The Jet Set

by Mack Reynolds

  Marcella evidently didn’t know whether to be impatient with him or impressed by his performance. Certainly the scene had made her party. It would be a long time before the Jet Set had to seek elsewhere for a conversational item. The Contessa di Loraine had come up with a doozy this time. A young man who was capable of performing a quite with a fighting bull one day, and then, less than a week later, almost killing a man in a drunken brawl with his bare hands.

  Now, fully dressed for travel, she looked down at him.

  “Allah preserve us,” she snapped. “You can’t possibly go looking like that. What in the world did you do to that poor, horrible man? How in hell did he get in anyway? We’ll be lucky if we’re not all expelled from Spain. Happily, I was able to bribe Don Felipe. Theoretically, you both fell down the terrace steps. Remember that, by the way. Allah, I hope that horrible Grinney doesn’t denounce you. The Guardia Civil is terribly stuffy about fights in which people are hurt. I’ve never seen such a fist fight.”

  “It wasn’t a fist fight,” Larry muttered.

  “Well, what in the name of Allah was it?”

  Larry didn’t want to bother to explain. Talking hurt his face. He said, “It’s a form of judo. The most advanced form.”

  “What’s judo?”

  “Do you know what jujitsu is?”

  “Well, yes, like Japanese fighting.”

  “Well, karate is the prototype of Japanese jujitsu, Chinese Kenpo, Indian Nanpa Ken, Mongolian Hoppa Ken, and the most dangerous of all.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” She shook her overly black hair in exasperation.

  “I know,” Larry sighed. “At any rate, I used to study it under a Japanese in Los Angeles, for exercise. In the summer I’d follow the rodeos, in the winter I’d study karate. I hold a Third Dan Black Belt.”

  “What in the hell is a black belt?”

  “Sort of a degree,” Larry told her. He was impatient of the subject and still ashamed of betraying the tenets of the karate society to which he belonged. “What do you mean I can’t go looking like this?”

  “I told you the other day, damn it. The trip to London and Paris.”

  She hadn’t told him, or if she had, he didn’t remember now. However.

  Marcella said, “I wanted to have you outfitted in London. Besides I have some boring business there. Some of my managers are opening a series of branches in England, and there’s some red tape or other. At any rate, we were going to London, and then to Paris for a few days. Oh, you fool. Now you’ve spoiled it all. I wanted to show you — ”

  Larry interrupted her. “Well, I don’t feel up to it, obviously. Besides, I don’t like the idea of you outfitting me, as you put it.”

  “But your clothes are impossible.”

  He didn’t feel like arguing. Marcella didn’t seem to be able to get it through her head that he didn’t want her slipping him spending money or buying him expensive presents. It was an overgrown Jaguar last week. She’d wanted to buy him a British Jaguar sports car.

  Marcella Loraine looked down at him. Frankly, she had never been so thrilled in her life as when he had so quickly, so devastatingly, demolished Jack Grinney the night before. Now she squinted her eyes, the better to see him, stretched out there in the bed. Damn it, she wished she had the time to crawl in with him. But the plane. And, besides, she suspected he was in no mood for horizontal refreshments.

  Willis came to the door and cleared his throat apologetically. “Madam …”

  She looked at her watch. “Don’t bother me, for crissakes, you clod. I know the plane is waiting. Let it wait.”

  “Yes, Madam.” But he remained standing there. Were Marcella Loraine actually to miss her connections, he, Willis, would never hear the end.

  “Well, damn it …” She looked down at Larry. “I’ll be back in about a week. I’ll bring you something nice from London.”

  Confound it. The woman sounded as though she were talking to some ten-year-old kid. How could he get through to her that he wasn’t interested in her buying him things like — well, like the male whore Jack Grinney had painted him?

  She bent down and kissed him lushly, passionately, hurting his mouth. And then was gone.

  “Moses,” he grunted meaninglessly after her.

  • • •

  Loretta Alsace gave him exactly one day of recuperation before showing up and going into her pitch.

  She had timed it better than she could possibly have known. Lying in bed and with nothing to do except to think, and especially to think about the reason for his being in bed, and all that had transpired over the past month, Larry Land had been making some agonizing reappraisals.

  What in the world had happened to him? He had started this European trek with the idea of seeing as much of the Continent and its way of life as he could in about a year. The museums of London, some of the Left Bank life in Paris, castles in Spain, the mountains of Switzerland, the canals of Venice. That sort of thing. And here he was now.

  And where was he? Getting swacked each day, and performing like a male goat each night, in the ultra-lavish home of one of the world’s most notorious divorcees. Admittedly, this taste of the life led by the Jet Set had its attractions. Anybody who thinks he prefers bacon and beans to boeuf bourgignon, or beer to a Rhine Riesling, simply lacks the ability to appreciate. And he who would prefer to sleep on the straw mattress of a third-rate Spanish pension instead of in a luxurious bed, in the elaborate bedrooms of Marcella’s villa, deserved the bedbugs he got.

  However … the words of Jack Grinney kept coming back to him. What was he doing in return for all this? Oh, he knew what he was doing all right, all right. He was doing exactly what Grinney had accused him of doing.

  Larry Land turned in the bed uncomfortably. Confound it, he should be getting up and moving around. Besides, he was going to have to be seeing a dentist. And how was he going to pay for that? Tell the dentist to send the bill to Marcella Loraine?

  Willis knocked carefully at the door, which was open, and came in.

  Larry looked up at the butler.

  Willis said, “Miss Alsace to see you, sir.”

  Larry wondered what in the devil she wanted. “Well, show her in, Willis. I suppose you ought to have one of the girls bring a serving cart with drinks.”

  “Very good, sir. Oh, sir …”

  “Yes?”

  “That was a spectacular, ah, fracas. Very well done, sir.”

  Larry had to laugh. “Thanks, Willis.”

  “I thought he had you there for a moment, sir.”

  Larry’s voice was dry. “So did I.”

  Loretta came sweeping in regally. She was done by Dior today, Dior and her own personal makeup man, without whom she never traveled. And she wore, besides, her dazzle smile. The smile that had once set her on her career as Miss Smiles.

  “Oh, dahling,” she told him in anguish. “You look terrible.”

  He grinned at her. “I can’t say the same for you. Sit down, Loretta. This is mostly fake. I’m just too lazy to get up.”

  She took a chair, not too near the bed, to his surprise.

  “Willis,” she said, “before you go, could you mix me something appropriate to the hour?”

  “A whiskey sour, Miss Loraine?” Willis stepped to the portable bar the maid had brought in.

  “That should do. Rye, please.”

  “I remember your taste for Maryland whiskey, Miss Loraine.”

  “Why, how thoughtful, Willis.”

  “Might as well make it two,” Larry sighed.

  When Willis was gone, closing the door after him, Loretta sipped her drink and looked thoughtfully over her glass at the invalid. “Dahling,” she said, “it simply isn’t for you, you know.”

  “Oh?” Larry said. “What?”

  “This life.”

  The coincidence was that he’d already about decided the same just before she had entered. However, there wasn’t much he could say to that.

  L
oretta said, “I thought you were a photographer.”

  “I am. I helped work my way through Berkeley doing newspaper stuff.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “I suppose I’m average or better. It’s according to the work.”

  “Ever do any publicity things, Larry? You know, the glamour stuff?” She knew damn well he had. Loretta had just had a report from her favorite private investigation agency in California.

  “Some.” He scowled at her. “What’s all this leading up to?”

  She seemed to switch subjects. “Have you read Big Bill’s latest thriller?”

  “I can’t remember reading anything of his.”

  She finished her drink and put down the glass. “It’s entitled Seven Nights Running. I’d gamble it’s the best suspense thing he’s done.”

  “I haven’t read it. I’d like to, now that I know him. Have you got a copy?”

  She didn’t answer that directly. Instead, she fished around in her purse for cigarettes and tiny jewel-encrusted lighter. After she had lit up she said, “I am going to gamble on it, as a matter of fact. Particularly if I can get Johnny Brunner to play opposite me.”

  Larry thought he got it. “Oh, you mean you’re going to act in one of Bill’s films. Who’s going to produce it?”

  She ground the cigarette out, a bit impatiently. “That’s what I’ve been telling you. I’m going to produce it. I’ve already taken an option on the book. And don’t think that drunken bum doesn’t strike a hard bargain when it comes to business.”

  Larry Land couldn’t think of anything in particular to say, so he said, “I’ll be darned.”

  Loretta said, “Damn it, I could use another drink. How do you get Willis?”

  He began shoving the covers back. “I’ll make one for you.”

  “Never mind, you stay where you are, dahling,” she told him. “You look good as an invalid.”

  “I’m not that banged up,” he growled, sinking back.

  “You’re pretty banged up.” She went to the portable bar and began concocting their drinks. “Well, how about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “Do you want to come in with me?”

  Larry said in exasperation, “I keep getting the impression I came into this conversation about three sentences too late. What are you talking about?”

  She came back and handed him one of the sours. It wasn’t nearly so excellent as that prepared by Willis. She sighed at him and sat down again. “Don’t you realize that producing a film is a rather complicated matter? There’s a good deal more to it than a few actors, directors and cameramen. For instance, in my last, the budget was four million. Half of that went to production, half to exploitation and publicity.”

  “What’s all this got to do with me?”

  “You said you were a photographer with some experience in publicity. Fine, you’re on the spot. I won’t have to send all the way to New York, or even London.”

  At long last it hit him. “You mean you’re offering me a job?”

  “Of course,” she said reasonably. “Two hundred a week, plus expenses. Less than American standards, perhaps, but not bad over here.”

  “I’ll be darned,” Larry said. Then, without further thought, “When do I start?”

  She sought another cigarette. “As soon as you can get out of that bed, as far as I’m concerned. The story is to be shot right here in southern Spain. The sooner we start grinding out publicity, the better. I’ll have a flack on hand in a few days. Fellow I’ve worked with before who’s between productions up in Madrid now. Named Bert Mix.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Larry said, overwhelmed. He had no idea, of course, of deserting sociology for publicity photography, but it was an opportunity to see a completely new way of life. It’d add immeasurably to his year in Europe. And at that pay he should actually be able to save at least half his salary. Larry Land could use a nest egg when he got back to the States. It all sounded better and better to him.

  “I just hope I can do it satisfactorily,” he said.

  “You’ll do all right,” Loretta told him, coming to her feet. She dazzled at him with her professional smile again. “I’ll send someone to move your bags over to my place.”

  He looked at her. “Over to your place?”

  “Oh, yes. We’ll start some publicity things immediately. I won’t have as much time, once shooting starts. It’ll be best for you to be handy at my villa, night and day. We’ll work over some special gimmicks, particularly after Bert Mix gets down. He’s a dilly at it.”

  “Well … fine,” Larry said.

  • • •

  When the Contessa di Loraine returned, six days later, she blew up in a temperamental explosion on a scale never witnessed before by Larry Land, nor, for that matter, by Loretta Alsace, who in her profession had seen a wide variety of temperamental explosions.

  Marcella had stormed past the buttresses Loretta had raised, in the form of carefully instructed servants, as though they didn’t exist. She had blasted through the halls of the Loretta Alsace villa — if anything, more extensive than her own — to confront them finally at the kidney-shaped swimming pool where the film star and Larry were taking the midday siesta, which makes sense in the Spanish sun of the Costa del Sol.

  “You bitch!” she shrilled at Loretta.

  The other laughed softly. “How in the world did you ever get by Higgins and Manuel, dahling?”

  Marcella, her face livid with fury, spun on Larry Land, who was looking embarrassed. “You … you … bastard. After all I’ve done for you. The minute my back was turned … this bitch in heat … you know how much I depended on you . . I can’t bear to be alone. You know I can’t bear to be alone …”

  The woman was all but incoherent.

  Larry began, “Look, Marcella. From the beginning it was clear there were no ties. We agreed — ”

  “You bastard. You contemptible swine! You know I can’t bear to be alone. I only took that filthy villa because — ”

  “Oh, come off it, dahling,” Loretta Alsace yawned. “Don’t be so confoundedly dramatic. I’m supposed to be the actress here. Alone, indeed. That barn you rented is crawling with servants.”

  “Shut up … shut up, you Jezebel!”

  Loretta laughed. “Dahling, with all this sweat you’re in, can’t you think of anything more, well, shaking than Jezebel?”

  Larry had come erect. “Now look, Marcella. It was agreed I could take off any time I wanted to. Fine. I’ve got a job. I can use a job.”

  “A job, you stupid screwing machine!” Then suddenly her voice broke. And suddenly Marcella Loraine looked her full age. “Larry, come back. I’ll pay you much more than this tramp ever — ”

  Larry had gone from discomfort to growing irritation at this fantastic scene. He snapped now, “Moses, Marcella, can’t you see I don’t want your money? I’m a man. I want a job, not a gigolo’s pay.”

  Loretta said tolerantly, “Now, really, dahling, don’t you think you’d better run along? Get yourself a drink somewhere. You really need it. Besides, Larry and I are frightfully busy. We simply must get going on some publicity shots.”

  Marcella’s voice cracked again. She screamed something incoherent, but whirled and left.

  Loretta Alsace shook her head and smiled at him. “Such a horrible scene. I feel so sorry for her. But she simply must stop drinking so much. The poor dahling’s nerves are simply shot.”

  Larry grimaced and turned and plunged into the pool. He felt like a fool, having a middle-aged woman like Marcella storming around after him creating scenes. He swam the full length of the pool as hard as he could push himself, swam back again, trying to beat his body into exhaustion with the exercise. Lord knows, it was near enough to exhaustion as it was. His siege with Loretta the night before, in her bedroom, was one of the most far-out experiences in which he had ever participated. He wondered where such a supposedly refined woman had ever learned some of the erotic tricks she knew. He tole
rated them just so long, and then, when he had been brought to the edge of his precipice of lust …

  Loretta, her eyes narrow and her mouth slightly slack, was watching him as he swam. He couldn’t, she decided, be more than twenty-five, twenty-eight at most. His very presence gave her a feeling of youth. As though her own youth were restored. Above all, his prowess in bed seemed to rejuvenate her. Who was it — someone in history, some famous queen or something — who was of the opinion that a woman could keep her youth indefinitely if she were serviced often enough? Catherine the Great probably, who once contended that the normal number of times for a woman was eight daily. Loretta chuckled inwardly. But how many women had available a regiment of Imperial Guards on whom to call? Well, Lawrence Land was the nearest thing to it. There was no doubt about it, in the past few days Loretta had been feeling years younger.

  The Cham came toward her, took her hand and kissed it gently.

  “My dear Marcella, to what do I owe the honor?” He looked into her face. “But you seem distraught.” He clapped his hands.

  “Muley, I have to talk to you. I — ”

  “A moment, my dear.” The Cham turned to the turbaned servant who had magically appeared. “Mustapha, some refreshment for the Contessa.” He came back to her, took both her hands in his and led her to a berugged, bepillowed divan. “I have been out of town for a few days, arranging for the races at Rome. Now, what can I do for you, Marcella?”

  • • •

  Larry Land stumbled upon the scene between Muley Khalid and Loretta Alsace inadvertently. He had been in his room, checking over his camera and equipment, wondering just when it was that they were going to get around to some of the photography for which he was being paid. It had come to him that possibly Loretta would want some of it in color, and, if so, he’d probably have to make a trip down to Gibraltar to get some Ektachrome. It was available in Spain, but at a prohibitive price. But then it had occurred to him that probably the price was of no moment to Loretta Alsace. It would be charged off to promotion. Cost of film was peanuts on a film production.

  However he’d better see her.

  He found her by tracing down the sound of voices. Voices that seemed on the somewhat high side. Larry shrugged. There sure as the devil had been a lot of emotion around this place today. Possibly he shouldn’t intrude.