“She complained that you never call her.”
“I finally gave up,” he said. “She always passed the phone to my father or hung up on me. How long will you be gone?”
“About twelve days,” she answered. “If I leave on Friday we’ll be in New York Sunday night. That leaves the whole week to work and we’d start back home at the end of the next weekend. Mr. Marks is being very nice about it. He told me that if I took Caroline he would pay for a sleeperette for us.”
“Is he leaving with you?”
She looked at him. “He’s leaving before me on Wednesday. His wife is going with him.”
Joe nodded. “I guess it’s all right.”
Motty smiled. “It will be nice, too, that your mother and Father will finally see their only grandchild.” She breathed a faint sigh of relief as she went downstairs to the kitchen before him. She never told him that Mrs. Marks was leaving for Los Angeles on the Sunday that she and the child would be arriving. She also hadn’t told him that Mr. Marks had reserved a room in the Pennsylvania Hotel on 34th Street for her just in case she might have to work too late to go home to Brooklyn.
19
NOTHING SUCCEEDS LIKE success. It was almost five months after he had finished the script of Warrior Queen of the Amazons that he received a telephone call from A. J.’s office as he sat at his typewriter working on the novel.
“A. J. would like to invite you and your wife to a buffet dinner at his house Friday night. Cocktails at seven, dinner will be at eight,” Kathy said.
He was surprised. This was the first time he had ever been invited. “How come A. J. asked me?”
“Don’t you read the trades?” she asked. “You have a hit movie. We had a PR junket with Judi to Texas and Florida. Between the Interstate and the Wometco circuits, the picture grossed six hundred thousand dollars.”
“I don’t believe it,” he said. “The reviews murdered it.”
“But the public bought it,” she said. “It looks to be a blockbuster, naturally. That’s what counts. The exhibitors are already calling for another picture with her. I have a feeling that’s why A. J. called you.”
“I’ll show up,” he said. “But Motty is in New York. She has to go there every three months on buying trips for the store.”
“I’ve been to the store. They’ve really changed it. Is it doing well?”
“I guess so,” he answered. “She’s been promoted to head buyer for the whole chain.”
“And what have you been doing?”
“I’ve already finished my novel,” he replied. “I’ve edited about a hundred and forty pages based on Laura’s suggestions, but it’s hard work. Harder than a screenplay.”
“Laura told me it’s turning out to be one of the best novels she’s ever read.”
“She’s prejudiced,” he said. “But it’s the screenplays that pay the rent. Though up to now I haven’t received any offers for anything. It seems the minute I wrote Warrior Queen all the producers that used to talk to me stopped returning my calls. I guess they all thought it was such a piece of shit they didn’t want any part of me.”
“They’ll be back,” Kathy said confidently. “I know this town. They don’t read scripts, they read grosses.”
He had an idea. “Why don’t you come to the party with me?”
“Sorry,” she said. “First, I moved in with my boyfriend. Second, A. J. doesn’t like the cheap help at his parties.”
“He’s a cheap prick,” he said.
“That’s Hollywood,” she said laughing. “Why don’t you ask Laura? She’s never been to a Hollywood party.”
“How can I ask her?” he asked. “She’s in New York.”
“Didn’t she call you?” Kathy seemed surprised.
“No,” he said. “The last time I spoke to her was a month ago when she sent me her editing suggestions.”
“She’s right here,” Kathy said. “Came in last night. I was sure she’d call you. She’s at the Bel Air Hotel, room one twenty-one.”
“I’ll call her,” he said. “Thanks, Kathy.”
“Just one thing, Joe,” she said. “Don’t let Laura know that I told you she was here.”
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“My sister is still pissed off at me because you and I went out a few times.”
“Where did she pick that up?” he asked.
“This is Hollywood. Everybody talks here and she has a few friends.”
“Okay, Kathy,” he said. “I’ll play it straight, and by the time I get finished with her, she won’t believe anything they told her.”
He was dialing Laura at the hotel when he realized after looking at his desk clock that it was almost five o’clock. He put down the receiver. If she was busy she would not return to the hotel until six-thirty or seven o’clock. That was the usual time that Easterners returned to their rooms.
He had an idea. She hadn’t called him, so he would surprise her with a visit. Quickly he gathered together a carbon copy of the edited one hundred and forty pages and placed them in an envelope, then called the florist and ordered a dozen roses that he would pick up at six-thirty.
“Rosa!” he called from the balcony as he came out of his tiny study.
She came from the kitchen and looked up at him from the living room. “Sí, señor?”
“You have a white linen shirt ready for me?”
“I can iron it in a few minutes,” she answered.
“I’m going into the shower,” he said. “You bring it up for me.”
“The señor is going out for dinner?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he answered. “Probably.” He turned into the bedroom and slipped off his working slacks and underwear and went into the bathroom.
* * *
IT WAS FIVE minutes to seven when he knocked on Laura’s door, the dozen roses in one hand and a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket in the other.
Laura opened the door. He smiled. “Welcome to Los Angeles!”
She stared at him in surprise. “How wonderful,” she said, taking the flowers.
“I have a bottle of Dom Perignon here also,” he said.
“That’s too much.” She smiled. “Come in.”
He followed her into the tastefully decorated room. “You can’t imagine how surprised I was when I heard you were in town.”
“My sister told you?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t spoken to her since I went off the picture. That was four months ago.”
“But somebody had to tell you,” she said.
“The trade papers,” he said. “They have a daily list of comings and goings from the industry.”
“You look good,” she said. “Very California-ish.”
He laughed. “You look pretty good yourself.”
She shook her head. “In this old terry-cloth robe?”
“No complaints from me,” he said. “You always look good to me.”
“Give me five minutes to get into something more suitable,” she said. “Meanwhile you can open the wine.”
“I also brought almost a hundred and forty edited manuscript pages,” he said.
“That’s great,” she said.
“What brought you out here?”
“I had to bring a set of contracts to a client,” she said. “Now give me a moment or I’ll never get ready.”
She went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. A moment later he heard the shower splashing, and he began opening the bottle of champagne. There were two champagne glasses packed in the ice bucket with the wine. He left the bottle open but didn’t fill the glasses. There was a radio in the corner of the room. He turned it to his favorite station that played all the pop singers—Sinatra, Crosby, and others—then sat down on the two-seater couch.
In about fifteen minutes she came in from the bathroom, completely made up and dressed. She wore a blue silk shantung dress that clung to her figure.
He looked up at her. “You’re a
lready dressed, you must keep everything in the bathroom.”
“I’m efficient.” She smiled.
He poured the champagne. “Good luck.”
She nodded. “Good luck.” She sipped the champagne. “This is delicious.”
“It’s good,” he agreed. “Now what would you like for dinner?”
She stared at him. “I have a date with our client and his attorney.”
“Put them off until tomorrow,” he said.
“I can’t do that,” she said. “The agency arranged it all before I got here.”
“Then we’ll make it tomorrow?” he said.
“I’m flying back tomorrow at seven o’clock in the morning.”
“What about a late dinner, then?” he asked, refilling the champagne glasses.
“We’re going to the client’s house to go over the contract in detail,” she answered. “I don’t know what time we’ll get finished.”
He looked at her. “Do you have to return to New York? I’ve been invited to a cocktail party at A. J.’s house. It might be fun and you would meet some important people, directors and producers.”
She shook her head. “I’d like to. I’ve never been to a Hollywood party. But my orders from the agency are explicit. I have to go back.”
“Shit,” he said. “We won’t even have time to discuss the pages I’ve rewritten.”
“I’ll read it on the plane and talk to you the day after,” she said. She looked at him. “I’m sure you can turn up another date. From what I hear you do pretty good in the lady department.”
“I want you,” he said. “Not anyone else.”
“I’m running late,” she said. “My client will pick me up in the lobby at eight o’clock.”
He rose to his feet and met her eyes. “What do I have to do to get a date with you?” he asked. “Wait until our novel is sold?”
“I think you’d better go,” she said coldy.
Quickly, he put his arms around her and kissed her as he pressed his already turgid phallus against her groin. He saw her face turn white, then flush pink, as she pushed him away.
He walked to the door and turned to her as he opened it. “Just for your information—I never fucked your sister. It was always you I wanted.”
He slammed the door behind him and walked down the corridor to the parking lot.
20
HE WAS STILL angry when he walked into his own apartment and up the staircase to the balcony, then to his bedroom. Quickly he took off his jacket, then his tie and shirt. “Bitch!” he said, half-aloud. “Cock-teasing cold-assed bitch!”
The telephone rang. Laura’s voice echoed in his ear. “Joe,” she said. “I don’t want you to be angry with me.”
“How do you expect me to feel when you send me away with my cock in my hand?” he snapped.
“You don’t have to speak like that,” she said. “You know better. I promised nothing.”
“And that’s what you gave me,” he answered.
“Don’t be a fool,” she said. “First of all, you’re a married man with a child. Second, we have a business relationship, and if my office ever even thought we had a personal one, they would fire me and that would be the end of our opportunities.”
He thought for a moment. “Maybe you’re right, but it’s still shitty.”
“You calm down,” she said. “I’ll read the new pages and telephone the day after tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he said. “I guess I have no choice. This is the way we have to play it.”
“That makes more sense,” she said. “I have to go now. Goodbye.”
“Have a good flight back,” he said. “’Bye now.”
He stared down at the telephone. Even the sound of her voice had turned him on. Damn! he thought to himself, then walked out on the balcony. “Rosa!” he called.
“Sí, señor,” she answered from the living room.
“Can I have some coffee?”
“Sí, señor.”
He watched her walking to the kitchen. She still wore the thin cotton dress; underneath he could see the black brassiere and panties showing through. He wondered if she knew how whorish she looked as she moved.
He went through the bedroom to the bathroom. He flipped up the toilet seat and opened his fly. He didn’t realize he still had a half-hard until he had finished and turned back toward the bedroom. She had been standing next to the bed, the coffee tray in her hands, watching him. He felt his penis growing in his hand and made no motion to conceal himself.
“Next to the bed?” she asked.
“You can leave it there,” he said, still standing in the bathroom.
“Sí, señor.” She placed the cup of coffee on the end table next to the bed. “Anything else, señor?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you want to whip me, señor?” she asked, staring at him.
“Why should I want to whip you?” he asked.
“Sometimes my papa wants to do that to me when he is hard like that,” she said.
“I’m not your papa,” he said.
“But you are a man,” she said. “You have four nights without the señora. It must be mucho difficult for you, señor. My papa comes many times when he whips me, then he feels better.”
He felt his penis soften. His excitement had gone. “I’m sorry, Rosa,” he said wearily. “Go away.” He waited until she had gone before he stretched out on the bed.
He stared up at the ceiling. He was angry with himself. He hadn’t thought about it until Kathy had called him about A. J.’s party. It had been almost four months since anyone in the business had called him. If it hadn’t been for Motty’s promotion they would have been dipping into his savings account just for living expenses. She had been doing well. Now she was up to twenty-four thousand a year. That was more than he had made in his best year.
He sat up and drank his coffee. This was the third trip she had made to New York. The first trip she had taken the kid with her and they stayed at his parents’ house; the last two trips, she had stayed at the Pennsylvania Hotel. It was right in the garment district, she had explained. But that wasn’t the only thing. Motty had changed—she was no longer that shop-girl he remembered. There was an air of decision about her. Her makeup, clearly professionally arranged, as was her coiffure, and her clothing bespoke the latest fashions. But the real change was in her eyes. Before, they were young and open, now she seemed secretive and guarded, as if she lived in a world he could not penetrate.
He wondered if she was fucking her boss, Mr. Marks. He was being stupid. Of course she was. No way would any girl, no matter how great she was at her job, get the money and promotions otherwise. Even her style of fucking had changed, more sophisticated and reserved than before. Before, she could never stop coming—now one orgasm and she stopped. Then she couldn’t wait until she ran to the bathroom to douche and wash away the errant sperm that accidentally might have found its way home inside her. He really had been stupid. The cocksman had been cuckolded by a worm with a gold-plated prick. He slammed his coffee cup down on the plate and the coffee slopped onto the table. “Rosa!” he called.
She appeared immediately in the doorway, her eyes frightened. “Sí, señor.”
He pointed to the spilled coffee. “Clean it up.”
She nodded and was back in a moment with a washrag. She knelt beside him and began wiping away the coffee. Still on her knees, she turned her face up to him. “No problems,” she said.
He pulled out the belt of his pants and let them fall down his legs to the floor. “You’ll have to wash them. There’s coffee stains on them.”
She stared silently up at his genitals.
“What are you staring at?” he snapped angrily. “You want to touch it, don’t you?”
Still on her knees, she remained silent.
Angrily he slapped her face. “God damn it! You wanted to touch it!”
Almost reverently, she let her fingers touch his testicles. “Muy grandes cojones,” she whispered
. Then she clasped her hand around his penis.
He lifted her to her feet. “Not like this,” he said harshly. “Undress!”
Silently, not looking at him, she took off her dress, unfastened her black cotton brassiere, and together with her panties let them drop to the floor. She clasped her hands, shielding her pubis. “No fuck,” she whispered. “I am virgin.”
“Ah, shit!” he said, his anger dissipating. “Get dressed.” He walked past her to the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower and go out for a while.”
* * *
“FULLY LET OUT ranch mink jackets for two hundred dollars,” Mr. Samuel said. “Real dark ranch, the most popular.”
“Where’s the bargain? Our stores are in Los Angeles, not New York,” Motty said.
“With mink jackets completely lined like this,” he said, “you can put them on special sale for four hundred ninety-five dollars and they’ll go like hotcakes.”
“The price is right, Mrs. Crown,” Marks said.
Motty looked at him. “Just remember, Mr. Marks, our fur salons always have been losers. And ground-floor space is too expensive to warrant losers.”
“That’s because your salespeople are not furriers,” Samuel retorted. “A good furrier would make a fortune there.”
“I won’t argue with you, Mr. Samuel,” Motty said. “But we have to work with the people we have. Maybe you have a better idea.”
“If you want to keep upgrading your stores,” Samuel said, “you have to have a prestigious fur salon.”
Motty glanced at Marks, then at the furrier. “What if we gave you the concession? You tell us that you can do better than we do, and I believe you.”
“I don’t know,” Samuel answered carefully. “We’re spread a little thin just now. We’ve already got concessions at Hudson’s in Detroit. It comes down to how much money you’re talking about?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” Motty said. She turned to Marks. “What do you think, Mr. Marks?”
“I haven’t thought about it either,” he said. “How much does the ground-floor space cost us?”
“About ninety thousand in the Beverly Hills store,” she answered.
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