Doran did his best, but when disaster waits, nothing helps. “You need a night out,” Doran said, “a little relaxation, a good dinner with a beautiful companion, a little tranquilizer so you can sleep tonight. Maybe a blow job pill.” Doran was absolutely charming with women. But alone with men he insulted the female species.
Well, Osano had to go into a little act before he gave the OK. After all, a world-famous writer, a future Nobel literary prizewinner, doesn’t want to be fixed up like some teenage kid. But the agent had handled guys like Osano before. Doran Rudd had fixed up a secretary of state, a President, the biggest evangelist in America who drew millions of believers to the Holy Tabernacle and was the horniest big-cocked son of a bitch in the world, so Doran said.
It was a pleasure to watch the agent smooth Osano’s ruffled ego. This wasn’t a Vegas operation, where girls were sent to your room like a pizza. This was class.
“I’ve got a really intelligent girl who’s dying to meet you,” Doran told Osano. “She’s read all your books. She thinks you’re the greatest writer in America. No shit. And she’s not one of your starlets. She has a psychology degree from the University of California, and she takes bit parts in movies so that she can make contacts to write a script. Just the girl for you.”
Of course, he didn’t fool Osano. Osano knew the joke was on him, that he was to be conned into what he really wanted. So he couldn’t resist saying as Doran picked up the phone, “That’s all very well, but do I get to fuck her?”
The agent was already dialing with a gold-headed pencil.
“You got a ninety percent chance,” he said.
Osano said quickly, “How do you get that figure?” He always did that whenever somebody pulled a statistic on him. He hated statistics. He even believed the New York Times made up its stock market quotations just because one of his IBM stocks had been listed at 295 and, when he tried to sell it, he could get only 290.
Doran was startled. He stopped dialing. “I sent her out with five guys since I’ve known her. Four of them scored.”
“That’s eighty percent,” Osano said. Doran started dialing again. When a voice answered, he leaned back in his swivel chair and gave us a wink. Then he went into his dance.
I admired it. I really admired it. He was so good. His voice was so warm, his laugh so infectious.
“Katherine,” the agent crooned. “My favorite, favorite client. Listen, I was talking to the director who’s going to make that western with Clint Eastwood. Would you believe he remembered you from that one interview last year? He said you gave the best reading of anybody, but he had to go with a name and after the picture he was sorry he did. Anyway, he wants to see you tomorrow at eleven or three. I’ll call you later to get the exact time. OK? Listen I have a really good feeling about this one. I think this is the big break. I think your time has come. No, no kidding.”
He listened for a while. “Yeah, yeah, I think you’d be great in that. Absolutely marvelous.” He rolled his eyes at us comically which made me dislike him. “Yeah, I’ll sound them out and get back to you. Hey, listen, guess who I’ve got in my office right now. Nope. Nope. Listen, it’s a writer. Osano. Yeah, no kidding. No, honest. Yes, he really is. And believe it or not he happened to mention you not by name, but we were talking about movies and he mentioned that part you did, that cameo role, in City Death. Isn’t that funny? Yeah, he’s a fan of yours. Yeah, I told him you love his work. Listen, I’ve got a great idea. I’m going out to dinner with him tonight, Chasen’s, why don’t you come beautify our table? Great. I’ll have a limo pick you up at eight. OK, sweetheart. You’re my baby. I know he’ll like you. He doesn’t want to meet any starlets. He doesn’t like the starlet type. He needs conversation and I just realized that you two were made for each other. Right, good-bye, honey.”
The agent hung up and leaned back and gave us his charming smile. “She’s really a nice cunt,” he said.
I could see Osano was a little depressed by the whole scene. He really liked women, and he hated to see them hustled. He often said he’d rather be hustled by a woman than hustle her. In fact, he once gave me his whole philosophy about being in love. How it was better to be the victim.
“Look at it this way,” Osano had said. “When you’re in love with a broad, you’re getting the best of it even though she’s hustling you. You’re the guy who’s feeling great, you’re the guy who’s enjoying every minute. She’s the one who’s having a lousy time. She’s working…you’re playing. So why complain when she finally dumps you and you know you’ve been conned?”
Well, his philosophy was put to the test that night. He got home before midnight and called my room and then came in for a drink to tell me what happened with Katherine. Katherine’s percentage for scores had gone down that night. She had been a charming vibrant little brunette and swarmed all over Osano. She loved him. She adored him. She was thrilled to death that she was having dinner with him. Doran got the message and disappeared after coffee. Osano and Katherine were having a final loosening-up bottle of champagne before going back to the hotel to get down to business. That’s when Osano’s luck turned bad, though he could still have bailed out if it hadn’t been for his ego.
What screwed it up was one of the most unusual actors in Hollywood. His name was Dickie Sanders, and he had won an Oscar and had been in six successful movies. What made him unique was that he was a dwarf. That’s not as bad as it sounds. He just missed being a very short man. And he was a very handsome guy, for a dwarf. You could say he was a miniature James Dean. He had the same sad, sweet smile which he used with devastating and calculated effect on women. They couldn’t resist him. And as Doran said later, all bullshit aside, what balling broad could resist going to bed with a handsome dwarf?
So when Dickie Sanders walked into the restaurant, it was no contest. He was alone and he stopped at their table to say hello to Katherine; it seemed they knew each other, she’d had a bit part in one of his movies. Anyway, Katherine adored him twice as much as she adored Osano. And Osano got so pissed off he left her with the dwarf and went back to the hotel alone.
“What a fucking town,” he said. “A guy like me loses out to a fucking dwarf.” He was really sore. His fame didn’t mean anything. The Nobel Prize coming didn’t mean anything. His Pulitzers and National Book Awards cut no ice. He came second to a dwarf actor, and he couldn’t stand it. I had to carry him to his room finally and pour him into his bed. My final words of consolation to him were: “Listen, he’s not a dwarf, he’s just a very short guy.”
– -
Next morning, when Osano and I got on that 747 to New York, he was still depressed. Not only because he’d brought Katherine’s average down, but because they’d botched the movie version of his book. He knew it was a lousy script, and he was right. So he was really in a bad mood on the plane and bullied a scotch off the stewardess even before takeoff.
We were in the very front seats near the bulkhead, and in the two Seats across the aisle were one of those middle-aged couples, very thin, very elegant. The man had a beaten-down, unhappy look on his face that was sort of appealing. You got the impression that he was living in a private hell, but one that he deserved. Deserved because of his outward arrogance, the richness of his dress, the spitefulness of his eyes. He was suffering, and by Christ he was going to make everybody else around him suffer too, if he thought they would stand for it.
His wife looked like the classic spoiled woman. She was obviously rich, richer than her husband, though possibly they were both rich. The stamp was on them in the way they took the menu from the stewardess. The way they glanced at Osano sipping his technically illegal drink.