The Storyteller

by Harold Robbins

  He left the elevator and walked into a small reception area where the receptionist sat behind a desk and a telephone switchboard. She looked at him.

  “Miss Shelton,” he said.

  “Your name?” she asked officiously.

  “Joe Crown.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Yes.” He nodded.

  She pressed two keys on the switchboard. “Mr. Crown is here for Miss Shelton,” she said. She listened for a moment, then put down the telephone. “Take a chair,” she said. “Miss Shelton is in a meeting but she will be with you in a few minutes.”

  There was a two-cushion couch and two chairs, all in old worn leather, gathered around a small coffee table covered with magazines. He looked around. The walls were covered with tired, peeling tan paint and several ancient equally tired framed prints. He glanced at the receptionist. She ignored him, her eyes staring into space.

  The telephone switchboard buzzed. “Piersall and Marshall Agency,” she singsonged. A sound of excitement came into her voice. “Yes, Mr. Steinbeck, I’ll put you right through to Mr. Marshall.” She turned to the switchboard keys, then turned to Joe. “That was John Steinbeck, the author,” she announced importantly.

  Joe nodded.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of him,” she said. “He’s one of our clients.”

  He resented her snobbery. “I’m one of your clients too,” he said.

  Her nose turned up. “I never heard of you.”

  “You will,” he said, getting up from his chair. “Which way is the men’s room?”

  “It’s downstairs on the main floor behind the elevator,” she said. “But Miss Shelton should be ready to see you any minute now.”

  “Then she’ll have to wait,” he said walking to the elevator. “Unless you want me to take a piss in the pot holding that rubber plant in the corner.” Then before she could reply, he pressed the button for the main floor and the elevator went down.

  “The second office on the left beyond the glass door,” the receptionist said grudgingly as Joe came from the elevator.

  “Thank you,” he said and walked through the glass door. Miss Shelton had her name on the office door. Joe knocked.

  “Come in,” she said through the door.

  He went inside. It was a small office, the desk covered with manuscripts, yet everything was neatly in place. She was a tall girl in her middle twenties, her sandy hair wrapped tightly in a bun, her fair skin faintly shining with the warmth of the office, her blue eyes clear behind her eyeglasses. She rose and held out her hand. “Mr. Crown,” she said pleasantly.

  “My pleasure, Miss Shelton,” he said.

  She gestured to the chair opposite her. “You were surprised at my call?” she said, smiling.

  “More than that,” he replied. “I couldn’t believe it.”

  “I could tell that from your voice,” she said. She met his eyes. “I have some papers for you to sign.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Only three things,” she said. “First, an agency contract that will give us authorization to represent you for a period of one year from each sale we make for you. The period is not cumulative—the period is only from the last sale.”

  He nodded.

  “The second is that we would develop a small bio about you so that we can help with publicity and supply information to publishers and reviewers who might be interested in you and your work. And several snapshots would also be helpful for that purpose.”

  “What kind of bio?” he asked.

  “Age, where you were born, education, hobbies. Things like that.”

  “That’s easy,” he laughed. “I never did very much. Born in Brooklyn, age twenty-five [a lie—he was twenty-two]. Graduated Townsend Harris High School 1938 [also a lie]. CCNY, majored in literature and journalism but did not graduate because I left in the third year in order to help out with family finances.” Lies, all lies.

  She looked at him. “Any hobbies? Sports, games, chess?”

  “None like that,” he answered.

  “But you do have other interests?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “But I don’t think they’re relevant.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” she said.

  He hesitated, then shrugged. “Sex,” he said.

  She laughed, faintly blushing. “You have a delicious sense of humor, Mr. Crown.”

  “Call me Joe.” He smiled. “You said there was a third item.”

  She was slightly flustered. “Oh, yes. I have the acceptance agreement and the check for the Collier’s story. You will notice that the agreement is for one hundred fifty dollars. From that we deduct our normal ten percent and expenses, phones and mail, etcetera. The net check is for one hundred and twenty-eight dollars.”

  Joe looked down at the check, then at her. “Miss Shelton, I could kiss you,” he said.

  She laughed. “Not yet,” she said. “Let’s wait until we have a few more contracts under our belts. Now, I want you to make sure you send as much material to me as you can, so that we can begin mining the market. You are a good writer, Mr. Crown. I feel you will do very well.”

  * * *

  JAMAICA WAS STANDING behind the counter as he came into the store. “I have good news for you.” He smiled.

  Joe was puzzled. “Good news?”

  Jamaica nodded. “You’re movin’ uptown to a better job.”

  “I don’t get it,” Joe said. “I’m happy with this one.”

  Jamaica looked at him. “You don’t have any choice,” he said flatly. “Neither do I. This is from Mr. B.”

  Joe was silent for a moment. “What is it?”

  “I’ll explain it to you in the car,” Jamaica said.

  Joe followed him into the back room. It was empty. The work tables had been put away, the girls already gone. Quickly Jamaica locked the cabinets and the refrigerator. “Lock the outside door,” he said. “And meet me in the alley.”

  A moment later, Jamaica pulled up behind the driver’s wheel of his black shiny 1940 Packard 12. He gestured and Joe climbed into the seat behind him.

  “Who is going to look after the store?” Joe asked.

  “It’ll keep,” Jamaica said. “This is more important.” He turned the car up Eighth Avenue, then around Columbus Circle and uptown along Central Park West before he spoke. After a moment, he glanced at Joe. “You know about the Lolitas I take care of?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have another group of Lolitas,” he said. “These are high-class girls. Ofay girls, real society types. It’s a big operation and Mr. B. and the Italians have a fifty percent cut.”

  Joe watched him as he moved the big Packard expertly through the traffic. “What’s that got to do with me?” he asked.

  “I own four brownstones on Ninety-second Street off Central Park West that I joined together and turned into a furnished apartment house. It comes to about seventy apartments, and almost half of them are rented by the girls. We supply maid service and a janitor and handyman to take care of repairs. The girls pay us between two hundred and four hundred a week depending on their business. Our former resident manager cut himself a piece of our action.”

  “You fired him?” Joe asked.

  “In a kind of way,” Jamaica said. “But that wasn’t my department and I don’t ask my partners what they did. This morning Mr. B. called me and told me to send you up there.”

  “What if I don’t want the job?” Joe asked.

  Jamaica glanced at him. “That wouldn’t be smart. Mr. B. is doing a big one for you and your father. He does one for you, you do one for him.”

  Joe was silent.

  “It won’t be permanent,” Jamaica said gently. “Two or three months, just until they can move in a professional. They know you’re a writer and you got no stomach for that kind of thing. But Mr. B. said you could take care of this for a while, and he’ll consider your marker paid off.”

  Jamaica slowed the car and
then cut into Ninety-second Street between oncoming traffic. He pulled to the curb in front of a yellow-canopied entrance. He turned off the ignition.

  Joe looked at the entrance. The white lettering on the sides of the canopy, spelled out UPTOWN HOUSE. FURN. APTS. The entrance was a wide glass double door. “Is there an office for me here?” he asked.

  “You could kind of call it that,” Jamaica said. “But actually it will be your apartment.”

  “Why an apartment?”

  “You’ll be living here,” Jamaica said. “That’s part of the deal. Mr. B. already told that to your father. He said you have to stay away from your house. Something about the neighbors might squeal to the draft board if they see you around.”

  “They haven’t anything to squeal about yet. I haven’t got a new draft card.”

  Jamaica took a small envelope from his pocket and handed it to him. He watched Joe open the envelope and read the card. JOE CROWN. Classification: 4-F. Dated Oct. 22, 1942. “Now you do,” he said without expression.

  Joe stared at him.

  Jamaica smiled. “It’s really not the end of the world. Actually, if you really love pussy like you say you do, you might even think you’re in heaven.”

  9

  HIS MOTHER LOOKED suspiciously at him. “What kind of a janitor’s job pays one hundred dollars a week? With a three-room apartment also? Janitors are lucky if they get a room in the cellar of an apartment house for free, not also with getting money. It’s something wrong, you’ll probably wind up in jail or worse.”

  “Jesus! Mother,” he said. “First, I’m not a janitor. I’m a resident manager. I manage seventy apartments that make maybe seven, ten thousand dollars a week. And I have enough time to write. That’s the most important thing. This first check for a hundred and fifty dollars for the story from Collier’s magazine is only the beginning.”

  “First of all, you didn’t get a hundred and fifty, you got a hundred and twenty-eight, second of all, how do you know you can sell any more stories? You got guarantees?”

  “Shit!” Joe said. He rose from the table and looked down at his father, who had been unusually quiet. “Papa, would you explain to her why I have to take that job?”

  He stared at Joe for a moment, then turned to his wife. “It’s a good job, Marta,” he said softly. “Believe me, my friend wouldn’t do anything to get him into any trouble.”

  “Your friend’s a lowlife gangster!” Marta snapped.

  Phil’s face turned purple with anger. “Gangster!” he shouted. “It was you who wanted her baby to get out of the draft, not my friend. But it’s my friend that did what you wanted. Now, Joe has a Four-F draft card. And he’s got to pay for it, and I have to pay for it whether you like it or not!”

  “So my son has to go to jail or get killed or something even worse!” she yelled at him.

  “Your little baby boy will go to fucking jail if they ever find out about his goddam draft card!” Phil was almost out of breath. “So shut up already or I’ll have another fucking heart attack!”

  Marta felt frightened. “Phil, calm down. Quiet, I’ll get you a pill.” She looked up at Joe. “See! See what you made your father do?”

  “I’m all right already,” Phil said. “Just let’s have some peace and quiet.”

  “I would like to look at the apartment before he moves in. You know how dirty people are, the place might be covered with cockroaches and mice. How do I even know the sheets are clean?”

  Phil spoke calmly. “Okay. You can see it. But not right now. Wait until he gets settled down. Then nobody will bother him.”

  “Okay,” Marta said finally. “But what do I tell the neighbors when they don’t see him around here?”

  Phil shook his head in amazement. “The whole neighborhood knows he was going for his physical. Tell them he went into the service. That’s why we had to get him away from here.”

  “And what about Stevie and Motty’s wedding? What will the neighborhood say when he doesn’t come home for his brother’s wedding?”

  Joe looked down at Motty, still seated at the table. She had never let him know she had told his parents about her and Steven. Motty didn’t meet his eyes. He turned to his mother. “Maybe by the time that happens, I’ll be able to come home for it.”

  “No,” Phil said emphatically. “You’re supposed to be in basic training by the time they get married around the holidays, and everybody knows they don’t give leaves during basic training.”

  “I’d better get up to my room and begin packing,” Joe said.

  Phil rose from the table. “I have to go out for a couple of hours,” he said. “I’ll be home by ten-thirty.”

  “Every Monday and Wednesday night you go out for a couple of hours to make some collections,” Marta complained. “Why don’t they pay on Friday afternoon like they used to all the time?”

  “We’re doing more business,” Phil answered. “If I don’t chase after them, we’ll never get our money back.” He walked toward the door. “I’ll be back by ten-thirty,” he repeated.

  “Don’t forget to keep your pills in your pocket,” Marta said.

  Phil held up a small bottle. “I have them, I have them,” he said.

  * * *

  JOE HAD JUST finished his packing and closed his valise when he heard his father’s car come up through the alley between the houses. Then he heard the side door open, and his father walked heavily up the staircase and into his parents’ bedroom. A moment later he heard sounds from their bathroom; finally, the noises subsided and Joe noticed the light had gone out from under their door to the hallway.

  Joe pushed some of his manuscripts off the bed. Then one of the stories caught his eye and he sat down on the side of the bed to reread it. It was a story he had written in pencil on a lined yellow paper pad about five years ago. He had written it to impress his high school English teacher, who was the first person ever to tell him he had talent and should become a writer.

  The fact that the square-cut decolletage of her dress gave him a completely exciting view of her exquisite full breasts and pink nipples had nothing to do with his decision to become a writer. But it had helped. That was basically what this story had been about. A young high school student had fallen in love with his English teacher because he thought that the view she had afforded him of her decolletage was especially for him. His dreams had been shattered when he took her a bouquet of flowers, and her door was opened by her husband. Almost a full year she had been in his thoughts and dreams, almost ten jars of vaseline had been wasted on his sore, irritated penis and stained bedsheets. Now, as he reread the story, he realized that the last year of his frustration should have been the story—not the one he had written. He threw the manuscript on the floor and undressed and got into bed. For a moment, he thought about brushing his teeth but he was too bored with it and turned off the bed lamps. He looked into the dark and the faint light from the streetlight at the end of the alley made patterns on the ceiling. The shadows were beginning to blur when a soft tapping sound came into the room.

  He sat up in bed. The sound was strange. It was not coming from the door or from the hallway. The soft tapping sound echoed again. Motty’s voice whispered from the wall against Stevie’s bed on the far side of the room.

  Kneeling on the bed, he pressed his ear to the wall. “Motty?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Pull out the bolts of the old sliding doors between our rooms.”

  Then he remembered—the sliding doors between the two rooms had been closed when Motty had been given Stevie’s room. He pulled the bed slightly away from the doors, then opened the bolts. It was difficult. The bolts had been closed for many years. Finally, with a small scraping sound, they gave. He managed to open the doors slightly.

  She held her face between the open doors. “Are you awake?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” he answered sarcastically. “I always do things like this in my sleep.”

  “Don’t be shitty,” she said. “I
want to talk to you.”

  He was still kneeling on the bed, and his face was even with her own. “Then why didn’t you come through the regular door?”

  “I didn’t want your parents to see me in the hall,” she said. “You know how they are. Especially your mother.”

  He nodded. “I know. Come in then.” He began to move off the bed.

  “You’d better come in here,” she said. “Your room is right next to theirs.”

  Silently he moved across the bed and then squeezed himself through the narrow opening into her room. He found himself against the back of a chest of drawers. As he slipped out from behind it, he scraped his shoulder. “Shit!” he exclaimed, rubbing his shoulder.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, looking at her. “Now what was so important?”

  She stared at him. “You’re naked!”

  “I was fucking asleep,” he said shortly. “I wasn’t planning to go visiting.”

  “I’ll get you a towel,” she said.

  He watched her walk across the room and get a towel from the closet. She was wearing a cotton nightgown under her bathrobe. She held the towel to him, her eyes averted. He wrapped it around himself. “Okay,” he said.

  She looked up at him. “I didn’t congratulate you for selling a story to Collier’s.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He smiled. “I should really congratulate you. Remember that story you told me about the store detective who caught that girl shoplifting and took her into a dressing room to take her clothes off and raped her?”

  “That’s the story that Collier’s bought?” Her eyes were wide.

  “I changed it a little,” he said. “I turned it into a love story. That he tried to protect her and wound up losing his own job.”