by Nan
“What the hell took so long?” Janos opened the bag eagerly. “They didn’t charge you, did they?”
“No, Johnny,” she crooned, unable to take her eyes from Cal. “It’s a present for your asshole.” She smiled at Cal. “Do we have a deal?”
“You know when you have a deal?” Janos answered. “Not when you make a deal. You know you have a deal when he tries to get out of it and can’t. That’s when you know.” Janos took out a roll of toilet paper and a copy of the New York Times. “Where the hell is Libby? I have to talk to her about the toilet paper.”
Rikki winced and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Johnny. You’re so disgusting. I don’t want to have another discussion about your taking a crap.”
Janos put a hand to his stomach. “You’ll talk about whatever I want to talk about.”
“Rikki Lee is not here,” she said, staring ahead. “I’ll give her your message when she comes back. Thank you for calling.”
Janos slid out of his seat. “Listen, my darling girl, I am one of the world’s richest men. I drink only the finest wines and eat only the finest food. If what goes in is the best there is, then so is what comes out!” Janos grimaced. “Oh, Jesus!” He ran toward the men’s room.
Rikki sat down. Very slowly, she began peeling off her jacket. It wouldn’t have mattered if the temperature had been below zero, she was determined to take off that jacket. As determined as Cal was not to be caught staring at her tight white T-shirt.
“Johnny knows there’s no one who can compete with him. He knows I’d never leave him. But he likes to play little games with himself.”
Cal smiled. She was a lot smarter than he thought. “Such as?”
“Such as making me do outrageous things that no other husband would stand for.”
A hell of a lot smarter.
“You see my pictures in High Life?”
“No.”
Rikki had her own copy. She opened to the centerfold, never taking her eyes from Cal. “You didn’t?”
It took all his control not to look down at her T-shirt. Instead, he stared at the not nearly as satisfying nude photo. Rikki turned the pages slowly showing him other poses. Cal put his hand over the magazine.
Rikki was confused. “Don’t you like these pictures?”
“No.”
“Did you see me in The Purple Woman?”
“No.”
“Sister and Brother?”
“No.”
She shook the magazine angrily in front of his face. “And you don’t like these pictures?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, why the hell do you want to do a movie with me?”
Rikki probably would have accepted any answer Cal chose to give her, including the truth. But Cal knew there was one thing she wasn’t prepared to hear. With a big smile on his face, he said, “Because I think you could be a very fine actress.”
Dr. Loren Sawyer was a nose man. The nose man. Women throughout the city wore their Sawyer noses as proudly as their Hermès scarves and Vuitton satchels. Tuesday was his day to lunch with Gabriella. The king of the nooners was having a consultation with his wife. Loren’s secretary was back in the office, and Room 703 at the Plaza was empty.
He ordered two kir royales, then waited for Stu to leave. “What kind of idiot do you think I am?”
Gabriella looked around the room. “Shh. I’m counting noses.”
“Shh, nothing! You have a pimple!”
“I don’t have a pimple.”
“You’ve been eating chocolates again.”
“You’re crazy.”
“I’m not crazy. I’m a doctor. I know a skin eruption when I see one.”
“Loren, I cannot live like this. I cannot be victimized by your insane accusations.”
“Insane, my ass. You’ve been eating chocolates behind my back. You little fool, don’t you think I can smell them on your breath? Are you trying to ruin my career showing up here with a pimple?”
“Dear God, Loren, I’d sooner die than hurt you. Help me, darling,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do anymore. This morning I waited on Fifth Avenue for Godiva to open, like an alcoholic in front of a Bowery bar. Then I went to Elizabeth Arden where I locked myself in the ladies’ room and ate half a pound of walnut creams.”
He shook his head and sighed. He took her hand and held it gently. Gabriella meant everything to him. “Darling,” he said lovingly, “perhaps you should go back on cocaine.”
“The only problem with focusing on her youth,” Andre said with a mouthful of Truffle Pot Pie, “is that she didn’t begin to paint until she was sixty-seven. As much as I applaud your wanting to avoid the obvious, we just might be missing something in a movie about Grandma Moses if she’s not a grandmother and hasn’t begun to paint.”
Junior stabbed at his smoked trout. He couldn’t get Mary’s words out of his head. “I’ve got a book for you. World War II. Right up your alley.” His father had taught him to go by the gut. Junior turned around quickly. Senior was staring at him.
“You know,” Andre said, dabbing the champagne sauce from his chin, “she started everything late. She didn’t even get married until she was twenty-seven which, in those days . . .”
But Junior wasn’t listening to him. He was listening to his gut and his gut was screaming World War II. It was time to dump Andre.
* * *
The indieprods were very serious. He, despite a new diamond-drop earring, wore a pair of thick horn-rimmed glasses. She wore a dark suit and clenched an unlit cigarillo between her teeth. “It has to be that table,” she said, pointing across the room.
The male nodded, then shrugged helplessly while staring at Carol Channing and James Clavell. “They’d never give that table to us.”
“Not to us, nitwit,” she said. “To Meryl. The only problem is I can’t figure out who should sit where.”
“Boy, girl, boy, girl.”
“Listen, Sparky, even if you and I could figure out which we were, that’s not the way to do it. Don’t you know anything about power lunches?”
“What do I know about power, period?” he asked. “In my little life, power is not letting anyone get ahead of me on the lox line at Zabar’s.”
“Leapin’ lizards,” she gasped. “I have gone into the movie business with Ashley Wilkes! Do you want to be at the end of the lox line all your life?”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t learn.”
“All right! Lesson Number One. What rhymes with power?”
He took off his glasses and put a hand over his eyes. Then his face brightened. “Cower!”
The female reached over and held his arm as though her fingers were taking his blood pressure. “Limo. Messenger. Opening. Extra. Immediate. Rich. Big. New.”
“Producer dearest, it is no secret that the sperm bank has not been running my machine ragged with messages. I am, in the immortal words of Jerry Herman, what I am. And even though you have a mother with an American Express card and I have a mother with nothing but hot flashes, we are down for the count together.”
She spit a piece of tobacco from her cigarillo onto the table. “Movies make strange bedfellows.”
He looked down at the tablecloth. “I want to sit next to Meryl.”
“Do you want to look at her out of the corner of your eye, or do you want to stare at her head on like a man?”
“Don’t be stupid. I can’t do anything like a man.”
“Here’s the problem, Alfalfa. The lunchor should sit in the aisle in order to control the flow of service. But with a blue-plate special like Meryl, do we want the lunchee facing into the room being distracted by admiring glances?”
“No.”
“Aha! But how can you possibly seat someone in the aisle who once portrayed Nora Ephron?”
“You’re right. You can’t.”
“But then again,” she said with a smile, “whose lunch is it anyway?”
Loren, kir royale in hand, was making the kind of rounds they ha
dn’t taught in medical school. Prior to perfecting the art of making new noses from old, Loren was a major supplier of cocaine to a clientele he euphemistically called his patients. As yet another example of the adaptability of the law of supply and demand, as well as the unlimited opportunities for members of the AMA, the more sniffs he supplied, the more demand for new noses.
He went over to Junior and put a hand on his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be here?” Loren asked. “I could have saved you an office visit.”
Junior stood up to shake hands and whispered to Loren. “I think I have a kidney stone.”
“Yuch! I’ll send you to someone.”
“I don’t want to go to someone. I want you to check me out.”
“Take my advice. Go to someone else.”
“I don’t want a stranger feeling me up.”
“Go to someone else, Junior. Trust me. The moment you take down your pants you’ll ruin our whole doctor-patient relationship.” Suddenly, Loren recognized the man with whom Junior was having lunch. “Is that you?”
Andre rolled his eyes. “How the mighty have swollen.”
“My God. Let me send you to a doctor.”
Junior excused himself, saying he had to go to the men’s room.
Andre swallowed a large piece of truffle. He forced a smile. The lump in his throat hurt almost as much as the sudden cramp in his stomach. He knew Junior wasn’t going to the men’s room.
On his way across the aisle, Junior passed Senior’s table. Father and son looked at one another without saying a word. Mary Borden was on her way back from Fay’s table. Junior stopped her. “I’ve been thinking about that book. And I am interested.”
“I knew you would be. I’ll have a copy messengered over this afternoon. No one’s seen it yet.”
Junior nodded. “What can you tell me about it?”
That wasn’t the way Mary operated. She had already told him the book was right up his alley. That should have been enough. It would have been enough for any self-respecting editor. But as far as Mary was concerned, self-respecting wasn’t an adjective that had yet reached Hollywood. “I can tell you who I would cast as your German general.” She glanced across the room at Cal.
“Thanks.” As Junior approached the indieprods, he stopped and smiled. “Look who’s here. Children of an even lesser God.”
The male got up and whispered, “Whilst we speak, Meryl is reading the script.”
“Forgive me if I don’t call Liz Smith yet.” Junior crossed the aisle to Cal. “I was looking for you at Gloria’s party,” he lied.
“I got in too late,” Cal lied back. “Seems everyone was there but the Lindbergh baby.”
“Listen,” Junior said, still ignoring Rikki, “I have something that’s right up your alley. Can we do lunch?”
“Sure.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“You might want to bring Smitty,” Junior said. Nice touch, he thought, seeing the sudden glint in Cal’s eyes.
“Sure. I can make it tomorrow. But Smitty’s on the coast.”
Junior forced a laugh. “Good. I hate making deals with agents.” Perfect, he thought. Just perfect. Junior smiled and put his hand under Rikki’s chin. “Nice pictures, sweetheart.”
Once in the men’s room, Junior picked up the phone. He used his credit card to call his lawyer in Los Angeles. “Parker? I need to know how much Cal Dennis got for his last picture. Also, what directors he likes to work with.”
“How about what he wants for Christmas?”
“You still have that lady friend at Mary’s agency?”
“Don’t make it sound like a covert operation. It’s all on the up and up. I pay her and she steals for me.”
“Make sure she doesn’t send anyone Before Dawn for forty-eight hours. I can feel it in my gut, Parker. I’ve got Cal Dennis just where I want him. This is going to be my deal!”
Janos sat back in the closed stall. He shook his head. “You should live so long!” he muttered under his breath.
And inside the other stall, Andre covered his face with his hands. Jesus Christ. He was going to have to cancel Pritikin again.
* * *
Cal slid onto the banquette next to Phyllis. He needed time between rounds with Janos. He sat next to Phyllis not because he liked her better than Donald but because male movie stars always sat next to women. “Where the hell is Libby?”
Phyllis smiled. “I assumed she was simply too exhausted after what must have gone on last night.”
“What was last night?” Cal asked.
“Darling, I thought you were.”
Donald wondered what Cal would say about his sleeping with Steven. Suddenly, he felt a kick from Phyllis. He had been wondering too long.
“Some wine?” Phyllis pushed her glass in front of Cal. “I barely touched it.” She watched closely as he brought her glass to his lips. She envied the glass. Then she felt a kick from Donald. “Tell me what you know about Chris Reeve.”
“He’s a good actor.”
“What she really wants to know,” Donald said with relish, “is why he turned down her new play.”
“I’m desperate to find the right leading man,” Phyllis said, imagining Cal in the part.
Donald was imagining Cal in his bed. Not that Cal was his type. But wouldn’t it just kill Steven?
“What about Bill Hurt?” Cal asked.
Phyllis took hold of Cal’s middle finger and squeezed hard. “I need someone . . . . the part needs someone . . . . ripe.”
Cal began to laugh. “How ripe? You talking Don Johnson or Van Johnson?”
“I’m talking Cal Dennis.”
Cal stared at Phyllis. Broadway. That would take the heat off. Especially if he could turn it into a picture deal with some upfront money. “No,” he said. No was always the first step in negotiating.
“Just think about it,” Donald offered. “Let’s meet at the club and talk. We can take a swim. You know, if you were on the boards, you’d be close to Libby.”
Phyllis stepped as hard as she could on Donald’s toe. Foxy Donald. But not foxy enough. She smiled and pulled the fourth ace. “Oh, yes! And you’d be able to keep an eye on Steven!”
* * *
Was Libby Dennis worth dying for?
The question reverberated in Birnbaum’s head even after he left Anders. He didn’t like to think of himself as being in the “dying” business. Birnbaum thought he was in the business of keeping people alive. Just like the two Alka Seltzers in his paper cup. He watched the bubbles. Jewish champagne. He held the cup to his nose and sniffed. It wasn’t such a hot year.
For one thing, Birnbaum hadn’t been to bed with a woman in over four months. He winced as he emptied the cup in a single gulp. Actually, it was six months. But “over four months” sounded better. In all that time he’d thought of no one but his wife, not for any longer than it took to turn a page or cross the street, but now he couldn’t stop thinking about Libby. Not because he considered her a potential threat to the security of the President. She was a threat to him. It worried Birnbaum to be thinking about Libby as much as he was. It worried him that he might be adjusting to his separation. As unprepared as he had been for his wife’s departure, he was equally unwilling to come to terms with it. But there he was, chug-a-lugging Alka Seltzers because he wanted Libby Dennis to fall into his arms.
Harmon opened the door. “You busy?”
“Yes. I was about to read your complaint again.”
Harmon turned red. “I didn’t complain about you. I objected to pulling an all-night detail without sufficient cause.”
“What the hell does sufficient cause have to do with it? The law of cause and effect is strictly for cops. In the protection racket there is no such thing. Your job is to say gesundheit before I sneeze. Nobody gets a medal for catching the guy after he kills the President.”
The younger man didn’t know what to say. He looked at Birnbaum and shrugged.
“Gesundheit.”
“There may be hope for you yet.” Birnbaum tore up the complaint.
“I came for your okay on the shower curtain.” Harmon showed him a layout board with photographs of the front entrance to Libby’s. Long shots. Medium shots. Close-ups. An artist had drawn the entrance to scale marking the facade for screwpoints. The idea was to enclose the entrance with what looked like a U-shaped shower curtain. The presidential limo would drive up onto the sidewalk and into the curtained area. Spectators would not be able to see the President get out of the car. Or see how many bodies were shielding him.
Birnbaum looked up at Harmon. “I don’t like using this goddamn thing.”
“Well, the engineer says . . .”
“I don’t care what the engineer says. Harmon, I would like to point out, even though I don’t have a degree in engineering, that this contraption has no top. Even with a top, it has no lining. Everybody stands out like silhouettes in a shooting gallery. We might as well send invitations to every nut in the city.”
“Then why did you use it last time?”
“It was situation-expedient. He was staying overnight at the Plaza. We had all of Fifty-eighth Street covered. We needed to secure Limo One. Besides, they had a canopy for a top.” Birnbaum leaned close. He spoke as though they were old friends. “What the hell, Harmon. Just between the two of us, can we get away without a top? I mean, there’s no chance this rig could fall and crush the President to death?”
Harmon laughed. “Of course not. That can’t happen.”
Before Harmon could take another breath, Birnbaum grabbed him by the wrist and held tight. “Of course it could happen! Things happen. And they happen. And they happen. They happen because someone said they couldn’t happen.” He let go of Harmon. “I don’t trust the curtain and I don’t trust you. You’re off the detail. Get the hell back to Tucson.”
“But I just started . . .”
“Wrong. You just finished,” Birnbaum shouted. “I don’t give second chances.”
He waited for Harmon to leave and then took a deep breath. He felt sorry for the kid but there was nothing to do about it. The Secret Service couldn’t stay in business giving second chances. Except to Libby Dennis. He was going to give her a second chance to get into bed with him. Birnbaum asked himself again, Was she worth dying for? He sure as hell was going to find out.