Live Girls (7 page)

Davey's head rose slowly, and he looked at Chad.

“Miss Schuman said she would like to see you as soon as possible. In her office.” He frowned. “You know, you really don't look well.” He hurried down the corridor.

Davey turned back to Casey, massaging his neck. “Well, you can't say my life isn't consistent."

Casey clenched her teeth. Giving Fritz's job to Chad Wilkes instead of Davey was a low blow from Miss Schuman. Davey had been at Penn longer than Chad and he did much better work.

“Look, Davey,” she said, going to him and kneading the tense muscle in his shoulder with one hand, “Chad is a talentless slug who just happens to be a consummate ass-kisser, and we all know how much ass good old Miss Schuman has to kiss, don't we?"

He nodded slightly.

“I've said it before, Davey, and I'll probably have to say it again and again: you should leave this dump. You're better than this, you're being wasted here. If you're going to stay, you're just going to have to be as much of an asshole as Chad to get anywhere."

“Oh, c'mon, Casey,” he said, standing. “Who's gonna take me?” He dumped his coffee in the sink. “I've been working
this
long at Penn Publishing
—
which, as I'm sure you know, is not exactly a point in my favor as far as everybody else in this business is concerned
—
and I'm still only an editorial assistant, for Christ's sake! If I can't get anywhere
here
, what good will it do to go somewhere else?"

Casey was surprised at the anger in his voice; he so seldom showed any. She noticed that his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. When he turned to her again, standing just inside the door, his face was shining with perspiration.

“I suppose I should go see what she wants,” he said, so quietly it was nearly a whisper.

“Wait, Davey. Why don't we get together tonight? There's a great old Karloff-Lugosi flick on TV. I can come over to your place with munchies and booze. We can get shit-faced. It'll be better than sitting home alone brooding, right?” He started to speak and she could tell by the look on his face that he was going to say no, but she didn't want him to. She went on quickly, before he could reply: “And if you're
really
good, maybe I'll even give you a hand job."

He laughed and shook his head. “Okay,” he said finally. “How can I turn that down?"

“Great. We'll have fun."

His face was drawn again.

“Anything else wrong, Davey?” she asked. “Besides Beth?"

After a moment, he shook his head. Casey did not believe him.

“Gotta go,” he said.

“Okay. Give that city block we work for a kick in the teeth for me, willya?” she said in a stage whisper.

Davey tried to hurry down the corridor without looking hurried. He couldn't go see Miss Schuman yet; he was a mess. He was sweaty and sticky; he could still feel the wetness trickling down the insides of his thighs. He was glad he was wearing dark pants.

He had to make an effort to avoid limping; something between his legs was stinging him, making it difficult to walk steadily.

He went out front, past Tammy's desk, around the corner to the rest room. He stepped into the far stall and locked the door, experiencing a shiver of
déjà-vu
in the small rectangular compartment, thinking again of the woman behind the smudged glass ....

Davey opened his overcoat, dropped his pants, and fell back against the door of the stall, his head spinning as be stared down at himself.

His white briefs were soaked with a sticky reddish brown. Spots of it glistened in the darkness of his pubic hair and were smeared on the right side of his penis.

“Dear Jesus,” Davey breathed, “I'm bleeding."

When he returned to his cubicle, Davey had to sit quietly for a moment at his desk to calm down. He stared at his hands, watched them tremble like leaves in a breeze.

He'd cleaned himself up, washed thoroughly and clumsily in the stall with soap and water from the rest-room sink. Beneath the blood, he'd found two scratches on the side of his penis. They had barely broken the skin above the vein that was visible along the side of the shaft. He'd cut himself. Pulling his pants back up, he'd hissed curses at himself for being so stupid earlier, for sliding his cock through that rough-edged hole in the wall of the booth.

Davey had had to sit on the toilet seat for some time. He'd buried his face in his hands and prayed that he hadn't picked up some God-awful disease.

Standing in front of the mirror before he left the rest room, he'd realized that Chad Wilkes was right; he did not look well. He'd rubbed his pasty cheeks, trying to work up a little color in them. He'd washed his face with cold water, run his fingers through his hair. Staring into the mirror, he could see her, almost as if she were superimposed over his reflection, smiling up at him with her deep welcoming eyes that seemed to pull him slowly, powerfully, toward her, toward those dark, candy lips that had felt so good on him, sooo cooool and smooth and comforting ....

He'd started suddenly, and thought impatiently,
I've got to get some sleep
.

Now he stood, steeled himself for his talk with Miss Schuman, and started down the hall.

He tried to think confidently, tried to tell himself that he was going to be very firm about her unfairness in giving Fritz's job to Chad.

Jasmine Barny, Miss Schuman's secretary, sat behind her desk in the outer office, talking on the phone. She was a small young black woman with a very large smile that never quite went away. Standing before her desk, Davey suddenly felt very dizzy. He grabbed the edge of Jasmine's desk to keep from hitting the floor.

Jasmine hung up the phone and looked at him with concern. “Are you okay, Davey?” she asked, standing.

“Yeah, yeah, I think so,” he said quietly, straightening up as the sensation began to fade. “Sit down, I'm fine."

“You sure? You don't look so good."

He took a deep breath and smiled. “Yeah, I'm fine. I just haven't eaten today. Is she in?"

“Yes,” Jasmine said uncertainly, watching him carefully as he moved around her desk. “She's expecting you. Go on in."

As usual, Miss Schuman sat behind her desk, seeming to be in competition with its size, smoking a cigarillo, scanning a paper she held before her in one thick-fingered hand.

“Miss Schuman?” Davey said.

“Ah.” She put the paper down and took a drag on the cigarillo, motioning for him to come toward her. “Come."

Davey stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“Sit,” she said, waving her hand toward a rusty-red vinyl-covered chair that faced her. She wore a bracelet with several silver seashell-shaped charms that dangled and clinked loudly when she moved.

Davey sat and crossed one leg over the other.

Miss Schuman reached over to an ugly wooden box filled with cigarillos on the corner of her desk and offered it to Davey. “Smoke?"

“No, thank you."

“That's right,” she said, “you don't smoke.” She leaned back in her chair and it squeaked painfully under her considerable weight. She was wearing one of her tentlike dresses that fell in folds around her huge upper arms and mountainous breasts. This one swirled with black and red and had a small red bow at the collar where her breasts just began to press together into deep cleavage. Large red beads were strung around her neck and little black cubes dangled from her ears beneath her curly, stiff, salt-and-pepper hair. Her glistening red lips smiled at Davey, pushing her fleshy cheeks up until they almost obliterated her eyes.

“You wanted to see me?” Davey asked.

“Yes,” she said abruptly, her smile disappearing. She took another drag on her cigarillo and exhaled smoke as she continued. “I think it's about time we had a talk.
Another
talk, I should say, since this isn't a new issue.” She leaned forward, not without effort, and tapped her finger on a notepad before her. “I want to talk to you about these stories you've been recommending to our editors. Like the one about...” She lifted the notepad and looked over it briefly. “...about the family who loses their son to a, uh...” Another peek at the pad. “...to a ‘gun-cleaning accident.'” She looked at Davey silently, waiting for him to respond.

“Well,” he said, wondering whether he should be honest or tell her something she wanted to hear. He decided to be honest. “I really thought it was an important story. And well written."

“Come
on
now, Owen,” she said quietly. “That is a pro-gun control story you gave to Max. How many times do I have to tell you that is
not
what our readers want to read. We leave all that stuff to Phil Donahue. We publish action-adventure magazines, vigilante magazines, war magazines. In our business, Owen,
guns
are more important than
people
. We are read by people who have seen
Rambo
fifty-seven times and who tap-dance on the throats of those who support gun laws. If we were to print that story you recommended, they would storm this building and beat us all within an inch of our lives. If we were lucky."

“Well, maybe so,” Davey said quickly, sitting forward in his chair, “but the truth is
—
"

“The truth is, Owen, that you are not doing your job. You're doing
a
job, but I'm afraid it's not the one you're supposed to be doing.” She took a long drag on the cigarillo, sat back in her chair, and closed her eyes a moment. When she spoke, she gestured with her hand, leaving a swirl of smoke behind the cigarillo. “Your job, Owen, is to toss this stuff out, do you understand me? You may be a pacifist, and your tastes may lean toward literature of a more intellectually stimulating nature. America is, however, a country of armchair warriors, and those are the people to whom Penn sells magazines. We want gunfire, explosions, war, violence, mayhem. For our female readers, we want stories about handsome men and beautiful women with fascinating careers who meet, fall in love, and have no cares or worries except whether to spend the weekend in Paris or Rome and what they should wear.” She looked again at the pad before her and continued, her tone exasperated, “Two weeks ago you turned in a story about an aging magician who falls in love with a young blind girl. For Christ's
sake
, Owen, this is
not
what we
want
, don't you
know
that by now?"

Davey uncrossed his legs and shifted his position in the chair, trying not to sound off the way he wanted to.

Your lack of spine, Davey. You have no spine.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I understand. And I'll, um, I'll try to keep that in mind."

“Good. Now, like I said, we had this talk last year. I would be very pleased if, next year, or a few months from now, we don't have to have it again. Because if we do, Owen, we aren't going to, do you understand me?"

You have no spine.

He exhaled his reply: “Yes."

She smiled again, pooching up her cheeks. “Good. Now. Unless you have any questions, that's all I wanted to say."

Davey stood. “No. No questions."

“All right.” Puff. “Thank you for coming in."

“Sure.” He tried to smile as he stood, but failed. He turned and started toward the door.

“Owen?"

He stopped. “Hm?"

Miss Schuman frowned as she stamped her cigarillo out in a big brass ashtray to her right. “You feel all right? You look pretty pale."

“I feel ... yeah, I feel fine."

She removed another cigarillo from the box and stuck it between her lips. “Are you eating right?” she asked, producing a butane lighter from somewhere in the folds of her billowy dress. “You know, your body might be trying to tell you something. You should pay attention to your body, Owen.” She flicked the lighter and held the flame to the tip of her cigarillo. “It's not a bad one,” she added with a sly smile, “you should take good care of it.” She exhaled and waved smoke at Davey. “I've got a diet at home you might like to try. Maybe I'll bring it in tomorrow. Or maybe you'd like to come over to my apartment some time and I can show it to you."

Davey said nothing as he reached for the doorknob. Chad Wilkes's smug smile flashed behind his eyes.

“I do have one question, Miss Schuman."

“What's that, Owen?"

“Well ... Fritz's old job? I understand you gave it to Chad Wilkes."

She sniffed. “That's right."

“Well, you know, Miss Schuman, I've been here for quite a while now. I hope to stay in this business. Make advances. I thought that, by now, I would've moved up a little here at Penn. I thought that I would be considered for that job."