Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 (6 page)

 
          
How
beautiful the ocean was that day. I've always been very interested in water.
(Not today, though; today I have no interest in looking at that pool of mine,
just over there somewhere beyond the gray slate patio. I seem to be sitting up
again, bent slightly forward for balance, terry-cloth robe fallen from my
knuckly knees and bunched before my crotch. I seem to be half-turned away from
that charming pool of
mine,
my face seems to be very
near the polite but businesslike and very properly clad knee of my interviewer,
who gazes down past that knee of his at me with what I now perceive to be
horror and shock. What on earth have I been telling him? Oh, gosh, yes, George.
Old George.
I chuckle.)

 
          
The
chuckle goads a reaction from my friend with the pad. Repugnance half
strangling his voice, he says, "You went to
bed
with George Castleberry?"

 
          
"Waterbed,”
I say, explain, explicate further, and the memory of that oceanic encounter,
full of slipperinesses and heaving and absurd near misses makes me chuckle
again.

           
The interviewer is appalled, well
and truly appalled. "But—" he says, stutters, stumbles,
"but—you're completely heterosexual!
All those
marriages, all those girlfriends, all those children!"

 
          
I
shrug, nod, acquiesce,
explain
: "It was a great
part."

 
          
"A great
part!”

 
          
"I
wanted it," I say. "I am an actor, that's what I
am.
When I don't work, when I can't work, I get into all these
things,
all this trouble. After Miriam,
after Jack Schullmann blackballed me in the theater, after the empty months of
being nothing and nobody and having no idea where I was going or if I was going
anywhere,
I wanted it. The role of
Biff Novak was the only thing in the world at that particular moment that I
really and truly wanted. So I got it. And the emptiness went away."

 
          
"You
had
sex
with George
Castleberry!" Has ever an interviewer before in history had such large,
round eyes?

 
          
"Mostly,"
I say, "George had sex with me."

 
          
Those
large, round eyes blink, the mouth purses. "I'm not sure how that
works," he says.

 
          
I
reach up a hand, mildly surprised at how badly it’s shaking, and tug at his
nearest trouser knee. "It's easy to understand," I say. "Take
off your pants."

 
          
Nervously,
betraying his nervousness, he taps my knuckles with his pencil to make me stop
tugging at him. "That's not necessary, Mr. Pine," he says.

 
          
I
remove my hand from him. This hand is
really
shaking. "The necessary we do right now," I say, watching the hand.
"The incoherent takes a little longer." Turning my head a bit,
bracing myself with a palm against the cool slate so I don't inadvertently
knock myself over with the force of my projection, "Hoskins!" I
shout.

 
          
"The
point is," the prissy interviewer says, viewing me with loathing,
"the point is
,
you slept your way to the
top."

 
          
"I
did not." I frown at him in offended dignity. "I slept my way to the
middle," I correct him frostily. "I
clawed
my way to the top."

 
          
"However
it happened," he says, still coldly upset with me, “you did get the part
of Biff Novak, the lead, in
Last Seen in
Tupelo
.”

 
          
This
is a statement, not a question. Having nothing to answer, I once again turn my
head and raise my voice: “Hoskins, dammit!"

 
          
Immediately
he appears, as though dropped from an airplane. He is my butler, and by God he
looks
it. Whitehaired, stoutish without
being obese, stone-faced, dressed in full fig, he is as much a symbol of my
status as my Mercedes. Bowing correctly from the hips, he speaks with that
proper English-butler accent of his (I love it!): “You called?”

 
          
“I
bellowed, dammit,” I tell him. “That's your line, Hoskins, as you well know.”
Imitating him perfectly, a thing I'm good at, and dipping my head in pale
shadow of his obeisance, I say, “You bellowed, sir?”

 
          
Imitating
me perfectly, not a flicker of expression on his patrician face as he dips his
head in pale shadow of true obeisance, he says, “You bellowed, sir?'”

 
          
“I
did.” I show Hoskins my shaking hand. For some reason, I'm not sure why, I
believe him to be sympathetic behind that blank facade. “I want one of those
fuzzy drink things, you know?” I say.
“With the vodka and the
milk and the egg and all that stuff.”

 
          
“Certainly,
sir,” he says (what else would he say?), and turns to the interviewer.
“Anything for you, sir?”

 
          
The
interviewer seems embarrassed as well as surprised. With a fidgety laugh, he
indicates his notepad and pencil. “Not on duty,” he says.

 
          
Strange thing to say.

 
          
Hoskins
doesn't think so. “Very well,” he says, and bows generally and exits.

 
          
Where
am I? Something's gone agley with this interview, this fella dislikes me now.
That's not the way it's done; we get
along
with the press. Trying for a cheery smile, I say, “Very restoring, that drink
thing.
Gets me on my feet.
Knees,
anyway.
Where were we?”

 
          
“Last Seen in
Tupelo
.”
He still disapproves of me; damn his eyes.

           
"Right," I say.
"
That play made me, of course. Biff Novak was the real
start of it all." Smiling in reminiscence, I say, "And it brought
Buddy back into my life."
"Your best friend."

           
"That's right." I smile,
seeing it as a camera shot. AN ANGLE on a theater marquee:

 
          
Saul
Katz Presents
 
GEORGE CASTLEBERRY’S
 
LAST SEEN IN
TUPELO
 
starring

 
          
JACK
PINE              
MARCIA CALLAHAN

 
          
CAMERA
PANS down from the marquee to a busy midtown New York street, centering on
Buddy Pal, standing on the sidewalk in marine uniform and close-cropped hair,
duffel bag over shoulder, smiling up at the marquee. "Buddy Pal," I
say.

 
          
The
dressing room was windowless and small but elegantly and expensively appointed.
The style might have been just a bit
too
masculine,
protesting just that shade too much in its
elkhorn
ashtray and brown leather sofa with
discreet brass nailheads around its bottom and the Remington reproduction
(cavalry charge) on the wall. When the makeup lights flanking the mirrored
dressing table were off, as now, the indirect lighting made the room softly
mellow and cozy, like some underwater grotto where Captain Nemo might relax,
the rich browns and creams a pleasant relief from that infernal eternal blue.

 
          
Seated
on the sofa, in passionate but still-clothed embrace, were the two stars of the
show, Jack Pine and Marcia Callahan, she a forthright brunette of twenty-
eight, tall and slender, whose seventh starring role in a Broadway show—and
seventh affair with her leading man—this was.
Or would be.
Or might be.

 
          
Jack
found himself kissing Marcia's eyebrow, and then her forehead, and then the top
of her head, realizing her lips and hands were working their way down the front
of his body, destination unmistakable. With a little surprised smile, the
visual equivalent of
Jeepers!
he
shifted to a position more comfortable for them both, relaxed, smiled more
lazily, then all at once sat up again, pulling up the bewildered woman by the
shoulders, saying, "Marcia, no. Better not."

 
          
She
gazed at him with bewilderment in her forthright eyes. "Are you
kidding?"

 
          
Embarrassed,
his less-than-forthright gaze slipping away from her, he mumbled,
"George."

 
          
"George?”

 
          
"He's due here any minute," Jack said, unhappy but
trapped.
"He'll want me to be pleased to see him, if you know what
I mean."

 
          
"Oh."
Understanding made her back away along the sofa, adjusting her clothing.
Glancing down at him with dismissive scorn, she said, "That's right. I was
forgetting where it's been."

 
          
They
both got to their feet, as a knock sounded at the door and a voice called,
"Ten minutes to curtain. Ten minutes to curtain."

 
          
"I
heard you, I heard you," Jack snapped at the closed door. Turning to
Marcia, he said, "George made this whole thing possible for me. I owe him
... I owe him everything, Marcia. There'll be time for us."

 
          
"I
think maybe our time is all used up," Marcia said.

 
          
"Don't
say that. You know how I feel about—"

 
          
Another
knock sounded at the door. "I
heard
you!"

 
          
Marcia
laughed, lightly. The doorknob rattled. Marcia said, "It isn't the
warning, it's your playmate. See you on stage, lover."

 
          
She
opened the door, fixing her face into the false smile to be presented to the
author of the play, but it was Buddy who entered instead, in his uniform and
carrying his duffel bag over his shoulder, saying happily to Marcia,
"Well, look at you, will you."

 
          
"My
mistake," Marcia said. "The
rough
trade is here."

           
Easy and amused with her, Buddy
said, “Don't be misled, doll. I can be very gentle."

 
          
“Buddy!"
Jack cried. “You’re here!"

 
          
“Sure
I am," Buddy said.
“How you doin', Dad?"

 
          
Jack
embraced his friend, holding tight. Buddy returned the embrace but looked over
Jack's shoulder to grin at Marcia, who watched with some uncertainty, not
exactly sure what was going on here.

 
          
It
was Buddy who ended the clinch at last, saying, “Let me breathe, Dad."

 
          
“Oh,
sure, Buddy, sure!" Turning to Marcia, grinning in delight, holding Buddy's
elbow, Jack said, “Marcia, this is my oldest friend in the whole world, Buddy
Pal. We grew up together."

 
          
“That's
nice," Marcia said.

 
          
“Buddy,"
Jack said, pride and pleasure in his every atom, “this is Marcia Callahan, my
co-star in the show."

 
          
“I
recognized her from the pictures out front," Buddy said. Grinning at
Marcia, looking her up and down, he said, “In person, you don't have too much
on top, do you?"

 
          
“On top of what?"
Marcia asked him.

 
          
They'd
left the dressing room door open, and now George Castleberry appeared in the
doorway, melting face in a loving smile at first, but then becoming immediately
irritable as he looked around the room. “Well," he said.
“A crowd."

 
          
“I’m
just going, George," Marcia said.

 
          
But
George's mood had changed again; he gazed with amused pleasure on Buddy in his
marine uniform, saying, “Be still, my heart. Is that
real
?”

 
          
“Sure
is," Buddy told him.
“Just got out of the marines two
days ago.
Don’t have my civvies yet."

 
          
“Well,
never change, that's my advice," George told him.

 
          
Turning
to Jack, Buddy said, “In fact, Dad, that's why I came by. If you could tide me
over . . ."

 
          
“Oh,
sure, Buddy," Jack said, his smile suddenly nervous, uneasy. “How much do
you need?"

 
          
“A hundred or so."

 
          
“No problem, Buddy," Jack said.
Taking his wallet from his
hip pocket, his movements and expressions awkward and clumsy, he made
introductions while counting money into Buddy's waiting palm: "George
Castleberry, our playwright, I'd like you to meet my old friend Buddy
Pal."

 
          
Dryly,
Marcia said, "They grew each other up together."

 
          
"Doll,
it's you for me," Buddy told her. Linking his arm with hers, he said,
"Would you like to see my old war wound?"

 
          
Amused
by him, intrigued by him, she permitted him to lead her from the room, saying as
she went, "I don't know. Would I?"

 
          
George
closed the door after them,
then
turned to Jack with
arms outstretched. "Dear boy," he said.

 
          
Jack
performed a boyish smile.
"Hi, George."

 
          
A
knock sounded at the door, and a voice called, "Five minutes to curtain.
Five minutes to curtain."

 
          
Jack
took George's hands, held them in his, a movement that seemed to suggest
togetherness but which nevertheless subtly kept George at a little distance.
"I'm sorry, George," Jack said. "It's too late."

 
          
Petulant,
George said, "Traffic was
terrible.
I hate this city, I really do."

 
          
Jack
did truly like his benefactor, and his sympathy showed through his nervousness
and reluctance. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I have to go."

 
          
"Later,"
George told him. "I'll see you here later.
After the
performance."

 
          
His
smile wan, Jack said, "After the performance, the performance."

 
          
George
leaned forward to kiss Jack's cheek. Jack awkwardly patted the older man's
back, then moved gracefully around him and left the room, closing the door
behind
himself
.

 
          
George
roved the tiny room, wringing his hands, a series of agonized expressions on
his face, small moaning sounds rising from his throat. At last he flung himself
into the chair in front of the dressing table and stared desperately at his own
reflection. "You
fool,
you," he cried, and put his head down onto his folded arms and wept.