The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel

by Iris Rainer Dart

  "You want to fuck me, David," she said. "Everyone in America wants to fuck me, so why should you be any different?"

  He did want to fuck her. He wanted to fuck her hard. Jam his cock into her. Control her. Make her do what he wanted her to do. Get her in line, to prove to himself and Larson that he could do it.

  I'll put your name on the door. Larson said that. Larson never said things like that lightly. She was breathing hard and rubbing against his arm.

  "Yes," he said. "I want to fuck you, Beau."

  As David undressed Beau took her robe off and walked into the bedroom. When he got there she was lying on the bed with her back arched and her legs spread. David almost laughed. It was as if she was posing for some magazine. No. He couldn't think like that or he'd lost interest.

  "Do me, honey," she said. He lay on the bed beside her and began to caress her, stroke her body, trying to think of what he was doing instead of thinking about Allyn. Allyn who loved him. Who was waiting for him. Right now at La Scala. She wouldn't know. This wasn't about her. This was business. Beau Daniels. Fucking Beau Daniels. Well I have tried to deny the way I feel for you / And I have tried to ignore the way you love me too. The whole country watched her on television, and saw her pictures in magazines and loved her, and she wanted him to . . .

  "Fuck me."

  She wasn't interested in the foreplay. All she wanted was for him to put his cock inside her and to tell her what Benny said wasn't true. That her cunt wasn't loose. That she was a good fuck. Slowly he mounted her and slid his cock inside her. She began moving her hips. But it was all automatic. It didn't seem to be related to David's thrusting. Benny was right. Beau Daniels was a real boring fuck.

  "Fuck me good, baby," she said in what sounded like a voice she'd heard in a porno film. David thrust and thrust again and again, amazed that he was staying hard since he felt so passionless.

  "Oh, I'm close," she said as he thrust more and more.

  "Come for me, baby," David said. "Come for me." Now her movement was closing in on his. Together. "Come, you bitch," he said. "Come."

  She came. Moaning "Oh, yes. Oh, yes." And he thrust for another moment and then, Yes. Now. His cock exploded inside her. Gentle, he thought to himself. Be gentle. He wanted to leave. To get out. But that would be defeating his purpose. She had to do what he told her to do.

  He moved his weight onto his elbows and looked at her face.

  "You're fabulous," he said to her.

  "Am I? Swear to God?"

  "Oh, yes," he said. "I swear."

  She kissed his face.

  "Then stay with me. We'll fuck all night long."

  "Beau—"

  "Please."

  Allyn at La Scala. He had left his watch on but was afraid to look at it. This was Beau Daniels.

  "You can do it," she said, suddenly using a cutesy little-girl voice. "Make a phone call. Tell her you had business. I'm business, right? I'll order goodies for us from room service. Then I'll put your dick in my mouth and you can give me eight bucks." She really wanted him there. He had to use that to get her to listen to him. To go back to the show. It would make him a hero. To Larson. To the networks. It would be in the trades.

  "Hand me the phone," he said.

  It was four o'clock in the morning. All the way back to the apartment, David rehearsed the lie he would tell Allyn. He'd say he had been with Beau and Benny and the lawyers and they were trying hard to come to a settlement. But Beau was so angry she wouldn't agree to anything, so they ordered dinner from room service for all of them, and kept trying to work out a solution, and finally, at three thirty in the morning, one of the lawyers said Beau had better think about it some more, and they all left. He would tell Allyn he was sorry he called so late at La Scala, because she'd had to wait there for over an hour, but they were so heavy into the dealings that he never even looked at his watch.

  Allyn was asleep. David undressed and slid into bed next to her, but he wasn't sleepy.

  His mind was racing. Beau said she would think about it over the weekend, and maybe go back to the show if the network dumped Benny as the producer, and paid him off for the rest of the year, and Benny would consider that money his support from her.

  David didn't think there was a prayer that Benny would go for that, but at least it was a starting point. When he told her he had to go home, she pouted and asked him to wait until she fell asleep. Then she took a pink-satin sleep mask out of the night-table drawer. "I'm glad you fucked me, David," she said. "Remember that night when you rescued me at my house and helped me check in here? Well, I wanted to fuck you then. But I knew you had that girl friend. I'm glad to know you don't mind being unfaithful to her." She smiled. David felt an angry rush when she said that, but he didn't react; instead he watched her put the pink-satin sleep mask on, turn over on her side and fall asleep. It was the first time he'd been to bed with anyone but Allyn since they began living together.

  Unfaithful. To Allyn. Pretty delicious Allyn. His woman. David looked at her sleeping profile now. So beautiful. She was so filled with love and optimism. She reminded him of Marlene. In spite of her long hours at her job in television development at Hemisphere, she still had time to stop on the way home for bunches of flowers, or surprises to brighten up the apartment. Her relationship with the Greenfields had cooled considerably since she moved in with David, and since they'd been her closest friends, now she had only him. And, now that he thought about it, he had only her. Best friends. That's what she always told him. You're my best friend. He reached over to touch her and she stirred.

  "David?" she said, only half awake. Then she looked at him. And smiled. Unfaithful.

  "Hi. Was it awful?" she asked. "I mean, lots of wheeling and dealing?"

  He nodded.

  "I love you," she said.

  "I love you," he answered. He did love her. She looked like Marlene lying there.

  "Marry me, David," she said.

  Marry her. She wanted that. More than anything. She asked him all the time. Most of the time when she said that, he would kiss her and tell her that he probably would marry her someday and then he would kiss her again and touch her and make love to her and that would end the discussion for a while. He didn't want to do that tonight. Not now. Not after—He tried to block the picture out of his mind of Beau spreading her legs for him, posing on the bed for him. Putting on the sleep mask.

  "Allyn, honey—"

  "We'll just invite a few people and a minister, and I'll make hors d'oeuvres."

  "Allyn."

  "I make great hors d'oeuvres. Remember the shrimp puffs I made you on our first date?"

  He laughed. She was a wonderful woman and he knew she really loved him.

  "I hate shrimp," he said, teasing her.

  "David."

  Why did women want to get married? Why did it mean so much? He was here. Together with her. Wasn't that all that mattered? He couldn't. Didn't want to. He was young. Younger than she was. Marriage was a trap. Especially in California with community-property divorce laws. No. He wouldn't do it. She would have to understand.

  "Allyn, listen, honey," he began, as he rubbed his hand against his face. He could smell Beau Daniels all over it. For a moment thinking about his sex with her was exciting. Two women. Having one. Fucking one. Like Wolfson. Being married and fucking Marlene. Sometimes in this very bed. And probably late at night when David was away at a friend's house. Probably Marlene had wanted Wolfson to marry her. Asked him to. And Wolfson promised her he would. She told David that. Wolfson told David that. Wolfson killed her. Killed her.

  "Is it too late to leave tonight?" he said quietly.

  Allyn's eyes narrowed. "Where are you going?"

  "To Las Vegas," he said. "With you. To get married."

  "Oh, David," she said, sitting up to embrace him. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes," he said. Over Allyn's shoulder he could see the picture of Marlene on the dresser. "I'm sure, sweetheart. I'm sure."

  thirty-two
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  Barry spent most of his time at home now instead of at his Sunset Boulevard office. He would sit on the porch staring at the ocean for hours wondering what to do. He knew he had a few million dollars. He knew he was famous. At least in the business. He knew he'd accomplished it all without help from anyone else and with great style. Big fucking deal.

  It was overcast today and chilly, and he was cold. He got up to go inside and get a sweater, and as he turned toward the door, he saw the boy's reflection in the glass. He turned back quickly and looked out on the beach. The boy looked like Harley. Sort of like Harley. Barry folded his arms on his chest to protect himself from the cold, but he didn't go inside. He continued to stand there and watch the boy. The boy was probably twelve years old. He was throwing a stick for his dog, who was very mangy, into the water and watching as the dog leaped in the air, swam into the ocean to retrieve the stick, and then swam back to shore, shaking itself off and wagging its tail proudly. The boy repeated the same cycle with the dog three or four times and Barry watched them. He moved over to the edge of the deck and sat on the railing and watched them. It really was chilly. After about ten minutes, he went inside.

  His white sweat shirt was hanging on the arm of the living-room sofa and he put it on. He would fix himself some lunch. No. He walked to the window. The boy and the dog were still playing the same game. Doing the same thing. Over and over. They were like a mechanical toy. Throw. Leap. Swim. Catch. Turn. Swim. Shake. Wag. Remove. Throw. Barry walked back outside, over to the gate that led to the beach and down the steps. The sand was cold under his feet. He had no idea what he would say.

  "What kind of a dog is that?"

  The boy didn't even look at him.

  "Mutt."

  "Good retriever."

  "Yeah."

  "You live near here?"

  "Nah." The boy had smooth skin and shoulder-length brown hair.

  The dog was swimming toward the shore after another perfect save of the stick. When he arrived, he shook, and the water sprayed all over Barry.

  "Sorry," the kid said to Barry without looking at him. Then he threw the stick again.

  "Can I throw it next time?" Barry asked.

  "Sure."

  The boy said that he would have to remove the stick from the dog's mouth and then give it to Barry to throw, because the dog wouldn't release the stick to Barry.

  "Not too far," the boy said, handing Barry the stick.

  Barry threw the stick, aiming for the place in the water where the boy seemed to have thrown it each time.

  "Good shot," the boy said.

  Barry felt glad. He wanted very much to get it right. When the dog returned, even though Barry had thrown the stick, the dog gave it back to the boy. But this time the boy didn't throw it. He put the stick under his arm and, after a quick glance at Barry, he said, "See ya," and started walking away.

  "Wait," Barry said to him. "I live in the redwood house."

  The boy kept walking. Barry didn't move. He watched the back of the boy as the boy walked. And he pretended for a second that the boy was Harley. Just going for a walk down the beach. Be back soon, he used to say. Now the boy was running.

  Barry walked up the beach toward the redwood house. He was shivering by the time he got to his deck. He went directly upstairs to his bathroom and took a hot shower. He didn't shave. He was starting to like the two-week-old growth on his face. He put on some clean Levi's and a sweater and a leather jacket and put his wallet in the pocket of the jacket and took his keys from the dresser and went downstairs, out to the garage.

  His car. His beautiful car. He hadn't driven it in so long. Harley loved the Corniche. He had chosen the dark-green color. Sometimes, after Barry first got it, they would get in the car and Barry would drive north on the Coast Highway and Harley would sit in the back seat holding his guitar and wearing his Greek fisherman's cap, he would pick out tunes as they drove. Barry backed the car out of the garage, nodded at the Colony guard and headed south on the Coast Highway to Sunset.

  Sunset. It was getting dark now. U.C.L.A., Beverly Hills, Sunset. He passed the building where his office was. There was always traffic around here. He looked at people looking into the Corniche. They always did. Who could afford such a car, people wondered. Past Doheny. The Strip. Slowing down. Maybe he'd stop at the Roxy. No. He drove for a few more blocks, then stopped for a red light. A kid, maybe sixteen. Very tight jeans. Silky blue turtleneck. Blond. Like a surfer. Streaks in the hair. Leaning against a telephone pole. He looked at Barry in the Corniche. Is he—did he want to—Barry wasn't sure, but it looked as though the kid nodded.

  Barry made a right turn down Harper, a right turn on De Longpre, and a right turn on Sweetzer and headed up to the Strip again. The kid was still there. Barry pulled up to the corner again and the kid got in. Barry looked straight ahead so he wouldn't have to make eye contact. "A hundred bucks," the kid said. There was a mixture of defiance and fear in the demand. As though he were saying, No negotiating, because I can tell by the car that you can afford it. Barry's heart was pounding. What if someone had seen the kid get in the car? The Corniche. There were a lot of music-business people who had offices around here. And they all knew his car. They would know he picked up a kid on the Strip.

  "Okay," he told the kid. "But I want to go back to my place."

  "Where?"

  "Malibu."

  "Yeah? Far out!"

  This was dangerous. Picking the kid up like this. Why was he doing it? Maybe they could find someplace where they could pull over. He could do the kid in the car. Not take him home. He couldn't believe he was thinking those thoughts. He couldn't believe any of this. He drove down Fairfax toward the Santa Monica Freeway. He would avoid Beverly Hills and Brentwood.

  The ride to Malibu was made in complete silence. Barry didn't even turn on the radio. He hadn't listened to the radio at all since Harley died.

  When they walked into the beach house, Barry could see in the kid's eyes that he was amazed at what he'd stumbled into.

  "I turned a trick once in Zuma Beach," he said, "but this is better."

  "I'm glad you like it," Barry said, then almost laughed. He sounded like his mother when she was selling Eldor dresses. Why was he trying to be so charming? He heard the kid. This was a trick. A one-hundred-dollar cocksuck. Take it out. Just take it out and let's get on with it.

  "Want to go upstairs?" the kid asked.

  "No." It was a sharp retort. Upstairs? This filthy hooker in Harley's bed? "Here," he said. "We'll do it here."

  As he was taking his clothes off, the kid noticed the two-by-three-foot portrait over the fireplace.

  "That picture looks like that, uh . . . like that singer who died. You know who I mean?" The kid had a big uncircumcised cock. "You takin' your clothes off now?" he asked.

  Barry sat on the sofa looking toward the ocean, but it was dark outside so the light inside made the doors into mirrors in which he could see the reflection of himself and the naked boy. Barry reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and took out his wallet.

  "Here's a hundred bucks," he said. "Do me a favor-hitchhike home or find some other way out of here because I—"

  The kid was already back into his shorts and pulling his jeans on.

  "Oh, hey, like don't worry about me, man. I'm very cool. You know?"

  Barry put the money on the table next to him and the kid took it and offered his hand for Barry to shake. Barry didn't even look up.

  thirty-three

  Mickey only left his house once a week now. To go and collect unemployment. The waterbed store had gone out of business. The days were very long for him and he thought about suicide all the time. He wasn't even going to Jackie Levitz's comedy workshop anymore. He couldn't take it. Long days. Turning into longer nights.

  The phone rang.

  "Ashman?"

  "Yeah." It was Milt Stiener.

  "This Ashman?" the old man asked again.

  Mickey held the receiver closer to his
mouth.

  "Yes. This is Mickey Ashman."

  "Got an address for you, Ashman. Over at Studio Center. On Radford. Know where that is?"

  An interview. Finally, an interview. His last one was two months ago.

  "It's the part of Larry—the brother. Twenty-five. Thinks of himself as a swinger."

  Mickey could tell Stiener was reading to him from the cast breakdown.

  "Can you handle that?"

  "Yes," Mickey said.

  "When do I read?"

  "You already read," Stiener said. "Few months back. But the thing got postponed."

  Yes. That's right. Some pilot at CBS. The part of the brother. He remembered.

  "Then this is a callback?" he asked.

  "No, Ashman. You got the job," Stiener said.

  Mickey let out an involuntary yelp. The job?

  "Milt? Are you sure?"

  "Sure I'm sure. Just got off the phone with the guy. The producer. Arlen White. Used to know his dad. A cameraman. Dead now."

  Mickey had to laugh. Suddenly Milt's stories of the old days sounded funny to him. He wanted to kiss the old guy.

  "Work Wednesday. Seven A.M. Stage 16. I got you fifteen hundred for the week, and if it goes to series, you'll get two thousand a show. How 'bout it? They'll probably deliver your script tomorrow."

  Mickey's feet were doing a little dance around the floor. Now a waltz with the telephone as his partner. Then he stopped. God. He was much heavier two months ago or whenever it was he interviewed for this part. Maybe he'd better go out and fatten up. Yes.

  "Thanks, Miltie," he said into the phone. That's what he'd do. He had barely eaten for weeks. He would take himself out to dinner. Wednesday. Seven. A job. He'd go over to the Screen Actors Guild tomorrow and take himself off of the honorary withdrawal list.

  He got into the Corvair and drove up to Ventura Boulevard. The brother. What was the part like? He'd been so numb that day. It might have been right after he heard about Harley Ellis dying that he went in to read. He remembered feeling very anxious that day and not sure if he should call Golden and extend his sympathy, or if Golden would think he was mocking him and his faggot relationship. So he didn't call, and he remembered that for a few days he had this guilty feeling about the night he sat in the car outside the Colossus. As though maybe if he'd gone inside, maybe Harley wouldn't be dead.