“Worse. If I didn’t have a contract for three more pictures, I’d be out of the business. It won’t even get a first-run release—they’ll open it at the showcase theaters.”
“Anyone can do one bad picture.”
She nodded. “I have a chance to bail out with the next. Adam Bergman is directing it.”
“He’s excellent.”
“He sure is. He even makes me look like an actress.”
“What’s the hitch?”
“He won’t give me the picture unless I marry him.”
He was silent.
“I’m going to refuse. Oh, don’t look guilty. I refused him before last Christmas.” Then her eyes blazed as she turned to him. “Yes, maybe you
should
feel guilty. You son of a bitch! You’ve ruined it for me with any man.”
His grin was easy. “Come on, now, I’m not that wonderful.”
“You’re
damn
right you’re not. It’s me—just like you said, I’m a nut. Anyway I’ve been going to a shrink and I’ve just learned that I like myself.”
“A shrink? But what’s liking yourself got to do with marrying Adam?”
“I refuse to slip into a Hollywood-type marriage, at least the kind Adam wants. When I lived with him on the beach, I found myself doing things I never believed I’d do. Funny, isn’t it? When I’m on the couch, I say, ‘Where did everyone go? Where is the Maggie who lived in Philadelphia and loved and hoped? This girl doing the crazy things, she isn’t me—’ “
“What sent you to the couch?”
“The fire. When I realized that people could have been killed, it terrified me.”
“Well, I’ve got a brand-new bed,” he said. “With an asbestos bedspread.” He took her to Dominick’s for dinner, then they went back to the Melton Towers. He spent three days viewing tapes, and three nights making love to Maggie. The day he was to leave, they met at the Polo Lounge for a drink. She handed him a little box. “Open it,” she said. “It’s a present.”
He stared at the little gold ring in the velvet box. “What is it? It looks like a tiny gold tennis racket.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “It’s an ankh.”
“A what?”
“It’s an Egyptian tau symbol—Cleopatra carried one. It means enduring life and generation. And that’s you!
You
endure—no girl can forget you, and I think you’ll go on and on. It’s a sex symbol to me, eternal sex.” She slid it onto his little finger. “Slim and bright and beautiful, isn’t it? Just like you, Mr. Stone. And I want you to wear it. In a way I’m branding you. Of course you’ll toss it away as soon as you leave me—but I’m going to pretend you’re wearing it, and every girl will look at it and ask what it means. Maybe you’ll have guts enough to tell them.”
“I never wear jewelry,” he said slowly. “Half the time I don’t even wear a watch. But I’ll wear it, I really will.”
“You know something?” she said slowly. “I’ve heard of love-hate relationships, but I never knew what they meant till I knew you.”
“You don’t hate me. And you don’t love me.”
“I do love you,” she said quietly. “And I hate you for making me love you.”
“How long have you got until you start the next picture?”
“Ten days.”
“Come back to New York with me.”
For a flash her eyes brightened. “You mean that? You
really
want me to come?”
“Sure. I have my own private jet, courtesy of IBC. There’s even a bed on the plane—we can hump our way across the country.”
She was silent.
“Come on, Maggie. We’ll catch all the shows, even go out to the Hamptons if the weather is mild enough. Can you get away?”
“Robin, I’d dump my whole career if I thought you
needed
me. I’m not even talking about marriage. I’m talking about needing. God, I’d follow you anywhere.”
He looked at her oddly. “Who said anything about needing? I asked you to come to New York. I thought a change of scene might do you good.”
“Oh, a little pleasure junket?”
“That’s what life is about, baby.”
She stood up with such force that the drink spilled on the table. “I think I’ve just about had it with you. Oh I don’t say I won’t take your call when you come back. I’ll probably even fall into bed with you. Because I’m sick. But my shrink will straighten me out, and one day you’ll need
me
—only I won’t be there!”
His eyes went cold. “I think you’ve got it all wrong, baby.
I
don’t need anyone. But maybe you need Adam Bergman. It’s a cinch you need him to help you make a decent picture.”
She leaned over and looked into his eyes. “To use a phrase from my newly developed show-business vocabulary, Mr. Stone, I
dig
you—oh Jesus, how I dig you—but you’re the prize shit of them all!”
Then she walked away. He finished his drink slowly and went to the airport. He was about to toss the ring in a refuse basket, but it was tight and wouldn’t come off. He smiled. Maybe she really had branded him after all.
When he returned to New York he learned that Diana Williams had withdrawn from the show, Pauli had gone on in Philadelphia and received such an ovation that Ike Ryan was chancing coming into Broadway with her.
Dip commuted to Philadelphia and besieged Robin with daily bulletins. In an effort to salvage the Diana Williams Happening, Robin took a crew to Philadelphia and taped Pauli. When he viewed the tape he was amazed to find it had tremendous impact. The first half was Diana at rehearsal, Diana talking about her comeback, then the newspaper headlines about her “illness.” The second half showed Pauli going on, the interview with Pauli as she took over the star dressing room. It sounded like a soap opera, but he knew it would draw ratings.
The show opened in New York and Pauli’s reviews were fantastic. Yet oddly enough she received no film offers. Dip was outraged, and refused to accept her agent’s explanation that Pauli was a stage personality, and would become a Broadway superstar. He was crushed when he learned that Hollywood had signed a movie name to play her role in the picture.
Robin ran the Happening in May. It came across exactly as he had predicted, and outrated everything in its time period.
It was a good summer for him. The replacements were going well. He dated some of the girls in Pauli’s show. He even tried to be nice to Pauli, but her back always went up when he was around. He ignored her antagonistic attitude and sat in Sardi’s with whatever girl Dip brought along. He was getting to like Sardi’s but as the legend of his power grew, he stopped going there and holed up more than ever at the Lancer Bar. In order to avoid contact with agents, agency men or stars, he also stayed away from “21” and the Colony. He had quickly learned the value of a decisive “No,” accompanied by a firm smile, when he rejected a show. He had made a pledge that he would never allow himself to get angry or lose his cool. He never said, “I’ll think it over.” It was always a clear-cut “Yes” or “No.” Soon word went around that he was a cold-blooded son of a bitch whose nod could make or break a man. The rare times he did go to “21” he was amazed at the aura of fear his presence caused.
However he found that a curious phenomenon accompanied his new fame. For the first time in his life girls were hard to come by. Starlets were out—he couldn’t afford to be “held up” for a job. He stuck to airline stewardesses, but he didn’t keep them long. They’d arrive in their best dresses, expecting to go to El Morocco or
Voisin, but soon learned that his social life was confined to the Lancer Bar, a movie, or his apartment.
If it hadn’t been for Dip he would have had no sex life at all—Dip kept a steady stream of young girls on tap. However Robin’s work took up most of his time, and as long as he wound up with a girl two or three times a week, he wasn’t concerned. And he wore the ankh ring. When a girl questioned him about it, he’d say, “It means I’m in love with
all
women: it’s the symbol of eternal life, of eternal sex.”
He received cards from Judith twice a week. Cliff Dome meticulously saw to it that items appeared in various columns mentioning successive laps of the Austins’ world tour.
The day before Labor Day, Dip Nelson tore into his office and said he was positive that Pauli was having an affair with her leading man, Lon Rogers. At the same moment, Cliff Dome called and announced that Ethel and Christie Lane had welcomed the birth of a nine-pound baby boy.
He told Dip it was all just “Broadway talk,” and he called Tiffany’s and sent Christie’s baby a silver orange-juice cup. That night he walked down Broadway alone and went to a dreadful movie starring Maggie Stewart.
TWENTY-NINE
R
OBIN
sat in his apartment waiting for
The Christie Lane Show
to start its new season. For the past few days the newspapers had hinted that the public was in for a big surprise on the opening. Robin’s guess was that Christie was probably going to introduce his newborn baby to his public.
Without speaking, he handed his empty glass to Dip Nelson for a refill. “Make it a light Scotch, Dip.” His eyes narrowed as Dip obediently went to the bar. He knew there was growing speculation about their friendship. Robin had smiled and offered no explanation when Jerry Moss told him the word around was that Dip procured for him. Actually he let Dip hang around because he felt sorry for him. He sensed that despite Dip’s exhilaration about Pauli’s success, he couldn’t really enjoy his new role as “husband of the star.” Yet Dip never complained.
Robin had booked Dip on two guest shots on an IBC variety show. Each appearance had drawn murderous reviews. One columnist even began carping about Dip’s pull with a certain Mr. Big at IBC. Robin didn’t give a damn about columns or rumors. If Dip had any talent, Robin would have seen to it that he worked on every IBC show. But Dip was God-awful on television: a handsome face was not enough. There were guys doing shaving commercials who were better-looking.
“Why Scotch tonight, buddy boy?” Dip asked, as he handed him the drink.
“Opening of a new season. I like to be sober when I view a show. We’ll go to the Lancer Bar later and really tie one on.”
“I wish you’d go to Danny’s Hideaway with me, it would do me a lot of good.”
“Why?” Robin asked as he tried to get the green out of the color set.
“Well, J. P. Morgan once said to a guy, ‘If I walk through the stock exchange with my arm around you, that’s the best collateral you can have.’”
Robin smiled. “Okay, we’ll go there after the show.”
Dip’s eagerness was childlike as he dashed to the phone. Robin smiled as he heard him make detailed arrangements to get the proper table. Then he turned up the sound on the television set as
The Christie Lane Show
came on the air.
Robin couldn’t believe what he was seeing. At first he thought it would turn into a gag—that any second Christie’s white tie and tails would turn into a breakaway outfit and the slapstick comedy would begin. But when they stopped for the first commercial he realized the show was in earnest. They were actually trying to do a frothy drawing-room musical. It was so bad it was almost high camp; but unfortunately the girl playing opposite Christie was good enough to make it semiserious.
Dip went into the kitchen and got a beer. He watched the show casually, and wondered why Robin was suddenly so intent on it. He went into the den and turned on a Western on the small set. Robin would understand: it bugged him to have to watch a television show that consistently turned him down.
When it was over he returned to the living room. Robin appeared not even to have noticed his absence. He was standing in the middle of the room staring into space.
“How was it, buddy boy?” Dip asked cheerfully.
“It was terrible.”
“Well, maybe it’ll be better next week.” Dip was eager to leave for Danny’s.
“It was unbelievable.” Robin seemed dazed. “NBC has a great comedy opposite it, CBS has a good action thriller. We
had
to lose half the audience during the second half—I know we’ll come up lowest in the time period.”
“Well, let’s go to Danny’s. We can’t erase it, it happened—that’s the way the cookie crumbles.”
“My cookie doesn’t crumble,” Robin said coldly. He picked up
his direct line to IBC. “This is Robin Stone. Get me Artie Rylander on the Coast. You have his home number. It’s in Brent-wood.” He lit a cigarette and waited. “I don’t give a damn who the hell is on the tie line. Cut in and tell them to get off.”
When he reached Artie, his teeth were clamped in cold anger. “All right, Rylander—
explain
. How the hell did you let him do it? Couldn’t you see it was going to bomb? … Well, then, why didn’t you call me? … I don’t give a damn about Noel Victor! He may be the best lyricist in the business for Tony Newley or Robert Goulet, but not for Christie Lane… . What do you mean, Chris threw out your writers? I know all about Chris owning the package now—but he owns it
with
IBC. And we’re more than equal partners—we also own the air time… . What ballads? Listen, Artie, there is no such thing as good
new
music, there’s only good
familiar
music—the public likes to hear something it knows… . Don’t give me that crap about a Broadway show. Sure, a Broadway show comes up with a new score, and on opening night critics write about it, and the public digs it,
after
it’s played on albums and on jukeboxes. We don’t have time for that with a once-a-week shot on TV. And Chris Lane is not Rex Harrison! He’s the All-American slob. In tails he looked like a fat blond penguin. You tell him to revamp the show and go right back to the old format. Hire back the plain-Jane girl singer who played in the sketches and the cornball announcer. And what genius dreamed up the line of ballet girls? Don’t you know ballet is lost on a twenty-inch screen? And I’m afraid to look at the below-the-line costs. … I don’t give a damn about Noel Victor’s contract, hire back the old writers… . What do you mean, he
won’t
? We can force him to… . No, I haven’t looked at the contract, but I
will
tonight! And I’ll be in touch with you first thing tomorrow.” He slammed down the receiver.