The Storyteller

by Harold Robbins

  She hesitated for a moment before answering. “I’m a good agent,” she said. “I don’t want you to get screwed on anything. A. J. said he wouldn’t stand in your way.”

  He was silent.

  “And another thing,” she added. “I spoke to the chief editor at Rinehart. They’re interested in your novel.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “I’m your agent,” she said. “I was testing the waters with Rinehart. The manuscript is at Doubleday right now. They can come up with a lot more money with all the book clubs they own.”

  “I’m feeling better already, Laura. What you’re doing is above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “Not duty, Joe.” There was a pause. “I think you’ve got two good opportunities. You can take advantage of both of them. What do you say?”

  He took a deep breath. “Let’s do them.”

  “Good. I’ll have the papers and tickets here in New York for you. You can sign them on your way through.”

  “I’ll see you then, say, a week from today. Okay?”

  There was another pause. “My office will handle it, Joe. Just papers to sign—everything will be in order.”

  “You don’t want to be there?” he asked.

  “It’s not a question of wanting or not wanting, Joe. It’s a tangle of feelings about you that I don’t know how to handle. I’m working for you, but I sincerely believe that I’d feel safer if we don’t meet just now.”

  He stared at the phone for a moment. “You scare me, Laura.”

  “You’ve got a fine director to work with, a new film world. You’ve got a book that one publisher will put up money for—it’s a whole new world. Enough to scare anyone, so why add another mixed-up lady? You’ve had your share of them too, haven’t you? Work is the answer right now, not romance.”

  “Now you really sound like an agent.”

  “Not like an agent, Joe. I really care about you—not only about your talent and the money you will make, but about you. ’Bye for now, Joe.”

  He put down the telephone. “Rosa!” he called.

  He heard her footsteps on the stairs, then she appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I came for my clothes, señor,” she said. “When I saw you were asleep and there was nothing in the kitchen for breakfast, I went to the market to bring something in.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He looked at her closely. Her face showed several faint bruises and the remnant of a black eye. “What happened to you?” he asked.

  “My papa beat me for losing my job,” she said simply. “I must have another job or he will send me back to Mexico to my mother.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It is not your fault, señor,” she said. She looked at him. “Perhaps I could be your housekeeper. I would cook and clean as I did before and I would ask only twenty dollars a month.”

  He stared at her. That was ten dollars less a month than she had been paid before, including taking care of the child. “I wouldn’t change your salary,” he said. “But I will not be here for long. I am going to Europe very soon to work.”

  “Even working for one week would help me, señor,” she said. “Perhaps by that time I could find another job.”

  He thought for a moment. She would be a great help to him. There was no way he could handle the apartment by himself. “Okay,” he said.

  She came to him and kissed his hand quickly. “Thank you, señor. Mil gracias.”

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  “I am sorry for what happened, señor,” she said.

  “That part is over,” he said. “Now we both must look forward to tomorrow.”

  Part Three

  1949

  28

  “BELLE STARR AND Annie Oakley,” Santini said. “The title alone is worth a million dollars.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” Joe said as they came from the projection room. “The picture is not bad.”

  “It’s a work of genius,” Santini said with his Italian superlatives and enthusiasm. “And it was all your idea. You were the one who talked Judi Antoine into coming here to co-star with Mara Benetti in a Western. I don’t know how you ever thought of it.”

  “It was John Wayne and Gary Cooper in drag,” Joe laughed. “And it worked. But you were the genius. I never thought two big pair of tits like that would fit on the screen at the same time in Cinescope.”

  “We’re Italian.” Santini smiled. “We’re used to big tits. All Italian women have them.” He turned to the small man that always followed behind him. Giuseppe was the ultimate flunky. “Giuseppe, il carro.” He snapped his fingers.

  “Sì, maestro.” Giuseppe bowed and ran out.

  Santini turned back to Joe. “Now, my friend, what is the next project your genius will propose for me?”

  “I thought I might rest a little from movies for a while and work on my novel,” Joe said. “I’m hoping that you will be able to give me the balance of the fees from the picture to carry me.”

  Santini smiled. “No problem,” he said. “I will make a distribution deal for the states in another week; then I will send you the money.”

  Joe stared at him. That was what he had said when they finished the first movie he had written for him, Shercules. It had been a ripoff of Warrior Queen. But the Italian actress Santini had discovered was even more exciting than Judi. It was a very successful drive-in movie in the States and set up the girl for his movie. Yet, even with that, Joe had not received the balance from the first picture until he began working on the second. As far as profit shares—zero. Italian accounting was even more dishonest than American. “I could use five thousand dollars right now,” he said diplomatically. “I have many bills to pay.”

  Santini took out his checkbook and a pen with a flourish. “I will do that immediately.” He wrote the check and handed it to him.

  Joe looked at the check. It was for five thousand dollars. He kept his face expressionless. They both knew that the check was made of rubber. “Thank you, maestro,” he said politely.

  “What are you doing for the month of August?” Santini asked, equally polite. “At the Lido in Venice as you did last year?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind,” Joe said. “It’s too expensive for me right now. Besides, last year, I met this beautiful girl, unbelievable. She stayed with me all three weeks I was there. Then when I was ready to leave, her father showed up and shook me down for a bundle. I thought the girl was at least twenty—she was fourteen. Not only that, she left me with a clap.”

  Santini laughed. “Summer romances. It’s always like that. Love and disillusionment.” He looked at him. “Was she good in bed at least?”

  Joe laughed. “The best.”

  “So it was not so bad,” Santini said. Looking toward the street through the glass doors, he saw his car pulling up to the curb. “I have an appointment.” He waved to Joe as he left. “I will call you at the beginning of the week. Ciao.”

  “Ciao,” Joe said. He watched the car move away, then looked at the check. Carefully he folded it and put it in his wallet. He knew the routine. The bank would bounce it. Then he would have to get in touch with Metaxa in New York to collect it for him. If he was lucky, he might collect it in three or four months. Slowly he left the building and walked up the side street to Via Veneto.

  It was six o’clock, and the heavy humid heat of Rome pressed wearily against the pavement. The tourists were already returning from the museums, the Vatican and other sightseeing attractions. Now they were looking in the shop windows or seating themselves at the tables beside the sidewalk cafes for ice cream or coffee and pastries. He stopped at his usual table on the sidewalk in front of the Café Doney. He glanced at the entrance of the Excelsior Hotel and then across to the newsstand on the opposite corner of the street where they sold all the foreign magazines, newspapers and books. Someone once said that if you sat here long enough you would see everyone you knew in the world walk b
y. Maybe not in the whole world, but at least everyone you knew in Rome.

  His usual waiter suddenly appeared. Old, thin-haired, with old-fashioned gold-rimmed glasses. He placed the usual espresso before Joe and took the “reserved” card away. “Buon giorno, Signor Joe.” He smiled with his nicotine-stained, crooked teeth.

  “Buon giorno, Tito,” Joe answered.

  “I heard you saw the new movie,” Tito said. “Is it good?”

  Joe looked up at him. There were no secrets in this town. Especially from waiters. He shrugged. “Così, cosà.”

  Tito nodded. “I have a friend who works at the laboratory. He said there is one scene where the two girls fight in the mud of the street and that it was just as if they were both nuda.”

  “That’s right, Tito,” Joe said. He put a cigarette in his mouth. Tito held a light for him. “They both have great bodies.”

  Tito smacked his lips. “I would like to see that.”

  “As soon as they have prints made, I will invite you to a private screening,” Joe said. “But that will not be until September. All the laboratories are closed for the month of August.”

  “Italy, Italy,” Tito sighed. “No one wants to work. But I will be patient, Signor Joe, and I thank you for your invitation.”

  Joe pressed a thousand-lire bill in the waiter’s hand. “Thank you, Tito.”

  A group of tourists came toward a table next to Joe. Quickly, the little waiter moved them away to a further table. “Scusi, reservato, reservato,” Tito said and then took their orders as they sat down.

  Joe glanced at the Excelsior entrance. There were the usual hustlers and guides standing there, but also a number of paparazzi, their cameras slung around their necks and shoulders. One of them, a young man, glanced back over his shoulder at Joe. Joe gestured his arm in invitation.

  The paparazzo nodded and came toward him. “Ciao, Joe,” he said.

  “Ciao, Vieri,” Joe answered. “Have a drink with me.”

  The young man looked back at the hotel entrance but the offer of a drink was too much for him. He slipped into a chair. “Cognac, francese,” he said.

  Joe nodded. That was normal—the most expensive drink he could order. He signaled to the waiter, who had already heard. Joe turned to Vieri. “What’s all the excitement about?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Vieri asked. “Ingrid Bergman and Rossellini have just returned from shooting their film on Stromboli and they are in the hotel.”

  “You saw them?” Joe asked.

  “Not yet,” Vieri answered. The waiter placed the snifter containing the cognac on the table along with a glass of water. Vieri swirled the cognac and held it under his nostrils. He breathed its scent lightly. “The perfume of the gods,” he said.

  “Salute,” Joe said.

  “Salute,” Vieri replied and took a sip of the cognac. “My friend saw them when they came out of the airport. He said she was pregnant as a house.”

  Joe didn’t understand the simile. “I thought Rossellini had a home in Rome.”

  “He does,” Vieri said. “But his wife is living in it.”

  “Oh,” Joe said.

  “You saw your picture today,” Vieri said; then without waiting for an answer, “Did Santini pay you your money?”

  Joe laughed. “Of course not.”

  “The prick,” Vieri said. “He owes me for some photographs I made for him five months ago.”

  “It’s a way of life for him,” Joe said.

  “For all the Italian producers and directors,” Vieri said sarcastically. “They think they are above all things like that. But not above their own money. That they get first.”

  Joe shrugged and sipped his espresso.

  “What are you doing this summer?” Vieri asked.

  “I don’t know,” Joe said. “I thought I’d go back to the States and work on my book. There are no jobs over here.”

  “The Americans,” Vieri said. “The big companies are planning important movies. There’s a lot of building going on at Cinecittà and the money is coming from the States. And I also hear that many American stars are coming over. Audrey Hepburn, Gregory Peck, Elizabeth Taylor, Robert Taylor. Production costs are less than in Hollywood.”

  “It doesn’t do me any good,” Joe said. “Nobody contacted me.”

  “Maybe they will,” Vieri said. “After all, you’ve been here almost two years already. You have the experience and know how things are done here.”

  “I can’t hang around without money,” Joe said. “I have to produce.”

  “Are you going to the Contessa Baroni’s party tonight?” Vieri asked.

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Joe answered. “I don’t know whether I’m up to dressing in a tuxedo tonight with this heat.”

  “You should go,” Vieri said. “It’s her annual event. Always on the last Friday in July. Everyone will be there. Then she spends the month of August in her villa at Cap Antibes on the French Riviera. She always invites five or six people to stay with her.”

  “She didn’t invite me,” Joe said.

  “She never does until the night of this party,” Vieri said. “But I hear they have a ball over there. That’s where all the action is. She has a yacht and there’s a gala every night. Monte Carlo, Nice, Cannes, Saint-Tropez. The most beautiful girls from all of Europe flock there next month. And they’re all looking for a good time and a place to stay.”

  “That leaves me out,” Joe said. “The contessa is very possessive.”

  “She swings both ways, I hear,” Vieri said.

  “So?” Joe shrugged. “Then she’ll get the girls, not me.”

  “You’ll get seconds. That’s not too bad.”

  Joe laughed. “She’ll never invite me. I’m not important enough for her.”

  “You’ve been out with her a number of times,” Vieri pointed out. “You fucked her, didn’t you?”

  “She’s fucked everybody,” Joe said. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “She’s got it all,” Vieri said. “Money, dope, champagne, parties. You should go tonight. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “Are you going?” Joe asked.

  “I’m not invited, but I’ll be there,” Vieri answered. “Outside. Trying to grab a few pictures. If you go, I’ll take a few shots of you.”

  “Don’t waste your film,” Joe said. “You won’t be able to sell any of the pictures.”

  “You hang around until a pretty girl or a star shows up, then get next to them, and I’ll get the shot.”

  “That’s not my style,” Joe said.

  “Go to the party anyway,” Vieri said, standing up. “I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for the cognac. Ciao.”

  “Ciao,” Joe said, watching him walk to the hotel entrance. He held up his hand for the check. Then he went back to his hotel near the foot of the Spanish Steps.

  His small apartment seemed cool, protected from the heat outside by the louvered wooden window shutters. Quickly he pulled off his shirt damp with perspiration and dropped his slacks across a chair. He bent over the sink and splashed water over his head and face, then took a deep breath. Slowly he dried himself with a coarse face towel. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink and shook his head. It was no wonder people ran away from Rome in the August heat. It was a real bitch.

  The telephone began to ring. He walked to the little desk in the living room and picked it up. “Pronto,” he said.

  It was Laura Shelton, calling him from New York. “How are you?” she asked.

  “Hot.”

  “It’s hot here too,” she said.

  “Nothing can be as hot as heat in Rome.”

  “Have you seen the movie?” she asked.

  “Today,” he said.

  “What did you think of it?”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “If you like big tits on a big screen and a lot of them.”

  She laughed. “I thought that was your thing.”

  “Not in movies,” he said. �
��Seeing is not always believing. A little more story would have helped.”

  “Did Santini pay you?”

  “One rubber check for five thousand, if you can count that. Otherwise, he said he’ll pay me the rest when he makes his distribution deal in the States. He said the picture will gross a million dollars.”

  “I heard from the Coast that several companies are interested in it. Apparently, he shipped two prints out there before he showed it in Italy. Kathy told me that A. J. might take it on.”

  “Good,” he said. “Then I may get my money.”

  “You’ll get your money,” she said confidently. “I’m turning your account over to Paul Gitlin, he’s an attorney who will act as your agent as well. I’ve known him a long time and he’s very good.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asked in surprise.

  “I said I wanted to be an editor and I finally got a job at Doubleday. So we’ll still be in touch, only I’ll be your editor, not your agent.”

  “How does the agency feel about that?” he asked.

  “Okay,” she said. “They never liked you as a writer anyway. You were not genteel enough for them.”

  “How did you wind up with that job?”

  “Doubleday likes you,” she said. “They were satisfied with the sales of your first book. They told me that they will come out with between thirty and forty thousand books, the Doubleday Book Club pushed out one hundred and twenty-five thousand copies, and they made a paperback deal with Bantam for forty thousand dollars—that’s not so bad. They get half of it, that’s twenty thousand.”

  “Where does all that fit in with you?”

  “You’re one of my authors. All you have to do is turn out another book in a year or so. They already are willing to up the terms for the second book.”

  “I haven’t started to write it yet,” he said.

  “Then start now while you have time,” she said. “I know you have the story, you told me about it.”

  “I’ll need help,” he said. “You’re my editor—meet me here and we’ll block out the novel together.”

  She laughed. “I still have work to do.”

  “What work?” he asked.