She ignored him and undressed slowly. Chris gazed into space complacently. “Know something? That name isn’t good enough. The King. There are a lot of kings—there’s a King of England, of Greece, of Sweden, of—well, there’s plenty of Kings. But there’s only one Chris Lane. I got to get a tag.”
“You could always try God for size.”
“Nah, that’s sacrilegious.” He thought about it. “Hey, how about ‘fantastic’! Yeah—that’s it: Mr. Fantastic. Start getting that tag put after my name in the columns, baby. I am fantastic. Didja notice even Mrs. Austin told me how much she enjoyed me? That’s because I’m the greatest—”
“She’d think you were the cheapest, if she knew how I worked for Herbie Shine and the hours I put in.”
“She’d be more shocked if you were a kept woman,” he growled. “There’s nothing unrespectable about working.”
“Ha! Everyone knows you’re banging me. They think you’re too cheap to keep anyone.”
“No one says I’m cheap.”
“I’m the living proof. I’ve been your girl for almost five months. They laugh at my clothes but they’re not laughing at me—they ’re laughing at you!” Then as she saw the color come to his face, she felt perhaps she had gone too far. She softened her voice. “Look, I don’t care whether you give me anything or not. It’s just that Herbie Shine. He’s been needling me, hinting that you’re cheap, that if you weren’t, you wouldn’t have me working in an office like his. And it’s such a crummy office, Chris. I don’t think he should handle you. Eventually you should have Cully and Hayes.”
“At a G a week?”
“You can afford it.”
“That’s pissing money away. They get you invited to all the fancy parties but not a line in a column. At least Herbie gets me a few column plugs.”
“But Herbie can’t get you lined up with any magazine stories.”
“The IBC publicity office takes care of that. I only want column mentions from Herbie.”
“You’re paying Herbie three hundred a week for column mentions.”
“Actually one fifty. The other one fifty goes for your salary.”
“That’s what you think—I work on ten other accounts for him. And you’re paying for that!”
“The son of a bitch,” he said softly.
“Chris. Hire me and unload Herbie!”
His smile was nasty. “You mean I should pay you three hundred a week? It doesn’t add up. This way I got both you and Herbie working for me.”
“Herbie doesn’t lift a finger for you. He just makes you go to his crappy restaurants and gets your name in a column that way. And the restaurant is paying him. Look, Chris, pay me two hundred—that’s a hundred less than you pay Herbie. And I’d do the same job. I know all the columnists—I can place all the items for you. And I’d be free to be with you whenever you wanted and keep your hours. Like last week I had to leave you at two at the Copa because Herbie had an early assignment for me on one of his accounts. This way I could stay up all hours, and Herbie won’t be taking your money and laughing behind your back.”
His eyes narrowed. “That lousy little punk.” He was silent. Suddenly he smiled. “Okay, doll, you got yourself a deal. I paid Herbie until the end of the week. Get your paycheck on Friday, then tell Herbie to go fuck himself. Tell him Chris said so.”
She leaped on him and covered his face with kisses. “Oh, Chris, I love you, you are my master, my life!”
“Okay, now dive. Make Mr. Fantastic happy.”
After Chris was satisfied he settled with his racing form, and she browsed through the morning papers. She leafed through the Daily News and stopped at page three. There was a big picture of Amanda being carried on a stretcher to the hospital. Ike was holding her hand. Even on the stretcher Amanda looked beautiful. She read the story carefully. Amanda had collapsed at a party. The diagnosis was internal hemorrhaging from an ulcer. Her condition was listed as “satisfactory.” Ethel carefully hid the paper. Chris hadn’t mentioned Amanda in a long time; she was sure he was over her. She wondered how Robin had felt when she married Ike. Then she thought of the two empty chairs at the table tonight. She had to admire his nerve. How did he have the guts not to show—?
SEVENTEEN
ROBIN HAD INTENDED TO SHOW. He had told Tina, the new pride of Century Pictures, to be ready at eight. He had even ordered a car. He was glad he had gone to that movie opening last week. Usually he ducked those things, but he had started back on his book and had worked every night for several weeks. He was in the mood for some relaxation. And God had created Tina St. Claire for just that purpose. She was a beautiful brainless idiot who had come to New York to promote a picture. She only had a small part but the stars had been unavailable, so Tina St. Claire, Georgia hopeful turned starlet, had agreed to go on the junket. And go she had—San Francisco, Houston, Dallas, St. Louis, Philadelphia, and finally New York. This film company had staffed her with a press agent, a studio-loaned wardrobe, and a suite at the St. Regis which she barely had time to see. In three days she had done seven television appearances, ten radio shows, four newspaper interviews and had appeared at a department store to autograph the sound-track album. (That had hurt her ego more than her feet: she had stood for two hours and no one had come.) Then the whole thing had culminated in the premiere and an opening-night party at which the press agent handed her a return ticket (tourist) to Los Angeles along with instructions to check out of the hotel the following day.
She had been heartbroken. After two bourbon-and-Cokes at the party, she had met Robin and told him her tale of misery. “Heah I’ve worked my li’l ole butt off, and I have to go right back. Foah what! To jes sit and wait till another small part comes up! My first trip to New Yoak and I declare I haven’t seen a thing!”
“Stay on,” Robin offered. “I’ll show you around.”
“How? I can’t afford that hotel. I just have ten dollahs hard cash and my plane ticket back. I only make one twenty-five a week! Would you believe it? My sister is a waitress in Chicago and she makes moah!”
Two bourbon-and-Cokes later she checked out of the St. Regis and into his apartment. For a week Robin lived amidst mascara, eye shadow and pancake litter. He couldn’t believe a girl who wound up looking fresh and natural could use so much gook on her face. She had more paintbrushes than an artist. He had been forced to move his manuscript to the office. According to Tina, his desk had the best light for putting on her eyelashes. Actually he found he liked working in the office. From five until seven he could turn off the phones and accomplish a great deal.
He took the page from the typewriter and looked at his watch. Quarter to seven. Time to pack it in. Tina was leaving in four days and he could go back to working nights in his apartment. She was a hell of a girl, but he was not sorry that her stay was drawing to a close. She was his equal in every way. Insatiable in bed, asked no questions, made no demands.
He put the manuscript away and lit a cigarette. He didn’t want to go to the Waldorf. But it was Mrs. Austin’s charity and he had to show. Well, he’d grab Tina and duck out after the speeches. He had promised to take her to El Morocco. It wasn’t his scene, but he owed it to the little nympho! He used the electric shaver in his office because Tina had also established a beachhead in the bathroom. She kept her night creams and douche bag there. He plugged in his razor and turned on the television for the seven o’clock news.
He had just finished shaving when Andy Parino came on. He was talking heatedly about another saucer sighting. Robin listened without too much interest until the saucer pictures flashed on. They were blurred, but by God, it looked like the real thing. He walked over to the set—he could swear he saw portholes on the damn thing.
“The Pentagon claims it was a weather balloon.” Andy’s voice was derisive. “If that is the truth, then why have they sent a man from Project Bluebook down here to investigate? Do we dare presume that in the vast universe ours is the only planet to breed life? Why, even our sun is not as
good as some of the other suns. It’s a Cepheid, an inferior star in the galaxy. Why shouldn’t a planet in another solar system harbor human life perhaps twenty million years more advanced than ours? It is time we had a real investigation—and threw the findings open to the public.”
Robin was fascinated. He had to talk to Andy.
It was getting late, but what the hell, they’d get to the Waldorf at eight thirty. He got Andy on the tie line and complimented him on the saucer picture, then asked for more details.
“It’s exactly as I told it on the air,” Andy said.
“You told it good, baby. Who wrote it?”
There was a moment of silence. Then Andy said, “Maggie Stewart.” When Robin failed to respond, he added, “You know, I’ve told you about her.”
“She sounds like a smart girl.”
“I still can’t get her to marry me—”
“Well, like I said, she sounds smart. How’s the weather down there?”
“Seventy degrees, clear as a bell.”
“It’s thirty here and looks like rain.”
“Know something, Robin? If I was president of News, I’d make it my business to find news in nice warm places in winter and cool places in summer.”
“I wish I could.”
“Well, I got to run. Maggie’s probably sitting at the bar at the Gold Coast. It’s right on the bay. You can see all the yachts pull up. Man, it’s great. You sit at the window and stare at the moon and water.”
“You’ve got it made.” Robin’s voice was filled with envy. “I’ve got to climb into black tie and make it to the Waldorf.”
“You’re crazy, you only live once. Why not come down here for a few days and unwind?”
“I wish I could.”
“Well, I’ve got to run. This guy who sighted the saucer is joining us for dinner. He’s no crackpot. Teaches high-school math, so he was even able to approximate its speed. I figure it might make a good show—maybe on a Sunday afternoon.”
“Wait a minute!” Robin said. “It might make a hell of an In Depth. Let’s say we got your math teacher and a few other creditable sighters from different parts of the country, with pictures. And we got some of those guys from the Pentagon on, and really shot the questions to them—”
“Want me to send you all the stuff?” Andy asked.
“No, I’ll come down. I want to talk to this teacher.”
“When will you be down?”
“Tonight.”
There was a pause. Then Andy said, “Tonight?”
Robin laughed. “I’m taking your advice. I need a few days of sun.”
“Okay, I’ll get you a suite at the Diplomat. It’s near my apartment, and it has a great golf course. I’ll have a limo meet you.”
“See you at twelve thirty then.”
“No, Robin—you’ll see a big black empty limousine. I told you, I have a date with Maggie.”
Robin laughed. “You son of a bitch! You shacking up together?”
“When you see Maggie, you’ll know better than to ask anything like that. We don’t even live in the same building.”
“Okay, Andy. See you tomorrow morning.”
It was eight fifteen when Robin let himself into his apartment. Tina was standing in an evening dress, her long red hair done up in Grecian style. “Honey”—she danced around him—”yoah’ll nevah guess what. The studio tole me I have an extra week before I have to report—isn’t that divine? But, lovah, it’s late, I have youah tux all laid out. The car is waitin’—”
He went into the bedroom and pulled out a suitcase. Tina followed him.
“I’ve got to go to Miami,” he said.
“When?”
“Tonight. Want to come?”
Her face wrinkled into a pout. “Honey, ah live in Los Angeles. Los Angeles is just Miami with smog.”
She stared in amazement as he went to the phone and made his plane reservations.
“Robin, you just cain’t flip off lak this. What about this big dinnah for your boss?”
“I’ll send a wire tomorrow with a proper apology.” He picked up his bag, grabbed his overcoat and started for the door. He tossed some bills on the table. “There’s about a hundred there!”
“When will you be back?”
“In about four or five days.”
She smiled. “Oh-then I’ll still be heah.”
He looked at her. “Don’t be.”
She stared at him in bewilderment. “I thought you liked me.”
“Baby, let’s put it this way: we met on a pleasure cruise on the Caribbean. This is the first port of call, and you’re getting off.”
“What would you do if I decided to stay on the boat?”
“Toss you overboard.”
“You wouldn’t!”
He grinned. “Sure I would. It’s my boat.” He kissed her forehead. “Four days—then out!” She was still staring when he left the apartment.
The limousine was waiting at the airport in Florida. The suite at the hotel was in order; there was even ice and a bottle of vodka. The note said: “Call you in the morning. Have a good night’s sleep. Andy.”
He sent down for the Miami papers. He undressed, poured himself a light drink and settled comfortably in bed. The picture of the smiling girl on page two looked familiar—Amanda! It was one of her fashion shots, her head thrown back, a wind machine tossing the hair. The caption said HOMETOWN BEAUTY ILL. He read the story quickly and placed a call to Ike Ryan in Los Angeles.
“Is it serious?” Robin asked, when Ike came on the line.
“With her every fucking second is serious. She’s been living on borrowed time since last May.”
“But I mean—” Robin stopped.
“No, it’s not curtains. Look, I’ve learned to live with death, I’ve been dying a little every day. You know what it’s like, Robin, to see a girl looking gorgeous—the goddam illness makes her even more beautiful. Makes her skin like china. I watch her, I can see when she’s tired and pretends not to be. I can also see something like the beginning of fear in her eyes. She knows it’s not natural to be this tired. I kid her and pretend I’m tired too. I blame it on California, the change of air, the smog, everything. Oh, what the hell. Thank God she’s rallied. They’ve given her two pints of blood. Tomorrow they’re starting a new drug. The doctor thinks it will work, and with luck she’ll have another few months of remission.”
“Ike, she’s made it since April—that’s eight months more than they predicted in the beginning.”
“I know, and I tell myself she’ll have another remission. But the damn leukemia cells build up a resistance to the drug. Comes a day when you’ve gone through all the drugs—and that’s it.”
“Ike, she has no idea, has she?”
“Yes, and no. She’s suspicious. She’d be an idiot if she wasn’t, what with a blood test every week. And a bone-marrow test every month. Christ, I saw her get it once and I almost fainted—they stuck a needle right into her bone. And she never bats an eye. Later I asked her if it hurt and would you believe it, this girl just smiles and nods yes. When she asks me why the test has to be every week, I just toss it off and say I want a strong broad and a rush job done on it. But she asks funny little questions. And I catch her reading all the medical columns in the newspapers. Deep down, she knows something’s dead wrong, but she doesn’t want to believe it. And she’s always smiling, always worrying about me. I tell you, Robin, I’ve learned a lot from this girl. She’s got more gallantry than anyone I’ve ever met. I never really knew what that word meant until Amanda came along. She’s scared to death and never shows it. Know what she said tonight? She looked at me and said, ‘Oh, my poor Ike, what a drag I am. You wanted to go to Palm Springs.’”
Ike’s voice broke. “I love her, Robin. I didn’t go into this thing loving her. I did it for lousy stinking selfish reasons. I thought she’d have six months and then quietly lie down and die. I planned to give her a ball while she lasted—then a big send-off, and
I’d take bows. I looked at it like I was booking a show, for a limited run. Does that make you want to puke? Boy, all those little broads that I’ve pushed around can sure have the last laugh now. For the first time in my stinking life, I’m really in love. Robin, I’d give every cent I got if they could cure her.” Ike was sobbing openly.
“Is there anything I can do?” Robin felt helpless, hearing a man cry, a man like Ike. Yet there was nothing he could say.
“Christ,” Ike said. “I haven’t cried since my old lady died. I’m sorry I let it out on you. It’s just that this is the first time I’ve been able to talk about it. No one knows but just you and me, Jerry and the doctor. And I have to keep playing it light for Amanda. It’s been all locked up inside me. I’m sorry.”
“Ike, I’m at the Diplomat Hotel in Miami Beach. Call me every night if you like. We’ll talk.”
“Nope. Tonight helped—but that’s it. I can take everything except when she asks me to give her a baby. She wants a kid so much. You should see her with that cat. She talks to it, babies it.”
“That cat has a lot of class,” Robin said.
There was a pause. Ike’s voice was low. “Robin, tell me something. You and me—we’ve met broads—loads of them, real bitches. Wanna bet they’ll live to a hundred? But this kid who never had a break, never did a wrong thing to anyone? … why? What’s the answer?”
“It’s like rolling dice, I guess,” Robin said slowly. “The hungry guy with his life’s savings on the line comes up with snake eyes. If Paul Getty ever picked up the dice, he’d probably make ten straight passes.”
“No, there’s got to be more to it than that. I’m not a religious guy, but I tell you these last eight months have made me stop and think. I don’t mean I’m gonna rush into a church or a synagogue, but there has to be a reason for things. She’s only twenty-five, Robin, just twenty-five. I got twenty years on her. What in hell have I ever done to get double her span? I can’t believe that maybe a year from now she’ll be gone, leaving nothing but some eight-by-ten glossies to prove that she was around. Why should she go when there’s so much beauty in her, so much life to be lived, so much love that she has to give?”
The Love Machine Page 23
