“A champagne cocktail for Mrs. Thornton.” The waiter went away and he turned to me beaming. “Nothing but the best for you.”
I liked champagne, but champagne cocktails made me nauseous. Nevertheless I smiled. “Thank you, Adolph.”
“Taste it,” Fannon urged when the waiter returned with the cocktail.
I began to raise the glass toward my lips.
“Wait a minute, we must have a toast.” He picked up his own glass, which was supposed to look like vodka on the rocks but which everyone knew was nothing but water. Ulcers had taken away his liquor license. “To your play,” he said.
I nodded and took a sip. The sickeningly sweet cocktail turned my stomach but I manage a smile. “Very good,” I said.
A serious look came over his face. “I have a very important announcement to make,” he said, putting his hand on my knee.
“Yes, Adolph,” I said, my eyes on his face.
“I’ve decided to do your play.” His hand was now halfway up my thigh. “We’ll go into rehearsals in August. I’d like to bring it to New York in October.”
Suddenly I forgot about his hand on my thigh. “You mean it?”
“Yes. I loved the rewrite. I’ve already sent the script to Anne Bancroft.”
“You think she’ll do it?”
“She should. She’ll never find a better part. Besides, she always wanted to do a play with Guy.”
“Is he going to direct?”
“Yes. I called him in California this morning and he’s agreed.” His hand went the rest of the way up.
“Adolph, I never knew anyone who moved so fast,” I said pointedly.
He cleared his throat. “When I like something, I like it. I don’t believe in playing around.”
“Neither do I,” I said, looking into his eyes. “But I’m soaking wet already and if you don’t take your hand away, I’ll come right here.”
He flushed and put his hand on the table. “I’m sorry. In my enthusiasm I forgot myself.”
“It’s okay. I just happen to be very excitable. And I’ve never known a man quite like you before.”
“No?” he asked in a questioning voice.
“You’re something else. In a business full of wishy-washy people you have the strength of your convictions.”
“I make decisions,” he said, looking pleased. “Like I told you, I know what I want.”
“That’s what I admire about you.”
“We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other. I’m not the kind of a producer who leaves it all up to the director. I get very involved with my plays.”
“I know. That’s why I’m glad you’re going to do it.”
“There’s still work to be done on the script. We’ll have to get started soon. I would like you to have my ideas before Guy gets back from the Coast.”
“You let me know when. I’ll make myself available.”
“Good,” he said, obviously delighted with the way things were going. I had calculatedly told him everything he wanted to hear. His hand was on my knee again. “My office is drawing up the contract. I thought a ten-thousand-dollar advance would be very fair. It’s more than twice what I give anyone else for a first play.”
I believed him. Both Guy and my agent told me not to expect more than thirty-five hundred. “That’s very fair. Thank you, Adolph.”
“You deserve it,” he said, smiling. “Besides from what I have heard you could use the money. I understand Walter didn’t give you any alimony.”
“I didn’t want any,” I said quickly.
“Most girls in this business don’t feel like that.”
“That’s their bag. I can work. I can take care of myself.”
His hand began to travel. “That’s what I respect about you.”
“I’m getting hungry,” I said, trying to divert him. “I haven’t had any breakfast.”
“Let’s order then.”
But before he could signal the waiter, Earl Wilson of the New York Post came in and spotted us. His round face broke into a smile. “Adolph, JeriLee, what are you two cooking up?”
“You’ve got a scoop, Earl. I’m putting on JeriLee’s new play.”
“What kind of a part are you playing this time, JeriLee?”
“She’s not acting in this one, Earl,” Fannon said. “She wrote it.”
Earl whistled enthusiastically. “That is a scoop.” He smiled at me. “Did you have any help from your ex?”
“Walter had nothing to do with it,” Fannon said quickly. “JeriLee was a writer before she was an actress. She only went into acting because Walter wanted her to do his play.”
“You got someone in mind for the lead?” the columnist asked.
“Anne Bancroft.”
Earl looked at me. “How do you feel about it?”
“I’m thrilled,” I said and almost jumped out of my seat to prove it. Fannon’s hand was on my cunt again.
***
The story was the lead item in the New York Post the next day.
Adolph Fannon, noted Broadway producer, confided to us at Sardi’s yesterday that he is planning to present a new play on Broadway next season by Thornton’s ex-wife. He also told us that Anne Bancroft is penciled for the lead.
That was it. Walter Thornton’s ex-wife. Although it had been two months since the divorce he never even mentioned my name.
I left the paper on the kitchen table and went into the living room just as the telephone began to ring.
It was Guy returning my call from California. “Congratulations,” he said.
“I wanted to thank you. If it weren’t for all the work you did on the play, Fannon would never have bought it.”
“I just made suggestions. You did the writing.”
“I’m glad you’re going to direct it.”
“So am I.”
“He sent the script to Anne Bancroft.”
“He told you that?” Guy’s voice was skeptical.
“Yes. He even told Earl Wilson, who ran it in today’s column.”
Guy laughed. “Don’t you believe it. I’ll give you ten to one she never got it.”
“Then why would he say something like that?”
“It’s a flyer. He’s smart. He figures she’ll hear about it and be curious enough to ask her agent to get her a copy. That way she’s asking him, he’s not asking her.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said.
“Did you get the contract yet?”
“My agent called this morning. He’s got them. By the way, I’m getting a ten thousand advance.”
“That’s great. How are the payments scheduled?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“He never pays more than thirty-five hundred until the play opens on Broadway. What you’ll probably get is a thousand on signing, a thousand when we go into rehearsal, fifteen hundred when we go on the road and the balance when and if we open in New York. Just don’t spend it until you get it.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He said a ten thousand advance.”
“Everything you get before the show opens on Broadway is considered an advance,” he said. “Check it with your agent.”
“I will,” I said. “When are you coming back?”
“I should wrap up here in about a month.”
“Please hurry, Guy. I miss having you around.”
When Guy hung up I called my agent. The payment spread was exactly as Guy had explained it to me. Apparently I still had a lot to learn.
I sat down again at the kitchen table and took out my checkbook. Even with the thirty-two hundred I had gotten from the insurance company for my car I only had about a four-thousand dollar balance. Furnishing the apartment had taken much more than I had figured.
I did some quick arithmetic. The apartment cost me about eleven hundred a month, including gas, electricity, telephone and a maid two days a week. Food, clothing and cabs came to another four hundred at least. With five months to go before we opened on Broadway, I’d be shaving
it pretty close. And if the play didn’t make it to Broadway, I’d be broke.
There was no getting away from it. I couldn’t sit around and wait for the play to come through. I needed an acting job to get me through the summer. And I needed it right away.
Chapter 7
I was on time for my appointment at George Fox’s office at ten o’clock the next morning and was ushered in almost immediately. George was senior vice president of Artists Alliance, Inc., and Walter was his personal client.
He was a short dapper man with gray hair and an easy smile. He came around the desk and kissed me on the cheek. “Congratulations,” he said. “Fannon’s really high on your play.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the seat in front of his desk. “I am disappointed about the payments though. I had hoped that it would all be paid in advance.”
“They never do that,” he said quickly. “Believe me, I personally went over your contract. You’ve got a very good deal for a first play. And more important, you have the hottest producer in town.”
“I know that. But I have money problems. I have to find some work if I want to make it until the play opens.”
“I can lend you some money,” he said quickly.
“There’s no need for that. I can get by. What I need is some work.”
“Have you anything in mind?”
“Not really. I thought maybe I could pick up some work in summer stock.”
He looked doubtful. “I shouldn’t think so. All the shows are already packaged. They begin casting in January.”
“Some writing jobs then,” I said. I knew they were shooting next fall’s TV programs.
“Pretty late for that too,” he said. “They’re usually wrapped up by January too.”
“Maybe there’s an acting job in one of the pilots. After all, I have had stage experience. I saw in last week’s Variety that they’re short of new faces for TV.”
“They always say that but whenever possible they go with the tried and true. They like to play is safe. Besides all the action is out on the Coast and they would never pay your fare out even if they wanted you. In addition to everything else, they’re cheap.”
“If there was a chance of my getting a few things, I’d pay my own way out.”
“I don’t know. I’m really not up on the situation.” He thought for a moment. “Let me put you together with a young man in our office who is into these things. I’m sure he’ll find something for you.” He picked up the telephone. “Ask Harry Gregg to come up here.”
A few minutes later Harry Gregg arrived. He was tall and thin with tousled hair and wore the black suit, white shirt, black tie and reserved expression that were standard issue in the agency.
“Harry, let me introduce you to one of the agency’s most important new talents as well as a close personal friend of mine, JeriLee Thornton… er, Randall. JeriLee, Gregg, one of the agent’s brightest and most up and coming young men.”
Harry smiled and we shook hands.
“I want you to do everything you can for her,” George continued. “I’m making you personally responsible. We’ve already made a deal with Fannon to produce a play that she has written but I want you to explore other areas in which we might be of service.”
Before I knew it, I was out of George’s office and sitting in Harry’s tiny cubbyhole. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, pushing a pile of papers to one side of his desk.
I nodded.
“Two coffees,” he said into the phone. “How do you take it?”
“Black. No sugar.”
A minute later his secretary came into the office with two plastic cups of coffee. It was very different from George’s office. There the coffee was served from an elaborate silver set in genuine Wedgwood cups.
“Did George make the deal with Fannon for you?” Harry asked.
“No. I worked on it myself but mostly it was Guy Jackson. Without him it never would have happened.”
“I thought so.”
“What do you mean?”
“George is not a negotiator. He picks up packages.” He took a swallow of coffee. “Is Guy directing?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good. I like him,” he said. “Are you friendly with your ex?” He saw the expression on my face. “I don’t mean to pry into your personal affairs, but it’s important that I know how we stand.”
“Why?”
“Walter is one of the agency’s most important clients. If he’s down on you, the agency will bury you, no matter what bullshit they hand you.”
Suddenly I liked this young man. At least he was honest. “We’re friendly,” I said.
“Does George know that?”
“I don’t know.”
“It would be helpful if he did. It would make my job easier. Right now, he probably doesn’t know how things are between you.”
“Is that why I’m down here?”
“Don’t quote me. But… yes.”
“I see.” I got to my feet. “Is there any point in us talking then?”
“Sit down, sit down,” he said quickly. “There’s no point in going off half cocked. You’ve already got the play with us, you might as well go the rest of the way. We could get lucky.”
I returned to the seat and took a sip of coffee. I had always hated the taste of coffee in plastic cups.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“Work,” I said. “Anything. Acting, writing.”
“Why?”
“I have to support myself.”
He was silent for a moment. I didn’t know whether he believed me or not. “Okay,” he said in a businesslike voice. “We have to start somewhere. Do you have a portfolio?”
“Sort of.” I took a brown envelope out of my script case. “Not very good though. They were all taken when I was in the play four or five years ago.”
He skimmed through the photographs. “We’re going to need new pictures. You looked like a kid then.”
“That was the part.”
“I’ll need a complete layout. Face, character, cheesecake. Do you have a photographer?”
“No. But I know quite a few.”
“Do you think one of them would do it for you?”
“I don’t know. I could ask.”
“If not, I know a very good one that would do exactly what we need for two hundred. And if you let him do a magazine layout on you, it could wind up costing you nothing and even making you a few dollars.”
“What kind of a layout?”
“You know. Playboy. You get fifteen hundred dollars.”
“I’d have to think about that,” I said. “Wouldn’t something like that screw up my career?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Attitudes are changing. The studios aren’t as uptight as they used to be.”
“Will he do the portfolio for the two hundred even if I don’t go for the magazine deal?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s use him. I can afford that.”
“Okay. I’ll set it up. Now, do you have a copy of the play that I can read?”
I took out a copy of the script and gave it to him.
“Is there a part in this for you?” he asked.
“The lead, but Fannon wants Anne Bancroft.”
“I’ll read it,” he said. “It will give me an idea of how you write.”
“I told George that I could go out to the Coast if you can line up a few guest spots on some of the pilot shows.”
At that moment the telephone rang. Listening, he said, “Put him on,” then, “Hello, Tony.”
He was silent for about two minutes. Finally he spoke. “How old is this girl as you see her?”
The voice crackled on the other end. “We may be in luck, Tony,” he said. “I’ve just picked up a new client. Remember JeriLee Randall? Walter Thornton’s ex-wife. She did a year on Broadway in his play and she’s just the right age. Twenty-three, that’s right. And she looks sensational. We got just one probl
em. I don’t know whether she’ll do a part like that. She’s a very classy dame.”
He listened for a few more minutes, then interrupted. “Send me the script, Tony. I’ll talk to her and see what I can do.
“No, Tony,” he said into the phone. “I told you she’s a very classy dame. She doesn’t do cocktail interviews. That’s not her style.” He paused for a moment, then looked over at me. “What’s she look like?” he echoed. “She’s sensational. Stacked like you would not believe, but very classy. Sort of a combination Ava Gardner and Grace Kelly. She’s the kind who when she comes into your office you want to bend down and kiss her pussy out of sheer reverence. So send me the script and I’ll get on it right away.”
He put down the telephone. “I’m sorry I had to talk like that,” he apologized. “But that’s the only language that son of a bitch understands. He thinks he can fuck every actress who comes into his office.”
“Who is he?”
“Tony Styles. He’s got a part open in a picture that starts shooting in New York next week and the girl he was counting on for the part got a job on the Coast.”
I had heard about him. I thought I might have met him once at a party in Hollywood with Walter. A vulgar little man with a dirty mouth. But he and his brother made pictures that made money. The Styles Brothers. “What kind of a part is it?”
“Two weeks’ work. A high class New York call girl who runs through the picture getting in and out of her clothes. He said she had some good lines but I’ll know more when I see the script. He’s desperate though and he might go as high as twenty-five hundred for the two weeks.”
“Can I read it after you get through?” I asked.
“Of course.” He looked at his watch. “My God, it’s lunchtime. Do you have a date?”
“I’m free.”
“Good. I’ll buy you some lunch and we can talk some more.”
And lunch was different too. We had sandwiches in his office.
Chapter 8
They were twins but you wouldn’t believe it looking at them. Tony Styles was five four, pudgy and vulgar, while his brother John was six one, slim, esthetic-looking and quiet. Tony’s own description was perhaps the best. “John’s the artist in the family. He’s got everything. Good taste, good manners and class. Me, I’m the hustler. But we go good together. I shoot all the shit. John shoots the picture.”
The Lonely Lady Page 17