by Ken Follett
Mother did not take offence at this. She was fond of Grandmama and listened with amused tolerance to her pronouncements of orthodoxy.
However, Chuck resented the traditional focus on the elder son. He said: ‘And what must I become, chopped liver?’
‘Don’t be vulgar, Charles,’ said Grandmama, having the last word as usual.
That night Woody lay awake a long time. He could hardly wait to see his photos in the paper. He felt the way he had as a kid on Christmas Eve: his longing for the morning kept him from sleep.
He thought about Joanne. She was wrong to think him too young. He was right for her. She liked him, they had a lot in common, and she had enjoyed the kiss. He still thought he might win her heart.
He fell asleep at last, and when he woke it was daylight. He put on a dressing gown over his pyjamas and ran downstairs. Joe, the butler, always went out early to buy the newspapers, and they were already laid out on the side table in the breakfast room. Woody’s parents were there, his father eating scrambled eggs, his mother sipping coffee.
Woody picked up the Sentinel. His work was on the front page.
But it was not what he expected.
They had used only one of his shots – the last. It showed a factory guard lying on the ground being kicked by two workers. The headline was: Metal Strikers Riot.
‘Oh, no!’ he said.
He read the report with incredulity. It said that marchers had attempted to break into the factory and had been bravely repelled by the factory police, several of whom had suffered minor injuries. The behaviour of the workers was condemned by the Mayor, the Chief of Police, and Lev Peshkov. At the foot of the article, like an afterthought, union spokesman Brian Hall was quoted as denying the story and blaming the guards for the violence.
Woody put the newspaper in front of his mother. ‘I told Hoyle that the guards started the riot – and I gave him the pictures to prove it!’ he said angrily. ‘Why would he print the opposite of the truth?’
‘Because he’s a conservative,’ she said.
‘Newspapers are supposed to tell the truth!’ Woody said, his voice rising with furious indignation. ‘They can’t just make up lies!’
‘Yes, they can,’ she said.
‘But it’s not fair!’
‘Welcome to the real world,’ said his mother.
(vi)
Greg Peshkov and his father were in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Washington, DC, when they ran into Dave Rouzrokh.
Dave was wearing a white suit and a straw hat. He glared at them with hatred. Lev greeted him, but he turned away contemptuously without answering.
Greg knew why. Dave had been losing money all summer, because Roseroque Theatres was not able to get first-run hit movies. And Dave must have guessed that Lev was somehow responsible.
Last week Lev had offered Dave four million dollars for his movie houses – half the original bid – and Dave had again refused. ‘The price is dropping, Dave,’ Lev had warned.
Now Greg said: ‘I wonder what he’s doing here?’
‘He’s meeting with Sol Starr. He’s going to ask why Sol won’t give him good movies.’ Lev obviously knew all about it.
‘What will Mr Starr do?’
‘String him along.’
Greg marvelled at his father’s ability to know everything and stay on top of a changing situation. He was always ahead of the game.
They rode up in the elevator. This was the first time Greg had visited his father’s permanent suite at the hotel. His mother, Marga, had never been here.
Lev spent a lot of time in Washington because the government was forever interfering with the movie business. Men who considered themselves to be moral leaders got very agitated about what was shown on the big screen, and they put pressure on the government to censor pictures. Lev saw this as a negotiation – he saw life as a negotiation – and his constant aim was to avoid formal censorship by adhering to a voluntary code, a strategy backed by Sol Starr and most other Hollywood big shots.
They entered a living room that was extremely fancy, much more so than the spacious apartment in Buffalo where Greg and his mother lived, and which Greg had always thought to be luxurious. This room had spindly legged furniture that Greg imagined to be French, rich chestnut-brown velvet drapes at the windows, and a large phonograph.
In the middle of the room he was stunned to see, sitting on a yellow silk sofa, the movie star Gladys Angelus.
People said she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Greg could see why. She radiated sex appeal, from her dark-blue inviting eyes to the long legs crossed under her clinging skirt. As she put out a hand to shake his, her red lips smiled and her round breasts moved alluringly inside a soft sweater.
He hesitated a split second before shaking her hand. He felt disloyal to his mother, Marga. She never mentioned the name of Gladys Angelus, a sure sign that she knew what people were saying about Gladys and Lev. Greg felt he was making friends with his mother’s enemy. If Mom knew about this she would cry, he thought.
But he had been taken by surprise. If he had been forewarned, if he had had time to think about his reaction, he might have prepared, and rehearsed a gracious withdrawal. But he could not bring himself to be clumsily rude to this overwhelmingly lovely woman.
So he took her hand, looked into her amazing eyes, and gave what people called a shit-eating grin.
She kept hold of his hand as she said: ‘I’m so happy to meet you at long last. Your father has told me all about you – but he didn’t say how handsome you are!’
There was something unpleasantly proprietorial about this, as if she were a member of the family, rather than a whore who had usurped his mother. All the same he found himself falling under her spell. ‘I love your films,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Oh, stop it, you don’t have to say that,’ she said, but Greg thought she liked to hear it all the same. ‘Come and sit by me,’ she went on. ‘I want to get to know you.’
He did as he was told. He could not help himself. Gladys asked him what school he attended, and while he was telling her, the phone rang. He vaguely heard his father say into the phone: ‘It was supposed to be tomorrow . . . okay, if we have to, we can rush it . . . leave it with me, I’ll handle it.’
Lev hung up and interrupted Gladys. ‘Your room is down the hall, Greg,’ he said. He handed over a key. ‘And you’ll find a gift from me. Settle in and enjoy yourself. We’ll meet for dinner at seven.’
This was abrupt, and Gladys looked put out, but Lev could be peremptory sometimes, and it was best just to obey. Greg took the key and left.
In the corridor was a broad-shouldered man in a cheap suit. He reminded Greg of Joe Brekhunov, head of security at the Buffalo Metal Works. Greg nodded, and the man said: ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Presumably he was a hotel employee.
Greg entered his room. It was pleasant enough, though not as swanky as his father’s suite. He did not see the gift his father had mentioned, but his suitcase was there, and he began to unpack, thinking about Gladys. Was he being disloyal to his mother by shaking hands with his father’s mistress? Of course, Gladys was only doing what Marga herself had done, sleeping with a married man. All the same, he felt painfully uncomfortable. Was he going to tell his mother that he had met Gladys? Hell, no.
As he was hanging up his shirts, he heard a knock. It came from a door that looked as if it might lead to the neighbouring room. Next moment, the door opened and a girl walked through.
She was older than Greg, but not much. Her skin was the colour of dark chocolate, and she wore a polka-dot dress and carried a clutch bag. She smiled broadly, showing white teeth, and said: ‘Hello, I’ve got the room next door.’
‘I figured that out,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Jacky Jakes.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m an actress.’
Greg shook hands with the second beautiful actress in an hour. Jacky had a playful look that Greg found more attractive than Gladys�
�s overpowering magnetism. Her mouth was a dark-pink bow. He said: ‘My dad said he had got me a gift – are you it?’
She giggled. ‘I guess I am. He said I would like you. He’s going to get me into the movies.’
Greg got the picture. His father had guessed that he might feel bad about being friendly with Gladys. Jacky was his reward for not making a fuss. He thought he probably ought to reject such a bribe, but he could not resist. ‘You’re a very nice gift,’ he said.
‘Your father’s real good to you.’
‘He’s wonderful,’ Greg said. ‘And so are you.’
‘Aren’t you sweet?’ She put her purse down on the dresser, stepped closer to Greg, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his mouth. Her lips were soft and warm. ‘I like you,’ she said. She felt his shoulders. ‘You’re strong.’
‘I play ice hockey.’
‘Makes a girl feel safe.’ She put both hands on his cheeks and kissed him again, longer, then she sighed and said: ‘Oh, boy, I think we’re going to have fun.’
‘Are we?’ Washington was a Southern city, still largely segregated. In Buffalo, white and black people could eat in the same restaurants and drink in the same bars, mostly, but here it was different. Greg was not sure what the laws were, but he felt certain that in practice a white man with a black woman would cause trouble. It was surprising to find Jacky occupying a room in this hotel: Lev must have fixed it. But certainly there was no question of Greg and Jacky swanning around town with Lev and Gladys in a foursome. So what did Jacky think they were going to do to have fun together? The amazing notion crossed his mind that she might be willing to go to bed with him.
He put his hands on her waist, to draw her to him for another kiss, but she pulled back. ‘I need to take a shower,’ she said. ‘Give me a few minutes.’ She turned and disappeared through the communicating door, closing it behind her.
He sat on the bed, trying to take it all in. Jacky wanted to act in movies, and it seemed she was willing to use sex to advance her career. She certainly was not the first actress, black or white, to use that strategy. Gladys was doing the same by sleeping with Lev. Greg and his father were the lucky beneficiaries.
He saw that she had left her clutch bag behind. He picked it up and tried the door. It was not locked. He stepped through.
She was on the phone, wearing a pink bathrobe. She said: ‘Yes, hunky-dory, no problem.’ Her voice seemed different, more mature, and he realized that with him she had been using a sexy-little-girl tone that was not natural. Then she saw him, smiled, and reverted to the girly voice as she said into the phone: ‘Please hold my calls. I don’t want to be disturbed. Thank you. Goodbye.’
‘You left this,’ said Greg, and handed her the purse.
‘You just wanted to see me in my bathrobe,’ she said coquettishly. The front of the robe did not entirely hide her breasts, and he could see an enchanting curve of flawless brown skin.
He grinned. ‘No, but I’m glad I did.’
‘Go back to your room. I have to shower. I might let you see more later.’
‘Oh, my God,’ he said.
He returned to his room. This was astonishing. ‘I might let you see more later,’ he repeated to himself aloud. What a thing for a girl to say!
He had a hard-on, but he did not want to jerk off when the real thing seemed so close. To take his mind off it, he went on unpacking. He had an expensive shaving kit, razor and brush with pearl handles, a present from his mother. He laid the things out in the bathroom, wondering whether they would impress Jacky if she saw them.
The walls were thin, and he heard the sound of running water from the next room. The thought of her body naked and wet possessed him. He tried to concentrate on arranging his underwear and socks in a drawer.
Then he heard her scream.
He froze. For a moment he was too surprised to move. What did it mean? Why would she yell out like that? Then she screamed again, and he was shocked into action. He threw open the communicating door and stepped into her room.
She was naked. He had never seen a naked woman in real life. She had pointed breasts with dark-brown tips. At her groin was a thatch of wiry black hair. She was cowering back against the wall, trying ineffectually to cover her nakedness with her hands.
Standing in front of her was Dave Rouzrokh, with twin scratches down his aristocratic cheek, presumably caused by Jacky’s pink-varnished nails. There was blood on the broad lapel of Dave’s double-breasted white jacket.
Jacky screamed: ‘Get him away from me!’
Greg swung a fist. Dave was an inch taller, but he was an old man, and Greg was an athletic teenager. The blow connected with Dave’s chin – more by luck than by judgement – and Dave staggered back then fell to the floor.
The room door opened.
The broad-shouldered hotel employee Greg had seen earlier came in. He must have a master key, Greg thought. ‘I’m Tom Cranmer, house detective,’ the man said. ‘What’s going on here?’
Greg said: ‘I heard her scream and came in to find him here.’
Jacky said: ‘He tried to rape me!’
Dave struggled to his feet. ‘That’s not true,’ he said. ‘I was asked to come to this room for a meeting with Sol Starr.’
Jacky began to sob. ‘Oh, now he’s going to lie about it!’
Cranmer said: ‘Put something on, please, miss.’
Jacky put on her pink bathrobe.
The detective picked up the room phone, dialled a number, and said: ‘There’s usually a cop on the corner. Get him into the lobby, right now.’
Dave was staring at Greg. ‘You’re Peshkov’s bastard, aren’t you?’
Greg was about to hit him again.
Dave said: ‘Oh, my God, this is a set-up.’
Greg was thrown by this remark. He felt intuitively that Dave was telling the truth. He dropped his fist. This whole scene must have been scripted by Lev, he realized. Dave Rouzrokh was no rapist. Jacky was faking. And Greg himself was just an actor in the movie. He felt dazed.
‘Please come with me, sir,’ said Cranmer, taking Dave firmly by the arm. ‘You two as well.’
‘You can’t arrest me,’ said Dave.
‘Yes, sir, I can,’ said Cranmer. ‘And I’m going to hand you over to a police officer.’
Greg said to Jacky: ‘Do you want to get dressed?’
She shook her head quickly and decisively. Greg realized it was part of the plan that she would appear in her robe.
He took Jacky’s arm and they followed Cranmer and Dave along the corridor and into the elevator. A cop was waiting in the lobby. Both he and the hotel detective must be in on the plot, Greg surmised.
Cranmer said: ‘I heard a scream from her room, found the old guy in there. She says he tried to rape her. The kid is a witness.’
Dave looked bewildered, as if he thought this might be a bad dream. Greg found himself feeling sorry for Dave. He had been cruelly trapped. Lev was more pitiless than Greg had imagined. Half of him admired his father; the other half wondered if such ruthlessness was really necessary.
The cop snapped handcuffs on Dave and said: ‘All right, let’s go.’
‘Go where?’ Dave said.
‘Downtown,’ said the cop.
Greg said: ‘Do we all have to go?’
‘Yeah.’
Cranmer spoke to Greg in a low voice. ‘Don’t worry, son,’ he said. ‘You did a great job. We’ll go to the precinct house and make our statements, and after that you can fuck her from here to Christmastime.’
The cop led Dave to the door, and the others followed.
As they stepped outside, a photographer popped a flashgun.
(vii)
Woody Dewar got a copy of Freud’s Studies in Hysteria mailed to him by a bookseller in New York. On the night of the Yacht Club Ball – the climactic social event of the summer season in Buffalo – he wrapped it neatly in brown paper and tied a red ribbon around it. ‘Chocolates for a lucky girl?’ said his mother, passing him in the
hall. She had only one eye but she saw everything.
‘A book,’ he said. ‘For Joanne Rouzrokh.’
‘She won’t be at the ball.’
‘I know.’
Mama stopped and gave him a searching look. After a moment she said: ‘You’re serious about her.’
‘I guess. But she thinks I’m too young.’
‘Her pride is probably involved. Her friends would ask why she can’t find a guy her own age to go out with. Girls are cruel like that.’
‘I’m planning to persist until she grows more mature.’
Mama smiled. ‘I bet you make her laugh.’
‘I do. It’s the best card I hold.’
‘Well, heck, I waited long enough for your father.’
‘Did you?’
‘I loved him from the first time I met him. I pined for years. I had to watch him fall for that shallow cow Olga Vyalov, who wasn’t worthy of him but had two working eyes. Thank God she got knocked up by her chauffeur.’ Mama’s language could be a little coarse, especially when Grandmama was not around. She had picked up bad habits during the years she spent working on newspapers. ‘Then he went off to war. I had to follow him to France before I could nail his foot to the goddamn floor.’
Nostalgia was mixed with pain in her reminiscence, Woody could tell. ‘But he realized you were the right girl for him.’
‘In the end, yes.’
‘Maybe that’ll happen to me.’
Mama kissed him. ‘Good luck, my son,’ she said.
The Rouzrokh house was less than a mile away and Woody walked there. None of the Rouzrokhs would be at the Yacht Club tonight. Dave had been all over the papers after a mysterious incident at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Washington. A typical headline had read: CINEMA MOGUL ACCUSED BY STARLET. Woody had recently learned to mistrust newspapers. However, gullible people said there must be something in it, otherwise why would the police have arrested Dave?
None of the family had been seen at any social event since.
Outside the house an armed guard stopped Woody. ‘The family aren’t seeing callers,’ he said brusquely.
