The Love Machine (46 page)

They were awed with the Astor, speechless at meeting Christie, and viewed the city itself in terrified fascination. They insisted she take them to the top of the Empire State Building. (She had never been there herself.) And then there was the boat ride around New York. They
had
to see the Statue of Liberty. Next on the list—sure they had a list; half of Hamtramck had worked on it-was Radio City. The picture was okay, but to sit through that stage show! They adored it. She was relieved when the “gofors” took over with Grant’s Tomb, the hansom ride in Central Park and the trip across the George Washington Bridge. At first she was volubly grateful to them until it suddenly hit her as the future Mrs. Christie Lane: they were
her
“gofors” too. Meanwhile, she used this respite to cover the stores in search of a suitable wedding
dress. It had to be on the conservative side. It was wild-Christie’s sudden decision that they get married by a priest. But it was a good sign—he really meant it to stick. As far as she was concerned, she would have been married by a witch doctor as long as it was legal. She had talked to Father Kelly—no, she didn’t have to convert, just promise to raise the children as Catholics.
Children!
He’d get one child.
One!
But not until she was ready. She was thirty-two and had spent too many years hunting bargain clothes and watching the right side of the menu. For the first time she was going to have a wonderful wardrobe, take massages, go to the best beauty parlors. She wasn’t about to spend six months in maternity clothes. Not right now. Not when she was finally getting everything she ever wanted.

They were married the first week in May in a double ring ceremony at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, with her folks, Lou Goldberg, the “gofors” and Aggie in attendance. Christie wanted it that way, and until the final “I do” was said, she wasn’t going to argue a single point. When the ceremony was over, everyone kissed everyone. Suddenly she noticed that Christie had slipped away. She saw him crossing to the other side of the church. She followed him curiously, stood at a distance and saw him kneel at an altar. The nut was lighting
every
candle! And he put twenty dollars in the box! She returned to the wedding group without his seeing her. She hadn’t realized how much he cared for her. For Christie to part with twenty bucks—it had to be love. But then, a lot of men who were penurious changed after marriage. This was a good omen.

Christie took everyone to dinner, and then they all went to the station to see her folks off. That night when she went to Christie’s suite at the Astor, she was registered at the front desk for the first time.

She made no comment about spending her honeymoon at the Astor. Christie was immersed in the special and then they were going to Vegas for six weeks. That was the time to make all the future plans. She’d tell him to deposit five thousand in her checking account every month—maybe ten. After all, he had a great
new deal at IBC for next season. And she would call a renting agent before she left and have them line up a duplex on Park Avenue.

She spent the first week of her married life sitting in the darkened theater watching Christie tape the Happening. Her part with Christie would be location shots: restaurants, theaters. Right now they were re-creating the atmosphere of his TV show so he could sing a few songs. Ethel had quickly contacted a renting agent, an elegant woman named Mrs. Rudin, who arrived at rehearsal one day with floor plans for several excellent apartments. Christie ambled over during a break. Ethel introduced him to Mrs. Rudin. He listened quietly while Ethel explained. Then he clamped his teeth on his cigar. “Listen, lady, roll all them blue prints up and forget it. Ethel and I are plenty comfortable at the Astor.”

Ethel’s face burned with silent rage. She waited until the woman left. Then she cornered him backstage. “How dare you do that?” she demanded.

“Do what?”

“Embarrass me in front of a renting agent.”

“Then don’t bring them around and you won’t be embarrassed.”

“But we have to get an apartment.”

“What for?”

“Christie, do you expect me to always live at the Astor with your two wardrobe trunks in the living room, one dinky closet for both of us, one bathroom—”

“Listen, I seen the joint you and Lillian shared. That wasn’t exactly the Ritz.”

“I wasn’t Mrs. Christie Lane then.”

“Well
Mr
. Christie Lane is happy at the Astor.”

She decided this was not the place to fight it out. She had the whole summer to wear him down. “I’m going to Saks to buy a bathing suit for Vegas. Oh, by the way, I want a checking account.”

“So open one.”

“I need something to put in it.”

“You’ve been earning two hundred a week before we were
married. I was talking it over with Lou. He’ll still send you the same check each week. You can keep doing my publicity—you got nothing else to do anyhow.”

“But what about my spending money?”

“Two hundred bucks isn’t exactly chicken feed. Besides, now that you don’t have to kick in your half of the rent to Lillian you’ll have more money. Two hundred a week is plenty of spending money. Some families of eight live on that.”

She sank into a seat in the empty theater. Suddenly she felt as if she had been tricked—like hitting an oil well and waking up the next morning to find it had run dry. And when the special was finished and they left for Vegas, the feeling persisted. Bellboys and motel managers called her Mrs. Lane. Other than that her life hadn’t changed. Actually her life had been better
before
the marriage. There had always been a few nights a week that belonged to her—nights where she could sleep in the privacy of her apartment with Lillian. Now she spent every second with Christie, the “gofors” and Agnes. And in the fall, back in New York, it would still be the Copa bar, Jilly’s and dinners with the “gofors.” But she was damned if she’d go back to the Astor.

She brought it up to Christie one night after the show. “What’s wrong with the Astor?” he demanded.

“I don’t want to live there.”

“Where do you want to live?”

“In a nice apartment, with a dining room, a terrace and
two
bathrooms!”

“All those rooms for just the two of us? I took a house in Hollywood once, but Eddie, Kenny and Aggie lived with me. And even then we had too much space. Look, once we have a kid, then we’ll talk about apartments. Sure, with my kid I’ll want a dining room. I want him to learn right, but as long as there’s just you and me, it’ll be a hotel suite.”

The following night she didn’t wear her diaphragm.

TWENTY-THREE

R
OBIN SAW THE PICTURE OF MAGGIE
in the morning paper while he was having his coffee. He read the caption:
MAGGIE STEWART, CENTURY’S NEWEST YOUNG STAR, IN NEW YORK TODAY TO DO LOCATION SHOTS FOR “THE TARGET.”

Her makeup was a little more pronounced, her hair was longer, but she looked great. Suddenly he had an insatiable urge to see her. He placed a call to the Plaza. She was registered, but her room didn’t answer. He left word that he had called.

He was in the middle of a meeting when his secretary quietly entered the room and placed a note before him: “Miss Stewart on the phone.” He waved her off and went on with the meeting. It was five o’clock before he had the chance to return her call.

“Hi!” She sounded impersonal and cheerful.

“How’s the big movie star?”

“Beat. I’m playing a high-fashion model whose life is in jeopardy. In the opening scene an attempt is made on my life while I’m shooting fashions in Central Park. Naturally, in true Hollywood form, we’re shooting it last. That’s why I’m here.”

“It sounds exciting.”

“I hope it is. As soon as this scene is finished they’ll start to edit and score the picture.”

“Have you another lined up?”

“I’ve had several offers but my agent wants me to wait until this one comes out. It’s a gamble. If I’m good I’ll get much more money and offers of better parts. But if I flop, I’ll lose the things that I could grab now.”

“It sounds like a rough decision,” Robin said.

“I’m a gambler,” she said. “I’m going to wait.”

“Good girl. By the way, how long will you be in town?”

“Just three days.”

“Want to have a hamburger with me at P.J.’s?” It had slipped out before he realized it.

“Why not? Room service takes forever. Just give me time to get out of eight layers of pancake and into a shower.”

“Seven o’clock all right?”

“Fine. I’ll meet you there.” She hung up.

Robin stared at the phone thoughtfully. She hadn’t even given him the chance to offer to pick her up. Was she intentionally playing it cool? Then that meant she still had ideas. … He quickly put in a call to Jerry Moss.

At seven thirty they were still waiting for her at P.J’s. “Maybe she’s standing me up,” Robin said with a smile.

Jerry looked at him curiously. “What’s with you and this girl?”

“Absolutely nothing. We’re just friends—almost old acquaintances, you might say.”

“Then why are you afraid to be alone with her?”

“Afraid?”

“Last time she was in, you made damn sure I was with you when you met her plane.”

Robin sipped his beer. “Look, chum, she was once Andy Parino’s girl. They had just broken up when she came here that time. I didn’t want him to think I was horning in on him. That’s probably why I asked you along. I don’t recall.”

“Oh, that explains everything. And tonight I’m here to protect you from Adam Bergman?”

Robin’s glance was direct and curious. “Adam Bergman?”

“This season’s bright young director,” Jerry explained. “He did that show that won all the awards on Broadway last year. I forget the name—about a lesbian and a fag. Mary and I walked out after the first act, but he’s the new sensation.” Robin didn’t answer. “Funny,” Jerry went on, “maybe I’m old-fashioned but I like plays that have a plot—you know, beginning, middle and end. But today—” He stopped, as he heard the buzz that went through the room. Everyone’s attention was focused on Maggie, who was walking toward them. Robin stood up. She pretended to
remember Jerry, but he was positive she did not. She did not apologize for being late. She ordered a bowl of chili and rummaged through her bag for a cigarette.

“I’d offer you one of mine, but I’ve given them up,” Robin said.

“Then you’ll have to get me a pack, I forgot mine.”

For some reason it pleased Jerry to see Robin jump up and go to the cigarette machine. He returned with the cigarettes, opened the pack and held a match for her.

“When did you give them up?” she asked.

“Two days ago.”

“Why?”

“Just wanted to prove I could kick them.”

She nodded as if she completely understood. When she finished the chili she said, “I’d like a beer, then I’m afraid I’ll have to leave. Early call tomorrow.”

Robin ordered the beer. A mob was queuing up at the door. Suddenly Robin jumped up. “Excuse me—I see a friend of mine.”

They watched him go to the door and greet a couple who were standing in line. In a few minutes he returned, bringing them with him.

“Maggie Stewart, Jerry Moss; this is Dip Nelson and Pauli—” He turned to the girl. “I’m sorry, Pauli. I don’t remember your last name.”

“It’s Nelson now.”

“Congratulations.” Robin signaled for some chairs. “I think we can all squeeze in here.”

“I just want to eat and run,” Pauli said as she sank into a chair. “Man, am I tired. We’ve been rehearsing all day—we’ve got only three weeks before our break-in date.”

“We’re doing a nightclub act,” Dip explained. “We’re breaking it in at a country club in Baltimore. No money, just to iron out the kinks. Then our first big date is July Fourth weekend at the Concord. We get five big ones for the one night.”

“That’s big money, isn’t it?” Robin asked.

“Yeah, but the act is costing us over twenty-five thousand.”

“Twenty-five thousand!” Robin’s amazement was real.

“Why do you think we rehearse eight hours a day at Nola
Studios?” Pauli demanded. “Hey, waiter, two chilis, two cheeseburgers and two Cokes.”

“See, we have special material,” Dip explained. “Choreography, all the jazz. Pauli’s a good dancer and it breaks up the singing bit. We’ve got two weeks booked in Vegas at fifteen thousand a week. That’ll get us more than even. Then Reno, and in September the Persian Room at the Plaza. That’s what really counts—the New York reviews.”

“Why the big interest in a nightclub act?” Robin asked.

“Did you see my last two pictures?” Dip asked.

“I certainly did.”

“Well, then you must know they were bombs.”

Robin grinned. “No, I can pretty much tell what will go on TV, but I go to movies to unwind.”