The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel

by Iris Rainer Dart

  "Where is he now?"

  "They're doing angiograms," she said. "They put dye into his veins to try and see where the bleeding is. Oh, God, Stan."

  Stan held her while she cried. A nurse passed and looked sweetly at Stan as if to say, "I'm sorry," and he wondered how many crying people those nurses saw a day.

  The elevator down the hall opened and a few people got off and were coming toward Stan and Beau.

  "It's his doctor. The surgeon who's on the case. Davidson," Beau said.

  "Hello, Miss Daniels," the tall gray-haired man said gently. Stan immediately looked at Davidson's hands. They looked too big to be able to poke around inside of brains and hearts.

  "This is our friend, Stan Rose," she told the doctor.

  "Mr. Golden had a hemorrhage in his subarachnoid space," Davidson told Stan. "He had an arterial venous malfunction. Blood vessels that don't belong there. We're going to have to take them out, or we run the risk of it continuing to bleed."

  "Brain surgery," Beau said quietly. "My God."

  "He'll be coming up from the tests soon. We've given him Demerol for the pain but he is conscious. I've already discussed the surgery with him and we've agreed that we'll do it tomorrow morning. It's a long process, but it's necessary. Miss Daniels, you'll forgive me . . . but you haven't left the hospital since you came in on Friday. Have you been sleeping? Eating?"

  "No," Beau said. "But I'm perfectly fine."

  "Why don't you two go to the commissary and get some lunch?" he asked. "By the time you get back, Mr. Golden should have been returned to his room."

  "No—I don't want to—"

  "C'mon, Beau," Stan said, taking her arm. "I'll treat."

  The hospital commissary was busy. Stan noticed the look of recognition that crossed people's faces when they saw Beau in the cafeteria line. Thankfully no one came over to ask her for her autograph, or to tell her they wished she'd go back with Benny. Beau put a few things on her tray: some carrot salad, a blob of red Jell-O, a cup of black coffee. Stan took a ready-made ham sandwich and a lemonade, and they found a table. Neither of them was the least bit hungry.

  "It took me my whole life to find that little bastard," she said. "If he doesn't pull through this—"

  "He will, Beau," Stan said. "Don't let yourself think that way."

  "You know what?" she said. "I love Barry so much I could live with him in the back of a fifty-four Chevy panel truck."

  Stan smiled. "As long as it had walk-in closets."

  "No." Beau was very serious.

  "I always had these big dreams when I was a kid about having mansions, limos and furs and jewelry, because I was a poor kid and poor kids probably all have those dreams. And then I met Benny. I was fourteen when I met Benny. I told him I was sixteen. But I was only fourteen fucking years old. And he promised me I'd have those things. Mansions and limos and furs and jewelry, and he made it come true. But always, and I know this sounds like bullshit now, you know, hindsight, but the honest-to-God truth is that what I really wanted more than any of that was to have one loving devoted man to care for me. The way Benny did at first. Or acted like he did. The way Barry has. I mean it, Stan. I've had every material thing money can buy and, as corny as it sounds, love is all there is. Everything else is bullshit."

  Stan looked at her across the table. Sitting there without her makeup—in those wrinkled clothes—with her hair uncombed. She looked ordinary. She was ordinary. Wonderfully ordinary. With the same needs as everyone else.

  "Let's go upstairs and see Barry," he said.

  The door to Barry's room was closed and Beau tapped on it lightly. A nurse stuck her head out. "One minute," she said and went back into the room.

  "Don't be scared when you see him," Beau said to Stan. "He looks awful."

  The nurse opened the door. "He's awake," she told them. "But he's drugged."

  Barry looked like a little boy lying on the bed in the darkened room. The way, Stan thought, that he himself must have looked when he had polio.

  "Barry, honey," Beau said. "Stan Rose is here."

  "Stan. Hi, pal," Barry said.

  "Hiya, Golden," Stan said.

  Everyone was quiet for a minute. Then Barry spoke.

  "Hey, listen, Juggie," he said. His voice was breathy and almost totally without energy, and Stan smiled to himself. Demerol or not, Golden remembered the old nickname. "They're gonna operate on my fuckin' brain."

  "I know," Stan said.

  "I could die. You know."

  "You won't die, Golden," Stan said. He looked at Beau. Her mouth was tight and her brow furrowed. She was trying hard not to cry. Barry looked so small and narrow in the bed. If it wasn't for the beard, he could have easily been mistaken for a child.

  "Listen. I've got to tell you something. Harley . . . Beau . . . No. Stan." He was really spaced. He paused again for a very long time. "And you're going to hate me for saying it, but you see, if I don't, I might die and never get to tell you and you have to know."

  Stan was intrigued. What could it be?

  Beau looked nervous. "Barry," she said. "Go to sleep."

  "No." Even under the Demerol there was an edge in the word.

  Stan waited for Barry to go oh.

  "You have to get away from that woman. Jerri. I know you love her and I know you've been together for a while—but you have to. She's a whore."

  Stan clenched his fists. He couldn't even shout at Barry to shut up.

  "Barry—stop it," Beau said.

  Barry was silent.

  "He's drugged," Beau said to Stan. "Don't pay any attention to him."

  "Does he know something?" Stan asked her. No. Please. No.

  "She's a whore," Barry said. "She'll do you in. I don't want to die."

  Stan walked out into the hallway. He wanted to hear more. Know it all. But he was afraid. Jerri. A whore. Golden had known her for years. What could that mean? From Golden, who had fucked boys—and then supposedly gone straight for crazy Beau Daniels. That's who was telling him that his woman was a whore. He had to know. Beau came to the door.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "He's wanted to tell you that for a long time. Wanted to call you and tell you that because he cares about you."

  "Who is it?"

  "I think he's mostly talking about Nate Shore," she said.

  Stan's heart sank. Nate Shore. He just left Nate Shore at his house with Jerri. Nate Shore's wife, Bonny Lee, was a nightclub singer when Shore met her. Shore was a William Morris agent who married her and then maneuvered her to stardom the way Benny had for Beau, and Jeff Wald had for Helen Reddy. Now Shore's career was being Bonny Lee's manager. He had no other job than that. Without Bonny he was nothing. Fortunately for Shore, Bonny earned millions every year. Unfortunately for Shore, despite Bonny's big voice and big checkbook, she was very unattractive. So he was always chasing women. Stan told Beau he'd be back to sit with her in the morning while Barry was in surgery—and he walked toward the elevator.

  He didn't even remember the ride home. The first thing he remembered was seeing Shore's red Porsche next to Jerri's yellow Mercedes. He was drained when he got out of the car. Golden having brain surgery tomorrow. Maybe the Demerol made him crazy. But then, why did Beau agree?

  Stan found himself turning his key in the front door lock quietly. Oh, God. Could he stand catching her? Seeing her naked, that gorgeous naked body of hers, in the arms of another man? Was that what he wanted? The house was quiet. He walked outside. No one was on the tennis court, or at the pool. Shore's cock inside Jerri's cunt. Oh, God. Maybe he should leave. Call first and make sure Shore was gone. That was crazy. This was his house. His million-dollar house. He wasn't leaving. Shit, no.

  He heard the voices. It was Jerri and Shore. He opened the door. Jerri looked surprised to see him. But she wasn't naked. She was fully clothed in a tennis dress and she and Nate must have been watching something on the television because the Betamax was rewinding the tape.

  "Hi, sweetheart," she said.

>   "How's Barry?" Nate Shore said.

  "Not good," Stan answered. "He had a hemorrhage from the brain. Suddenly. On Friday."

  The video tape had rewound. Jerri removed it and put it into a box of tapes near the machine.

  "He's got to have brain surgery tomorrow morning."

  "Oh, no," Jerri said. "How awful. Oh, honey, is Beau all right?"

  She looked so concerned. So sweet and so sincerely concerned. Maybe Golden was wrong. Maybe it was the Demerol talking. And Beau didn't know. Shore was crazy about his wife, Bonny Lee. Shore was a married man. So was Bob Frank. And he heard what Jerri said to him. That night at the recording studio, outside the bathroom door. And the next morning from the hotel in San Luis Obispo.

  "Damn shame," Shore was saying. "I like Golden. Not many people in the business do, but I like him. I'll send something over to the hospital. Bonny will want to send something from us."

  Stan was in a fog. First the shock of learning about Golden's surgery, then Golden saying those things to him about Jerri. And now he was standing in this room with his lover and the man who might be her lover? Maybe. Maybe not.

  "Well, I'd better get home to the little woman," Shore said, getting up. "Thanks for the tennis game, Jerri."

  "You're welcome, Nate," she said, smiling. She was so beautiful. Stan ached . . .

  "Ciao, Stan," Shore said and walked out the door.

  "You must really be exhausted from all this," Jerri said to Stan. "Why don't you go upstairs and lie down. I'll straighten up in here and come and fix you some dinner."

  Stan was numb.

  "No," he said. "I'll stay down here and read for a while." He liked sitting in the poolhouse. There was something peaceful about it. Jerri looked concerned.

  "Well, I'll stay with you," she said.

  "No. I want to be alone," he told her.

  He hoped she would just leave. Go up to the house and pack her things and leave because she knew that he knew. And then he'd never have to see her again. Instead of a confrontation. A showdown. Telling her he knew. Golden knew. Beau knew that Jerri was fucking Nate Shore and God knows who else.

  "My poor Stan," she said, coming over to kiss him. "It must have been terrible at the hospital." More than you know. "I love you," she said.

  "I love you," he said on automatic. Maybe the story wasn't true. She loved him. He loved her.

  "I'll be up soon," he said.

  She left reluctantly. Stan walked slowly around the lavish poolhouse. Eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars, plus everything it cost to get the place to look like this. Jesus. Projection equipment, furniture, all the equipment for the tennis court. Videotape machine. Cameras. Jerri wanted it. All of it so badly. Jerri. Maybe it wasn't true.

  Stan picked up a handful of magazines. Time. Newsweek. Old ones. He'd read them. He flipped on the television. Wide World of Sports was on. It was always a good escape to stare at the television. He saw cars racing around a track and crashing into each other and crashing into walls and catching fire. He watched figure skaters gliding, lifting, turning. Downhill skiers. It was all a blur because it couldn't block out the images in his mind. He got up to turn the set off but he knew he was running out of reasons to stay down here and, if he went up to the house, it would have to be to confront Jerri.

  He reached into the tape box. Later, he remembered that at that moment he was thinking he wanted to watch some old movie he had taped. This cassette didn't have a label. He slid it into place. It clicked and started.

  No. My God. It was bizzare. As though the horrible pictures, my God, in his mind were somehow conveyed onto the television screen so he could see them. Oh, Jesus. Jerri and Nate Shore. Going at each other. They'd taped it. Sick. Disgusting. Taping their fucking. In his house. On his couch. Shore's ass. Jerri's cunt. Shore sucking her tits. The two of them looking at the camera and laughing. Why did she have this tape here? She didn't mean to. That was it. She wanted to take it with her. Hide it. Didn't expect Stan back before she'd taken it away. Then, when he arrived, she tried to get him out. To get him to go upstairs so she could hide that tape. The tape of her fucking Shore . . . Shore was inside Jerri now, pounding, thrusting. Stan couldn't take his eyes away. Once there was a horrible auto accident outside his office on Ventura Boulevard. A driver lost control of her car and two cars collided head on, and the ambulance came and a woman and her little girl were cut and hurt and bleeding and crying. And it was horrible and Stan hated it, hated the screaming and the blood, but he couldn't take his eyes away. Stayed at the window until everyone was gone. And now he knew he should stop watching this. Had to. No.

  No. He was screaming. No. No. No. How could she? No. That whore? How? My God. No.

  The tape clicked itself off and Stan, drained and hurting, looked up at Jerri, who stood white-faced and silent in the doorway of the poolhouse. Somehow he found his voice.

  "Take your things and get out of my house," he said. "Be out in one hour."

  "I want the tape," she said, walking toward the television.

  Stan stood and got in her way. He was seething with anger. He could strangle her now. He wanted to. Wanted to hurt her. Kill her.

  "Why?"

  "I want it," she said. He could see she was afraid.

  "No," he told her. "I want it."

  "To torture yourself?" she asked.

  "No. To show to Bonny Lee, and to the court, in case you have any insane idea about maybe asking for half of what I own."

  "You bastard."

  "You whore."

  He slapped her hard, and again and again. He'd never hit anyone before in his whole life. When he was through, he walked away and stood facing the wall shaking. Jerri didn't even cry. She just turned and walked slowly out of the poolhouse and up toward the main house holding her head high.

  Stan stayed in the poolhouse all night. At about six thirty when the sun came up, he went to his bedroom. There was a note from Jerri in an envelope on the bed. He didn't read it—just tore it to shreds and tossed the pieces into the wastebasket.

  Then he took a shower and drove to U.C.L.A. Hospital. Beau was sitting outside Barry's room, just as she had been the day before. Her secretary, Connie, was with her, and she'd obviously brought Beau some fresh clothes.

  "They just took him down," Beau said when she saw Stan. The three of them sat silently for a long time. Maybe an hour. At eight thirty Barry's secretary, Dee Dee, arrived, and a few minutes later Danny Kyle, the drummer from Heaven, arrived. By noon there were eight people in the corridor and a nurse came by and told them they'd have to move to the I.C.U. waiting room. David Kane arrived at two o'clock. Despite the crowd, the room remained very quiet.

  At three o'clock, Dr. Davidson, still in his gown, opened the door and peeked in. His eyes scanned the room until they fell on Beau, who jumped to her feet when she saw him. Davidson spoke softly.

  "He's in the intensive-care ward. We got it all, and he's going to be fine."

  A cheer rose from the group. And they all hugged each other. David Kane was hugging Stan. Old Archie Andrews. He had tears in his eyes. And Beau Daniels. Sultry, hard-as-nails Beau Daniels was sitting on the floor kicking her feet happily. And she was laughing and crying at the same time. Stan, who had been so filled with agony about last night and Jerri and Nate Shore, suddenly forgot his own problems and danced for joy around the room.

  forty-one

  David looked carefully at the artwork. It was perfect. The sheriff's badge in the lower left-hand corner of the page. And the bold printed copy at the top. FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION . . . BEST ACTOR—RUE MCMILLAN. BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR—DOUG HART. BEST DIRECTOR—KEVIN MANN. BEST CINEMATOGRAPHER—ARTHUR HESHMAN. BEST PICTURE—WILD RIDE. A David Kane Production.

  They had a chance. They had a good fucking chance. But he had to stop dwelling on it. Stop thinking about being at the Academy Awards. About what it was like that night long ago when the guys went to the Awards using Pinsky's tickets. He had been so nervous that night. But then the show
started and he was fascinated. Fantasizing that it was his name that would be called next. Wondering what it would be like to run up and be handed that gold statue. And how, not so many years later, he might have a chance.

  Allyn's television show was canceled after thirteen weeks. It was critically acclaimed, but the ratings were low, and now she was trying to write a screenplay, in between working with proven writers who were developing shows for Hemisphere. She was ambitious, and she liked the fact that even though most of the other movie executives' wives were "only wives and mothers," as she put it, she could sit in a room at a party with the men and relate to them because she knew what was going on in the business.

  "Aren't you glad I'm your equal?" she asked David all the time. "And not some appendage who's just waiting for your command?"

  "Mmmmm," he said. "Glad."

  "Mr. Kane."

  His secretary tapped on the office door, then poked her head in.

  "Can you see a Miss Collins?" she asked.

  Collins. David thought for a moment. Colleen. He remembered. Doug Hart's girl. Actress. Met her on location. Stunning.

  "Yes." Don't look too eager.

  The door opened.

  "Hi."

  Should he stand? No. Christ. She was gorgeous. He remembered her twitching around the pool at the hotel where the cast of Wild Ride was staying for two weeks of shooting in Phoenix. And at night, after the long day. When they had all sat in Rue's suite, having a few drinks, smoking a little dope, playing cards, David had looked across the room at her. She was sitting close to Hart, rubbing his thigh, nuzzling him, and David got excited watching. Later when he went to his hotel room he called Allyn. He wanted her to be there with him, to come to the location of his first picture and sit there on the sidelines and say, "This is going to be a hit." But she wasn't, she was in production herself. "Glad it's going well," Allyn said. "Love you."

  Colleen sat on the sofa. "I was just in the building so I thought I'd stop by," she said. A Playmate. Fold-out. Now he remembered. Rue had told him that. Rue met Colleen long before David did, when she first started seeing Hart. "Then one day I'm looking at a picture of this girl's snatch in Playboy—and it's her. I about died," Rue told David.