The apartment seemed small and depressing after the sprawling Benedict Canyon house. But Stan promised himself it was temporary. Until what? Until he had found another woman who turned him on the way Jerri had?
The concert company was grossing millions of dollars. Stan had moved the offices into town from the Valley building, which he now owned, into another building he owned in Hollywood. And he hired several bright young music-conscious boys to be his associates. The whole setup ran like a top. There was a head of advertising, a head of publicity, a head of merchandising, and a year ago Stan had developed a partnership arrangement with some smaller concert companies in other parts of the country, so one of the new employees served as liaison between Stan Rose Presents and those smaller promoters.
Stan tried hard to block Jerri out of his mind and the way he missed her. But it was painful. Glad you're not with that cheap cunt anymore, someone said to him at a party. It was a woman who said it, and Stan didn't know how to react. Did you hear Nate Shore left Bonny Lee for a few months, he overheard at a party. Living with that whore, what's-her-name. And then he went back to Bonny. Cheap cunt. Whore.
Women phoned Stan daily. Attractive women. And young girls, too. They called him at the office. Groupies, some of them. But others who were simply pretty young girls who honestly seemed to find him attractive. It was boring. He was and always had been in the music business because of the business, not the music. He was a good promoter. He had no love for rock 'n' roll. So when the girls asked him the question, don't you really get off on the Mindbender's lead guitar, he made an educated guess that the answer should be yes, offered that answer with a smile, got laid, and then stayed up all night watching the pretty young girl sleep, feeling very lonely.
He remembered when he was in the mail room delivering mail to the office of Tom Rich the casting director. Enid, Rich's secretary, ripped all the letters open and shouted in to Rich, "You got anothah bunch of love lettahs from actresses, Tommy." Rich laughed out loud. "They're crazy about me," he said back.
Enid winked at Stan, then shouted back at Rich. "Yeah, but would they still be crazy about you if you were a Volvo dealer in Van Nuys?"
Now Stan found himself asking that question about the young women who were so hot to go out with him. The answer was always no. But maybe it didn't matter. After all, business was great. He was leaving tomorrow for New York to meet with Joe Rio about what Rio said were some business ventures outside the concert world. Fucking Rio. Always mysterious.
The office door opened. Patty, Stan's personal secretary, stood there. She was his longtime through-thick-and-thin pal. He'd urged her to play a more powerful role in the company but she'd refused.
How 'bout the same job and more money? she'd asked.
You got it.
Now she made more money than anyone at S.R.P., except for S.R. himself.
It was something unusual. Stan could tell because Patty's eyes were big with excitement.
"Harold Greenfield," she said.
"What about him?"
"He's on the phone and he wants to talk to you."
Only once before had Stan seen Patty so impressed with the name of one of his callers. That time it was Bob Dylan. Mostly she was used to the stars who called requesting special tickets, or better seats, or backstage passes. Frequently those people didn't get past her to talk to Stan now that the company was so busy. But Patty knew Greenfield had been a big honcho when Stan was a mail room underling and she loved it that he was on the phone waiting for Stan now.
"Without a secretary," she said. "It's just the man himself."
"Why didn't you just buzz and tell me that, Patty?" Stan asked, knowing the answer.
"'Cause I wanted to see your face."
Stan grinned and pushed the button on the telephone line with the blinking light.
"Harold!" he said playfully into the phone.
Patty giggled and closed the door behind her.
"Got any of my stationery left?" Greenfield asked.
Stan shook his head. Jesus. Greenfield had a mind like a steel trap.
"Could be," he answered. "I'll look around."
"Well, if you find some, write yourself a note that says I'd like to have a meeting with you as soon as I can. Then sign my name, you no-good forger. Okay?"
"I'm leaving for New York tomorrow, Harold," Stan said. What could Greenfield possibly want? "It'll have to wait until I get back."
"How about today?" Greenfield asked. "It's important."
"I'll be right over."
Stan paused in the lobby of the gold building to look around. It seemed exactly the same. Willie the guard sat with the back of his chair leaning against the wall near the elevator. His feet, wearing black tie shoes and white socks, were dangling and his heels were tapping on the legs of the chair. He looked half asleep as the Hemisphere employees hurried past him to get on and off the elevators.
"Hiya, Willie," Stan said.
"Hiya," Willie said, automatically. Then he looked up. "Well, I'll be darned if it ain't Rosie the mailboy," he said. "Long time no see, kiddo. Long time no see."
The old man got up and shook Stan's hand.
"See your name in the paper all the time, Rosie," he said to Stan. "Always show your ads to the wife and tell her, 'That was one of my boys.' Big-time now. You and that there guy that plays Richey on TV. That funny son-of-a-bitch. Ahhh, what the heck's his name?"
"Ashman," Stan said. "Mickey Ashman."
"Yeah, Mickey. He's good on there, too. Big television star now, ain't he?"
"He sure is," Stan said.
"So what are you doing here?" Willie asked, smiling broadly. "Come to try and get your old mail route back?"
"Not yet, Willie," Stan said. Then he leaned toward Willie in mock confidentiality. "But in this business, you never know. It could happen."
"Who you here to see?" Willie asked.
"The big boss."
"You mean H.G.?"
Stan nodded.
"Well, well." The old man looked impressed, and Stan thought for a second it looked as if Willie was about to ask what Stan and Greenfield were going to talk about. After all, just as the mail boys were privy to all the studio off-the-record information, old Willie, who locked the doors of the elaborate offices in the gold building every night, had probably seen it all and known it all.
"Well, good luck to you, Rosie," Willie said. "Hope you get what you want out of the old boy. And don't be a stranger around here no more."
Stan shook Willie's hand. The elevator door opened.
"See you, Willie," Stan said, getting on the elevator and pushing the button for twenty. "And keep up the good work."
The elevator door closed. Stan looked up and watched the floor numbers go by, remembering when this was his mail route and wondering what Greenfield wanted. Twenty. He knew the route as if it were his way home. Vi, Greenfield's secretary, was still there. Old.
"Hello, Vi."
"Hello." She had no idea who he was.
"Stan Rose," he said to remind her.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Rose," she said. "He's expecting you. You can go in." She still didn't remember him.
Greenfield stood as Stan walked in. The man had always looked distinguished, but age made him look even better.
"Don't get up, Harold," Stan said. "I'm just delivering your trade papers."
Greenfield laughed. "Rose," he said. "I'm amazed. How did a guy who spent his childhood being crazy about TV become the king of rock 'n' roll instead of a network boss?"
"I'm flattered, Harold," Stan said, "but I like to think that Elvis Presley was the king of rock 'n' roll, and that after he died the title went to Wolfman Jack."
Greenfield smiled. He didn't get it. He came from behind the desk, put an arm around Stan and walked him to the window. The bustling Hemisphere lot was something to see from the twentieth floor of the gold building. Both men stood looking down at it without speaking. There were actors in all sorts of costumes, limousines, tour tr
ams. Stan wondered if Greenfield still thrilled at the sight of it.
"Christ, it's exciting down there," Greenfield said.
Stan smiled. "It's your empire."
"Yes, that's what it is," Harold said, without a trace of pretense. "Do you see that huge grassy area out there past the last sound stage?" he asked Stan.
"Uh-huh."
"That's what I called you about," Greenfield said, looking at Stan.
"Why me?" Stan asked. "I don't even own a lawn mower."
"Let's sit down, Rose. I've got a proposition for you. Want some coffee?"
"Never touch the stuff."
"I want to do a rock festival on this lot. In that field. With a stage, and terrific lights and sound, and all the top groups. Every month. Maybe every week. And sell it to the networks as a big new TV show. Pay big money to the best acts, get a hotshot TV director, have rock stars host it, and get youth-oriented sponsors to pay the bill. What do you think?"
"Sounds great. Probably impossible to put together, but a great idea."
"Why impossible?"
"Okay, I take it back. Next to impossible. Harold, most of those groups are difficult to handle, frequently only interesting to see in person, and many times, too sexual for prime-time television."
"What about if it was aired as a late-night show?"
"Late-night, maybe," Stan said.
"What about calling the show Stan Rose Presents?" Greenfield asked.
Stan thought Greenfield was kidding, so he kidded back.
"What about calling it Bill Graham Presents?" he asked.
"I mean it. Because people know about you, Rose," Greenfield said. "The kids do. Even in cities where you don't promote shows they've heard of you. And the acts know you, and the agents trust you. So you'd be the executive producer, or the producer, or whatever the hell. But you have to do it. Because if you don't, the network will think I'm a liar since I already told them you would."
Jesus. Harold Greenfield. Stan Rose Presents. Producing a television show. It would be an adventure.
"We'll use acts from World Records," Greenfield said. "And Barry Golden, he can send some talent our way. Maybe his girl friend would host the thing one week—Beau?"
"Let me think about it," Stan said. "I'll try to put it together while I'm in New York."
Greenfield shook his hand.
"Good," Greenfield said. "Very good."
On Stan's way out, when he reached the lobby, he noticed that Willie the guard was still in his chair, tipped against the wall, feet dangling as before. Only now he was fast asleep. With his mouth open. Great guard, Stan thought. The old guy must know where some pretty important skeletons were buried.
Stan loved New York. Sometimes he would stand by the window of his suite at the Warwick looking down at the corner of Fifty-fourth and Sixth and count the yellow taxis as they went speeding by, knowing there was no end to the parade, but trying to keep up with them as they careened around corners, most of the time barely missing one another and the pedestrians. This was his best trip to New York yet. He'd had meetings at William Morris about some new acts, meetings with Joe Rio about some investments, and a slew of telephone calls back and forth with the Stan Rose Presents lawyers in Los Angeles about the deal Harold Greenfield wanted to make for the rock 'n' roll television show.
And tonight his father, Albert, was flying in from Florida. Albert was finally involved in a relationship with a woman. Stan was glad for him. Albert described the woman as a "hell of a nice gal."
"Great," Stan said. "Why don't you bring her along?"
"Oh, no," Albert said, laughing. "She ain't that nice."
The two men would go to the theater. Stan had tickets for A Chorus Line. Great seats. It was only one o'clock. Albert wouldn't arrive until six. Maybe Stan would go shopping. Surprise Albert with some new ties.
The elevators at the Warwick were slow, and Stan stood in the hallway, tapping his foot as he waited. Bloomingdale's. It would be a nice walk to Bloomingdale's. Then later he'd wander along Fifth Avenue and look in the windows. The elevator doors opened. A blond woman. By herself. Pretty and—
"Jerri?" Stan didn't know whether to get on the elevator or not, and the door began to close. Jerri must have pushed the button marked "door open," because it opened again, and as he started to get on the elevator, she started to get off the elevator, and they collided and they both laughed.
My God, she was beautiful. So beautiful he could feel an ache in his chest just looking at her. She was wearing a black wool suit and a red silk blouse, and black boots. She looked very chic and better than he remembered her. Maybe because in some of his memories she was very ugly.
"Hi, Stan," she said softly. "Here on business?"
"Yes."
A few days after he'd found the cassette of Jerri with Nate Shore, he came back to the poolhouse and threw the cassette in the pool, and left it there for days, until he was sure the chlorine and chemicals had destroyed it. Then he fished it out and threw it in the trash, imagining that if in some way the picture was still intact, the trash man would take it home and watch Jerri fucking Nate Shore. Then Stan laughed at himself for thinking the trash man had a videotape machine. Jesus, he was jaded. Everyone in his world had videotape machines. So why not the trash man?
"I am, too," Jerri said.
They looked into one another's eyes. It was amazing he hadn't bumped into her before. At concerts. At parties. Not so amazing. She'd probably avoided him carefully. Stan searched his mind for something to say. All he could think of was I love you, I want to be with you. Come to my room with me. Now. Let me hold you. Make love to you. Jerri.
"Where are you headed now?" he asked her.
"Shopping," she said.
"Me, too," he said, forcing half a smile.
"Bloomie's?" she asked.
"Uh-huh."
Jerri pushed the button for the elevator, and when the doors opened they got on silently. In the elevator he could smell her perfume. Joy. He'd bought gallons of it for her. They walked through the lobby and out the side door and headed east toward Lexington Avenue. Jerri. He was with Jerri. He had this strangely guilty feeling about being with her, as if he should try to avoid being seen. As if being with her was illicit. Maybe it was. Maybe that was her charm.
She put her hand through his arm when they crossed the streets, and he loved feeling her touch him. And as he caught another whiff of her perfume, he was filled with memories of her in bed. And how she looked in the mornings. So beautiful. So incredibly beautiful.
In Bloomingdale's, the crowds moved quickly. Consuming. Taking.
"Look," Jerri said, gesturing with a nod of her head as they walked on the first floor. A fat older woman being made up by a clownishly over-made-up salesgirl. "Glamour," Jerri said. Stan laughed.
And they continued to walk from floor to floor of the big store. Neither of them saying much. Neither of them shopping. Just looking. At one another, and the clothes, and the people.
On the floor where the furniture was displayed, there was a bed for a child's room shaped like a huge tennis shoe. Other people were gathered around the bed, looking and pointing.
"Lovely bed for a little boy's room," a middle-aged woman said.
"Or just for somebody very kinky," Jerri said loudly, and laughed. The woman gave her a disapproving look and turned away. Jerri laughed again. Louder. As they walked on, Stan remembered all the times in the last few years he swore to himself that if he ever ran into Jerri again, he would ignore her. Turn away. Resist even looking at her, knowing that the longing he had for her was so powerful. And here he was now, walking through Bloomingdale's, as if they were a couple of old college chums just hanging out together. And he didn't want it to end. Prayed that it wouldn't. Albert. Maybe he could stop Albert from coming in. Ask Jerri to go to the theater with him. Then later, they would sit in some dimly lit restaurant having supper, and he would tell her how he missed her, and she would have some reason, some perfectly logical reason
for what happened with Nate Shore. And she would say that all the stories Stan heard about her past were lies and she could prove it, and Stan would believe her and say, Of course, that makes sense, now let's get married, and—
"I have to get back," she said.
No. No. You don't, Stan thought. You can't, Jerri.
"Me, too," he said.
They were silent all the way back to the Warwick. Onto the elevator. He pushed eight. She pushed eleven. The door opened at eight. Now. He had to say it. Please. Be with me, Jerri. We've been apart for too long, and no one does it for me the way you do. I know about you and still I have to have you. Come to my room with me.
"Nice to see you," Jerri said to him.
"You, too," he answered.
The elevator doors closed. Stan walked to his room, took the key out of his pocket and opened the door. Albert Rose sat in the living room of the suite reading the newspaper.
"Dad," Stan said.
"Hi, baby," Albert said, getting up. "I got an earlier flight. Where you been?"
"Shopping," Stan said. He could have had Jerri with him now. What would Albert have thought?
"You didn't buy anything?"
"Just window shopping."
"Hell," Albert said, grinning. "Don't do that. I can get you a discount on windows."
Stan smiled.
"Let's go get something to eat," Albert said.
"Great."
When Stan and Albert got on the elevator to go down to the lobby, the smell of Joy still hung in the air.
The outdoor stage was so well put together it was hard to believe it had been built as a temporary structure in a matter of a few days. The dressing-room facilities were well planned and comfortable. With showers and heaters and excellent lighting. The power trucks were lined up and a few of the groups had begun to straggle in to do sound checks. Stan Rose and Harold Greenfield stood together at the end of the field watching the scene.
"I'm impressed, Harold," Stan said. "Once I agreed to do the show and signed the groups, you had that damned thing put up in three days."
"Don't be so impressed," Greenfield said. "When I did Atlanta's Burning, I made the whole South in two."
The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel Page 38