Allyn Grant wrote those words on a piece of yellow legal pad that was sitting on her desk. Then she scratched out the word "it" where she'd written "it gives them a kind of power" and replaced it with the word "you" so it read "you give them a kind of power." Yes. That's what she'd done. She'd given David Kane the power to decide what would happen next with them. The night after Greenfield's party she wanted David to come into her apartment to make love to her the way he had the night before, fiercely, demanding. Moving her body down on his, gently but with some force, telling her to suck him, to take his cock in her mouth and . . . Damn him. She'd loved it with him so much, needed it all so badly. And now he was gone. He'd left the studio without a word and she had been so caught up in her move to Greenfield's office, and the dizzying possibilities the change could mean to her future, that for days she barely even thought about David. Bullshit. She thought about him constantly. "There's a certain kind of chemistry that happens between two people." God. Why was she doing this to herself? Indulging herself in the memory of that night, as if she were some hag of a spinster who was reliving her one and only sexual experience.
Every day she had made sure to be around for the mail room delivery and pickup. But it was always Mickey Ashman who was on her route, dancing in, singing songs from Broadway musicals in full voice, being so pitiful about needing to be noticed. Pitiful? She was the one who was pitiful. She was afraid to ask Mickey about David. Then finally, fate is so damned strange, to have to call Chuck Larson about some drippy actor and have David answer the phone. She tried to sound cool that day but she literally had to catch her breath when he said, "Allyn, this is David Kane." So casually.
Oh? Is that all? Just David Kane, the person she'd been obsessing about for weeks. There on the phone. But it was all business, that phone call. Not even the usual Hollywood bullshit of "Let's have a drink sometime." He was Chuck Larson's assistant. Larson was a good agent. Harold respected him. He had a sensational client list. David was probably meeting actress after gorgeous actress and didn't even think about her anymore. She tore the pieces of paper she'd been writing on from the legal pad, crumpled it and threw it in the wastebasket. She hated herself for getting so goon-faced about men. That's why she'd left Pittsburgh. To get away from the pain of a man who didn't want her anymore. Now she was eating her heart out over another man who didn't want her. Incredible. In her high school yearbook next to the picture of herself that she hated because she wore her hair teased at the top with the back in a ponytail, it said in italics "She walks in beauty."
Allyn laughed to herself. That was a great way to gauge her success, by what it said in her high school yearbook.
The phone rang. The secretary was out.
"Harold Greenfield's office," Allyn said.
A little tiny voice spoke. "Is Mr. Greenfield in?"
At first Allyn thought it was a child. Then she remembered.
"He's at a meeting outside the office. This is Allyn Grant, his assistant. Can I help you?" It was Tomiko. One of the secretaries who worked for Harold for years told Allyn the story about Tomiko just last week. Greenfield had a Japanese mistress. Had been keeping her for years. Allyn tried to take it as a matter-of-fact piece of news but she was genuinely surprised, and almost hurt for Julia, whom she adored.
"When do you expect him, please?" the voice asked.
"At about four."
"Thank you." Click.
God, Greenfield was strange. First she'd heard that he never hired an assistant. That his life was very private and he didn't want anyone to get that close. There was even a joke on the lot about how Greenfield never fired his secretaries. That instead he locked them in a room somewhere in the gold building and left them there until they died because they knew too much. But out of nowhere, the Monday after the party, late in the day he called Allyn into his office and told her to report to him on Tuesday instead of to Shear. Allyn immediately felt guilty about Vi, Greenfield's faithful secretary of twenty years, but Greenfield assured her he fully intended to keep Vi.
"You're a good schmoozer, Allyn," he said. "Good with people. That's what I need. A pretty, bright woman who shoots a mean game of pool, charms everyone in the room at a glance, and remembers what goes on at my meetings because I'm too rich to care," he laughed. She laughed.
"Have any eyes for a big executive job someday?" he asked.
"I don't know," Allyn said. She wished immediately her answer had been more Barbara Stanwyckish, more sophisticated woman. "I mean, it never really occurred to me. But maybe."
"Reva Barkin was a secretary here, you know," he said. Reva Barkin was one of the few women television producers. She had an office on the lot and was developing dramatic television shows. "She used to be Al Dietrich's secretary."
"I know," Allyn said.
"She was very aggressive. Wrote speculative scripts for every goddamned show on television till Rudy Daitch bought one from her. Then she wrote a pilot, and little by little she worked her way up."
Allyn looked down at her foot. She had a run starting on the ankle of her pantyhose. Not exactly executive material looking like this, she thought.
"Well—if you ever decide to go that kind of route," Harold said, "I'll certainly help out."
Why had he picked her? Why not one of the mail room boys? David. Why not David? David.
It was amazing. That moment. That wonderful moment of that powerful man offering her compliments and support was eclipsed by her thoughts of David. Did men live like this? Probably not. They weren't taught to believe that love was first. That being loved by a lover was more important than a job, a career, friends, anything.
She had to see David. This was foolish and teenaged and Pittsburghish. She had to stop waiting and giving him the power to decide whether or not they would have a relationship. She would take a long lunch and drive over to Beverly Hills. She'd pretend she'd been shopping at Saks, and just casually drop by. She looked good today too, so the timing was perfect.
"Vi, I have errands in the city," she said, breezing past the reception area.
Beverly Hills was bustling and as Allyn pulled her car into the parking lot on Camden she felt anxious. What if David had left for lunch already? What if he was just coming out of the office with a woman when she got there? That would be awful. Stop it. What if? What if? She wanted to see him and she would. She put the white ticket that said "We Are Not Responsible for Damage to Your Car" into her purse and watched the parking attendant get into her car and screech off to a distant space in the lot. She'd be fine.
Larson's office was at 443. Up the stairs and to the . . . Chuck Larson on the door. She opened it and smiled. David was sitting at the desk in the reception area, jacket off, tie loosened, eating a sandwich and reading. He looked up. It took a minute before the recognition came into his eyes.
"Hi," she said softly. Lip gloss. Was she wearing lip gloss?
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
Allyn started to feel afraid. Dumb. What was she doing here? That wasn't exactly a hearty welcome.
"Just in the neighborhood," she tried.
"Yeah?" a smile was starting on his face. "Great. Want half an avocado sandwich?"
"No, thanks." It was getting a little bit better.
"Uh, listen." Something was making him uncomfortable. "Maybe we should go out for coffee," he said. "I mean, do you—did you eat lunch yet?"
"No. But that's okay. We don't have to."
"Yes. Yes. Maybe we should—"
The phone rang.
"I'll get my jacket," he said. He seemed really nervous. He walked to a closet looking for his jacket, which was hanging on the back of the chair where he'd been sitting. "It's nice to see you," he said.
The phone rang again. David put his jacket on. He was very interested in getting out of there.
"Should you get that?" Allyn asked.
"No. The service will get it," he said, taking her arm and shoving her out the door.
Once they were on the stre
et he was calmer. They walked down Camden, commenting on the people, and made a left onto Wilshire before David even mentioned food again.
"Oh! Lunch," he said. "What about it?"
"I'm not really hungry," she said.
They walked leisurely along Wilshire. It was a beautiful day. Allyn decided she wouldn't look at her watch at all. She didn't want to remind David or herself about having to go back to work. She was with him. Finally with him. She felt warm and good and panicky all at once. Panicky because she didn't want it to end. And she knew it would any minute.
"My place is right around the corner," David told her.
Allyn's heart beat a little faster. "Right," she said. "I remember your telling me that." She looked at his face. He looked at hers, and somewhere very close to the corner of Canon Drive and Wilshire Boulevard they stopped and kissed one another hungrily.
"I'll forget going back to work if you will," he said.
"Yes."
David. David. She could hardly wait until they got inside the apartment. Didn't even see the living room, dining room, whatever it was, because they were in the bedroom and on the bed in one another's arms, undressing one another, feverishly embracing, touching each other's bodies. Oh, baby. It was better than she remembered. His gorgeous body against hers. Now looking down at his thick red hair as he moved down on her and his tongue explored her cunt. Pushing her clitoris back and forth. Then he was face to face with her, and when he kissed her mouth she could taste herself on his mouth. It made her writhe with joy and toss and moan. David. He was licking her clit again. David. Now he was moving on the bed. Turning around, so his head was near her cunt but his cock was near her mouth. She knew what he wanted, and took him in her mouth and as he licked and sucked her she was sucking him. Oh, yes. Oh, baby. She felt the hot come explode in her mouth just as she came herself, and she swallowed fast. She'd never done that with Phil Gruber. David lay exhausted next to her on the bed. Slowly, she sat up to look at him. He was gorgeous. So perfect-looking.
She turned around the room. On the dresser was a picture, in color, of a beautiful woman. The woman had red hair and huge green eyes. Allyn felt a flash of jealousy.
"My mother," David said, seeing where Allyn was looking. "She's dead."
Now she remembered hearing that David had no parents, but it was something they hadn't discussed.
"I'm sorry."
"So am I," he said. He seemed to be closing up all of a sudden. The passion and the warmth he'd had for her, all the way over to the apartment seemed as if it was about to be covered over with anger.
"David." She couldn't let it. She wanted to get through to him. "David, why did you disappear out of my life after Harold and Julia's party? I loved being with you the night before at my apartment. I thought our lovemaking was wonderful and I thought you had a good time at the party, too. Was it what we talked about? Does my friendship with the Greenfields bother you?"
He didn't answer. Wouldn't say anything. Just stared up at the ceiling. She looked at him. He was breathing slowly. More relaxed now. If they got up and got dressed and he went back to work now, before she had a chance to make another date with him, made him promise to see her again, he never would. It would be like before.
"David, I really care for you," she said. "I think you're bright and attractive and I like your aggressiveness and I want to spend time with you. Lots of time. If you feel the same way about me I wish you'd tell me."
He looked at her. She went on.
"And if you don't, I wish you'd tell me that, too, so I can stop spending so much time thinking about you and hoping you'll call." She smiled.
He remembered thinking once before that she reminded him of Marlene, and now as he looked at her this time she did again. Of Marlene with no makeup on, in the days before Wolfson, when she would come home from work and sit around with David all evening. Sometimes they played cards; Marlene was a great card player. And sometimes they'd watch television all night and Marlene would make buttered popcorn, or they'd do the crossword puzzle in the L.A. Times. Marlene was a champ at crossword puzzles. She knew all the tricky little words and understood the clues and went through them, finishing the whole thing in minutes. Most of the time she didn't even erase. Sometimes she'd do them in ink. Marlene. It all raced through David's head. From the early days with her, to the time she met Wolfson, to her years as Wolfson's mistress. Mistress. His mother. David felt overwhelmingly sad. He closed his eyes to stop the tears he was afraid would come.
"What is it?" Allyn asked gently.
"I'll tell you what it is," he said, not sure he could even choke it out. "I'll tell you"—and he told her everything. About Charlie Wolfson and Marlene, about the abortion and Marlene's death, and how he had gone to Charlie Wolfson's that day with a gun he'd taken from his boss's desk at the Beverly Hills Messenger, and when he left Wolfson's house, Wolfson must have called Harold Greenfield to get David the job because by three o'clock that day Wolfson called David and told him he had the job. But David never knew it was Greenfield who was Wolfson's friend at Hemisphere. So that night at the Greenfields' party when he saw Wolfson he was surprised and nervous and wanting to be as impressive as some of those people in that crowd of high-society hotshots, and hating Wolfson for being one of them, and for being there with his wife instead of Marlene, who loved him. She did love Wolfson. Maybe for a while she loved that bastard Wolfson more than she loved her own son. So then—so then, he was living all alone and working at Hemisphere. And all that seemed to matter was getting ahead and moving up, but no matter what he tried, he couldn't. And he didn't know why. And then he saw Wolfson with Greenfield—and he figured out that maybe Wolfson told Greenfield about him—and that Greenfield was telling people not to hire him. Or that when he got fired it was because of Wolfson and Greenfield's friendship and—and—and—He was choked and tears were in his throat when he talked. And the rage and the bitterness filled the room. This room. Marlene's room. He found her in that bathroom. He pointed. Bleeding. To death.
"David."
Your mother is dead, Mr. Kane.
"David, it's okay."
Allyn was holding him. Rocking him. Kissing away his tears now.
"I'm here for you, David," she said. "I'm here."
"Mah," he sobbed, holding her. "My mah. She's gone. She left me."
"Oh, David," Allyn said, "I'm so sorry." She looked at the photograph of Marlene Kane. Poor Marlene Kane. It was getting dark outside. And the room was dark. Greenfield was in meetings all day. He wouldn't even notice she was gone. David. She pulled the covers from the bed around them. David was calmer now. His wet face was lying on her shoulder.
"I'll stay with you, David," Allyn said. "I'll stay with you, and I won't leave."
ON THEIR WAY . . .
twenty-six
Stan couldn't remember being sick like this. Since his childhood bout with polio he had never had a cold or even a headache, so when he started sneezing and coughing and getting bleary-eyed that morning, he didn't have anything in the medicine chest to take. He went to the office, but by lunchtime he was having chills and he knew he'd contracted whatever this flu was called that was going around. In the three years since Rose and Barton first went into business Stan hadn't missed one concert and he wasn't going to miss the one tonight either. It was Corpse, an acid-rock group who had a live lion in a cage which they brought onstage with them. Sometimes the lion roared so loud it blotted out the sound of the music. One critic said in a review that that was the only time the group sounded good.
Maybe Stan would stop at home. Yes. Go home from the office early and just sack out for an hour. He didn't have to be at the auditorium until seven. Which auditorium? Was it Long Beach? Jesus. He was really feeling awful. Yes. He would definitely go home, and maybe have some juice or something, and lie down. That would make him feel better.
He wasn't hungry when he got home. It was only four o'clock and he'd had some eggs for lunch, so he went into the bedroom and got undressed
. Then he set the alarm clock to wake him at six. He fell asleep instantly and had a dream that someone was running after him, chasing him up a very steep bill. He wasn't wearing shoes, so his feet hurt and he kept slipping and he wanted to look back and see who was behind him, but he knew it was someone he was afraid of. When the alarm went off, his heart was pounding and he was sweating. Get up. He had to get up and get to the auditorium. When he sat at the edge of the bed, he felt weak. Oh, God. He ached. Every part of him ached. He couldn't go. He'd never be any good there even if he did go. He dialed Barton's number.
"Phyllis?"
"Hello, Stanley," Phyllis said. "I'll get him for you."
Stan always felt that Phyllis Barton didn't like him.
"Stanley?" It was Walter getting on the phone. "What's the haps?"
"I'm really sick," Stan said.
"No problem, buddy," Barton said. "Get some sleep and I'll take care of everything."
"You're sure?"
"Shit, yes. I did stuff like this before you were born," Barton said.
Stan went back to sleep the minute he hung up. Once a little later he woke again and looked at the clock. It was dark outside. And it was eight o'clock. For a minute he couldn't remember what day it was. Thursday. Corpse concert. I'm sick. Yes, sick. Barton is taking care of it.
The next time he opened his eyes it was ten forty-five. He still felt feverish, but a little better. His mouth was dry. He walked into the kitchen and took some orange juice out of the refrigerator. He didn't bother to pour it in a glass. Just took a long cold swig out of the plastic bottle. He had nothing to do all day tomorrow, there was no concert tomorrow night, and an easy one Sunday night that was all sold out. Great. He'd get back into bed now and sleep until Sunday.
He walked into the bedroom, still carrying the plastic orange juice bottle, and turned on the television. He was feeling pretty wide awake now. Some show was finishing up. He'd watch the news and maybe Johnny Carson and then go to sleep. The show that had been on since ten was over and Stan watched the credits roll by. He flashed on the year he spent so sick in bed watching everything, making a game for himself of learning the names of everyone involved in any way with every show. Faceless names. Now he was amazed at how many of the people on the list of names he actually knew personally because he'd met them at Hemisphere, or backstage at one of his concerts, or at some party.
The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel Page 23