AFTER CHRISTMAS IN NEW YORK!
Finding the first cockroach in the sink. Sure it’s dead, but what about its brothers and sisters? It couldn’t be a lone spinster roach.
A frantic call to Linda. “Relax, January. They’re everywhere in New York. Call the super. You gave him a generous Christmas present. He’ll get the exterminator.”
The super thanked her for the twenty dollars but explained that the exterminator had gone to Puerto Rico for the holidays and couldn’t be reached for another ten days.
David took her out several times. Each time they joined another couple or a group at Raffles or Le Club where the music was too loud for any real conversation, so everyone danced, smiled, and waved at people across the room. And then one evening he took her home and dismissed the cab. For a moment they both stood in front of her apartment building. After an uneasy silence, he said, “Aren’t you going to at least ask me up to look at the plant I gave you?”
“Oh, it’s doing fine. They say I should prune it in the spring.”
Her breath smoked the cold air. There was another awkward silence. Then she said, “Look, David, I like you. I really do. But what happened between us that one night was a mistake. So as they say in the movies—‘Let’s be friends.’”
He smiled. “I’m not going to rape you. I like you too. I more than like you. I . . . I . . . well at the moment, I happen to be freezing . . . and we haven’t had a chance to talk all evening.”
January wondered why this evening should be different from all the other evenings. “Okay, but it’s really just one large room.” Once again there was an uncomfortable silence as they went up in the elevator. She suddenly realized they had nothing to say to one another. Absolutely nothing. And for some insane reason she felt off balance. She found herself chattering nervously as she opened the door. “It’s not too neat. Linda and I share a maid who has a violent love life. Half the time she comes in sniveling with a black eye. But that’s when things are good. When things are bad, she just doesn’t show. Linda says that means he is gone and she is sitting home drinking and waiting for him.” She knew he didn’t give a damn about her maid. “Well . . . this is it. And look at your tree. It’s grown two inches and has three new branches.”
“Why don’t you get rid of her?” he said as he stood standing stiffly in the center of the room.
“Get rid of what?”
“The maid.” He unbuttoned his coat and took off the scarf she had given him.
“Oh, well, Linda has empathy for anyone who is a loser in love. And I have empathy for anyone who survives all those black eyes.” She sat on the couch. He sat on the club chair near her, and stared at the floor, his hands folded between his knees.
“January . . . I want to talk to you about—” He looked up. “Do we have to have that thing on?”
“You mean you don’t like Mr. Edgar Bailey’s Tiffany-type lamp?”
“I feel as if I’m in a bowling alley with all these lights.”
She jumped up and put off the overhead light. “Can I get you some wine . . . or a Coke? That’s all I have.”
“January . . . sit down. I don’t want anything. I want to talk about us.”
“Okay, David.” She sat quietly and waited.
“I guess you’ve been wondering about me . . . about us,” he began. “Well, I’ve had some personal problems and . . .”
She smiled. “David, I told you before—we’re friends. You don’t owe me any explanations.”
He stood up and fished for a cigarette in his pocket. Suddenly he spun around and faced her. “We’re not friends. I . . . I love you. I meant everything I said that night. We are going to get married. But not . . . not for a while. I’ve got something I have to work out . . . business-wise. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to Dee. She gets worried if she thinks I have any problems with my work.” He attempted to smile and shrug it off. “She actually tries to mother me. I love her for it, but I want her to enjoy herself with your father. He’s really a great guy, and I can work out my own problems. So just trust in me, January . . . trust in me and be patient. We’re going to get married . . . eventually. Will you remember that . . . even if there are times I don’t call?”
She looked at him and shook her head slowly. “Wow! You blow my mind. You really do! I mean, how many ways do I have to put it to you that I have no intention of marrying you? But if it will make you feel any better, I’ll let Dee and my father assume that we’re seeing a great deal of one another.”
He turned on her angrily. “What makes you think I care about their opinion?”
“Because you do. And, look, it will be easier for me too. As long as we do see one another occasionally, and they think it’s . . . well, like steady . . . why not?”
He dropped into the club chair and stared into space. He looked like a giant rubber toy that had suddenly sprung a leak. She could almost see his body deflating. “It’s such rotten timing,” he sighed. “I mean, ordinarily we’d have been so great together.” He stared at the floor for a moment, then looked up and managed a smile. “Know something? You’re a good kid, January. Okay. We’ll let them think we’re dating a lot, if it will help you. And when you grow up a little, I think we’ll be just fine together. Just fine.”
He called her at the end of the week to announce that he was going to California to attend the Securities Analysts meeting he had been telling her about. She wasn’t quite sure there really was such a thing as a Securities Analysts meeting in California . . . but she did know that Karla had arrived in Los Angeles from Europe via the Polar route. The newspapers had carried the usual pictures of her, holding a magazine in front of her face as she tried to avoid the photographers. One of the columnists reported she had come to visit Sonya Kinella, the wealthy Italian socialite and dilettante poet. They were old friends from Karla’s early picture days.
But January had no time to wonder about David or Karla. Thomas Colt was due in town February 5 to attend a big publication day party his publishers were given him. That was less than a week away, and as January sat drinking the lukewarm coffee on the bleak Monday in February, Linda was fuming at the impertinence of a Ms. Rita Lewis who had not answered any of her calls.
“I’ve put in five in the last three days,” she said as she slammed down the phone. “I even talked to Mr. Lawrence’s secretary.”
“Who’s he?”
“The publisher himself. I said that Gloss had not received its invitation to the party at the St. Regis and was it an oversight? She gave me the real private ‘secretary to the President voice’ and said, ‘Well, really, Miss Riggs, it’s not actually a press party. Oh, no doubt some of the press will be there, but actually it’s more of a welcome to New York party for Mr. Colt. The Mayor will be there . . . all of the top celebrities.’ I got the distinct impression that Gloss just isn’t chic enough to rate. It wound up with her promising to give Rita my message.”
“Well, we still have four more days,” January said optimistically. “Maybe she’ll call.”
Four days passed and there was still no word. January sat in Linda’s office trying to cheer her. “Come on, Linda. He’s going to be in New York for quite a time. There must be another way to get to him.”
Linda sighed. She glanced at the gray window. “Is it still raining?”
“No, it’s snowing.” January said.
“Good!” Linda said cheerfully. “I hope it turns into a blizzard. Then maybe half the people won’t show . . . and the other half will be all wet and in a lousy mood. Honestly, January, everyone I know who has ever met your father says he was divine to work with . . . how colorful he was . . . everyone adored him—except Tom Colt!”
“Maybe they were both too strong for each other. Or maybe it was just Tom Colt being Tom Colt. Look, I sent in my first team. I wrote him a letter in November. I didn’t say I was related to Mike, because I knew that would kill any chance we had. So I just signed it J. Wayne. Then I followed it up with another letter
two weeks later. When I didn’t hear, I called Jay Allen, his press agent in Los Angeles. Jay had done some work for my father, so he was real nice and gave me Tom Colt’s beach house address. I wrote a letter there. Nothing! Then I followed it up with a Christmas card, with a ‘Hope to see you when you get to New York’ little note on it. Then three weeks later I wrote another glowing letter telling him I had read the galleys and knew he had a big hit.” January leaned forward. “Linda . . . be realistic. Tom Colt wouldn’t attend the Oscar ceremonies of the picture my father made of his book. It won in five categories. Of course he didn’t write the screenplay . . . he felt that was beneath him. So you start out knowing what kind of a snob he is. Mike told me how everyone had pleaded with him to attend. But he refused. Know why? Because he said he was a serious writer, not part of a circus. He also said he had nothing to do with the crummy commercial picture Hollywood made of his book. So why on earth should we even think he’d do a story for us?”
Linda nodded slowly. “Everything you say is right. But then, who would have believed he’d consent to do a publicity tour? That’s a real circus. He probably doesn’t know what he’s getting into. And as for magazine publicity, he probably never heard of it in connection with a serious novel. Oh, I’m sure he expects Life to do a a story on him. And Time. And Newsweek. But Gloss? He probably never heard of it. Or thinks it’s some new kind of toothpaste. But I won’t give up. If I have to be a panzer division. I did that with Dr. Blowacek from Yugoslavia. I hounded him and actually got him before anyone else. That was the story that helped get me promoted to editor-in-chief. January—Gloss is my life! As it grows, so do I! And I’ve got to get Tom Colt for Gloss! I’ve got to!” Her expression was grim. The blood actually seemed to drain from her face. Then she sighed. “The Dr. Blowacek story elevated me in the eyes of my publisher. And since then I’ve been running stories geared for circulation and advertising. Now it’s time for me to go after stories to elevate Gloss in the eyes of the trade. If I get an interview or story on Tom Colt, that would help turn Gloss into something pretty heavy. That’s why I can’t take no for an answer. Sure he’ll be in New York for some time, but Gloss has to get him first. And getting to this cocktail party would have been a big help. He digs beautiful girls. That’s why Rita Lewis hasn’t invited me. She doesn’t want him to do a story for Gloss. She’s very into the literary thing . . . like she’d rather get him a paragraph in The New York Review of Books than a cover story with us. That’s why I wanted to go to the party. I figured if we could just see him . . . we could convince him.”
“Then let’s go,” January said.
“You mean crash?”
“Why not?”
Linda shook her head. “Too important a party. With this kind of an ‘A’ list, they’ll have people at the door, checking off every name.”
“Let’s try it anyway,” January insisted. “We’ll dress our best, hire a limo, and go—”
“Hire a limo? January, what a smashing idea!”
“It’s the only way. With this weather there won’t be a cab in sight. Everyone will arrive as you predicted . . . wet and looking slightly beat. If we’re going to crash, we’re going to crash with style.”
Linda laughed nervously. “Do you really think a limo will give us enough style to bring it off?”
“Well, Ernest Hemingway once defined style as grace under pressure. And arriving in a limousine is certainly a step in the right direction.”
The party was held in a small ballroom. Judging from the noise of the crowd, the weather had been no deterrent. People spilled out into the hallway, forming their own small noisy cliques. A long sheet of paper with guests listed in alphabetical order lay deserted on a table outside the door. Linda’s theory about arriving late had been right. Once the V.I.P.’s were checked in, the people at the door would duck inside to mingle with the celebrities and grab free drinks.
They pushed their way into the main room. January recognized several authors, some press, several Broadway stars, a few Hollywood personalities, and the usual inveterate party-goers.
There was a bar at the end of the room. They spotted Tom Colt immediately. He was much better looking than the picture on his jacket cover. He had a strong face, dark hair, pugilistic features. A man who looked as if he had lived through much of the violence and action he wrote about.
“He scares me,” January whispered. “You go up to him if you like. . . . I’ll just stand back here and watch.”
“He’s gorgeous,” Linda whispered.
“Sure he is. But so is a rattlesnake if it’s in a glass cage. I mean . . . Linda, you can’t mention Gloss magazine to a man like that.”
“Well, I’m going to . . . and you’re going with me. Come on.” She grabbed January’s arm and pulled her through the crowd toward the bar.
Tom Colt was encircled by an admiring group that seemed to be trying to close in on him. But he stood erect, with a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him, pouring his own drinks. He took a long swallow as he stared at the plump little man who had written a best seller five years ago. He hadn’t written anything since, but he was making a career out of going on talk shows and attending celebrity parties. He had also turned into a lush. Suddenly he clamped his pudgy hand on Tom Colt’s arm. “I read everything you write,” he squeaked. He smacked his lips in ecstasy and rolled his eyes heavenward. “My God, but I adore your work. But be careful about getting caught up in the rat race of television.” He giggled. “Look what a whore it’s made out of me.”
Tom Colt pulled his arm away and looked at the damp-looking group around him. His dark eyes seemed angry as they quickly surveyed the crowd. Suddenly they rested on January and Linda. “Excuse me,” he said to the plump little writer, “but my two cousins from Iowa just walked in. And they’ve come all the way by bus.” He took the stunned girls by their arms and led them across the room. “Thank God for the pair of you . . . whoever you are. I was stuck with that bore for twenty minutes and no one came to rescue me because they thought I was being amused.”
Linda was staring at him in a glazed way. January found him completely overpowering. She managed to loosen his grip on her arm and said, “I’m glad if we were able to help you, and—”
Linda suddenly came to life. “And now you can help us.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’ve got a feeling that maybe I should have stayed at the bar.”
“I’m Linda Riggs, editor-in-chief of Gloss magazine, and this is my assistant editor, January Wayne. She’s written to you several times about an interview.”
He turned to January. “Holy Christ! Are you the J. Wayne with the letters and the Christmas card?”
She nodded and for some strange reason found herself blushing. He laughed, as if it was some private joke. “So you’re J. Wayne.” He laughed again. “And all the time I kept thinking the letters were from some skinny fag. Well, glad to meet you, J. Wayne. I’m glad you’re not a fag . . . but it’s no on the interview. My publisher has too many lined up as it is.” He turned and looked at her again. “But why the J. Wayne? Is that part of this Ms. business? At least I might have answered you if I had known you were a girl.”
“Well, January Wayne wouldn’t have given you any lead on my sex either.”
“No, it wouldn’t. It’s a crazy name, it’s—” He stopped. Then he pointed a finger at her accusingly. “You wouldn’t by any chance be the daughter of that sonofabitch Mike Wayne!”
She started to walk away but he yanked her back by the arm. “Listen, he fucked up one of my best books.”
“Don’t you dare use that language when you’re talking about my father! He got an Academy Award with that picture.”
“January . . .” Linda’s voice was a whispered plea.
“Let her rave on.” Tom Colt laughed. “I have a six-month-old son. One day when someone pans his old man’s book, he’ll hit out for me.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Truce?”
January looked at him and held out her hand. Th
en he locked his arms through theirs. “Okay, now that we’re all friends, let’s the three of us cut out. Where can we go for a few quiet blasts?”
“There’s Elaine’s,” Linda said. “A lot of writers go there and—”
“Yeah, I heard about it. But not tonight. The little capon at the bar told me he’s winding up at Elaine’s. Let’s go to Toots’!”
“Where?” Linda asked.
“Toots Shor’s—the only place to go for some serious drinking.” Still holding them by the arms he started for the door. A harassed young woman with long stringy hair rushed to him. “Mr. Colt, where are you going?”
“Out.”
“But you can’t leave. Ronnie Wolfe hasn’t gotten here yet, and—”
He patted her on the head. “Relax, press lady. You’ve done a fine job. The booze is flowing. I’ve been here for two hours and talked to everyone you put with me. My deal was that I’d attend a press party. No one said how long I’d have to stay. Oh, by the way . . . do you know my cousins from Iowa?”
“I know Rita Lewis,” Linda said, not able to hide her delight. “We’ve never actually been introduced. But no doubt she’s seen some of my messages this week.”
“I told my secretary to send you the invitation,” Rita said, rising to the occasion. “I see you got it.”