“I want to fuck you,” he said. “And I know you’re ready to fuck me. But, would you still be willing if I close the show?”
“No,” I said, looking into his eyes.
He stared at me for a moment, then emptied his glass. Suddenly he smiled and patted my cheek. “I like you,” he said. “At least you’re honest.”
“Thank you,” I said. “What about the show?”
“I’m closing it. But I promise you this. If you write another play, bring it to me. We’ll take another crack at it.”
I rose to my feet. Suddenly I didn’t feel cheap anymore. “Thank you, Adolph,” I said. “You’re a gentleman.”
He held the door open for me. I bent my cheek for his good-night kiss, then went down to my room. There was no reason to see Guy.
The show closed in New Haven.
Chapter 17
“Modern furniture is a drug on the market,” the man said.
I didn’t reply. Every used-furniture dealer who had come to look at the apartment made the same remark.
“The rugs belong to you?” he asked.
I nodded.
He looked down disapprovingly. “White and beige. Bad colors. Hard to keep clean.” I had heard that before too.
The telephone rang. I answered, hoping that it was my new agent calling about an interview he was trying to arrange for me with an Italian producer.
It was the telephone company about their bill, which was already two months overdue. They were apologetic but said they would have to disconnect my service if a check was not in their office by the following morning. I told them it was in the mail and hung up. It wasn’t but it didn’t matter. By tomorrow I wouldn’t live here anymore.
The furniture dealer was coming out of the bedroom. “You moved some furniture out,” he said in an accusatory voice. “I could tell from the marks on the rug. And I didn’t see any silverware, dishes or pots and pans.”
“What you see is what’s for sale,” I said. I wondered if he thought I was going to live in a suitcase. The things I needed were already in the small studio apartment I had rented on the West Side.
“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “It’s tough merchandise to move.”
“It’s practically new. Only about a year old. And I bought the best. It cost me over nine thousand dollars.”
“You should have come to us,” he said. “We could have saved you a lot of money.”
“I didn’t know about you then.”
“That’s the trouble with people. They never learn until it’s too late.” He gestured toward the couch. “How much do you want for that?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“You’ll never get it.”
“Then make me an offer.”
“A thousand dollars.”
“Forget it,” I said, walking toward the door. “Thanks for coming up.”
“Wait, you got a better offer?”
“Yes. Much better.”
“How much better? A hundred, two hundred?”
I didn’t answer.
“If Hammersmith was here, he wouldn’t give you more than twelve hundred,” he said.
He knew the competition. That was exactly the amount I had been offered.
“I’ll take a chance,” he said. “I’ll give you thirteen hundred. That’s my top offer.”
“No, thanks,” I said, looking at him steadily, holding open the door.
He appraised the room again quickly. “How fast can I get the merchandise?”
“You can take it with you right now as far as I’m concerned.”
“This afternoon?”
“If you like.”
“No mortgages, no time payments due? It’s free and clear? You’ll sign a paper?”
“Yes.”
He let out a reluctant sigh. “My partner will think I’m crazy but I’ll give you fifteen hundred. And that’s absolutely my top offer.”
That was three hundred more than any offer I had received so far. And he was the fourth dealer I’d seen. “Cash,” I said. “Not a check.” A check wouldn’t clear my bank in time to cover the rent and deposit check I had issued for the new apartment.
“Of course,” he said.
“Sold,” I said, closing the door.
“Can I use your phone?” he asked. “I can have my truck in an hour if you’ll wait.”
“I’ll wait,” I said.
***
I made it to the bank just before three o’clock. After making the deposit I came out into the mild May afternoon and decided that since I hadn’t heard from my agent I would go to see him. On the bus I did some calculating. I figured that after paying all my bills I would have about eight hundred dollars left.
Lou Bradley’s noisy offices in the Brill Building were nothing like the elaborate offices of Artists Alliance.
And Lou wasn’t exactly the kind of agent I would have preferred but I didn’t have much choice. I had been to all the big ones—William Morris, A.F.A., C.M.A.—before coming to him. They were polite but not interested. It was as if I had suddenly become an untouchable. I tried to look at it realistically. After all, no one wanted to associate themselves with failure. And whether or not it was my fault, I had three good ones to my credit. Despite what John had told me, his brother had cut down on my part in the film, then there was the episode at Universal and, last but not least, the play.
It was the play that had hurt most, not only because it closed but because I began hearing all over town that Guy was dumping on me, saying that I had been uncooperative and had refused to make the changes he wanted. I tried to call him, convinced that I could make him stop, but I could never get him on the phone. Then after I had gotten back I received the notice from Artists Alliance canceling my contract.
I was bewildered. Harry Gregg had said nothing about it.
I picked up the phone and called him. His voice was guarded. “Yes?”
“There has to be a mistake,” I said. “I just got a notice that the office dropped my contract, and you never said anything about it.”
“That’s not my job,” he said. “That’s upstairs.”
“But you knew about it?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you say something? I thought you were my friend.”
“I am. But I also have a job here. I don’t mess in affairs that aren’t my concern.”
“But we talked about plans, things you were going to do,” I said. “And all the time you knew you weren’t going to do any of them.”
“What did you expect me to say? ‘Don’t bother me, baby, you’ve had it’?”
“You could have said something.”
“Okay. I’ll say it now. Don’t bother me, baby, you’ve had it.” The line went dead in my hands.
I was hurt and angry but I had no time for tears. I needed another agent and another job fast.
But I found neither quickly as I had hoped. The money from the last payment on the play had run out before I knew it. I guess my parents must have sensed something was wrong, because on my twenty-fifth birthday they sent me a check for twenty-five hundred dollars. Then I cried.
***
I had to wait half an hour for Lou to get off the phone. In that way he was no different from any other agent. They were all telephone freaks. Finally his secretary gave me the signal to go into his office.
He looked up at me, his eyes pale blue and watery in his thin face. “Hi, baby,” he said quickly. “I been thinkin’ about you. I haven’t been able to get the son of a bitch on the phone yet.” He yelled through the open door. “Hey, Shirley, try DaCosta again for me.”
Then his voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “I think he’s with the boys.”
I was puzzled. “Who?”
His voice went even lower. “You know who I mean. The boys. Big Frank. Joe. Where do you think those guinea producers get their money from?”
“You mean the rackets?” I asked.
“Shh!” he said quickly. “We don’t use that word around here. The boys are all good guys. Friends. You know what I mean.” The phone buzzed.
“Hey, Vincenzo,” he said jovially, “how’s it going?”
He listened for a moment, then spoke again. “That sounds real good. By the way, I got that girl I was talking to you about right here in my office and I was wondering if you could set an appointment to see her?”
He looked over at me and nodded into the phone. “Would I steer you wrong? She’s a real good looker, you know what I mean? Lots of experience. Broadway, films, Hollywood, everything.”
He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “He says he’s all tied up the next two days, then he’s going back to Italy. You free for dinner tonight?”
I hesitated.
“You don’t have to worry about this guy. He’s a perfect gentleman.”
I nodded. Even if I didn’t get the job, dinner out was better than eating a hamburger alone.
“She says she’s free,” he said into the phone, then covered the mouthpiece again. “He wants to know if you got a friend?”
I shook my head.
“She says she hasn’t. But don’t worry. I’ll send somebody up.” He nodded. “Gotcha. Eight o’clock. Your suite at the Saint Regis.”
“You’re lucky,” he said solemnly as he put down the phone. “A guy like him don’t usually go out of his way to see anybody. He’s got his pick of all them Italian actresses. Loren, Lollobrigida, Mangano. Only trouble is their English ain’t no good.”
“What kind of a part is it?” I asked.
“How the hell do I know? You don’t ask foreign producers and directors for a script. They would think you were crazy or something. Half these guys make their pictures with no script at all. An’ they win all the awards.”
“Maybe I’m not the type he’s looking for,” I said.
“You’re American, aren’t you?”
I nodded again.
“You’re an actress?”
I nodded again.
“Then you’re perfect for the part. Exactly what he asked me for. An American actress.” He got to his feet and, taking my arm, steered me to the door. “Now you go home, take a hot bath and make yourself up real pretty. Wear a long sexy dress. These guys wear black tie for dinner every night.”
He held open the door to the outer hall. “Don’t forget. Eight o’clock at his suite in the Saint Regis. Don’t be late. These guys are very prompt.”
“Okay,” I said. “But you forgot one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“To tell me his name.”
“Oh. DaCosta. Vincent DaCosta.”
DaCosta. The name was vaguely familiar but I couldn’t recall where I had heard it before.
Chapter 18
As I walked down the carpeted corridor to the suite, the shouting grew louder. The noise was vulgar in the faded gentility of the Saint Regis halls. I stopped in front of the double doors and knocked at the wooden panels. The shouting continued. I could hear a woman’s voice. But I couldn’t understand what she was saying because she was speaking Italian. Thinking that they hadn’t heard me, I knocked again.
The door was opened almost immediately by a tall, good-looking, dark-haired young man dressed in a conservative dark suit, white on white shirt and white tie. There was no sign that he was expecting anyone.
“Mr. DaCosta?” I asked.
He nodded.
“JeriLee Randall,” I said. “Mr. Bradley asked me to be here at eight o’clock.”
His face cleared. “Luigi sent you.” He smiled suddenly, revealing white even teeth. “Come in.” There was no trace of accent in his English.
I followed him through the small entrance hall into the large living room. There were two men sitting on the couch, but they didn’t glance in my direction. They were looking up at the woman in the flimsy short chemise who was shouting at the bald older man.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, not knowing whether or not to enter. Suddenly I recognized the woman. Carla Maria Perino. Just two years before, she had won an Academy Award for her performance in
Remnants of a War
. Then I recognized the bald man on the couch. It was her husband, Gino Paoluzzi, who had produced and directed the film.
Suddenly Paoluzzi’s eyes glittered and he rose to his feet. He was a head shorter than she but there was a strange sense of power in him that made him seem larger than anyone in the room. His hand moved swiftly. There was the sharp sound of the slap across her face and the harsh guttural sound of his voice. “
Putana!
”
Abruptly she was silent, then she dissolved in tears. He turned away from her and crossed the room toward me. The other man rose from the couch and followed him.
DaCosta came between us. “This is Mr. Paoluzzi, the famous director,” he said to me. “He doesn’t speak any English.” He looked at the director. “
Io presento JeriLee Randall.
”
Paoluzzi smiled and I held out my hand. He gave a short half bow and kissed my hand in such a way that his lips seemed to brush on his own hand, which covered mine.
Looking at me, Da Costa snapped his finger. “I know you!” he said excitedly. “Didn’t you get a Tony award about five years ago?”
I nodded.
“I saw that play. You were fantastic.” He turned to Paoluzzi and began to speak rapidly in Italian. I could pick up only a few words. Broadway. Tony, Walter Thornton.
Paoluzzi nodded and looked at me with an expression of respect. He said something in Italian.
DaCosta translated. “The Maestro says that he has heard of you. He is honored to meet you.”
“Thank you.”
DaCosta introduce the other man, who was tall, gray-haired and paunchy. “Piero Guercio.”
Again the strange hand kiss. “How do you do,” he said in a strongly accented English.
“Signor Guercio is the Maestro’s consigliere,” DaCosta said. He saw the puzzled expression on my face. “Lawyer,” he added.
“Gino.” Her voice was a small plaintive cry.
It was almost as if they had forgotten that she was in the room. Her husband said something to her. She nodded her head and looked at me appraisingly.
Paoluzzi spoke again. This time I gathered he was telling her about me. After a moment she came toward us. “
Mia sposa
,” he said to me.
We shook hands. I was surprised at the strength in her slim fingers. I turned to DaCosta. “Tell her I’m a fan. I loved her performance in the film.”
DaCosta translated and she smiled, “
Grazie
.” Then she left the room.
“She was upset because the maid burned a hole in her dress while she was ironing it,” DaCosta explained to me.
If that was all it took to bring on an outburst like that, I wouldn’t have wanted to be around when something really went wrong.