The Love Machine (19 page)

Ike Ryan and Robin Stone were at El Morocco with two beautiful Italian actresses. Their names were too long for this reporter to remember, but he’ll never forget their faces and their—wow!

She threw the paper on the floor. He had been feeling her out, knowing Ike Ryan was coming to town. Oh Lord, why had she said she wouldn’t be seen with him?

That night she went out with Christie. They went to Danny’s. She was very quiet and Christie was disgruntled: they had been seated at a small table along the wall. One of the front tables was occupied by a group of Hollywood celebrities. The other was empty, with a
RESERVED
sign prominently displayed.

“Probably some other Hollywood joker,” he said, eyeing the table enviously. “Why is everyone so impressed with movie people? I bet more people know me than most of the stars in Hollywood.”

She tried to cheer him; no use both of them being miserable. “Christie, this is a marvelous table. I like being in the center of the room, you can see everyone.”

“I belong at the best table everywhere!”

“Wherever you sit is automatically the best table,” she said.

He stared at her. “You believe that?”

“It’s more important if
you
do.”

He grinned and ordered their dinner. After a short time his good humor returned. “The
Life
story is locked in,” he said. He looked at her longingly. “Mandy, right now there’s something I want more than
Life
. How do I have to prove myself? I love you. I feel like a jerky high-school boy, sitting just holding your hand. I been doing a lot of thinking. How
can
you get to love me if you don’t sleep with me? I know there’s no one else. Eddie was trying to tell me that the word around was that you were dead-stuck on Robin Stone. But I read the column today… .”

“Chris, since you brought it up, I think I ought to tell you—” She stopped, her attention suddenly riveted to the four people who were being shown to the front table. Danny himself was ushering them in. Two beautiful girls, two men. And one of the men was Robin!

She felt that strange light-headedness that often comes with shock. Robin was lighting the girl’s cigarette and giving her that very private grin. The other man was probably Ike Ryan.

“Tell me what, doll?”

Chris was staring at her. She knew she had to say something, but she was powerless to remove her eyes from Robin. She saw him lean over and kiss the girl on the tip of her nose. Then he laughed.

“Oh, look who has my table,” Chris said. “I watched him one night—wanted to take a gander at my competition. I tell you, I couldn’t watch more than ten minutes. He was yelling about Cuba and all that kind of shit, and some jerk was agreeing with him. Big deal. Did you get a load of his ratings against mine?”

“He’s in the top twenty-five, that’s excellent for a news show.” She wondered why she was defending him.

“I’m gonna be number one, you watch. And everyone treats me like I’m number one—except you.”

“I—I like you very much.”

“Then put up or shut up.”

“I want to go home.” She really felt ill. Robin was listening to the girl with his head bent close.

“Oh, doll, let’s not fight. I love you, but we’ve got to make it together.”

“Take me home… .”

He looked at her oddly. “If I take you home, that’s it. I know when I’m licked.”

She watched him sign the check. They would have to pass Robin’s table. Chris stopped at almost every table on the way out, greeting people loudly. She knew Robin had to notice her. When they passed his table, he stood up. He wasn’t the least embarrassed. In fact, he seemed actually glad to see her. He congratulated Chris on his show, and introduced everyone at the table. The two girls were both Francesca something—Italian starlets—and the man was Ike Ryan. She was surprised when Ike stood up. He was six feet tall, with black hair and blue eyes. He was tanned, strong-looking, good-looking; nothing like she had envisioned.

“So this is
the
Amanda?” He turned to the two girls and spoke Italian. The girls nodded and smiled at her. Then Ike said, “I just told them what a big shot you are, Amanda.”

“Tell ’em about me,” Christie said.

Ike laughed. “I don’t have to. They know who you are. They’ve been glued to the television set since they got here.”

It seemed an eternity, but they finally left. Amanda shot one last glance at Robin, hoping to find some message in his eyes, but he was talking and the girl was smiling. Obviously she understood
some
English.

Christie was glum as he hailed a cab. Suddenly she took his arm. “I’ll go back to your place, Christie.”

He was pathetically exuberant. “Oh, doll—but hey, what about the fancy dress? Want to stop off at your place and change?”

“No, I’ll leave you after—after we do it.”

“No, I’ll even go along with the cat. We’ll go to your place. I got no place to go tomorrow. Then I can stay there and you can get up whenever you want.”

Her flesh began to crawl. “No, there’s a cameraman coming up tomorrow, early. It’s only ten-thirty now, so if I go to your place, and leave in a few hours, it will work out.”

“But I want to be with you all night—hold you in my arms.”

She fought back her feeling of nausea. She had deliberately chosen the Astor as the lesser of the evils. At least she could get up and leave when it was over.

“It has to be this way,” she said quietly.

“Doll, I’ll take it any way I can get it. Oh boy, are you gonna be happy! I’m the greatest—wait till you see.”

She was positive that everyone in the Astor lobby knew her plans as she walked to the elevator. She felt that even the taxi driver had looked at her in contempt when she got out of the cab. But how many times she had sailed through Robin’s lobby, even greeted his doorman with a cheery good morning—it had all seemed so natural and wonderful… . No. She musn’t think of Robin, not now.

She walked into the bathroom of Christie’s suite and took off all of her clothes. She stared at her flat breasts, then walked into the bedroom defiantly. He was lying on the bed in his shorts, looking at the racing form. His jaw dropped in disappointment. “No tits!” Her eyes were cold—challenging him. He laughed and held out his arms. “Well! I guess it proves that all the classy ladies are skinny. At least you haven’t got buck teeth. But come on over—you won’t be disappointed at the size of my joint. Look what good old Chris has just for you… .”

She submitted to his embrace in the darkness. She lay back while he panted and gyrated through her. She knew he was trying to please her. Oh God, if he went on for hours, nothing would happen. He could never rouse her—ever. She prayed for him to get it over. He suddenly leaped off her and fell to his side, groaning. After a few minutes he said, “Don’t worry, doll, I pulled out in time. I won’t knock you up.”

She lay there quietly. He took her in his arms. His body was clammy with perspiration. “I didn’t make you come, did I?” he said.

“Chris, I—” She stopped.

“Don’t worry, let me catch my breath and I’ll go down on you.”

“No, Chris. It was wonderful! I was just nervous, that’s all. Next time I’ll wear something, don’t worry.”

“Listen, I’ve decided. We’re gonna get married. At the end of the season. I’ve got six weeks booked in Vegas this summer for big money. We’ll get married there. You’ll have a ball, it’ll be our
honeymoon. So don’t wear anything: if you get pregnant, great—we’ll get married even sooner.”

“No, I don’t want to have a baby until after we’re married. I wouldn’t want people to think that was the reason.”

“Listen, doll, I’m forty-seven. I’m leveling with you. Everyone thinks I’m forty. Even Eddie and Kenny don’t know. But since you’re gonna be my wife, I want you to know the real scene. I been careful with money all my life. I always made my forty or fifty thousand for the last fifteen years. And no matter what I made, I put half of it away. By the time I’m sixty, I’ll have a million in annuities. Twenty years ago I met this guy in Chicago, he’s a big tax expert. I got his kid out of some trouble, nothing serious, a slight car accident. But I had connections and I squared the rap and the kid’s father, this Lou Goldberg, was so grateful that he became my father, mother, lawyer, tax man, everything. He said to me right then that I was a second-class talent, but if I listened to him, I’d wind up a first-class citizen. And he started taking half my money—I was maybe only earning a couple C-notes a week then—but Lou invested it. By now I got quite a portfolio—stuff like IBM that does nothing but double. Now that I’ve made it big, Lou still takes half. And if this keeps up—my new success, I mean—well, in a few years I’ll have not one but two million. And the way he’s investing it, I’ll have over six thousand a month tax-free, without even touching the principal. We can leave that to our kid. Now that I’ve got you, everything will be perfect. And I want us to start having a kid right away, so when I’m sixty, at least I’ll still be able to go to ball games with him and see him go to college like I never did. Don’t ever tell anyone, but I never got past sixth grade—I was hawking candy in burlesque when I was twelve. But our kid will have everything!”

She lay very still. What had she done! This poor idiot… .

She suddenly got out of bed and went into the bathroom and dressed. Chris was dressing when she came out.

“Don’t bother,” she begged. “I can get a cab.” She was anxious to get away. She couldn’t bear his lovesick eyes.

“Nah, it’s still early. I’ll take you home and then drop by the Stage Deli. Eddie and Kenny will probably be there. I’ll have a
cup of coffee with them and kibitz. I’m so happy I can’t sleep—I want to tell it to the world.”

She let him hold her hand on the ride home. He kissed her good night at the elevator. Then she went into her apartment—ran to the bathroom and threw up.

Robin called the following day. He never mentioned the Italian girls. He was leaving that afternoon for Los Angeles with Ike Ryan. He wanted to do an
In Depth
on Ike. He felt it would be more exciting if it were filmed on location. In Ike’s office, on the set. From there he was flying back to London on the polar route, and he had no idea when he’d return. She never mentioned the baroness or the Italian starlet, and he never mentioned Christie Lane.

TWELVE

O
N MAY FIRST,
Amanda awoke fifteen minutes before her “wake-up” call. Tomorrow
Life
magazine would be on every newsstand, but the Plaza Hotel always got
Time
and
Life
a day earlier. She dressed quickly. For the past six weeks she had vacillated between eagerness and apprehension. Everyone was waiting for the
Life
story. Christie felt it would make him an international celebrity. Nick Longworth was all set to raise her fee to a hundred an hour.

She took a cab to the Plaza and dashed into the lobby. The bright red cover caught her eye as she approached the newsstand. She dropped the money on the counter and walked quickly to a large easy chair in the lobby near the Palm Court.

It was a ten-page spread with a big headline:
THE CHRISTIE LANE PHENOMENON.
She was featured with Christie in four pictures and there was one of her alone, posing for Ivan in a chiffon dress in Central Park. And it was no wind machine swirling that dress—she would never forget how cold it had been that day. As she read, she was pleased that the reporter had been unusually perceptive. There was a graphic description of the way she had stood facing the March wind without flinching. It took a peculiar kind of strength to be a model, he noted. It was all very complimentary to her. And although it painted Christie as a man of the people, it slyly revealed his bad grammar, his flamboyancy, his total absorption with his new fame. (So far—so good, she thought.) She read on:

To go along with his new prominence, Christie Lane has taken himself a girl fit to be the consort of the new top minstrel man of television. A beautiful cover girl—Amanda. She is not just the girl he loves. She is a symbol. Proof that the world of second-rate nightclubs is a thing of the past. Because Amanda is definitely first-rate. And after seeing them together, they are not the incongruous pair one might think. Christie Lane worships the elegance of this beautiful girl. And perhaps the lovely Amanda finds reality with Christie Lane. When a girl stands outdoors in thirty-degree temperatures, wearing a chiffon dress and a Palm Beach smile, she probably welcomes the honesty of a man like Christie Lane. Perhaps she is anxious to toss away the June-in-January world of a fashion model to find a real world with this very real man.

She shut the magazine. That last line! How would Robin take it? She walked out into the bright sunlight. Although she dated Christie and occasionally went to bed with him, she felt she barely knew him. They were never alone, except for the torturous few hours together at the Astor. Christie spent at least two nights a week with his writers; there were benefits, interviews—all time-consuming, all part of being a star. Yet he was planning to marry her in Vegas! She had let him talk—the summer had seemed so far away. But now it was May!