Sam stopped smiling, then recovered himself. “Well, it’s coming. It’s a great theme: Does a woman love a man for his success or for who he is? And can a man love himself if he fails?”
“Funny, but I always thought the movie was about envy—Judy loved James and never envied his success. But when she succeeds, he envies hers so much that he ceases to love her, if he ever really did.”
“Interesting view,” he said, and he looked at her, this time with a deeper, more quizzical look. “Are you an envious person?” he asked.
“No. Not really.” She was surprised by the question, and by her answer, but she was aware it was the truth. She wondered why. “Maybe it was because I had such low expectations. I never imagined myself a candidate for other people’s success.”
“Really?” he asked. “I’m the opposite. If I read about any director’s triumph, my first thought is why I didn’t do that or get that or present that.”
“It must make life very uncomfortable for you.” Jahne took a sip of her iced tea, watching him over the rim of her glass. This was going well, very well. She was succeeding in being both seductive and distant—a deadly combination. She smiled. What if he fell in love with her? What if he did, and she could spurn him? She almost giggled.
“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he said. “That’s the smile that played so well in your screen test.”
Jahne blinked. Was he being personal or professional?
“I was nervous,” she told him.
“Didn’t show,” he said. “April and I were both fascinated. She said…”
Jahne felt her smile slip. There it was again. Was it her imagination, that he and April had more than a working relationship? He went on talking while she wondered. Why had he invited her out? Was it a professional courtesy, a business lunch, or was it more? She tried to focus on what he was saying.
“They’re talking about this as this year’s Pretty Woman.”
“Well, I hope not. I mean, that was a film about a prostitute who got lucky. I hope there will be more content than that.”
Sam looked uncomfortable. “You do take yourself seriously.”
“So who are you going to cast opposite me?” she asked him.
“We were thinking of Michael Douglas, but he’s not quite old enough.”
“But he’s such a great actor! I’d love to work with him!”
“What do you think of Newman?”
“Paul Newman?” She could hardly believe it.
“April thinks he’s maybe too old, but she thinks she can get him interested.”
“Oh, God, that would be wonderful!”
“You think you could play a convincing love scene with him?”
She laughed. “Just try me.”
“I’d like to!” he said, and smiled. Jahne felt the heat. He was interested in her. “I tell you the one reservation I have,” he confided. “I don’t see Judy as a beautiful woman. I felt maybe you couldn’t be convincing as a plain girl.”
She began to laugh. And, for a frightening moment, it seemed as if she might not be able to stop. “I’ll research it,” she said at last.
“Great. Glad I entertained you.” Then he looked down at his watch, which, she noticed, was a gold Rolex. “This has all been great,” he told her, “but I’ve got a script to write. Can I walk you to your car?”
She declined. She needed a few moments alone. “No, I’d like to take a look at the collection.”
“Oh, yeah. The van Huysums.” He grinned at her. “Maybe you want to drop by my office this evening. Run a few lines.” He looked at her.
“No.” She smiled. “I think there’s been enough lines thrown out already.”
He laughed, leaned over to her, and gave her hand a squeeze. “Forgive me,” he said. “I can’t help myself.” Then he picked up her hand, kissed the palm, and strode away.
It took her a moment to control her voice. “Good luck with the script,” she called.
After he’d left her, she sat for a few moments alone. The lunch had been interesting, to say the least. But was Sam simply being a professional flirt? Could she keep her cool if only this much attention from him excited her so?
She freshened her lipstick, then wandered over to the galleries. She picked up a brochure and found there were indeed two van Huysums. “What the hell,” she murmured to herself, and went in search of them.
They were magnificent: one a floral still life and the other a bounty of fruit. Both were in the jewel colors of a thousand Persian carpets. She knew it had taken years for the artist to paint each one, applying layer after layer of transparent pigment, building the depth of color and shading before her. Years and years to create beauty almost everlasting. And for close to four hundred years, art lovers had admired the flowers and fruit at their ripest moment of perfection. She stared at the visual feast, but her mind was on other things.
After the hard years in New York, after the surgery, after the fiasco with Pete and the nasty affair with Michael McLain, after taking this job more than anything to get to work with Sam, it seemed that Sam and April were still a “we.” And that Sam was as flirtatious as ever. But he probably had no interest in her, except as a co-worker. Well, she told herself, it’s just as well.
Her life was no longer empty and gray, she reminded herself. It was a colorful abundance, like the van Huysum paintings. But, like them, it was unrealistic, chaotic, and perhaps even wasteful. All that fruit, about to rot, all those out-of-season cut flowers, about to wilt. Wasn’t she like that? A perfect bloom that would go unsavored until she wilted?
Hooray for Hollywood, she murmured again, and walked down to the garage to get her car.
23
Nothing was easy, Sharleen told herself. She had to get up, out from their warm bed, while it was still dark, so she forced herself up and began to gather her clothes to creep into the bathroom to get ready. She was so tired, it was hard not to resent Dean, lying there asleep, looking so angelic and so at peace.
Well, I’m not at peace, and that’s for danged sure, Sharleen told herself, and patted Clover, who raised her head off the bed, but then snorted and turned over. All the dogs slept on the bed. So did the cat, and Dean. It was only she, Sharleen, who couldn’t sleep. She had too many worries—worries that started up just as she closed her eyes for sleep and then continued all night.
She was still afraid, still dreaming about her daddy’s death, and about the police comin’ to look for her and Dean. She was worried about rememberin’ her lines, about not makin’ a fool of herself or gettin’ fired. She was worried about the stupid record album, lookin’ like a fool when it came out. She was worried most, maybe, about her momma. She hadn’t yet told Dean a word about her. The funny thing was, she’d prayed and prayed to get to be with her stepmomma again, to help share the good luck and part of the burden of Dean, to be reunited, protected, comforted.
Well, be careful what you pray for, or you just might git it, she told herself again, and looked grimly into the mirror. She looked awful. The sleepless nights sure were showing in her face, and she already knew that the camera was merciless. Talking to Jahne would have been a comfort, and she was tempted to tell her everything, but she was too ashamed. Sharleen almost cried, but that would make her face worse. Instead, she filled the sink with icy water and, taking a deep breath, submerged her face in it.
It was terrible. Like dying by drowning in a freezing lake. But it would bring down the swelling under her eyes, reduce the puffiness, restore a little natural color to her paleness. She counted—fast—to fifty, then came up for air.
It wasn’t good enough, so she got two trays of ice, threw the cubes into the sink, and swished it around with her hand. Lord, it was cold! But, though she hated to do it, another look at her face forced her to. Lord, she looked old—maybe thirty!
Her face pushed again into the ice water, she tried to distract herself from the thought of Flora Lee. Why did she have to be a drunk? Because she was one, and Sharleen k
new it. If there was a single thing her daddy had learned her, it was all about drunks. Flora Lee had left them with her daddy, and she didn’t get no job to help them or try to find them. She just got herself drunk.
It hurt Sharleen right in her heart. And not only for herself but for Dean. Dean was Flora Lee’s baby, and sweet as sugar. How could she just up and leave him and never try to help him at all? And though he wasn’t so smart, Sharleen knew that Dean would wonder, too.
She pulled her face up out of the ice water. Then she remembered. For Lord’s sake, today she wasn’t shooting! Today was one of the few days she had off, but it was also the day she had to do that business for Dobe! Her face burned and tingled. All that ice water wasted!
With all the worries Sharleen had about her momma, the police, and the show, she had nearly forgotten about Dobe’s date for the Customs auction. It wasn’t easy to get time off when you were a TV star. Lucky it had come out this way. Sharleen told Dean not to tell anyone who called where she was going, just that she was going out.
She dressed quickly now. Her car and driver were right on time; it was only a green Plymouth sedan, not a limousine, and she’d ordered it not from the studio but from the car service that drove her cleaning ladies home. She looked at herself in the hall mirror before going out the kitchen door. Everything was right, she thought. The long black wig under the floral-print kerchief tied under her chin, the oversized Jackie O. sunglasses, the plain, tattered trench coat she had borrowed from Mai in Wardrobe covering the two bulky sweaters to make her look fat, along with a pair of baggy slacks of Dean’s. Just right. Not even he would recognize her.
“Federal Building,” she said to the driver when she got in. She noticed him glancing in the rearview mirror. She read the address off the paper Dobe had sent her.
“Do you work for her?” the driver asked as they drove away.
“Who?” His question had taken Sharleen by surprise.
“Sharleen Smith. That’s her house you came out of right? What’s she like?”
Sharleen relaxed a little, then smiled to herself. “Yes, I do. She’s a right nice person.” Well, that was all true. Lord, she told God. I do work for myself—and Dean, and now maybe Momma—and I am right nice. But, she realized, she hadn’t disguised her voice, so she’d better shut up. She didn’t know who might be watchin’ her or followin’. She just prayed Dobe wasn’t sending her into trouble.
Because now it wasn’t just Dean, it was her momma who needed her, too, at least for a while. Sharleen had already given her money to move, and money to register in hairdressers’ school, and some more money for some nice clothes. She couldn’t afford to get in trouble over this Dobe business.
At the Federal Building, Sharleen followed the directions to the auction room the man at the front desk had mumbled to her without giving her a second glance. A quick look around the spacious lobby told her there were no reporters, something she had come to expect whenever she left the house. Her disguise had worked.
She walked into the crowded auction room, and was suddenly caught up in the commotion and din. She registered under a fake name at the desk, just as Dobe had told her to, although Sharleen wasn’t sure if that was legal or not. The woman handed her a sheet of paper with instructions on how to bid, and a catalogue with descriptions of the lots. “Lots,” Sharleen thought, confusedly, were property. Dobe had wanted her to buy him property, hadn’t he? Sharleen found a seat in the last row and waited for the right number to be called, then flipped through the booklet, looking for Lot 604. She had to know what she was getting into.
As she skimmed through the pages of the inch-thick catalogue, she felt her heart racing. What was she bidding on? It wasn’t land. They called everything “lots.” But here was all kinds of stuff being sold.
Maybe she was bidding on something illegal. She liked Dobe, but she knew he wasn’t completely honest in business. Still, Sharleen trusted Dobe, she really did. If he said there was nothing for her to worry about, she believed him. But Dobe was nervy, she knew that.
Drugs? No, not Dobe. He was a good Christian, he’d never do that. But what? And was it illegal? Oh, Lord, she prayed, I hope not. Sweat broke out on her forehead and upper lip. She hadn’t really stopped to think this all out before she left the house.
Could I be arrested? Sharleen thought, glancing at the uniformed security guards stationed around the auditorium. That would be terrible. They’d find out about Texas, about Dean and her. About their daddy. Panic began to well up in her throat, so she said the Lord’s Prayer, as she did whenever she was frightened. Then Psalm 23 for good measure, and, with a deep sigh of resignation, she returned to the catalogue.
She hadn’t yet found the lot description in the booklet when she heard the auctioneer call out “Lot Number 604,” and ask for an opening bid of one hundred dollars. Sharleen froze in her seat. She didn’t know what to do, so did nothing, since Dobe had said she probably wouldn’t have to pay more than seventy-five dollars.
When there were no bids from the floor, Sharleen heard the auctioneer drop the opening bid to fifty dollars. Well, she’d done the right thing. She felt her palm wet and hot on the handle of the paddle. This was when she was supposed to raise it, she knew, but the pounding of her heart was making her breathe too fast. She felt dizzy. The security men around the room scanned the seats. Sharleen pulled the kerchief forward on her face and raised the paddle in the air, then quickly pulled it back down.
The auctioneer nodded in her direction and took her bid, but then he didn’t seem to stop talking. He kept droning on, and Sharleen grew panicky. Torn between the fear of being pounced on by the guards or the police, and the need to get the bid in for Dobe, Sharleen felt her shakes increasing. If there’s dope in them packages, Dobe Samuels, and I go to prison, I’m goin’ be mighty mad. Here goes, she thought. Sharleen raised her paddle again.
“Sold! Lot Number 604 for sixty dollars to Bidder 123.”
Sharleen looked at her paddle number, just to be sure, then looked cautiously around the room. That was her number, all right. But no one was paying her any attention. The auctioneer was already going on to another lot. She took a few minutes to calm down, then stood up gingerly and walked back to the payment desk. She handed the bored-looking woman the money, got the receipt and instructions on when to pick up the lot, and where.
As she walked away from the desk, she tensed, waiting for a voice to scream out behind her, but none did. She got into a waiting elevator, and as the doors closed after her, she took her first breath in what felt like hours. She looked at the receipt for her purchase, which she still grasped in her hand, read the description of what she had just bought for Dobe, and gasped.
Why would anyone in their right mind buy 837 shoes—all for left feet only?
24
Neil Morelli dropped his fare in the box and walked down the aisle of the bus as it lurched into the traffic. He took the only single seat available, relieved that he didn’t have to stand all the way to the garage. Either a seat alone or stand—that’s the way it had to be for Neil. The thought of touching elbows or shoulders with these other people could make him gag right now. He screwed up his long, long nose at the odor. Neil had forgotten that people who rode buses and subways smelled. When he’d left New York, he’d thought he would never be riding public transportation again.
But that was then. Now, since the dynasty-bitch got him kicked off his gig on Three for the Road—his last hope—Neil was back riding buses. And driving cabs, not taking them.
It wasn’t even limos, with maybe some hotshot sitting back there, waiting to discover talent, someone who could give him a boost, someone who would take Neil’s résumé and head shot and maybe—just maybe—give him another chance. No, Neil was reduced to pushing cabs around the streets of Los Angeles. Okay, at least it was dispatch cabs, not cruising for fares. But, still, most of his work was hustling Vietnamese home after their office-cleaning jobs were finished for the night. The companies paid the ta
b. Or picking up a guy too drunk to drive himself.
And lots of runs to East Los Angeles, where Neil had to keep his eyes open, be on the lookout every minute he was on those streets. He never knew where it was going to come from. He hadn’t been held up yet, but the other guys in the garage—mostly Mexicans and Iranians—had warned him to be careful. Told him horror stories of how they had been ripped off for a couple of bucks and a pack of cigarettes. How a couple of the guys had resisted and were shot—in the head.
Neil took those stories seriously. He knew how dangerous the town could be. Even where he had spent most of his time since coming to the city, he knew how you could be robbed and no one would come to help. Robbed of your dignity, have your job stolen from you. Your livelihood. These wetbacks weren’t telling Neil something he didn’t know.
He thought again of how Sy Ortis had betrayed him, of how Lila Kyle had ruined his last shot, a good shot, at getting a continuing part on 3/4. No, the cabbies couldn’t tell him anything about getting ripped off that he didn’t already know about.
But they did tell him something he hadn’t thought of. Since the riots, all those guys had access to guns—handguns, rifles, whatever. And some of them carried while driving. Neil didn’t like the idea of carrying a gun, but he had begun to think about it.
And the more Neil thought about guns, the safer he began to feel. He reminded himself to ask Roger about that tonight. If Roger got in contact with him.
The trip to the garage was only a little more than ten miles, but with waiting time it took almost an hour, on the slowest bus system in the country. Why should it be efficient? It was only for the illegals, and the other poor. The people who worked for hourly wages if they were lucky to work at all. Neil looked around at the fat women and shifty-eyed men. No one was happy to be here, Neil could see. So how bad must it have been where they came from?
Living hell, he thought. He felt for them, but he had his own problems. And one of them was now approaching. His stop came, and he got out of the bus to walk the three long blocks to the garage, where he had a twelve-hour shift coming up. He’d worked for the last three nights without one word from Roger. After his initial contact, Roger had stopped calling. Neil wasn’t sure why. He knew why Roger had started to call him, but now he couldn’t understand why he had stopped. Two nights in a row, he’d gotten Roger’s messages, coming in over the dispatch radio in Roger’s best newscaster voice.
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