The Storyteller

by Harold Robbins

  “Señor?” Rosa’s voice came from the door.

  He turned to look at her. She held a tray with a pot of coffee, a cup and saucer, a sweet roll on a plate, sugar and a spoon. He gestured to the desk. “Okay.”

  She bent over the desk and placed the tray in front of him. The scoop neckline of her soft cotton dress fell forward, and he could look down into her small apple breasts almost completely past her little belly to her pussy hairs. She didn’t straighten up until she had filled his coffee cup, then she looked at him. “Está bien?”

  He sipped the coffee. “Good,” he said. She turned to leave, but he called her back. An idea came to him. “Did you show the señora the lipstick on my shorts?”

  He knew she knew what he was talking about. “No, señor.”

  “How did she find it then?” he asked.

  “Each day the señora checks the ropa lavada.”

  “All the time?”

  “Todo,” she said.

  Silently he sipped at his coffee. He lit another cigarette and let the smoke curl from his nostrils while he watched her sourly.

  “You are angry with me, señor?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not with you. With myself.” He stared down at the typewriter. Nothing was working. He knew the book was in there, but he couldn’t get himself to bring it out. Maybe it was too easy here in Hollywood. In the three and a half years they had been here, he had made more money doing less work than he had dreamed in New York. Everything was easier. The girls were prettier and more available. Sex was a way of life for them. No hassle. Fucking for writers, producers and directors was a path to getting a job in a movie. A big part or small, it didn’t matter—the important thing was to get on the screen. Even the weather was easier. Sometimes it rained, but it was never really cold—never the bitter cold that he had been used to in New York.

  Even Motty said that it was easier here. The only trouble was, there wasn’t anything to do. That was why she went to work six months after the baby was born. In just a few months she had been promoted to assistant to the department’s head of advertising. She had told him, laughing, that California girls could never make it in New York stores because the only thing they majored in at school was tennis.

  He looked up from the typewriter. Rosa was still standing in the doorway. He was vaguely surprised. He had forgotten she was here. Her body was silhouetted through the thin cotton dress from the light behind her. He felt himself getting hard. “Why don’t you wear underwear?” he asked angrily.

  “I have only one pair,” she said. “During the day no one is home so I wear only when I go out with child. Each night I must wash it.”

  “How much does underwear cost?” he asked.

  “Brassiere, panties and slip, dos dolares,” she answered.

  He pulled open the desk drawer, where he always left some money. There were several bills—three singles and a five. He took them out and held them out to her. “Here,” he said. “Buy some.”

  Slowly she came over to him and took the money from his hand. “Muchas gracias, señor.”

  “Por nada,” he said.

  Her eyes fell away from him. “You are sad, señor,” she said in a low voice. “Can Rosa help you?”

  For a moment he didn’t understand what she meant, then he realized that she had been looking at the bulging fly of his pajamas. “How do you know about such things?” he asked.

  “I have five brothers and my father,” she answered. “In my casa I have to help all of them.”

  He stared at her. “How old are you, Rosa?”

  She still didn’t meet his eyes. “Tengo sixteen, señor.”

  “Shit,” he said. “You fuck all of them?”

  “No, señor,” she said. “Solamente—” She made a fist and moved it up and down in front of her.

  He smiled. “It’s not necessary, Rosa,” he said gently. “But thank you anyway.”

  She nodded seriously and left the room. He watched her go, her hips swaying. It meant nothing to her, he thought. That was the way she lived.

  He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and took a bite of the sweet roll. It was really sweet, not at all like the danishes in New York. Here they were coated with sugar icing. He washed it down with more coffee.

  He stared down at the typewriter again. “How about it?” he asked. “Do you feel like writing a novel?”

  The empty white page stared back at him blankly. The telephone began to ring and he picked it up. “Hello.”

  “Good morning,” Kathy said. As her sister had told him, Kathy was working in the studio as one of A. J.’s secretaries. “What are you doing today?”

  “I was pink-slipped,” he said. “Today I’m registering at unemployment.”

  “Do it in the morning,” she said. “A. J. wants to see you at three o’clock.”

  “He has a job for me?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “He just told me to call you in. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said. “What are you doing this evening?”

  “Nothing special.”

  “How about a happy hour?” he asked.

  “At my apartment or at a bar?”

  “Your apartment.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “My apartment,” she said. “But you bring a bottle. Six o’clock okay?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “And bring rubbers too. I’m too close to my time,” she added.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “See you at the office at three.”

  He put down the telephone and picked up his coffee. “You have another day off,” he said to the typewriter. The typewriter didn’t answer.

  He sipped the last of his coffee. Thirty thousand dollars in the bank, a good apartment, two cars, a three-year-old daughter and a wife who paid her own way—what more could he ask?

  He didn’t have any answers. Nothing had changed. All he ever thought about was new pussy and new money.

  15

  “WE NEED A new look for the main floor of the Beverly Hills store,” Mr. Marks said to her as he sat behind his large oak executive desk. “A more sophisticated look, more New York. We have to attract the new younger marrieds now that the war is over.”

  Motty nodded seriously. “I agree.”

  “You’ve worked in the New York stores, you know what I mean,” he said.

  “Exactly,” she said. “More like Saks Fifth Avenue.”

  “Like that,” he replied. “But also like Macy’s. We have to realize that our clientele is not quite ready to jump into the high price range. We have to give them the illusion that we’re a classy store, but cheaper.”

  “Bloomingdales,” she said.

  “Right on the nose.” He smiled. He looked down at several blueprints spread across his desk. “We have some preliminary drawings of the main floor. Would you like to see them?”

  “Very much,” she said.

  At his gesture she came around the desk, looking down at the blueprints as she stood beside him. The blueprints were a jumble of white lines. They were not easy to follow.

  “This is the main entrance.” He pointed with his finger. “Off to the right side we plan the book department. That shows class. Off to the left side we plan a great-looking fur salon, then right in front and through to the back of the store is all the better line of coats and dresses. All real class.”

  He looked up at her for comment. She was silent. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “You have more experience than I, so I have to assume that you are right.”

  He swiveled his chair toward her; his shoulder brushed her breast and the faint aroma of her scent came to him. “I’m not the kind of an executive that needs yes men. The reason I wanted you for this job is because you express your own opinions.”

  She looked at him. He was not looking at her face; his eyes were traveling down her decolletage. She felt her nipples harde
ning, and she flushed, embarrassed. Now she was angry with herself for wearing a silk blouse instead of a less clinging one. She knew her nipples were pressing against it.

  He looked up at her face, a faint smile on his lips. “What do you think?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath. The right answer might blow the job, but she didn’t know what else to say. “It really shows class,” she answered, “if that’s what we want. But I thought we wanted to bring in a new young clientele. One that buys rather than just looks.”

  Now she had his attention on business. “What do you mean?”

  “You gave me the idea,” she said tactfully. “You mentioned Macy’s. I had a letter from a friend of mine who works for them. They’re moving the book department from the main floor to the seventh floor because it doesn’t bring in traffic.”

  “What are they replacing it with?” he asked.

  “She didn’t tell me,” she answered. “I don’t know if they have decided yet.”

  “What would you do then?”

  She met his eyes steadily. “Cosmetics. Perfumes. Beauty accessories. On half the main floor, as soon as the customer comes in.”

  “That’s Woolworth’s,” he protested.

  “It’s also almost twenty percent of the sales,” she said. “And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “But they sell cheap lines.”

  “We go up a step. Now that the war is over all the French companies are coming into the country. They will have cachet and are not much more expensive. We can set up a separate counter for every line. That would make it really important. And it will bring in the kind of clientele that we want.”

  “It could be expensive,” he said.

  “They want to get into the market,” she said. “I’m ready to bet they will share the costs with you.”

  He stared at her. “You really are bright.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you have any other suggestions?”

  “That’s just off the top of my head. I haven’t really thought it out,” she answered. “I know what I bought the first moment they came back on the market: small appliances. Electric iron, toaster, fry pan. New dishware, pots and pans. Silk stockings, lingerie. I’d really have to study it.”

  “I guess we’ll all have to study it more.” He turned from her and looked down at the floor plan. “There’s thirty thousand square feet on the main floor. We have to make each foot pay off.”

  She walked around the desk and faced him. “Yes, Mr. Marks.”

  “We can’t afford any mistakes,” he said.

  “I realize that,” she said.

  “I want the Beverly Hills store to become our flagship,” he said. “We’ll either make our reputation or fall with it.” He looked at her across the desk. “Perhaps we should take a trip to New York to see what they are up to. Their marketing techniques are years ahead of us.”

  She met his eyes squarely. “You want me to go to New York with you?”

  “That’s part of your job,” he said smoothly. “You’ll probably have to make at least one trip a year to Paris as well.”

  “I’ve never been to Europe,” she said.

  “I’ve been many times, before the war,” he said. “It’s very exciting. I could show you things you would never imagine.”

  “But I’m a married woman with a child, Mr. Marks,” she said lamely.

  “I’m a married man, Mrs. Crown,” he said smoothly. “But we’re talking business. Nothing more.”

  She wished she could believe that, but even her nipples didn’t. They were tingling as his eyes caressed them. She avoided his gaze. “I’ll have to talk to my husband about it.”

  “You do that, Mrs. Crown,” he said unctuously. “You can explain to him that’s why your base salary is eight hundred and fifty a month, and with bonuses you can make up to fifteen hundred to two thousand a month. And that’s a very important salary.”

  “I realize that, Mr. Marks,” she said. She held her hand out to him, hoping that her palm didn’t feel sweaty. “Thank you very much.”

  * * *

  “DADDY GOING TO work?” Caroline lisped from her chair as he came into the kitchen.

  He bent to the child and kissed her. “That’s right, darling.”

  “Bring me some candy?” She smiled, her soft brown ringlets shining in the light.

  “Of course.”

  “Now,” she said imperiously.

  He glanced at Rosa, then gestured in surrender. He took two penny Tootsie Rolls from his jacket pocket and gave them to the child. “What does Caroline say?” he asked.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, already tearing the candy wrapping. She was concentrating on the candy, no longer interested in him.

  The doorbell rang. He left the kitchen, crossed the living room and opened the door. The mailman looked at him. “Parcel post, Mr. Crown.”

  Joe took the rectangular box. The words “Returned Manuscript” were penciled several times in red crayon on the box. Silently Joe took it and signed the receipt book for the mailman.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Crown,” the mailman said. “Tough luck. This is the second one you got this month.”

  Joe looked at him. The mailman nodded sympathetically. “That’s the way it goes,” Joe said.

  “Maybe next time it’ll be better,” the mailman said. “Good day to you.”

  “You, too,” Joe said, closing the door. He stared at the wrapped package. He’d never thought that the postman was that interested in what he delivered. Quickly he broke the string and tore the wrapping from the package. He looked down at the opened box. It was not a manuscript. Instead there were forty carefully folded paper envelopes, each holding a quarter-gram of cocaine. At twenty-five dollars per, that was a thousand dollars for him. He sent Jamaica only two hundred fifty for it. He closed the box. This time, he made up his mind—he was going to rent a post-office box. He was in luck that A. J. had called him into the studio. All it would take him was an hour on the music recording stages and he would get rid of all the envelopes. Musicians were the best customers for any kind of dope. If only he could make a connection with ganch, he would become a millionaire.

  He walked back to the kitchen doorway. Caroline’s face was already smeared with chocolate. Rosa was doing laundry in the deep wash basin. She looked back at him.

  “Tell the señora that I will be at the studio this afternoon,” he said.

  “Sí, señor.” She wrung out one of the diapers. “Tengo pollo veracruzana por comida. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said. “A las ocho.”

  “Sí, señor,” she said.

  * * *

  IT WAS ABOUT ten o’clock when he parked his pre-war Chrysler Airflow on the street across from the California Employment Office building in downtown Hollywood. The parking lot was already full, automobiles waiting in line at the entrance. The moment a car moved out another moved in. He glanced down the street. He parked the car a few blocks from Fountain; there were limousines with chauffeurs nearby as though hiding from the common people. He smiled to himself. The California Club, it had been called at the studios. Sometimes there were so many movie stars in the lines inside waiting for their weekly unemployment check that this had become a popular stop for the tour buses.

  He walked past the public entrance to the rear of the building to the employees’ entrance and went in, waving to the old man in his guard’s uniform. The black lettering on the frosted glass window down the corridor read simply, “Mr. Ross.” He knocked lightly and opened the door.

  Jack Ross, a heavyset man with thinning hair, looked up from his desk. He smiled and gestured for Joe to come in. “How are you doin’, Joe?”

  Joe shook his head. “The usual, Jack,” he said. “I was pink-slipped.”

  Ross took a printed form from a pile next to him. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll get right on it.”

  Joe nodded. “Just one problem. Christmas is coming up next month. It takes six weeks for the first check.�
�

  Ross looked at him quizzically. “That’s the rules.”

  “Maybe we can bend them a little,” Joe said.

  “We’re really jammed,” Ross said. “It’s always like that near the holidays.”

  “I know,” Joe said. “I saw the limos hiding around the corner.”

  Ross smiled. “Even the stars are showing up. Ilona Massey. Richard Arlen.”

  “’Tis the season to be jolly,” Joe said.

  Ross looked down at the printed forms. “I can backdate seven weeks for you but it’ll cost. Twenty-five dollars up front and ten percent of each check you collect.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Joe said. He laid twenty-five dollars on the desk in front of him.

  The money disappeared in Ross’s pocket. Quickly he filled out the form and pushed it over to Joe. “Sign this in the three places marked.”

  Joe signed it and pushed the form back to him. “When do I get the check?”

  “I’ll have it here tomorrow morning at nine-thirty,” he said. “You’ll have two weeks’ checks.”

  “Thanks, Jack,” Joe said. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  Ross smiled. “I’ll be waiting for you. You take care, hear?”

  “I will,” Joe said. “We better make lunch sometime soon.”

  “After the holidays,” Ross said. “Too busy right now.”

  “Okay,” Joe said, heading for the door. “You name the day. Thanks again.”

  16

  TRIPLE S STUDIOS were located in the valley. Although smaller in size and acreage than Universal and Warner Brothers, they were complete with four good-sized film stages and three smaller stages that doubled for filming and music recording. A three-story brick building painted a boring gray contained the executive offices just inside the studio gates. Beyond that were two two-story wooden buildings, also painted the same gray. One building housed the producers’ offices. The other slightly shabbier building held the restaurant commissary on the ground level, and the upper story was crowded with cubbyholes that served as offices for writers and the script department. A number of rickety bungalows were scattered around the studio lot for directors and their staffs, and wartime Quonset huts at the far end housed the music department. Large barnlike buildings took care of the sets and the costume department. Without enough acreage to film exterior shots, the studios had an arrangement to use the Warner Brothers facilities adjacent to them.