The Love Machine

by Jacqueline Susann

  Robin laughed outright. “I think women are wonderful.”

  “Then what’s your hangup? I mean, at your age you should be married and have kids. Now me, I’m only twenty-six.”

  Robin’s grin disconcerted him.

  “Okay—so I’m thirty-one. But I can get by for twenty-six, can’t I?”

  “In the Hollywood light.”

  “Say, that’s good. How old are you?”

  “Forty in August.”

  “And no marriage ever?”

  “Nope.”

  “And no serious girl?”

  “I had one, but she got engaged.”

  Dip shook his head sympathetically. “Hit you hard, I bet. It’s rough to find a real girl—especially out here. Every dame is out for number one.”

  “And you’re not?” Robin asked.

  Dip looked hurt. “You’re goddam right, I am. But have I crapped you on one thing? I only pull the act when it’s for my career. But when I’m with people I like, I level.”

  “And you like me?”

  “Yeah, I guess I do. Say, I don’t even know your name.”

  “Robin Stone.”

  Dip looked at him suspiciously. “You’re sure you’re not light on your feet? Look, if you are, Pauli will spot it in a second. She can spot a fag a mile away.” Suddenly he punched Robin’s arm. “She’s coming on now. Wait till you see this explosion of talent!”

  Robin leaned forward as the slim young girl came into the spotlight. She had red curly hair and he guessed by the freckles on her shoulders that it was natural. Her nose was short and almost comically upturned. Her mouth was large, her eyes saucer-wide and innocently blue. But when she sang, he was disappointed. Her voice was true, but she was ordinary. A garbled imitation of Garland and Lena. He had heard a hundred girls like Pauli, only they were better-looking. The only time she held his attention was with her takeoff on Carol Channing. Then she came to life—she had a definite comic flair. Her set ended to scattered applause and wild whistling from Dip. He thumped Robin on the back. “Now I ask you—is she beautiful? Has she got class? Turns the whole joint into the Waldorf the minute she steps onstage!”

  Both men stood up as the girl came to the table. “This is my fiancée, Pauli. Pauli, say hello to Robin.”

  She smiled slightly and sat down. Then she looked at Robin curiously.

  “He’s from New York,” Dip said quickly.

  “Oh, listen, Dip, your press agent wants you to call him as soon as you come in,” Pauli said, without listening.

  Dip got up. “You two talk. Robin’s at IBC.”

  Pauli watched him as he left the table. Then she turned to Robin. “What are you doing with Dip?”

  “We met at a party.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What’s a guy in mechanics got in common with Dip?”

  “Mechanics?”

  “Didn’t he say you worked with IBM?”

  “IBC: International Broadcasting.”

  “Oh. Say, have you any pull to get me a guest shot on the Chris Lane show?” He decided he didn’t like her, but he owed it to Dip. “Yes, I might be able to swing it.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Honest—could you really?” Then she looked suspicious. “What do you do at IBC?”

  “The news.”

  “Like Huntley and Brinkley?”

  “In a way.”

  “Then how come I never heard of you? I watch the seven o’clock news a lot. I know who Walter Cronkite is, but not you.”

  He smiled. “You’ve ruined my whole evening.”

  “How can you get me on The Christie Lane Show?”

  “I can ask him.”

  Her stare was calculative. Then on the wild chance that he might be leveling, the saucer eyes went soft. “If you’d ask him, I mean, if you’d swing it, I’d—well, I’d do anything to get on that show.”

  “Anything?” Robin smiled and held her eyes.

  Her stare was level. “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “To blow this crumb joint.”

  “Dip will arrange that eventually.”

  She shrugged. “Look, you just met him. I mean, you and him aren’t buddy-buddy, because I never heard him mention you before.”

  “You’re batting a thousand.”

  “Well, look, just between the two of us”—her voice lowered—“Laurence Olivier he’s not. So he’s handsome, but he has no talent. So far he’s been lucky.”

  “I gathered from Dip that you had no ambitions—just wanted to get married and make babies.”

  She waved her hand in disgust. “Would any girl in her right mind stand up here and sing to these crumbs three times a night if she didn’t know she was going to make it big? I know I’ve got it.”

  “Where does Dip fit in?”

  “I dig him. I really do. I gave him my virginity. Honest to God. I was pure when we met. But I know Dip. He lives and breathes his career. He wouldn’t last two minutes with a girl who had her own interest at heart. He wants to be the big shot all the way. So I pretend I’m nothing. Most of the time I sit and listen to how great things are going for him. And I’m burning inside me because I know I’m the one who’s great. And there he is, going to the top because of his looks. That’s all he has. Not a brain in his head.”

  “He wants to help you. He told me so,” Robin said.

  “Yeah, he talks. But words are cheap. Look—about the Chris Lane show, can you arrange it?”

  “If I do, will you be grateful?”

  “Mister—I take it you got a wife?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, you get me on the Chris Lane show and anytime, anyplace, you just snap your fingers and I’ll be there. I pay off—I got a big sense of honor.” He reached for a cigarette. She picked up the matches and lit it for him. She leaned across and said, “Well, is it a deal?”

  He smiled. “You know, you little bitch,” he said softly, “it would almost be worth it—for Dip’s sake.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Robin’s grin was easy. He kept his voice even. “You’re right about one thing: Dip hasn’t a brain in his head, or else he would have seen through you. He thinks you’re an angel. But you’re a broad. No, not even a broad—you’re a rough, no-talent cunt.”

  He stood up and smiled. His quiet calm seemed to infuriate her. “If you think I’m scared you’ll tell Dip all these things, forget it. You open your stinking mouth and I’ll tell him you made a pass at me.”

  “Tell Dip I got a phone call.” He put down a ten-dollar bill.

  “What’s that for?” she asked.

  “I think the going rate for a call girl is a hundred. Take this as a down payment. I think you’re on your way.” He walked out of the club.

  SIXTEEN

  CHRISTIE LANE FINISHED THE SHOW the first week in June. He left for New York the following day.

  On July fourth Amanda and Ike were married in Las Vegas. The front pages of all the tabloids featured pictures of the wedding—Amanda and Ike surrounded by several stars who were playing Vegas. They were flying to Europe for a honeymoon.

  Chris held a wake in his suite at the Astor Hotel. Eddie, Kenny, and Agnes sat with him. He paced up and down. He cried. He talked: “God, if only I could get drunk. But I don’t like booze.”

  “Let’s go out on the town,” Eddie suggested.

  “I played it so straight with her,” Chris kept repeating; “I even helped her find a place here to board her goddam cat.”

  “I wonder what’ll happen to the cat,” Agnes asked.

  “I hope it croaks—it was the only thing she really cared about.”

  “I bet she sends for the cat when she comes back from Europe,” Agnes said.

  “Who gives a shit!” Christie roared.

  “Well, you brought it up,” she answered.

  “I played it so straight with her,” Chris repeated. “Why did she do it? Look at me … I’m better-looking than Ike Ryan.”


  “Whaaat?” This was Agnes.

  Chris whirled on her. “You think he’s good-looking?”

  “He’s sexy-looking,” she said sullenly.

  Eddie shot her a murderous look. “Hey, Aggie, you looking to be replaced? This is no time for funnies.”

  “I still think he’s sexy-looking,” she said stubbornly.

  “Look, Chris,” Kenny cut in, “how’s about us getting a table at the Copa? I know some of the kids in the line. They got three new dancers. One is gorgeous, only nineteen. I bet she’d like you. She’s a nice girl.”

  Chris kicked the coffee table so hard the leg came off and it collapsed. “Nice girl! I had a nice girl—a gorgeous girl! Christ, she’d give me a dirty look if I said a bad word in front of her. And she turns out to be the worst double-crossing cooze around. No dame in burlesque would act like that. I’m through being a nice guy and I want no part of nice girls. I want a bum! I’ll treat her like a bum and no one will get hurt. Just find me the biggest bum in town—the best joint-copper!”

  “Call for Ethel Evans—” Eddie chanted, mimicking a pageboy.

  Chris snapped his fingers. “That’s it!”

  Eddie laughed. “Oh, come on—I was kidding. Listen, Chris, if you want a bum at least get a pretty one. There’s a dame in town from Frisco—”

  “I don’t want a pretty bum, or a dame from Frisco. I want Ethel!”

  “But she’s a beast,” Kenny said.

  “I don’t want a beauty queen. I want a fucker! Get me Ethel!” His eyes narrowed. “If I’m seen with a cunt like her, that will show them. They’ll figure Amanda couldn’t mean much to me if I could wind up enjoying a broad like Ethel. Get her!”

  Eddie called Jerry Moss in Greenwich. Jerry sighed and promised to do his best. He located Ethel in Fire Island.

  “What is this, a gag?” she demanded.

  “No, Christie Lane personally asked to see you.”

  “That’s a quaint way of putting it!”

  “Ethel, you’ve boffed every guest star on Christie’s show.”

  “I missed a few. Don’t forget they did the last half of the season from the Coast.”

  “They’re not going to the Coast next season.”

  “Great. I’ll get a new diaphragm.”

  “Ethel, our star is unhappy. He wants you”.

  “But I don’t want him.”

  “I’m asking you to go into town.”

  Her voice was icy. “Is that an order?”

  “Let’s say it’s a request”.

  “The answer is no.”

  “Then perhaps I’ll have to call Danton Miller and ask him to take you off the show.” Jerry hated himself, but he had to make one last-ditch effort.

  Her laugh was nasty. “I can always handle Danton.”

  “Not against a sponsor. And whether you like it or not, Ethel, that’s what I am.”

  “Really? I thought you were Robin Stone’s personal maid.”

  He kept his voice even. “I am not dealing in personalities with you.”

  “Oh, excuse me. I guess this is all impersonal—you calling me and telling me to come in town to fuck Chris Lane.”

  “Put whatever connotation on it you wish. You earned your reputation. And it’s not my job to be on the phone with you on July Fourth either. I’m doing it because I’m part of the Christie Lane show. Obviously you have no idea of teamwork.”

  “Oh, cut the agency shit,” she snapped. “I want you to get this straight. I’m not a call girl. When I hump a guy, it’s because I dig him. For a year and a half Chris Lane never looked at me twice—thank God! And now all of a sudden I’m Elizabeth Taylor. What’s the big deal?”

  “Amanda married Ike Ryan today.”

  There was a pause. Then she laughed. “Hey, your friend Robin Stone must be upset too! Now why don’t I go console him? I’d even swim back for that.”

  “Are you coming in?”

  She sighed. “Okay. Where do I find lover boy?”

  “At the Astor.”

  She laughed. “Wouldn’t you know? All my life I’ve waited to meet someone who actually lived at the Astor!”

  Christie was alone when she arrived. “Hey. What’s the big idea?” he asked. “You’re in slacks.”

  “You didn’t expect me to walk in nude, did you?”

  He didn’t smile. “No, but the gang is at the Copa. I was waiting to take you over and join them.”

  She stared at him. “The Copa?”

  “Come on!” he ordered. “We’ll grab a cab and go to your place. I want you to change into a dress so we can go to the Copa.”

  He sat in her living room thumbing through a magazine while she dressed.

  In the cab, he sat huddled on the other side of the seat, morose and uncommunicative, but once they entered the Copa, his entire personality changed. He flashed a broad smile, held her arm and introduced her to everyone they met with a proprietary air. He held her hand through the show; he even lit her cigarette. She sat through it all grimly. She had seen the show, she was tired and she wanted to get the evening over with.

  It was close to three when they returned to the Astor. She had never had such a grueling time. The Copa, then the Copa bar, the Brasserie and a stop at the Stage Delicatessen. Now they were alone. She undressed silently. He was already naked, lying expectantly on the bed. She looked at him and felt a crawling revulsion. There was something so repulsive about a man without a hard on. How had Amanda done it? To go from a man like Robin Stone to this slob!

  She walked to the side of the bed, completely naked. He couldn’t mask his amazement as he stared at her enormous, well-shaped breasts.

  “Hey, doll, for an ugly dame you sure got a build.” He grabbed her rear. “Now if you’d just lose some of that ass, you’d almost have a great figure.”

  She pulled away from him. His hands were clammy. She didn’t want him to touch her.

  “You have any shaving cream?” she asked.

  “Sure, why?”

  She went to the bathroom and returned with the container. She spread the shaving cream all over her hands. “Now lie back, you big television star.”

  In less than five minutes he lay spent and groaning. She slipped into the bathroom and dressed quickly. When she returned to the bedroom he was lying motionless, his eyes closed.

  “So long, Chris.” She couldn’t get out fast enough.

  He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Doll, I never had it like that. But it’s not fair, I mean, nothing happened for you. Christ, I never even got to touch you.”

  “That’s all right,” she said softly. “I know you felt blue tonight. I just wanted to make you forget, make you happy.”

  He pulled her down to the bed. Then he stared at her. “You know, that’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me. Look, I appreciate it. I know you came all the way in from Fire Island tonight. Is there anything I can do?”

  She longed to say, “Just forget about me and leave me alone.” But she merely smiled.

  He pulled her down. “Give us a kiss.”

  His lips were soft and blubbery. She managed to pull away without showing her repugnance. Then she leaned down and kissed his sweaty brow and dashed from the apartment without even asking for cab fare.

  He called her the next morning and invited her to dinner. She had nothing better to do, so she accepted. He took her out every night for two weeks. The columns began coupling their names together. He invited her to accompany them to Atlantic City when he went to play the Five Hundred Club. She was beginning to enjoy the sudden personal publicity she was getting as Christie Lane’s girl. She had never been anyone’s “girl.” So she went along. Her picture appeared with Chris in one of the morning papers, showing them in a rolling chair on the boardwalk, hinting of an “engagement.”

  Jerry Moss grew slightly apprehensive. He called Christie in Atlantic City.

  “Christie, you’re not serious about this girl?”

  “Of course not. Listen, Jerry, Da
n’s got the first two shows for the new season fairly set. Who are you getting to replace—” He stopped.

  “We’ll use a different girl each week,” Jerry said. “But I want to talk to you about Ethel.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know her reputation.”

  “So?”

  “Do you think it’s smart bringing her to Atlantic City? The columns are writing about you and Ethel. She’s not good for your image. The public wants to see you coupled with a nice girl, a beautiful girl.”

  “Listen, buster, I went with a nice girl, a beautiful girl. Maybe the public was happy, but I got my brains kicked in. The public wasn’t around to hold my cock the night Amanda got married. But Ethel Evans was!”

  “Everyone in the business knows about Ethel,” Jerry argued. “So far the public knows nothing. But after this engagement rumor in the newspapers, the public will want to know more. And how will it look to the public to know their family man goes with a whore!”

  “Don’t you say that!” Chris said roughly. “She never took a dime from a guy!”

  “Chris, are you taking her seriously? I mean, you’re leaving for Vegas in a few weeks. You’re not taking her there, are you?”

  “Too much plane fare involved. It ain’t exactly Atlantic City where we hire a car and all pile in.”

  “Then you’re not serious about her.”

  “Of course not. But I know one thing. She’s there when I want her. She’s nice to me. She doesn’t cheat. And she hasn’t been with another guy since I started dating her. And anything I want to do is okay with her. I’m relaxed with Ethel. He paused as if recalling something. Then he laughed. “Take Ethel to Vegas! That’s like bringing a tuna-fish sandwich to Danny’s Hideaway.”

  It had been a dull summer for Ethel. She worked on a variety show that featured new talent. She didn’t dig guitar-playing groups. Even the guest stars were youth-oriented. She was relieved when Labor Day arrived. When Christie Lane returned to New York she was almost glad to see him.

  She was with him constantly during the month of September. The show didn’t start till October and he had most of his evenings free. She was bored to death with Kenny and Eddie and Agnes. She hated the Copa bar, the Chinese restaurants (always the cheapest ones), but most of all she hated the racetrack. He never offered to place a bet for her, so out of boredom she placed two-dollar show bets of her own and occasionally won sixty cents. She loathed any physical contact with him, but to her relief she soon realized he wasn’t a highly sexed man. Twice a week more than satisfied him, then he would lie back and read the racing form.