The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel

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The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel Page 16

by Iris Rainer Dart


  "You have a beautiful place here," David managed to say to Greenfield.

  "Thank you, Kane." Greenfield turned to Allyn. "Talked to your grandmother today," he said, "she was at my mother's for dinner and Mah-Jongg. I would have asked her for a message for you, but Juli a didn't tell me you were coming tonight."

  Maybe that was it. What David saw. Greenfield didn't expect them.

  "Want to shoot some pool?" Greenfield asked them. Allyn nodded happily.

  "You'd better watch out, Kane. This girl's my protégée."

  "Oh, Harold," Allyn said. "You shouldn't have told. I was going to play 'poor-little-me-I-don't-know-how-to-hold-the-cue,' and hustle him for money."

  Greenfield laughed.

  They carried their wineglasses into the playroom, and Harold took three pool cues down.

  He wasn't joking. Allyn was a great pool player. As good as Greenfield was, she could still beat him. David had shot pool in high school a few times, but he wasn't in their league. And it felt funny. A woman beating him. A great-looking woman who was bending over the table, with her white dress hiking up just to underneath her ass, and beating the head of Hemisphere Studios, too. And Greenfield was laughing. A few other people wandered in to watch. Greenfield told jokes, called for a servant to bring more wine and rolled up his sleeves.

  "Don't tell this to any of your friends in the mail room," he said. "Or my reputation as invincible is shot."

  David laughed.

  "I won't tell she beat you, if you won't tell she beat me."

  "Don't worry, Kane," Harold said, "we'll get together when she's not around. Under my tutelage you can learn plenty."

  David grinned. If only Greenfield was talking about business and not pool, he thought. Maybe after the game they'd talk more. Sit down, away from the others, and talk. And David could tell him then, come right out and tell him, Give me a job as your assistant. He even knew what he would say if Greenfield told him, I don't have an assistant. I never have. I don't believe in it. Which is what David had heard about him.

  Don't pay me, David would say. Let me just be there for six weeks or two months without a salary, and you'll see. I'll be so invaluable you won't want to let me go.

  The game was over. Allyn won.

  "You're a monster," Greenfield said to her. "I've created a monster."

  "Allyn," Julia's voice rang out from the pool area.

  "Coming, Julia," Allyn ran out the door. The other people had drifted through toward the house. David was alone with Greenfield, who was rolling his sleeves down, and shaking his head.

  ''She's some girl," he said.

  "Yes, she is," David agreed.

  "I know her grandmother."

  "I know."

  "Nice family."

  "Mr. Greenfield." It was the safest choice.

  Harold Greenfield looked at him.

  "I know this isn't the best time, sir." Shit, he wasn't exactly taking Greenfield by storm. "But do you think we could sit down and have a talk soon?"

  "About Allyn?" Greenfield asked. It was odd, because from everything David had ever seen or heard about Harold Greenfield, the man was never less than ten jumps ahead of everyone. How could he think it was Allyn David wanted to talk about?

  "No. About a job."

  "Oh. Yes. Of course. We'll do it next week at the studio. Call my secretary."

  David felt the words in his chest. Chilly brush-off words. He had to say it. Now. Say that he wanted a job to get him out of the mail room. That he hated it there, and that he'd tried to get to Greenfield for help before, but that Greenfield's bitch secretary never let him through, and he didn't want to wait anymore. He'd say it all now. Greenfield's face broke into a smile. But he was looking past David at whoever was entering the room.

  "Charlie, me boy," Greenfield said warmly.

  David turned. Some people had come in. A pretty dark-haired woman and a man. The man looked—Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ. The man Greenfield was putting his arms around was Charles Wolfson. Next to him was the woman David had seen in the photographs. Diane. Wolfson's wife. Wolfson looked at David blankly, and David watched as the recognition slowly came into his eyes.

  "Hello," Wolfson said, smiling at David coldly.

  David nodded. So this is how Wolfson got him the job. Of course. He was friends with Greenfield. Wolfson. That fucking monster. And his wife. David wanted to run up the stairs and out the door and get into the Falcon. Marlene's Falcon. And drive away, but he knew he couldn't. Greenfield was standing right next to him. What had Wolfson told Greenfield about David? About how he knew him? Who did he say David was?

  "And Paris was perfect," Diane Wolfson was saying to Greenfield. "Charlie needed a vacation so badly. Didn't you, darling?"

  Wolfson smiled. Greenfield smiled. David was definitely an intruder, but he couldn't move. There was something fascinating about standing there looking at the man who was his mother's married lover, and murderer, and the man's wife, that kept David glued to the spot.

  "I like the Plaza Athénée. Charlie doesn't," Diane went on. "Well, I think I'll go out and see Julia," she said. "I brought her back a bauble I know she'll adore. She brushed past David, pushed open the door to outside and was gone.

  Charles Wolfson. Harold Greenfield. David's head was spinning.

  "So, how's the tennis game, C.W.?" Harold asked.

  "Pretty good," Wolfson said. "Played with Marty Ransohoff last week. Beat his ass."

  "No kidding?" Greenfield said. "I saw Marty at lunch on Friday. He didn't mention it." They both laughed.

  Wolfson said, "The figures for Americanization of Emily were real good."

  They were talking as if David weren't in the room. They were facing one another and neither of them even glanced at him.

  "Still reading the trades, huh, Charlie?" Greenfield teased. "Why don't you break down and admit you want to be in show business?"

  Wolfson grinned. "Greenie," he said, "how many times must I tell you, being in the banking business is being in show business." They laughed.

  "I'm sure . . ."

  Wolfson was being playful. David had never seen him that way. He hated him. Hated the fucker. Hated him because he was alive and Marlene was dead. And now he was ignoring David. Acting as if he weren't there.

  I'll take care of everything. Including you. That's what he'd said to David that morning in the poolhouse when David should have killed him. Wanted to kill the son of a bitch. Talking to Greenfield as if David weren't there. If Greenfield only knew that Wolfson was a killer. Greenfield was so fatherly and upstanding. Marlene would have jokingly called him "a pillow of the community." Take care of everything. Including you. Bullshit. All Wolfson ever did was get him the lousy job in the mail room. And then he disappeared out of his life. Well, it wasn't over. Wolfson was going to do more for David. He owed it to him. And to Marlene. Maybe it was providence that brought David to Allyn Grant and then Greenfield and now Wolfson.

  David heard the sounds of voices approaching from inside the house.

  "Harold. Charlie. Hey. How's the tennis? How was Paris? Where's Diane? I'm afraid to find out what Julia's serving for dinner tonight. I'm starving. I'm on a diet."

  David used the confusion to move toward the door to outside. He could wait for an opening and talk to Wolfson later. As he pushed the door open, he could feel someone directly behind him.

  "Davey."

  Wolfson was walking beside him.

  "Yeah."

  "Why don't we take a little walk together, Davey. The Greenfields have some nice gardens," he said. "We can talk."

  "Sure." What was this about? That prick. David was the one who should be asking to talk. What did Wolfson want from him?

  "Hiya, Red." Both David and Wolfson were startled. It was Allyn. She gave David a kiss on the cheek. "Having a good time?"

  "Yeah," David managed. "Have you met—" he began.

  "Sure. Hi, Charlie," she said sweetly.

  "Hello, Allyn," Charlie said.

>   David felt his stomach tense when he saw Charlie's eyes scan Allyn's body.

  "I'm on my way to tell Emma Julia wants dinner to be served right away," she said. "Be back soon."

  She never asked how David knew Wolfson. She probably assumed they'd just met.

  Wolfson and David started off in the direction of Greenfield's gardens. Trees and shrubs that looked to David like a maze in a children's book. They were both quiet for a long time. David could taste the anger in his mouth.

  "What are you doing here?" Wolfson said to him finally, breaking the silence. They stopped walking and looked at one another.

  "Is this some kind of blackmail?" he asked. "You being here with that girl Allyn? What do you want? I got you the job in the mail room by telling Harold you were a boy whose family I'd known for years. And he believed that."

  "Don't worry," David said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'm not going to tell Harold anything." He used Greenfield's first name on purpose. "Allyn and I are seeing one another and she wanted me to get to know the Greenfields because they're like parents to her."

  Wolfson's eyes narrowed. David was feeling stronger.

  "You know about parents, Charlie. They protect their young. Like you did. When you couldn't leave your children to marry my mother."

  David didn't believe his own voice. He sounded eerie to himself. Crazy. Threatening. But he despised this man. Motherfucker. Yes. That's what he was. Only the mother was Marlene, David's mother, and his anger was getting stronger as it moved into his throat.

  "I should have killed you, Charlie," he said. "But maybe it was good I didn't, because now you can tell Harold Greenfield to make me his assistant. That's the answer to your question. That's what I want."

  "You're a greedy little bastard, aren't you?" Wolfson asked. His face was cool, but David could see what he knew was uncertainty in the man's eyes.

  "Why not? It's easy for you."

  "And if I say no."

  "I tell your wife about Marlene. My mother. In fact, I'll tell Greenfield. I'll tell him you don't belong in this upper-echelon high-society set because you're a cheating lying lowlife." David was afraid of starting to cry. Afraid he'd fall apart.

  Wolfson's jaw was clenched. If only David would stay calm until he answered. Wolfson took a deep breath.

  "I'll take care of it," Wolfson said.

  "You said that before. Said you'd take care of everything."

  "This time I mean it."

  The two men turned silently and walked back toward the house. They emerged from the gardens just in time for dinner.

  sixteen

  Barry had been trying to write a letter home all week long. It was more than a year since he arrived in California, and in all that time he'd had no communication with his parents. Sometimes he had a fantasy that his uncle Mashe would die, and the lawyers would look at the will and discover that despite what had gone on between them Mashe had left everything to Barry anyway, and that Barry was the head of Eldor. And they would locate him in Hollywood and tell him he was now a millionaire. The next part of the fantasy was that his mother would call him and Andy would call him and they would each beg his forgiveness, and he would tell them that now that he owned Eldor he was going to sell it, because he wanted to stay in California and be with Harley Ellis, his lover. That would kill them both.

  Dear Mah. Maybe he should make the letter to his dad, too. His poor dull dad who hadn't even been able to face him the day Mashe broke the news about Andy. Dear Mah and Dad, I am living in Hollywood now and I have a good job and—and what? And a lover who is a boy? So tell Mashe he was right because I am a fairy? No. Jesus. Dear Dad and Mah, I hope that you will be glad that I am writing this, because, after all, I am still your son, the only child you ever had, and I would hope that now that a year has gone by since I left you will have forgiven me for hurting you by—No. They were wrong to be hurt. It was his life.

  "Trying to write a letter again?" Harley asked. Barry nodded. Harley was sitting on the living-room floor with his guitar, trying to pick out a new tune.

  "Why don't you just call them?" he asked Barry.

  "Because I'm afraid."

  Harley shook his head. He couldn't understand.

  To Harley, Barry was strong and smart about nearly everything. How could he be so dumb about just calling his folks? No one was saying he had to tell them who he was sleeping with.

  Jesus. When it came to understanding all those full-of-shit guys at the record company, and all the stuff they were talking about, Barry was a whiz. That's why Harley took him along to meetings, so afterward Barry could explain it all to him.

  Harley had a five-year contract with Rainbow Records. He'd been discovered by Jim Garland, one of Rainbow's inhouse producers, when Garland came to a Monday "hoot night" at the Troubador.

  Garland liked the way Harley looked, and the way he sang and he thought the kid's music had great potential. So on Tuesday morning Garland hustled Harley over to Rainbow's offices and into a meeting with Bob Frank, the president of Rainbow Records, Nick Jonas, an executive vice-president of Rainbow Records and the head of artist relations, and Garland, that lasted so long the four of them had two meals brought in while they sat there talking. First they talked about Harley's music, and how his songs were better than the Lovin' Spoonful's or Simon and Garfunkel's, and how the soft sound was really what was happening in rock, and even the Beatles had proven it with the Rubber Soul album. And that was the only part of the entire conversation that Harley understood, so after a while he tuned out.

  The others talked about studio time and master tapes and marketing and A&R and occasionally Harley would tune back in and listen to what they were saying, and he realized that something big was happening that he wasn't sure he could handle. Especially the part about signing a contract with Rainbow for five years. In five years. Oh, man. He'd be twenty-four. Old.

  It was Marty Baker who sent Harley to Jay Cooper, a Beverly Hills attorney. Jay had been a saxophone player with the big bands, and then he moved to California to become a lawyer. He was tall, sinewy slim and balding and he looked like a French movie actor. Marty told Harley that Jay was respected by everyone in the music business. When Jay said the contract looked good to him, Marty told Harley to grab the deal. But after that one meeting with Jay Cooper, Harley was pretty much on his own, so he was glad to have Barry hanging around with him now. Barry came to recording sessions with him. The three of them that followed the cutting of "The Rain Is Like My Tears." And to lots of meetings. Rainbow had released "The Rain Is Like My Tears" as a single immediately, and now they were cutting an album "to go around it," as Garland put it.

  Frank and Jonas and Garland were always uncomfortable having Barry at their meetings because he never said a word. And they weren't quite sure who he was in Harley's life. He wasn't a relative. He looked too Jewish. Was Harley a faggot? Nah. He wasn't the least bit swishy. Neither was the other kid. They all wondered who that short little putz was. But "The Rain Is Like My Tears" was climbing on the charts, so the three of them decided not to ask.

  "Probably his best friend," one of the guys speculated after seeing Barry with Harley for the fifth or sixth time. "You know how kids are."

  "I don't know what to say to them," Barry said, crumbling up his most recent attempt at the letter. He was really depressed. "Dear Mom and Dad, don't worry about me because I'm a mail boy in a big studio. I can hear it now. My mother will say, 'Oy vay. A mail boy. He could have gone to college. He could have been a big shot. He could have owned Eldor Dresses someday. And he's a mail boy. Oy vay.' "

  Harley was laughing at Barry's imitation. And Barry laughed, too.

  "Why don't you tell them you're my manager?" Harley asked.

  "Sure," Barry said.

  "And why don't I tell them I fuck girls, too, and I'm going to marry one? I don't want to lie. That's why I haven't written to them. Because I don't want to lie." He felt helpless. Young and afraid and lonely for his family. "And I know they
can't accept the truth."

  "Why don't you become my manager?" Harley asked. "Then it won't be a lie."

  "Because I don't know shit about managing or the music business," Barry said. "And you've already got a good start. I'd end up managing you right into the toilet."

  "What do you think your friend Stan Rose knew about the music business?"

  "Nothing."

  The next morning Barry stopped by Henry Shmidt's office. He had tried calling Shmidt a few times but could never get through. Shmidt's secretary was away from her desk and the door to his office was open and Shmidt was bellowing at someone on the telephone. Barry listened.

  "That cunt. She should go down on Godzilla for a chance to play that room. Who the fuck does she think she is?"

  Barry smiled. He loved the image.

  "Get back to me," Shmidt said into the phone and slammed it down. Now Barry could wait until the secretary got back from the ladies' room or wherever it was secretaries went, and ask if he could see Shmidt, or he could just stick his head around the corner into Shmidt's office.

  "Mr. Shmidt," Barry said. Shmidt was sitting at his desk, deep in thought and picking his nose. When he saw Barry standing there he stopped picking.

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm Barry Golden. I work in the mail room."

  "Yeah?"

  "And I want a job at World Records." Now Barry was standing in the office in front of Schmidt's desk. Jesus, was that a picture of Shmidt in a Nazi uniform?

  Shmidt looked at him for what seemed like forever, not saying a word. Maybe he was supposed to go on. Maybe he should be telling Shmidt why he wanted the job. Not the part about how he was embarrassed to tell his parents he was a mail boy, and not that he wished he knew more so he could be a hotshot and help Harley. But the part he'd made up last night after Harley fell asleep. Well, not made up, but decided on as what he'd tell Shmidt when Shmidt asked him why he should give him a job. Barry steeled himself. What was the worst thing that could happen? Shmidt would throw him out.

  "Mr. Shmidt, I know I may seem young to you." Was Shmidt smirking? "But I think my youth could be an asset to World Records. You see, I have a feeling that there are a lot of important changes going on in the record business and that World Records should get in on them. And I'd like to work here to help that happen."

 

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