The Jet Set

by Mack Reynolds

  He looked through the door into the living room, ready to retreat if he seemed to be an unwanted intruder.

  Muley was there, and, of course, Loretta.

  The Moslem’s complexion was such that his face could hardly have been said to have gone pale. However, there was shock in it.

  “… your business!” Loretta was shrilling at him, her eyes blazing fury.

  “But …” He stretched out his hands as though in supplication. “I … I thought that … I planned to make you my … bride.” He began fishing in his pockets. “I shall show you my sincerity, my darling. This ring, it was once worn by Fatima herself. The daughter of the Prophet. It is beyond price. I planned to offer it to you this very evening.”

  Larry closed his eyes in pain. Something made his feet move, made him enter. Possibly it was because he felt it necessary to stand by Loretta in this emotional crisis. For that matter, he felt a need for apology to Muley Khalid. He had known, everybody knew, how hard the Cham had fallen for the beauteous actress — and how little she responded.

  He approached them, and the Cham looked at him with sorrowful eyes. “Larry … I thought you were my friend.”

  Loretta finally boiled completely over. She made a sign of contempt at the ring. “Why don’t you get out,” she screamed at the small, dapper Moslem. “Get out! I’ve had enough trouble here today What arrangement Larry and I have made is our business.” She laughed, suddenly, harshly, her eyes blazing still. “Marry you? Marry you! You nigger!”

  • CHAPTER SEVEN •

  FOR A TIME, they saw no more of Muley Khalid. For that matter, neither did anyone else, though the Cham didn’t leave Torremolinos. That surprised Larry Land at least. He would have thought that the Moslem leader would have taken off in that monstrous jet of his to some far goal for a complete change of scene, if nothing else.

  Instead, from what everyone said, the Cham was making plans for an even more extended stay than he had originally intended. He had bought the extensive villa he had first rented and was now adding to it furiously. Perhaps, Larry considered, he was trying to lose himself in work. Perhaps he was too proud to leave the area after the blast let loose on him by Loretta Alsace. It would look too much as though he, the Cham of all the Ismailian Shiahs, were being run off by a woman’s scorn.

  From what they said, Muley had imported scores of architects and highly skilled artisans to effect the alterations in his villa which would make it suitable for his residence. Larry had wondered how many homes the man had, throughout the world. What did you do when you had one of the largest fortunes on earth, and an income, for all practical purposes, tax-free? Among other things, he assumed, you could build superlative homes on three or four different continents. Evidently, Muley had decided on establishing one on the Costa del Sol.

  Meanwhile, life for Larry Land continued much the same as it had been when he was living with Marcella Loraine. The Jet Set, he had to admit wryly, jetted. Such slow moments as were spent were needed for the rest of exhaustion. Life seemed either a matter of one sort of party or another or recovering from one sort of a party or another. Cocktail parties, dinner parties, beach parties, yacht parties, even skin-diving parties. And though Torremolinos was this year’s base of operations, is was only a base. A party that began on the Duque de Palma-Savoy’s yacht, anchored off Malaga, might well wind up in the Canary Islands, the whole group having been flown over by Alvares Bartolomeu Real, reputed to own half the coffee in Brazil and one of the several who maintained a private plane of startling proportions.

  A party that began on the beaches of Torremolinos might go suddenly dead, and wind up in Majorca, skin-diving off Soller. A party that began as an expedition to the spectacular mountain town of Ronda to take in a corrida del toros might wind up in Tangier prowling the souks of the Casbah area, on a treasure hunt game.

  Through it all Larry roamed, usually with his Rollei slung over his shoulder. He never knew when something might come up that would prove newsworthy. Some shot that could be captioned, Loretta Alsace inspecting the Tangier medina in the company of writer William Daly, whose latest thriller Seven Nights Running will be produced by the independent film star. The shooting will take place in southern Spain and Morocco.

  It was none of his business, but so far as he could see, the actual production didn’t seem to be making much headway. Aside from the fact that Big Bill had given Loretta an option on the book, Larry couldn’t see that matters were progressing at all. The only other person working on Seven Nights Running seemed to be the publicity flack, Bert Mix, whom Loretta had brought down from Madrid.

  He was a small, cynical man with a small, sandy spade beard and an unbelievable capacity for alcohol, considering his size. He also had an unbelievable capacity for getting into trouble when he’d had a few, and largely Larry made a policy of staying away from him when the flack was in his cups. However, he was competent at his trade and could usually come up with a story angle on which to hang one of Larry’s photos long after Larry himself had given up.

  Larry had brought up the slowness of operations with him and had been promptly laughed at. “Pal,” Bert told him, “count your blessings. You like the pay, don’t you? One of the reasons pay is high in this industry is because the job’s over in a couple of months or so. Once in a while you hit a lulu. I worked on Cleopatra for a while. That one was like having a pension.” The little man beamed, reminding Larry of an Irish pixie.

  Well, Larry was in no hurry. The pay was good. The life was fascinating. For that matter, if he wished, he could prolong his European venture. There was no hurry about returning to the States. Of course, that job with National Statistics might not wait for him, but there were always other jobs.

  It was Dorry Malloy who gave him his come-uppance.

  Loretta had been in town doing some shopping or other, and Larry had moved his equipment out onto one of the terraces, where he could appreciate the breeze from off the Mediterranean. His equipment had grown to include a Leica and various accessories ranging from telephoto lenses to the latest in strobe flash. He puttered about it, wondering if he shouldn’t get himself a 35mm wide-angle lens. From time to time he felt stymied through lack of one.

  Dorry had drifted up and watched for a moment, unspeaking. He hadn’t been seeing much of Dorry lately, which he considered unfortunate since the more he knew of the girl, the better he liked her. Actually, he understood the situation. He was sleeping with Loretta and Dorry knew it, just as did anyone else in the group with which they associated. It was none of Dorry’s business, as the movie star’s social secretary, but Larry sensed that she didn’t approve.

  He had to be amused inwardly at that. Had the girl known it, he didn’t approve either, especially. He was already tired of Loretta Alsace as far as romance was concerned — if there ever had been any. He saw no manner in which he could change the basis of the relationship, however, and was simply letting it drift.

  Now the girl said, “How goes the demon photographer?”

  “Fine,” he grinned up at her, realizing all over again that this was an inordinately attractive girl, shaded only by Loretta Alsace. He wondered if Dorry dressed as conservatively as she did, presented herself simply so far as hairdo and cosmetics were concerned, on the movie star’s orders. Loretta had no patience with having her own light dimmed. “How goes it with you?”

  She slumped down onto a wrought-iron chair. “It doesn’t. I’m thinking of calling it quits.”

  He was surprised. “Quits? Why? I thought you had a pretty good job.”

  She shrugged her disgust. “I told you once, I took it only to have an in. I wanted to make contacts in the industry. Well, I’m not making much in the way of progress.”

  He didn’t like the idea of her leaving. “Moses, girl, you’ll be right in the middle of it when Seven Nights Running goes into production. Loretta figures on getting Manny King to direct.”

  Dorry snorted deprecation. “Who’s she going to get to pony up the money?�
�

  Larry put down the camera he was working on and scowled at her. “What do you mean? Loretta’s producing this herself.”

  “Oh? Did you think so?”

  He looked at her, his eyes saying go on.

  Dorry explained patiently. “Larry, if Miss Alsace was able to get her hands on her money, it would have been gone long since. The fact is, she gets her income but can’t touch the principal.”

  “But she’s already paid Big Bill for an option — ”

  “Which is about to run out, by the way, and I have a sneaky suspicion that Bill Daly will take the property elsewhere the next time. Sure, Loretta has enough money to buy an option, but she most certainly can’t get her hooks on enough of her capital to finance a major film production.”

  Larry was still staring. “Then why should she hire me and, well, Bert Mix? Why go to any expense until she could find her backing?”

  For some reason the girl seemed highly irritated with him. “Oh, don’t be a fool, Larry Land.”

  “I try not to be.”

  She laid it on the line. “How did Miss Alsace get you to leave Marcella’s bed and move over to hers? So far as Bert is concerned, she just brought him down to make it all look more plausible.”

  His face froze.

  She came to her feet angrily. “You asked for it. Loretta’s just more clever than Marcella. Marcella probably handed you a wad of bills at the end of the week and said, Here’s some spending money, sweetie pie. Loretta’s clever enough to make believe you’re on her payroll. She gives you a salary at the end of the week. Face the truth, Larry. Miss Alsace is never going to produce Seven Nights Running, and nothing else for that matter. But don’t worry about it. When the option has lapsed, she’ll probably have some other project up-and-coming which supposedly calls for a photographer.”

  Larry Land felt a sickening emptiness in his stomach. He said, his voice strained, “Don’t be silly. Why should anybody like Loretta go to all that complication just to get next to somebody like me?”

  “Confound it, if I know,” Dorry snapped. “Or Marcella either, for that matter. Usually, it’s the men who are flocking around them.”

  Loretta Alsace had come up on them, unnoticed. Now she said, “What in the world is going on? What are you two fighting about? Dorry, I thought you were busy with correspondence.” Loretta made a practice of keeping women away from Larry, any other women.

  Dorry covered. “I just had a call from Hamid, the Cham’s secretary.”

  Loretta scowled. “What ever did he want?”

  “It seems that the Cham is having a small luncheon party tomorrow, by way of a housewarming. He wants you and Mr. Land to attend.”

  The movie star stared at her. “Wants Larry and me? Doesn’t the man ever give up? Tell him we simply can’t make it.”

  Dorry left and Loretta Alsace sank into a chair. “It’s hotter than blue jazus in Malaga,” she told Larry.

  He looked at her. “How’s the production going?”

  “Oh, I’ve been having some difficulties.”

  Larry said, evenly, “Actually you’re not going to produce Seven Nights Running at all, are you, Loretta?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been talking to that drunken slob Bill Daly.”

  He went on, “So, actually you don’t need my services any more.”

  “Now look, Larry. Don’t be ridiculous. I need some financial assistance, is all. I’ve been trying to raise it, without luck so far. Of course I need you.” The tip of her tongue parted her lips nervously and darted from left to right.

  He looked at her.

  Loretta said suddenly as though inspired, “The Cham! It never occurred to me. He has more money than Rockefeller. And it sits around doing nothing.”

  Larry said, “I doubt if Muley Khalid is exactly on money-lending terms with either of us.” But then he hesitated.

  Loretta said triumphantly, “Then why did he invite us to his luncheon party? He’s trying to suck up to me again. The poor fool has the thickest skin on record. Why, all I’d have to do would be snap my fingers and he’d be mooning around the same as before. We’ll just take in that party, Larry.”

  “Now look, it wouldn’t be fair. Muley’s a nice guy. He doesn’t deserve — ”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! I didn’t say I was trying to rob the man. Seven Nights Running is a good property. He’ll make money on it, not lose. You just let me handle this end of the production, Larry Land. You take care of the publicity shots.”

  She was right. It was none of his business if the movie star wished to get backing for her film from the Cham. Besides, Larry desperately wanted it proven that he hadn’t simply moved from one kept-man position to another.

  • • •

  Muley Khalid was delighted that they were able to attend. His usually gentle smile was now an absolute beam. He took over Loretta’s things himself, whisked about them like a friendly poodle.

  Larry felt ashamed — both at himself, accepting the other man’s gracious hospitality, and at Muley for being unable to comprehend the true situation. Well, once again, it wasn’t his business. It was Loretta’s and she was taking things in her stride. Never before had she been quite so charming to the Cham. Her dazzle smile was an always thing.

  Larry was somewhat taken aback by the balance of the company. During the past few months he had met all of them, and all could be considered members of the international Jet Set. But Larry had never got close to any of them, nor had he wished to. They were the far-outs of the far-outs. Sándor Petöfe, for instance, who made no pretense of hiding his homosexual bent. And Clark Talmadge, the same when off the screen. Then there was Alvares Bartolomeu Real, the Brazilian, whose tastes were of the Lolita variety, nor did he bother to hide the fact in his conversation, it being his favorite subject of talk. And various others, male and female, of similar ilk.

  It was a small party, considering the usual king-size affairs of this group — only ten others beside himself and Loretta. Ten others and the Cham. Evidently it hadn’t occurred to Muley Khalid that thirteen was an unlucky number. That superstition was evidently of the West, and not followed by Islam.

  Somewhat to Larry’s surprise, too, was the fact that the Cham had abandoned the Eastern motif in having this estate decorated. It was strictly modern, in the most ultra sense of the word, up to and including Picassos and Klees on the walls, rather than the Oriental art objects which prevailed on the Cham’s Caravelle.

  Evidently, Muley was leaving until later in the evening the showing of his new residence to his guests. Larry assumed there would be such a showing. He had never been to a housewarming that hadn’t included a conducted tour of the premises. On the other hand, he had never been to a housewarming on this level of society, other than that Marcella Loraine had given when he had first teamed up with her, and that, of course, had been merely a rented villa.

  Although the Cham himself never allowed alcohol to pass his lips, being the good Moslem he was, he made no effort to keep it from his guests. In fact, one of his rooms he had done up cleverly as though it were a luxurious cocktail lounge facing on the Champs-Elysées of Paris. It was complete to stools at the bar, reverse lettering on the windows, a jukebox with currently popular French tunes, and the most elaborate liquor collection Larry had ever seen either in a private or public bar. Even the bartender was French.

  While his guests chuckled their amused approval and ordered their preference in drinks, the Cham stood back and beamed happily at them, and particularly at Loretta. He was not, Larry decided, quite so bad as he had been at Pamplona, not quite so much the bug-eyed movie fan staring at the star of his ultimate choice, but still he eyed her continuously.

  And although Muley himself didn’t drink with the rest of them, from time to time he slipped an elaborately decorated golden cigarette case from an inner pocket, inserted a dark cigarette in his ivory and jade holder and accepted a light from the quick-moving servant who was always there before the Cham could ever
wish anything.

  Larry, a glass of stone-age Metaxa from Greece in his hand, wondered just how many servants the other must have in order to maintain an establishment of this magnitude. When they had driven up from Torremolinos, the size of the place had astonished him. But then, considering horses, dogs, plane crew, mechanics for the racing cars, chauffeurs for the dozen or so limousines, the Cham’s need for size was obvious.

  The party was well under way, Muley Khalid drifting from one guest to the next, radiating his bred-in charm, his cigarette held at a jaunty angle somewhat reminiscent of F. D. Roosevelt. It turned out that on the bar’s shelves were several bottles of prewar — pre-World War I — absinthe, originally distilled in Switzerland. Larry had never seen the genuine article before, and, with others of the group, had to have the whys and wherefores of the sinister green liqueur demonstrated to him.

  The bartender would take a tall glass containing an ounce or so of absinthe and over it balance a specially constructed spoon, several holes in the middle. In the spoon he would place a lump of sugar. He would then slowly pour ice-cold water over the sugar until it was completely melted away and there was about five times as much water as absinthe. It proved a potent drink, Larry discovered, since absinthe ran to approximately eighty percent alcohol, one hundred and sixty proof. There was also, of course, the wormwood ingredient which had been decided by international narcotic authorities to be a dangerous drug and hence the beverage had been declared illegal throughout the civilized world.

  They must have averaged five or six drinks apiece before the Cham invited them into the dining room. If anything, a bit less than par for the course, Larry thought, these people being these people. In fact, he doubted if he had ever seen Marcella Loraine, during the time he had spent with her, sit down to food before having put away at least ten stiff whiskeys. Loretta wasn’t quite up to that standard, but she was far from a teetotoler.