Don't Speak to Strange Girls (12 page)

Clay said, “Ever get that exhaust pipe repaired on your sports car, Bunny?”

Bunny laughed. “Come on now, Clay. Would you destroy an image?”

Clay could smell him. He remembered he could smell Bunny all during that picture, at least everytime he was near in a scene. He wondered if it were true that these kids could buy a deodorant that smelled like body odor. That’s what some electrician had said on the set. “They can’t smell like men,” the electrician laughed. “They buy that odor — instant body odor — roll on.”

“Reckon not, Bunny. It’s late. I got to get my sleep. You kids can take it. I can’t.”

“How are things going with you, baby? You planning anything new? I got me an MG ordered. Did you hear about that? Got a part coming out over at Allied. That ought to be good for laughs, eh, Clay?”

“They turn out some good product.”

“Sure. Product. That’s why TV is killing the movies. That’s why the movies will never give what the stage gives — ”

“Good night, Bunny,” Clay said. Bunny nodded toward him and turned, still talking to the people who had crowded out into the corridor.

Flo walked with Clay to the elevator. He punched the down button. He took out his wallet, removed a hundred-dollar bill, folded it. He took Flo’s hand, pressed the money into it.

“Thanks for telling me where she was,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come up here. She tried to get me not to.”

Flo tightened her fist on the folded money. She laughed, off-key. “You making jokes? She promised ‘fore she went to work … she was going to bring you around so you could pay off — so I could collect.”

The elevator door opened. Clay walked through it. He pressed the button. The doors closed behind him. He did not move until the doors opened again on the ground floor.

And then he walked out to his car at the curb. He did not look back.

chapter thirteen

C
LAY REOPENED
the script of
Man of the Desert
for the third time to Chapter One, page one. He had read this part of the book twice and it made no sense to him. Worse than that, it angered and infuriated him. It was trash; worse, it was the same old trash. Why did they believe people would leave a TV set to see something made from this drivel?

Before he read the first page he was reaching for a cigarette. Remember how good cigarettes used to taste? He lighted it, sat up on the library divan, sucking at it, trying to draw something from it. It was bitter, dry and hot. He crushed it out in the littered ashtray beside him on the floor.

He poured himself a drink, found the whiskey without taste. He stared at the glass, rattled the ice against the sweated sides, added another dash of bourbon. Nothing helped.

His mind returned to the girl at Palm Springs. It had been only yesterday, but already he had difficulty remembering her name. He didn’t want to remember. He sweated, thinking about her. It had not been pleasant. It had started out, two people with nothing to say to each other. They could say what they liked that sex was the beginning, middle and end of an affair. It wasn’t true. There had to be some sort of reaction. It was not something you could pretend. If it were true, the trip to Palm Springs would have been successful. She had tried hard enough.

Her name was Reva.

She was lovely, and even when she undressed slowly — making a production out of it, watching him, and he admitted aloud and in his own mind that she was lovely, that was it. Nothing.

She sank to the floor between his legs, looking up at him.

“Do you like me?”

“Sure.” He had to have another drink. He could not even stay in this air-conditioned cottage with her until he had another drink. He reached out, caught the bottle by the neck and drank from it deeply.

“You drink so much,” she said.

“Hell. What makes you think I drink so much?”

“It’s all right, baby. It’s just that if you pass out, you won’t be much good to me, will you, baby?”

“What makes you think I’ll be any good to you anyhow?”

She laughed. “I’ll make you be good to me.” Her hands, her face, her mouth, moved against him, and he felt the heat of her body and the heat of her mouth, the hotness of her saliva and he felt himself growing warm, and it was the heat of anger and rage mixed with his desire and hatred for her.

He reached down and caught her by the throat.

“Baby. You’re hurting me.”

“Why don’t you get out of here?”

She caught his fingers, twisting them away from her throat.

“You can have anything you want, baby.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Don’t tell Reva lies.” She came upward slowly, the weight of her body working against him, thrusting him back on the bed. “You drive me crazy,” she cried in his ear, “the feel of you, the bigness, the hardness — you drive me wild before you even touch me.”

“Let me alone.” He put his hand against her chin and shoved backwards. She clung to him, laughing. He had brought her down here to play, and she was going to play. He wanted to play rough, but a lot of movie people were like that. Ordinary passions never stirred them. Laughing, she slipped past his extended arm, buried her face in his neck, laughing and biting him… .

He got up now and paced the library, sweating. God, the things you could let yourself into. Reva had gone home with a bloody mouth, two black eyes and a thousand dollars. What was the matter with him? He’d never behaved like this in his life. There was no sense asking what was the matter with him.

He knew what was the matter with him, all right.

“Clay.”

It was Joanne.

He heeled around, standing in the center of the room staring at her. He felt the sudden hot burning at the rims of his eyes, the constriction in his solar-plexus. He wanted to run to her. He wanted to grab her in his arms and kiss her and never stop kissing her. He wanted to smash his fist in her face, the way he had smashed his fist into Reva’s face for no reason at all. Only he had a reason. He had to see the agony in her face that he felt inside… . He wanted to grab her and hold her and never let her go.

He did not move.

“I called,” Joanne said. Her face was pale, she was watching him uncertainly. “I’ve called ever since you left the other night — you didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Sorry.”

“McEsters said you were in Palm Springs.”

“I was.”

“He said that when I called today.”

“Did he?”

“Stop hating me, Clay.”

“I don’t hate you.”

She smiled. “May I come in?”

“Do you want to?”

“I’m up here. I came all the way … to you, Clay. Please don’t treat me like this.”

“All right. What do you want?”

She straightened. “Don’t talk this way, Clay. If you want me to get out, you don’t have to treat me like this. You can say so. I know what you think of me. I know what you think I am. You and your friends showed me plainly enough the last time I was here … But you did come back to me … Remember?”

“I remember all of it. I remember a headache. I remember an all-night party. I remember a guy named Johnny.”

“Oh. Johnny. For goodness sake. He’s just a boy I know. He means nothing to me.”

“I believe that. I’d like to know. What does mean something to you?”

“You do.”

“You have hellish ways to show it.”

Again her head tilted. She had never looked lovelier, more lost to him. “Maybe I’m not used to being treated the way you — and your friends treated me, Clay. Maybe I don’t get over it so easily — even when I want to.”

He put out his arms. She ran to him, pressed herself against him. He held her head in his hands, turned her face up. He kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears. His need for her was all snarled in anger and confusion. He did not know what to believe.

He drew her with him to the divan, kicked the script half across the room.

She lay in his arms.

He stroked her hair, drew his fingers across the smoothness of her cheeks and throat.

“We can’t do this, Joanne. So help me. This on and off. Hot and cold. Sorry. I’m not made that way. I can’t turn it on and off. I’ve wanted you — wanted to love you since the first time you walked in here. I know I’m a damned fool, but I can’t stand knowing about Johnny.”

“Oh, darling. Forget him. He means nothing to me.”

“Still. He’s your age … I’m not. I think about him holding you in his arms like this. I get sick.”

She did not say anything, pressed closer to him.

“Does he love you like this?” He could not help asking it.

“Not very often.”

“Not very often! Jesus Christ. Jesus H. Christ. Not very often. What’s often? How many times is often? Three times a week? Four? Five? My God.” He felt as though a steel bar was wedged between his belt and his throat.

“Don’t talk about it, darling. Don’t torture yourself. He doesn’t mean anything.”

He wiped the chilled sweat from his forehead. “He doesn’t mean anything and he — loves you half a dozen times a week. What about the ones that mean something? Christ. What about them?”

“You mean something.” Her voice sounded low, far away.

“Sure. A nice old man.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not? I’m old enough to be your father. Why don’t we admit it? Why don’t you get out of here?”

She twisted in his arms, pressing her body against him. He felt the excitement in the very way she was made.

She kissed his throat. “I know what’s the matter with you,” she whispered. “You’re jealous.”

“Oh my God. This is news?”

“You’re jealous of the people I know. Did you think I knew nobody? Darling, did you think I came to you from a world where there were no other people?”

“Maybe that isn’t the way I think — but I reckon it’s the way I’d want it.”

“You don’t want me to see Johnny again. I won’t. It’s that simple.” She was moving her hands along his neck, caressing him.

He felt chilled. He did not want to ask her to promise not to see the young guy again, and he would not. He found himself suddenly not bothering to wish she would drop Johnny, but that he himself would not be sucked into believing she meant it when she said she would.

Her voice remained gentle, throaty and warm, half-teasing. “I don’t think you like my friends.”

“You might say that. Understatement is always good.”

She laughed.

“You didn’t like Flo’s party.”

“Not very much. Reckon it’s not my kind of party.”

She was silent. The silence stretched longer. He frowned, looking down at her. “What’s the matter, Joanne?”

“You don’t like my friends. You never take me anywhere with yours … but you get mad with me — I’m not supposed to get mad.” She said it without heat. She was stating a fact. He felt his face grow hot.

“Joanne.” He exhaled heavily. “I’m sorry. It’s just that since I found you, I’ve wanted you all to myself.”

“It’s all right.”

“Look. I’ll take you. Where do you want to go? Whom do you want to meet?” He reclined there, caressing her, holding her, trying to think where he could take her that she would enjoy. His voice was puzzled. “Hell, Joanne. Reckon I have no friends … I’ve tried to think. Looks like Ruth handled that department of my life, too. Anybody I know is too old for you — hell, they’re as old as I am.”

“All right.”

“Stop acting like this. Whatever has happened between us is past. I reckon I can learn to like your friends, if they can stand me. If you want to meet the people I know, I’ll introduce you. From now on, it’s what you want.”

“You know what I want.”

He stood up, swinging her into his arms. He crossed the foyer, carrying her, went up the stairs. From the rear of the house were sounds the servants made, distantly below them were the sounds of the town. He carried her up the stairs, driven by the anxious need to hold her and love her the way he had dreamed of holding her and loving her in his loneliness. She was very light, the weight was nothing. He felt the crazy piston-knock in his heart. The hell with that. He would never let her learn of that. This was just another proof he was too old for her. Too old? Hell, right now he was younger than she was, younger than she had ever been. He went along the hall and in his bedroom he undressed her, and it was as he had dreamed, only more wonderful, and it was much better because for the first time he believed he could keep her with him.

chapter fourteen

A
BOUT SEVEN
o’clock that evening he woke up and felt Joanne lying close against him across his bed. He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was her face above his. She was propped on her hand, studying him. He had the uncomfortable feeling she had been like this, looking at his face for a long time. There was still afternoon light in the room; it would not be full dark for almost another hour. Her face moved nearer, her red-gold hair tumbled on each side of his head cutting out the daylight. Her mouth crushed against his.

“I thought you’d never wake up.”

“The first time I’ve slept in God knows when.”

“Funny, I can’t sleep when you’re with me.”

“You know what I mean.”

Joanne trailed her lips across his face, moving her heated body across his body. “You know what?”

“I know I love you.”

“I never knew what loving was like. Not until I knew you. I knew everybody did it. But I didn’t know why.”

He smiled. “All my life. All of it, I’ve wanted someone like you. Maybe I spent years denying it — never even admitted it to myself. But it’s true. I never knew how true until right now.”

She raised her head, stared at the clock on the table at the head of his bed. “I’ve got to go.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No. I work for a living.”

“You can’t leave me. I won’t let you go.”

“I’ll come back.”

“Will you? You’ve said that before.”

“You can’t be a pig.”

“I’m a pig. Didn’t you know that?”

“I’m beginning to suspect it. But I’ve got to work. I’ve got to live.”

“How much do you make at that place on Wilshire?”

She was silent a moment, and then she told him.

“All right. From tonight you’re making twice that.”