He led Robin to the longest Cadillac he had ever seen.
“Like it?” Dip asked proudly.
“It sure as hell is impressive,” Robin answered.
“Custom-made: the only gold convertible in town. I mean real gold—this is twenty-two-karat paint, and the leather is gold kid. It’s part of the image I’m building. The golden man—gold hair, gold car. The leather alone cost me two G’s.”
The car eased down the lane. Dip headed down Sunset Boulevard. “You got any special plans?”
Robin smiled. “Just the midnight plane back to New York.”
“A guy like you must feel out of place in this town.”
“A guy like me certainly does.”
“It’s just a matter of being a winner, then you’re secure even in Bombay. My old lady taught me that. She died in the motion picture relief home.”
“I’m sorry.”
Dip waved his hand. “Look, she never had it so good. I hadn’t made it yet, so we had no choice. But it’s a great setup. They have their own cottages, they sit around and talk shop. She was an extra; my old man was a stunt man for Fred Thompson and Tom Mix. One of the best. That was before I was born. He taught me to ride. He got killed on a stunt and my mother was stuck supporting me. And she wasn’t young. I was a change-of-life kid. They say they’re always brighter. Would you believe it—I never went to high school?”
“It hasn’t seemed to hurt you,” Robin said.
“Sometimes I miss it, like when I’m not sure about my English. Scripts are fine, they’re all written … but those interviews—I know I murder the English because sometimes the interviewers think I’m putting them on and they tell me to stop with the cowboy twang.”
“You can cut off at the next turn and drop me at the Beverly Hills Hotel, if it’s not out of your way,” Robin said.
“What’s your rush? It’s only seven o’clock. Or have you something lined up?”
“No, but I’m sure you have.”
Dip grinned. “You bet I have! We’re going to catch my girl—she sings in a place on the Strip. Wait till you see her, she’s only nineteen and all woman.”
“Won’t I be butting in?”
“Nah. Besides, I want you to remember your one night in Hollywood. I know how you felt at that party. I once was on the outside looking in. And no one helped me. It was so bad I just stood and talked to the piano player. I stood there so long that someone asked me to sing. They thought I was part of the combo. When I saw you tonight I thought, There’s a guy who’s lost, and I, Dip Nelson, I’m Mr. Big—I am the action. And I figured I wasn’t going to be like all the crumbs who were part of the action when I was nobody. I was damned if I’d dress up that bitch Amanda’s party. I had to put in an appearance for Ike Ryan. So I showed, and blowed. But at least I’ll show you a little fun.”
“Well, you’ve more than done your bit,” Robin said. “There’s no reason to entertain me the rest of the evening. That’s going beyond the call of duty.”
“Nah, what the hell. I’d be sitting alone while Pauli sang anyway. She’s in this lousy joint, but she belts out a song better than Garland or anyone you ever heard. She’ll make it, you’ll see. Only I got to give her some class first. She’s real basic. She was a virgin when I met her, there’s no one in her life but me. But we can’t get married until I have three hot pictures under my belt. See, I’m today’s sensation, but only with one picture. The next two will tell the story. And when they click, I can marry Pauli. No studio will be able to tell me what to do. And meanwhile I can smooth out some of her rough edges. I’m not apologizing for
her—she’s all talent and heart. Wait till you see her, you’ll dig.”
He slid the car up to a small restaurant. “She only makes seventy-five clams a week, but at least they let her sing what she wants to, and she doesn’t have to mix with the customers.”
The owner greeted Dip effusively and led him to a banquet table along the wall. The place was half filled. Men sat in sport shirts, most of the girls wore slacks. There were about twenty people at the bar, mostly beer customers.
“She goes on in about ten minutes, then she’ll join us.” He saw Robin glance at his watch. “You sure you haven’t got a date tonight?”
“No, it’s just that I have to check out of my hotel.”
“I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.”
Dip flashed a big grin. “When I go, pal, I go all the way. Say, what’s your racket in New York—advertising agency you said, huh?”
“No. I’m with International Broadcasting.”
“The only thing I watch on TV is the movies. I figure I can learn from them. What do you do at IBC?”
“News.”
“You a researcher or something? You write?”
“At times.”
“I bet you went to college, huh?”
Robin smiled. “Does it show?”
“Yeah, you carry yourself pretty good. But college—that’s a time waster, unless you want to be a lawyer or a doctor. I want to be a superstar! God, I can taste it, I want it so bad. I want to be able to tell everyone to go fuck themselves!”
“What about Pauli?”
“She’s with me all the way, old buddy. And when we get married, if she just wants to be a wife and no career, hell, I won’t push her. She’s loaded with talent. But all she wants is to marry me and have a lot of babies. What about you—I guess you have a wife and a couple of kids?”
“No.”
“Just a girl you’re hung on to?”
“No, not even that.”
Dip looked at him suddenly. “How come? Hey, you’re straight, aren’t you?”
Robin laughed outright. “I think women are wonderful.”
“Then what’s your hangup? I mean, at your age you should be married and have kids. Now me, I’m only twenty-six.”
Robin’s grin disconcerted him.
“Okay—so I’m thirty-one. But I can get by for twenty-six, can’t I?”
“In the Hollywood light.”
“Say, that’s good. How old are you?”
“Forty in August.”
“And no marriage ever?”
“Nope.”
“And no serious girl?”
“I had one, but she got engaged.”
Dip shook his head sympathetically. “Hit you hard, I bet. It’s rough to find a real girl—especially out here. Every dame is out for number one.”
“And you’re not?” Robin asked.
Dip looked hurt. “You’re goddam right, I am. But have I crapped you on
one
thing? I only pull the act when it’s for my career. But when I’m with people I like, I level.”
“And you like me?”
“Yeah, I guess I do. Say, I don’t even know your name.”
“Robin Stone.”
Dip looked at him suspiciously. “You’re sure you’re not light on your feet? Look, if you are, Pauli will spot it in a second. She can spot a fag a mile away.” Suddenly he punched Robin’s arm. “She’s coming on now. Wait till you see this explosion of talent!”
Robin leaned forward as the slim young girl came into the spotlight. She had red curly hair and he guessed by the freckles on her shoulders that it was natural. Her nose was short and almost comically upturned. Her mouth was large, her eyes saucer-wide and innocently blue. But when she sang, he was disappointed. Her voice was true, but she was ordinary. A garbled imitation of Garland and Lena. He had heard a hundred girls like Pauli, only they were better-looking. The only time she held his attention was with her takeoff on Carol Channing. Then she came
to life—she had a definite comic flair. Her set ended to scattered applause and wild whistling from Dip. He thumped Robin on the back. “Now I ask you—is she beautiful? Has she got class? Turns the whole joint into the Waldorf the minute she steps onstage!”
Both men stood up as the girl came to the table. “This is my fiancée, Pauli. Pauli, say hello to Robin.”
She smiled slightly and sat down. Then she looked at Robin curiously.
“He’s from New York,” Dip said quickly.
“Oh, listen, Dip, your press agent wants you to call him as soon as you come in,” Pauli said, without listening.
Dip got up. “You two talk. Robin’s at IBC.”
Pauli watched him as he left the table. Then she turned to Robin. “What are you doing with Dip?”
“We met at a party.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s a guy in mechanics got in common with Dip?”
“Mechanics?”
“Didn’t he say you worked with IBM?”
“IBC: International Broadcasting.”
“Oh. Say, have you any pull to get me a guest shot on the Chris Lane show?” He decided he didn’t like her, but he owed it to Dip. “Yes, I might be able to swing it.”
Her eyes lit up. “Honest—could you really?” Then she looked suspicious. “What do you do at IBC?”
“The news.”
“Like Huntley and Brinkley?”
“In a way.”
“Then how come I never heard of you? I watch the seven o’clock news a lot. I know who Walter Cronkite is, but not you.”
He smiled. “You’ve ruined my whole evening.”
“How can you get me on
The Christie Lane Show?”
“I can ask him.”
Her stare was calculative. Then on the wild chance that he might be leveling, the saucer eyes went soft. “If you’d ask him, I mean, if you’d swing it, I’d—well, I’d do anything to get on that show.”
“Anything?” Robin smiled and held her eyes.
Her stare was level. “Yes, if that’s what you want.”
“And what do you want?”
“To blow this crumb joint.”
“Dip will arrange that eventually.”
She shrugged. “Look, you just met him. I mean, you and him aren’t buddy-buddy, because I never heard him mention you before.”
“You’re batting a thousand.”
“Well, look, just between the two of us”—her voice lowered—“Laurence Olivier he’s not. So he’s handsome, but he has no talent. So far he’s been lucky.”
“I gathered from Dip that you had no ambitions—just wanted to get married and make babies.”
She waved her hand in disgust. “Would any girl in her right mind stand up here and sing to these crumbs three times a night if she didn’t know she was going to make it big? I
know
I’ve got it.”
“Where does Dip fit in?”
“I dig him. I really do. I gave him my virginity. Honest to God. I was pure when we met. But I know Dip. He lives and breathes his career. He wouldn’t last two minutes with a girl who had her own interest at heart. He wants to be the big shot all the way. So I pretend I’m nothing. Most of the time I sit and listen to how great things are going for him. And I’m burning inside me because I know
I’m
the one who’s great. And there he is, going to the top because of his looks. That’s all he has. Not a brain in his head.”
“He wants to help you. He told me so,” Robin said.
“Yeah, he talks. But words are cheap. Look—about the Chris Lane show, can you arrange it?”
“If I do, will you be grateful?”
“Mister—I take it you got a wife?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, you get me on the Chris Lane show and anytime, anyplace, you just snap your fingers and I’ll be there. I pay off—I got a big sense of honor.” He reached for a cigarette. She picked up the matches and lit it for him. She leaned across and said, “Well, is it a deal?”
He smiled. “You know, you little bitch,” he said softly, “it would almost be worth it—for Dip’s sake.”
“I don’t get it.”
Robin’s grin was easy. He kept his voice even. “You’re right about one thing: Dip hasn’t a brain in his head, or else he would have seen through you. He thinks you’re an angel. But you’re a broad. No, not even a broad—you’re a rough, no-talent cunt.”
He stood up and smiled. His quiet calm seemed to infuriate her. “If you think I’m scared you’ll tell Dip all these things, forget it. You open your stinking mouth and I’ll tell him you made a pass at me.”
“Tell Dip I got a phone call.” He put down a ten-dollar bill.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“I think the going rate for a call girl is a hundred. Take this as a down payment. I think you’re on your way.” He walked out of the club.
SIXTEEN
C
HRISTIE LANE FINISHED THE SHOW
the first week in June. He left for New York the following day.
On July fourth Amanda and Ike were married in Las Vegas. The front pages of all the tabloids featured pictures of the wedding—Amanda and Ike surrounded by several stars who were playing Vegas. They were flying to Europe for a honeymoon.
Chris held a wake in his suite at the Astor Hotel. Eddie, Kenny, and Agnes sat with him. He paced up and down. He cried. He talked: “God, if only I could get drunk. But I don’t like booze.”