Warm iced tea is an ugly.
I heard Spencer down below, shucking the two pairs of slim thighs. I waited a full sixty-count, hoping he would pass, just once. At sixty, I went to the door and yowled. “Up here, Spencer.”
“Be right there, Fred,” he called over his shoulder, his moist eyeballs fastened like snails to Pegeen’s bikini.
“The specialist tells me I’ve only got twenty minutes to live, Spencer. Get your ass up here.”
He murmured something devilishly clever to the girls, who regarded his retreating back with looks that compared it unfavorably to a haunch of tainted venison. Spencer mounted the stairs two at a time, puffing hideously, trying desperately to do a Steve McQueen for the girls.
“Hey, buhbie.” He extended his hand as he came through the door.
Spencer Lichtman had been selected by the monthly newsletter and puff-sheet of the Sahara Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada, U.S.A., in their August 1966 mailing, as Mr. Charm. They noted that he was charming whether he won or lost at the tables, and they quoted him as saying, after picking up eleven hundred dollars at craps, “It’s only money.” The newsletter thought that was mighty white of Spencer Lichtman. The newsletter also thought it was historically clever of him to have said it, and only avoided adding their usual editorial (Ha! Ha! Isn’t old Spencer a wow!) with a non-Vegas reserve totally out of character for the “editor,” a former junior ad exec well into hock to the management of the hotel, working it off by editing the puff-sheet in a style charitably referred to as Hand-Me-Down Mark Hellinger.
Spencer Lichtman was, to me, one of the great losers of all time, eleven hundred Vegan jellybeans notwithstanding. That he was a brilliant agent cannot be denied. But he did it despite himself, dear God let me have it pegged correctly otherwise my entire world-view is ass-backwards, not because of himself.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered, well-fried, blue-eyed specimen, handsomely cocooned within a Harry Cherry suit. Light-blue button-down shirts (no high-rise collars for Spencer, he knew his neck was too thick for them), black knee-length socks, highly polished black loafers, diminutive cuff links, and a paisley hankie in the breast pocket. He might have sprung full-blown like Adolph Menjou from the forehead of Gentleman’s Quarterly.
Then tell me this: if Spencer Lichtman was good-looking, mannerly, talented, in good taste, and successful, why the hell did I know as sure as Burton made little green Elizabeths, that Spencer Lichtman was a bummer?
It defied analysis.
So I shook hands with him.
“Jesus, it’s hot,” he wheezed, falling onto the sofa, elegantly. Even collapsing, he had panache. “Can I impose on you for something cold?”
“I’m out of ice cubes.”
“Oh.”
“My neighbors are out of ice cubes, too.”
“Those were your neighbors—”
“Right. Out there. The girls.”
“Nice neighbors.”
“Yeah. But they’re still out of ice cubes.”
“So I suppose we’d better talk. Then we can go over to the Luau and get something cold.”
I didn’t bother telling him I’d rather undergo intensive Hong Kong acupuncture treatments with needles in my cheeks, than go to the Luau for a drink. The cream of the Hollywood and Beverly Hills show biz set always made the Luau in the afternoons, hustling secretaries from the talent agencies who were, in actuality, the daughters of Beverly Hills merchants, the daughters of Hollywood actors, the daughters of Los Angeles society, the daughters of delight. The cream. That is the stuff that floats to the top, isn’t it? Cream?
No, Spencer, I am not going with you to the Luau so you can hustle for me, and get me bedded down with one of your puffball-haired steno-typists, thereby giving you an edge on me for future dealings. No, indeed not, Spencer, my lad. I am going to pass on all those fine trim young legs exposed beneath entirely too inflammatory minis. I am probably going to go into the bedroom after you’ve gone and play with myself, but it is a far far better thing I do than to let you get your perfectly white capped molars into me.
“You talk, Spencer. I’ll listen.” I sat down on the floor. “That’s what I call cooperation.”
He wanted desperately to undo his tie. But that would have been non-Agency. “I was talking to some of the people at the office…”
Translation: I read in the trades that Crewes has found this alta-cockuh, this old hag Valerie Whatshername, and at the snake-pit session this morning I suggested to Morrie and Lew and Marty that I take a crack at maybe we should rep her, there might be a dime or a dollar or both in it, so what are the chances?
I stared at him with an expression like Raggedy Andy.
“And, uh, we felt it would be highly prestigious for the Agency to represent Valerie Lone…”
Translation: At least we can clip ten percent off of this deal with Crewes, and she ought to be good for a second deal with him at the Studio, and if anything at all happens with her, there’re two or three short-line deals we can make, maybe at American-International for one of those Baby Jane/Lady in a Cage horrorifics; shit, she’d sit still for any kind of star billing, even in a screamer like that. Play her right, and we can make thirty, forty grand before she falls in her traces.
I seguéd smoothly from Raggedy Andy into Lenny: Of Mice and Men. Except I didn’t dribble.
“I think we can really move Valerie, in the field of features. And, of course, there’s a lot of television open to her…”
Translation: We’ll book the old broad into a guest shot on every nitwit series shooting now for a September air-date. Guest cameos are perfect for a warhorse like her. It’s like every asshole in America had a private tube to the freak show. Come and see the Ice Age return! Witness the resurrection of Piltdown Woman! See the resurgence of Miss Ankle-Strap Wedgie! Gape and drool at the unburied dead! She’ll play dance hall madams on Cimarron Strip and aging actresses on Petticoat Junction; she’ll play a frontier matriarch on The Big Valley and the mother of a kidnapped child on Felony Squad. A grand per day, at first, till the novelty wears off. We’ll book her five or six deep till they get the word around. Then we’ll make trick deals with the network for multiples. There’s a potload in this.
Lenny slowly vanished to be replaced by Huck Finn.
“Well, say something, Fred! What do you think?”
Huck Finn vanished and in his stead Spencer Lichtman was staring down at Captain America, bearing his red-white-and-blue shield, decked out in his patriotic uniform with the wings on the cowl, with the steely gaze and the outthrust chin of the defender of widows and orphans.
Captain America said, softly, “You’ll take five percent commission and I’ll make sure she signs with you.”
“Ten, Fred. You know that’s standard. We can’t—”
“Five.” Captain America wasn’t fucking around.
“Eight. Maybe I can swing eight. Morrie and Lew—”
Captain America shifted his star-studded shield up his arm and pulled his gauntlet tighter. “I’ll be fair. Six.”
Lichtman stood up, started toward the door, whirled on Captain America. “She’s got to have representation, Handy. Lots of it. You know it. I know it. Name me three times you know of, when an agent took less than ten? We’re working at twelve and even thirteen on some clients. This is a chancy thing. She might go, she might not. We’re willing to gamble. You’re making it lousy for both of us. I came to you because I know you can handle it. But we haven’t even talked about your percentage.”
Captain America’s jaw muscles jumped. The inference that he could be bought was disgusting. He breathed the sweet breath of patriotic fervor and answered Spencer Lichtman—alias the Red Skull—with the tone he deserved. “No kickback for me, Spencer. Straight six.”
Lichtman’s expression was one of surprise. But in a moment he had it figured out, in whatever form his cynicism and familiarity with the hunting habits of the scene allowed him best and most easily to rationalize. There was an
angle in it for me, he was sure of that. It was a sneaky angle, it had to be, because he couldn’t find a trace of it, which meant it was subtler than most. On that level he was able to talk to me. Not to Captain America, never to old Cap; because Lichtman couldn’t conceive of a purely altruistic act, old Spence couldn’t. So there was a finagle here somewhere; he didn’t know just where, but as thief to thief, he was delighted with the dealing.
“Seven.”
“Okay.”
“I should have stuck with eight.”
“You wouldn’t have made a deal if you had.”
“You’re sure she’ll sign?”
“You sure you’ll work your ass off for her, and keep the leeches away from her, and give her a straight accounting of earnings, and try to build the career and not just run it into the ground for a fast buck?”
“You know I—”
“You know I, baby! I have an eye on you. Arthur Crewes will have an eye on you. And if you fuck around with her, and louse her up, and then drop her, both Arthur and myself will do some very heavy talking with several of your clients who are currently under contract to Arthur, such as Steve and Raquel and Julie and don’t you forget it.”
“What’s in this for you, Handy?”
“I’ve got the detergent concession.”
“And I thought I was coming up here to hustle you.”
“There’s only one reason you’re getting the contract, Spencer. She needs an agent, you’re as honest as most of them—excluding Hal and Billy—and I believe you believe she can be moved.”
“I do.”
“I figured it like that.”
“I’ll set up a meet with Morrie and Lew and Marty. Early next week.”
“Fine. Her schedule’s pretty tight now. She starts rehearsals with the new scene day after tomorrow.”
Spencer Lichtman adjusted his tie, smoothed his hair, and pulled down his suit jacket in the back. He extended his hand. “Pleasure doing business, Fred.”
I shook once again. “Dandy, Spencer.”
Then he smirked, suggesting broadly that he knew I must have a boondoggle only slightly smaller than the Teapot Dome going. And, so help me God, he winked. Conspiratorially.
Tonstant weader fwowed up.
When he left, I called Arthur, and told him what I’d done, and why. He approved, and said he had to get back to some work on his desk. I started to hang up, but heard his voice faintly, calling me back. I put the receiver up to my ear and said, “Something else, Arthur?”
There was a pause, then he said, gently, “You’re a good guy, Fred.” I mumbled something and racked it.
And sat there for twenty minutes, silently arguing with Raggedy Andy, Lenny, Huck and old Captain America. They thought I was a good guy, too. And I kept trying to get them to tell me where the sleazy angle might be, so I could stop feeling so disgustingly humanitarian.
Have you ever tried to pull on a turtleneck over a halo?
7
Valerie Lone had only been told she would be picked up at six-thirty, for dinner and an opening at the Grove. The flowers arrived at five-fifteen. Daisies. Roses were a makeout flower, much too premeditated. Daisies. With their simplicity and their honesty and their romance. Daisies. With one rose in the center of the arrangement.
At six-thirty the doorbell to Valerie Lone’s bungalow was rung, and she hurried to open the door. (She had turned down the offer of a personal maid. “The hotel is very nice to me; their regular maid is fine, Arthur, thank you.”)
She opened the door, and for a moment she did not recognize him. But for her, there had only been one like him; only one man that tall, that elegant, that self-possessed. The years had not touched him. He was the same. Not a hair out of place, not a line where no line had been, and the smile—the same gentle, wide pixie smile—it was the same, unaltered. Soft, filtered lights were unnecessary. For Valerie Lone he was the same.
But in the eye of the beheld…
Emery Romito looked across the past and all the empty years between, and saw his woman. There had been gold, and quicksilver, and soft murmurings in the night, and crystal, and water as sweet as Chablis, and velvet and plumes of exotic birds…and now there was arthritis, and difficult breathing, and a heaviness in the air, and perspiration and nervousness, and stale rum cake, and the calling of children far away across the misty landscape, and someone very dark and hungry always coming toward him.
Now there was only now. And he lamented all the days that had died without joy. Hope had sung its song within him, in reverie, on nights when the heat had been too much for him and he had gone to sit at the edge of the ocean. Far out, beyond the lights of the amusement park at Lick Pier, beyond the lights of the night, the song had been raised against dark stars and darker skies. But had never been heard. Had gone to tremolo and wavering and finally sighed into the silent vacuum of despair, where sound can only be heard by striking object against object. And in that nowhere, there was no object for Emery Romito.
“Hello, Val…”
Tear loneliness across its pale surface; rend it totally and find the blood of need welling up in a thick, pale torrent. Let the horns of growth blare a message in rinky-tink meter. Turn a woman carrying all her years into a sloe-eyed gamine. Peel like an artichoke the scar-tissue heart of a lost dream, and find in the center a pulsing golden light with a name. She looked across yesterday and found him standing before her, and she could do no other than cry.
He came through the door as she sagged in upon herself. Her tears were soundless, so desperate, so overwhelming; they made her helpless. He closed the door behind him and gathered her to himself. Shrunken though he was, not in her arms, not in her eyes. He was still tall, gentle Emery, whose voice was silk and softness. Collapsed within the eternity of his love, she beat back the shadows that had come to devour her, and she knew that now, now she would live. She spoke his name a hundred times in a second.
That night, her name was spoken by a hundred voices in a second; but this time, as she stood to applause for the first time in eighteen years, she did not cry. Emery Romito was with her, beside her, and she held his hand as she rose. Fred Handy was there; with the girl Randi, from the office that afternoon. Arthur Crewes was there; alone. Smiling. Jubilant. Radiating warmth for Valerie Lone and the good people who had never forgotten her. Spencer Lichtman was there; with Miss American Airlines and an orange-haired girl of pneumatic proportions starring in Joseph E. Levine’s production of Maciste and the Vestal Virgins. (“You’ve got a better chance of convincing the public she’s Maciste than a virgin,” Handy muttered, as they passed in the lobby of the Ambassador Hotel.)
Valerie Lone! they cried. Valerie Lone!
She stood, holding Romito’s hand, and the dream had come full circle.
Like the laocoönian serpent, swallowing its own tail. Ouroboros in Clown Town.
The next day John D.F. Black delivered the rewritten pages. The scenes for Valerie were exquisite. He asked if he might be introduced to Valerie Lone, and Fred took him over to the Beverly Hills, where Valerie was guardedly trying to get a suntan. It was the first time in many years that she had performed that almost religious Hollywood act: the deep-frying. She rose to meet Black, a tall and charming man with an actor’s leathery good looks. In a few minutes he had charmed her completely, and told her he had been delighted to write the scenes for her, that they were just what she had always done best in her biggest films, that they gave her room to expand and color the part, that he knew she would be splendid. She asked if he would be on the set during shooting. Black looked at Handy. Handy looked away. Black shrugged and said he didn’t know, he had another commitment elsewhere. But Valerie Lone knewthat things had not changed all that much in Hollywood: the writer was still chattel. When his work on the script was done, it was no longer his own. It was given to the Producer, and the Director, and the Production Manager, and the Actors, and he was no longer welcome.
“I’d like Mr. Black to be on the set when I shoot
, Mr. Handy,” she said to Fred. “If Arthur doesn’t mind.”
Fred nodded, said he would see to it; and John D.F. Black bent, took Valerie Lone’s hand in his own, and kissed it elegantly. “I love you,” he said.
Late that night, Arthur and Fred took Valerie to the Channel 11 television studios on Sunset, and sat offstage as Valerie prepared for her on-camera live-action full-living-color interview with Adela Seddon, the Marquesa of Malice. A female counterpart of Joe Pyne, Adela Seddon spoke with forked tongue. She was much-watched and much-despised. Impartial voters learned their politics from her show. Wherever she was at, they were not. If she had come out in favor of Motherhood, Apple Pie and The American Way, tens of thousands of noncommitted people would instantly take up the banners of Misogyny, Macrobiotics and Master Racism. She was a badgerer, a harridan, a snarling viper with a sure mouth for the wisecrack and a ready fang for the jugular. Beneath a Tammy Grimes tousle of candy-apple red hair, her face was alternately compared with that of a tuba player confronting a small child sucking a lemon, and a prize shoat for the first time encountering the butcher’s blade. She had been married six times, divorced five, was currently separated, hated being touched, and was rumored in private circles to have long-since gone mad from endless masturbation. Her nose job was not entirely successful.
Valerie was justifiably nervous.
“I’ve never seen her, Arthur. Working out there in the diner, nights you know, I’ve never seen her.”
Handy, who thought it was lunacy to bring Valerie anywhere near the Seddon woman, added, “To see is to believe.”
Valerie looked at him, concern showing like a second face upon the carefully drawn mask of cosmetics the Studio makeup head had built for her. She looked good, much younger, rejuvenated by the acclaim she had received at the Ambassador’s Coconut Grove. (It had been the Righteous Brothers. They had come down into the audience and belted “My Babe” in her honor, right at her.)
“You don’t think much of her, do you, Mr. Handy?”
Handy expelled air wearily. “About as charming as an acrobat in a polio ward. Queen of the Yahoos. The Compleat Philistine. Death warmed over. A pain in the—”