The Storyteller

by Harold Robbins

  “Nothing, thank you, Louis,” Phil said. “I’m really grateful to you.”

  “That’s what friends are for,” Buchalter said. He rose to his feet, the two men with him. “I’ll go out through the kitchen,” he said, then looked down at Joe. “Good luck, kid.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Buchalter,” Joe said.

  His father waited until Buchalter and his friends had gone, then looked at his son. “If it weren’t for your mother,” he said bitterly, “I would have let you go in the army and get yourself killed.”

  Joe was silent.

  Phil looked at him and shook his head sadly. “You want some lunch?”

  “No, thanks, Papa,” Joe said. “Mama made me have breakfast just before I came down here.”

  His father rose to his feet. He was a big man, almost six feet tall. “Let’s go then,” he said. “This is Thursday afternoon and we’ll be very busy.”

  Jake came running from the front of the restaurant to the table. “What is this, a meeting hall?” he complained. “Nobody ate.”

  Phil looked at him contemptuously. He threw a ten-dollar bill on the table. “This should take care of it,” he said and walked out.

  Joe stopped outside the restaurant with his father. “I have an appointment at the magazine.”

  His father looked at him. “You have nothing else to say?”

  Joe looked up at his father, then reached up and kissed him on the lips. “Thank you, Papa.”

  There was a glint of tears in Phil’s eyes. “I’ll see you tonight, tateleh.”

  * * *

  HE CAME OUT of the IRT subway station at Canal Street. The clatter of the trucks coming and going from the Holland Tunnel was deafening. He stood on the corner waiting for the traffic light to change so that he could cross to the opposite corner to the building where the magazine offices were located.

  It was a renovated loft building, and the old freight elevator was used for passengers as well. The elevator operator pulled up the wire grill to let him on. He got out on the fifth floor and walked through the opaque glass doors to the magazine. The simple black paint lettering read: “Searchlight Comics.”

  He walked down the long corridor. Alongside the windows was the art department. There the illustrators and artists were working on their drawing boards and easels. Along the corridor on the inside wall were the offices that held the editorial staff and the business department. The cube-like offices without doors were lined up like glass-walled prison cells. He paused and entered one of the open offices.

  Mr. Hazle, the editor of the magazine group, was almost hidden behind a pile of manuscripts and artwork on his desk. He looked up over them and gestured for Joe to come in.

  “Come in, Joe,” he said. “I was just thinking about you.”

  Joe smiled. “Hello, Mr. Hazle. I hope you have a check for me.”

  “In another day or so,” Mr. Hazle said, his owllike eyes peering behind his round glasses under his bald head. “The reason I wanted to talk to you, was that we liked your story for Spicy Adventure very much.”

  “That’s good,” Joe said, still standing. There was no room for another chair in the tiny office.

  “I was talking to the boss,” Hazle said. “He liked it too, but he said that twenty-five hundred words is too much for the story. With illustrations it would take up ten pages, and we haven’t enough space for it. Five pages a story is our limit.”

  “So what do we do?” Joe asked.

  “The boss said he liked it so much he wants you to turn it into a serial, maybe twenty chapters, one in each issue.”

  Joe looked at him. “Twelve hundred words a chapter at a penny a word, that’s only twelve dollars a story. I know the illustrators are getting more than that. They’re getting twenty-five dollars a page.”

  “That’s the kind of magazine it is,” Hazle said. “Our customers don’t read, they want to look at drawings of tits and ass.”

  “Still, I should get more money,” Joe said.

  Hazle stared at him. “I have an idea. The boss liked the story, especially the character of the girl, Honey Darling. Maybe I can talk him into you turning it into a feature every month, a different adventure with Honey Darling in it. That way he will pay two cents a word, a feature stories run seven hundred fifty words. That will give you fifteen dollars a month and wouldn’t stop you from writing other stories for us.”

  “Do you think he’ll buy it?”

  “I’ll go right in there and ask him,” Hazle said. “Just give me the word.”

  “You got the word,” Joe said.

  “Grab one of those chairs in the corridor,” Hazle said. “I’ll be back to you in a few minutes.”

  Joe sat down in the corridor as Hazle walked to its end and entered the only closed office on the floor. Joe reached for his pack of cigarettes and lit one up. He took a deep drag and looked across the corridor to a girl sitting at a typewriter. She glanced at him for a moment and then turned back to her typewriter. He kept watching her type as he dragged on his cigarette.

  After a moment she turned toward him and called out, “Are you Joe Crown?”

  He nodded.

  “I thought so,” she said. “I’ve read most of the stuff that you sent in. You’re good, maybe the best writer that comes in here. Hazle himself said that.”

  “That’s good,” he said.

  “You’re too good for them,” she said. “Maybe you should try some better magazines.”

  “I haven’t got the contacts,” he said. “You need contacts; otherwise they don’t even read your stories.”

  “You should have an agent then.”

  “I need a contact for that too. Agents don’t want to waste their time with beginners.”

  She looked at him. “I’ll give you the name of an agent that I know,” she said. “But don’t let Mr. Hazle know that I told you.”

  “I won’t, I promise,” he said.

  She looked over her shoulder to make sure that Hazle wasn’t returning. Then she quickly typed the name on a sheet of paper, and handed it across the corridor to him. “Put that in your pocket—quickly,” she said nervously.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, doing as she said.

  “I put my name and telephone number on the paper, too,” she said. “But you can only call me on Sundays. That’s the only day I have off.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll call you. Thanks a lot.”

  She nodded and turned back to her typewriter as Hazle came down the corridor. Joe looked up at the bald man.

  “Mr. Kahn wants to see you,” Hazle said.

  Joe followed the editor to the closed office. It wasn’t large, but one corner had four windows. The walls were mahogany veneer and there was a fake mahogany desk. On the wall were paintings of various magazine covers.

  Mr. Kahn was a big, jovial man with a bushy head of hair and large tortoiseshell eyeglasses. He came from behind his desk and held out his hand. “Joe,” he said in a deep baritone voice, “I like to meet writers of talent, and I consider that you are one of our best.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kahn,” Joe said.

  “I told Hazle that we’ll make that deal. You get the two cents a word. Like I said, we like to reward talent.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kahn.”

  “Nothing at all, Joe,” the publisher said. “You just come in anytime you want to see me. We’re all one family here.” He went back behind his desk. “Too bad we can’t talk some more but there’s so much work to do.”

  “I understand, Mr. Kahn. Thank you again,” Joe said, and followed Hazle out of the office.

  Hazle walked into his small cell-like office. “I knew he would go for it.” He smiled.

  “What made you so sure?” Joe asked.

  “You remember that last scene in your story where the Arab cuts open Honey Darling’s brassiere with his scimitar and her jutting breasts burst out?”

  “I remember,” Joe said.

  “Mr. Kahn said the imagery from that
scene gave him the biggest hard on he had since he read Pierre Louÿ’s Aphrodite.”

  “Maybe you should have asked him for three cents a word then.” Joe laughed.

  “Just give him time,” Hazle said. “Now you have to get to work. First, you have to edit the twenty-five hundred words into three seven-hundred-fifty-word stories.”

  3

  HE WAITED UNTIL he was in the street outside the office building before looking at the sheet of paper the typist had given him.

  Laura Shelton

  Piersall and Marshall Agency

  34 East 39th Street

  Tele: Lexington 2200

  Underneath was the typist’s name. Kathy Shelton. Tele: YOrkville 9831. P.S. Don’t call my sister until tomorrow so that I can tell her about you tonight. K.S.

  He felt good. That was a stroke of luck. He had heard about that agency. It was one of the best literary agencies in the city. Several times he had tried to make an appointment with them but the operator or the receptionist would never let him through.

  He walked along Canal Street. Traffic was building up as rush hour began. He checked his watch; it was almost five o’clock. He went into a candy store on the next corner and ordered an egg cream. The counterman looked at him. “Small or large?”

  He still felt lucky. “Large,” he said.

  “Seven cents,” the counterman said, placing a large glass of the white-topped chocolate drink in front of him.

  He left a dime on the counter and took his drink over to the pay phone opposite the counter. He heard his nickel tinkle down the box and then dialed the number. It was one of the new pay telephones, and it seemed strange not to hear the operator’s voice answer. He sipped his drink as the ringing of the telephone sounded in his ear. A voice answered, “Hello.”

  “Lutetia?” he asked. “Joe.”

  Her voice was thin and tinny through the receiver. “How are you, Joe?” She sounded as if she was stoned.

  “Is Kitty home?” he asked.

  “Yes. But she’s asleep.”

  “Smashed?” he asked.

  “Out of her mind,” Lutetia answered.

  “Shit,” he said. “She told me that she’d give me the five bucks for the work I did. She said she’d have it for me today.”

  “If she said she had it for you, she probably had it,” Lutetia said. Then she laughed. “But you’d have to wake her up first.”

  “I was counting on that money,” he said.

  “Come up anyway,” she said. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll wake up.”

  He thought for a moment. There wasn’t anything else he had to do. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be over there in about a half-hour.”

  Lutetia stood in the open doorway as he came from the staircase. The light in the entrance hall behind shone through the sheer chiffon dressing gown, revealing her naked body beneath.

  “She’s still out,” she said as he walked through the door.

  He turned to her as she closed the door. He saw the glass of red wine in her hand. She seemed to be moving in slow motion, her long sandy brown hair falling to her shoulders, the large black pupils vague in her soft blue eyes. The scent of marijuana hung in the apartment. “You seem pretty gone yourself,” he said.

  “Not like her,” she said. “Vodka and tea don’t mix.”

  He followed her into the combination living-and-dining room. She sprawled onto the couch, the dressing gown falling from her legs up to her waist where the gown was fastened by a soft belt. She looked up at him. “There’s a bottle of wine and some glasses on the cocktail table,” she said.

  “Not for me,” he said. “I walked up from Canal Street. The heat and the humidity got to me. I’d like a cold drink.”

  “We’ve got Canada Dry and Coca-Cola in the icebox,” she said. “You know where to get it.”

  When he returned from the kitchen with a glass of ginger ale, she was lighting another joint. The acrid scent of the marijuana wafted into the room. Her hair fell forward as she bent over the cocktail table. Now the upper part of her gown opened, revealing her breasts. She held the joint toward him. “Want a drag?”

  “Not right now,” he said, sitting in the easy chair opposite her and sipping his drink.

  She took two more drags on the joint, then put it in an ashtray and lifted her wineglass. She leaned back against the couch. “I’m bored,” she said.

  He smiled. “What else is new?”

  “I’m horny,” she said.

  “You can take care of that,” he said.

  “I’ve been masturbating all afternoon,” she said. “But it’s not that much fun alone.”

  “Masturbation is a solo sport,” he said.

  “Doesn’t have to be,” she said.

  He sipped his ginger ale without answering.

  Still leaning back against the couch, she spread her knees wide apart and, turning her index and middle fingers into an inverted “V for Victory,” opened her blond-haired pussy until the pink, moist lips seemed to be shining at him. She watched him looking at her. “Getting a hard on?” she teased.

  “I’m not dead,” he said, feeling the throbbing in his phallus.

  “How’d you like to eat that hot juicy pussy?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t mind,” he answered rubbing himself through his pants. “But what’s in it for me?”

  “I’ll jerk you off,” she said.

  “I can do that better myself,” he laughed. “Suck it or fuck it, either will be okay with me.”

  “You know I’m not into cock,” she said. “They’re all ugly.”

  He unbuttoned his trousers and took out his penis. He could feel the juice already dripping. He looked at her. “It’s right here,” he said. “Just sacrifice yourself a little.”

  “Prick!” she said.

  “That’s where it’s at,” he laughed. “No suckee, no eatee.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then she nodded. “Okay, come over here.”

  He stood up and let his trousers fall off, then went over to her. He held her head between his hands and pulled her face to his phallus. She kept her lips clenched. “Open your fucking mouth, you bitch!” he said angrily.

  Stubbornly, she was turning away from him, moving her face from one side to the other. Finally, he was able to hold her face still, but by then it was too late. His orgasm swept through him, spurting his semen wildly over her. He stared down at her.

  She lay still, looking at him. “It’s disgusting,” she said trying to control her voice. “Disgusting.”

  “Dyke bitch!” he said, wiping himself with the corner of her dressing gown. He put on his pants, then turned to her.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “Leaving,” he said.

  “You can’t go now,” she said. “You said you’d give me some head.”

  “That was only if you gave it to me,” he said.

  “I was going to,” she said. “It’s not my fault that you couldn’t hold it long enough until I was ready.”

  He stared at her for a moment and then began to laugh. “Okay, you bitch,” he said. “Wipe off my come and get out of that stupid kimono. I’ll eat your cunt until your ass falls off.”

  Two hours later, Kitty was still asleep. He looked at Lutetia. “It’s almost eight o’clock,” he said. “I guess there’s no chance that she’ll get up now.”

  “That’s right,” Lutetia said. She smiled. “You know, you don’t give such bad head for a man.”

  “Thanks,” he said dryly. “Can I use your phone?”

  She nodded. She watched him call his cousin and arrange for her to meet him at the main entrance of the store on Fulton Street. He put down the phone. “I have to get going now,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said. “What do you want me to tell Kitty?”

  “I’ll check her tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” she said, picking up her wineglass. “You’re not angry with me, are you?”

  He smiled. “No. But
next time, I’d like equal time.”

  * * *

  AS HE WAITED in front of the main entrance of Abraham and Straus, the hands of the big clock on the iron post in front showed five minutes to nine. A special policeman took his place at the inside doors; in a few moments a second policeman came to guard the outside doors. First to come out were the customers; by the time the closing bells began to ring at nine o’clock, most of them had gone and the policemen locked all the doors except the single double door in the center. The last customers straggled out and the first of the employees began leaving the store.

  Motty was late; she didn’t come out until it was almost nine-thirty. She smiled as she saw Joe. “I’m sorry I took so long,” she said. “But the ad manager wanted some changes in Sunday’s ads at the last minute.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. He took her arm and they walked across the corner and passed Gage & Tollner’s restaurant. The restaurant was busy.

  “A lot of our executives have dinner there on Thursday nights,” she said.

  “Are they good?” he asked.

  “They’re expensive,” she answered.

  He took her through side streets to the Atlantic Avenue subway station. It was a shortcut, almost three blocks shorter than staying on Fulton. The streets were dark and gloomy, lined with old tenements filled with colored and Puerto Ricans, all on relief. The people they saw didn’t seem friendly. Hurrying past them, Motty held on to his arm unconsciously. He heard her sigh of relief as she saw the lights shining brightly at Atlantic Avenue. The subway entrance was on the corner.

  He had the nickels ready and they went through the turnstiles. They walked quickly to the head of the platform. The first car was usually less crowded; it also was just opposite the exit at the New Lots Station where they would get off.

  They were lucky. The first train rumbling into the station was an almost empty New Lots Avenue express. They sat down on the long, hard straw bench. He looked at her. “Okay?”

  She nodded. “Thank you for picking me up. Last week one of the girls from the store was raped on the side street.”

  “She probably wanted it,” he said.

  “That’s not true,” she said angrily. “I know her. She’s a nice girl. Why do you guys always think that a girl wants to get raped?”