The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel

by Iris Rainer Dart

  "I love you," she said.

  He didn't turn around.

  Allyn sat down in the chair by the desk where David had been sitting while he was on the phone. She was numb. Unthinkingly she pushed the buttons on the phone. Hold. Seven eight three. Seven eight four. Seven eight five. Hold. Even after she heard him walking out the front door she continued to sit there, pushing the buttons. Pushing the buttons, until finally she leaned back in the chair and fell asleep.

  It was Mandy's voice that woke her.

  "Mommy? Where are you? Berta, where's my mommy?"

  "I'm in the den, Mandy honey," Allyn said.

  Amanda was carrying Winnie the Pooh and still wearing her yellow shortie baby doll pajamas, and she climbed up onto Allyn's lap and nestled against her mother.

  "Daddy's gone, Mandy," Allyn said.

  Amanda looked at her mommy's face.

  "I'm hungry," she said.

  Allyn set Mandy's feet on the floor, gave her a little pat, then got up and headed for the kitchen. It was eight o'clock. At ten, she would call Harold Greenfield and ask if she could have her job back.

  forty-six

  The Grammy Awards Show was usually in March. This year it was on the third. It was Mickey Ashman's birthday, and Mickey was going to be a presenter. Even though he wasn't in the music business, the producers of the Grammys chose him because his show had been on the air for four seasons, and he was a big star. Everywhere he went, people yelled out the greeting to him that was the title of his show. Hey, Richey!

  At the taping of Hey, Richey! the night before Mickey's birthday, the cast had a huge cake for him. The baker had done a caricature of his face, and on the cake it said, HEY, MICKEY, HAVE A HAPPY. Jackie Levitz, who played Richey's uncle, had designed the cake. The cast and crew pitched in for it.

  And the new girl was there. Sally Strock. She was tiny and pretty with a cute short hairdo, expressive eyes and an adorable laugh. The writers had written her in to play a new character, Pam, Richey's girl friend. Mickey had been thinking at rehearsal all week that he wished she were his real girl friend. And after they had the cake, he said to her, I know this is very short notice, but I was wondering if you'd be my date at the Grammy Awards tomorrow night, and she said she would love to if she could get a dress in time, and he said he'd use his influence so somebody on the show's wardrobe staff could help her find a dress. She laughed and told him that would be great, and Mickey took her phone number and headed for his dressing room. But he turned around as she was walking away and called to her.

  "Pam . . ." She kept walking. That was the name of her character, not her.

  "Uh, Sally." Now she turned.

  "You didn't say yes just because it's my birthday, did you?"

  She laughed her adorable laugh.

  "Nope," she said, and waved and kept walking through the door and outside to the small trailer that was her dressing room.

  She looked beautiful when he picked her up for the Awards. She borrowed a dress from her sister Jan, who told Mickey she was looking forward to the taping next week, which would be Sally's first show, and then looked out the window and saw the waiting limousine, and when she thought Mickey wasn't looking, Jan mouthed the word "Wow" to Sally.

  Mickey's limousine pulled into the line of limousines outside the Palladium. Through the windows he saw the fan-magazine photographers and the fans waiting for their favorite stars to emerge. They were like children at a party watching the opening of birthday gifts. Oohing and aahing and yayying.

  It was Mickey's turn. They screamed when they saw him. Mickey. Richey. Heyyy, Richey. He loved it. It made him shake. He smiled and waved and blew kisses, and then remembered Sally, who was standing behind him, and he turned and took her arm and led her toward the lobby of the Palladium.

  People. The lobby was filled with people. Mostly music-business people. If this was the Emmy Awards, Mickey told himself, he would know more people. He would show Sally to her seat in the auditorium and then get backstage.

  "Reggie," a voice called. Maybe the voice said Richey. No, Reggie for sure. Mickey turned. What a sight. Stan Rose, old Juggie. And Golden. With Beau Daniels. Mickey felt Sally's hand tighten on his, and he realized that these famous faces must be intimidating to her.

  "Old friends," he said, guiding her toward them.

  Golden and Stan embraced Mickey, and Beau and Sally were introduced, and Mickey made a joke about the fact that he and Beau and Stan were all big TV stars, and Golden would just have to go home because he wasn't one, and then he felt badly because Sally wasn't one either, and he had acted as though she weren't there. But Sally didn't seem to notice.

  "Arch is supposed to be here tonight, too," Stan said.

  "The old gang," Mickey said. God, he felt good.

  "Where are you sitting?" Barry asked Mickey.

  "I'm not," Mickey said. "I'm a presenter."

  Barry and Stan exchanged mock impressed looks.

  "Well, big fucking deal," Barry said. "A presenter."

  "I'm not even a presenter," Stan said, "and I'm in the music business, and on television, too. And Beau's not even a presenter and she's a superstar. How do you account for this, Ashman?"

  Mickey grinned. "Well," he said. "Beau's show is off the air. And yours is on so late only insomniacs know who you are." The others laughed.

  "Well, if this isn't a motley-looking group." It was David Kane and a date.

  "Arch! Hey, Archie."

  "David Kane, this is Sally Strock."

  "Hi."

  "Colleen Collins, meet Mickey Ashman, Stan Rose, Barry Golden."

  "I love your show," Colleen said to Mickey.

  Mickey recognized her. She was a Playmate fold-out. And he thought he remembered she once went with Doug Hart, the movie star.

  "Thank you," Stan answered, as if she were talking to him.

  Everyone laughed. Colleen didn't know why.

  "Thanks," Mickey said.

  "Yeah, Ashman, it's a good show," David said. "And you're good on it, too. I think I might have a part in a picture for you."

  "Terrific," Mickey said.

  "We'll have lunch," David said.

  "Yeah," Mickey said.

  The crowd was moving into the auditorium.

  "Can we all sit together?" Barry asked.

  "Probably," Stan said. "Only the nominees get good seats anyway."

  "Come with us, Sally," Beau said.

  Sally smiled, glad to be included.

  "Okay, then," Mickey said. "I'll see you guys later."

  On top of the world. On top of the fucking world. No coke and the highest he'd ever been. Maybe Sally Strock was good luck. Maybe he'd marry her someday. Only this morning Harvey and Libby called from Chicago to say hello, and Mickey's mother was at their house, and she got on the phone to talk to him.

  "Hi, darling," she said to him. "How's my famous son? I tell all my friends. I have one son who's smart and one son who's famous." Jesus. She never quit. "Now, when are you going to invite Mother to a wedding?" she asked.

  "Don't know, Mah," he'd said.

  Sally Strock Ashman. She was very cute, and a nice person, and she was very gracious about sitting out there with people she'd never met while Mickey went backstage.

  Backstage. There were a lot of stars milling around. Many of them greeted Mickey warmly. A few other television people. They were like a club, he thought. All of them in this club of successful people who asked each other questions like, When do you hear if your show was picked up? And how are your ratings? And, I noticed your show was number four last week. Congratulations.

  Mickey was presenting the award for the best female vocalist, and he stood backstage for a long time, listening for his introduction. "A man who not only makes a mean banana split, but makes your sides split as well . . . Hey, Richey himself . . . Mickey Ashman!!!!"

  There was a huge ovation. A lot of Hey, Richeys, and whistling and stomping from the crowd. Mickey was turned on, and as he walked out onto th
e stage and looked out at the crowd, they were a mass of faces, until he focused for a moment and caught sight of David Kane's bright red hair. Jokes. He did jokes about the characters on his show and the audience laughed a lot. They loved him.

  "Nominations for the best female vocalist are . . ."

  Kane, that fucker. Waited to offer his help until now. Now when he didn't need him.

  ". . . Lita Collins . . . Minnie Kahn . . ."

  Rose. Alone. A good man, Stan Rose. A real good man. And he deserved every drop of his success. Golden with Beau Daniels. A weird duo.

  "The envelope, please. I'm good at envelopes," Mickey said. "I used to work in a studio mail room."

  The audience only tittered. Golden, Rose and Kane broke up.

  "And the winner is—Minnie Kahn." Rush of applause and Mickey was off.

  "Great," a few people said.

  "You were terrific. Thanks, Mickey."

  When the show ended, Mickey was more swamped by autograph seekers than any of the other stars.

  "Rickey. We love you."

  Sally waited patiently, and when Mickey had signed the last autograph, the two of them walked hand in hand toward their waiting car.

  "Is your sister going to be at your place when we get there?" Mickey asked Sally as the limousine driver headed toward Hollywood.

  "No," Sally said, and Mickey pulled her toward him and they kissed. And then kissed again, and again. And he was so high about everything in his life. He would make love to Sally when they got to her apartment. Make love to her and hold her all night.

  "How 'bout if I tell the driver to go and I spend the night?" he asked at her door.

  "No, Mickey," she said softly. "I really want to go to bed with you, but we'll be working together all year, and we'll have lots of time for that. You know?"

  Mickey was disappointed, but still very high.

  "I know," he said, nodding. "And you're right. I guess we do have lots of time." Another kiss and he ran happily back to the car to go home. He had everything. Soon he would have her, too. She'd be his. He knew it.

  "Home, driver," he said.

  He couldn't possibly sleep now. He had a glass of milk and tried the television on every channel until he was sure there was nothing on he wanted to watch. He took off his tux and read some old issues of the trades. He loved to look at Thursday's papers because they had production schedules in them. HEY, RICHEY! A DANNY KOHLER PRODUCTION. CAST: MICKEY ASHMAN. He would never get tired of it. He couldn't get tonight out of his mind. His triumph. At last. Ashman the schmuck. He laughed to himself. Ashman, the putz, who looked like he was going to be in the mail room for life, was the one on the stage. The one who got the laughs. He probably gave out more autographs tonight than Beau Daniels.

  He read next week's script. It was about Richey and Pam falling in love. There was no rehearsal tomorrow. Maybe he'd take Sally to the beach. Maybe he'd even get a place at the beach. It was expensive, but he had money now. A lot of money. Mickey yawned. It was 4 A.M. Maybe he'd fall asleep if he just closed his eyes for a few minutes. Yes. Close his eyes.

  The loud crash woke him, and he opened his eyes and lay there frozen. Maybe it was in his dream. Please. Maybe it was outside. Yes. Not a sound. But then he saw the beam of the flashlight. No. A nightmare. It had to be. Footsteps.

  "Who's there?" Mickey asked.

  "Stay where you are, motherfucker," a young man's voice said. "I'm just here to rip you off, but you move and I'll blow your fuckin' brains out."

  Stan was having a dream he'd had before. Several times. The dream was about Jerri. She was lying in bed, in the house where they'd lived on Benedict Canyon, and she looked very frail, and Stan sat next to her holding her hand. She smiled at him weakly and thanked him for loving her even though she was the way she was. Then Stan asked her to tell him what she meant by that, the way she was. The other times he'd had the dream she said I mean sick. I'm sick. I don't mean to be, but I'm sick. This time she started to tell him something, but he couldn't hear what she was saying because the phone was ringing loud. He wanted to hear her, strained to hear her, but the phone kept ringing. Shit.

  He opened his eyes. He was in bed in his apartment. It was his phone that was ringing and he reached for it reluctantly.

  "Hello."

  "Jug? It's Arch," the voice on the phone said.

  "Huh?"

  "It's David Kane, Stan. I didn't know if you'd heard or not, about Mickey Ashman."

  Stan sat up. David Kane. Calling about Ashman?

  "Heard what?"

  "He was shot," David said. "Shot. By a robber. Late last night, or this morning after he got home from the Grammys. I just saw it on the news."

  "Oh, Christ," Stan said. "Oh, no. Ashman. My God."

  "I know," David said. "It's the fucking worst."

  "Who did it?"

  "They don't know."

  "Why? What motive? Was it a fan?"

  "No one knows."

  "What about that girl? From last night?"

  "She wasn't there. He took her home right after the show. Danny Kohler was on the news early this morning. They had film of him coming out of the morgue. They must have called him to identify the body."

  "Oh, God," Stan said. "What can we do? Is anyone arranging the—" Stan couldn't go on. He couldn't make himself say the word funeral.

  "I'll have my secretary call Kohler," David said, "and I'll call you with the details."

  "Yeah," Stan said. "All right." He was about to put the phone in the cradle when he heard David Kane say something else so he moved the phone back to his ear.

  "Wait—Rose—" David was saying.

  "Yeah?"

  "Do me a favor and call Allyn and tell her about Ashman, will you?"

  "Sure," Stan said.

  He hung up the phone and shook his head. Poor Mickey Ashman dead. And Kane couldn't even call Allyn to tell her.

  forty-seven

  Beau liked waking up early at the beach. If it was very early so no one was out yet, and the tide was high, she could imagine that the house was a big boat at sea. She would go outside to the upstairs deck, opening the door carefully so she wouldn't wake Barry, and then she'd sit on a lounge chair, and listen to the screeches of the sea gulls and Barry's snores, feeling that she was the luckiest person in the whole world. Yes, she was. Eggs Benedict. That's what she'd do for him today. Her man. Make him Eggs Benedict. He'd love that. She'd bring it to him in bed.

  She opened the door and tiptoed through the bedroom, grabbing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from a chair where she'd tossed them and heading downstairs toward the kitchen to see if she had all the ingredients. Butter. No butter for the hollandaise. And no Canadian bacon. Shit. What time did the market open? The Market Basket in the shopping center. It must be open early. The car keys were on the living room table. She'd be back and Barry wouldn't even know she'd been gone. Maybe a note. Gone for bacon. Nah. She'd be back in five minutes.

  She got into the Corniche and started the engine. Barry must have forgotten to turn off the car radio last night when they got home from the Grammys and the loud burst of music startled Beau. She reached for the dial quickly and turned down the sound. When she got to the highway she fiddled with the radio dial again, the way she always did when Barry was driving. No music she wanted to hear. She tuned in to station KISS. That was good. Cher was singing "Take Me Home." Beau pulled into the parking lot. Hooray. The Market Basket was open. There was definitely something special about being up early at the beach.

  "Police are combing the San Fernando Valley looking for the robber who shot and killed well-loved television star Mickey Ashman in his North Hollywood home this morning. Ashman, who was a presenter only last night on the Grammy Awards, was the star of the television series Hey, Richey!"

  Mickey. Now. After he had finally made it. Barry had told her all the stories about Mickey and how he'd been in the mail room longer than all of them, and nothing good seemed to happen for him until Hey, Richey!, and now. F
uck the Eggs Benedict. She'd go and wake Barry.

  When Beau got back to the house Barry was awake.

  "Stan Rose just called me," he said. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. "The funeral's going to be tomorrow at Forest Lawn," he said. He was pale. "Kohler asked if Stan and Kane and I would be pallbearers."

  He looked at her with eyes that didn't see her, then added absently, "It wasn't so long ago I thought those guys would be carrying me."

  Beau sat on the bed next to Barry and they held hands quietly for a long time.

  "I'll call a car and a driver to take all of us tomorrow," Beau said. "It will be better if we're all together."

  Jackie Levitz stood at the podium. His was the last eulogy.

  "Mickey Ashman was what my ancestors from the old country would have called a mensch. I guess loosely that means a solid citizen, a man, a person of substance. He got me my job, but that's not why I loved him. I loved him because he cared about people. The children and grown-ups alike. I loved him because he was the star of Hey Richey!, a show that was in the top ten from the first week it was on, and never, not once, did he ever act like a star to anyone on the set. Or to any of his friends. I loved him because—" Levitz's voice broke and he waited until the rush of emotion subsided before he went on.

  "Because he always had time to tell a joke, or kid around and be a pal, and I'm gonna miss him like hell."

  A loud sob from Mickey's mother.

  When the service was over, the people started moving toward their cars. Everyone was there.

  Mickey's parents and Mickey's brother Harvey and his sister-in-law Libby. Danny Kohler put an arm around Harvey. For a second, Harvey's resemblance to Mickey was eerie to him.

  "Your brother was a prince," Kohler said to Harvey. "A fuckin' prince."

  Harvey nodded and began to cry and Kohler hugged him.

  Jackie Levitz and his wife Ruth were with Sally Strock. The news media were there. A TV newswoman asked Danny Kohler if he would make a statement, and he said no.

  Jimmy Komack was there, and Garry Marshall and Norman Lear. Also an actress named Ginny McConnel and Tom Rich from the casting department at Hemisphere Studios, and Don Morgan from personnel at Hemisphere, and Harold and Julia Greenfield were there with Allyn Grant, and Arlen White and a director named Jeff Bain and a man named Dick Snyder who used to own a waterbed store in the Valley, and Willie the guard from Hemisphere and Barney Lautner who had a column in one of the trades, and his wife Nadine who went everywhere with him because she knew who all of the stars were, and she would point them out to him so he could write in his column that they were there.