QB VII (18 page)

VERY EARLY IN THE MARRIAGE SHE STOPPED GROWING BUT COULD NOT COME FACE TO FACE WITH HER OWN INEPTNESS, SO THE WAY SHE COULD BECOME BIG WAS TO MAKE ME LITTLE. TEARING ME DOWN WAS AN OBLIQUE WAY OF LIFE.

CONSISTENT WITH HER PERSONALITY, SHE BUILT A HIGH DEFENSIVE WALL ABOUT HERSELF LASHING OUT AT ANYTHING THAT EVEN SMELLED OF CRITICISM. WITHOUT INTROSPECTION SHE WAS INCAPABLE OF ADMITTING MISTAKES OR WRONGDOING.

BUT, YOU KNOW SOMETHING, I LOVED HER. IT WAS A PARADOX THAT SUCH A LIGHTWEIGHT COULD BE THE GREATEST SINGLE EVENT BETWEEN SHEETS OF A BED. AND THAT MAKES UP FOR A LOT.

STRANGE HOW SOME BRAINY BUSINESS WORLD, FEMALE LAWYER TYPES CAN BE SUCH LOUSY LAYS. LIKE STICKING YOUR PECKER IN GROUND GLASS. AND SIMPLE OLD SAMANTHA, THE QUEEN OF THE BALLERS.

SAMANTHA HAD ANOTHER ENDEARING QUALITY, AN UNCANNY ABILITY TO ALWAYS SINK LOWER THAN ME AND NEVER LIFT ME UP. SHE WAS, IN ANY SITUATION, SADDER, SICKER, AND MORE DEPRESSED.

I WAS IN MORTAL PAIN AFTER “THE PARTISANS” BOMBED. SAMANTHA SIMPLY COULDN’T UNDERSTAND IT. ANYHOW, MY DRUNK STARTED AT AN RAF REUNION IN LONDON AND ENDED THREE DAYS LATER IN A BROTHEL IN SOHO. MY POCKETS WERE CLEANED AND MY CAR IMPOUNDED. BUT FOR THE BENEVOLENCE OF A GOOD NATURED HOOKER I WOULDN’T HAVE HAD TAXI FARE TO GET TO DAVID SHAWCROSS.

BACK AT LINSTEAD HALL THE SILENCE WAS HORRENDOUS. EIGHT DAYS OF TOTAL NIL UNTIL IT ALL HIT THE FAN.

AND THE STRANGE SALVATION CAME IN THE FORM OF RUDOLPH MAURER, A ONCE REMOVED ROUMANIAN WITH A PICKLE NOSE AND MOLE EYES REPRESENTING A LARGE HOLLYWOOD TALENT AGENCY. LO AND BEHOLD, AMERICAN GLOBAL STUDIOS WANTED TO BUY “THE PARTISANS,” AND THE PRODUCER ASKED IF MY SERVICES WERE AVAILABLE AS THE SCREEN WRITER.

IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG TO TOTE UP THE BOTTOM LINE. I COULD KEEP SAMANTHA’S GODDAM HORSES IN HAY FOR FIVE YEARS.

DAVID SHAWCROSS ARGUED VEHEMENTLY AGAINST MY GOING TO HOLLYWOOD, AND HIS REASONS LATER PROVED RIGHT. BUT FRANKLY, AFTER THE FAILURE OF THE NOVEL, I WAS GUN SHY, IN HOCK, AND DAMNED GLAD TO HAVE FOUND AN OUT. MOMMA ALWAYS USED TO TELL ME, “ABE, IF YOU HAVEN’T GOT ANYTHING NICE TO SAY, SO KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.” WELL I’M NOT GOING TO SAY MUCH ABOUT MY YEARS IN THAT FUR-LINED MADHOUSE.

I LOVE MOTION PICTURES AND I BELIEVE IN THE MEDIUM. HOLLYWOOD CAN BOAST OF THE GREATEST CONCENTRATION OF TALENT IN THE WORLD ALONG WITH THAT LEGION OF SILKY CON-MEN AND QUASI-MINI-ARTISTS. BUT THE SUM TOTAL OF ALL OF THEM IS A BLATANT DISRESPECT FOR WRITERS, THE WRITTEN WORD, AND THIS WILL SOME DAY ERODE THE SAND CASTLE AND THEY CAN ALL GO OUT TO DEATH VALLEY AND FRY IN THE AUGUST SUN.

IT IS BITTER FOR ME TODAY TO HAVE THE MEANS OF STRIKING BACK AND HOLD MY SILENCE IN DIGNITY. I BELIEVE THAT THE USE OF THE TYPEWRITER FOR PERSONAL VENGEANCE IS EVIL AND THE WRITER WHO DOES SO REDUCES HIMSELF TO THE LEVEL OF HIS TORMENTORS.

NEVERTHELESS, I’LL NEVER BE UP FOR SAINTHOOD AND I’M ENTITLED TO MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY. IT HAS BEEN WRITTEN ABOUT THOSE TEARS AND TUCKED AWAY. MY MEMORY OF EACH AND EVERY MONSTER IS VIVID. SO LET THEM SWEAT. IN THE END, ABE CADY IS GOING TO HAVE THE LAST WORD.

FOR A DECADE I DIVIDED MY TIME BETWEEN ENGLAND AND HOLLYWOOD. IN THE MEANTIME SAMANTHA’S PARENTS PASSED AWAY. I MISS THEM. THEY WERE LOVELY PEOPLE AND SO KIND TO MY FATHER.

I WAS ABLE TO HIRE A GOOD FOREMAN, WHICH KEPT SAMANTHA FROM RUNNING LINSTEAD HALL INTO THE GROUND. COMING OFF TWO STRAIGHT BOX OFFICE SUCCESSES THERE WAS MONEY IN THE BANK AND THE OLD HOMESTEAD IN THE BLACK. I MUST SAY I GOT A VICARIOUS THRILL OUT OF TELLING MY HOLLYWOOD AGENT WHERE HE COULD STICK IT AND IN WHAT MANNER.

I WAS BACK TO WHAT I SHOULD HAVE BEEN DOING ...WRITING NOVELS. I STARTED THE NEW ONE DETERMINED NOT TO MAKE THE MISTAKES OF “THE PARTISANS.”

13

“I
’M COMING ON HOME
early, love,” David Shawcross said over the phone to his wife in a voice that literally trembled with excitement

Is everything all right, David?”

“Right! Right as rain. I’ve just received Abraham’s new manuscript.”

Within the hour, Shawcross unwedged himself from the back seat of his Jaguar and stormed past his chauffeur. Lorraine met him at the door.

“Look!” he said, holding up a cardboard carton. “By George, it’s taken over a decade to get this. There were times I thought he’d never come through. Turn off the bloody phones. No calls, no interruptions.”

“Everything’s ready, dear.”

His reading chair was encircled with note pads, sharp pencils, tobacco, liquor, lamp adjusted just so, special glasses. As she unlaced his shoes and replaced them with soft slippers he was already tugging out a voluminous manuscript of over a thousand pages. On the musty treadmill of reading mediocre manuscripts day in, month out, a new Cady book was a king’s reward. Lorraine hadn’t seen him so happy and excited in years.

THE PLACE
by Abraham Cady.

It was not until well after midnight that she found herself dozing in bed, her magazine fallen to the floor. It was uniquely quiet. Not a stir from the connecting study. Usually, when David locked in, he would roar out when something annoyed him, or break into laughter, or give out audible reactions to what he read. Tonight, there was not a peep.

She tied on a robe and approached the study door and knocked softly. No answer. She shoved it open. The leather chair was empty and the manuscript mostly read. David Shawcross stood at the window, hands clasped behind him.

“David?”

He turned. She saw him pale and watery eyed. He walked to his desk slowly, sat with his hands holding his face.

“How bad is it?”

“At first I couldn’t believe it. Not of Abraham. I kept saying, he’s leading us on. Pretty soon the real Cady will burst out.”

“What’s gone wrong?”

“It’s a work of slick, pornographic filth for the sake of pornography. Abraham was always a raw writer who gave off heat and swamped you with his passion. He’s learned his lessons in California well. He’s become polished and glib and plastic. The whole book is dishonest but the tragic part of it is that it will become a smash best seller and grab a fortune from the motion pictures. And the critics will rave ... it’s dirty enough.”

“But why? Why on earth?”

“Why do they all eventually do their mattress dance on paper? The money is too bloody tempting. Now that they’ve su
c
ceed
e
d blowing the lid off any moral restraint and anything goes, they masturbate in public under the guise of new freedoms and art. They’re all nothing but a gang of mercenary whores. And the bloody critics are just as dishonest. I could just die ...”

He crossed the room wearily and stretched out on the sofa. Lorraine knew there would be no sleep for him tonight. She covered him with a robe. “Tea or brandy?”

“No, love.”

“Are you going to publish it?”

“Of course. Shawcross Limited announces with great honor the return of that remarkable talent Abraham Cady to the literary scene ...”

“David, Abraham called. He’s quite anxious to get your reaction. He came down from Linstead Hall, and he’d like to see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, we might as well get it over with. Call the office in the morning and tell them I’ll be working at home.”

“You look haggard,” Abe said; “that’s quite a dose to swallow in one reading. Took me three weekends to knock it off, you know,” he joked. “Well, Shawcross, what’s the verdict?”

He stared across the desk at Cady. He looked and dressed the way he wrote ... polished ... like he had been plucked out of a Saville Row tailor’s ass.

“Well bring it out in the fall,” Shawcross said. “I called New York and coordinated with your American publisher.”

“What’s the good word?”

“My personal advice was to go a hundred thousand copies on the first edition in the States. I’m ordering paper for fifty thousand.”

Abe grabbed the desk, sighed deeply, and shook his head. “Jesus. I didn’t think it was that good.”

“It’s not. It’s that bad.”

“What’s that?”

“You told me you wanted to do three things in this world, write, fly, and play baseball. As far as I’m concerned you can’t do any of them.”

Abe was on his feet “You’re sanctimonious. I knew this was going to come up, Shawcross. Your problem, old man, is that you’re out of touch with the twentieth century.”

“Abraham. Fly into any kind of rage you wish. Call me any kind of names you’d like but for God’s sake don’t try to justify this piece of trash.”

“Well, you damned well don’t have to publish it!”

“As long as you don’t mind being a prostitute, why should you mind if I pander for you.”

Abe’s face was violently hued. He shook his fist under Shawcross’s nose and shook with desire to smash him, then threw up his hands. “What the hell, it would be like hitting my father.”

“You’ve hurt me very deeply. I really haven’t been surprised by the writers who have taken this trip, but I never would have believed it of you. If you want to go to another publishing house, all right, I won’t hold you. I’ll find you an eager young editor who will tell you all the right things, what new boundaries you’ve opened, how clean and succinct your phrasing is, how magnificently you weave character and plot.”

“Cut ... cut ... cut. Maybe I did play it a little close but this kind of thing is all the vogue now. Christ, if I could only get out of Linstead Hall.”

“You’re not going to blame this abortion on Samantha.”

“In part. Damned well in part. She says, don’t be grim, Abe, the world needs a laugh. That and those goddam horses and the goddam hay they eat. If I’d have had a woman willing to sacrifice I might have risked something else. All right, Shawcross, you’ve knocked me flat on my ass. I was cautious about writing another one like
The Partisans.

“I was proud of that book. It cost us both but it seems to have cost you more. Your courage, your anger.”

“Hell, you sound like a goddam literature professor. Starve, writer, starve.”

“You’re a frightened man, Abraham, and you’re writing scared.”

Abe slumped and hung his head. “You’re right. Ten years in nightmare city. Oh God, what I was going to do with my writing. You’re disgusted with me.”

“I can’t help but loving my own son,” Shawcross answered. “I hope there’s enough left in you to get disgusted with yourself.”

“I’ve got to cool down for a few weeks and think about things. I’ve got to get some sun.”

“Splendid idea.”

“Call Samantha for me, will you. I don’t want to get into a hassle with her. She doesn’t understand that I’ve got to dry out by myself, sometimes. Always takes it like I’m trying to run away from her.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Maybe. Tell her I’ve written myself out and just have to break away.”

“Very well. I’m giving a cocktail party tonight at Les Ambassadeurs for a new author. There’ll be some interesting women. Do come.”

“See you tonight, Shawcross.”

14

L
ES
A
MBASSADEURS, A POSH
private dining and gambling club, stood on Hamilton Place, Park Lane, in an old converted mansion. The maître d’ welcomed correctly over Abraham Cady, a well-known eye patch around London.

“Mr. Shawcross’s party is in the Hamilton room, Mr. Cady.”

“Thanks.”

He breathed deeply and entered. He was greeted by a warm blast of dribble, dribble, dribble. Abe scanned the room like a cyclops searching out a friendly face for palatable conversation, when his eye came to a sudden stop on a chic, poised, raven-haired beauty in her mid-thirties. Will I still love her, Abe wondered, when she opens her mouth and attempts to talk.

“Oh, hello, Abraham.”

“Hi, Shawcross.” Abe nodded in the direction of the woman. “Who is she?”

“Laura Margarita Alba. Lovely, charming girl. International jet setter. I understand she has quite a collection of jewelry in exchange for her favors. Usually found on the arm of a Greek shipping tycoon or a munitions dealer or someone in that crowd.”

“She here alone?”

“She comes to London from time to time representing clients and sponsors to bid on certain antiques, gems, art, at Christie’s and Sotheby’s. Frankly, Abe, I think she’s a bit pricey for the likes of us. Want to meet her anyhow?”

“Let me consider the possibilities.”

About that time both Shawcross and Cady were whisked off into separate circles of dribble, dribble, dribble. Abe feigned listening and mulled. Then, across the room, she smiled directly to him and nodded.

There were several alternatives of attack, he thought. With a tramp, a bum, a whore, one must always treat them as ladies.

With that great pool in the middle rung, the established actress, the flustered housewife, the oversexed secretary, the ambitious starlet, one had to indulge in a silly game of double entendre, nuances, clever bubbles, promises that were not promises.

But here was an elegant lady. Laura Margarita Alba was that rare courtesan whom men paid dearly to be seen with and who felt it was the best hundred thousand they ever spent. Abe decided to gamble. He oozed out of his trap and moved toward her. She was chatting with some young stud with a lemon rinse, strong posed jaw, penetrating blue eyes, and a velvet and lace suit. She was politely bored and watched Abe coming from the corner of her eye. Abe found out the name of the stud, tapped his shoulder, and told him Shawcross was looking for him.

“Madame Alba,” he said, “I’m Abraham Cady. I’d like to fuck you.”

“What a lovely idea,” she answered; “here’s the key to my place. Harlequin Suite on the Roof Gardens at the Dorchester.”

Abe stared at the key. “You’re kidding,” he said.

“I did my own reconnaissance before I came. If you hadn’t asked me I intended to ask you ...or would you prefer to go through a few days of games before you make your conquest?”