Cheat and Charmer (86 page)

She took her past the open cartons and half-filled boxes that littered the entrance hall and the den. Motioning to the love seat, she gestured for the girl to sit down directly opposite her, by the leaded windows that looked out over the pool, whose still water, Dinah thought, looked as if it had already forgotten the Laskers and was anticipating the new people who were moving in and the splashing and cavorting of their children.

“What can I do for you, d-d-d-dear?” Dinah said.

The girl clasped her hands and held them primly in her lap. “Mrs. Lasker, what I’ve come here to tell you is that I’ve been having an affair with your husband for the past three and a half years.”

“No k-k-k-kidding,” said Dinah, without missing a beat. She reached into the pocket of her dusty toreadors and, pulling out a pack of Camels, lit one, blew out the smoke, and observed that the girl was wearing thick clotted black mascara, black eyeliner, green eye shadow, rouge, heavy powder, and gloss. The face was a mask, taut and caked with artifice.

“And, well, the reason I’m here is because he always said if we ever broke up he wouldn’t leave me stranded, he’d get me a good agent, introduce me to the right people, but he hasn’t done a single thing he promised. I tried to see Mr. Engel, but Mr. Engel’s secretary said he’s booked and
can’t see me. The agent he told me to call hasn’t called me back. And he’s only given me three month’s, you know, support.”

“He was supporting you?”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Lasker. He was paying for everything, and, well, my new boyfriend, Duff Burgoyne—the writer? I’m sure you’ve heard of him?”

Dinah nodded. “He’s your new b-b-b-boyfriend?”

“Yeah, well, new and old, anyway, he told me to come see you for a heart-to-heart and tell you that if Jake doesn’t behave like the gentleman we all know he is, and take care of me for at least the next two years”—she took a deep breath here—“he’s going to call Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper and his friends at the trades and Walter Winchell, who happens to be a very good friend of his, and tell them about how your husband hired a known Communist and had her work at Marathon studios right under the nose of Irv Engel, who was probably in on it all the time, anyway.”

“How does Duff Burgoyne happen to have that piece of information, may I ask?”

The girl smiled very sweetly. “From me.”

“From you? How so?”

“Well, you see, your husband and I were really quite good friends, Mrs. Lasker. Bosom buddies. And I do mean ‘bosom.’ He confided in me quite a bit. Know what I mean? Like, you know, what they call ‘pillow talk.’ He told me about you being a Communist and your sister being a Communist. And you naming names and naming her, but she didn’t name anybody until she had to because she decided to do it for her husband, too. And how much of a wreck she was when she got out here, and how sorry he felt for her, which was why he had an affair with her.”

“An affair with her?”

“Oh, yeah. A big one. It lasted, like, for a year, or more. They were absolutely crazy about each other. He was really in love with her. I mean, madly in love. He’d never been in love like that before, and he was just going crazy about it, and they were making all kinds of plans for him to leave you and the kids, too. But then she didn’t like his show, and he got mad at her and just dropped her, like that; and then her husband acted like he wanted to come back and got her to testify. And then your husband wanted to go back with her. He was still madly in love with her, but she didn’t want anything to do with him. And, believe me, it broke his heart. So
much that he needed all the comfort he could find. That’s where I come into the picture.”

“How very interesting,” said Dinah. “And you have such a c-c-c-colorful, fr-fr-fresh way of putting things, dear. Tell me, what is your name?”

The girl smiled at her with murderous sweetness. “Grace Siddons.” She leaned forward and touched Dinah’s emerald ring. “Nice ring. Oh, before I forget, this is for you.”

Suddenly Dinah noticed a heavy manila envelope whose clasp, with its two flaps, the girl was bending upward. As Dinah watched, she took out a book and handed it to her. Dinah read the cover: it was a collection of plays by Clifford Odets. Opening the cover, she read an inscription:

“Hmm,” said Dinah, coolly shrugging. “Where’d you get this?”

“From the same person who took these.”

Then she handed the manila envelope to Dinah and watched, her hands once again folded primly in her lap, as Dinah pulled out a dozen large black-and-white glossy photographs of Grace and Jake in various postures of sexual congress.

Dinah turned them over and saw an inscription, stamped in black ink, which she read out loud: “Byron Cole, Ph-Ph-Ph-Photographer. I see,” Dinah continued, “that we have a mutual acquaintance. Well, young l-l-lady, any other surprises for me?” She smiled at the girl—a rich, warm, patronizing smile.

“He owes me, Mrs. Lasker. I mean, there’s a lot of men I didn’t meet during the past three years. Men who could’ve done lots more for me than he did.”

“Then I’d say that that was v-v-v-very stupid of you. I think you’d better go. What you’re telling me really doesn’t interest me.”

She got up and folded her arms.

“Mrs. Lasker, if I don’t have twenty thousand dollars in cash by August first, those photos—and I have copies, you can count on that—are going to Duff’s friends at the newspapers, and so is a letter about your Communist sister working for Jake. I’m going to do whatever I have to do to take care of myself. I’m not going to end up like your sister or some of these girls out here—dead in their beds with a bottle of empty sleeping pills next to them and all choked on their own vomit.”

“Well, I can certainly see you’re not. You’re obviously a girl who knows how to g-g-g-get what she wants.”

The girl stood up and touched the brim of her hat, leaving the manila envelope on the love seat. “I’ve got clothes of his—socks, underwear, ties—all kinds of stuff. You ought to come by sometime and pick them up.”

“Just give them to G-G-Goodwill,” Dinah said. “Or any charity of your choice. I’m sure you’ll think of something, a resourceful girl like you.”

The girl took a slip of paper out of her handbag and gave it to Dinah. “Here’s my address. I want cash.”

Dinah took the slip of paper and pushed it into the pocket of her slacks. “Shall we?” she said, leading the way out over the noiseless peridot carpet.

When Dinah finally opened the door, Grace turned and said, “I hope I haven’t hurt you.”

“Well, shouldn’t you have thought of that before you came over?” Dinah smiled brightly and slammed the door in the girl’s face.

Nausea overwhelmed her; she had to vomit. In the small bathroom off the entrance hall, she heaved and heaved, throwing up her lunch in a couple of strong convulsions. She felt as if she’d been socked in the solar plexus, and gasped for air. Her legs buckled, and collapsed beneath her. On her knees, she grabbed the rim of the toilet bowl and spat into it, trying to clear the vile taste from her mouth.

At three o’clock that afternoon, just when Grace Siddons was ringing the Laskers’ doorbell, Jake Lasker was at Marathon, hard at work in the cutting room with his editor, Bill Wilkinson. They were counting out loud the beats for the number “What Can You Do in Minsk (That You Can’t Do in Chicago)?,” so that he and Bill would know exactly where to splice the film and insert close-ups, when the telephone rang. “Shit,” said Jake. He hated to be interrupted. “Hold it there, Bill, while I get this.”

“Lasker?” said a gruff but surprisingly high voice.

“Yeah?”

“Burgoyne here.”

“And?” Jake said. He spoke neutrally, not wanting Bill to suspect anything. But he instinctively felt fear. There could be no good reason for this call.

“I was just wondering if you know where Grace Siddons is right now.”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“Told me she was going to drop in on your wife for a little girl talk.”

“That so?”

“You’re a cheap bastard, you know that, Lasker? You owe her, baby. Twenty thousand bucks, in cash, now—before you take off for London. You know what I’m saying? Between her father and her brother and me, we know everyone between L.A. and Vegas who could break your skinny Jew legs if you don’t do right by her, you hear me?”

“I’m well aware of that.”

Bill looked at Jake and saw sweat breaking out on his forehead. He mouthed, “Everything okay?” Jake held up his hand and nodded.

“You pay up or you’re gonna see your name plastered all over the trades, all over the L.A.
Times
, the
New York Times
, and every TV station in the land.”

“Only those ones, huh?”

“Very funny. A joke writer. A very funny guy. And we’re gonna tell ’em how you hired your wife’s sister, a known Commie, and had her work right under Irv Engel’s big Jewish nose. But that’s not all we’re gonna tell ’em. We’re gonna tell ’em how you shtupped her—isn’t that the Jew word?—shtupped your own wife’s sister, and then took advantage of a sweet little girl in the chorus line of your show. Oh, and you know what? Gracie’s been brought up right, so she’s bringing your wife a little thank-you gift for the lovely time she’s had with you. You know—a nice little black-and-white thank-you gift.” There was a loud laugh.

“I’m a busy man, Burgoyne, so if you’re finished I’d suggest we—”

“Not so fast, Lasker. Meet me at Joe Brogan’s Monday night at seven. With the money—twenty thousand. To keep her in the style to which you’ve made her accustomed. Only better than that cheap place you set her up in. Wouldn’t give her a speaking part. Haven’t made good on your promises. Letting a sweet little thing down like that. She thought you had class, Lasker.”

“I think the delusion was perhaps mutual.”

“Don’t try to be clever, Lasker, and don’t try anything funny. To begin with, there isn’t a cop in L.A. who wouldn’t lay down his life for me. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“So don’t try any funny stuff. ’Cause I also got my eye on that faggot kid of yours. The one who plays the clarinet.”

This time Jake gestured quickly to Bill and held up the phone so that they could both hear the voice bellowing on the other end.

“He’d have a hard time playing that faggot music he likes with two broken arms. Just like you couldn’t hit a golf ball too good with two broken legs.”

“You know, I’m deaf in one ear,” said Jake. “Would you mind repeating what you just said?”

“Don’t get funny with me. You heard me. I promised her people I wouldn’t let you get away with it. Brogan’s, seven sharp, Monday night. And remember, no monkey business if you ever want to walk again.”

There was a click. Jake’s face had turned ashen, and he clutched his chest.

“Boss?” said Bill. “What the hell was that?”

“Reach in my pocket,” Jake gasped, his face contorted with pain. “And get me my nitroglycerin.”

“Sure, boss. What’s going on?”

Jake couldn’t speak until the tablet had dissolved the searing pain. Then all he said was “Duff Burgoyne. Bad news. Keep it to yourself for now, please. Take Monday off. I won’t be coming in on Monday.”

“You serious, boss?”

“Wish I weren’t. Help me to my car, will ya, Bill?”

If Burgoyne was on the level, then Grace was at the house right now, and he had to get home right away.

“Can you drive, boss?”

He nodded, and gestured to Bill to hand him his jacket, which was hanging on a coat hook by the editing-room door. Then he reached into the pocket in the lining, withdrew a small black memo book, and placed a call to Trancas. After that, he dialed home. Peter answered the phone. “Let me talk to Mom, Pete,” said Jake.

“She went to bed, Dad. She’s sick or something. Are we still going to leave next week if she’s sick?”

“I don’t know. Did you just get home?”

“Yeah. Byron Cole and that girl—you know, the one that dancer guy socked the big guy over at the party?—they were just driving off when I came up the driveway. Why were they here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they left something at the party. You think Mom’s asleep?”

“I guess so. I’m riding my bike over to Joelly’s.”

“No, honey, don’t,” he said, using an endearment he had never used before with his son. “Stay home. Don’t go out. In case Mom needs you. Wait till I get back.”

“But, Dad, Gussie’s here. And this may be the last time I get to hang out at Joelly’s.”

“Just do as I say, Pete. I want you at home with Mom.”

“But, Dad—”

“Remember Palm Springs? Don’t run out on Mom now. She’s not feeling well, and we may need you.”

“All right.” His son’s voice was sullen. That his son hated him, and mystified him and disappointed and irritated him, made absolutely no difference to Jake in his desire, overwhelming and fierce, to protect him.

In the car, he took another nitroglycerin and pressed his foot down on the accelerator, alternately driving faster than the speed limit, and then slowing and looking anxiously out the rearview mirror and the side windows. On the one hand, he was hoping that a cop would stop him, so that he could confess everything and get help. But then he broke into a cold sweat, in case what Burgoyne had said was true and every cop in L.A. was already on his tail.