The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel

by Iris Rainer Dart

  Shmidt still didn't say a word. Of course not. That was probably a real dumb thing to have said, because it was like saying I know more about what's going on than you do, just because I'm younger. God, Barry felt like a jerk. Why had that seemed like such a good thing to say when he thought about it last night? He should have tried it out on Harley first.

  "You're right," Shmidt said, still looking as if he was deep in thought. "Right. World Records is M.O.R. and everybody wants folk, or rock, or folk rock or whatever the fuck it is."

  M.O.R. Middle-of-the-road. Barry had heard the reference before. At Rainbow. In meetings with Harley and Frank and Jonas and Garland. It was looked down on by those guys. M.O.R. was old. Not contemporary. That was a good word. He'd try that one. He was feeling braver now.

  "World Records ought to be exploring the contemporary market," he said, watching Shmidt's face. Shmidt seemed to snap out of his reverie.

  "Shit, yes," he said. "This operation's going to be on its ass unless that happens." Then he looked at Barry again as if he were sorry he'd blurted that information out to some mail room kid.

  "So here you are," he said to Barry. But now his tune had changed. He sounded like Mashe talking to the underlings at Eldor, when he knew they had to treat him with respect because he had the power. "And you think you can change it?" Shmidt asked. "How?"

  "Put me in A&R," Barry said. He'd met some artists and repertoire men who worked for Rainbow. They'd been at Harley's recording sessions and occasionally one would be asked to sit in on a meeting. It seemed to Barry that they were hand-holders. It was up to them to make sure an act was happy with the job the record company was doing on its behalf. But the A&R men had another job, too. And that was to keep an eye out for new acts to sign. That was exciting.

  "A&R?" Shmidt asked. "Who you gonna service? Jerry Wayne?" Jerry Wayne was an Italian crooner whose love songs were World's biggest sellers in the early sixties. "He'd laugh at me," Shmidt said. "He's got neckties older than you are." Shmidt laughed. Either at his own dumb joke or at the image of Barry with Jerry Wayne.

  "I'll service whoever there is," Barry said. "And I'll help you find new acts. I go to the Troubador every Monday night," he told Shmidt. He was giving away a secret. Now Shmidt could go to the Troubador on Monday nights and not need him. "And other places," he added hastily, "and I'm hip to what's going on." Okay, so that was stretching the point. But, shit, it felt like Shmidt was kind of interested, and Barry was going to keep talking until he said yes. Or no. Or something definite.

  When he'd imagined this moment on his way into work this morning, he had delivered his speech and afterward in the fantasy Shmidt said, "Barry, with your newfound knowledge of the contemporary scene and my business acumen, we'll make an impact on the music industry that will stand them all on their ears."

  Instead of that, Shmidt turned a little in his chair, looked at Barry closely and spoke. "Kid," he said, "I'm so far in the crapper already one more employee can't make it much worse. You got a gig."

  seventeen

  "First he said he'd tell Diane. What do you think?"

  "I think he's bluffing."

  "Then he said he'd tell you."

  "He's afraid to talk to me, Charlie. I'm the big boss. I can see it all over him. I'm telling you. You're safe," Greenfield said. "How many years have you been keeping my secrets, for Christ's sake?" he added.

  Greenfield was on the private phone in his office in the gold building, talking to Wolfson on the private phone in Wolfson's office at the bank.

  Charles Wolfson was tapping his fingers nervously on his desk. Maybe Greenfield was right. Maybe the sick feeling in his stomach didn't have to be there. David Kane was just a desperate little bastard.

  "Let's see," Charlie said, smiling now. "About thirty-some-odd years." The two men had been roommates in college. "Since the time I came back to Pittsburgh with you that summer, and we watched the girl in the house next to your mother's house on . . . don't tell me . . . McElvey Street—"

  "That's right—"

  "—take off her clothes."

  Both men laughed.

  Charlie, didn't even mention the obvious. Tomiko, the gorgeous Japanese girl Greenfield had been keeping for ten years, since she was not much more than a child, and who sometimes entertained the two of them in her elaborate Hollywood apartment when neither of them wanted to go home. She would serve the two of them dinner, sometimes wearing only a tiny apron that tied around her waist and left "the best parts," as Greenfield called them, to show. After dinner she would put on records and dance for them, and then Charlie would leave, to see Marlene, or, since her death, to go home. It wasn't until recently he found out that shortly after he would leave Tomiko's apartment, Harold would leave, too. Harold never touched Tomiko, only sat and watched her with and without her clothes on, and talked to her. About nearly everything. Business, politics, his friends, his past. And she would rub his back or his feet and nod and smile. The only important thing in Harold's life he didn't discuss with Tomiko was Julia. That was separate. Other than that, Tomiko knew everything about him. Probably more than Julia did.

  "Charlie, what do you want me to do?" Greenfield asked. "You know I'll do whatever you say."

  "Kick the little bastard off the lot. Maybe that'll keep him away from Allyn Grant. Jesus, Greenie, he's liable to talk about me to her, and she'll tell Julia and—"

  "Charlie. Charlie. Don't even finish the story," Harold said. "It's done."

  Charlie was still unnerved from his confrontation with Kane the day before. The little bastard. That smug baby face looking up at him, threatening to pull his life apart. The kid was no good to begin with. He really would have used that goddamned gun in the poolhouse that day. After that he should have had the kid locked up instead of opening himself up to this, by making the funeral, and getting him the goddamned job at Hemisphere. Thank God Harold knew everything about his affair with Marlene.

  Once he had taken Marlene to dinner with Harold and Tomiko at Tomiko's apartment. Tomiko was dressed in a silk kimono and she made sukiyaki for the four of them and they drank sake and Marlene got a little drunk and kind of teary-eyed, and right after dinner she asked Charlie to take her home. He was disappointed. He was having a great time. Now he remembered it clearly. In the car just as he was making a left from Fountain to La Cienega, Marlene said, "How in God's name could you take me there, Charlie?" He didn't even have to hear the rest. He knew what she meant.

  "She's his whore. His mistress. Is that what I am to you? Is that why you got us together? Two big-time moguls, on their night off from their wives, have dinner with their whores?"

  Her voice was choked with rage.

  "Is that the case, Charlie?" she asked. " 'Cause if it is, I want what she gets. I want the advantages that a whore has. I want you to pay my rent, and buy me furs and jewelry, and give me a gift everytime I fuck you. Let me do it for the money, Charlie, as long as you think of me like that anyway."

  That night, after Tomiko's, was the night he told Marlene he'd leave Diane. He loved Marlene. God, he loved her. So desperately. When he drove up to her building, she was sobbing.

  "Marlene, don't. Please, baby. Don't," he begged. He turned off the motor. Davey's car wasn't there. Maybe the kid was out for the evening and he could get Marlene into bed. He would kiss her eyes and slowly unbutton her dress and caress her till she wanted him inside her, thrusting, telling her he loved her, and once he was making love to her, whispering how he couldn't live without her, it would all be okay.

  "Don't get out of the car, Charlie," she said. "I'm going up alone."

  "Marlene, please, let me explain about tonight."

  "No. It's not tonight. It's not Tomiko or Harold or any of that. That's just what set me off. I decided a long time ago that one day I'd have the balls to tell you to get out of my life. And this is it."

  "Stop this, Mar."

  "No, Charlie. I won't stop this. The only thing I'll stop is compromising my life and not bei
ng able to have the man I love spend one whole night with me unless he's away on what his wife thinks is a business trip. And not being able to be with him on holidays and weekends. And not being able to call him in the middle of the night if I need him and want him." She was choking on her tears.

  "I'll leave her, Marlene," he said. "I'll tell her next week."

  "Bullshit."

  "I swear to God, Marlene. I only took you to Tomiko's tonight because I wanted Harold to get a chance to know you because he's my close friend and he's known about you for years and how much I love you."

  There was a long silence. Punctuated only by Marlene's sniffles.

  "Really?" she asked finally.

  "Of course." It was a lie. Harold thought Marlene was the same as Tomiko. She had assessed it perfectly. "And you know I want to leave Diane. It's not the same. Harold never had any intention of leaving Julia. Oh, honey. It's not the same. Don't do that to yourself. Don't."

  She seemed to be calmer.

  "Mar. I love you."

  "And I love you," she answered, sliding over to where he sat behind the wheel. He kissed her and they began to kiss and touch one another.

  "Like teenagers," Marlene giggled.

  "Let's go upstairs," he said. As usual he couldn't wait to have her.

  "Yes."

  They fell into bed as soon as they locked the bedroom door. Marlene's lashes were still wet when he kissed them.

  "My sweet girl," he said. "My beautiful sweet girl."

  "Yes," she said. "Promise me, Charlie."

  "I swear," he said, pulling at the buttons on her dress. Those breasts. Her beautiful softly freckled body. "I swear. Oh, God, baby. Yes. I swear. I'll do anything for you. Oh, yes."

  Afterward they were lying together in a heap, and he remembered now what she said.

  "Shit."

  "Hmm."

  "I forgot to use the goddamned diaphragm."

  "I love you," he said, kissing her. And he did. He did really and truly love her.

  "I love you." And she was kissing him again. My God, he was getting hard again. She made him feel like he was. . . How would he ever tell Diane? No, he couldn't do that. Diane. Twenty years. His beautiful Diane. His bride.

  "Marlene. Baby. I hate to say it, honey, but I—"

  "I know. You have to go." She was getting teary-eyed again.

  "But I'll change that soon," he said. "I will."

  He dressed and Marlene put on a robe and walked him to the door of the apartment.

  "Promise me, Charlie," she said. "Say it."

  "I'll marry you, Mar. I will. I'll leave Diane and marry you."

  Her eyes were bright and she pressed against him one last time.

  Why had he told her that? How could he face her after that if he didn't? How much longer could he hold her off? Just the thought of giving her up made him ache. But she said she'd stop seeing him if he didn't leave Diane. Oh, shit.

  But then somehow he managed to stall her. Stall her for months. With gifts and promises and even a weekend in Big Sur, because he knew none of his or Diane's friends would go there. And Diane thought he was going to San Francisco on business.

  And then Marlene died. Oh, God. And that fucking kid of hers looked at him as if he had killed her. Killed her. My God. He didn't even know she was pregnant. She never told him. Marlene. If Diane knew, even thought there was someone else, he'd lose her, too. She'd hate him. Wouldn't trust him again. Leave him. He promised her he'd never be with another woman. Swore it to her. Denounced all of his friends who cheated as dishonorable vermin, even on nights when he had just returned with the taste of Marlene still fresh in his mouth.

  No, David Kane had to be out of the way. Even if he never told anyone about Charlie and Marlene, he served as too strong a reminder to Charlie of the hypocrisy of his affair with Marlene and the pain he'd suffered by losing her.

  "Thanks, Greenie," Wolfson said into the phone to Harold. "I appreciate it. And I'll make it up to you."

  Greenfield scoffed. "Charlie, it's nothing. He's nothing. What else is new?"

  eighteen

  Stan Rose stood in the lobby of the Santa Monica Civic auditorium, trying to be calm. It wasn't easy. This was the most exciting night of his whole life. Maybe he'd just walk outside one more time. He liked standing in front of the building in a feigned casual pose, and then looking slowly up at the big marquee that told the whole world his message. TONIGHT. THE ETOILES. A ROSE AND BARTON PRODUCTION. It was fabulous.

  Kids, black ones, white ones, were standing in line waiting to get in. The tickets were sold out. Had been snapped up in just a few days. The kids loved the Etoiles. Four gorgeous black girls with a soft sexy singing style that made each single they cut an instant hit. First "Got to Have Ya, Baby," then "Give It to Me," and after that "I Got My Heart on My Sleeve." Songs with double-entendre messages that drove the teenagers wild.

  Annie Jordan, the lead singer, was skinny and waiflike and she had huge sad eyes and everyone fell in love with her when she held her arms out, reaching for her imaginary lover, and begged.

  Oh, baby, give it to me

  How I need it

  Give it to me

  I need your love so bad.

  Stan saw a few of the young girls enter the auditorium carrying autograph books in their hands. Later they would storm the backstage entrance waiting to catch one glimpse of Annie Jordan. "Oh, please, give us Annie. We just want to touch Annie. Please," they would cry.

  "Uh . . . Mr. Rose?" Stan's thoughts were interrupted by Art Huff, general manager of the auditorium. Huff was tall and thin and seemed very nervous the day Stan had given him the deposit from Rose and Barton for the Etoiles concert. At first Stan thought the nervousness was because Huff felt tentative about doing business with a brand-new company, but now as he looked at him he thought this was probably the way Huff always was.

  "Ahem, would you, uh . . . uh, mind coming backstage, there, uh, Mr. Rose?" he asked.

  Stan noticed that Huff's nails were chewed down to the quick.

  "Uh . . . there seems to be some trouble."

  How could there be trouble already? The act was in the dressing room, the audience was filing in calmly, the show was sold out.

  "Sure, Art," Stan said. "What is it?"

  "It's that girl," he said. "Annie. She's acting real crazy. I could hear her from my office."

  Stan followed Huff through the office of the building on the side of the auditorium into the backstage area and through the cold gray backstage area. Acting crazy? Annie Jordan was very quiet earlier this evening when she arrived with the other girls and their entourage. Family members, boy friends, bodyguards. Stan had hired a caterer to set up a buffet in one of the unused dressing rooms for the whole group, and the entourage fell on it hungrily as the group went to get dressed. It was an idea Stan got from going to the set of Barton's show. Rose and Barton could use the same caterers who did the Give 'em the Hook buffets, which always looked lavish and created a party atmosphere. Stan heard screams as he and Art Huff got closer to Annie Jordan's dressing room.

  "You gonna ruin this act, bitch?" a woman yelled out angrily. "And where we gonna be? Nowhere. You hear me?"

  "Nooooo. I ain't goin' on," an unearthly voice cried.

  Stan knocked on the door. "I ain't!" They didn't hear the knock. Stan knocked again.

  "Shhh," from inside.

  "Who is it?"

  "Stan Rose. The promoter." Stan looked at his watch. Jesus Christ. There was no opening act. These girls were it. The whole show. And they were supposed to be onstage at eight o'clock. And there was trouble. It was five minutes to eight. Stan could hear a lot of whispering going on behind the door, and people moving around. He knocked again.

  "Just a second," a voice dripping with phony cheer answered.

  Stan looked at Huff, who shrugged.

  "I just came to get you because I heard the screaming and moaning and I figured, hell, I just make sure the place is tidy. I don't get into any . . .
uh . . . personalities." Huff laughed a forced laugh and the door to the dressing room opened.

  Arlene Warren stood in the doorway. After Annie, Arlene was the second most loved Etoile. She was full-figured and tall and much prettier than Annie. "Hi," she said, flashing perfect teeth.

  "Anything wrong?" Stan asked.

  "Oh, no," Arlene said. She moved away from the door and gestured for him to look at the room with the same flourish Betty Furness used to use to show refrigerators.

  Everyone in the room—the other two Etoiles, whose names no one could ever remember, and Annie—stood stiffly composed and smiling. The others wore their bouffant wigs, but Annie held her wig in her hands. Her own hair was pulled tightly to her head in corn braids.

  Stan looked at her carefully. The famous big eyes were even bigger.

  "How do you feel, Annie?" he asked.

  He remembered when he was at Hemisphere meeting the agents and managers of some of the big Hollywood stars. Stan always thought that agents had a strange profession. Business people who controlled the lives of creative people for a percentage of the creative people's salary. And then became dependent on the creative people's success for their own success, so the creative people's well-being became crucial to them. It always made Stan chuckle to hear an agent asking his highly paid client, "How do you feel, Cary?" "How do you feel, Elizabeth?" Not how are you, but how do you feel. Because implied, of course, was If you're not well, neither am I.

  And now he was doing it. His livelihood depended on that bony little black girl. His first concert could be a disaster if something was wrong with her.

  "Hey. I'm okay," she said. "No kiddin'. I'm great." She was lying.

  "Good," Stan said. "Show starts in about four minutes." He would have gone out to look for Walter until he saw the smile on Annie Jordan's face fall and she ran to him and grabbed him by the arms. She was panicky and shaking.