This defeated me. It was so outside my normal relations with women that I could not understand it.
“Are you telling me that you don’t like considerate treatment?” I asked her.
I felt her shoulders lift. “I hate weakness, Clive. Jack’s strong. He knows what he wants and nothing will stop him.”
“Well, if you like to be treated like that . . .” I gave up.
When she talked about the men who came to see her, she did not mention names. I admired her for her discretion. At least, it meant that she would not talk about me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I REACHED my apartment around noon. As I entered the elevator the boy gave me one of those it’s-six-months-to-Christmas smiles. “Good morning, Mr. Thurston.”
“Morning,” I said and experienced the inevitable lift in my stomach as the elevator raced between floors.
“Did you see about the two guys who killed themselves last night outside Manola’s?” The elevator boy asked as I left the cage.
“No.”
“Sure thing. They got fighting over a dame and they fell off the sidewalk, bang under the wheels of a truck. One of the guys had his face stove in.”
“That should give him a new outlook,” I said and opened my apartment door.
Russell was in the lobby. “Good morning, Mr. Clive,” he said in a voice that told me he thought it was anything but a good morning.
“Hello.” I was about to go to my bedroom when I caught his eye. I stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“Miss Carol’s waiting in the lounge,” he said reproachfully. His whole body, his face, his eyebrows oozed reproach.
“Miss Carol?” I stared at him. “What’s she want?” Why isn’t she at the Studio?”
“I don’t know, sir. She’s been waiting more’n a half an hour.”
I gave him my bag. “Put that in my bedroom,” I said, and walked across the lobby to the lounge.
Carol was by the window as I entered. She did not turn although she must have heard me. I admired her slim back and the cool white and red check frock she was wearing. “Hello,” I said, closing the door.
She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and swung round on her heels. She looked steadily at me and my eyes gave ground. “Aren’t you working this morning?” I went on, crossing the room and standing by her side.
“I wanted to see you.”
“Swell.” I waved to the settee. “Sit down.”
As she walked to the settee, I said, “Nothing wrong,is there?”
She sat down. “I don’t know yet.” She reached for another cigarette, fitted it in her holder and lit up.
I suddenly felt a little tired and not in the mood to be lectured. I stood over her. “Look here, Carol . . .” I began, but she held up her hand.
“It’s not going to be a “Look here . . .” kind of conversation,” she said sharply.
“I’m sorry, Carol, but I’m on edge this morning.” I didn’t want to quarrel with her. “There’s something wrong. You’d better give it to me straight.”
“I met Merle Bensinger this morning. She’s worried about you.”
“If Merle Bensinger’s been discussing my affairs with you,” I said coldly, “she’s forgetting she’s my paid agent.”
“Merle likes you, Clive. She thought we were engaged.”
I sat down slowly in an armchair away from Carol. “Even if we were married, it’s still not Merle’s business to talk about my affairs,” I said, cold fury tripping my words.
“She didn’t talk about your affairs,” Carol said quietly. “She asked me to try to persuade you to work.”
I lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the empty fireplace. “But I am working,” I said. “If she’s worried about her goddam commission, why doesn’t she say so?”
“All right, Clive, if that’s the way you feel about it.”
“That’s just the way I do feel about it. For God’s sake, Carol, no writer can be bullied into writing. You know that. It’s either there or it isn’t. Merle wanted me to do a cockeyed article for the Digest. I just didn’t feel like it. That’s why she’s sore.”
“She didn’t say anything about the Digest, but never mind about Merle then.” She crossed her slim ankles. “About Bernstien, Clive.”
“What about him?”
“You know he came round to my place on Saturday?”
“Yeah, you told me.”
“I did what I could. I read him parts of your play. I even persuaded him to take it away with him.”
I stared at her. “You gave him a copy of the play?” I repeated. “Where did you get the script from?”
“Oh, I got it,” she said, a little impatiently. “That doesn’t matter. I did so hope . . .” She broke off with a gesture of despair. Then she said, “If you had been there, it would have made all the difference. I’m afraid you’ve missed a great chance, Clive.”
I dragged down a lungful of smoke. “I don’t believe it,” I said. “If Bernstien was all that anxious to do “Rain Check”, he’d have done it. A guy who has to be talked into buying a story doesn’t stay hot. He cools off after making a lot of promises. Don’t tell me Imgram had to talk Gold into buying his story.”
“There’s a big difference between “Rain Check” and “The Land is Barren”,” Carol said sharply. Then as I shifted impatiently, she went on, “I’m sorry, Clive. I didn’t mean it in that way. You can’t compare . . . I mean . . .”
“All right, all right,” I said angrily. “You don’t have to handle me with kid gloves. You mean my stuff isn’t good enough to stand up by itself. It needs you and Jerry Highams and me to slop over Bernstien before he’ll even look at it.”
She bit her lip nervously, but she didn’t say anything.
“Well, that’s not the way I want to sell my stuff. When I do sell it, I’ll sell it because it’s worth selling. I won’t need to peddle it like a street salesman. So to hell with Bernstien.”
“All right, Clive, to hell with Bernstien. But, you’re not getting anywhere, are you?”
“I’m all right. Can’t you lay off worrying about me? Now, look here, Carol, let’s get this straight. When I want anyone’s help, I’ll let you know. There’re too many people taking an interest in me. It embarrasses me.” So as not to hurt her feelings, I added, “Of course, I am grateful, but, after all, it is my business, I’m getting along fine.”
She again looked steadily at me. “Are you?” she said. “You’ve written nothing for two years. You’re living on the past, Clive. That’s just one thing you can’t do in Hollywood. A writer’s only as good as his next book or picture.”
“But my next picture is going to be good,” I said, trying to smile. Don’t fuss, Carol. After all, Gold has made me an offer That ought to tell you I’m not on the slide.”
“Oh, do stop posing, Clive,” she said, colour coming into her face. “It’s not a question of whether you can write. It’s a question of when you’re going to work.”
“Okay, suppose you leave that to me?” I said. “What are you doing away from the Studio? I thought you were tied up with Imgram.”
“So I am. But I had to see you, Clive. People arc talking.” She got to her feet and wandered across the room. “We’re supposed to be engaged, aren’t we?”
That was something I didn’t want to go into just then. “What do you mean . . . people are talking?”