Nowhere City (27 page)

He smiled, but behind his dark-rimmed glasses his pale gray eyes were serious, looking into hers. Katherine began to tremble violently.

“No,” she said. “Please, no.” Iz put his arms around her.

“Ah, Katherine,” he said, holding her. “You don’t have to be frightened. You’ll see. It will be a good experience.”

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T
HE EMPTY SOUND STAGE
was like the inside of an immense dark cardboard box; a vast cube of obscure space. Against the distant walls hung painted drop cloths representing in meticulous detail the landscape and architecture of the imaginary planet Nemo, setting of Glory’s current picture, a science-fiction musical comedy. Assemblages of platforms and steps rose here and there in the darkness like hillocks on a plain, among herds of folding chairs. On the dusty ground, black electrical cables and wires of all sizes were coiled and crossed, in some places resembling a nest of enormous snakes. Steel and aluminum skeletons supported the spotlights and floods, and the immense cameras on their traveling booms. More hanging lights, microphones, ropes, flats, and cables disappeared into the shadows far above.

All these lights were dark now; the only illumination came from the long strip of hot sunshine slanting in from the open doorway, fading as it fanned across the cement; and from the electric bulbs around the make-up mirror in Glory’s trailer dressing-room.

It was hot everywhere today; densely hot and smoggy outdoors; only a little less so where Glory and her agent Maxie Weiss were sitting in front of her trailer on two wooden chairs. Glory’s makeup was caked with sweat, for she had been working for three hours, rehearsing dance numbers; or standing about waiting in the excruciating boredom of film-making while other members of the cast rehearsed, or while the choreographer conferred endlessly with the director, the assistant director, the musical director, the dance coach, the man in charge of the extras, and his and their assistants. The tower of pink-blonde hair, though skewered to her head with innumerable pins, had begun to fray at the edges; her rehearsal clothes (black tights and loose sleeveless white top) were wrinkled and damp.

She sat in the naturally graceful pose of a dancer, one leg tucked under her, the other pointed out along the floor, drinking from a Thermos bottle a health-food drink called Frozen Tiger’s Milk. Maxie was eating two pastrami sandwiches which had been wrapped in waxed paper; he looked hot, fat, and worried. He would have been lunching at Scandia, an air-conditioned restaurant near his air-conditioned office on Sunset Strip, and Glory would have been at the studio lunch-room, if they had not had to confer about a crisis.

The trouble had all started yesterday. It had been a bad day for Glory, an unlucky day. While she was eating breakfast, her girlfriend, a starlet named Ramona Moon, had called up to warn her that Pluto was square with Neptune in her tenth house and she ought not to engage in any new or important professional ventures. Also she should avoid all occasions that might lead to serious emotional conflict; in fact about the best thing she could do would be to get right back into bed and stay there. Glory was not, like Mona, a follower of astrology; all the same, it would have been better if she had listened to her.

The first thing that happened was that she broke off one of her fingernails starting the T-Bird. The traffic on the way to the studio was hell, and when she got there Roger, the best make-up man, was out sick. Then, while they were waiting around between takes, Petey Thorsley, a little dancer who was playing one of the other natives of Nemo, came over. He leaned on the back of a chair, in his green rubber costume with pink polka-dots and webbed hands like a duck, and remarked to Glory that Dr. Einsam had been seen eating cheesecake in Zucky’s out in Santa Monica with a brunette, and what was the story? “You tell me, don’t ask me,” Glory said, thinking that Mona had been right. “Gee, that’s all I know,” Petey said, his wire antennae quivering. “Listen, don’t let it get you down. My friend said she was nothing anyhow, kind of an intellectual type. ... Aw hell, Glory, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, Petey, it doesn’t bother me,” she had replied, manufacturing her smile.

Her real mistake had been to think that the stars were through with her after that one. She grew careless when nothing more went wrong on set the rest of the day; when she even got off early and beat some of the traffic driving home. She forgot about astrology; she had a big evening ahead.

There was a première that night of a picture called
Dancing Cowboy,
starring Rory Gunn. Rory was also the star of the musical that Glory was making now, and in which she had for the first time what might be called a second female lead, even if she did have to play it with antennae and green hands. As it was, naturally, top priority that Rory Gunn should be well disposed towards Glory, ever since the picture started Maxie had been putting out stories about how much she thought of him as an actor, and what a tremendous thrill it was for her to have the chance to play with him. For that evening he had arranged that after the showing, when Rory was on his way out of the theater, Glory would rush up to him and kiss him in a spontaneous demonstration of her admiration; kind of kooky, but lovable, and really
sincere.
He had cleared this with the studio and with Rory’s agent, and alerted the local papers and also two wire services. Glory had a new dress for the occasion, short white bouffant satin printed with pink roses, and she had borrowed a white mink stole from the studio. So it was all set.

Rory Gunn came out of the theater first, right on schedule, taking it slow and giving the crowd behind the ropes a good look at his profile. Glory was close behind him, but at the door of the lobby she held back a couple of seconds, waiting for a good clear space to open up between her and the photographers. Then she stepped out, saw Rory, did a big take—excitement, adoration—and began to run.

She had waited a moment too long. As she approached Rory, a girl in the crowd, one of his fans, broke through the police line and also started racing towards him. They got to the star about the same time, and Glory stepped in front of the kid, but before she could open her mouth to speak this juvenile delinquent put her hand in Glory’s face and gave her a violent push. Glory staggered back on her three-inch pink satin heels; tripped, screamed, and fell on her ass on the sidewalk, with a noise of ripping cloth. From this position she saw the girl fling her arms around Rory Gunn and kiss him passionately, while he just stood there looking dumb. Without stopping to think, boiling with fury, Glory scrambled up in the ruins of her dress, one shoe off, limped forward, and slammed the kid in the jaw. Even as the blow went home she knew she had made a terrible mistake; she heard a louder howl rise from the crowd and the flash bulbs popping, like all Mona’s unlucky stars machine-gunning her down together.

Maxie had done what he could to mop up the mess. First he got the girl back into the lobby and started talking to her; come on, after all, he told her, Glory is a fan of Rory Gunn’s same as you are; you ought to appreciate what she felt like when you shoved yourself in like that; besides you ruined her new two-hundred-dollar dress for her. It went over pretty well: at least the kid stopped crying, and Maxie got a taxi around to the stage door and sent her home before the newspaper guys could get to her again. In the morning he ordered two lots of flowers delivered to the kid’s house: some daffodils and a whole lot of other spring stuff from Glory, and three dozen red roses from Rory Gunn. Of course Maxie couldn’t kill the story—but he spoke to the guys, giving them pretty much the same line: that Glory was so stuck on Rory Gunn and his marvelous performance in
Dancing Cowboy
that she just saw red when anybody got in her way. This story had appeared in the morning papers which lay about on the floor at Maxie’s and Glory’s feet. As he said now, it could have been a lot worse, even the photos.

“Uh-huh,” Glory uttered. “Listen, thanks for everything, Maxie,” she added in a dull, throaty voice, and drank some Tiger’s Milk. “You’re a doll.”

“That’s okay. At least you appreciate.” Maxie wiped his face and began stripping the crusts off half a sandwich. “I wonder should I check up on that kid again this afternoon, how she’s feeling, is she okay?”

“No,” Glory said. “Let’s drop it.”

“Maybe you’re right. I sent flowers already; we don’t want to start a correspondence.”

“Yeah. Besides, she hit me first,” Glory pointed out, not for the first time.

“She’s a fan,” Maxie said. “It doesn’t make any difference what she did. You can’t sock a fan. Also she’s only fourteen years old. A kid.”

“Yeah, well, shit: how was I supposed to know that? You tell her next time she wants to push somebody in the face bring her birth certificate.”

Maxie winced. It always bothered him when Glory’s language became too vulgar; he was trying to put her across as basically a sweet kid. He shifted around and sat sideways in his chair, facing her. “Something else I got in my mind,” he said. “I want to suggest a new image. We got to black out this picture you don’t like fans. I thought of a gimmick this morning we could use, maybe. I want to put out a release—how does this sound?—Glory Green, now working in Superb’s big new musical, etcetera, has a very
personal
relationship to her growing number of fans all over the world. Glory reads every day all the letters she receives, and she says she picks up lots of acting tips and good advice about her career from the girls and boys who follow her pictures: how does that sound?”

“Okay,” Glory said listlessly.

“Swell. Also I thought I’d call up Camilla at
Screen Scoops,
offer we could give her an exclusive. Maybe she can send somebody over this week-end and get some pictures. Like an example, I see you sitting at your antique writing-desk, nice outfit, serious expression, big piles of mail, dictating to your secretary. I like that.”

“Okay,” Glory repeated. “My secretary? You think I should have a secretary? Don’t you think that looks kind of too snooty?”

“Oh, nah. Everybody has a secretary. Liz Taylor has a secretary. Look at it this way: it shows how you’re real serious about your responsibilities; it’s like your business, these fan letters. I want to build up a nice picture. Anyhow, you got to get a secretary to answer the mail.”

Glory put the Thermos down and, turning her head slowly, looked at her agent through her fog of depression. “Aw, Maxie,” she said. “Do we really have to play this scene? I don’t think I can make it.”

“Don’t aggravate yourself. It’ll be no trouble.” Maxie registered Glory’s expression, and sought its probable cause. “Hey, you had a conversation with Iz this morning?” he asked. “Maybe he called you.”

Glory shook her head. “Why should he call me? He’s got nothing to talk to me about,” she said in a strained voice. “He doesn’t give a shit what happens to me.”

“Aw, Glory, baby. He’s calling you all the time already. This last month he’s phoned you eight, ten times.”

“Theven times,” she corrected him. “Exactly theven times.”

“That’s what I mean. He’s obviously carrying the torch. And look at you: six months, and you’re still very involved emotionally. I don’t understand. Next time he phones, why don’t you be a little nice to him?”

“That’s how you thee it,” Glory said. She opened her mouth to relate Iz’s latest betrayal, but could not bring herself to do so, and remained silent, staring into the dark spaces of the sound stage.

“Incidentally,” Maxie said, following his own train of thought. “I spoke to Bo Habenicht this
A.M.”
Bo was Rory Gunn’s agent. Maxie waited for Glory to ask “Yeah?” As she did not, he continued. “Rory’s happy as a kid about the statement you gave. You know it’s all gravy for him, that scene. Also he really appreciates your compliments. He wants to take you out some time this week, maybe tonight if you can make it.”

“You mean you and Bo want Gunn to take me out,” Glory said as flatly as was possible for her. This “commercial socializing,” as he called it, was one of the things Iz picked on most about her profession. “What’s the matter with him, doesn’t he know I’m married yet?”

“Aw, come on now.” Maxie laid his sandwich down on its waxed paper. What with the trouble last night and his nervous stomach (he had something inside there that was probably planning to be an ulcer) he had got practically no sleep. But this was his job; he gathered his forces. “What’s the difference to you? All I’m asking is you should sit at a table with Rory an hour or so in a couple of night spots. I’m not suggesting to spend a weekend with him.”

“With that fag? You better not. That guy’s so minty he gives me the creeps.”

“Baby, you got to think of the publicity angle. If you show around town with Rory a couple times, all this trouble could blow over; it even could be to your advantage. Also, the studio would like it. How do you think it’s going to look to them, you turn down a date with Rory Gunn? You should be flattered.”

Glory paid no attention to this hard sell, but continued with her own thoughts. “I’ll bet that’s the first time in that fruit’s life he ever had two women really fighting over him. No wonder he was stunned.” She gave a short laugh.

With a grating noise, the sliding door to the building slid open behind them. The strip of smog and sunlight widened across the floor, and a party of five or six new starlets entered the sound stage, accompanied by a minor studio executive named Baby Petersen, who was showing them over the lot.