“Yes, Mike . . .”
“Listen, you’re paying for this. Jiggle the operator, tell her to reverse the charges to me.”
“No, Mike. It’s my nickel. I want it that way.”
“Okay. Listen, I got to run. I’ve got me a pigeon for gin. While we were waiting for the plane to be refueled, I beat Freddie out of three big ones . . . in one hour. And he’s come on this trip with us, and I got him eager to play every day.”
“Who’s Freddie?”
“Oh, some young schmuck married to a rich broad. I thought you met him in Palm Beach . . . sure you did.”
“Okay, Mike. Good luck with Freddie.”
“Bye, baby. See you soon.”
That night she accepted an invitation to go to dinner with Linda and a friend of hers who was bringing along a “friend.” They went to a small restaurant on Fifty-sixth Street and Linda warned her to pick the cheapest thing on the menu. “Mine is paying two alimonies and yours is paying alimony plus shrink fees for his son.”
January decided her date looked like a long skinny pig. He was tall and thin, but from there on all resemblance to a man ended. His face was pink and his nose was absolutely a snout. He had wisps of pink hair that barely covered his scalp, and patchy little sideburns that refused to grow. He talked about his squash game and his jogging and the ulcerous work of Madison Avenue. Both men worked at the same advertising agency and during the better part of the evening they discussed their accounts and inside gossip at the office. It was obvious from their conversation that they lunched together every day. Why talk about it now? But she realized they were nervous . . . and they were, as Mike would put it, born losers. They were with two girls they hoped to impress, and somehow they felt “big business” talk was the key. She marveled at the unreality of it all. Didn’t they look in the mirror when they shaved? If the pig (who answered to the name of Wally) owned the advertising agency, he couldn’t impress her. She was sorry she had accepted the date. At the moment she would rather be home eating a TV dinner and reading a good book. At ten-thirty the dinner finally dragged to a finish. It was freezing, but the pig said he hadn’t done all of his jogging so they walked home. Linda immediately invited everyone up for a nightcap, but January said she was tired.
The pig insisted on going into the building and escorting her to her door. When she put the key in the lock and turned to say goodnight, he stared at her. “You must be kidding.”
“No. Goodnight and thanks for a very nice dinner.”
“But what about us?”
“Well . . . what about us?” she asked.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those frigid types?”
“No . . . right now, I’m just a tired type.”
“Well, let’s fix that.” He leaned over and immediately his tongue was pushing its way down her throat and his hands were all over her body . . . groping under her coat . . . trying to slide up her blouse. In a burst of anger she lifted her knee and it made its mark. He leaped away with a groan. For a split second his little pig eyes smarted with tears of pain. Then his mouth went ugly. She was frightened now and tried to open the door and get inside, but he pulled her around and slapped her across the face. “You lousy little cunt! You stone-assed virgin types kill me. Well, I’ll show you.” He grabbed for her. She was now more angry than frightened, and with a sudden surge of strength, she shoved him away, pushed open the door, slipped inside and slammed it in his face. For a moment she stood trembling from anger and shock. He had expected her to go to bed with him for a $3.95 table d’hôte dinner.
She undressed slowly and turned on the bath. She needed a lot of bubbles and perfume to wash away the ugly evening. She was just about to get into the tub when the phone rang. It was Linda in a muffled voice. “January . . . is Wally there?”
“Of course not!”
“Oh. Well, listen. Steve is in the bathroom. I just checked with my service. And guess what. Tom Colt called!”
“He did!”
“Yes. He’s in town. My service said he called at ten thirty. Call him now. He’s at the Plaza.”
“Me? But he called you.”
“January . . . I can’t. I’m in bed with Steve—that is, I will be when he gets out of the bathroom. Look, tell him you’re calling for me . . . that I’m having a late conference . . . you know . . . but find out if he plans to see me tomorrow.”
“I can’t. Honestly, Linda.”
“Do it. Come on, now. I’ll tell you what . . . you can even cut yourself in on the date.”
“No.”
“Please! Oh, hi . . . Steve . . . I was just checking with my service.” There was a pause, then Linda said in an impersonal tone, “All right, Miss Green. Thank you for my messages, and please make that call for me.”
January sat on the bed. The water in the bath had cooled. Twenty minutes had passed and she still hadn’t made the call. She couldn’t. How could she call him? But then she owed it to Linda. She was letting her own feelings hold her back. She picked up the phone.
The night operator at the Plaza said Mr. Colt had left a DO NOT DISTURB. She left a message that Miss Linda Riggs had returned his call. Then she hung up and wondered whether she was disappointed at not being able to talk to him . . . or grateful that he’d never know she had called.
Linda’s call came before the alarm went off. “January . . . wake up. I only have a second. Steve’s in the john. Then he’s going to give me an early morning fuck. Tell me . . . did you talk to Tom?”
“Oh, my God. What time is it?”
“Seven o’clock. Did you talk to him?”
“No, he had his phone turned off, but I left a message saying you had returned his call.”
“Good girrrl! Talk to you later.”
At eleven-thirty Linda summoned January into her office. “I just spoke to him,” she said. “And I’m keeping my word. We’re all going to see No, No, Nanette tonight.”
“Oh . . .”
“Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“Linda, I don’t have to go really. In fact I think I’d rather not.”
“No. It’s all right. He said, ‘Last time I picked the show . . . now what do you want to see?’ And when I said No, No, Nanette, he said, great, because Patsy Kelly has always been a favorite of his. Then he said, ‘Do you want to ask January along?’ and I said, ‘Yes, I think it looks better. After all, you are married. On the road it won’t matter because everyone will know I’m there to do the story.’ So that’s how we left it. Only tonight, I think I want to clinch it. So let’s not do the Sardi’s bit. Let’s make it some place where he’ll really drink. Then at the proper time you can cut out. Or if I get him to come up to my place for a nightcap . . . you don’t come.”
“Linda, maybe he’ll invite Patsy to Sardi’s . . .”
“Oh shit. That means we sit and talk theater and everyone is very proper like last time.”
“He obviously likes the theater.”
“Well, let’s play it by ear. We’re to meet in his suite at six. He said he’d have some hors d’oeuvres and a drink to hold us until after the show. Now if I can just get him drinking on an empty stomach . . . I’ll score . . .”
They arrived at the Plaza at six. Rita Lewis was there, along with a subdued young man from Life magazine. Tom was holding a glass of bourbon and made the introductions. Rita went into a state of shock when she saw Linda and January. Tom fixed them a drink and they both sat quietly while the interview continued. January noticed that Tom looked at the clock on the mantle several times. At six-thirty, the young man was still asking questions. At quarter to seven, Tom said, “How much longer will this take? We have tickets for a show.”
“Mr. Colt,” Rita’s voice veered on quiet hysteria. “This is for Life magazine. Mr. Harvey will be here for quite some time. I mean . . . there is no time limit. And a photographer is coming at eight thirty.”
“Looks like we’ll have to postpone the session,” Tom said. He turned to the reporter. “I?
??m sorry, young man, but—”
Rita jumped up. “Mr. Colt . . . you can’t do this. You’ve already upset our schedule by two weeks. I had to change all the bookings—the Mike Douglas show, Kup in Chicago . . .”
“Well, next time when you say I have a five o’clock interview, don’t spring any surprises on me.”
“But I left an envelope with your schedule for you last night. It distinctly said, ‘Life reporter and pictures at five . . . first session.’ Anyone knows that a session means several hours. And a photographer can’t be rushed either. We’ve got Rocco Garazzo—he’s one of the best.”
“Sorry, kid . . .” Tom said. “We’ll do it another time. Look, the booze is all set up over there. Enjoy yourself.”
“Mr. Colt . . .” Rita’s voice broke. Her eyes were glassy with tears. “You’re going to make me lose my job. They’ll say I goofed. And it would keep me from getting other jobs because the word would go out that I wasn’t competent enough to handle a star author. I’ll also blow all my personal contacts . . . like with Life magazine . . . because what you’re doing is insulting to the reporter. He’s a writer . . . doing his best, and—”
“Cut it,” he said quietly. “You’ve made your point.” He turned to Linda. “The tickets are in my name. You kids go see the show. Come back here when it’s over. Use my car. It’s out front.” Then he took off his jacket, poured himself a stiff drink and said to the reporter, “Okay, Mr. Harvey. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. Let’s have a few blasts together, and take all the time you want.”
As they drove to the theater, Linda rhapsodized over the turn of events. “He’s drinking. And now there’s no chance of Sardi’s. But I’m going back alone. I feel the timing is right.”
After the show, Linda lost some of her nerve. “Maybe Rita and the Life people are still with him. You better come back. If he’s alone, stay for one drink, and then split. I’ll give you the cue. When I say, ‘January, I think your cat article is going to be great,’ then you can say, ‘That reminds me, I have some work I need to do on it tonight. I’d better go.’ Okay?”
“Okay. But Linda, aren’t you? . . .” She stopped.
“Aren’t I what?”
“Aren’t you kind of going after him like a man should go after a girl?”
Linda laughed. “January, I bet if you balled a man, you’d expect him to send you flowers the next morning.”
“Well . . . yes . . . David did.”
“Maybe that’s why David only comes around every ten days. But I happen to know that model whom he balls quite often not only doesn’t get flowers from him, but she makes him breakfast and brings it to him in bed. And considering that Kim only eats maybe one stalk of celery every other day to keep nice and consumptive-looking . . . it’s not easy to watch a guy eat bacon and eggs when you are starving.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, there is no boy-girl thing anymore. The girl can be as aggressive as she wants. She can call the man. She can ask him to go to bed. That’s the way it is today. This is the seventies. Not the fifties.”
“There’s one thing I’m curious about—if you dig Tom Colt this much, why would you go to bed with Steve last night?”
“Last night, I didn’t know that Tom was coming back until after I had already told Steve I wanted him. I couldn’t throw him out, could I? Besides, he’s very good in bed and I hadn’t had sex for quite a while.”
“But don’t you have to feel something to go to bed with a man?”
“Yes . . . horny.”
“Linda!”
Linda stared at her in the darkness of the limousine. “Know something, January? Tom Colt is fifty-seven, but he’s with it. You are the generation gap.”
Rita Lewis and the reporter were just leaving when January and Linda returned. Tom greeted both girls expansively, asked about the show, and insisted everyone, including the harassed Rita Lewis, have a drink. Rita had to leave. The Life journalist stayed for one nightcap. Then he said, “I’ve really got to go. I told my wife I’d be home by ten. She’s holding some food for me.”
Tom shook his head sadly. “Why didn’t you speak up, man? Just because I forget about food when I’m drinking. Christ, I starved you . . . and that poor P.R. lady from the publishers. Where do you live?”
“Down near Gramercy Park.”
“Well, the car is outside. Take it. Then send it back and it can take the girls home.”
“January, I just love that cat article you’re working on,” Linda said.
January started for the door. “It needs work. In fact, I had intended to work on it a bit tonight . . . I’ll leave with Mr. Harvey . . . he can drop me.”
“The poor guy is starving,” Tom said. “And he goes in the opposite direction. You gonna make him go uptown first, then backtrack downtown just for a cat story. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“Well, I really should—”
“January does some of her best work at night,” Linda said quickly.
“Don’t we all. But this time her genius will have to wait. Go on, Bob.”
The young man hesitated. “It’s really all right. I don’t mind . . .”
“Beat it,” Tom said good-naturedly. “Get home to your wife and dinner.” Then he turned to Linda and held out his glass. “Want to freshen up this one, baby? And pour some ginger ale for our cat girl.”
Tom had two quick drinks. Then he noticed an envelope on the table. He picked it up. “Tomorrow’s instructions from the Press Lady.”
“You’d better read them,” January said. “I mean . . . you might have an early call.”
“Oh, I know about the call. It’s Philadelphia . . . the Mike Douglas show. Then Washington.”
“You’re leaving?” Linda asked.
“Just for two days. Then I’m back here for a week. Then Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit . . . Then back here for another few days. Then Los Angeles.”
“What time are you leaving tomorrow?” Linda asked.
He nodded toward the envelope. “Open it and see.”
Linda ripped it open. “You don’t leave until noon. It says the limo will pick you up then. But you have a nine o’clock breakfast date with Donald Zec.”
“Yes. He’s from London . . . doing a story on me for the London Daily Mirror.” He stood up. “I’d better get to bed. I want to be awake for Donald. He’s a buddy of mine.” He started for the bedroom.
“January, I think your cat story is—”
“I’ve got to leave. I can take a cab,” January said.
He turned on them. “You’ll both leave together with the car. I’m going to get undressed, and when I call, you both can come and tuck me in, and we’ll have one for the road together.”
He disappeared into the bedroom. January looked at Linda and shrugged helplessly. Linda was furious. “I’ve got to find out when he leaves for the Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit tour. Because I’m going to be on it with him. I can’t go to Philadelphia and Washington . . . it’s too late to make reservations for hotels and all. Besides, I think hell probably have the Life people with him.” Suddenly she looked at January. “Look . . . get out . . . now.”
“You mean, just leave?”
“Yes. And when I go in I’ll say you really wanted to split.”
“But Linda, that’s so rude . . .”
“He doesn’t really want you. He’s just being polite. And you never really insisted on going. Bob Harvey was willing to go the few blocks out of his way, but you certainly didn’t fight very hard.”
“Well, holy smoke, Linda. I don’t want Tom Colt to think I hate him. If I accept a theater invitation from him, I can’t act as if he’s suddenly contaminated. He’ll think I’m rude.”
“What do you care what he thinks? After he’s in bed with me, he won’t be doing any thinking. Come on, January—get your coat and go.”
Suddenly Tom’s voice bellowed from the bedroom. “Hey, girls, bring in the bottle and three glasses.”
; “Go on,” Linda hissed.
“Linda, will you really tell him I had to work? Please.”
“Yes . . . For God’s sake, just get going!”
Suddenly he walked into the room. He was in a dressing gown. It was obvious he had nothing under it. “Hey, why are you both standing there like bookends? Get the booze and come on in.”
Linda glared at January and took the bottle. They both went into the bedroom. Tom Colt propped himself up on the bed on top of the covers. “Now, we’ll all have one for the road. Then you both can tiptoe out and put off the lights.” When he saw Linda had only two glasses, he pointed toward the bathroom. “There’s a glass in there. I want you to have a drink this time, January. To toast my road tour.”
She went into the bathroom and obediently returned with the glass. He poured a good shot for each of them, and then poured half a glass full of straight bourbon for himself.
“Now . . . sit on each side of me.” He patted the bed. Both girls sat down. He rumpled Linda’s hair teasingly. “Now, we drink to the big author who is about to go out and sell himself like breakfast food. Step right this way, folks . . . come see the writer . . . laugh at him . . . hiss at him . . . do anything . . . as long as you buy him.” He tossed half the drink down in one gulp. Linda finished hers in one swallow and stared at Tom for approval.
He winked, and refilled her glass. He freshened his own, then looked toward January. She had taken a sip . . . suddenly she bolted it down. He grinned and refilled her glass. Her throat was burning. For one second she thought this is how people must feel when they swallow poison. Then the burning gave way to a slight glow in her chest. She sipped the second drink . . . and once again, found the second went down easier. She kept taking small sips. It was better than burning her throat with one big gulp. She wondered if Tom realized that she and Linda also had not eaten any dinner. She felt giddy, as if she were outside, watching herself. She edged toward the end of the bed. Linda had put her head on Tom’s chest. Almost absent-mindedly, he was stroking her hair. He lifted her chin. Their eyes were close. January wondered how she could slip out. He leaned over and kissed Linda’s brow. “You’re a beautiful girl,” he said slowly.