“And the other four stores?”
“About fifteen thousand each. Beverly Hills makes up fifty percent of all our fur sales,” she replied.
“It’s too expensive,” Samuel said quickly. “I’d have to stock a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of goods just to build a volume so we could break even.”
“We’re damned if we do,” Marks said. “And we’re damned if we don’t.”
Samuel stared at him. “Are you serious about this?”
Marks nodded. “We’re serious.”
Samuel nodded. “Okay, then. I’ll make you a fair offer. I’ll give you fifty thousand for the concessions and twenty percent of the gross sales if you co-op the advertising and carry all the credit sales. If I’m right, we’ll all make a lot of money.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Marks asked.
“We lose a little,” Samuel answered. “But you said you always lose anyway.”
Marks turned to Motty. “What do you think?”
Motty looked at Samuel. “I have faith in Mr. Samuel. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Crown,” Samuel said. He turned to Marks. “What do you say, Gerald?”
“We’ll do it,” he said, holding out his hand.
Samuel shook his hand. “I’ll come out there the week after next and we’ll begin to make a few changes in the salon.” He smiled. “I can see it in the ads now. ‘Paul, the Furrier of Beverly Hills.’”
“Not Paul,” Motty said.
“Why not?” Samuel asked. “It works at Hudson’s in Detroit.”
“That’s Detroit,” Motty replied. “This is Beverly Hills. They need something more impressive.”
Samuel stared at her. “You want Revillon, maybe?”
“No,” she laughed. “Just call it Paolo of Beverly Hills. The ultimate in furs. Los Angeles is a hick town. They’re always impressed with foreign names.”
“Paolo of Beverly Hills,” Samuel repeated smiling. “The ultimate in furs. I like it. Let’s have a drink to it.”
It took almost an hour before they closed the door behind Samuel. Motty leaned back on the couch as Marks turned to her. “I’m exhausted,” she said. “I thought he would never stop talking.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly seven,” he said. “Why don’t you take a relaxing bath and then get dressed, an we’ll go out for dinner?”
“Do we have to go out?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. “We can have dinner in the suite.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “I’m a little tired of having to go out for dinner with people.”
“We’ll have dinner here, just the two of us.” He bent down and kissed her. “I’ve been wanting to do that all afternoon,” he said.
“I did too,” she said, putting her arms around him. She kissed him again. “Happy?” she asked.
“Very,” he answered. “We’re a good team. I think we have a good deal with Samuel.”
“Yes,” she said. “I only wish that all our problems could be solved as easily.”
He smiled, looking at her. “One of them is solved,” he said.
She looked at him questioningly.
“I’m a free man,” he said. “My lawyer called me. My wife has completed her six weeks in Reno, the divorce has gone through, and now she’s my ex-wife.”
She stared at him silently.
“You don’t seem happy about it,” he said.
“I am happy,” she said. “But I’m also a little frightened.
“You’ll have to tell him sooner or later,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “But he’s been going through such a bad time right now. I just wish he had something to do.”
“There’ll always be a problem,” he said. “From what you tell me, he has enough girls to console him. And since you’re not asking for any alimony, child support or community property, he’ll recover.”
She was silent.
“The divorce should be easy,” he said. “You could do it in Tijuana in one day if he’ll sign the papers.”
She remained silent.
He looked into her eyes. “That is, unless you don’t want to marry me?”
She pulled him close to her and slipped her hand over his crotch. She felt his penis growing in her fingers. “Of course, I want to marry you,” she whispered.
21
HIS PRE-WAR CHRYSLER Airflow seemed out of place among Rollses, Cadillacs and Continentals parked on the street in front of A. J.’s house at the corner of Rodeo and Lomitas in Beverly Hills. The red-jacketed parking attendant gave him a ticket and drove the car away. Joe stood there for a moment before walking to the entrance of the house. He saw the car being driven far down the street, away from the more important cars in front of the house. He smiled to himself. Even automobiles were victims of the caste system.
A Chinese butler in a tuxedo opened the door for him. “Your name, sir?”
“Joe Crown,” he answered.
The butler glanced at a list in his hand, then nodded. He gestured toward the living room already crowded with guests.
Blanche Rosen, A. J.’s wife, stood next to the entrance of the living room. She was an attractive woman, looking much younger than her fortyish years. She smiled, holding out her hand. “Joe,” she said in a warm voice. “I’m so happy that you could come.”
He shook her hand. “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Rosen.”
“Call me Blanche,” she said. She gestured toward the room. “I’m sure you know most of the people here. You just make yourself comfortable. The bar is set up at the far end.”
“Thank you, Blanche,” he said, but she had already turned away from him to greet the next guests. He moved toward the bar. He recognized many of the guests, but very few he really knew or had met. A black barman smiled at him. “Your pleasure, sir?”
“Scotch and water,” Joe said. He took the drink and moved to the side of the room. A. J. was standing, a circle of people around him, with Judi, dressed in a black sheer see-through sequined dress, beside him. Everyone in the circle seemed to be talking at the same time.
A mild flurry of excitement came from the entrance to the living room and A. J. suddenly took Judi by the arm and half-pulled her with him toward it. Joe followed them with his eyes. He saw the woman’s hat, and knew at once who she was: Hedda. Her hats were famous, her trademark. She was one of the two most important Hollywood columnists. Photographers suddenly appeared and flashbulbs popped. Even A. J. fawned over the columnist.
Ray Stern’s voice growled low in Joe’s ear. “I really fucked myself, didn’t I?”
Joe turned to the director. “What makes you say that?”
“I could have made that picture and I blew it.”
“It’s not that important a picture.”
Stern looked at him. “Any picture that will gross like that is important.”
“I don’t see what it’s doing for me,” Joe said. “I haven’t gotten a job since.”
“You’ll get them now, you’ll see,” Stern said. “Why do you think A. J. invited you to this party? You’re the writer of the biggest-grossing picture out of his studio this year.”
Joe looked at him silently.
“He’ll probably sign you up for a sequel before the party is over.”
“He never even saw me,” Joe said.
“Don’t believe it,” Stern said. “He sees everything.”
Joe shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.” He looked at the director. “What are you working on now?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Stern answered. “He let my option drop. I don’t know why I’ve been invited. Probably I was left over on an old party list.”
“Come on,” Joe said. “It’s not that bad.”
“The hell with it,” Stern said bitterly. “I’ll just have another drink.”
Joe watched the director move toward the bar. He heard a girl’s voice behind him. “Are you Joe Crown?”
He turne
d. She was a tall girl with blue eyes and long auburn hair almost to her bare shoulders, wearing a soft, clinging blue silk dress. “Yes,” he said.
She looked at him. “I’m Tammy Sheridan. Don’t you recognize me?”
He felt as if he should apologize. “I’m sorry.”
“I had the second lead in your movie,” she said. “The girl that had the fight with Judi.”
“Now I am sorry.” He smiled. “I never saw the movie.”
“Never?” she echoed disbelief. “Not even in a projection room?”
“No one ever invited me,” he answered. “And I was off the lot by that time. I’ll probably see it when it opens here in Los Angeles.”
“But I heard that you were writing the sequel already,” she said. “I thought that I could talk you into building up my part a little.”
He laughed. “You can talk me into it. But first I have to get the job.”
She laughed. He knew she didn’t believe him. “Are you alone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“No date with you?”
“No date,” he said.
“That’s funny,” she said. “I heard you were married and that you were balling Judi on the side.”
“You hear a lot of stories,” he said. “I am married. But my wife has gone to New York and I am not balling Judi on the side.”
“I heard you got her the job.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how did she get the job?” she asked. “She can’t act worth shit. On my worst days I can act like Garbo around her.”
He gestured with his hand. “I don’t know. I just wrote the script.”
Tammy looked across the room at the photographers taking pictures of Judi and Steve Cochran, who had just come in. “She’s a fucking whore!” she said jealously. She turned back to him. “Do you have a car?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I came by taxi,” she said. “Maybe you can give me a lift home after the party?”
“Sure,” he answered.
“You look for me,” she said, starting to move away. “Meanwhile I’ll try to con some of the photographers into taking a few pictures of me.”
He watched her moving in like a bird dog, then turned to the bar and ordered another drink. It was growing warmer in the room and he moved closer to a window to get some cool air. Mr. Metaxa, the banker, came over to him. “Joe,” he said jovially, “congratulations.”
Joe smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Metaxa. But for what?”
“A good script. Now the movie will make a great deal of money. Maybe two million, distributors’ gross. We are very pleased.”
“I’m glad too,” Joe said.
Metaxa took him by the arm. “Come,” he said. “I have an Italian producer, a good friend of mine, who wants to meet you.”
Joe followed him toward a tall, good-looking man with a distinguished head of white hair. Metaxa spoke quickly in Italian, then translated for Joe. “Joe Crown, the scrittore,” he said. “The great Italian producer, Raffaelo Santini. Signor Santini has made the great success in Rome, The One-Wheeled Motorcycle.”
Joe had heard about the picture. It was one of the early neorealistic films that had come out of Italy. The critics had loved it. It had almost won the Academy Award as the best foreign picture.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Santini,” Joe said.
“It’s an honor and pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crown,” the Italian said, in Italian-accented English. “I liked your picture. It is most droll and shows that you have a good knowledge of what the movie audience wants to see. We need more knowledge such as that.”
“Thank you, Mr. Santini,” Joe said.
Mr. Santini nodded seriously. “Maybe someday you will come to Italy with me and we could make a picture together.”
“I would like that,” Joe said.
A. J. spoke from behind him. “What are you wops plotting behind my back with my number one writer? Trying to steal him away from me?” The smile on his face belied his words.
“Of course not,” Metaxa said quickly. “Mr. Santini was only complimenting Joe’s work.”
“I have a three-picture contract with him,” A. J. said.
Joe stared at him. This was the first he had heard of it. He remained silent.
“We have a meeting in the studio Monday morning to discuss the first script,” A. J. said. He looked at Joe. “Isn’t that right, Joe?”
“That’s right, A. J.,” Joe answered.
“And what is the title of the new film?” Santini asked.
A. J. stared at him, then turned to Joe. “You can tell him, Joe.”
Without hesitation Joe answered the Italian. “The Return of the Warrior Queen.”
“Of course,” Mr. Santini said sagely. “How simple, how clever. Already the title is presold.”
“Don’t forget. Nine o’clock on Monday morning,” A. J. said, moving away and smiling.
The two Italians eyed him. Santini muttered something in Italian to Metaxa in a low voice, then turned again to Joe. “You make a remember what I say, Mr. Crown,” he said. “Someday we will make a picture together in Rome.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw Tammy coming toward him. “Joe!” she called out as if they were old friends. “You must introduce me to Mr. Santini. He’s my most, most favorite filmmaker.”
“Mr. Santini,” Joe said. “Miss Tammy Sheridan.”
“I loved your film,” Tammy gushed. “I voted for your picture in the Academy Awards. I felt so badly when you didn’t get it.”
“Thank you, Miss Tammy,” the Italian said politely.
“They’re announcing dinner,” she said. “May I sit with you? I have many questions to ask you about your wonderful movie.”
“I am sorry,” Mr. Santini said apologetically, “but I am not staying for dinner. I have previous engagement at Chasen’s.”
“I’m sorry too, Mr. Santini,” Tammy said sincerely.
The Italian took her hand and kissed it, bowing. “Ciao,” he said.
Tammy sighed as she looked after him. “What fucking manners that man has,” she whispered. “When he pressed his lips to my hand I could almost feel his tongue tickling my pussy.”
“Shit,” Joe said. “I can do that.”
Tammy looked at him. “Kiss my hand like that?”
“No.” Joe smiled. “Tickle your pussy with my tongue.”
22
HOLLYWOOD PARTIES FINISHED early. The usual excuse was because everyone had to be in the studio at seven o’clock in the morning. Performers usually left even earlier because they had to be in makeup between five-thirty and six. It was eleven when Tammy got into his car beside him. He gave the parking attendant a dollar bill and moved out of the driveway. “Where do you live?” he asked, looking across at her.
“In the Valley,” she said. She seemed slightly defiant.
“Okay,” he said easily. “Just tell me how to get there.”
“Go over Laurel Canyon. I’m two blocks this side of Ventura.”
“You’ve got it,” he said, turning onto Sunset.
“It gets so cold at night,” she said. “I’m shivering. Could you turn on the heater?”
Silently, he switched it on. Warm air began circulating through the vents.
“That’s better,” she said, turning to him. “Are you going to do the movie?”
He shrugged. “A. J. wants to see me Monday.”
“You’re going to do it,” she said with conviction.
“We’ll see,” he said. “I don’t know. He hasn’t spoken about money yet.”
“He’ll take care of it,” she said. “That picture is money in the bank.”
He smiled at her. “You sound more like an agent than an actress.”
She laughed. “I should,” she answered. “I’ve been around this town a long time.”
“You’re not that old,” he said.
“Twenty-six,” she answered. “I’ve been here since I was sixteen
.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Makeup,” she said, half seriously. “You can guarantee that job for yourself,” she added.
“Why do you say that?”
“Mrs. Rosen, A. J.’s wife. She’s got eyes for you.”
“I didn’t notice that,” he said. “She barely spoke to me.”
“But I saw her watching you. A lot.” She waited until the car turned off Sunset onto Laurel Canyon. “Did you know that she used to be his story editor before they were married?”
“No.”
“She still reads all the scripts. A. J. never reads. And she likes writers. Especially young ones.”
“I don’t see how that will guarantee me the job,” he said.
“You send her flowers with a thank-you note,” she said. “In a day or two she’ll call you and invite you to lunch at their Malibu house during the week. That’s the way she operates, everybody knows that.”
He glanced at her. “You have been around.”
She nodded. “But not that it does me any good,” she said half bitterly. “This is the third studio I’ve been contracted to but never gotten a lead part.”
“They say the third time is lucky,” he said.
“I hope so,” she said, without conviction.
They remained silent until the road turned and the lights of Ventura Boulevard shone toward them. “Make a right at the third corner,” she said. “Second house in.”
He turned the car and stopped in front of her house. It was a small house but well kept. “Looks nice,” he said.
She looked at him. “I’d invite you in,” she said, “but I share the house with two other girls.”
“That’s okay,” he said.
She placed her hand on his lap. “I can give you a little head here in the car,” she said.
He smiled. “No. Thanks, anyway.”
“I give great head,” she said.
“I’m sure.” He nodded. “But I can wait.”
She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the lift,” she said. “I’ll give you a call at the studio.”
“You do that.” He smiled. “Good night.”
He watched her run to the entrance door of her house then turned the car around and headed for home. He was in bed just after midnight.
* * *
The Storyteller Page 15