"Yes, I do. My daughter is married to Ben Parrish. I don't like the guy, and I don't trust him. And you shouldn't either. But we can stick him out front as your ostensible agent. You and I will write the contract ourselves, whether he likes it or not. You can ask Sam to review it in confidence, if you want to. Or get a Hollywood lawyer to look it over. I'm thinking of a two-year contract. If the show flops, we'll put you back on the Glenda Grayson Show, with bigger billing, and I'll see to it that they write better stuff for you."
"Mr.— Jonas. I'm grateful to you."
He put his hand on hers again. This time he closed his fingers around her hand. "Will you do something for me? If you say no, it's okay. A no won't kill the deal we've been talking about. But ever since I first saw you on television I've thought about what a vision it would be if you danced nude. Would you do that for me, Margit?"
Her face flushed, and she nodded.
"I have all kinds of records," he said, pointing to a stereo system. "Pick out something for your music."
She undressed first, pulling the skirt over her head, then pulling off the leotards. She had no pubic hair. She saw his surprised stare at her naked pudenda, and she self-consciously covered herself with her hand. "I can't risk wisps of hair showing around the edges of leotards," she said. "So I shave it."
He nodded. "You're a vision," he said.
She went to the stereo cabinet and looked through his collection of records.
She chose the song "I'm in Love with a Wonderful Guy" from South Pacific. It was lively music, and she performed a lively dance. The next band on the record was "Younger Than Springtime," and to that she danced sinuously. Jonas was enthralled.
She came to the couch, sat down, and took another swallow of Irish whiskey. Her skin gleamed with a trace of perspiration. She made no move toward putting her clothes back on.
"Margit, you are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," Jonas said in complete sincerity.
"I guess it's gonna be just like Sam told me," she said softly.
2
"Okay, fill me in, Eddie."
Angie sat at a table in the coffee shop of the Flamingo facing a man who had once been her brother-in-law. Eddie Latham. Jerry's brother. Seven years younger than Jerry, he was just thirty-one, and he looked like Jerry, though Jerry had been only twenty-five when he was killed in the Normandy Invasion. Eddie had been only fourteen when she saw him last, not long before she was arrested.
"Ma died a couple years ago," said Eddie. "She always thought you ought to've kept in touch."
"Maybe I should have," said Angie. "But she didn't keep in touch either. I was in jail three months in Manhattan. She came to see me once. I was in the reformatory thirty-nine months, and I got two letters from her. Anyway, I'm sorry you lost her, Eddie. How old was she?"
"She was sixty-four. Had a bad heart the last few years."
"So why have you come to see me?" Angie asked.
"I'd have looked you up a long, long time ago if I could've found you," he said. "I always thought Jerry married the prettiest girl in town. After Jerry was killed, I got the crazy idea I'd go to West Virginia and meet you when you came out of the slammer. But guess where I was: at Fort Dix, drafted, taking basic training. I was sent to the Pacific, but the war ended before I ever fired a shot or anybody fired one at me. I came home. I tried to find you. You won't believe this, but I hired a private eye. The last address the Federal Bureau of Prisons had for you was White Plains. You'd been given final release, and they didn't know where you'd gone. I gave up. Then a couple months ago I saw your picture in the paper: director of a big corporation. I said, Hey, that's Angie! So, first chance I got, I came to Vegas."
Angie smiled and shook her head.
"Simple story," said Eddie. He glanced around and frowned as if the bright bustle of the coffee shop offended him — not the right setting for what he apparently meant to be a solemn and significant conversation. "So where did you go in 1945, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I married again," she said. "Wyatt. We went to California, then came here. I've been here ever since."
"You and Jonas Cord must have a very friendly relationship," said Eddie.
Angie smiled and nodded. "Very friendly," she agreed.
Eddie took a package of Camels and a lighter from his jacket pocket. He offered her a cigarette, and she shook her head. Jonas had smoked little for years and had stopped smoking entirely after the heart attack. She didn't smoke in his presence, which meant in effect that she had stopped, too. Eddie lit the unfiltered Camel, drew the smoke down deep, and blew it out through his nose.
"I figured that," he said. He grinned. "I came along too early and then too late."
"You must be married."
"I was for six years. Two kids. She has them."
"I can't believe you came to Vegas to see me just for old times' sake, just because you're a romantic," said Angie. "What business are you in, Eddie?"
He stared into his coffee cup and took another deep drag on his cigarette. "That's the point, Angie," he said. "Somebody asked me to talk to you."
3
Captain Frank's was a fish restaurant on Cleveland's Ninth Avenue Pier. On a day on the cusp of spring, the view from the broad windows was of an angry green Lake Erie, its waves whipped up, spray flying and visible like snowflakes against the gray sky. The place was very well known in Cleveland, and well thought of.
A round table for six was saved every day for Carlo Vulcano, and rare was the day when he was not at his table. On days when he was not there, no one sat at his table, even his friends, for fear he would come in and find someone he did not want to talk to that day sitting at his table. People sat at his table only at his specific and personal invitation — usually four or five men, today only one.
That one was Eddie Latham.
"So. You are not able to report success."
Eddie shook his head. "I am sorry, Don Carlo. I did all I could."
"Did you offer to marry her?"
"I promised her what you promised: a villa on a Brazilian beach. I told her it was not too late to have children. But— She is loyal to the man. She thinks of him as her great benefactor. I think she is in love with him, Don Carlo."
"You invoked the memory of your brother?"
"She said we had to face a fact. Jerry was a grifter. That's what she called him, a grifter. She said that's what he was, at best."
"She told you nothing, then?"
"Don Carlo ..." Eddie turned up the palms of his hands. "I did everything I could."
"Did you speak of exposing her criminal record?"
"She says Cord knows about it."
Carlo Vulcano turned his face away from Eddie and for a long moment stared at the pitching gray-green water of the lake. "The newspapers who were so intrigued with her appointment to the CE board of directors did not take the trouble to discover it. I wonder— "
"She is still a beautiful woman," said Eddie quietly.
"You were taken with her, Eddie. If you had succeeded, you could have had her."
"Don Carlo, I am afraid she is not the kind of woman who— "
"Who what? That was your problem, Eddie. You do not understand women. Businessmen trade in women like they trade in commodities, like oil or wheat or pork bellies. You say she is beautiful. So is every one of them, to somebody. You were afraid of her, Eddie!"
"I did the best I could for you, Don Carlo. I would never think of doing anything less — for you."
"Uhmm ... Well, I'm told you're a good boy. We thought that being related to her you might be able to do more than the usual thing. But— Go now, Eddie. Go back to New York. I will not speak ill of you."
Eddie Latham wondered if he should not kiss the hand of the Don, but it wasn't offered to him, and already Don Carlo Vulcano was summoning others to his table. Eddie hurried out of the restaurant.
4
The Glenda Grayson Show was broadcast live, and when the star came off the set after her final nu
mber she was drenched with sweat. She was also high with exhilaration. She needed a shower, and she needed a drink.
Danny Kaye had come off the set just ahead of her and waited for her. He threw his arms around her. "We work good together, huh?" He laughed. "Hey!" He, too, was sweating and high. He seemed about to break into another song and dance.
"C'm in and have a drink, ol' buddy," she said, leading him toward her dressing room.
"What? Two more shows this season?" he asked as he walked beside her, holding her arm.
"Two more. Then, by God, contract," she said.
"Your producer was in the booth," said Kaye. "I thought he looked kinda grim. Does anything ever satisfy the man?"
"Nothing in this world ever entirely satisfies Jonas Cord," she said. "Bat you could satisfy. Not Jonas. Tomorrow I'll get a memo telling me it was a great performance but also telling me how it could have been better."
"Like a sponsor," said Kaye.
She threw open the dressing room door. "Scotch!" she cried. "Something for Danny!"
Sam Stein was sitting on the small couch in her dressing room, waiting for her to come off the set. Sitting beside him was a handsome, swarthy man she did not recognize. He was smoking a cigar and lounged comfortably on the couch, with his legs crossed. Glenda had no idea who he was, but if Sam had brought him he was okay with her.
Amelia had served as Glenda's dresser for the past two years. She was a handsome, formidable, slender black woman, maybe forty years old, so far as Glenda could estimate, and Glenda had learned to place confidence in her. She had a light Scotch with plenty of ice and soda waiting, and she handed it to the star and stepped behind her to begin unfastening her finale gown.
"It came down very well, Glenda," said Sam Stein. "The ratings will be— "
"Danny brings the good ratings," said Glenda. "Pour him a drink, for Christ's sake, and hand him a wet towel."
Glenda let Amelia take off her dress, leaving her standing in the middle of the dressing room in white nylon panties and bra. She took a gulp from her drink and stepped inside the shower. Her underclothes were wet with sweat, and usually she soaped herself and them together, then took them off, rinsed them, and hung them over the top of the glass door. The shower water steamed the glass, and a blurred image of her showed through the door.
"Didn't give you a chance to introduce your friend, Sam," she said.
"He's John Stefano," said Sam. "Got some ideas for us."
"Joke writer?" she asked.
"Not exactly."
"Well, nice to meet ya, John Stefano. Congratulate Danny on a great performance. When he comes on, we do the best show of the year."
Stefano nodded and smiled at Danny Kaye. "I've admired your work for many years," he said.
"Thank you," said Kaye. "Well ... Sam says you're not a joke writer — which I didn't think you were. What is your business, Mr. Stefano, if I may ask?"
"Investments," said Stefano.
"The very best line of business," said Danny Kaye. He took the answer as ominously uncommunicative and retreated from the subject. "Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the show."
"Oh, yes," said Stefano.
Kaye took a sip from the Scotch Sam handed him. "I have to get on to my dressing room," he said.
"Don't you dare leave before I get outa here and give you a big kiss," said Glenda. "Time for a towel, Amelia."
Amelia handed her one towel and held up another while Glenda dried herself and pulled on a flowered silk dressing gown. She picked up the bottle and strengthened her drink.
"Well, you say Mr. Stefano has some ideas for us," she said to Sam.
"Some business ideas," said Sam.
"I'll be going," said Danny Kaye. "You'll want to talk in private."
Glenda threw her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. "Thank you, lover," she said. "Give my best to Sylvia."
Glenda turned to Amelia. "Thanks," she said. "You can go get yourself some dinner now."
Glenda sat down at her dressing table and went to work on her hair and makeup. Her back was to Sam Stein and John Stefano, but she could see them in the mirror. "What ya got in mind, guys?"
"Some different things," said Sam. "To start with, I've got some news for you. Margit notified me this morning that she doesn't want me for her agent anymore."
"What the hell?"
"And guess who her new agent is gonna be," Sam continued. "Ben Parrish. How does that grab ya?"
"It grabs me that Jonas Cord is getting ready to give Glenda's show to Margit Little," she said angrily.
"No. He won't do that. You're still the only moneymaker Cord Productions has got. I figure he'll spin her off, set up a Margit Little Show."
"Well, I guess you can't blame the girl if she takes that deal," said Glenda. "She'll get another deal with it, though — that she may not find irresistible. Jonas Cord will want in her pants."
"He's already in her pants," said Sam.
"And Ben'll be in 'em next," said Glenda.
"I doubt it. I think the Cords have chewed up Ben Parrish and spit him out. They queered some of his deals. For a guy like him, money dries up when the Cords put the word around that anybody who backs his deals will offend them. He can't do anything they don't want him to do. They've made him dependent on them."
Glenda turned and smiled over her shoulder. "Except in one important respect, Ben's a little guy. When he messed around with Jo-Ann, he brought down the wrath of a family that can buy and sell him out of pocket change."
"Which brings us to another point," said Sam. "John Stefano is here to offer us a deal."
"Let's say I'm here to do some preliminary talking about a possible deal," said Stefano. Now that he was going to talk, he put his cigar aside in a heavy glass ashtray. "When you came in from the set, you said you had to do just two more shows under your present contract with Cord Productions. When you go to negotiation with the Cords, it could be very helpful to you if you had an alternative."
"What might the alternative be?"
"Just thinking out loud," said Stefano. "I can book you into the best clubs in the United States, not to mention a run in one of the big rooms in Havana. You can make more money than you're making in television, and you won't have to work so hard, because you can use the same show for a whole year."
"The way I used to do," she said.
Sam interjected an idea. "Suppose you were off television for a year. There would probably be a big demand for you to return."
"Or maybe not," she said. "The public's got a short memory."
"You're a star," said Sam. "The public won't forget you."
"We can keep you in the public eye," said Stefano. "Get you covered in the tabloids. Then maybe we form a production company — GG Productions, let's say — and package a return show. We go to one of the networks with a pilot tape. We can orchestrate everything."
"Where's the money for all this coming from?" Glenda asked.
"We can get it," said Stefano simply.
"I suppose I shouldn't ask where the money will come from?"
"Does it make a difference?" Stefano asked.
"Does it, Sam?" she asked.
Sam Stein shook his head. "Not to me it doesn't. This deal can be a great career boost for you, Glenda. And it gets the Cord family off our backs forever."
"Deal, then," said Glenda.
5
"Tittle Tattle" was a syndicated column, originating in Hollywood and written when she was sober enough to do it by a onetime bit player named Lorena Pastor. The column was syndicated in sixty-eight newspapers, thanks partly to heavy promotion by the syndicate, thanks also to Lorena's formidable reputation that persuaded people to confide in her. Gossip was her stock in trade, but it was also understood in the movie community that mention in "Tittle Tattle" often goosed new life into fading careers or into lusterless pictures.
— ("Don't be surprised if you hear about a bust-up between La Crawford and her current. Her latest ex, save one, has been seen l
eaving in the golden light of dawn, and we hear that an old fire is hot again. After all, old flames often burn hottest.")
— ("The town is ga-ga about Dan Armstrong's stellar acting in The Condemned. This little-heralded flick is a sure-fire winner. And don't forget — nobody else has been telling you.")
Lorena had the facial complexion of an Indian elephant: a tangle of wrinkles that lotions would not soften, sanding could not remove. She could only try to distract attention from it by wearing exaggerated lipstick and mascara, all obscured by veils that hung from her hats. She affected also an air of giddy ebullience: grinning widely, fluttering her hands, dancing about on her feet as if she were a girl of twenty, not a woman of seventy. Privately, people in the movie industry called her a viper, a harridan, and a lush.
Her usual turf was a table at the Brown Derby or another restaurant or watering hole, but this noon she ate a box lunch in the office of her publisher, Walter Richard Hamilton, Junior. He had accommodated her known penchant by providing her a pint of Beefeater gin, a bucket of ice cubes, and half a lime.
"I've got a story for you, Lorena," he said.
"Let's hope it's true, Walt," she said. "You know my policy — only to publish what can be— "
"Right, Lorena. Dad respected you for that. So do I. I can assure you this story is true."
"Well, tell me then!"
"Okay. You know the cute little dancer — ballerina-type dancer — who plays the teenage daughter on the Glenda Grayson Show? Margit Little? Okay. She sleeps with Jonas Cord."
"Oh, my dear! So did I once — when I was twenty-five years younger. How many women in America haven't— "
"Lorena. I want you to run the story. Not only that, I want you to give it big play."
She lifted the glass into which she had poured gin over ice and squeezed lime juice. "Of course, dear Walt! Don't forget, though, the man is a menace! You aren't ordering me to buy us a libel suit?"
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