Don't Speak to Strange Girls

by Whittington, Harry

  He listened to the phone ringing across the wires, ten, fifteen times. Finally the receiver was lifted. A weary voice said, “Hello?”

  “Flo?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry …” It was Flo, all right. But she wasn’t even going to talk to him any more.

  He felt a sudden rush of anger that made his flesh sting. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to talk to him, but he was damned if he’d let her hang up on him like this. This number was his only link with Joanne. The phone company had given him the runaround, and he couldn’t control his rage enough to attempt to reason with them. But Flo wasn’t going to do this to him. She’d never live in peace with that phone in the house unless she talked to him.

  Coldly, sweating, he dialed the number again. This time it was picked up immediately. “For God’s sake, Mr. Stuart,” Flo said. “What you want? I got a splitting headache. Knock it off, will you?”

  “Flo.”

  “All right. So I’m listening.”

  “I’m asking you. Please tell me where I can get in touch with Joanne.”

  “This is new?”

  “This time it is. She left something over here, Flo. Honest. It’s urgent I get in touch with her. I won’t tell her you told me. I won’t bother her. And — there’s a hundred dollars in it for you.”

  There was a long pause. They could have repaired the lines during the vibrant silence.

  At last Flo said, “She’s working.”

  “All right.” His heart was pounding. Sweat was bright blisters on his forehead. “Where?”

  “A drive-in restaurant — on Wilshire.” She gave him the address.

  • • •

  He left Sunset, drove down Fairfax to Wilshire. From habit he glanced at the marquee of the Old Time Movie Theatre. They were playing a silent feature he’d made, playing a supporting role to Louise Dressler. Beautiful Louise Dressler — he remembered her dignity, even as the old frump in The Goose Woman. Such a long time ago, he thought. I’m such a fool. I made that picture before Joanne was born, a long time before… .

  He cruised past the drive-in restaurant, going slowly. He wanted to turn in, but could not. If he had good sense he would drive out Wilshire to Beverly Hills, return home.

  He went around a block, came back to the drive-in. She didn’t want to see him, this was clear enough. He could paste that message on his windshield. If she wanted to see him, she would see him. She knew where he was. She had known all these three days.

  He turned the wheel, glided the hardtop convertible to a stop in the most shadowed part of the serving area. He did not touch the horn. He made up his mind. He would apologize to her. He owed her that much. He’d had no right to subject her to Hoff and Shatner and their suspicions — and his own doubts. Hell, even then he’d thought she’d laugh with him at them. She laughed at everything else. This proved the old platitude. You knew nothing about women — you could live to be a hundred, as he had, and still you wouldn’t understand them.

  He sat there, feeling his shirt getting damp under his armpits. His stomach muscles cramped, tied in a knot and the emptiness spread inside him. Suppose she walked toward his car, recognized him, and then would not speak to him? Hell, he couldn’t take that. Not right now. This would be worse than not seeing her at all.

  He saw her move across a lighted area. His heart seemed to plunge. His throat grew tight. He glanced around at the other cars, at the people in them, the people inside the air-conditioned dining room.

  She had never looked so lovely. The shorts she wore were so tight she might as well have been naked. Her legs were long sculptured columns, carefully molded of light and shadow.

  She came toward his car, carrying a pad and pencil. She walked directly to him. He studied her face in the faint light, trying to see some of his own longing reflected there. Her face showed nothing. Hell, men died of heartbreak; women never did — not since Elizabeth Barrett Browning. It had gone out of style.

  Her eyes were clouded over, and she wore a fixed smile calculated to please the male patrons. It might infuriate the women diners, but none of the carhops gave a damn about women customers. Women never tipped more than a dime anyhow.

  She recognized him. The smile seeped away and her eyes narrowed faintly.

  Clay spoke quickly, voice very low, but urgent. “I’ve missed you, Joanne. I never knew I could miss anyone so much. That’s all I came to say.”

  She met his eyes. He saw the faint glisten of tears. “I’ve missed you,” she said.

  He exhaled so heavily they both laughed a little. It was that simple. God, but it was simple.

  He smiled. “May I take you home?”

  She bit at her lip. “I don’t get off until two.”

  “I’ll wait for you,” he said. “I’ll come back. I’ll be here.”

  She reached inside the car, gripped his hand. Her fingers were like ice. She pressed his hand hard, holding his gaze. Her voice remained steady, business-like: “Would you like something to eat?”

  “My God. No. My God.”

  • • •

  Two A. M.

  She came out of the restaurant. The parking area was silent and lights were dimmed. Out back some men in aprons and T-shirts were pushing garbage pails through the service door.

  She was wearing a skirt and blouse. She hurried to him. He slapped open the door and she hit the seat hard, sliding across it into his arms.

  Clay’s arms went around her. Her mouth struck against his, parting, pressing.

  The rattle of garbage pails, somebody’s whistling, the sudden starting of a car engine in the darkness were not sounds, they were one sound.

  He was out of breath when he pulled away from her. His hands trembled. “Where do you want to go?” he said.

  “I better go home.”

  “What?” The word exploded across his lips. “This time. I better, Clay … I’ll see you again.”

  “When? I’m crazy about you, Joanne. You can’t do this to me.”

  “Do what? What am I doing?”

  “Putting me off like this. Please, darling, don’t do it. I know I’m a fool. I know. But I’ve missed you. I’ve been nuts.”

  “It’s so late.”

  “Who the hell cares?”

  “I’m tired.”

  He started the engine, put the car in reverse. “You’re not — just getting even with me, Joanne?”

  She lay against him, turned her head, her hair tickling his throat. “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe for the same reason you didn’t call, didn’t come near me. Maybe you’re — punishing me for what happened … I had it coming and I’m sorry about it, Joanne. Before God, I’m sorry. They won’t say anything to you again. I’ll cut their tongues out.”

  “It’s not them.” Her voice was low.

  “What is it?”

  “Let’s don’t talk about it.”

  “Let’s do talk about it. I want to talk about it. Whatever it is, for God’s sake, let’s get it out in the open and get rid of it.”

  “Not tonight, Clay. I’m tired.”

  He stepped hard on the gas. She gave him her address, and even knowing that he would know where she lived from now on didn’t lift his spirits any. She was pressed against him, lying in his arms, as close as she’d ever been, and yet he felt lonely and unfulfilled. There was a flatness between them, the way it might be if you left the cork out of a champagne bottle. It would still be champagne, you could still drink it, but it would not be the same.

  It would never be the same again.

  chapter twelve

  CLAY LET the car roll to the curb before the apartment house where Joanne lived. There were other cars parked along here on both sides of the narrow street. Most of the houses were dark, but lights burned on each floor of her apartment building.

  He sat without moving, staring at the Spanish-type apartment building, its forecourt and its silent fountain. The place didn’t look bad or shabby, simply old. W
hen this structure had been built, everything in town followed the Spanish influence. That was a long time ago — about the time he was playing that supporting role in the silent picture starring Louise Dressler.

  Let Joanne out of here, Stuart told himself. She wants to get away from you. Let her go. She’s a child. You’re an old man. That’s reason enough.

  He reached over, opened the door for her. His voice was hollow. “Okay,” he said. “Have fun.”

  She stayed where she was a moment. The courtesy light glowed yellowly. Her face was pale. She did not look happy. She did not look much happier than he felt.

  “Don’t you want to see me again?” she said.

  “I don’t want to bother you.”

  “Clay. Stop.”

  “What do you want me to say? What am I supposed to do?”

  “You said you missed me.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “You do want to see me again. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t want to let you go right now. Does that answer your question?”

  “It’s just that it’s so late — I’m tired. I’ve a little bit of a headache. The excitement, I guess.”

  “What excitement?”

  She pressed her palm against his cheek. “What do you think I’ve been thinking about since you said you’d meet me at two?”

  “May I walk you upstairs? To your door?”

  Joanne glanced toward the apartment house. She bit her lip. After a moment, she shrugged. “All right. Come on.”

  He held her hand as they crossed the walk, went past the silent fountain. They could hear laughter from an upstairs floor. Music trailed down to them.

  They went up the ancient, self-service elevator to the third floor. Third floor, mark this well, Clay told himself. Mark it well, this is where she lives.

  When they stepped out into the third-floor corridor, music and laughter slapped them in the face. Joanne glanced up at him. A doorway stood open. He was scowling. Young people were crowded into the tiny apartment space and spilled through the open door into the hallway.

  “Flo,” Joanne said. “Flo’s having a party.”

  Clay felt a twist of hurt and anger. If she’d known about the party and the noise, why’d she insisted on coming home home when she was tired? He didn’t say anything.

  A dark-haired man who looked to be about twenty-five was leaning against the doorjamb. He turned at the sound of the elevator and grinned.

  “Joanne. Baby. You kept me waiting long enough. Where you been? You promised to get here early.”

  “Hello, Johnny.”

  “Come on. Let’s dance. I been waiting for you. I been faithful. I’ve drunk a fifth all by myself. But I let the dames alone.” He caught Joanne about the waist and half-danced, half-wrestled her through the crowded doorway.

  She looked back at Stuart once. Her face was gray. He felt sick. What have I gotten myself into?

  He stood there a moment feeling as though he were caught and swirling in a whirlpool of raucous laughter and rock-and-roll music. God, he thought, I’m really lost here. I can’t even waltz.

  Some of the women in the doorway had recognized him. They turned, watching him and whispering so the word burned across the room, eating its way through the hard beat of the music, the senseless swells of laughter. Clay Stuart. The star. He was out in the corridor.

  He could not see Joanne any more. He turned, moved past the corridor pay-telephone toward the elevator.

  “Clay. Mr. Stuart.”

  He paused, glancing across his shoulder. It was not Joanne, but someone was calling him. He needed some excuse to delay for a moment longer. He turned and waited.

  She had platinum hair — at least, they’d called it platinum in the thirties. It was hacked about her head and ears. She had a pixie face, ceramic-tinted flesh stretched taut over jutting bone structure, a thin and hungry body. She wore bolero pants and nylon blouse knotted just beneath the knobs of her breasts.

  “I’m Flo,” she said. “Don’t you recognize me?” She cocked her head. “See the cauliflower ear?”

  He smiled. “Oh, hello.”

  She laughed. She was very drunk. “Don’t say that word. I don’t care if I never hear that word again.”

  He smiled, looking at her. A boy pushed through the knot of people clogging the doorway now. He came toward Flo and Clay with his pelvis pushed forward, walking with a list. His shirt was dirty and his corduroy trousers were streaked with grime and grease. His lifeless brown hair flopped across his forehead.

  “Hello, Clay,” he said. “Somebody said you were out here. What’s up, baby? You slumming?”

  Clay tried to smile. “Hello, Bunny,” he said. Bunny Harper had played a role in his latest picture eight months ago. Bunny belonged to the Studio Method of acting. He had expressed nothing but contempt for the motion picture people on that set. Stuart remembered the kid never took up a cue, he fingered it, thought it over, lived it, experienced it, suffered through it, and then mumbled something about it a few minutes, or a few reels later.

  Bunny caught his arm. “Come on in. I want you to meet some people.” He lifted his voice. “Only man I respected in that last dog we made. Only one who didn’t chew up the scenery.”

  Clay said, “Ever get that exhaust pipe repaired on your sports car, Bunny?”

  Bunny laughed. “Come on now, Clay. Would you destroy an image?”

  Clay could smell him. He remembered he could smell Bunny all during that picture, at least everytime he was near in a scene. He wondered if it were true that these kids could buy a deodorant that smelled like body odor. That’s what some electrician had said on the set. “They can’t smell like men,” the electrician laughed. “They buy that odor — instant body odor — roll on.”

  “Reckon not, Bunny. It’s late. I got to get my sleep. You kids can take it. I can’t.”

  “How are things going with you, baby? You planning anything new? I got me an MG ordered. Did you hear about that? Got a part coming out over at Allied. That ought to be good for laughs, eh, Clay?”

  “They turn out some good product.”

  “Sure. Product. That’s why TV is killing the movies. That’s why the movies will never give what the stage gives — ”

  “Good night, Bunny,” Clay said. Bunny nodded toward him and turned, still talking to the people who had crowded out into the corridor.

  Flo walked with Clay to the elevator. He punched the down button. He took out his wallet, removed a hundred-dollar bill, folded it. He took Flo’s hand, pressed the money into it.

  “Thanks for telling me where she was,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come up here. She tried to get me not to.”

  Flo tightened her fist on the folded money. She laughed, off-key. “You making jokes? She promised ‘fore she went to work … she was going to bring you around so you could pay off — so I could collect.”

  The elevator door opened. Clay walked through it. He pressed the button. The doors closed behind him. He did not move until the doors opened again on the ground floor.

  And then he walked out to his car at the curb. He did not look back.

  chapter thirteen

  CLAY REOPENED the script of Man of the Desert for the third time to Chapter One, page one. He had read this part of the book twice and it made no sense to him. Worse than that, it angered and infuriated him. It was trash; worse, it was the same old trash. Why did they believe people would leave a TV set to see something made from this drivel?

  Before he read the first page he was reaching for a cigarette. Remember how good cigarettes used to taste? He lighted it, sat up on the library divan, sucking at it, trying to draw something from it. It was bitter, dry and hot. He crushed it out in the littered ashtray beside him on the floor.

  He poured himself a drink, found the whiskey without taste. He stared at the glass, rattled the ice against the sweated sides, added another dash of bourbon. Nothing helped.

  His mind returned to the girl at Palm Springs. It had
been only yesterday, but already he had difficulty remembering her name. He didn’t want to remember. He sweated, thinking about her. It had not been pleasant. It had started out, two people with nothing to say to each other. They could say what they liked that sex was the beginning, middle and end of an affair. It wasn’t true. There had to be some sort of reaction. It was not something you could pretend. If it were true, the trip to Palm Springs would have been successful. She had tried hard enough.

  Her name was Reva.

  She was lovely, and even when she undressed slowly — making a production out of it, watching him, and he admitted aloud and in his own mind that she was lovely, that was it. Nothing.

  She sank to the floor between his legs, looking up at him.

  “Do you like me?”

  “Sure.” He had to have another drink. He could not even stay in this air-conditioned cottage with her until he had another drink. He reached out, caught the bottle by the neck and drank from it deeply.

  “You drink so much,” she said.

  “Hell. What makes you think I drink so much?”

  “It’s all right, baby. It’s just that if you pass out, you won’t be much good to me, will you, baby?”

  “What makes you think I’ll be any good to you anyhow?”

  She laughed. “I’ll make you be good to me.” Her hands, her face, her mouth, moved against him, and he felt the heat of her body and the heat of her mouth, the hotness of her saliva and he felt himself growing warm, and it was the heat of anger and rage mixed with his desire and hatred for her.

  He reached down and caught her by the throat.

  “Baby. You’re hurting me.”

  “Why don’t you get out of here?”

  She caught his fingers, twisting them away from her throat.

  “You can have anything you want, baby.”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  “Don’t tell Reva lies.” She came upward slowly, the weight of her body working against him, thrusting him back on the bed. “You drive me crazy,” she cried in his ear, “the feel of you, the bigness, the hardness — you drive me wild before you even touch me.”

  “Let me alone.” He put his hand against her chin and shoved backwards. She clung to him, laughing. He had brought her down here to play, and she was going to play. He wanted to play rough, but a lot of movie people were like that. Ordinary passions never stirred them. Laughing, she slipped past his extended arm, buried her face in his neck, laughing and biting him… .