tomatoey, and with just the right touch of garlic. She smacked her lips—it was good. With a sigh she turned back to the table where she had been stuffing ravioli with shredded chicken. It had been a long, hot June day but now it was beginning to grow damp. The sky outside had grown darker and she had had to turn on the light in the kitchen.
“These American girls,” she was thinking as her pudgy fingers lightly shaped the dough and poked bits of chicken into them, the sweat damp on her forehead and just over her lips where the slight, dark shadow of a mustache was visible. “Planning babies so they don’t have to carry them in the summer! Who ever heard of such a thing? Why in the old country,” she smiled thinking of when she was young, “they just had them. You didn’t plan children there.” She had a right to think the American girls were foolish. She was a midwife and business had been bad all summer, and she had seven children of her own to feed since her husband had died.
Somewhere in the darkness of the house the doorbell rang. She picked her head up at the sound and cocked it to one side as she tried to think who it might be. None of her customers was due until next month, and she came to the conclusion it was a peddler. “Maria,” she shouted, her voice echoing through the dim hallways, “go and see who’s at the door.” Her voice was harsh from many years of shouting at her children and at the peddlers on the street from whom she bought most of her foodstuffs.
There was no reply. Again the doorbell rang, this time it had a harsh, strident, demanding tone. Reluctantly she wiped her hands on her apron and went through the long narrow corridor to the front door. Through the colored panes of glass in the window she could make out a dim shape. She opened the door.
A girl was standing there, a small suitcase on the steps near her. Her face was think and drawn but her eyes glowed with a warm, frightened luminosity, much like an animal’s in the dark. She was obviously pregnant, and to Mrs. Cozzolina’s experienced eye was in her last month. “Are you the midwife?” The voice was soft but somehow afraid.
“Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Cozzolina. She knew a lady when she saw one. There was something about them that stood out even when they had fallen upon hard times.
“I’m sorry to bother you but I’m new in New York and I—” The girl stopped a minute as a tremor seemed to run through her body. When she spoke again an urgent quality had come into her voice. “My time has come,” she said simply, “and I have no place to go.”
Mrs. Cozzolina was silent for a few seconds. If she took the girl in that meant Maria would have to be turned out of her room and Maria wouldn’t like that. She didn’t like to sleep with her sisters. And maybe the girl didn’t have any money; maybe she wasn’t even married. Automatically her glance went to the girl’s hand. There was a small gold ring on her finger.
“I—I have some money,” the girl ventured, reading Mrs. Cozzolina’s mind.
“But I have no room,” Mrs. Cozzolina said.
“You must have,” the girl insisted. “I haven’t time to go anywhere else. And I saw your sign, ‘Midwife.’”
Mrs. Cozzolina gave in. Maria would have to sleep with her sisters whether she liked it or not. “Come in,” she said to the girl and took her bag.
The girl followed Mrs. Cozzolina through the dim hallway and up a flight of steps to Maria’s room. It was light there and she could look out and see a row of three-story brownstone tenements and a boy cutting pigeons from his flock with a long pole from a near-by roof.
“Take off your jacket,” Mrs. Cozzolina said, “and become comfortable.” She helped the girl undress and lie down on the bed. “How long ago did the pains start to come?” she asked.
“About an hour ago,” the girl said. “I knew I couldn’t go any further. I had to stop.”
Mrs. Cozzolina examined her. The girl felt a little nervous. This wasn’t how she had planned to have her baby. It was supposed to be in a hospital with George somewhere nearby, somehow always hovering in the background to reassure her that things would turn out all right; or home where you could sense the presence of people who loved you and were near you, where you could draw courage from them. This was so different. She was a little afraid.
Mrs. Cozzolina straightened up. The girl was small—she was built small; she would have a hard time. The passageway was too narrow for the baby to come down easily. Anyway, she had about six or seven hours to go; maybe she would dilate more than you could expect. That was always a wonderful thing to see: how a girl turned into a woman capable of bringing forth a child under your eyes. But this looked as if it would be difficult. Mrs. Cozzolina had a feeling about it, but nothing of what she thought showed in her face. “You have some time to wait.” She smiled at the girl. “But don’t worry, it will be all right. I know; I have seven myself.”
The girl smiled back tremulously. “Thank you, thank you very much.”
“Now you try to get some sleep,” Mrs. Cozzolina said, moving toward the door. “I’ll come up in a few hours and see how you are feeling. A little sleep before is always a good thing.” She went out and down the stairs. It wasn’t until she had almost finished cooking supper that she remembered she hadn’t asked the girl’s name. “Well,” she thought, “I’ll do it when I go back upstairs,” and turned to finish her cooking.
The girl had shut her eyes and had tried to sleep, but she wasn’t sleeping. Thoughts kept trailing through her mind slowly, like distant scenes through a train window—home and George. Those were the two important things her mind always came back to: home and George. “I wonder what they think of me now? And George, where did he go?” She was supposed to meet him that day. It was a long time ago.
It had been raining and she had left the apartment to meet him on the corner near the restaurant. The wind had been blowing and she was chilled and had waited two hours before she went home again. She had called his office in the morning and they told her he left last night at his regular time but he hadn’t come in as yet. And he disappeared. She hadn’t heard from him since, hadn’t seen him, and she couldn’t understand it. This wasn’t like him. He wasn’t that kind of a man. Something terrible must have happened to him.
She looked out the window and wondered what time it was. It had become dark, and occasionally she heard thunder rolling in the distance and could see flashes of lightning, but it hadn’t started to rain. The air hung heavy and oppressive around her, and she could hear the clink of dishes and subdued voices coming up from the kitchen, and smell the thick, heavy odor of cooking that came in through the partly open window, for the kitchen was directly below the room she was in.