She laughed. That was the ultimate male answer. A baby made everything right. Maybe it did. For them. But that was not what she wanted. “That’s not exactly what I meant by freedom. I don’t know if I ever want a family.”
“It ain’t natural. Every woman wants a baby.”
“I don’t. Maybe I will someday. But not now.”
The buzzer sounded from downstairs. He went over to the window. “Marc is double parked,” he said.
“You’d better get going.”
“I’m not takin’ no for an answer.”
“Don’t fight it. You have your own life and your own career. Leave me to mine.”
The buzzer sounded again.
“You mean you don’t want me to come back?”
Her eyes fell, then she raised her head and nodded. “I think it would be the best thing for both of us.”
When the buzzer sounded again, insistently, he erupted with anger and frustration. “I’m coming! Goddamn it! I’m coming.”
He stood in the doorway. Anguish altered his voice. “JeriLee.”
She reached up and kissed his cheek. “Good luck, Fred. Sing pretty for the people.”
He put down the bags and took a step toward her. She drew back. His voice grew thick with pain. “Fuck you, JeriLee,” he said. “An’ fuck your bullshit honesty or whatever you call it. It’s just your excuse for the fact that you don’t give a shit for nobody but yourself!” Then he was gone, leaving the door open behind him.
Abruptly she covered her face with her hands.
He was right about what he said. She knew enough to recognize the truth when she heard it. Her own mother had said the same thing.
There had to be something wrong with her. Why else couldn’t she be satisfied with the same things as other people? Why did she always want more, why did she always feel incomplete?
***
When the doorbell rang she swore to herself and checked her watch. She had just an hour before she was due at Fannon’s office. “Who is it?” she called.
“Mr. Hardy, the super.”
Shit, that was all she needed. She put an expectant expression on her face and opened the door. “Mr. Hardy.” She smiled. “I was just about to call you. Come in.”
“I came about the rent,” he said in his peculiar thin voice.
“That’s what I was going to call you about,” she said quickly.
“You got it?”
“That’s what I wanted to explain,” she said. “You see—”
“It’s the twentieth of the month already,” he interrupted. “The office is on my back.”
“I know, but I’m waiting for a check. I was going out just this minute to see the man who’s going to produce my play. Adolph Fannon, the famous producer. You’ve heard of him, I’m sure.”
“No. The office wants me to give you an eviction notice.”
“Come on, Mr. Hardy. What are they worried about? They have a month’s security.”
“They’ll apply it to this month’s rent if you leave.”
“I’ve always paid. You know that.”
“I know it, Miss Randall, but I don’t make the rules. The office says the rent ain’t paid by the twentieth, serve the notice. That way you’re out by the end of the month and nobody’s the loser.”
“I’ll pay you by Friday.”
“That’s three days from now. They’ll have my ass.”
“I’ll make it up to you. Be a nice guy, Mr. Hardy.”
He looked around the apartment. “I ain’t seen your boyfriend around the last few weeks. He split?”
“No,” she said. “But he’s gone.”
“I’m glad, Miss Randall. I never told the office that you had someone here with you. You know your lease calls for only one person, and besides they find out you got a Negro in here they’d a gone through the roof. They don’t have no spics or Negroes living in this building. They don’t want the place run down.”
She had taken all she could. “Mr. Hardy,” she said in a cold voice, “why don’t you just go back and tell your office to go fuck themselves!”
He stared at her with an expression of shock. “Miss Randall, what kind of language is that for a nice girl like you to use?”
“Mr. Hardy, the office may own the building but they don’t own the tenants. Nobody has the right to tell me how or who to live with. The only thing they have a right to is the rent, which I said I’ll pay you on Friday.”
“Okay, if that’s how you feel about it,” he said, taking an official-looking piece of paper from his back pocket and pressing it into her hand.
She looked down at the words printed boldly across the folded page: EVICTION NOTICE. “Why give me this?” she asked. “I said I would pay you on Friday.”
He went to the door. “You can always give it back to me with the rent,” he said. “That’s just in case you don’t.”
Chapter 7
The moment she saw Fannon she knew it wasn’t going to be good.
“I wanted to get back to you sooner,” he said after kissing her on the cheek. “But things have been hectic.”
“That’s all right. I understand.”
“Cigarette?”
“No, thanks.”
“You look tired.”
“I haven’t been sleeping too well. The nights have been hot and the air conditioner broke down.”
“You should get out of the city. What you need is some country air.”
She looked at him without answering. There was no point in telling him that she didn’t have the money.
He picked up the copy of her play and stared at the cover. “I like you,” he said abruptly.
She tried to keep her voice light. “But you don’t like my play?”
His eyes seemed to bore into her. “Do you like your pills sugar coated?”
“I’ll take it straight.”
“I don’t like your play.” He cleared his throat. “I wanted to, believe me. I think you can write. But this doesn’t work. It’s an emotional exercise, a series of scenes that don’t go together, a story that doesn’t work. But I haven’t given up on you. I think someday you’re going to write a play that will turn this town on its end.”
“But not this time,” she said tightly.
“Not this time.”
“Not even if I rewrote it?”
“It still won’t work. There’s no real story, no focus. It’s all open and spread out, like a kaleidoscope. Every time you turn it you lose the picture. By the time I finished reading it I was too confused to understand what I had read.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“I’d put this on the side. Maybe in time it will straighten itself out in your head. Then you can go back to it. Right now it won’t work. I think you ought to start on something else.”
She didn’t answer. It was easy enough to tell someone to do something else as long as you didn’t have to do it.
“Don’t get discouraged,” he said. “Every successful playwright has had plays that don’t work. The important thing is that you keep writing.”
“I know,” she said, meaning it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, getting to his feet.
She looked up at him, realizing the meeting was over. She managed to keep her voice steady. “Thank you anyway.”
He came around the desk, gave her the script and kissed her cheek again. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said. “Keep in touch.”
“I will.”
“Call me next week, we’ll have lunch.”
“Yes.” She hurried through his secretary’s office, fighting back the tears. She didn’t want anyone to see her. All the way down in the elevator she was fighting back the tears.
When she reached the street, she saw a trash basket at the curb. In a fit of rage and self-pity she flung the script into the wire basket.
She had gone almost a block before turning and running back to retrieve the script from the bottom of the basket.
Maybe she ha
d unconsciously thought that it should have been discarded, even while she was working on it. But there was no way she could have stopped herself. She was too much into it. She had to write it out.
Now it was over and she would have to begin again. But where? And how? There were other things she had to take care of first. Like the rent and the bills. She would have to get some money to carry her over until she could find a job. Then maybe everything would fall into place.
***
“Hello,” her mother answered.
“Mother, I need help.” There was no point in wasting time on the preliminaries. The moment her mother heard her voice she would know the reason for the call.
“What is it this time?”
JeriLee kept her voice calm. “I need two hundred and fifty dollars to get me past this month’s bills. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get a job.”
“Why don’t you ask your friend? I’m sure he can give you something.”
“He’s gone, Mother,” she said, controlling her voice. “We broke up almost a month ago.”
Her mother was silent for a moment. “It’s about time you came to your senses,” she said finally.
JeriLee didn’t reply.
“What about your play?” her mother asked. “Did you finish it?”
“Yes,” JeriLee answered. “It’s not good. I took it to Fannon. He won’t do it.”
“There are other producers.”
“It’s not good, Mother,” she repeated patiently. “I reread it. Fannon was right.”
“I don’t understand it. Couldn’t you have seen that while you were working on it?”
“No,” JeriLee answered.
“I don’t know, JeriLee,” she said, sounding discouraged. “Why can’t you be like other girls? Get a job, get married, have a family.”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I wish I could be. It would be a lot easier all around. But I’m not.”
“I can let you have a hundred dollars,” her mother said finally. “The market went down and there isn’t much money coming in.”
“It won’t be enough. The rent alone is a hundred and seventy-five.”
“That’s all I can spare this month. If things pick up, maybe I can give you a little more next month.”
“At least give me the money for the rent. They gave me an eviction notice today.” JeriLee was angry with herself for pleading but she felt she had no choice.
“You can always come home to live.”
“What would I do? There’s no work for me.”
“You’re not working anyway.”
JeriLee lost her patience. “Mother, either you’re going to give me the money or you’re not. There’s no point in our going around in a circle.”
“I’ll put a check in the mail for a hundred dollars,” her mother said coolly.
“Don’t bother!” JeriLee said, slamming down the phone. It happened every time they spoke to each other. There seemed to be no way they could communicate.
She went back to the couch and started flipping through the pages of Casting News. Nothing. The business was dead and the few things that were going were all locked up by the agents.
On the last page was another ad for the Torchlight Club. It was in the paper all the time now. The turnover in girls was obviously tremendous. On an impulse she picked up the telephone and dialed the club.
“Torchlight Club,” a woman’s voice said.
“Mr. DaCosta please.”
“Who is calling?”
“JeriLee Randall.”
“Just a moment, please.” There had been no sign of recognition in the woman’s voice.
There was a click, then he came on. “Hello,” he said cautiously.
“Vincent, this is JeriLee.”
“How are you, baby?”
“Okay,” she said. “You?”
“Never been better,” he said. “How come the call?”
“I need a job.”
He was silent for a moment. “You still got that nigger living with you?”
The question took her by surprise. She had not known that he knew about Fred. “No.”
“It’s about time you came to your senses,” he said. “A guy like that is nothing but bad news.”
She didn’t answer.
“What about the play you were writing?”
“It didn’t work. I’m junking it.”
“Too bad,” he said, but there was no sound of sympathy in his voice. “What kind of a job are you looking for?”
“Anything,” she said. “I’m busted.”
“Your old job is filled. We got a guy doin’ it.”
“I said anything,” she replied. “I know the whole setup. I can fit in anywhere.”
“Okay. Come on over an’ we’ll talk about it.”
“What time?”
“Just a minute, let me check my book. I’m locked in tight all afternoon,” he said. “How about seven o’clock at the apartment? We can have a drink and talk there without anybody bugging us.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be there.”
She got up and went into the bathroom. There was one Valium left in the bottle. She swallowed it and looked at herself in the mirror.
Her eyes looked strained and red but a few drops of Visine would clear them up. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. If she did get a job she was sure that Vincent wouldn’t mind giving her an advance on her salary.
Chapter 8
A woman let her into the apartment. “Vincent’s in the shower,” she said without introducing herself. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
“That’s okay,” she said.
“Would you care for a drink?”
“Thanks. Vodka and tonic.”
The woman nodded and went behind the bar. JeriLee watched her. She was very pretty in a showgirl way—heavy eye makeup, lots of false eyelashes and carefully styled shiny black hair that fell to her shoulders. “Okay?” she asked as JeriLee tasted her drink.
“It’s fine.” JeriLee smiled.
The woman went back to the bar and picked up her own drink. “Cheers,” she said, raising her glass to her lips.
“Cheers,” JeriLee replied.
“Sit down,” the woman said, gesturing to the couch. She climbed up on the bar stool and swung around facing JeriLee.
The telephone began to ring. Automatically the woman made a gesture toward it, then checked herself. It rang again, the sound cutting off in the middle. “He doesn’t like anyone to answer his private phone for him,” the woman explained.
JeriLee nodded.
“He’s crazy. You know that, don’t you? His whole family is crazy.”
JeriLee didn’t answer.
“His brothers are worse.”
“I don’t know them,” JeriLee said.
“Consider yourself lucky then.” She took a bottle of scotch from the bar and refilled her glass. “Jesus, what a family.”
She fell silent, the woman staring morosely into her glass. Through the closed door there was the faint sound of Vincent’s voice on the telephone. Then abruptly the bedroom door opened.
He was wearing the white terry cloth bathrobe that she remembered. “You’re here,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I thought I told you to tell me when she got here,” he said to the woman in a harsh voice.
“You were in the shower,” she said. “Then you got on the phone.”
“Stupid cunt,” he said. “Fix me a drink.”
Silently the woman got down from the stool and poured some scotch over the rocks. He took the drink and walked over to JeriLee. “You don’t look so good,” he said abruptly.
“I’m tired.”
“The nigger fuck you out?”
She didn’t answer.
“Everybody knows about them,” he said. “All their brains are in their cocks.”
She put down her drink and rose from the couch. “I don’t have to listen to that shit,” she said.
His hand gripped he
r arm tightly. “You want a job, you listen whether you like it or not.”
It was not until then that she saw the glittering brightness in his eyes and knew he was coked to the ears. He had probably taken a few snorts before he came out. “What about the job?” she asked.
He let go of her arm. “I told you you’d come crawling back.”
She didn’t answer.
“What makes you think I’d give you a job?” he asked. “What can you do better than anybody else?”
She kept her silence.
“Maybe the nigger taught you some new tricks.” Abruptly he pulled at his belt and the robe fell open. “Show me,” he said. “Get it hard. I got room for a good cocksucker up in the massage parlor.”
“I think I’d better go,” she said.
“What’s the matter? Isn’t it big enough for you anymore?” He laughed harshly. “Everybody knows they’re hung like horses.”
She turned and started for the door. He caught her arm. “Maybe I was all wrong. Maybe you’d rather make it with her than with me?” He called over his shoulder to the woman. “Come here.”
“Jesus, Vincent,” the woman said in a disgusted tone of voice.
“Come here, bitch!” he said angrily.
Slowly the woman got down from the stool and came over to him. He turned back to JeriLee. “Would you like to go down on her?” he said.
“I told you he was crazy,” the woman said.
Vincent stared at the woman wildly and for a moment JeriLee thought he was about to strike her. Then abruptly he dropped JeriLee’s arm and walked back to the bar, where he refilled his drink. “Go on, get out of here. Both of you,” he said. “You cunts are all alike.”
Silently JeriLee opened the door and the woman followed her out into the hall.
“He’s got to be higher than the Empire State Building,” the woman said as they waited for the elevator. “He’s been snortin’ coke ever since he got home.”
When they came out of the building, the woman signaled for a cab. “Can I give you a lift?” she asked.
“No, thanks. I think I’ll walk.”
The woman fished in her purse, then held her hand out to JeriLee. “Here’s my phone number,” she said. “Give me a call sometime.”
Automatically JeriLee’s hand closed over the folded paper. The cab door closed and the taxi took off. JeriLee looked down at her hand. The folded twenty-dollar bill lay flat in her palm.
The Lonely Lady Page 30
