The Fame Game (5 page)

At five o’clock Libra went out to a cocktail appointment and told her she could go home for dinner but to be back at the suite promptly at seven because they were going to the Asthma Relief telethon. It had been going on for almost twenty-four hours, and would wind up at midnight. She decided she would change her dress and her make-up so he would think she had taken a second bath, and the little deception pleased her. She found herself giggling. That Mad Daddy Show had really gotten to her—it had cheered her up for the rest of the day.

The telethon was being held in a West Side television studio. When Gerry and Libra arrived the backstage area looked like the floor of Grand Central Station at rush hour. Celebrities were stacked up like commuters, waiting for their turn to go on, disgruntled because the show, as usual, was running behind and they had still not been called to appear on stage. There were several monitors arranged about the room, and at the far end there was a table with a coffee urn, cups, and a vast mound of garbage that had once been sandwiches. There were not enough bridge chairs, and performers and their agents, managers, and entourages were standing in hostile groups or sitting on the long table amidst the garbage. Some were watching the monitors, but most were watching themselves or other stars in person. Some were friendly, chatting to new friends whose work they admired or to old friends they had not seen in a long time because of busy schedules. In a corner four young black girls who looked like sisters, dressed in identical velveteen little-boy knicker suits with frilly white blouses peeking out of the jackets and identical wigs of banana curls cascading around their faces, were playing cards.

“The Satins,” Libra said. He went over to them with a quick, determined stride. “Get up! What do you think you’re doing?”

“We’re playin’ Old Maid,” one of them said, looking up with a giggle. “Honey’s the Old Maid … as
usual
.” The three of them laughed, except for the one who was evidently Honey, who shook her head with a wry smile. She looked a little older than the others.

“You look like bums,” Libra said. He took the cards away from them. “Didn’t you bring any books?”

“We didn’t think we’d have to sit here so long,” one of them complained.

“You managed to bring your cards, all right,” Libra said nastily. “I’m surprised you aren’t shooting craps. You’re supposed to be young ladies, even if you aren’t.”

“We were just playin’
Old Maid
,” Honey said.

“How is anybody going to know that?” snapped Libra. “Are you going to hold up a sign? Just sit here and talk, or shut up.”

The four girls sulked.

“Where’s Silky?” Libra snapped.

“We don’t know.”

“You’re supposed to take care of her!”

“Silky can take care of herself,” one of them murmured cattily.

“Yeah,” said another.

“
Yes
, not
yeah
, you dumb bitch!”

The girl’s eyes filled with tears.

“This is my new assistant, Gerry Thompson,” Libra said. “This is Honey, this is Tamara, and these two are Cheryl and Beryl. Honey and Tamara are sisters and Cheryl and Beryl are twins.”

Gerry shook hands with all of them and gave them a sympathetic look. She thought Libra was overdoing his contrived nastiness; after all, they were all only about eighteen years old and they seemed like nice, quiet girls.

“Your hair looks terrible,” Libra said. “Where’s Nelson?”

“He went home,” Cheryl said.

“What gave you the idea to use those banana curls?” Libra asked in a fury. “You look forty years old! I wanted you in the plain, straight wigs with the bangs.”

“
Silky
said she didn’t like the bangs,” Beryl said, sounding quite pleased that Silky was going to get it this time.

“
She
said we should look more dressy,” Cheryl agreed.

“I think their hair looks very nice,” Gerry said timidly. She regretted it instantly; now Libra would turn on
her
, and she was frightened. But to her surprise he did nothing of the sort.

“You think it looks all right, huh?” he said, as if she were his equal.

“Well, I haven’t seen the other wigs, but I think these are really what’s in style right this minute for formal wear.”

Libra pursed his lips. The four black girls looked back at him like four startled kittens. “There’s nothing I can do about it now in any case,” he said. “Nelson is going to hear from me in the morning. I don’t want you girls ever—I mean
ever
—to tell Nelson what to do, do you hear me? Never again!”

“We won’t,” they chorused, relieved.

“What are you going to sing?”

“‘You Left Me’ and ‘Take Me Back,’” Honey said.

Gerry remembered hearing both those songs on the radio; they had been rather successful. She placed Silky and the Satins in her mind now, if vaguely. They were that group who was always singing of unrequited love.

“I want you to sing ‘Lemme Live Now,’” Libra said. “It’s late at night, I don’t want you to put the people to sleep.”

“You better tell Silky,” Tamara said.

“Don’t you worry. I’ll tell Silky,” Libra snapped. He took Gerry by the arm and led her away.

“See you later,” Gerry called over her shoulder to the girls. They smiled and waved. Good … they seemed to like her. She didn’t want them to get the idea she was Libra’s surrogate tyrant just because she was his assistant and he chose to be nice to her this time.

They pushed their way through the crowd, Libra greeting and being greeted by many of the celebrities and their managers, until they caught sight of another velveteen knicker suit in a corner by one of the TV monitors. Silky was hunched up in a folding chair, chewing her fingernails, about a foot away from the set like a child, watching the show intently.

“Silky!” Libra said.

“Oh, hello Mr. Libra,” Silky said, and stood up reluctantly, flashing him a big smile that never reached her eyes. She was a small, curvy, perfectly built girl, everything about her delicate and flowing. She had enormous eyes, made larger by the triple-thick theatrical eyelashes she was wearing, dimples, and a pouty mouth with very white teeth, a little buck, which instead of being unattractive were rather charming. They gave her face a piquant look. Even in the heavy television make-up and sophisticated wig she looked very young, barely eighteen. She had incredibly silky-looking, soft walnut skin.

“Silky Morgan, Gerry Thompson, my new assistant,” Libra said.

“How do you do,” Silky said.

“I’m glad to meet you at last,” said Gerry. Silky’s hand was tiny and delicate in her own, weighted down by three huge rhinestone rings.

“What’s that trash you’re wearing?” Libra snapped.

“What? What?” Silky’s hand flew to her face.

“Those rings. Take them off. Have you been shopping in the five-and-ten again?”

“I bought them at Bonwit’s,” Silky protested. She put her hands behind her back like a child.

Libra held out his paw. “Give them to me.”

Silky wrestled off the rings behind her back and dropped them into Libra’s outstretched palm.

“You can have them back after the show,” Libra said. “You can wear them at home with your basic leopard-skin lounging outfit with the ostrich trimming and the rhinestone belt.” His voice was poisonous.

“Mr. Libra, you know I wouldn’t wear anything like that.”

“Really?”

“He likes to kid around,” Silky said nervously to Gerry.

“Tell me the whole story about Mr. Nelson and the bangs,” Libra said sternly.

“I just thought it would be nice for a change …” Her voice trailed off and she looked down.

“Since when have you become an authority on chic?”

Silky shook her head and bit her lip.

“Mr. Nelson works for me, do you understand? Not for you. For me. You do what he tells you, you
don’t tell him what to do
. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, Mr. Libra.”

There was a long, embarrassed silence. Gerry felt very sorry for the girl. “I guess I know why they call you Silky,” Gerry said. “You’re the silkiest-looking girl I ever saw.”

“It’s not how I look—it’s ma’ voice,” Silky said softly. She did have a silky voice; it rippled over you like waves of the softest silk in the world.

“Wait till you hear her sing,” Libra said, kind now. Silky smiled gratefully. “I’ve made a change—you’re going to sing ‘Lemme Live Now’ instead of ‘Take Me Back.’”

“Do the girls know?”

“They know.”

“I’ll have to tell the musical director.”

“So tell him.”

“Yes, Mr. Libra.”

About fifteen minutes later Silky and the Satins finally went onstage. The four Satins positioned themselves behind Silky, at one microphone, and Silky stood in front of a detachable floor mike. The Satins harmonized in a soft background with a rock beat, while Silky belted out the lyrics in a voice that still rippled and flowed but had a surprising power and range. When she sang “You Left Me” it really sounded as if she meant it, and the simple, corny lyrics became poignant, even sad. Silky took the mike off its base and held it to her mouth, singing into it almost as if it were only an extension of her hand and not a mechanical instrument at all. She moved beautifully. Her large, sad eyes focused somewhere out in the darkness behind the lighted stage.

The audience applauded wildly. Silky and the Satins went into the upbeat song “Lemme Live Now.” Now Silky was smiling, moving to the beat, but her large eyes under the heavy lashes were still sad.
Yeah, yeah, life is a ball, that’s all, Gonna stand tall, No more cryin’, Lemme Live Now
.…
Now, now, Lemme Live Now
.…

Gerry felt the hair at the base of her skull begin to prickle with excitement. Silky’s marvelous voice filled her with a sweet, sad nostalgia; it was pure, distilled memory of every young girl’s hope and heartbreak. A dozen pictures flashed through her mind: a man she had been in love with when she thought it was good and going to work out, being held in arms that would never leave her, the flash of sun on snow piled up outside an open window while she lay safe and secure in those arms … a sunrise on the river … a night full of stars … Silky’s brave, knowing voice again made the inane lyrics emotional and meaningful. She seemed to be saying: I’ve been hurt, but I won’t give up—I know there’s always another chance.

The audience applauded as if they would never stop. “Wow!” Gerry said.

“You like her?”

“My God, she’s fantastic.”

“She’s a bright girl,” Libra said. “Eighteen years old. I’ve had the group for seven months now. I don’t think she knows how good she really is.”

“Did she ever study singing?”

“Never,” Libra said. “None of them did. I doubt if they can even read music. I know Silky can’t. She just listens to a song and she gets it right down. Spades have natural talent.”

“Oh, Mr. Libra, you don’t believe that!”

“What do you mean I don’t believe that?”

The five girls came off the stage. Tamara, Honey, Cheryl, and Beryl got their coats—identical white bunny-fur polo coats—and said they were going home. Silky said she wanted to stay and see the rest of the telethon.

“Don’t stay up all night,” Libra said. “And no drinking.”

“No, Mr. Libra. No, sir.”

“If you go to a nightclub and fall down on your ass, I’ll hear about it,” he threatened.

“We’re goin’ right back to the hotel, Mr. Libra.”

“And you’re not to break your diets. I want a list tomorrow of everything you ate today. Dance class at ten o’clock,
remember
.”

“Yes, Mr. Libra.”

“You’re not to sleep in your make-up.
You
, you hear what I said?”

“Yes, Mr. Libra,” said Honey.

“All right,” Libra said, dismissing them. The Satins ran away, giggling and chattering among themselves. None of them had bothered to say good night to Silky, and she had not even looked at them.

Gerry felt tired. It was late, and it had been a long day, full of tension. Silky took her place again on the chair in front of the monitor, nibbling her nails. Libra took a chair away from a man and gave it to Gerry. She sat down next to Silky and watched the show.

“He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” Silky said.

“Who, Mr. Libra?”

Silky looked around to make sure Libra was not listening. “No—Mr. Devere, the director. Look at that shot. You never see a shot like that on a telethon; it looks like something on an expensive special. Mr. Devere is really a genius.”

The director was doing something with three cameras that made the images melt into each other. Over them were superimposed shifting eerie blobs like oil on water. Now there was a taped section that looked like a kaleidoscope, with the dancers spinning around in the center of it. Vaguely, through this, could be seen a blowup of the Statue of Liberty.

“He took that from a show of theirs he did,” Silky said. “You should have seen it in color, it was so beautiful.

Gerry was surprised she was so knowledgeable. “Have you done much television?” she asked.

“No, this is only the third time. We were on two teen-age shows before, with the songs pre-recorded. I hate to work pre-recorded because sometimes I change the lyrics a little when I get carried away emotionally, and when I’m supposed to be lip-synching to the record it looks terrible.” Silky flashed Gerry a shy smile. “I know I shouldn’t improvise—it makes it difficult for the girls. But sometimes I just get carried away. Mr. Devere says I’m the Sandy Dennis of singers.”

“Do you know him well?” Gerry asked idly.

“I met him six months ago on one of those teen-age shows. He directed that, too. He’s done some wonderful things. He’s a client of Mr. Libra’s,” she added hastily. “I think it’s important to watch the work of the other clients.”

“Yes, I guess you can learn a lot,” said Gerry.

They stayed on until the end at midnight, because Libra said he wanted to talk to Dick Devere. Gerry alternately watched the show and Silky watching the show. She really was so pretty, and such an endearing combination of shyness and enthusiasm, but she was a nervous wreck. When she finished devouring the mini-nails of one hand, Silky promptly started on the other. There didn’t seem to be anything left to bite, but Silky found it. Libra had disappeared, but then he returned when the telethon was over, leading a tall, not very attractive young man with wispy, receding brown hair, a hawklike nose, and hollow cheeks. He was wearing a well-cut, expensive-looking plaid suit and a black turtleneck sweater.