“That’s a date. Goodnight, Kitty, I’ll call you soon.”
She squeezed his hand briefly, then slipped in through the door.
As he drove home to the Marina, Driscoll glanced up at himself in the rearview mirror. “Gallahad,” he muttered. “Protector of maidens. Stalwart champion of spiritual love. Who are you kidding?”
What had been his motive for sidestepping a certain invitation from Kitty Girodian? It certainly was not that she failed to attract him. Au contraire! Unlike him as it was, Driscoll finally had to admit that when and if he went to Kitty’s bed, he did not want it to be straight from the bed of another woman.
He realized, with a small start of pleasure, that this was the first time all night he had thought about Joyce Hardeman. There is nothing like a woman, he told himself, to take your mind off a woman.
CHAPTER 22
The ice cubes made nervous clinking sounds as Dean Hardeman swirled the drink around on the bar. It was the same tall bourbon and water he had ordered fifteen minutes earlier. He had taken only spare sips out of it.
He lit his third cigarette since arriving at the restaurant and looked at his watch. Five minutes to eight. He had to stop worrying about Joyce, she would be here. Joyce had always been punctual.
He wished she would have let him come for her in a cab. That was the way he had always done it in New York. Meeting a woman in a restaurant seemed to lack class. No, he had to stop thinking that way. This was California; they did things differently out here. He had to be more flexible.
Henri’s, the restaurant Joyce had chosen, was a small, quiet, Frenchified place in Beverly Hills. It had male waiters, a crystal chandelier, and high prices. Hardeman mashed out his cigarette and was starting to light another when he saw Joyce come in.
She was tall and poised in a silver-trimmed black sweater and black velvet pants. Hardeman got up from the bar and went over to meet her.
“Hello, Joyce. You look … wonderful.” The words came out flat and dull, not at all the way he intended them to sound.
“Hello, Dean.” She offered her hand. Cool, strong.
The maître d’ escorted them to their table, and a waiter appeared instantly bearing Hardeman’s unfinished drink on a tray.
“A cocktail for madame?” The waiter asked.
Hardeman looked inquiringly to his ex-wife.
“No, thank you,” she said. When the waiter had gone away she spoke to Hardeman. “I’m not drinking these days, but you go ahead and finish yours.”
“The truth is I’m not putting it away like I used to either.” He lifted the glass toward her in an awkward salute. “But this is a special occasion.”
She smiled fleetingly, and Hardeman took a swallow of the drink.
“I understand you’re working on a book,” she said.
“Yes, yes I am. No big thing, an assignment, really. But it is a book, and I’m writing well. The important thing is I’ve got an idea for a really big one after this. It might even grow into a trilogy.”
“That’s wonderful, Dean.” She paused while he held a flame to her cigarette. “I’m glad for you.”
Did she really think it was wonderful? Her response was not as warm as he had hoped for. Guarded. Still, it was better than nothing.
“So you’re out at UCLA?”
“That’s right.”
“Not teaching?”
“No, nothing like that. I help with research projects in the sociology department. Not much of a topic for dinner conversation.”
All right, so she didn’t want to talk about her job. That was fine, neither did he.
“How do you like California by now?” Stupid question. What was the matter with him? He sounded like he’d been taking bore lessons.
“I love it,” she said. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to live anywhere else.”
Was there a message there? Don’t try to talk me into going back to New York?
“You can’t beat the climate, that’s for sure.” Jesus, talk about inane dialog. How did his glass get empty so fast?
The waiter materialized silently at their table. “Another cocktail, sir?”
“No … well, yes, maybe I will.” He smiled across the table at Joyce. “Special occasion and all.”
“That was a bourbon and water, tall, sir?” asked the waiter.
“Yes, but this time in a short glass.” Was that a flicker of disapproval in Joyce’s eyes? “You can bring the menus back with you.” That should demonstrate that he was more interested in eating than in drinking.
Hardeman busied himself lighting a cigarette and pretending to study the décor until the waiter came back with his fresh drink and the menus.
“Nice place,” he said.
“Not bad.”
The return of the waiter saved him from having to force more small talk. He tasted the drink and ran his eyes down the dishes listed in the menu.
“What do you suggest?” he asked Joyce.
“They’re famous here for their filet of sole Côte d’ Azur.”
“Fine.” Hardeman gave the order to the waiter, then picked up the wine list. “And you can bring us a bottle of Musigny Blanc.” When the waiter had gone, Hardeman turned to Joyce. “You are drinking wine?”
She answered with a little shake of her head.
“No kidding. Well, here’s to sobriety.” He raised the glass and drank, the ice rattling against his teeth. As he set the glass back down he caught the waiter’s eye and signaled for another. He had to get loosened up if he was going to stop this idiotic chatter and tell Joyce the things that were really on his mind.
“This place is a little like Les Frères on 58th Street, isn’t it?”
“A little.”
What was he going to have to do to communicate with this woman? His drink arrived and he finished half of it immediately.
“We had some good times there,” he said. “Les Frères.”
Joyce studied him for a long moment, then deliberately crushed out her cigarette. “Yes, Dean, we had some good times there and at other places. We also had some rotten times. If we’re going to play Remember When, let’s talk about those too. Like the time you broke little Ellie Harlan’s nose because he didn’t laugh hard enough at one of your jokes. Or the time you broke down the door to the men’s room at the Red Chimney because you couldn’t get it open. Or the time Norman Fine brought his new wife over to our table in the Rose Room and you thought it was amusing to try out every four-letter word you knew on her.”
Hardeman held up a hand to say he’d had enough. His smile felt loose. “You win, there’ll be no playing Remember When. I was an asshole. I admit it, and I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, Joyce.”
“Never mind. It’s over now.”
Jesus, so final.
“Tell me, is there anybody special in your life these days?” Oh, that was wonderful. Light and subtle as a belch.
“You mean men?”
“You haven’t switched to women, have you?” The forced smile wanted to slide off his face. Who was saying these dreadful things in his voice?
“No, Dean, I still like men. As for specials, there are a few. No one-and-only. How about you?”
“Oh, the usual. Like you, playing the field, but not looking for a fulltime thing.” What bullshit. He hadn’t been laid in three months, and that time it had been the orange-haired widow across the street who took on everybody in the neighborhood, including delivery boys. Hardeman wanted his wife so bad at that moment he could have cried.
The salad arrived, and the wine. Hardeman went through the ritual of examining the label and taking a small sip before nodding his approval for the waiter to fill the glass. The waiter went away, and Hardeman took a healthy swallow of wine before speaking.
“Are you happy out here, Joyce? I mean really, honestly happy?”
“Reasonably so. I have my good and bad days, like everybody else.”
“I wish I could say that. All I have lately is bad days and worse da
ys.”
“I’m sorry, Dean.”
“Are you really? I couldn’t blame you much if you kind of enjoyed seeing me go downhill.”
“I’m not that kind of a person, Dean, and you know it. We went through our bad times together, and we called it quits. Now you have your life and I have mine. It wouldn’t do me any good to see you hurt.”
Hardeman drew a deep breath. It was time to get it said. “Joyce, … can we try it again?”
She took a bite of her salad and chewed thoughtfully, not looking at him. When she met his gaze, her eyes were veiled and unreadable.
“No,” she said quietly.
“It wouldn’t be the way it was before. I’m back on the track now. I know where I’m going. I’m writing again, and I’ve got plans for the future.”
“It didn’t work before,” she said coolly, “and it wouldn’t work this time.”
“I’m not the same man I was, Joyce. On my next birthday I’ll be fifty years old, but I feel like I’ve just grown up.”
“For your sake, I’m glad to hear it, but it doesn’t affect you and me.”
Hardeman emptied the wine glass. The waiter hurried over to refill it.
“Everything about you affects me. Joyce, I was lying about playing the field. There are no women in my life to amount to anything. There haven’t been in five years.”
She shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, Dean, that’s not my problem.”
“Damn it, don’t you know what I’m saying? I’m saying you’re the only woman in the world I want. I want us back together.”
“I know what you’re saying, Dean. I’ve heard it all before. We’ve been through this whole scene before. I’m tired of it. I don’t want to hurt you, but I have to make it plain that I do not want a reconciliation.” She spaced the words out carefully, as though speaking to a child. “It’s over, Dean.”
There was a dull ringing in his ears. When he spoke the words had a faraway sound, as though someone else was talking and he was standing apart listening. “What you mean is that things are different now that the royalty checks aren’t coming in.”
“You know that isn’t true.”
“Oh, isn’t it? I notice that you didn’t find our life together so hard to take when we could skip off to Cannes or Switzerland or Acapulco whenever you felt like it.”
“I loved you then, Dean.”
“Sure you did, and when the money stopped flowing in, you decided maybe you weren’t so much in love.”
Joyce put down her salad fork and looked him in the eye. “I was talked into coming here to meet you tonight. It was against my better judgement. I did it because it seemed important to you. But understand this, I will not take your abuse.”
“Oh, you won’t, won’t you? Whose abuse are you taking these days? Who’s paying the rent for your fancy Westwood apartment? How is he in bed? You used to have quite an appetite in bed, as I remember.” Who was the madman saying these things through his mouth?
Joyce’s eyes flashed, but she said nothing. She clutched her bag and started to rise from the table. Hardeman reached across and grasped her wrist.
“Let go of me, Dean, I’m leaving now.”
“Wait a minute. We haven’t talked yet.”
“You’ve done all the talking I want to hear.”
“Don’t get superior with me, lady. Remember, I’ve seen you with your clothes off.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You remember it, mister, because you never will again. Now, take your hand off me.”
“God damn it, listen to me. You make me say things I don’t really mean.”
“Let go of my arm, Dean. Or do you want me to call someone?”
The maitre d’, alerted by a signal from the waiter, moved smoothly to the table. “Is everything all right?”
“It’s all right,” Joyce said, keeping her eyes on Hardeman, “I was just leaving.”
Hardeman relaxed his grip and she stood up. The maitre d’ quickly removed the chair.
“Goodbye, Dean,” she said, and walked out tall, straight and proud, without looking back.
“M’sieur will be wanting dinner?” asked the maître d’, unruffled.
“No. M’sieur will be wanting a drink. Bourbon. On the rocks. Double.”
Hardeman sat watching glumly as the maître d’ relayed the order to the waiter. He had fucked up again. For a week he had been thinking about the things he was going to say to Joyce tonight. He had even typed out a page of prospective dialog. So what happened when he was actually sitting across the table from her? He opened his mouth and out came nothing but whining, complaining, criticizing crap. He could not blame Joyce for walking out.
The waiter came over and set the drink down in front of him, then went away.
Hardeman smiled a tight, humorless smile. “Set ’em up, Joe,” he said too softly for anyone to hear. “I’ve got a little story you ought to know …”
CHAPTER 23
Billy Lockett stood in the corner of Al Fessler’s office holding his white sequined guitar and looking as though he were about to start singing at any moment. Not the real Billy Lockett, of course, but a life-size plywood cutout with a photographic reproduction of Billy in one of his trademark glittery jumpsuits.
The effigy was a prototype that Conn Driscoll had dropped off for Al’s approval. The plan was that cardboard copies would go into record shops and ticket agencies all over the city. Fessler had liked the idea and told Driscoll to go ahead, but he still felt uneasy having the realistic Billy in the room with him, watching. After a while he walked over and turned Billy’s face to the wall. Now it was nothing but a piece of plywood.
Another white number clicked into place on Fessler’s digital desk clock. He had fifteen minutes before a scheduled meeting with Rick Girodian. It was not a meeting Al was looking forward to with pleasure, but Rick had flatly refused to deal any more with Conn Driscoll. He wouldn’t say why. Al decided this might be a good time to get Driscoll’s explanation. He reached over and buzzed his secretary on the intercom.
“Get Conn Driscoll for me, honey. You can probably find him at his home number.”
What a life, Al thought. Live in a high-priced Marina apartment, do a little work there now and then, and write off most of the rent as business expense. Today Driscoll was supposedly typing up a new batch of handouts for the press, but likely as not he was in the saddle with one of those cupcakes he hung around with. But what the hell, as long as Driscoll delivered, Al didn’t care what he did with his private life.
The telephone beeped, and Al picked up the receiver. Driscoll’s voice came over the line, professional and enthusiastic, as always.
“Al, what’s happening?”
“I thought maybe you could tell me. Our friend Rick Girodian calls me up and says he wants to talk about the list of songs I gave you for him to sing at the concert. ‘See Driscoll,’ I tell him. ‘Driscoll’s handling the concert.’ ‘I don’t want to talk to that prick,’ he says. What is it with you and Girodian, anyway?”
A short hesitation at the other end before Driscoll answered. “It’s probably because I’ve taken his sister out a couple of times. I don’t think Rick approves of me.”
“Sonofabitch, Driscoll, can’t you keep your pants buttoned at least until this promotion is over? It’s just some little thing like this that could fuck up the whole show.”
“Al, I haven’t laid a hand on the girl. I like her, that’s all.”
“If Girodian thinks you’re screwing her, it amounts to the same thing.”
Driscoll’s sigh came clearly through the phone. “Okay, Al, I’ll watch it. Was there anything else?”
Fessler found he was annoyed by the offhand tone of Driscoll’s voice. He said, “Yeah, as a matter of fact, there is something else. Your high-powered book writer, Mr.
Dean Hardeman. What’s he doing?”
“I don’t get your meaning.”
“My meaning is where the fuck are the pages? The publishe
r is getting antsy.”
A little of the assurance went out of Driscoll’s voice. “Dean knows what our deadline is. I’m sure he’s close to wrapping it up.”
“Oh, really? Just how sure are you, anyway? Have you seen him lately?”
“You know he doesn’t like to be disturbed while he’s working.”
“He’s working for me, goddammit, and I’ll interrupt him any fucking time I want to. He’s not writing the great fucking American novel. At least he better not be, because that’s not what I’m paying him for.”
“Dean knows what we want,” Driscoll said.
“Does he? What I want right now is some fucking action. When was the last time you talked to our Shakespeare, anyway?”
“Oh … it’s been several days, I guess.”
“How many goddamn days?”
“Let me see, I talked to him when he came back from the trip to Indiana …”
“Aha. That’s three fucking weeks ago.”
“Not quite.”
“Close enough. Listen, Driscoll, get your ass out of that pussy palace you live in and go find out what the hell our literary genius is doing. For all I know, the son of a bitch could be taking us for a ride. You get pages from Hardeman, or you write the goddamn book yourself while we still got time to get it printed. One way or another, I want action.”
“I’ll see him tomorrow,” Driscoll said. “Will that be soon enough?”
“Okay,” Al said, his anger suddenly drained. “Let me know what happens.”
He hung up the telephone and looked down at what he had doodled on his desk pad: dollar signs and daggers.
A beep from the intercom. Al punched the button.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Girodian to see you.”
Al made an effort to pump some heartiness into his voice. “Fine, fine. Tell him to come on in.”
He pulled his face into a smile of greeting. Rick Girodian wore his customary Armenian scowl.
“Sit down, Rick, sit down. Take the comfortable chair. You and me haven’t had a chance to talk in a long time. How long’s it been, anyway?”
“It’s been since you dumped me on my butt after the breakup with Billy.”
Billy Lives Page 18
