“Yes, Jerry, I can go to California.”
She finished an entire bottle of Scotch that night. Then she stared at herself in the mirror. “Well, that’s it. Now you belong to no one! No one gives a good goddam about you. It’s a rotten world!”
Then she fell into bed and sobbed. “Oh, Robin, Robin, where were you? What kind of a man are you? I stayed at that party waiting for you, while Aunt Rose was waiting for me. I could have been with her—she would have recognized me, died in my arms, knowing someone cared.”
She buried her face in the pillow. “I hate you, Robin Stone! I was waiting for you while Aunt Rose died, and where were you? Oh God—where were you!”
He had been watching the Rose Bowl game. He had reached the apartment at seven in the morning, fallen into bed and slept until noon. When he awoke he went to the refrigerator, took two hard-boiled eggs and a can of beer into the living room, turned on the television set and stretched out on the couch. He took the remote control and clicked through the stations. He stopped at IBC. They were covering the pre-football-game pageantry. There was the usual fanfare, the floats, the interview with Miss Orange Blossom or whatever she was. They were always the same type: long-limbed sunny-looking girls who might have been weaned on double orange juice. In fact this one looked like her mother’s milk had been orange juice. The nice white teeth, the clean hair, the nervous smile. Well, she’d have one day of glory, a week of local popularity and three pages in a scrap-book to show her children.
He stared at the girl with little interest. She was saying she wanted lots and lots of children. God, wouldn’t it be wonderful if just once one of them said, “Oh, I just want to fuck!” He pitied the poor girl who was interviewing her. He could only see the back of her neck but she had a good voice. He caught a quick glance of her profile as she signed off: “This is Maggie Stewart with Dodie Castle, Miss Orange Blossom of 1962—and now back to Andy Parino.”
Andy came on to interview an old-time football player. Robin switched to CBS to catch the game, then he switched to NBC. He was restless. He turned to Channel 11, watched an old movie and dozed off. When he awoke he clicked off the set and dialed Amanda, stopped midway and hung up. She was probably out, and besides, he wanted to cool it with her anyway. He was tired … the weather in London had been very bad, but that English girl had been a real swinger, and when he got her with the baroness she had gone right along with the scene. Ike Ryan had introduced him to the orgy game. Hell, they weren’t orgies—they were just group sex. Ike Ryan had a theory about making a girl become part of an orgy. You make her do it with you, then with a friend while you watch, then with another girl—and by then you’ve cut her down to size. Once she’s gone along with that scene, she can’t play games—none of that “send me flowers” jazz. You’ve reduced her to what every woman is, once you’ve stripped off the fancy manners: a broad.
Maybe he should try it with Amanda. That would sure as hell cut off the marriage talk. But something in him went against the idea. Because somehow he knew she would go along with it—she would do anything to hold him. But she wouldn’t forget it like the baroness or the English girl. And he didn’t want to hurt Amanda. God, in the beginning he had felt so safe with her. But lately she seemed always on the brink of bursting at the seams. Well, it was time to cut out. He had given her plenty of reason-he always liked the girl to be the one to walk; at least it left her pride intact. Maybe this thing with Christie Lane would really work out.
He picked up the phone and asked for the IBC tie line. He got Andy in the control room and wished him a Happy New Year.
“How’s Miss Orange Blossom?” he asked.
“Chicken-chested and knock-kneed,” Andy answered.
“She sure as hell looked good on camera.”
“Maggie made her look good.”
“Maggie?”
“Maggie Stewart—you probably only caught the back of her head. She’s just great!”
Robin smiled. “Sounds like there’s something really going with the two of you.”
“There is. I’d like you to meet her. Why not come down for a few days? You could use a vacation. The golf is great here.”
“I never need a vacation. I enjoy every day as it comes. I’ve just come back from Europe with some great tapes. Now I want to do some live shows. Listen, chum, don’t go marrying this girl until I case her!”
“I’d marry her tomorrow if she agreed.”
“Andy, I’ll bet you anything she’s just another broad.”
Andy’s voice was hard. “Don’t kid about Maggie!”
“Happy New Year, sucker,” Robin said, and hung up.
He lit a cigarette. He thought of all the nights he and Andy had roamed up and down the Seventy-ninth Street Causeway together, stopping off at each bar, winding up with girls, swapping the girls in the middle of the evening… .
He threw on his coat and went out into the night. It was cold and clear. He walked down Third Avenue, all the way to Forty-second Street. He cut across town and hit Broadway. He stared at the glaring row of movie houses and pizza joints.
He passed a movie house, bought a ticket and walked in. A man from the next aisle came and sat beside him. After a few minutes Robin felt an overcoat tossed casually on his leg. Then a timid hand groped along his thigh. He got up and changed his seat. Five minutes later a stout Negro girl with a blond wig nestled close to him. “Want a good time, honey? Right here? I put my coat over you and do the greatest hand job you ever had. Five bucks.”
He changed seats again. He sat next to two teen-aged girls. Suddenly one of them whispered, “Give me ten dollars.” He stared at her as if she was insane. She couldn’t be more than fifteen. Her friend was the same age. He ignored her. “Give me ten dollars or I’ll scream out in the theater that you tried to feel me up. I’m a minor—you’ll get into trouble.”
He got up and dashed out of the theater. He walked a few blocks and stopped at an all-night cafeteria for some coffee. He reached into his pocket—Christ! His wallet was gone. Who had it been? The fag with the overcoat? The hooker? The delinquent teenagers? He turned up his collar and walked home.
FOURTEEN
THE CROWD AT THE POLO BAR at the Beverly Hills Hotel was thinning out. But it was still too noisy to try and make a long-distance call. Jerry decided to make it from his room. God, he hated this town, but the show had climbed to the number-two spot. It had been a good move switching the show to the Coast for the second half of the season. But there’d be three more months in the land of eternal sunshine, palm trees and loneliness.
He went to his room and placed a call to Mary. Thank God for the summer replacement show—he’d have to go back and help make the decision. That meant an entire week in New York. He wouldn’t even mind the commuter train.
The operator rang him back—the line in Greenwich was busy. He canceled the call. He was meeting Christie and Amanda at Chasen’s at eight thirty. It was one of the rare nights that Amanda had agreed to go out. She was always tired lately. Her room was down the hall, and like clockwork the DO NOT DISTURB sign went on her door every night at eight thirty. Of course she did have long hours—she had picked up most of the top modeling assignments in California. Christie Lane was vehement about California. He insisted the whole town closed down at ten thirty. Night after night he sat in a large rented house playing gin with Eddie Flynn and Kenny Ditto. Christie wasn’t comfortable at any of the Hollywood places. He claimed he never got a decent table. He had sulked for weeks when Amanda refused to go through with the Valentine’s Day wedding. She insisted she didn’t want to get married and rush back to work—she wanted a real honeymoon. Christie had finally agreed. Now they planned to get married the day after the show went off for the summer.
Jerry wondered about Amanda. She was with Christie the night of the show, and perhaps a couple of nights during the week. She refused to make the Hollywood scene, wouldn’t go to the Cocoanut Grove or any of the openings that Christie adored. So Chris roamed Hol
lywood with Kenny, Eddie and the show girl. Each night they wound up at the drugstore at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, hoping to run into some comics or other displaced New Yorkers who missed the midnight coffee klatches of the East. According to Chris, this was his first shot at California, and his last! He’d finish out the season, but he had served notice on the sponsors that he would do all the shows from New York the following season. Jerry was all for it—he was as lonely as Chris.
But Amanda didn’t seem to miss New York at all. She had never looked better, and she was getting some interest from picture producers. Her entire attitude seemed to have changed—as if the California climate had effected some change of chemistry in her personality. Her easy smile was always there, but Jerry felt there was something missing in their relationship. It was almost as if they had never known one another. He had given up asking her to dinner. She always made the same plea: “I’d love it, Jerry, but I’m tired and I’m doing a big layout tomorrow.” Well, maybe he had been exorcised along with Robin. She never mentioned his name or asked about him.
Jerry looked at his watch—eight forty-five. Christie and Amanda must be furious. He put in a call to Chasen’s. Christie came on right away. “Where in hell are you?”
“I’m waiting for a call from New York. I’ll be a little late.”
“Then we’ll cancel. I’ll wander over to Schwab’s.” Christie sounded glum.
“Why, it’s not as if you’re waiting alone. You’ve got Amanda.”
“She conked out.”
“What happened?”
“She called me an hour ago. She has a sore throat—must be from the smog. So she took a sleeping pill and went to bed. I’m sitting here all alone. Jesus, this is a real hick town—no one goes out except on weekends. And if you’re not in pictures you don’t mean a damn thing out here. Hey, Alfie and his pack just came in—”
“Alfie?”
“Jerry, you’re not with it. Alfred Knight.”
“Oh, the English actor.”
“Christ! You’d think he was Sir Alfred the way everyone’s jumping around here. You should see what’s going on. I had a reservation. Know where they put me? In left field. But Alfie boy, who just happens to waltz in, gets the big front table, the number-one spot. I think he’s a switch-hitter. I not only hate the town—I also hate the people.”
“Cheer up,” Jerry laughed. “June will be here before you know it.”
“I can’t wait.”
Jerry hung up and sat on the bed and lit another cigarette. Maybe Amanda would have something from Room Service with him. He called her.
She was polite, but she refused his invitation.
“I couldn’t eat, Jerry, my throat is sore and I have a swollen gland in my neck. I’m coming down with something, and the show is in two days. I want to look all right—it would be terrible if I missed it.”
He hung up and felt vaguely let down.
He suddenly felt hemmed in, and lonely. He opened the French doors onto the lanai garden outside his room. Amanda raved about her garden. She said it was wonderful to lie out there at night and look at the stars. He stepped into the patio of the garden. The night sounds of the crickets seemed intensified by the silent darkness. Amanda’s garden was three doors down. Suddenly his loneliness engulfed him. He had to talk to someone. Maybe she wasn’t asleep. He didn’t want to ring and disturb her, but a pill didn’t always work—he knew from experience. He went out to his garden hoping to see if her lights were on. No luck! Each patio was enclosed by a high wooden wall. He tried his gate—it was stiff, but he got it open. He walked down the path toward her patio.
Suddenly he heard another gate being opened. He ducked behind one of the giant palm trees. It was Amanda. She came out and looked around cautiously. She was wearing slacks and a loose sweater. She was heading toward the bungalows. On impulse, he followed her. She stopped in front of one of the bungalows and looked around. Jerry knew he was hidden by the darkness and the massive foliage. She tapped on the door. Ike Ryan opened it.
“Jesus, babe, where in hell have you been?”
“I wanted to wait a reasonable time in case Christie called back. I just turned off my phone.”
“When are you going to unload the bum?”
“As soon as the show goes off. I might as well finish the season with no hard feelings.”
The door closed. In the shadow of the window he saw them embrace.
He called Room Service and tried to watch television. But his thoughts were on the bungalow across the way. It was two o’clock when he heard the scraping sound of her patio gate. No wonder she was always too tired to go out—a swollen gland!
Actually she did have a swollen gland. Ike had noticed it too. When she returned to her room she stared at herself in the mirror. Her makeup was messed up. Ike was not the most gentle lover in the world, but she was sure he cared about her. He kept at her to break up with Christie. When she explained that the show was her main source of income, he said, “Listen, toots, you’ll never have to worry about a buck as long as you’re with me.” But that wasn’t exactly a marriage proposal. Well, she’d stall till June, then ask him right out. And if he didn’t want to marry her, she’d marry Chris. It wouldn’t matter too much, one way or another. Suddenly she was tired; all the blood seemed to drain from her. She had been taking amphetamines. They pepped her up—of course they killed her appetite, but she forced herself to eat. But tonight she had hardly been able to pick at her food. There were little cold sores on her gums and on the roof of her mouth. Maybe a penicillin shot would help, or a good night’s sleep. She fell into bed.
The following morning she felt worse. When she brushed her teeth, her gums bled. She was alarmed—this was some kind of infection. She called Jerry. Yes, he knew a doctor, but from her symptoms it sounded like a general run-down condition. “Maybe it’s trench mouth,” he said.
“Oh God, Jerry, where would I have gotten that?”
“I can’t imagine,” he said coldly. “After all, you stay home every night.”
She noticed the tinge of sarcasm in his voice. “Well, I guess I better see a doctor.”
“Wait until after the show tomorrow. Meanwhile, gargle with peroxide-and-water. I had it once, it’s not such a big deal.” Then he hung up.
She took two amphetamines before she left for her modeling job. They gave her some energy but her heart was racing. The photographer drove her to Malibu. She stood in the bathing suit while the shots were set up. The sun was beating down on her, but she got on the water skis and managed to hang on. They completed the shot on the first take. The photographer wanted one more to play it safe. She felt wobbly as she got back on the skis. The boat began to move, the photographer followed in his boat, she bent her knees and held the rope, then pulled herself straight as the boat gathered speed. Suddenly everything seemed to sway—the sun was falling into the sea, and she felt the cool softness of the ocean close over her.
When she opened her eyes, she was on the beach—wrapped in a blanket. Everyone was staring at her with concern.
“I guess I just blacked out,” she said.
She spent the rest of the day and night in bed. When she woke the following day her face was fine and her mouth seemed better, but her legs were black-and-blue. She must have bruised them when she fell—probably banged them against the skis in the water. Thank goodness she could wear a long dress on the show!
The following day she felt worse. The sores had returned to her mouth, but it was the bruises that frightened her. They had fused into one alarming pattern of purple covering her entire legs from the ankles to the thighs. When Christie called, she told him about it.
“Well, you’re the one who wants to go out on those crazy jobs. According to the law of averages you shoulda died of pneumonia two years ago. Standing in summer clothes in zero weather! You’re run-down. And anyone would be bruised if they fell with water skis.”
“Chris, find me a doctor …”
“Look, doll, I’m
meeting with the writers in ten minutes. Then I got a UP interview. There must be a croaker connected with that fancy hotel.”
The doctor in the hotel was out on call. She was desperate now. She canceled her afternoon booking. She was supposed to pose in tennis shorts but makeup couldn’t cover her legs. She was dozing off when Ike Ryan called. At first she was evasive, then she told him the truth.
“Don’t move, toots. I’ll be right over with the best doctor in L.A.”
In less than twenty minutes Ike appeared accompanied by a middle-aged man carrying the usual satchel. “This is Dr. Aronson. I’ll leave you two alone. But I’ll be right out in the hall, so just holler if he gets fresh.” His wink at the doctor proved they were friends of long standing.
Dr. Aronson examined her with impersonal casualness. He checked her heart and her pulse and nodded approvingly. She began to relax. His easy attitude told her nothing was radically wrong. He looked into her mouth with a light. “How long have you had these blisters?”
“Just for a few days. But it’s my legs that worry me.”
He felt her neck, and nodded. There was no change of expression on his face when he examined her purple-blotched legs.
She explained about the water-skiing accident. “Do you think that’s what it is?”
“It’s hard for me to tell. These things are probably all unrelated, but I’d like to put you into the hospital for a few days. When was the last time you had a blood test?”
“Never.” She was suddenly frightened. “Doctor—is something really wrong?”
He smiled. “I doubt it. Probably just a case of old-fashioned anemia—all you fashionable girls lack blood. But I want to rule out a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, mononucleosis for one thing—there’s a lot of it around. You have some of the symptoms—fatigue, the bruises, headaches.”
“Couldn’t I have the tests in your office? I’m afraid of hospitals.”
“If you like. I’ll give Ike the address and we’ll arrange for them tomorrow.”
The Love Machine Page 17
