“You can’t mean that, Carol,” I said in alarm. “Don’t you want me to have a break? Gold’s offering fifty thousand dollars. I can’t write the story if I don’t see her.” As she turned away. I took her arm. “Look, I tell you there’s nothing in it except the story. Can’t you believe that?”
She pulled her arm free. “No . . . but don’t forget to be careful, Clive. You’ll get hurt. She knows how to handle a man like you.”
My temper boiled up at this. “All right,” I said, furious with her now. “You’re a dear, sweet girl. Thank you for the warning. I’ll be careful. Every time I see her, I’ll think of you and your warning and I’ll be very, very careful.”
She flushed. “You can keep your cheap sarcasm. You are asking for trouble and I’m very much afraid you’ll get it.”
“You don’t have to be afraid of anything. As long as I have your pity, I’ll get along fine,” I said. “We don’t have to quarrel about it, do we? It’s nicer for us to be agreeable and sort of phony about all this, isn’t it?”
“You’re the authority on phony, of course,” she retorted stung to anger. “But, if that’s really how you feel, then we don’t have to quarrel about it.”
“Swell.” I was determined to make her as angry as I was. “And ask mc to the wedding. I won’t come, but ask mc because that’ll be the one time I’ll be able to turn Gold down. But I’m not turning down his fifty thousand dollars.”
There was contempt in her eyes and I suddenly wanted to hurt her.
“I can imagine the kind of wedding that Gold’ll give you,” I went on, smiling at her. “It’ll be a technicolour wedding. You know the sort of stuff. The bride looked lovely. She gave herself to Rex Gold so she could educate the world by making better pictures. That’ll get a hell of a laugh.” I took out my cigarette case and selected a cigarette. “You did say you weren’t competing with the professionals? Is that quite true, my sweet?”
“I hope she hurts you,” Carol said, her face white. “You need hurting. You need a woman like that who can prick your mean, horrid little ego. I think she’ll do it. I hope so. I hope so very much.”
“You know, I’m glad you’re a girl. I’m glad you’re in my apartment and under my protection, because it stops me doing what I feel like doing.”
“I suppose you’d like to punch me in the face?”
“That’s it. That’s just what I’d like to do, my pet.”
“Good-bye, Clive.”
“That’s terrific. That’s what they call restrained drama. It’d make a great curtain. Nothing vulgar . . . final, of course, but definitely not vulgar. You’re a swell script writer and you’ve a swell sense of the theatre. But you’ll have to watch your lines on your wedding night, my sweet.”
She was at the door. She didn’t look back. Then she was gone.
When the door closed behind her, the room seemed very empty. I went over to the sideboard and poured myself a whisky. I drank it without putting the bottle down and I immediately poured another. I did that four times. Then I put the bottle back and walked into the lobby. I was feeling a little tight and I wanted to cry.
As I put my hat on, Russell came down the stairs. He looked at me mournfully, but he didn’t say anything.
“Miss Carol’s marrying Mr. Rex Gold,” I said, carefully pronouncing my words. “I know you like these snappy little gossip items, Russell. You’ve heard of Mr. Rex Gold, haven’t you?
Well, she’s marrying him. She’s marrying him so she can make good pictures and educate the lower classes.” I leaned on the banister rail. “Do you think the lower classes want to be educated? Do you think the sacrifice is worth while? I don’t. I don’t think they give a goddamn whether she marries Gold or whether they have better pictures. But you can’t argue with women.”
Russell looked as if I had hit him in the face. He tried to say something, but words” would not come. I left him and took the elevator to the street.
I got in the car.
“You poor guy,” I said to myself. “I feel so sorry for you.”
Then I pressed the starter and drove to the Writers’ Club.
The usual crowd was not in the club today. I said hello to the steward and went into the bar.
“A double Scotch,” I said, pulling up a stool and sitting down.
“Yes, Mr. Thurston,” the bartender said. “Would you like a little ice?”
“Listen,” I leaned forward, “if I wanted ice, I’d ask for ice. I don’t want a lot of talk from you or anyone else.”
“Certainly, Mr. Thurston,” he said, going red.
I drank the whisky neat and shoved the glass back at him. “I’ll have it again without ice and without a lot of talk. You don’t even have to mention the weather.”
“Certainly, Mr. Thurston.”
If I did not sell Gold my story I would be like this guy before long. I would be so hard up for money that I would have to take anything anyone liked to hand out to mc.
I finished my whisky. “Fill it up again.”
Just then Peter and Frank Imgram came in.
It was too bad that they had to come in at that moment because I was very angry and rather drunk. I got off my stool.
Peter smiled at me. “Hello there, Clive,” he said. “Have one with me? You know Frank Imgram, don’t you?”
I know him all right.
“Sure,” I said and took a step backwards and got into position. “The Hollywood gossip writer, isn’t he?” And I let Imgram have it, full in the mouth. He fell back and gurgled and reached fingers in his mouth to keep from choking on his bridgework. He may have written The Land is Barren, but his teeth weren’t his own. That was something I had over him.
I didn’t wait to see what happened. I just walked out of the bar. I went through the lobby and into the street. I got into my car and started the engine. I had to control myself because I wanted to go back and hit the little louse again. I wanted to hit him again so badly that I ached behind my eyes and nose and at the back of my neck.
I thought: Merle Bensinger, Carol, dear, sweet Carol and now Frank Imgram . . . possibly Peter Tennett. They would all hate my guts now. I was certainly making a mess of things. If I went on like this I would be getting quite a name for myself.
I drove fast down Sunset Boulevard. In a few days, perhaps, no one would want to talk to me. Perhaps I would have to resign from the Club. Never mind, I said to myself, you still have Eve. I slowed down, because I suddenly wanted to talk to Eve. That was something no one was going to do anything about. They might stop me from beating up Imgram, but they certainly would not stop me telephoning Eve.
I pulled up outside a drugstore, left my car and went in.
I had trouble with the dial. I was tighter than I thought. I mis-dialled three times before I got it right. By that time I was sweating and angry.
Marty came on the line.
“Miss Marlow,” I said.
“Who is that?”
What the hell was it to do with her? Why didn’t Eve answer the telephone herself? Did she think I wanted to talk to her servant every time I called? Did she think I wanted to give my name to a servant who would tell the milkman, the iceman and all the guys she got drunk with?
“The man in the moon,” I said, “that’s who it is.”
There was a pause, then she said, “I’m sorry, but Miss Marlow’s out.”
“No, she isn’t,” I said, angrily. “Not at this time, she isn’t. Tell her I want to talk to her.”
“What name shall I give?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mr. Clive . . . now are you happy?”
“I’m so sorry, but Miss Marlow’s engaged.”
“Engaged?” I repeated stupidly. “But it’s not yet two o’clock. How can she be engaged?”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I will tell her you called.”