“No.”
“Customers look different, too,” Clayton added.
Corman nodded.
“But they’re customers, all right,” Clayton said. “Do you know why? Because they need an up, a thrill.” He gave Corman a long, penetrating glance. “But why they need it, that’s a separate question.”
Corman felt obligated to bite the hook. “Why do they need it?”
“Because the deepest thing any of them have ever experienced is a dose of aggravation,” Clayton answered matter-of-factly.
Corman laughed.
“I’m serious,” Clayton insisted. “Listen, aggravation is the only really safe form of excitement left on the Upper East Side.”
Corman glanced about. Everywhere around him, people were laughing, talking, showing off their clothes. They looked no different than most people of means, and long ago Corman had come up with the simple nightmare truth that if a camera followed anyone around for twenty-four hours, that person would look ridiculous, no matter who he was. Pope. General. Average guy. All in the same boat. Ridiculous because no one ever fully appreciated how small he was. Only the camera appreciated that.
Clayton leaned over toward him. “Take it from someone who knows, Corman, these are the only really worthless people in the world. They don’t have power like the rich. They don’t run things. And they don’t have any purpose, like the working people do. They don’t make anything. Their whole lives, not so much as a goddamn doorknob.” He laughed. “You know what they produce, Corman? Self-esteem. It’s the basic goal of their whole productive process.”
Corman nodded silently.
Clayton turned away from him, watched the bar for a moment, then returned to him. “Were you in the war?”
“No.”
“Too young for it?” Clayton asked.
“I’m thirty-five.”
“Yeah,” Clayton said. “You just missed it.” He shook his head. “I did two tours as a combat reporter. What I saw every day, you can’t even imagine. Not in your worst nightmare. A real shit-storm.” He looked at the crowd and laughed under his breath. “Sometimes, I feel like calling down some NVA fire on a place like this. Just a little strafing run down Third Avenue on a Saturday night, give these people a taste of how little they’re made of.”
Corman allowed himself a quick, nervous little laugh.
Clayton’s eyes shot over to him. “Don’t suck up to me,” he snapped.
“Was I doing that?”
“You’ve been doing it all afternoon.”
Corman shook his head wearily. “Christ.”
Clayton smiled. “That’s what we all hate, right?” he said. “How much we have to swallow, just to get by.”
Corman said nothing.
Clayton eyed him intently. “What do you want from me?”
“I was hoping to do a good job.”
“Why?” Clayton said. “And hey, don’t tell me it’s because you love your goddamn craft.”
Corman looked at him squarely. “But I do.”
“Maybe the streets,” Clayton said. “But wedding receptions? Bullshit. It’s something else. What?”
“I need a job.”
“Groton’s job?”
“Yes.”
“What was wrong with Groton?” Clayton asked bluntly. “Is he finally wearing down?”
Corman decided not to lie. “He’s dying.”
Clayton didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He glanced about restlessly, his eyes shooting from one knot of people to the next. “That’s the real tragedy,” he said. “To think you know so fucking much, when you know absolutely nothing.” He looked back at Corman. “So, you’re tired of free-lancing?”
“I’m having a few problems,” Corman said.
“Like what?”
“Money.”
Clayton looked surprised. “Money? There’s just yourself, right?”
“I have a daughter.”
Clayton nodded. “Oh. Well, that puts a different spin on it.”
“Yeah.”
“With a kid, you need something steady.”
“It would help.”
They sat silently together for a few more minutes, then paid the check and walked out. The rain had stopped. Clayton kept his umbrella tightly beneath his arm as the two of them walked west, along the almost deserted crosstown streets.
“I’ll get a cab here,” Clayton said when they reached Fifth Avenue. “You need a lift?”
“I think I’ll walk,” Corman said.
Clayton stepped off the curb and lifted his arm as a wave of headlights rushed toward him from up the avenue. A taxi swerved out of the traffic, stopped and waited as Clayton got in. “Say hi to your kid,” he said quickly as he ducked inside.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
IT HAD BEGUN to rain again by the time Corman reached Seventh Avenue, only harder this time, with gusts of wind driving the thick gray drops against the lighted windows. At first, he tried to go on despite it, then gave up and ducked under the doorway of a small coffee shop to wait it out.
He’d expected it to trail off almost immediately, but for several minutes the rain continued to fall in long wet sheets. Across the street, he could see another small restaurant. It had a French name and a dark-blue awning. From time to time people moved in and out of it, huddled briefly under the awning, then either signaled for a cab or rushed down the street, shoulders hunched beneath their umbrellas.
Corman took out his camera, stepped back into the shadows slightly and began taking pictures. He was still taking them when a large, well-dressed man came out, a woman holding tightly to his arm. The man was laughing, his face was so bright and youthful that for an instant, Corman didn’t realize it was Edgar. When he did, he shrank back quickly, put away his camera and pulled his hat down over his face.
Edgar gave the woman a long, lingering kiss, then stepped out from under the awning and hailed a cab. The woman rushed over to it when it stopped, kissed Edgar again and got inside. Her hand shot out the window and waved back at him as the cab lurched forward and pulled away.
For a few seconds, Edgar lingered on the sidewalk, smiling sweetly as he watched the cab move away from him. Then he turned back toward Seventh Avenue, his eyes sweeping the opposite street until they stopped, hung like two frozen circles in the air.
Corman nodded but did not move toward him.
Edgar stood stiffly, his arms at his sides, the rain pelting him mercilessly. He seemed unable to move, as if his indiscretion had suddenly encased him solidly within a tomb of ice. For a few more seconds he stared into Corman’s face with a calculating intensity, then walked quickly across the street and joined him in the cramped doorway.
“No bullshit story, David,” he said determinedly. “You won’t get anything like that from me.”
Corman said nothing.
“I don’t know what shook me up there for a minute,” Edgar added. “I mean, it’s an old story, right?”
Corman waved his hand. “Forget it, Edgar.”
Edgar shook his head. “No, I don’t want to do that,” he said. “I don’t want to forget it.” He drew in a long, slow breath. “I’m tired of keeping everything to myself. It can kill you, doing that.” He paused a moment, as if to gather the whole story together in his mind, then went on. “I’ve known her for five years. It’s not just some little trinket on the side. It’s better than that.”
“Edgar … ”
He put up his hand. “Love makes it better, that’s what I’m telling you.” He seemed embarrassed by his own statement. “I’m no philosopher, not like Victor, with big ideas to justify every fucking thing he does. I don’t know if love makes it okay. I’m not saying that. But I know it makes it better.”