The Fourth K

  Gray had tried his best pitch, but he knew it was hopeless. From long experience, he had learned that once they wished to do something, even the wisest men or women would do it. No manner of persuasion could change their minds.

  Congressman Jintz did not disappoint him. “You are arguing against the will of the Congress, Otto.”

  Senator Lambertino said, “Really, Otto, you’re fighting a lost cause. I know your loyalty to the President. I know that if everything had gone well the President would have made you a Cabinet member. And let me tell you, the Senate would have approved. That still can happen, but not under Kennedy.”

  Gray nodded his thanks. “I appreciate that, Senator. But I can’t comply with your request. I think the President is justified in the action he’s taken. I think that action will be effective. I think the hostages will be released and the criminals given into custody.”

  Jintz said abruptly and crudely, “This is all beside the point. We can’t let him destroy the city of Dak.”

  Senator Lambertino said softly, “It’s not just the money. Such a savage act would hurt our relationships with every country in the world. You see that, Otto.”

  Gray said, “Let me tell you this. Unless Congress cancels its special session tomorrow, unless it withdraws the motion to impeach, the President will appeal directly to the people of the United States on television. Please present this to your fellow members.” He resisted saying, “And to the Socrates Club.”

  They parted company with those protestations of goodwill and affection that were political good manners long before the murder of Julius Caesar. Then Gray went out to pick up Klee for the meeting with the President.

  But his last speech had shaken Congressman Jintz. Jintz had accrued a great deal of wealth during his many years in Congress. His wife was a partner or stockholder in cable television companies in his home state; his son’s law firm was one of the biggest in the South. He had no material worries. But he loved his life as a congressman; it brought him pleasures that could not be bought with mere money. The marvelous thing about being a successful politician was that old age could be as happy as your youth. Even when you became a doddering old man, your brain floating away in a flood of senile cells, everyone still respected you, listened to you, kissed your ass. You had the congressional committees and subcommittees, you could wallow in the pork barrels. You could still help steer the course of the greatest country in the world. Though your body was old and feeble, young virile men trembled before you. At some time, Jintz knew, his appetite for food and drink and women would fade, but if there was still one last living cell in his brain he could enjoy power. And how can you really fear the nearness of death when your fellowman still obeys you?

  And so Jintz was worried. Was it possible that by some catastrophe his seat in Congress could be lost? There was no way out. His very life depended on the removal of Francis Kennedy from office. He said to Senator Lambertino, “We can’t let the President go on TV tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  David Jatney spent a month reading scripts that seemed to him utterly worthless. He wrote the less than half page of summary, then wrote his opinion on the same page. His opinion was supposed to be only a few sentences but he usually finished using the rest of the space on the page.

  At the end of the month the office supervisor came to his desk and said, “David, we don’t have to know how witty you are. Just two sentences of opinion will be fine. And don’t be so contemptuous of these people, they didn’t piss on your desk, they just try to write movies.”

  “But they are terrible,” Jatney said.

  The supervisor said, “Sure, they are, do you think we’d iet you read the good ones? We have more experienced people for that. And, besides, this stuff you call dreadful, every one of them has been submitted by an agent. An agent hopes to make money from them. So they have passed a very stringent test. We don’t accept scripts over the transom because of lawsuits, we’re not like book publishers. So no matter how lousy they are, when agents submit, we have to read them. If we don’t read the agents’ bad scripts, they don’t send us the good ones.”

  David said, “I could write better screenplays,”

  The supervisor laughed. “So can we all.” He paused for a moment and then said, “When you’ve written one, let me read it.”

  A month later David did just that. The supervisor read it in his private office. He was very kind. He said gently, “David, it doesn’t work. That doesn’t mean you can’t write. But you don’t really understand how movies work. It shows in your summaries and critiques but your screenplay shows it too. Listen, I’m trying to be helpful. Really. So starting next week you’ll be reading the novels that have been published and have been considered possible for movies.”

  David thanked him politely but felt the familiar rage. Again it was the voice of the elder, the supposedly wiser, the ones who had the power.

  It was just a few days later that Dean Hocken’s secretary called and asked if he was free for dinner that night with Mr. Hocken. He was so surprised it took him a moment to say yes. She told him it would be at Michael’s restaurant in Santa Monica at 8:00 P.M. She started to give him directions to the restaurant, but he told her he lived in Santa Monica and knew where it was, which was not strictly true.

  But he had heard of Michael’s restaurant. David Jatney read all the newspapers and magazines and he listened to the gossip in the office. Michael’s was the restaurant of choice for the movie and music people who lived in the Malibu colony. When he hung up the phone, he asked the manager if he knew exactly where Michael’s was located, mentioning casually that he was having dinner there that night. He saw that the manager was impressed. He realized that he should have waited until after this dinner before submitting his screenplay. It would then have been read in a different context.

  That evening when David walked into Michael’s restaurant he was surprised that only the front part was under a roof—the rest of the restaurant was in a garden made beautiful with flowers and large white umbrellas that formed a secure canopy against rain. The whole area was glowing with lights. It was just beautiful, the balmy open air of April, the flowers gushing their perfume and even a gold moon overhead. What a difference from a Utah winter. It was at this moment that David Jatney decided never to go home again.

  He gave his name to the receptionist and was surprised when he was led directly to one of the tables in the garden. He had planned on arriving ahead of Hocken; he knew his role and intended to play it well. He would be absolutely respectful, he would be waiting at the restaurant for good old Hock to arrive and that would be acknowledging his power. He still wondered about Hocken. Was the man genuinely kind or just a Hollywood phony being condescending to the son of a woman who once rejected him and now must, of course, be regretting it?

  He saw Dean Hocken at the table he was being led to, and with Hocken were a man and a woman. The first thing that registered on David was that Hocken had deliberately given him a later time so that he would not have to wait—an extraordinary kindness that almost moved him to tears. For in addition to being paranoid and ascribing mysterious evil motives to other people’s behavior, David could also ascribe wildly benevolent reasons.

  Hocken got up from the table to give him a down-home hug and then introduced him to the man and woman. David recognized the man at once. His name was Gibson Grange, and he was one of the most famous actors in Hollywood. The woman’s name was Rosemary Belair, a name that David was surprised he didn’t recognize because she was beautiful enough to be a movie star. She had glossy black hair worn long and her face was perfect in its symmetry. Her makeup was professional and she was dressed elegantly in a dinner dress over which was some sort of little jacket.

  They were drinking wine; the bottle rested in a silver bucket. Hocken poured David a glass.

  The food was delicious, the air balmy, the garden serene, none of the cares of the world could enter here, David felt. The men and women a
t the tables around them exuded confidence; these were the people who controlled life. Someday he would be like them.

  He listened through the dinner, saying very little. He studied the people at his table. Dean Hocken, he decided was legitimate and as nice as he appeared to be. Which did not necessarily mean that he was a good person, David thought. He became conscious that though this was ostensibly a social occasion, Rosemary and Hock were trying to talk Gibson Grange into doing a picture with them.

  It seemed that Rosemary Belair was also a producer—in fact, the most important female producer in Hollywood.

  David listened and watched. He took no part in the conversation, and when he was immobile his face was as handsome as in his photographs. The other people at the table registered it but he did not interest them and David was aware of this.

  And it suited him right now. Invisible, he could study this powerful world he hoped to conquer. Hocken had arranged this dinner to give his friend Rosemary a chance to talk Gibson Grange into doing a picture with her. But why? There was a certain easiness between Hocken and Rosemary that could not be there unless they had been through a sexual period. It was the way Hocken soothed Rosemary when she became too excited in her pursuit of Gibson Grange. At one time she said to Gibson, “I’m a lot more fun to do a picture with than Hock.”

  And Hocken laughed and said, “We had some pretty good times, didn’t we, Gib?”

  And the actor said, “Hah, we were all business.” He said this without cracking a smile.

  Gibson Grange was a “bankable” star in the movie business. That is, if he agreed to do a movie, that movie was financed immediately by any studio. Which was why Rosemary was so anxiously pursuing him. He also looked exactly right. He was in the old American Gary Cooper style, lanky, with open features; he looked as Lincoln would have looked if Lincoln had been handsome. His smile was friendly, and he listened to everyone intently when he or she spoke. He told a few good-humored anecdotes about himself that were funny. This was especially endearing. Also, he dressed in a style that was more homespun than Hollywood, baggy trousers and a ratty yet obviously expensive sweater with an old suit jacket over a plain woolen shirt. And yet he magnetized everyone in the garden. Was it because his face had been seen by so many millions and shown so intimately by the camera? Were there mysterious ozone layers where his face remained forever? Was it some physical manifestation not yet solved by science? The man was intelligent, David could see that. His eyes as he listened to Rosemary were amused but not condescending, and though he seemed to always agree with what she was saying, he never committed himself to anything. He was the man David dreamed of being.

  They lingered over their wine. Hocken ordered dessert—wonderful French pastries—David had never tasted anything so good. Both Gibson Grange and Rosemary Belair refused to touch the desserts, Rosemary with a shudder of horror and Gibson Grange with a slight smile. But it was Rosemary who would surely let herself be tempted in the future; Grange was secure, David thought. Grange would never touch dessert again in his life, but Rosemary’s fall was inevitable.

  At Hocken’s urging, David ate the other desserts, and then they still lingered and talked. Hocken ordered another bottle of wine, but only he and Rosemary drank from it and then David noticed another undercurrent in the conversation—Rosemary was putting the make on Gibson Grange.

  Rosemary had barely talked to David at all during the evening, and now she ignored him so completely that he was forced to chat with Hocken about the old days in Utah. But both of them finally became so entranced by the contest between Rosemary and Gibson that they fell silent.

  For as the evening wore on and more wine was drunk Rosemary mounted a full seduction. It was of alarming intensity, an awesome display of sheer will. She presented her virtues. First were the movements of her face and body—somehow the front of her dress had slipped down to show more of her breasts. There were the movements of her legs, which crossed and recrossed, then hiked the gown higher to show a glint of thigh. Her hands moved about, touching Gibson on his face when she was carried away by what she was saying. She showed her wit, told funny anecdotes, and revealed her sensitivity. Her beautiful face was alive to show each emotion, her affection for the people she worked with, her worries about members of her immediate family, her concern about the success of her friends. She avowed her deep affection for Dean Hocken himself, how good old Hock had helped her in her career, rewarded her with advice and influence. Here good old Hock interrupted to say how much she deserved such help because of her hard work on his pictures and her loyalty to him, and as he said this, Rosemary gave him a long look of grateful acknowledgment. At this moment, David, completely enchanted, said that it must have been a great experience for both of them. But Rosemary, eager to renew her pursuit of Gibson, cut David off in midsentence.

  David felt a tiny shock at her rudeness but surprisingly no resentment. She was so beautiful, so intent on gaining what she desired, and what she desired was becoming clearer and clearer. She must have Gibson Grange in her bed that night. Her desire had the purity and directness of a child, which made her rudeness almost endearing.

  But what David admired above all was the behavior of Gibson Grange. The actor was completely aware of what was happening. He noticed the rudeness to David and tried to make up for it by saying, “David, you’ll get a chance to talk someday,” as if apologizing for the self-centeredness of the famous, who have no interest in those who have not yet acquired their fame. But Rosemary cut him off too. And Gibson politely listened to her. But it was more than politeness. He had an innate charm that was part of his being. He regarded Rosemary with genuine interest. His eyes sparkled and never wandered from her eyes. When she touched him with her hands he patted her back. He made no bones about it, he liked her. His mouth, too, always parted in a smile that displayed a natural sweetness that softened his craggy face into a humorous mask.

  But he was obviously not responding in the proper fashion for Rosemary. She was pounding on an anvil that gave off no sparks. She drank more wine and then played her final card. She revealed her innermost feelings.

  She talked directly to Gibson, ignoring the other two men at the table. Indeed she had maneuvered her body so that it was very close to Gibson, isolating them from David and Hocken.

  No one could doubt the passionate sincerity in her voice. There were even tears in her eyes. She was baring her soul to Gibson. “I want to be a real person,” she said. “I would like to give up all this shit of make-believe, this business of movies. It doesn’t satisfy me. I want to go out to make the world a better place. Like Mother Teresa, or Martin Luther King. I’m not doing anything to help make the world grow. I could be a nurse or a doctor, I could be a social worker. I hate this life, these parties, this always being on a plane for meetings with important people. Making decisions about some damned movie that won’t help humanity. I want to do something real.” And then she reached out and clutched Gibson Grange’s hand.

  It was marvelous for David to see why Grange had become such a powerful star in the movie business, why he controlled the movies he appeared in. For Gibson Grange somehow had his hand in Rosemary’s, somehow he had slid his chair away from her, somehow he had captured his central position in the tableau. Rosemary was still staring at him with an impassioned look on her face, waiting for his response. He smiled at her warmly, then tilted his head downward and to the side so that he addressed David and Hocken.

  Gibson Grange said with affectionate approval, “She’s slick.”

  Dean Hocken burst into laughter, David could not repress a smile. Rosemary looked stunned, but then said in a tone of jesting reproof, “Gib, you never take anything seriously except your lousy movies.” And to show she was not offended she held out a hand, which Gibson Grange gently kissed.

  David wondered at all of them. They were so sophisticated, they were so subtle. He admired Gibson Grange most of all. That he would spurn a woman as beautiful as Rosemary Belair was awe-inspiring, tha
t he could outwit her so easily was godlike.

  David had been ignored by Rosemary all evening, but he acknowledged her right to do so. She was the most powerful woman in the most glamorous business in the country. She had access to men far worthier than he. She had every right to be rude to him. David recognized that she did not do so out of malice. She simply found him nonexistent.

  They were all astonished that it was nearly midnight; they were the last ones in the restaurant. Hocken stood up and Gibson Grange helped Rosemary put on her jacket again, which she had taken off in the middle of her passionate discourse. When Rosemary stood up she was a little off balance, a little drunk.

  “Oh, God,” she said. “I don’t dare drive myself, the police in this town are so awful. Gib, will you take me back to my hotel?”

  Gibson smiled at her. “That’s in Beverly Hills. Me and Hock are going out to my house in Malibu. David will give you a ride, won’t you, David?”

  “Sure,” Dean Hocken said. “You don’t mind, do you, David?”

  “Of course not,” David Jatney said. But his mind was spinning. How the hell was this coming about? Good old Hock was looking embarrassed. Obviously Gibson Grange had lied, didn’t want to take Rosemary home because he didn’t want to have to keep fending the woman off. And Hock was embarrassed because he had to go along with the lie or else he would get on the wrong side of a big star, something a movie producer avoided at all costs. Then he saw Gibson give him a little smile and he could read the man’s mind. And of course that was it, that was why he was such a great actor. He could make audiences read his mind by just wrinkling his eyebrows, tilting his head, a dazzling smile. With just that look, without malice but celestial good humor, he was saying to David Jatney, “The bitch ignored you all evening, she was rude as hell to you, now I have put her in your debt.” David looked at Hocken and saw that he was now smiling, not embarrassed. In fact, he looked pleased as if he too had read the actor’s look.