“Rosa takes care of Caroline,” Motty said. “I don’t have to do anything about her.”
Marta looked at her shrewdly. “Joe is working?”
“He just began a new script,” she said.
“What about his book?” Marta asked. “The one that he always said he was going to write.”
“He’s not been able to get into it,” Motty said. “He spends most of his time trying to get scriptwriting jobs.”
“He doesn’t have to do that,” Marta said. “The reason you took your job was so he would have more time to work on his book.”
“It didn’t work out like that,” Motty said.
Marta peered at her. “He still runs around?”
Motty didn’t look at her. She remained silent.
Marta picked up the plates from the table. She spoke over her shoulder as she placed the plates in the kitchen sink. “He’ll never change,” she said flatly. “He’ll never grow up to face his responsibility as a normal married man.”
“That’s not true,” Phil said, defending him. “He’s just not like other boys. We always knew that.”
“Boys are not men,” Marta said. “Now, my Stevie is a man. He’s finished his residency and soon he’ll be opening up his own office.”
“Fine,” Phil said. “But that has nothing to do with Joe. He’s creative, not practical.”
Marta returned to the table with three glasses of dark brewed tea. She placed a glass before Motty. “Whatever you do,” she said, “don’t have another baby.”
Motty met her eyes. “I don’t plan to.”
“What are you planning to do?” Phil asked.
Motty didn’t answer.
Marta was clever. “Motty has a very good job. She already makes more money than Joe. She doesn’t need his money. Maybe she’ll divorce him and find another man that is more suited for her.”
Phil was angry. “What kind of way is this to talk? Jewish people don’t get divorces. It would be a shanda.”
Marta was smart. She met Motty’s eyes evenly. “Not in California,” she said. “Lots of Jews get divorced in California. It’s no shame there. Read the papers. Everybody gets divorced in Hollywood. Even Motty’s boss, Mr. Marks, got his name in the papers when he got divorced.”
Phil looked from one to the other and then back down to his glass of tea. His voice was low. “Just remember one thing,” he said quietly. “Don’t throw out your dirty water until you get fresh.”
24
THE POSTMAN STOOD in the doorway. He handed Joe the package, marked as usual, “rejected manuscript.” He held the delivery book for Joe to initial. “Another one, Mr. Crown,” he said sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
“Writers are used to rejection,” Joe said philosophically as he returned the delivery book.
He sat down at the coffee table in the living room and opened the package. Jamaica had added an extra in the package. A tinfoil bag of pungent Jamaican ganch, as well as the usual forty envelopes of cocaine. He shook his head. Once again he had forgotten to rent a post-office box.
Rosa came from the kitchen, bringing him a cup of coffee. She placed it on the coffee table in front of him, then glanced at him. “Marijuana.” She smiled.
He looked up at her. “You know about it?”
“Sí, sí.” She laughed. “Marijuana mexicana es la mejor.”
“You smoke it?” he asked curiously.
She nodded. “Even the children from five, six years. Para tranquilidad. Good to sleep.”
“Would you like some?” he asked.
“I have,” she answered. “If you like, I can bring for you from my family. Tengo mucho.”
He laughed. “Thank you. One day I’ll take you up on it.” He picked up one of the small white envelopes and opened it so that she could look at the white powder. “Do you know this?”
She nodded. “Cocaína.”
“Do you use that too?”
She shook her head. “No, señor. Too nervous, no sleep.”
He laughed. “You’re smart,” he said. “But sometimes for amor they say it is very good.”
“For amor,” she said, “in Mexico we make a tea mixed with peyote and marijuana. Makes many dreams.”
“I never knew that,” he said.
“It is old Indian medicina. My father uses it all the time. Muy bueno.”
“How old is your father?” he asked.
“Cuarenta y tres años,” she said. “Like you he has many girlfriends.”
“What does your mother say?”
“Nada. That is the way with hombres.”
He picked up the cup and sipped his coffee.
“Desayuno, señor?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” he answered. “I have to get into the studio.”
“Will the señora be home on the weekend?”
“Not until Monday,” he said.
“Will you have dinner at home those days?”
“Yes,” he said. “I plan to work at home on the weekend.”
“Bueno, señor,” she said.
A shaft of sunlight moved into the window behind her. “I gave you money to buy underwear to wear under your dress,” he said.
“I was just going to after I brought your coffee, señor,” she said without expression.
He stared at her. “You’re a teasing bitch!”
“No, señor,” she said without defiance. “I was going to wear it.”
He knew she was lying. “Turn your back to me,” he said angrily.
Silently she turned around. He raised the back of her skirt over her hips and gave her two stinging slaps, one on each of her buttocks. She made no outcry as his handprint turned white and then bright pink on her skin. “Maybe this will help you to remember.”
She looked back at him over her shoulder. Her face was completely expressionless, the skirt still draped over her hips. “You are like my father, señor,” she said quietly. “But my father hits me harder and more.”
He stared at her. “You like it, you bitch!”
“It is part of a woman’s duty, señor,” she said.
He had no answer for her. It was just another way of life.
* * *
KEYHO CAME INTO his office and glanced around. “Very fancy,” he said jocularly. “You’re becoming a big man. Moving up in the world.”
Joe laughed. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Come on,” Keyho said. “This is one of the best of the writers’ offices.”
“I got lucky,” he said.
“Million-dollar grossers do that for you,” Keyho said.
“I’d rather they gave me the money,” Joe said. “I can do without the office.”
“You’ll get the money too, in time,” Keyho said. “All you have to do is play your cards right.”
“Horseshit,” Joe said. The telephone rang and he picked it up.
Judi’s voice sounded metallically in his ear. “Publicity won’t okay a voucher for you,” she said. “They said your name don’t mean nothing for the papers or the photographers. They want me to go out with other stars. You know, like Van Johnson, Peter Lawford, even Mickey Rooney.”
“I could have told you that,” he said. “Then did you get a date?”
“They’re working on it, they said,” she answered.
“Okay, we’ll try it next time,” he said.
“You’re not angry with me?” she asked. “I don’t have any choices. I have to protect my own star status. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” he said, putting down the phone. He looked across the desk at Keyho. “That was Judi,” he explained. “Now that she’s a star she can only date other stars. The bitch.”
“That’s Hollywood,” Keyho said. “That’s what I told you, you’ll have to play your cards right.”
Joe looked at him. “I’m listening.”
“You have to hire a PR agent.”
“What for?” Joe asked. “I’m a writer, not a star.”
“Writers can be stars too,” Keyho said. “Think about it. Dashiell Hammett, Faulkner, Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway. They’re all writers. And they’re stars too.”
“I’m not in their league yet,” Joe said. “They have a body of work behind them.”
“So what?” Keyho said dryly. “A good PR man will make you as well known as any of them. This is a bullshit business but don’t underrate it. Bullshitters themselves are the easiest mark for bullshit. They see you in print enough times, they’ll believe you’re Shakespeare reincarnated.”
“I don’t know,” Joe said dubiously. “Besides I don’t even know a PR man.”
“I do,” Keyho said. “My sister’s son. He works at Columbia Studios as a column planter in the publicity department. He also freelances for other clients on the side. He’s planning to open his own independent office.”
“Is he expensive?”
“It depends on how much you want him to do. Five stories a week, twenty-five dollars; ten stories, fifty bucks; unlimited, a hundred a week.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Joe said. “How do I know he can deliver?”
“How about a line in Winchell’s column on Monday?”
“If he can do that, I’ll kiss his ass in Macy’s window.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Keyho said. “Suppose he slips in a few words on Winchell’s Sunday broadcast as well? Go for a hundred up front?”
“You got it,” Joe said. He placed the parcel-post package on the desk. “Now how about the merchandise?”
“The same price as the last time,” Keyho said. “I’ll take a hundred down for my nephew.”
“I’ll throw in a bag of Jamaican ganch big enough for a hundred five-dollar sticks. You give me the same money. That way we all make a little.”
“It’s good stuff?” Keyho asked.
Joe opened the tinfoil bag. “You’ll get high just smelling it.”
Keyho sniffed at it. “You got the deal.” He reached for the package.
“When do I get to meet this nephew of yours?”
“How about Monday for lunch? I’ll bring Gene over here. You’ll like the kid.”
“If he doesn’t score,” Joe said, “don’t bring him over. Just give me the extra hundred.”
“He’ll score,” Keyho said definitely. “Another aunt of his is Winchell’s number one secretary.”
* * *
“A. J. WANTS TO talk to you,” Kathy said into his phone. “Hold on, I’ll put you through to him.”
A. J.’s voice sounded pleased with himself. “How’s the work going, Joe? When am I going to see some pages?”
“Soon, A. J.,” replied Joe. “I’m working on it.”
“I know you are,” A. J. said. “But that’s not the reason for this call. We just got a shipment of New York delicatessen from Barney Greengrass in Manhattan. I thought you might like to come out to our Malibu beach house for brunch about two o’clock Sunday. There’ll be some good people there.”
“Thank you, A. J.,” he answered. “I’d really like that.”
“Kathy will give you the address,” A. J. said. “See you then. Maybe we can talk some more about the script. I have a few new ideas.”
“That’s better for me than the deli,” he answered. “See you Sunday.”
He put down the phone and checked his watch. Twelve-thirty. Time for lunch. He started for the door and the telephone called him back. He picked it up. “Joe Crown.”
“What are you doing at your desk?” Blanche asked.
“Working,” Joe answered. “That’s what I’m supposed to do here.”
“I thought you’d be doing something more interesting than that,” she said. “Like playing with your prick for example.”
“Not in this fishbowl,” he said. “I have the feeling that all the phones coming through the switchboard are tapped.”
“Impossible,” she said. “A. J. invited you for Sunday?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing for lunch now?”
“I’m going down to the commissary.”
“Why don’t you go down on me for lunch?” she said.
“I’ll never make it back to the studio,” he said.
“Don’t be crazy, this is Friday,” she said. “Nobody ever comes back to the studio after lunch on Friday.”
He felt the rush in his loins. “I’ll be there in an hour,” he said.
25
IT WAS THREE o’clock in the afternoon and A. J. was on his second bottle of Scotch whiskey. If it hadn’t been for the fact that his voice was somewhat louder than usual and he had the tendency to repeat his sentences a number of times, one wouldn’t realize that he was drunk as a lord. He sat sprawled on a deck chair, looking down at the beach from the deck.
Joe sat on the deck rail beside him. On the beach just below, several tables shaded by sun umbrellas and directors’ chairs were occupied with guests wearing swimsuits who were going to and from the surf. The sun was still hot.
“Good party,” A. J. said, holding his drink and gesturing toward the beach. “Good party.”
“Very good party,” Joe agreed.
“Nice people too,” A. J. said. “Nice people.”
Joe nodded. He recognized several of the executives from the studio, and there was a sprinkling of film people, actors, actresses, two directors and a producer. Though A. J. had mentioned that Errol Flynn was coming to the brunch, Joe hadn’t seen him.
A. J. got up from his chair and leaned over the railing. “Did you see Blanche?” he asked. “Where’s Blanche?”
Joe looked down at the beach. “I just saw her a few moments ago,” he said. “But I don’t see her now.”
A. J. sipped at his whiskey. “Bitch!” he said. “Bitch!”
Joe remained silent.
A. J. peered out to the surf. “She’s nowhere around,” he said. “Nowhere. That happens every time we have one of these beach brunches. Suddenly she’s gone. Disappeared. Every time.”
Joe still remained silent.
A. J. stared at him. “She thinks I don’t know what she’s doing. But I know. The bitch!” He sipped again at his drink. “She’s got some guy in a corner and she’s sucking his cock. She’s a fucking nymphomaniac.” He looked at Joe’s face. “You know that, Joe? She’s a fucking nymphomaniac.”
Joe didn’t know what to say. He didn’t think it was his place to agree with him.
A. J. shook his head unhappily. “You can’t know how a man feels when he knows his wife has probably fucked every man at this party and there’s nothing he can even say about it.” He looked at Joe. “You haven’t fucked her yet, have you?” he asked, then answered the question himself. “Of course not, you haven’t been around here long enough. But give her time, she’ll get around to you.”
He sank back into his chair, refilled his glass and drank morosely. “The fucking problem is there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t even divorce her because everything I have is in her name because of taxes. If I divorce her, I’d be wiped out. Not a penny to my name. Not a penny.”
Joe felt he had to offer some solace. “It can’t be as bad as that, A. J.”
“You’re nothing but a dumb kid,” A. J. said, slurring his words. “How the hell would you know?”
Joe was silent again.
“The whole fucking studio knows about her,” A. J. said. “The whole fucking town knows about her. But nobody gives a shit. They all think that I’m getting my share of pussy too. What the hell do they know? I can’t even get it up anymore.”
“I can’t believe that, A. J.,” Joe said sympathetically. “You’re still a young man. Have you seen a doctor?”
“I’ve seen a dozen doctors,” A. J. said disgustedly. “Zero. They all told me the same thing. It was because of a fever I had about seven years ago when I got a clap from some Chinese whore. That was the end of it.”
“Jesus!” Joe exclaimed. “I never heard of anything like that. But now, since the
war, they came out with a whole new batch of medicines.”
“Not for what I got,” A. J. said. “But that isn’t the reason she acts like she does. She’s been like that all the time. She’s always been cock crazy. When I could handle it, it was great, we even used to party together, ménage à trois and all that kind of thing. Now I get nothing but shit.”
Joe, still sitting on the railing, saw her coming from around the side of the house. She had changed from a swimsuit to a beach caftan. “I just saw her,” he said. “She was probably just changing out of her bathing suit. She was probably feeling cold. The sun’s going down.”
A. J. came over to the railing beside him and looked down. “It wasn’t the sun going down,” he said sarcastically. “It was her.”
Joe looked at him silently.
“I’m not crazy,” A. J. said emphatically. “Look at that satisfied look on her face. I know that look. It’s like that every time she gets it off.” He went back to the deck chair. He leaned back for a moment then turned up to Joe. “Don’t pay attention to me,” he said. “I’m a little drunk.”
“That happens to all of us sometimes,” Joe said.
“We won’t talk to anybody about it, will we?” A. J. asked, slightly ashamed.
“I don’t talk,” Joe said. “It’s none of my business.”
“Good boy,” A. J. said, then added in a harsh angry voice, “But if by any chance you get to fuck her, give her a good one for me. Bust her ass!”
Joe didn’t answer.
A. J. got out of the chair. “I’m tired,” he said, his voice suddenly weary. “I think I’ll go inside and take a nap.”
“I think I’ll be going home too,” Joe said.
“Have you been working on the treatment over the weekend?” A. J. asked.
“Yes,” Joe said. “At home.”
“Good.” A. J. nodded. He shook Joe’s hand. “I’ll see you at the studio tomorrow.”
Caroline was having her dinner as he came through the door. “Daddy!” she cried, waving her fork and dropping a forkful of spaghetti on the table. “Pasghetti,” she exclaimed.
He laughed. She never could pronounce the word. “Good?” he asked.
“Very good,” she said seriously. “But I like Tootsie Rolls better.”
“After dinner I’ll give you some Tootsie Rolls,” he promised.
The Storyteller Page 17