The Storyteller

by Harold Robbins

  “Don’t thank us,” she said. “You wrote it, you’ve earned it.”

  “I still think I should do something special for you,” he said. He looked at her. “How about we go out on the town?”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she said. “This agency has strict rules. They don’t allow personal relationships with their clients.”

  “What’s so personal about going to dinner and a show?”

  She watched him for a moment. “You asked my sister Kathy, before.”

  “She never called me back,” he said. “I figured she wasn’t interested.”

  “She was interested,” Laura said. “But she moved to L.A. She found a better job out there—actually she is working at the same studio as you. You should give her a call when you get there; maybe she’ll be able to help you.”

  “I appreciate that,” he said. “But what about us? Nobody in the agency will know what we do on our own time.”

  “I’d like to go out with you but I would always worry that someone at the office would see us. And that would be a real problem for me. I don’t plan to spend my whole life as an agent. I’m working to get into editing for one of the big publishers.”

  “That sounds pretty good,” he said. “But I hear that editors need to bring along some writers.”

  She stared at him. “Write a novel. You’re really good and that could help me.”

  “I’ve thought several times about writing a novel, but I don’t know anything about it,” he said.

  “I can help you,” she said. “Fifty percent of my work here is working with novelists. You do it—and we’ll both get what we want.”

  “I want money,” he said.

  “Come up with a good novel, and the money you would get for that makes this amount look like peanuts.”

  “Then what happens with the agency?”

  “I really don’t give a damn,” she said. “All I get here is thirty-five a week, while a decent editor commands a hundred to a hundred twenty-five just for starters.”

  “And what does a novel get?”

  “A best-seller can make twenty-five thousand and more.”

  He rose to his chair. “I’m beginning to like you more and more.”

  She came around from behind her desk, holding out her hand. “I like you too.”

  He held her hand in his own. “And then we can have dinner?”

  She laughed. “Anything you want.”

  He smiled. “I’m getting horny already.”

  She dropped his hand and went back to her desk. “You have a good trip to the Coast and keep in touch with me.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said, walking to the door. “Just remember your promise. We’ll be in touch. ’Bye, now.”

  * * *

  IT WAS THE middle of the lunch hour when he pushed his way into the Stage Delicatessen. He looked down at the tables. Stevie was already seated and waved to Joe.

  Joe sat down at the table opposite him. He smiled. “I was beginning to think we’d never meet.”

  “I’ve been busy,” Steve said. “I had seven interviews with various hospitals. They all offered me residencies.”

  “That’s good,” Joe said.

  The waiter came up. He placed a bowl of pickles and green tomatoes and sauerkraut next to another basket of rolls. “So?” he asked.

  “Corn beef on club and a celery tonic,” Joe said.

  “I’ll have the same,” Stevie said. He smiled at Joe. “Deli is one thing you don’t get in Oklahoma.”

  Joe laughed. “Excited about the wedding?”

  “Mama’s making a big deal about it and probably Motty is too. The girls at the department store are giving her a luncheon shower today. I guess that weddings are more important to women than men.”

  “You’re not excited?” Joe asked curiously.

  The waiter placed their sandwiches before them and walked away. Stevie picked up his sandwich and bit into it. “This is good,” he announced with a full mouth.

  Joe took a bite of his sandwich. “How’s things at home?”

  “Papa’s okay. He’s back to work already. Mama’s running around for the wedding. Everything’s okay.”

  “Motty too?” Joe asked. “I thought she looked great.”

  “She’s fine,” Stevie said. “I think she’s a little too heavy but that’s normal. Jewish girls are usually a little heavier than shiksas.”

  Joe was silent as he took another bite of his sandwich. He wondered if Stevie suspected anything.

  Stevie looked at him. “So you really did it,” he said.

  “Did what?” Joe asked.

  “You said you’d be a writer and you did it. Now you are on your way to Hollywood. Papa said you’re getting seventy-five hundred dollars for the job.”

  “That’s right,” Joe answered.

  “That’s a lot of money,” Stevie said, a tinge of envy in his voice. “All the hospitals offer me is thirty-five hundred a year for a residency. And that’s in New York. Out of town they offer less.”

  “You knew that before,” Joe said.

  “Yes,” Stevie answered. “After one year I can get on staff; then I’ll get between fifteen and twenty.”

  “That’s not bad,” Joe said. “I don’t know whether I’ll get another job. There are no guarantees in my work.”

  Stevie looked at his watch. “Damn it!” he exclaimed. “It’s one o’clock already and I have an interview at NYU hospital at one-thirty.” He finished his sandwich and stood up. “I have to run.”

  Joe said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too,” Stevie said. “Too bad you can’t join us at the wedding.”

  But Joe realized that his brother had other things on his mind. He shook his brother’s hand. “Good luck,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Stevie said.

  “And give the bride a kiss for me.” Joe smiled.

  “Sure,” Stevie said absent-mindedly and rushed for the door.

  Joe sat down, slowly finished his sandwich and called the waiter for the check. Then he smiled to himself. Stevie never picked up a check. He had always been cheap.

  * * *

  JOE CLIMBED UP the stairs to Kitty’s apartment. Lutetia opened the door. “She’s expecting you,” she said.

  He walked into Kitty’s small library-den. Kitty rose from her typewriter, and hugged and kissed him. “So you made it!” she said excitedly.

  “I guess so.”

  “I’m proud of you,” Kitty said sincerely. She took out a sheet of paper. “I have a list here of a number of friends I know out there. Give them a call. They’ll all be happy to meet you.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Have time for a drink?” she asked.

  “A quick one,” he said. “I still have a lot of packing to do.”

  “Lutetia!” Kitty called.

  Lutetia came into the room with a bottle of champagne and three glasses. Quickly she opened the bottle and filled the glasses. Kitty held up her glass. “Congratulations and bon voyage.”

  “And good luck,” Lutetia added.

  “Thank you,” Joe said, strangely touched. “Thank you very much.”

  * * *

  IT WAS ELEVEN o’clock at night when Jamaica came into his apartment. He glanced at the packed valises. “All packed?”

  “About,” Joe answered.

  “I have something for you,” Jamaica said, handing him a small cardboard box.

  Joe opened the box. The small brown vials shone up at him. “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “Insurance,” Jamaica said.

  “But you know I don’t use the stuff,” Joe said.

  “I know,” Jamaica said. “But there’s fifty grams in there, and they’ll get you from twenty-five to fifty dollars a gram out there. And you’ll never be sure that you might not get the shorts. That’s why I call it insurance. It’s better than money.”

  Joe laughed. “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

 
; “What time are you leaving here in the morning?”

  “About ten o’clock,” Joe said.

  “Then I won’t see you before you go?” Jamaica said.

  “I guess not,” Joe said.

  “Nervous?” Jamaica observed.

  Joe nodded. “A little. I hope I can cut the mustard.”

  “You’ll cut it,” Jamaica said reassuringly. “All the stars are out in Hollywood, aren’t they?”

  “That’s right,” Joe answered.

  “Then you’ll do okay,” Jamaica said. “Just remember, you doin’ the right thing—you can touch the stars.”

  * * *

  HE CALLED HOME in the morning just before he left for the station. Stevie answered. “Is Mama or Papa home?” Joe asked.

  “They’re at shul,” Stevie answered.

  “How about Motty?” he asked. “I’d like to say goodbye to her.”

  “She just left for work,” Stevie said.

  Joe hesitated a moment. “Then give them all my love and tell them I’ll call them from California.”

  “I’ll give them your message,” Stevie said. “Good luck again.”

  “You, too,” Joe said and put down the telephone. He checked around the apartment to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything, then he picked up his valises and caught a taxi to Grand Central.

  A redcap grabbed his valises at the Forty-second Street entrance. “Where to, suh?” the redcap asked. “Have yo’ ticket handy?”

  “Right with me,” Joe said, following him. The big clock read a quarter after eleven. The gateway to the Twentieth Century was just to the left side of it. He was checking his ticket when he felt someone touch him on the arm.

  “Remember me?” Motty said.

  He stared in surprise. “Stevie told me you had gone to work.”

  “That’s what he thought,” she said. She met his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere except with you.”

  “You’re nuts!” he exclaimed.

  “I’m not,” she said. “I don’t love him. Now I know I never loved him. And he doesn’t love me either. I’m just a convenience for him. He never once even kissed me, not even when I met him here at the station. He just shook my hand.”

  “Stevie never was emotional,” he said.

  “He doesn’t think about anyone except himself. He thinks he’s better than everyone, even his parents.”

  “But the wedding’s tomorrow!” he said.

  “Fuck it!” she said vehemently.

  “They’ll all go crazy,” he said.

  “They’ll get over it,” she said. She turned to face him squarely. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. And you knew that, didn’t you?”

  He took a deep breath, then nodded slowly.

  “Then are you taking me with you, or aren’t you?” she asked in a trembling voice.

  He saw the tears struggling behind her eyes. Suddenly he took her in his arms and kissed her. She clung to him tightly.

  “We better make it fast, sir,” the redcap said. “We have only fifteen minutes till check-in time.”

  “Then take us to the ticket counter, we have to pick up another ticket in a hurry,” Joe said. “This is heavy romance!”

  Part Two

  1946–1947

  14

  HE LAY BACK on the bed, propped up by the pillows behind him. He watched her standing naked as she put on her makeup in the mirror. Carefully, expertly, she penciled in her eyebrows. “You’ve got a great ass,” he said admiringly.

  She watched him in the mirror continuing her work with the eyebrow pencil. “You say that to all the girls,” she said without inflection.

  “Not all the girls,” he said, smiling. “Only those who have them.”

  “You’re terrible,” she said. “Aren’t you going to work this morning?”

  “Today I’m due at the unemployment line.”

  “You’re off the payroll again?”

  “Temporarily,” he said. “A. J. said he’ll have a project for me in a week or two.”

  “The last time he told that to you,” she said sarcastically, “you waited two and a half months.”

  “This time he means for sure,” Joe said. He changed the subject. “Where’s the baby?”

  “Caroline’s downstairs in the kitchen with the Mexican. She’s having huevos rancheros for breakfast.”

  Joe shook his head. “What kind of a breakfast is that for a Jewish baby? Bagels, lox and cream cheese would be more like it.”

  “For thirty dollars a month you get Mexican help,” Motty said. Her makeup finished, she turned to Joe. “My makeup okay?”

  “Fine,” Joe said. “And so are your thirty-four Bs and juicy pussy.”

  “It’s the exercise,” she said. “I owe that to the nurse at the obstetrician’s office. She said if I didn’t diet and exercise after the baby, everything would droop.”

  “I’ll send her a thank-you letter,” Joe said. He threw off the covers. “Look at this,” he added, feigning surprise. “I’ve got a hard on.”

  “So what else is new?” she laughed, walking to the closet.

  “Time for a quickie?”

  She laughed again. “And ruin my makeup? Not a chance. I have an important meeting this morning.”

  “What could be more important than a morning fuck?”

  “A new job,” she said. “Mr. Marks, the executive vice president of the Beverly Hills branch of the store, wants me to be the buyer of the high-fashion department.”

  “I thought you were happy in the advertising department?” he asked.

  “I was. But this is twice the money, and besides, with the veterans coming back from service, I don’t know how long I can hang on in that department. Before the war, most of the department staff were men.”

  “How much will you get?” he asked.

  “Could be a thousand a month but more probably eight hundred. But that’s okay. There’s a lot of extras with the job.”

  He was silent; then he looked at her. “What’s the extras? You get to fuck him?”

  “You’ve got a dirty mind,” she said, annoyed. “That’s all you think about. Mr. Marks is a very conservative man. Wears a striped tie and a boutonnière all the time. Besides, he’s at least fifty.”

  He watched her fasten her brassiere and step into her panties. “The studio is loaded with fifty-year-old fuckers.”

  She slipped into a white silk long-sleeved shirt and began buttoning it. “It’s a different kind of business. The studio is loaded with a bunch of whores who want to be actresses.”

  “You’re beginning to sound more and more like my mother,” he said.

  “It’s the truth,” Motty said flatly. “And I’ve seen lipstick stains on your shorts to prove it.”

  He sat silently as she wrapped her skirt around her waist and then straightened the seams of her stockings. “I thought Rosa did the laundry.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Don’t you want me to explain?” he asked.

  “No,” she said flatly. “There’s nothing to explain. It isn’t as if I hadn’t known you before. I’ve known you all your life.”

  He stared at her. “And you’re not angry?”

  She looked into his eyes for a long moment, then turned away. “I have to get started,” she said. She paused at the door and looked back at him. “If all you have to do is go to the unemployment office, why don’t you get back to work on your book? You can put in a lot of work in two weeks.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Your agent, Laura, said if you could send in edited changes of the finished manuscript she could get you a good deal.”

  “Yeah,” he said unenthusiastically. “Sure, and she becomes an editor, which is what she really wants.”

  “Wish me luck,” she said.

  He got out of bed and walked to her. “Good luck,” he said, kissing her. He stood there as she walked out on the balcony that led to the stairway down to the living room, then closed the bedroom door be
hind him. He sat on the side of the bed and took a cigarette from the night table and lit it. “Shit,” he said.

  He heard the front door slam shut, then, still dragging on the cigarette, he walked out to the balcony. “Rosa,” he called to the Mexican girl downstairs in the kitchen.

  She came from the kitchen into the living room and looked up at him on the balcony. “Sí, señor?”

  “Can you bring me some coffee?”

  “Horita, señor.” She giggled, still looking up at him.

  “What are you laughing about?” he asked, irritated. She was always giggling.

  “Nada, señor,” she replied.

  “Nada, shit,” he said. “You’re laughing about something.”

  She giggled again, looking boldly up at him. “Los pantalones de sus pijamas están abiertos.”

  He glanced down. The fly of his pajama pants was indeed open. He closed the button. “Don’t look at it,” he said. “You’re too young for things like that.”

  “Sí, señor,” she said, ignoring his comment. “Toma usted el café en la cámara?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll be in the study.” He watched her as she walked slowly back to the kitchen. Cock-teasing bitch, he thought as she tossed her shining long black hair that hung just above her swaying hips as she walked. She paused in the kitchen doorway and looked back, smiling at him over her shoulder.

  He turned and walked along the balcony. He passed the baby’s bedroom, which Rosa shared, sleeping on a narrow bed, to the small room that was intended to be a servant’s room, into which he had managed to cram a small desk for his typewriter, a typist’s chair, prefabricated bookshelves and a secondhand leather easy chair.

  He sat down at the desk and looked at the typewriter. There was a blank sheet of paper in it. He tried to remember what he had been working on when he placed it there. He couldn’t remember. Angrily he pulled the sheet out of the typewriter, crumpled it into a ball and threw it in the wastebasket. He leaned forward without getting out of the chair and picked up the stationery box that held the manuscript of his novel. He opened the box and stared at the title page.

  NOR ANY STAR PURSUE

  a novel by

  Joseph Crown.

  Quickly he riffled the pages. There were forty-five pages of notes, but only ten pages of the beginning of the novel itself. He looked at them with disgust. Only ten pages, and he was still jerking off with the first chapter, in the chicken market. It had been more than eight months since he had written it. Since then he had been working on two screenplays. He stared at it again. It was shit. At least screenplays were more fun. You could work with other people and meet new people and bullshit your way around. Writing a novel was a lonely job. No one could help you there. Just you and the typewriter. And the only fucking you got was off the pages you wrote. It was another form of masturbation, and without the pleasure. Laura was nothing but another pain in the ass with her ideas for changes.