Hot Properties

by Rafael Yglesias

  Fred felt caught. Obviously she had believed, from reading his book, that he was a serious and talented man. Such a reaction was so unexpected that he hadn’t considered that the effect of meeting him might be a letdown. Of course he couldn’t tell her that Holder’s infidelities had driven the narrative. It was Bob who insisted on the restless sexuality of the hero. Fred’s original intention had been to have only one instance of adultery; he hadn’t considered—

  “I don’t want to put you in a funny position,” she went on. “I understand about privacy—”

  “I’ll explain, I’ll explain. You see, writing the book made me very aware of this … uh … problem. And Marion and I split up for a while—separated for six months.”

  Paula looked relieved. “I see. Over this point?”

  “Yes,” Fred answered, knowing it was a complete lie, but gambling that Marion, if it ever got out, wouldn’t bother to contradict him. Anyway, Paula had turned the tape off.

  “And you worked it out openly?” Paula prompted, now energetic again.

  “Yeah, uh-huh. See, I don’t consider that being unfaithful.”

  “Of course not.” She nodded admiringly at him. “You know, Fred, I’ll be sensitive about it, but I can’t keep that out of the interview without its being pretty bland.”

  “What part of it?” he asked nervously.

  “Just the fact of the separation. Not the fact that you saw other people then. But this open way of handling the monogamy crisis you went through—without it, I don’t have a piece the Times would run.”

  There was now in the room a heavy, heavy silence. Paula looked at him gently, considerately. He couldn’t blame her. She was right. He thought of Holder, bouncing up and down the halls of Garlands, lobbying for more ads and bigger print runs.

  “Okay,” Fred said. “Carefully, though.”

  She turned on the recorder. “Don’t worry. Trust me— women will love you for your honesty.”

  A little thrill went through him at that. He began to talk. …

  Tony Winters, his black hair shining, his face pink from the air, emerged from the swivel doors into the warm and smoky gold-and-red Russian Tea Room, unbuttoning his camel’s-hair greatcoat and meeting the apparently casual but supervisory glances of the famous, near-famous, and companions of the famous seated at the semicircle booths opposite and beside the bar. He handed his coat through the cloakroom’s half-door to the woman. She handed him a plastic check. “Hi,” he said to the wave of Donald Binns, the now ancient and quite mad Broadway producer seated with his chorus-girl wife and faggy assistant.

  “How’s your mother?” Binns croaked out.

  The glances returned, this time as puzzling stares. “Rich and famous in Hollywood,” Tony answered.

  “That’s good.” Binns groaned when he spoke, as though the flattering lies and blustering rages of a half-century had corroded his vocal cords. “You still writing?”

  Tony nodded with an indulgent smile, giving the impression that he was humoring a senile uncle. In a way, he was.

  “Send me something!” Binns almost shouted. The stares were now mixed with speculative whispers. “What’s the matter? Broadway’s not good enough for you?”

  “I will,” Tony answered, and moved on. “Good to see you,” he said. The heads returned to their companions as he passed. He saw himself in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. He looked great. Life is a performance, assholes, he thought to himself. No one knew Binns had rejected all three of Tony’s plays—probably even Binns himself had forgotten. All that mattered was Tony’s crisp walk, his clear bold eyes, the slight witty smile wavering on his lips. “I’m meeting Gloria Fowler for lunch,” he said.

  “Of course, Mr. Winters. How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” Tony said, acknowledging the hostess, now that he had been recognized.

  Gloria rated a booth on the left (number seven, Tony guessed, remembering from his childhood the station numbers; explained to him by the waiters with whom he would play while his mother got progressively drunker), and she was already there—her expensive haircut, her creamy silk blouse, and her simple (but unbelievably costly) rope of pearls leavened by the modest pair of blue jeans hidden beneath the pink tablecloth.

  “You look lovely,” Tony said, kissing her on the cheek and then sliding in.

  “Deal’s made,” she said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, when Garth wants somebody, it’s done. Want something to drink?” He ordered and then she went on, “He wants you to call him tonight—the afternoon out there—at his home. I’ll give you the number. He’s very hot about you staying with him in Malibu to do the rewrites.”

  “Really?” Tony looked around the room with mastery, owning it. Mom must have felt like this when a hit was running, he thought to himself. “Well, I guess if I do it, the movie’ll get made.”

  “It’ll keep his attention and make him feel he’s part of the writing of the script. Would Betty be a problem? Can she get time off?”

  “She can’t leave now—or rather, she doesn’t want to. She’s got a …” It sounded so trivial and small-time, Tony hesitated. “She’s got a book coming out—”

  “She’s written a book?”

  “No, no. I mean a novel she’s edited. But she wouldn’t make a fuss about my going. I’ve been so moody, she’d probably feel relieved.”

  “I’m sure she’d miss you terribly. Garth says it’ll only take a few weeks—”

  “They always say that—then it goes on for months.”

  “You could stay with your father if Garth gets to be too much.”

  “God, I’d rather stay at a hotel.”

  Gloria frowned at her glass and lifted it to her lips, sipping. When she put it down she smiled and put her hand on Tony’s shoulder. “It’s just a rumor, Tony, but I think you should know …” She paused and smiled encouragingly.

  He was baffled. “Yes … ?”

  “Your father—they say—is probably going to be named CEO of International Pictures.”

  Tony swallowed. “CEO?”

  “Chief executive officer. The head of the company, overseeing television and features.”

  He looked away from the band of mirrored glass—reflecting the glittering hairstyles, sparkling glasses, and open laughing mouths—down at the brilliant red leather of the booth. He closed his eyes as the humiliation fell over him like a shroud. Don’t show it! Life is a performance. “I see. That’s why Garth wanted me back.”

  “No!” Gloria said, like someone commanding a dog not to pee on the rug. “That’s why I wanted to warn you about it. I knew you’d think that. But Garth has no idea of—”

  “Gloria, that town is worse than high school. Somebody pops a pimple out there and everybody knows how much pus came out. If you’ve heard the rumor, he’s heard it.”

  “Not true. I know it and I’m the only one who does, because of my association with someone—I can’t explain. I know that no one else knows. Have you heard anything about it?”

  “No, of course—”

  “You see!”

  “But that—”

  “Listen to me, Tony. Garth has had two other writers do drafts since yours.”

  “You’re kidding me. Two?”

  “Yes. They’re awful. Whatever problems your draft has, at least there’s a movie there. These other drafts are unusable. He wants you back. I was afraid that the rumor might come true and be announced while you’re out there and you’d get paranoid and pissed off and walk off. I don’t want that to happen.”

  Tony stared into her eyes. “Forget it, Gloria. Don’t bother with the speech. I don’t care why I’ve gotten the job back. I was going crazy. I’m just glad I’m working. Garth wants me to live at his house—I’ll live at his house. He wants me to do the dishes, I’ll do the dishes. I don’t care.” He straightened his shoulders and smiled. Life is a performance, his mother’s ringing youthful voice spoke through time in his head. “To a go pictu
re,” he said, raising his glass.

  Patty entered the loft grimly. She had discussed it thoroughly with Betty at lunch. She had to get away from these men. She couldn’t think clearly about her life while living with Grumpy David and seeing Demanding Gelb. Tony was going to Los Angeles for at least a month and Betty had offered to put Patty up for as long as he was gone. Four weeks of male abstinence, both sexual and emotional, might clear her head.

  She had decided to blurt it out—her desire for a temporary separation was the story she planned to tell David—the moment she entered, afraid that any hesitation would end up in cowardly silence. She walked to the bed area, where she saw light, and stopped, amazed: David was packing a suitcase. It stunned her. How did he know?

  “Hi,” he said. His voice sounded rushed. “Where were you? Believe it or not, I have to fly to Brazil.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t say a word to anybody. This has to be absolutely secret. I’m flying to Brazil to interview, or possibly interview, Hans Gott.”

  “Who?”

  David looked up from folding his pants and smiled. “You wouldn’t know. He’s on the hit parade of Nazis. He was Mengele’s favorite helper. Decided who would live and who would die in the ovens. Also performed experiments on twins, dwarfs. Shot blue dye into the eyes of children, and so on … lovely man.”

  “Oh. Yeah,” she mumbled, baffled by this turn of events. “I thought he was dead.”

  “You’re thinking of Mengele. This one might be, too. The guy I’m supposed to meet could be a fraud.”

  “Isn’t this dangerous?”

  “We’re supposed to meet in a public place—I sure as hell am not going to meet him in a dark alley.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Don’t know. A few days?”

  “Oh.” Patty sat on the bed and stared off, nonplussed. She felt deflated, and, oddly, sad to be left alone in the loft. She had wanted to walk out on him and be with Betty. Not wait in solitude for the return of a man she didn’t want anymore. And he looked so appealing right now—his cheeks flushed with excitement, his tone energetic and funny.

  “You’ll be all right,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Won’t you?”

  “I want to move out,” she said. The words floated out of her, levitating from her inner thoughts mystically, in violation of her mind’s censuring gravity.

  “You’re that scared to be alone?” David asked, almost laughing with amazement.

  “I’m sorry …” she said, and got up, wanting to walk away to shut herself up, but she couldn’t move, unable to figure out where to go.

  David studied her back. She had taken to hunching her shoulders more, it seemed to him, since she had become a novelist. Was it bending over the typewriter?

  Now he understood what she meant: she was leaving him, he thought dully. It didn’t surprise him, though it was unexpected. Since his regular visits to the Mistress, he had lived side by side with her, passengers. On a subway, sharing noise and light and movement, but not speaking or knowing each other. Strangers seated together on a dull trip.

  Patty turned back. “Can I help?”

  “You want to move out,” David said. “Break up, you mean.”

  She stared at him like a frightened little girl. Her eyes wondered at him. What will you do? Don’t be angry. What will you do? Don’t hate me. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

  “My flight isn’t until tonight. Everything’s ready. I was just nervously packing.” He paused and cocked his head, asking calmly, “You’re going for good?”

  Tears formed in her eyes: a deserted child, shrinking from the big horrible world. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” she said, weeping between the words. “I feel like I’m going crazy. I shouldn’t be saying this now …” She hunched over, moving toward the bed as if she were collapsing uncontrollably and needed to cushion her fall.

  He watched her coldly. He felt heartbroken for her: she lay on the bed like a broken doll. He was convinced that if he hugged her now, spoke of his love, she would reverse her decision to go. But the effort, both physical and emotional, of feeling and giving, the whole boring mess of vomiting up the truth, repelled him. He didn’t want to smell and look at his innards, to regurgitate his perversions, inadequacies, and failed hopes. “Is it anything in particular?” he asked.

  “What?” she said, her voice muffled by the bed and her tears.

  “Are you upset about something I can fix?” he answered in a grudging tone.

  “No, it’s not you—I’m fucked up,” she said, and rolled over onto her back, her arms resting outward, crucified on a soft mattress. “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too,” he answered perfunctorily. “So why are you moving out?”

  “Kiss me,” she said, looking like a centerfold—yearning for an unseen lover, her body defenseless, the gates open to any violation.

  David shook his head. He felt like laughing. “You’re crazy. What kind of breakup is this? If you’re walking out on somebody, you don’t interrupt it for a seduction.”

  “I’m not walking out. I need some time—”

  “Come on, Patty. I’m not a fool. That’s never the truth. You don’t have the guts to do it straight.”

  She sat up, raised the drawbridge, filled the turret with guns, and unsheathed her sword. “I’m trying to be honest, I’m trying to talk about it. You’re the one who never says a damn thing. You’re so closed off and cold.”

  “Right. You’re walking out—I’m the bad guy. That’s what this is about. Getting rid of your guilt. You want to leave and be a saint. You got it. Don’t bother to even argue for it. I concede it to you.” He walked away, propelled by his anger.

  “You have to win every argument,” she shouted at his back. “Even when winning it means you lose.”

  “God, you’re a real phrase-maker!” he answered, talking up to the ceiling. “I don’t know what the fuck that means!”

  “It means, all I felt coming in here was confused. I wanted time to think things out. The way you’re behaving does make me want to leave!”

  “That’s gotta be bullshit!” he yelled, his hands out in a furious plea. “Confused about what?” he said, turning on her. He walked at her angrily. She stood up, startled, as though his movement were threatening. “What? What is there to think about?”

  “Uh, us …” she stammered. “We haven’t been having a good time together.” She gained confidence. “We haven’t fucked in two months.”

  “I’ve been busy!” he cried out.

  “Oh, the magazine! The magazine, the magazine, the magazine. It’s your answer to everything. You’re like some terrible cliché on a soap opera. What the hell are you working so hard for? You’re thirty-one years old—you act like a fifty-year-old man!”

  “All right, all right. I’ll stop working so hard. I was scared,” he pleaded, lying, though it sounded very honest, to his surprise. “I got this big job—I didn’t think I could do it.” Tears formed at his eyes.

  Patty looked amazed. “Oh,” she said, touching his arm with her hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for?” he said, laughing and sobbing at once.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, and moved into his arms, hugging him.

  “I kept thinking they were going to knock on the door and tell me it had all been a mistake.” he said, elaborating on this successful theme. It sounded so authentic, so convincing. He had reached for this explanation to avoid confessing about the prostitution—not to have to reveal the tableau of him wearing a collar and licking a woman’s boots.

  “It’s not a mistake,” she whispered in his ear. “You’re brilliant.”

  “Thanks,” he answered shyly.

  They held each other for a while. For both, it was relief to be holding and loving anyone. “Where are you going to go?” he asked, meaning really: Are you still going?

  “I’m going to stay with Betty. Tony’s got
to go to LA for a month.”

  David eased himself out of the embrace. “Oh. Well, that’ll be good for your book.”

  “That’s not why I’m doing it,” she argued, a teenager complaining she had to stay out past eleven.

  “I didn’t mean anything,” he answered. “I meant, you can keep her working on it. I know that’s not why you’re doing it.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling embarrassed. “I may not do it. I don’t know.”

  “I …” His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t.” His chin quavered.

  She looked ashamed and hugged him again.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you too,” he answered.

  CHAPTER 16

  Tony watched them talk on Malibu beach. He stood above them on a wide deck supported by thirty-foot-high wooden stilts that looked inadequate to the task. The surf, which seemed gentle and casual as it approached the shore, broke abruptly and angrily at its finish: a horse rearing in horror at the row of two-million-dollar houses. Garth and Redburn, two of the most famous faces in America, stood in profile, elegant in their casual clothes, tranquil faces, and perfect hairdos, their words drowned by the Pacific’s noisy disgust at encountering land. The scene looked like a movie. An obvious thing to think, but fascinating nonetheless. Tony could make up the dialogue in his head—his eyes were the cameras.

  “I hear the script’s going well,” Helen, Garth’s wife, said from behind him.

  She was lying on a green-and-white-cushioned deck chair, wearing a black bikini on a body so spectacular that to be aroused by it was almost too passive a response. Hurling oneself on Garth and strangling him immediately, tossing diamonds at her, instantly swearing love and running off to the Crimean War—even they might be responses not commensurate with her beauty. And to make her more infuriating, she was pleasant, intelligent, modest, and kind. “We’re almost done,” Tony said.