The Hollywood Trilogy (78 page)

“Oh,
shit!”
Teresa said and marched back to the “cabin.”

“Oh, shit, yourself,” Alexander said softly to the afternoon air.

BUT IT was only at cocktails and dinner that Alexander's wardrobe made him conspicuous. There was something almost every night requiring clothes, but he could have simply not gone. Teresa was prepared for him to behave this way, and so he didn't. Charm was the secret. Enough charm and you could show up naked, with cabalistic signs painted on your body, and people would forgive you.

Alexander made eyes at the women, treated the men as if he would like nothing better than to go into combat with them, told a lot of wonderful Hollywood stories, and generally acted like a sweetheart, if he did say so himself. Teresa had to forgive him.

It did not seem to be such a crime to wear a big woolly sweater to a lakeside cocktail party when everybody else was chilly and crowding around the open fire, and so he won them over almost completely. There were a few grouses, from old farts whose money had come from the dirty ragged miners of '49 or from the sundries and railroad pirates who followed, but in general, the “Tahoe crowd” turned out to be pretty nice people. Alexander wished them well.

He arose each morning and took his little rowboat out onto the lake, nothing violent, just a row before breakfast, and on the third morning wondered why he felt so extremely good. The nights with Teresa were of course magnificent, but there was something lying underneath the surface, some great pleasurable bubble which had yet to burst on his consciousness. It had something to do with Teresa. Of course he loved her, that was not it. Something that was about to be. But what?

Parts of the day were pretty good, too. Teresa had a full schedule, as if
she were still in the city, but she had enough free time (or was it planned?) for the two of them to grab a car or Jeep and ride off into the mountains together, babbling about everything under the sun and fucking out on the rocks beneath the tall trees. Still, there was something to happen, some great event about to take place. But what?

When he finally did consent to play tennis, wearing his bathing suit, a narrow slip of blue fabric that barely covered his enlarging buttocks (“You can't drive a spike with a tack hammer!”) he was a welcome addition to the courts. Alexander played a mean, hard game, and the local players were all pretty much used to each other. It took three days of hard tennis to find out where he fit in. They played on courts from Squaw Valley to the Tahoe Tavern, singles, mixed doubles and men's doubles, and Alexander became better known for his serve than his wardrobe. And best of all, there turned out to be three locals, at least three, all millionaires (although they did not think of themselves that way) who could clean his clock. At one time, tennis had been important to Alexander and he had played daily, thought about his game, dreamed about his game, but now he played only three or four times a week. sometimes even less. The three millionaire amateurs he enjoyed playing with most were in the same age group and situation as Alexander, all bemoaned their lost youth and dying game, and all played like animals.

These matches drew huge crowds, they were serious business, and he often forgot to wonder what it was his secretly joyful heart was concealing from him.

One evening, there was a dinner, as usual, this time at the home of a Sacramento publisher, and Alexander, as usual, showed up in jeans and a sweater. People had stopped even looking askance at him by now, but to his great delight, the three tennis players he was
sure
could beat him in the long run, showed up in their informal clothes, slacks and open shirts under tennis sweaters, and the four of them got royally drunk, tried to take out the sailboat tethered in front of the place, sank it and had to be rescued. That was maybe the best of the dinner parties, but the next time he saw his drinking companions they were back in their regular evening wear.

But all friends, fast friends, and many promises to get together “down below,” as the real world was called.

And then it was Alexander's last day. He and Teresa were alone on a side porch, in the shade. They had just kissed, and a Steller's jay, a big blue bird
with a black head and crest, hopped along the porch rail toward a nut dish. As Alexander watched the jaybird, he knew:

He was not going to ask Teresa to marry him.

He did not want to live among these people. Even half the time, even a quarter of the time, even a week at a time. And he knew he could never get Teresa away from them. It was a different world, a different life. Alexander was not even sure he had met all the people staying in the same building. He did not want to. They would be polite, they would be rich, from San Francisco or the East, they would exert enormous power, but it was not Alexander's kind of power. Alexander got down and wrestled in the mud compared to these people.

The joy this caused was because he recognized that he was not, after all, just another jerk searching for respectability. He had been afraid of that, and afraid that Teresa appealed to him so much because she
was
so respectable.

No, it was actually love.

Alexander beamed proudly at her. “Let's go to Los Angeles together,” he said.

The jaybird hopped over closer to the nut dish and cocked his head.

“Oh, I can't,” she said.

“But you must,” he said affectionately. “I'm not through with you.”

“Then stay a few days. Can't you call your office?”

“Time is money,” he said.

“You'll be at the office and I'll be stuck alone. There's no one in Los Angeles this time of year.”

They negotiated, amid kisses and complaints. Finally it was agreed that Teresa would come down after the following weekend, but only for a few days. Then back to New York.

The jaybird pounced. The nut dish fell off the railing onto the porch and broke. The jawbird squawked and flapped away, and Alexander gave a big, happy laugh.

For months now, he had been suppressing the desire to ask her to marry him. It would have been the worst possible marriage for them both, and Teresa was smart enough to know this, and enough in charge of herself to refuse him. And now he didn't even have to ask her.

“My dear Teresa,” he said.

“My darling Alexander,” she said.

They held a farewell party for him, and everyone dressed his way. It was sort of a costume party, each one dressing in his or her version of tacky. It was great fun, but Alexander somehow felt sorry for them. Many of them, he was sure, woke up in the morning with the dreadful fear that they were of no use to anyone, and all that kept them from having nothing to do was strict adherence to a schedule. Tennis, lunch, cocktails, extramarital affair, nap, cocktails, opera, dinner, drunk and to bed.

Alexander vastly preferred the scumballs of Hollywood, with their outrageous manners, disgusting perversions, unruly egos and uncontrollable behavior.

Poor Teresa. If she only knew what he was really like.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“TERESA, MAY I introduce Richard and Elektra?”

They were all pleased to meet each other. The meeting was taking place in the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel, where Teresa had taken a room. Rick at last saw the woman Boss had been talking about for weeks, and what he saw did not agree with what Hellstrom had described. Not at all. Did not agree with what he had heard about her, either. Italian countess, very highly placed in Eastern society, wealthy, intelligent and beautiful. Oh, beautiful, yes, nothing like Elektra, but a wonderful pouting lip and eyes as big and deceptive as a cat's. A real high-tone bitch with that uppity Eastern cant to her voice.

Also she gave Rick the eye. There was no question about it. Boss was red-faced and happy, sitting there telling stories about their time at Lake Tahoe, and this bitch was making it clear she'd like to fuck Rick at the first possible opportunity. Elektra didn't seem to notice anything. She sat laughing at Hellstrom's jokes and stories and shoveling food into her face. And here came Kerry Dardenelle and Peter Wellman from the bar, Kerry already a little smashed and Wellman's
darshan
glowing. More introductions, and they made room for the extra two, Rick conscious that every eye in the room watched their table.

Kerry took over the conversation at once, saying that they could only stay a moment, and then staying right through lunch, having drinks brought and babbling about all the horror of location in West Texas, where the two of
them had been making a picture about life and love on a modern cotton farm, Texas-style. Kerry was terribly funny, as he always was, but Rick noticed a tremor in his hand and heavy deep circles under his eyes. Kerry worked as hard as he drank, and after a picture he was likely to disappear for a couple of months, some said into a hospital, others said into the tropics where he had his own island. Rick wanted both of them for his picture, but that was Boss Hellstrom's job.

Rick watched Teresa out of the corner of his eye. Would she give Peter Wellman the look? Peter was considered one of the handsomest men in the world, although a bit short at five six, almost an inch shorter than Rick. But he did not see anything happen, and when, from time to time, Teresa would look in his direction, there it would be, intact, that catlike invitation to get under the building and screw.

Frankly, it made him sweat with desire. He could almost smell her, he
could
smell her, he wondered what would happen if he brushed his hand against the inside of her thigh under the table. He looked over at Elektra. She was looking at Peter Wellman with undisguised interest. Wellman sat with half a drink, picking up bits of food here and there with a cocktail toothpick, laughing when the punch lines came and generally behaving like the star he was.

From the other tables it must look as if we're having just the most wonderful time, as befits our station in life, Rick thought. Kerry was now describing falling off one of the huge forklifts used to haul around these gigantic pallets of cotton, and they all laughed heartily, and everyone at the other tables cringed from being left out of the joke—see, they are rich and famous and funny and having the best time, is there no justice? Why don't they have ulcers and overweight and bad breath and sore egos and black rotting consciences?

Ha ha, well, too bad for you! They have more fun than anybody, and they don't mind shoving your nose in it.

“Garçon!
A little more white wine and cracked crab!”

There was a television producer Rick had known a bit ago, staring at them from his own table of sycophants, ill-concealed venom in his eyes. Rick waved to him, winked, just to see the venom turn to a sweetly grin, eyes brighten with hope, the body half-rise in its seat, only to drop back down, disappointed by Rick's failure to wave “come on over and meet the gang!”
Somebody's gopher was going to have his ass ripped off that afternoon, Rick thought without charity.

Elektra caught his eye and nodded in the subtlest way toward Teresa di Veccio. Elektra's expression said much, with little apparent to an outsider. She had seen what Rick had seen. Not the flirtation, but the bitch quality. Elektra's sleepy eyes said, “Whew, what a bitch, huh?” and Rick signalled back, “Uh-
huh!
”

Was Teresa aiming at Wellman? Didn't seem so. Rick still had the inside track. There it was again, just a passing glance as her eyes went from Kerry across to Alexander for an intimate smile, pausing only long enough to plant one tiny erotic dart into Rick.
I promise,
it said,
I promise to make you feel as you've never felt before!

Everybody at the table laughed, Rick included, although he hadn't paid attention to the story.

The luncheon party broke up in front of the hotel as they all waited for their cars to be brought around. Kerry and Wellman got away first, but not before Kerry had taken Rick aside, and with his pouched and unhealthy-looking eyes shifty under Rick's gaze, asked if Rick could get him some cocaine.

“We just need a l'il bit for a party,” he said.

“Gee, I'll ask around,” Rick lied.

“Are you going to be on the lot this afternoon? I'll be in my office.” Kerry maintained offices at Fox, Universal, the Burbank Studios and Paramount, as well as at Hellstrom's studio.

“If I don't call you, that means nothing's happening,” Rick said. He did not want to middle coke for Kerry or anybody else in the business. All it led to were midnight phone calls and a damaged reputation. Here came his Mustang, and Rick was amused to see how everyone wanted to hold the door open for Elektra.

“Oh, let me ride with you,” Teresa said. “I'll sit in back. I want to ask Elektra some questions.”

It was fine with everybody. Alexander said cheerfully, “I'll see you later in my office,” and kissed her goodbye. Rick held the seat forward and Teresa ducked around him and brushed her body against him and smiled up hot enough to fry his brains.

They drove down the circular drive, and waited at the light. Elektra touched his hand on the gearshift briefly, as if to say, “I understand,” and
turned around in her seat to talk to Teresa. They babbled about clothes for the ten minutes it took to get to the lot. At the gate, Teresa leaned forward, her head just behind his, and said hello to Charlie, shook his hand, and you should have seen his face redden as he chuckled and waved and saluted them through. He hadn't even looked at Rick.