"Athena will gross nearly fifty million this year," he said. Athena Records. He got the idea that night he had the fight with Jim Garland about Beau's album. In a rage Barry had tried to figure out a way to start a record company he could control. The next morning he walked unannounced into Harold Greenfield's office.
"I'll figure out a way to move all my acts to World if I can run the label," he said.
Greenfield looked long at him. Thinking. "Make the records yourself and World will distribute them," he said. Barry agreed. He wasn't sure what he was getting into, but he agreed.
He decided to call his company Athena because he remembered reading once that Athena was the goddess of war and he was certain he was in for a tough battle. The next night, after Beau was asleep, he drove into town from the beach and went to his Sunset Strip office. He went through all the files to check the dates on the contracts of all of his acts. Not their management contracts with him; there were none. His deals with the acts were always made on good faith. These were the contracts his acts had with the various record companies. He wanted to determine how soon he could be able to sign each of them to his own label. Maybe that was the night he had the first headache. He wasn't sure.
The next day he called his lawyers and business managers and Athena was on its way. By the second year, it was making a fortune and Harold Greenfield had just offered to buy it for eight million dollars and a rich contract for Barry to run it. He was thinking about it. The headaches. The fucking headaches. He would call a doctor.
"Dee Dee . . . get me . . ." Never mind. He'd dial it himself.
"Dr. Copely's office," said a voice.
"This is Barry Golden. Is Dr. Copley in?"
"No. I'm sorry. He's not. Can I help you?"
"I've been having some really bad headaches and I wanted to come in and see him," Barry said.
"He's out of town, Mr. Golden. He'll be back next Tuesday. Can it wait?"
"Uh . . . sure. Next Tuesday will be fine."
"Ten o'clock?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
He was getting one now. Maybe that's why he had finally called the doctor. Because he felt it coming on. When he wasn't having the headaches he forgot how awful it was to feel like this. The queasiness that came with it. The blurring of his vision. Migraines. That's what they must be. He remembered hearing someone who had migraines describing one to him. And the symptoms were the ones he was having now. He went to the sink and filled a cup of water. There were aspirins in the top drawer of his desk. He took the little metal box out and removed two aspirins. Fuck. The pain. He should lie down on the sofa. Yes. He'd turn out the light and lie on the sofa.
The buzzer.
"Mr. Golden, Beau is on the line."
"Hi, sweetheart."
"I love you," she said. "Where can we go for lunch?"
Right. Beau was coming in from the beach to have lunch with him. Lunch. Beau. Should he tell her he was nauseated and couldn't have lunch? No. Maybe if he could lie down for a few minutes.
"I love you, too. Anywhere you want."
"Ma Maison. I'll make the reservation. See you at your office at twelve thirty."
"'Bye."
It was getting worse now. He closed his eyes. Lie down.
"Dee Dee . . . I'm going to lie down. Hold my calls."
"Even Minnie's?" Dee Dee asked. "She's calling from overseas at eleven."
"Oh, right. No. I'll take that." And the phone rang.
"It might be her now." Barry heard Dee Dee pick up the phone. "Yes, operator," she said. "Go ahead, please. It's Minnie," she said to him.
Barry picked up the phone and sat back down in his desk chair. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed he wouldn't see the room spinning.
"Hi, Min," he said.
Minnie sounded far away and very excited about the European part of her tour. Barry was grateful she was rambling on because he didn't know if he could talk.
"And they loved me . . . and they mobbed the hotel . . . and the suite is gorgeous. And everyone's so polite and I got drunk with the band last night in a pub . . . and this morning Robby is so sick—but we're sold out everywhere . . . and everyone's excited about the new album . . . and how's Beau and I love you both. And I can't wait to shop in Paris. Call you from there." Click.
It was getting better. Subsiding slowly. Easing off. The aspirin must have helped.
"Can I get you anything?" Dee Dee asked.
"No. I'm fine." If he didn't move he'd be okay. Didn't think about the nausea. It was going away. Thank God. He didn't have time to be sick. There were deals to be made. He'd see Copely on Tuesday and get something he'd be able to take right away when the headache symptoms came on. He wouldn't lie down now. Beau would be here soon and they'd have a romantic lunch. He heard the phone ring.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Pearlman," he heard Dee Dee say. Irving Pearlman, Benny Daniels' lawyer. That putz. "Mr. Golden isn't available right now."
"Yes I am," he told her. "I'll take it." He was feeling better.
"Hello," Barry said into the phone. Benny Daniels' divorce lawyer was almost as slimy to Barry as Benny himself. His specialty was divorces where big money was involved. Usually he represented the wives the way Marvin Mitchelson did, but in the Daniels case it was the husband who petitioned for and was the recipient of spousal support.
"Haven't been able to reach Beau's lawyer, Golden," Pearlman said in a voice about to threaten. "But I thought Beau should be aware that if she or her lawyer fails to pay my client the support for the last two months, I will go into court and seek an order to hold her in contempt. And, buddy, I hope they send her to jail."
"Irving," Barry said. "You're a cliché. I wish I could see you right now because I know you're rubbing your ugly little hands together in glee, but Beau's been advised not to send Benny any money until he vacates the house."
"Hey, listen," Pearlman said, "I called to give you some information. Not to be insulted. Lay off."
"Pearlman, you are an insult," Barry said, "to the entire legal profession."
"Fuck you, you little two-bit faggot. I'll see you and that has-been girl friend of yours in court." Pearlman slammed down the phone.
Barry got up. The headache was nearly gone, but he still felt a little weak. He would lie down now. On the sofa.
Dee Dee looked in on him.
"I'm going to lunch," she said. "You feeling better?"
"A little."
"See you later."
The sofa. Barry lay down on the sofa and looked at the ceiling for a few minutes and was just dozing off when he heard the outer door open.
"Hello?" It was Beau.
"Hi, sweetheart," he said, getting to his feet. Oh, shit. He must have stood up too quickly. The pain. It was as if someone hit him with someting sharp. It was . . . Jesus. He couldn't see . . .
"Beau!" he cried out.
"I wore your favorite sweater and I—" Beau walked into the office just as Barry collapsed.
"Barry? Baby? Oh, my God," she cried. "Oh, my God. Barry." She ran into the hallway.
"Help." She screamed. "Somebody help. Call an ambulance." It was lunchtime. All of the doors to the other Athena offices were closed. Beau rushed back into Barry's office. His small body was still lying in a heap where he'd fallen. He was breathing but he was unconscious. "Help me!" She picked up the phone and dialed the operator. She got the Athena switchboard. "Please," she said, "Mr. Golden is—he collapsed. Oh, my God. Call an ambulance. Oh, God, Hurry. Please."
forty
Jerri cuddled up very close to Stan. They had just made love and he was nearly asleep.
"Bob Frank is driving me crazy," she said. "You know what he does?"
"Mmmm."
"He keeps hitting on me. You know? Making passes. I'm a fucking vice-president, for Christ's sake, and he treats me like I'm some dumb bang. I don't know why he does that. I think it shows that he doesn't respect me. To think I'd go out with a married man."
Stan didn't respond. She went on.
"I also think it means he doesn't respect you. I mean, he knows we live together."
Stan hated these moments with Jerri. Moments when he knew she was lying and he was afraid to tell her he knew. Afraid to say, "I know you had an affair with Bob Frank." She usually had some motive for the lie. It wasn't just out of the blue. So each time she lied, Stan would wait to hear what was coming next.
"Maybe I should quit working for a while," she said. "Take some time off."
So that was it. Stan was relieved. Glad she wanted to leave her job. Glad she'd be away from Bob Frank. And be just his little Jerri. The girl who loved the pretty clothes he bought her, and who brought him breakfast in bed every Sunday and afterward smeared the leftover jam on her nipples and let him lick it off "for dessert."
"It's okay with me if you quit," he said.
"Oh, good," she said, cuddling closer. "Now I'll be at home all the time," she said. "Just waiting for you with my legs spread."
Jerri quit her job the next day and enjoyed her retirement for exactly two weeks. On the first day, she sat at the pool of the apartment house where she and Stan lived, and got a tan. On her second day she met her mother for lunch in Beverly Hills. On the third day she stayed in bed and talked on the phone for hours, and for the next eleven days she did some variation or combination of those same three things. By the beginning of the third week, she was getting very edgy. That's when she showed Stan the ad in Variety: Fabulous Benedict Canyon home. Pool. View. Lighted N.S. tennis court, master has sauna, jacuzzi, his-and-hers bath and used-brick fireplace. Hardwood floors, beamed ceilings throughout. Poolhouse has projection room. $850,000. Ask for Elaine.
"Jesus," he said. "That sounds fabulous, Jer. But we don't need anything that big."
"The ad doesn't say it's big."
"Well, I mean that fancy."
A pout played on Jerri's lower lip.
"Honey, it's eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars," he said.
"You could offer them seven," she said.
Stan looked at her eager face. There was so much need written all over it. The daughter of a hash slinger from Culver City, she called herself.
"It would make me so happy, I'd spend every day fixing it up," she begged.
"If I'm going to pay eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a house," Stan said, "I hope there won't be anything about it that needs fixing up."
Jerri laughed. But she was frustrated.
"I mean decorate it," she said.
"I know what you mean," Stan told her, "but—"
"Let's just go take a peek at it. Please."
The house was empty when they got there. The people who had been living there were moved out and there was a note on the door from the real estate broker who was supposed to meet them there at two.
Dear Jerri and Stan,
Couldn't reach either of you. I won't be able to make it by two. Key is under mat. (Clever hiding place, eh?) Please feel free to look around and, if you want to wait, I'll see you at three. If not, leave the key and I'll call you later.
Elaine
Jerri opened the door with the key, and when she looked around the excitement on her beautiful face made Stan want to give her the world.
"Look at it," she said. "Just look at it."
Stan had to admit the house was better than any house he'd ever seen.
"Yes, great," he said.
When Jerri saw the bedroom fireplace, she groaned.
"Oh, please, honey. Won't you get this house for us?"
She put her arms around him and pulled him close. Stan knew what she was doing and he didn't like her little-girl approach. She always used it to get her way. But he did love this woman. "Please . . ." She kissed him and started unbuttoning his shirt.
"Jerri—"
"No one's here," she said. "No one will be here till three. Oooh, let's do it, baby. I'm so wet. And I want it. C'mon."
They fucked in the furnitureless bedroom of the vacant house with the sound of Jerri's ass banging against the hardwood floor, echoing through the emptiness. When they lay in each other's arms afterward, Stan was already figuring out in his mind what kind of down payment he would have to make on the house. It would be fine. He had plenty of money. And Jerri would be so happy.
"Maybe we should go," Jerri said, pulling her underpants on.
"No. Let's wait' for the broker," Stan said. "We'll make an offer." Jerri covered his face with kisses.
He'd never been sorry about buying the house. He loved it and he loved Jerri and he loved their Sunday afternoons of tennis and swimming with friends who came over to spend the day. Besides, people were already telling him he could get "a million two" for the place. Jerri fixed the house up as she promised, but with the help of an expensive decorator. And Stan was thrilled when Albert called to say he was coming to visit and see the new house and "meet this woman I've heard so much about."
The day before Albert's arrival, Jerri cried all morning. "He'll hate me," she said. "I just know your father will hate me."
"That's crazy," Stan said, wiping away her tears. "Who could ever hate you? Go and get some pretty new outfits, and you'll knock him out."
The outfits didn't help. Albert wasn't easily knocked out. On the contrary, Stan could already see on Albert's face after the old man had been there just a few hours that he was disappointed. Not with the house. He oohed and ahhed over everything about the house. Even said he'd try to hit a few tennis balls before he went back. It was Jerri. The tension between Jerri and Albert was obvious immediately. Each of them struggled for a politeness that was so awkward they were choking on it.
"Very nice dinner," Albert said about the Chinese food Jerri had delivered from Ho Toy's one night.
"Stan and I make a great team," Jerri said another night after she'd had a few glasses of wine. "We have it down to a science. He makes a lot of money and I spend a lot of money."
Albert nodded.
"Very good caps you have," Albert said, looking at Jerri's teeth.
"Thanks," she said. "Got 'em free. The dentist was after my ass." She was flushed. Oh, shit. This was Stan's father. And a dentist.
Albert felt bad. He knew there were many women around who spent their lives being carried and taken care of by men. And that frequently the men who supported them were aware of the game. And liked the exchange. Goods for sex and affection. But Albert couldn't believe that his son, Stanley, was a man who would make that exchange. Knew he wasn't. No. Stanley sincerely loved this girl and couldn't see what she was. Stanley's mother, Lena, had died when the children were very young. Maybe Albert should have remarried. Given them a mother. Had a marriage for them to use as a model. But he didn't and now Bonny was living with some long-haired weirdo somewhere, and worse yet, Stanley, Albert's brilliant son Stanley, was living with this trash.
"She was right," Albert said to Stan, after Jerri returned from a shopping spree one afternoon and showed them all of her purchases. "She certainly can spend money."
"It's okay, Dad," Stan said. "I make it."
Albert was pained. Stan saw it. He ached to tell his father how he felt, but they had never talked about these things before, and it seemed as if it was too late to start now. He wanted to tell his father how long he'd waited to find a woman he could talk to and relate to and who taught him sexual tricks he never dreamed existed. And how he knew Jerri was no virgin. And that she looked a little overpainted, and that though she was street-smart, he knew she had no class. But that didn't matter to him at this point. She was there for him. And hot, and loyal and his woman. End of subject.
"Maybe you and your young lady should make some kind of contract about property," Albert suggested before he got on the plane back to Florida.
Stan smiled. "You only make contracts like that if you're planning to split up, Dad. We aren't."
After Stan took Albert to the airport that day, he came home to play a few sets of tennis with Nate Shore. He was on the tennis court when Jerri called him to t
he phone.
"Beau Daniels," she yelled down.
"Tell her I'll call her back."
"It's okay," Shore said. "I don't mind a breather."
"She says it's an emergency," Jerri hollered.
Stan ran up the steps to the house. Barry and Beau had been happily ensconced in Barry's Malibu place for the past few years. Domestic bliss. Beau's picture had appeared on the cover of the March issue of Ladies' Home Journal: BEAU DANIELS: HER DIVORCE. HOW SHE SURVIVED AND FOUND NEW LOVE.
"Hello."
"Stan." Beau's voice was very faint.
"Hello?"
"Stan. It's Barry," she said. "He's in the emergency ward. U.C.L.A. They have to operate. Please . . ." She stopped talking to cry.
"I'll be right there."
Stan ran upstairs to change. Jerri was waiting on the bed putting a coat of polish on her toenails.
"Barry Golden's in the hospital," Stan said, pulling off his tennis shorts and putting on a pair of jeans from the closet.
"Hemorrhoids?" Jerri asked snidely.
Stan didn't answer. He took his wallet and his car keys and ran down the steps and out the front door.
"Stan!" Jerri shouted after him. Who gives a shit about that little drip Barry Golden anyway? she thought. Stan was already gone.
Stan could see Beau sitting on the bench in the distance as he got off the elevator. She seemed so out of place in a hospital. Who wasn't out of place in a hospital? She was staring straight ahead, deep in thought.
"Beau."
"Stan." She jumped to her feet to give him a quick hug. "I'm glad you came," she said. "We have no one."
It was true. Because Los Angeles was so spread out, visiting one's friends was a planned effort and frequently couples or families became isolated. If there was no immediate family to come for barbecues and holidays, friends could sometimes go months without seeing one another.
"What's happening?" Stan asked Beau.
"He had a brain hemorrhage," she said. Her eyes were filled with tears. "The doctor said it's something in his central nervous system."
The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel Page 33