* * *
JOE PULLED TWO Tootsie Rolls from his pocket and gave them to Caroline, then glanced over at the table where Motty and Marks sat with the lawyers. Joe’s attorney, Don Sawyer, was a young man, a nephew of A. J.’s. Whether he was capable or not Joe could not judge, because everything seemed very cut-and-dried. At the end of it all, Joe had no choices. Motty held all the cards—she had been well prepared.
His attorney gathered a stack of papers and placed them on the coffee table in front of Joe. “It’s simple,” he said. “Only four agreements. You sign them and it’s all over.”
Joe looked down at them as Don pulled a chair opposite him. “What are they?” he asked, feeling stupid.
Don nodded. “First is the agreement for not contesting the Mexican divorce; second, the agreement about the community property; third, you waive your visitation rights concerning the child in exchange for no payment of either alimony or child support; and fourth, you accept the return of ten thousand dollars formerly in your joint bank account, and the furniture and accessories to the furnishings in the apartment belong to you and will be turned over to you the moment the divorce is finalized. That should be sometime next week.”
“What happens if she does not go through with the divorce?” Joe asked.
“She’ll go through with it,” Don said confidently. He lowered his voice so that he could not be overheard. “They’re hotter for the divorce than you are.”
“Shit,” Joe said. He stared down at the papers. “I guess I have no choices.”
“Unless you want to fight,” Don said. “And even if you do, you’re going to lose. The California courts and laws are all against you.”
Joe looked across the room at Motty. Motty kept her face turned away from him. He turned to Don. “Lend me your pen,” he said. “I’ll sign.”
Quickly he signed the agreements, and Don took them back to Motty’s attorney. Motty looked at her attorney. “Can I leave now?” she asked.
He glanced at the agreements. “Everything’s been signed. You can leave whenever you’re ready.”
She crossed the room and took Caroline by the hand. “Come, Caroline,” she said. “We’re going now.”
The child looked at Joe. Her face was already smeared with chocolate. “Bye-bye, Daddy,” she said calmly.
Joe started to get up from the couch. “Goodbye, baby,” he said, his voice strained. He turned to Motty. “Happier now?” he asked bitterly.
She didn’t answer, her face flushing. She started toward the door, pulling the child along with her.
Joe stared at her. There was something in her face, something about the way she walked. It was nothing new. He had seen that before. Then he remembered. “You’re fucking pregnant!” he shouted.
She rushed out the door with the child. He turned and looked at Marks, who was hurrying after her. “Asshole!” he shouted. “I’m not the only asshole in the world! That’s the same way she nailed me!”
But Marks was already outside the door. Joe turned to his attorney. “No wonder they were in such a rush,” he said. “We were stupid. I was stupid. I should have guessed!” Then his anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. He smiled wryly. “I’ve been outfucked and outsmarted. But maybe I got away lucky.”
Don nodded. “It could have been worse.”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I could have been fighting over two kids, not one. And one of them not even mine!”
27
IT WAS NEARLY six o’clock by the time the attorney gathered up all the agreements and placed them in his briefcase. “I’ll be on my way,” he said. “My in-laws are coming over for dinner.”
Joe nodded. “Fine.”
Don looked at him sympathetically. “Would you like to join us?”
“I don’t think so,” Joe said. “But thanks anyway.”
“You ought to go out for dinner, maybe catch a movie. It won’t be much fun for you to be sitting around here alone. The first night after the divorce papers is a bitch.”
Joe looked at him curiously. “You know?”
Don nodded. “I’ve been through it. I’m on my second marriage.”
Joe thought for a moment. “I guess everyone thinks that they were the only one it ever happened to.”
Don smiled. “It’s almost like a way of life out here.”
Joe nodded, and shook his hand. “I’ll be okay,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”
“I’ll call you at the beginning of the week,” Don said. “Just as soon as they return the official agreements to me.”
Joe closed the door behind the attorney and then opened a bottle of Scotch. Quickly he drank three straight shots. He felt the liquor burning its way down his throat and coughed. “Shit!” he said, then turned on the radio and slumped into the couch. He spun the radio dial until he found a station that broadcast only music—he was in no mood for the news program that usually came on at this time. He had another drink, then leaned his head back against the cushion. Suddenly, he felt exhausted. His eyes were burning, and he rubbed them slowly. It was not tears he felt; he never cried. Then he fell asleep.
He thought he heard a baby crying and opened his eyes. The room was dark. The sound was the buzzing of the radio after the station had gone off the air. He switched off the radio and turned on the lamp next to the couch. The half-empty bottle of Scotch stared up at him from the coffee table. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He hadn’t realized he had drunk that much. He checked his watch. It was after one in the morning.
He looked around the room. It was strange—not familiar at all. Then he realized that it was the silence. There always had been some sound in the apartment. Now, nothing. He lit a cigarette. The scratch of the match echoed loudly in his ear. He took a deep drag of the cigarette and let it out slowly through his nose. He stared at his hands, which were trembling. He dragged again on the cigarette. Besides his shaking hands, he had the granddaddy of all headaches.
Slowly he pulled himself to his feet and walked into the kitchen. He took a bottle of Pepsi from the refrigerator and then a tin of Bayer from the shelf. He popped three aspirin tablets into his mouth and swallowed them with the Pepsi. He finished the bottle of Pepsi and went up the steps to the bedroom.
He turned on the light and stood in the doorway looking into the bedroom. It was a mess. Motty’s closets were open, clothes hangers strewn on the floor: the dresser drawers and cabinet doors had been emptied and left open. Looking through the bathroom door, he saw that the medicine cabinet doors were also thrown open and only his shaving cream and razors remained. Inexplicably, even his toothbrush and toothpaste had disappeared.
He turned from his bedroom door to Caroline’s room. Her small bed and other furniture were gone and the room seemed bare with only the narrow cot and small cabinet that had been assigned to Rosa and her few belongings. He wondered whether Rosa had taken her things with her when she had run out of the house that night. He didn’t trouble to check the cabinet. It didn’t matter anyway. She had not returned since.
He closed the door and walked into his study. He walked to his desk. His manuscript papers were still neatly piled on the desk top. There was a sheet of paper on the typewriter. He picked it up. It was in Motty’s handwriting.
Fuck you!
You’re nothing but a fucking fake. You can’t write. Not one thing you’ve ever done was worth a shit. You can’t even write a lousy comic strip. Not only that you can’t write, you can’t fuck. Now that I have a real man, I really know what fucking is. You will take a hundred years to do what he can do in a minute. And if you think you have such a great big prick, forget it. His is twice the size of yours and he can do more things with it than you can ever imagine. You’re a kid, not a real man, all you’re good for is jerking off.
Love, Motty
Angrily he crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room. “Bitch!” he exclaimed. Then he picked it up from the floor, straightened it and placed it on the desk in front of him. Then he
stared at it and began to smile. Dumb cunt, he thought. She signed it “LOVE.”
He picked up the framed 8½ × 11 photograph standing at the far end of the desk and looked at it. Quickly he slipped the glass off the frame and then, carefully folding the note so that it covered the bottom portion of the photograph, placed it so that her downcast eyes seemed to be looking at the note. He smiled as he replaced the glass and put the frame back on the desk. If ever he needed a reminder of how a woman could screw him, he would always have it.
He began to feel hungry. He hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. He went back to the kitchen. The refrigerator was empty; a half-empty bottle of milk, some bottles of Pepsi and two beers—Nothing else. He scratched his head. Tomorrow he would have to go to the market and stock up.
He left the apartment, got to his car and drove to the all-night drive-in on Sunset and Cahuenga. It was after two in the morning and the drive-in was almost empty. He headed the car into the curb, turned off the engine and rolled down his window.
A moment later, a cute little blonde wearing a French sailor hat with a red pompom, and a little flared-out, short-sleeved cotton shirt that barely covered her tight little shorts, came toward him in her red high-heeled shoes. She placed the clip tray over the car door. “Coffee?” she asked, the filled paper cup in her hand.
“Please.”
She placed the cup with two lumps of sugar and a thin wooden spoon on the tray. “Our special tonight is two beef dogs on a roll with chili and french fries.”
“Sounds good to me,” he said. “How about a beer?”
“It’s after two o’clock,” she answered. “Regulations. No wine or beer on the premises after that.”
“Could I have a glass of water?” he asked.
“Sure. But we have Coke and any soft drink you want.”
“I brought my friend with me,” he said, picking up the Scotch bottle next to him so that she could see it. “Johnnie.”
She laughed. “Johnnie Walker’s everybody’s friend. Even me.”
“Bring an extra glass and I’ll introduce you.”
“Not on the job,” she said. “They’ll have my ass for that.”
“We can fake it,” he said. “Just bring the extra glass.”
He watched her go behind the serving counter as he turned on the car radio. The only station that was on the air was playing Mexican music. Good enough; it went with the chili. There were two water glasses on the tray she brought back. The chili dogs were on a paper plate with a wooden fork, the french fries in a square paper container. A half-dozen foil envelopes held the ketchup and mustard.
He poured the whiskey into one of the glasses. As he lifted it up to the tray he knocked over the container of french fries. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, holding the Scotch bottle in his hand outside the car, pointing down toward the french fries.
She smiled and knelt to pick up the container. At the same moment she took the drink and swallowed it in one gulp. She came up with the paper container. “No problem, sir,” she said, the liquor flushing her face. “I’ll get you another.”
He had eaten half the first chili dog by the time she returned with the fries. “Very smart.” She grinned.
“Where there’s a will there’s a way.”
“I needed it,” she said.
“How much time do you put in?”
“Six hours,” she answered. “Another fifteen minutes, then I can go home.”
“Do you have to go home?” he asked.
“I should,” she said. “My husband likes me home when he gets in. He works the night shift at Hughes Aircraft and he’s in by five usually.”
“That’s two and a half hours,” he said. “Johnnie’s got a twin brother at my place and he’s not even been opened yet.”
“I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “I don’t have a car. I only live two blocks from here. That’s why I took this job.”
“I’ll get you home in time,” he said. “You and me and Johnnie will make up a great ménage à trois.”
“I don’t even know your name,” she said.
“I don’t know yours,” he replied. “But what difference does it make? Let’s leave it at that.”
“You’re so bad.” She smiled. She looked back to the drive-in and then at him. Silently, she placed the ticket on the tray. He threw a five-dollar bill on it. “Keep the change.”
She took the ticket and the money. She looked at him for a moment. “What do you work at?”
“I’m a screenwriter.”
“At a studio?”
“Triple S.”
“Maybe you can get me in for an interview?” she asked. “I was in all my high school plays.”
“Maybe,” he said.
She stared at him again. “I’ll change out of my uniform. Another girl will take your tray away. You can pick me up on the next block.”
He watched her return to the serving counter and walk into the back of the drive-in. He had finished almost half the second chili dog when he saw her leave from the side door. He honked the car horn and another girl took the tray away almost immediately. Carefully he backed out into the street and followed the blonde. She was exactly in the middle of the next block. He pulled the car over to the curb and opened the door.
She got into the seat beside him. The bottle of Scotch pressed hard between them. She picked it up and laughed. “If you’re as hard as our friend Johnnie,” she said, “we’re going to have a hell of a party.”
He watched her uncork the bottle and bring it to her lips. “Good whiskey,” she said, offering him the bottle. “Black Label. The best.”
He waved it away. “Not while I’m driving.”
“Very smart,” she said, nodding owlishly. She raised the bottle to her mouth again. By the time he drove to his apartment, the bottle was empty and she was pissed drunk. When he opened the door to let her out of the car her legs gave beneath her and she slipped onto the small lawn in front of the sidewalk.
He lifted her up from under her arms and placed her back into the car. “I’d better take you home,” he said.
“I’ll be okay,” she said. “All I need is a little food. I never eat at the restaurant, I hate the crap they serve there.”
“But I haven’t anything to eat in the house,” he said. “That’s why I went to the drive-in.”
“Too bad,” she said. “Too bad.”
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“Two blocks from the drive-in,” she said.
He got back into the car and turned on the motor. It didn’t take long to drive her home; it took ten minutes to get her from the car to her door.
She leaned on her door, weaving slightly. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said politely.
“You’re welcome,” he said and went home.
The apartment was still as silent as when he had left it. Crazy. He never thought he could feel so alone. He took three more aspirin and two more drinks and went upstairs to his bedroom. He looked into the study room for a moment, then took the framed photograph and letter from the study, and walked into the bedroom and put it next to the night table beside him.
He watched it while he undressed and by habit placed his clothes away neatly. Then he got into bed and turned off the light. But sleep evaded him. He tossed and turned; the strange silence was too much for him.
He turned on the radio, but found the same Mexican station. He sat up in bed, smoked a cigarette and stared at the photograph. Then he put out the cigarette and reached to turn off the lamp. The photograph still stared at him. Suddenly he was angry. “Fucking cunt!” he shouted and threw the frame and photograph across the room. The tinkling sound of the broken glass took his anger away. It was the same sound he had heard when he smashed the glass under his foot on their wedding day. It was only right that the marriage should be ended with the same ancient ceremony. He fell asleep immediately.
* * *
HE HEARD THE telephone ringing in the distance.
He rolled over in bed and opened his eyes. Nine o’clock in the morning. He pushed himself erect and reached for the telephone. “Hello.”
“Joe? It’s Laura Shelton from New York.”
“Good morning,” he said.
“Did I wake you?” she asked. “I’m sorry about the news of your divorce,” she went on. “But if you’re feeling down, maybe a little good news will lift you up.”
“Good news will help,” he replied, lighting a cigarette. He thought he smelled the aroma of coffee coming from downstairs. But it had to be an illusion.
“Santini, the Italian producer, wants you for two pictures in Europe. Guaranteed pay or play, thirty-five thousand each and five percent of the net. I’ve already received the contract and a deposit check of ten thousand dollars if you sign.”
“I thought it was cocktail-party talk,” Joe said.
“He obviously meant it,” Laura said. “I spoke to him in Rome, he’s anxious for you to begin right away.”
The aroma of coffee was not an illusion. Rosa appeared in the bedroom door, a tray of coffee and sweet rolls in her hands. He looked at her silently as she placed the tray on the bed beside him and left the room. He took a sip of coffee. It was hot, and it warmed him.
“Right away?” he said to Laura. “What about my agreement with A. J.?”
“I have a feeling that A. J. is going to pull out of it,” Laura said. “Kathy tells me that Steve Cochran won’t do the picture and Judi told A. J. that she would not do the picture unless she got a new contract with a lot more money. A. J. has already placed her on suspension.”
“Where does that place me?” he asked. “I have the treatment almost ready.”
“How long will it take you to finish it?”
“Another week.”
“You have no signed contract,” she said. “You can turn the treatment in and go on your way. As a matter of fact, I have a feeling that A. J. will be relieved.”
He sipped at the coffee again. If he had no deal with A. J., he had nothing to tie him down here. The only life he had here was wrapped around the industry. He had no real friends. “You sound like you know something?” he said. “Have you spoken to A. J. already?”
The Storyteller Page 19