Well, Besame would see about that! She'd use her own money, Popescu's money, a gun if necessary, but she'd get Randy out of the way and fast. However, all Besame wanted to do now was to get out of this place. She'd plead a sick headache or . . .
"I'm back," John said, pulling his chair out from the table.
Instantly Besame's face resumed its masklike loveliness. The eyebrows rose to their inverted V's, the great dark eyes glowed with warm bemusement, the full lips took on their Gioconda smile. "I thought you were never coming," she said in her carefully cultivated husky voice. "But if you don't mind, could we . . ."
"If you don't mind," he was saying, "could we get out of here?"
"Two minds with but a single thought," Besame said lightly. "Yes, let's do go. It's awfully . . ."
"Waiter!" he called. "The check, please."
Just then Chandelier was plunged into complete darkness. There was a roll of the drums and an impressive fanfaronade from the orchestra. The dance floor was flooded with light and the orchestra leader stepped forward to announce the appearance of "that singing sensation of Paris and the Cote d'Azur, Mile. Chou-Chou la Grue." There was thunderous applause from all those who had never heard of Mlle. la Grue.
"Waiter!" he called louder. "The check!"
"Shhhhhhhhhhhh," someone said from a neighboring table.
John lowered his voice. "Waiter!"
The orchestra was now blaring Mlle. la Grue's entrance music—something about Paris.
"Waiter!" he called louder. "The check!"
"I'm sorry, sir," the waiter said. "No service while Mlle. la Grue sings."
"For Christ's sake," he said, "who do you think she is, Mary Garden?"
"Sorry, sir," the waiter mumbled.
The ovation was tumultuous as Mlle. la Grue appeared in an evening gown composed of the pelts of six white foxes, eighteen pounds of rhinestones, thirty yards of satin and best described as Modess Regal. The press had made much of Mlle. la Grue's wardrobe, which seemed kinder to describe than her voice.
"Listen, waiter," John said, "we've got to get out of here."
A voice from the darkness said, "If you can't appreciate a great chan-tooce, kindly allow others to do so."
"Oh, shut up!" he said. "Waiter!"
Chou-Chou la Grue stood in the exact center of the floor, her heavy arms upraised, her tremendous bosom heaving, her stays creaking. Eventually the applause died down. "My faires nome-Bair is an old French song about a midinette de Paris who loves an American how-you-say Zhee-Eye—soldier—and every night she sleep away from her 'ouse to meet heem undair zee Pont Neuf—a famous bridge across the Reevair Seine."
The light dimmed to blue. There was a shivering run from the harp, a majestic chord from the orchestra, a sputter of static from the public address system and Mlle. la Grue was off; "Minuit! Les étoiles de Paris. Une pauvre fille melancolique . . ."
"Isn't she superb!" someone breathed.
"Waiter!" John snapped.
"Shhhhhhhhhhhh!"
". . . la Seine est claire comme le crystal, la lune . . ."
"I'm very sorry, sir, no service while . . ."
"So here you are!" a familiar voice cut through the reverent hush of the room. It was his sister-in-law Alice. He looked up unbelieving. It was all true. Alice Marshall towered above their table, her feathered hat flapping, her electric-blue maternity blouse and her spectacles glittering ominously in the reflected glory of the spotlight.
"Please, Alice . . .” he started.
"Don't you 'Please, Alice' me, you Lothario! I'll teach you to . . ."
"Who is this madwoman?" Besame breathed.
"Believe me, I never saw her before in my life," he groaned. "Waiter! Check!"
"Take my sister and turn her into something as low and vicious as yourself and then . . ."
". . . c'est le printemps, les feuilles sont tendres . . ." Mlle. la Grue shrieked gamely.
"Shhhhh! Shhhhhhh! Honestly, the class of people who have money to spend in nice places nowadays!" an indignant music lover hissed through the darkness.
"Well, let me tell you one thing, young man," Alice went on loudly, either oblivious to or enjoying the commotion she was creating, "if Fred and I have to fight you through every court in the country, you're going to . . ."
"Sir, madame," the waiter said. "I must ask you to leave. Mile. la Grue . . ."
"Leave?" John shouted. "I've been trying to get out of this dump ever since . . ."
". . . and another thing," Alice raged, "when I . . ."
". . . romance sous le Pont Neuf , . ." Mlle. la Grue continued a little louder.
"Out!" the headwaiter said, flanked by two captains.
"Come on, Besame," John said, grasping her hand.
They made a run for the exit, dodging chairs, tables and enraptured customers. At the door the headwaiter said, "Your check, sir."
He didn't wait to look at the check. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out all the currency he had—eighty-some dollars—and flung it into the man's face.
"Now get out and stay out!" the headwaiter snapped.
"You bet your life!" he said.
As he and Besame whirled through the revolving door it occurred to him that it was the second time in his life—and the second time today—that he had been thrown out of a restaurant.
Eight
“I told you it wasn’t very far,” Besame said, drawing a small ring of keys out of her purse and handing it to him.
Besame lived in a building described by its rental agency as in the "Sutton Place Area." That is to say that it was neither in nor of Sutton Place, but that it was a swanked-up old tenement house which had had the good fortune to be situated where it was some fifty years before Sutton Place ceased being a slum and became a fashionable cul-de-sac. The facade had been treated to a coat of black paint (doesn't show the dirt), with white trim (shows the dirt, but oh the contrast), and a vivid red door (chic). The rambling railroad flats had been gutted and divided in two with such added refinements as yellow plumbing and artificial tile, although little had been done to the sagging floors and rotting woodwork. In the interest of public safety, the rat-gnawed old wooden stairway had been replaced by one of steel and terrazzo that clanged with every step. The names on the bellboard had changed from O'Shaunessy and Palucci and Przybilski to Baroness von Plotnich and Reginald Honeywell Kirby, IV and Mrs. Bullock Bleek.
But even though Baroness von Plotnich and Reginald Honeywell Kirby, IV and Mrs. Bullock Bleek would not have known the O'Shaunessys and the Paluccis and the Przybilskis socially; even though they did not lean out of their windows by day or sit on the stoop by night; even though they were too refined to engage in very loud family brawls; even though their names were occasionally mentioned on the Society page and, in one or two cases, the Police Blotter; even though their rents were a thousand percent higher than those of the former tenants—if they bothered to pay them—they were hardly more substantial people than the O'Shaunessys and the Paluccis and the Przybilskis had been.
The people who lived in Besame's building constituted a new social phenomenon, a new ethnic group called Almost Society. They lived as near to the rich as possible with all of the trimmings but none of the responsibilities of money. Their pasts, their presents and their futures were largely matters of conjecture. Usually personable and often entertaining, they had enormous circles of alphabetically listed acquaintances, but no friends. They were invited out a good deal and usually repaid every five invitations to dinner with one for cocktails. They lived rather stylishly on loans, commissions, handouts, credit and their wits. Some of them had alimonies or settlements or tiny trust funds from more prudent forebears. These sums were always given glamor, mystery and an extra digit or so by being described deprecatingly as "a little money of my own." Those who worked didn't have real jobs but glorified hobbies—doing table arrangements, designing coats for poodles, writing an occasional piece on wine or food or an unspoiled island—that took them
into the milieu of the Very Rich. Their god was Fashion, their paradise was the Social Register and if they could not quite get into heaven, at least they could worship from the front pew.
"It's quite a hike up," Besame said, looking back over her shoulder as she began climbing the stairs.
The halls were painted battleship gray (doesn't show the dirt) punctuated by scarlet doors (chic) and they smelled vaguely of broiled lamb chops, brioche, Siamese cats, cigarette smoke, Air Wick and Chanel Number Five. One of the doors was open and John could hear the last murmurs and chuckles and tinklings of ice from a cocktail party that hadn't quite ended when scheduled. Little garbage cans sat outside a few of the red doors, but the cans were painted unusual colors and piled high with wilted roses, wine bottles and empty boxes from Bergdorf Goodman waiting to be collected. It was very fashionable garbage. A telephone was ringing on the third floor and through one of the doors John could hear a voice saying petulantly, "But, darling, nobody goes to Miami anymore."
"Just one more flight," Besame panted.
John took a deep breath, grasped the handrail and plunged onward and upward.
"Here we are,” she said. "Seventh Heaven."
He unlocked her front door and swung it open. Besame reached around the door jamb and switched on the lights. "Make yourself at home," she said. "Sit down and I'll get us a couple of drinks. I have some Scotch and a lot of rye." She disappeared beyond the foyer and he could hear water running and the rattle and bang of an ice tray.
The living room was overheated and there was the hiss of steam in the archaic pipes. It felt good. The night had turned chilly enough for him to regret marching out that morning with neither hat nor coat. Like a cat in a strange house, he was unable to settle. He strode over to one of the windows and looked out. He could see the letters si Co of the red neon Pepsi Cola sign across the East River. The rest of the sign was obliterated by two large buildings on Sutton Place.
"Have you admired my view?" Besame called from the kitchenette.
"I was just looking at it," he answered. Then he let the heavy curtains fall back into place and wandered idly about the room.
The room was as sleek and impersonal as Besame herself. Decorated in black and white and gray, it was starkly modem, its principal feature being a tremendous sofa upholstered in black. The only color was lent by a large painting by Joan Miro and some faintly menacing-looking green plants. It was an expensive room, a smart room, but it was utterly devoid of personality. No photographs, no books, no magazines existed to give even a hint of what the occupant was like.
John had met a lot of actresses in his time, ranging from the almost-unknown who had taken the lead in his off-Broadway success and the fast-fading star of his Broadway flop to the glossy Hollywood queens who appeared weekly on Pulse Beat. Their living quarters were almost identical—highly personalized places crammed with flowers, with photographs, with scrapbooks, with pets and friends and hangers-on. They were all alike and even the most sterile hotel suite, leased for a week, was soon deep in a clutter of memorabilia that fairly shouted "Lovely me, wonderful me, popular me, famous me!” If it was only to the chambermaid, an actress made her presence known. But Besame's apartment was as clean as a barracks on inspection day, offering no clues—not even a hint.
Besame was certainly different, he decided, nothing actressey or stagey about her at all. And except for her considerable physical charms there wasn't even anything particularly female about her. Talking to Besame was almost like talking to another man—no artifice, no coquetry at all. He supposed that it was because Besame, in spite of her hideous mother, had been born with all the creature comforts—the security, the food, the social background, the medical care, the education—that money could provide, and that there had been no reason for her to pretend that she was anything she was actually not. He felt that Besame was a gentleman among women. He felt that Besame was . . .
The telephone at his side began to ring.
"Shall I get it?" he called.
"No!" Besame called back, almost sharply. He could hear her hurrying from the kitchen. Then she said with a little more control, "I'll answer. It's probably only Mother."
Besame answered on the third ring, "Hello?" The voice was cool, crisp, remote and not quite hers. "I'm sorry," she said in a still stranger voice, "but I'm afraid you have the wrong number " She hung up rather briskly and marched back to the kitchen. In a moment she returned with two drinks—his quite dark, hers very pale.
"Now," she said with a warm smile, "let's sit down and talk about your play. Do you think there's anything in it that I could do?" She sat down quite close to him on the sofa. Almost too close. He could feel the warm pressure of her thigh against his and smell the mixed fragrances of her perfume and her tobacco. The combination of odors proved to be a little less pleasant than he had anticipated.
True, he had halfway anticipated some sort of intimacy with Besame, even though his boss did happen to be her stepfather. But he had rather planned to take whatever sexual initiative that was to be taken all by himself.
Besame laid a long, tapered hand on his knee. He almost jumped. "Of course," she said, "I don't think I'm ready for a starring role . . ."
Well, he liked that! Here she'd done a summer in stock and one television part and now she was talking about being a star.
"But I am a good actress."
"Yes-s," he said hesitantly, "you are a good actress—a very good actress." This was certainly true. But he just wished that now she'd spare him one or two of his illusions; that she'd take her hand off his knee and let him make any passes that were going to be made.
"And, of course," Besame continued almost too matter-of-factly, "there'd be no trouble getting backers. I have some money; Mother has even more; and Popescu has all the dough in Deauville—even if he did steal every penny of it."
"What?" John said with a start. He was not fond of Manfred Popescu. He found him vulgar, overbearing, crafty and certainly not above sharp practices. But he had a respect for the man's business acumen and a certain streak of puritanism which would never have permitted him to work for a man or a firm whose dealings were open to question.
"Surely," Besame said, smiling into his face, "you couldn't be so naive as to think that Popescu is honest or that he makes his real money out of those wretched watches. Please don't joke with me." Her tone was that of someone discussing the weather or a current bestseller, but the casual off-handedness of it merely served to double his shock.
"Listen, Besame," he said, "I only do the advertising on Pulse Beat. I don't know anything about your step-father's financial set-up—and I don't want to."
"Go on!" Besame said with a chuckle that could hardly be called pleasant. "You mean to tell me you don't know about Dr. Schwartz in Bern or Mr. Gomez down in Rio or that interesting Mohamed Maloof in Cairo? Don't make me laugh!"
"I swear to you, I never heard of any of them," he said.
"Good heavens, I believe you're telling the truth!" she said, treating him to a quizzical smile. "Well, if you want to have some fun with the old crook, just mention them to him. Why, I know enough about Popescu to hang him. That's why I'm certain that we won't have any trouble raising money to get your play on the stage."
"Listen, Besame," he said, "the next time I get a play produced it'll be like the last two times—because enough people like it to invest in it. My God, the play isn't even finished yet. I haven't had a chance to fix the last act for a year."
The doorbell rang. Besame made no move. It rang again.
"Aren't you going to answer that?" he asked.
"No," she said coldly. "I am not. He'll give up after a while." The bell rang another time. "Now, as I see it," Besame continued calmly, "you'll have plenty of time to finish the play while you're sitting out your divorce . . ."
"Hey, wait a minute!" The bell pealed once more.
"I'll get Popescu to give you a leave of absence long enough for your divorce and then to get the play on the stag
e . . ." The doorbell rang again loud and long. "Persistent, isn't he?"
"Hey, listen," John said, "not so fast! You haven't even read this play. You might hate it." The bell rang again and he raised his voice. "There isn't much of a part in it for you—only a kind of poor relation with hardly any lines at all . . ."
"Well, you could always build the part up a bit," Besame said calmly over the din of the bell. "The play could probably be tailored to fit me. You know how much plays are changed before . . ."
"And as for the divorce," he shouted above the clangor, "that would be up to my wife. We haven't discussed it . . . God, I wish whoever that is would go away. Is it Halloween or something?"
"It's just this crackpot who keeps pursuing me."
"You mean a maniac? You ought to call the police," he said. "It's dangerous for a woman living alone to . . ." The bell pealed again. "Here," he said, reaching for the telephone, "I can put an end to this in five minutes."
"No!" Besame said, snatching the telephone away from him. Then more calmly she said, "I don't want to get involved and have my name dragged through the tabloids. I know who it is and . . ."
"I thought you said you didn't know who it was," he said. The bell rang again.
“Well," Besame said in pretty confusion, "I meant that I don't know him personally. It's just this harmless old anarchist who lives here in the neighborhood. All he wants to do is pass out tracts and talk about Sacco and Vanzetti. Crazy, of course, but not dangerous and I wouldn't want to be the one who was instrumental in getting him locked up. He's probably given up already. The bell hasn't rung for at least ten seconds. Now, to get back to this play of ours . . ."
"Ours?"
"Well, you know what I mean!” Besame said stroking his cheek. "You can help me and I can help you. I can give you ideas and inspiration and all the financial backing in the world. We might even let Popescu think he's producing the play. He'd like that. 'Manfred Popescu—from procurer to producer in ten easy lessons!'"
The Loving Couple Page 12
