“Are you kidding? In my book, if a guy digs you he wants to jump in the feathers with you. Even that bastard Red Ingram, my last husband—why, he leaped on me the first night we met. After we got married he slowed up a little, to maybe three, four times a week. Then it got to once a month, then nothing. That’s when I put detectives on him and found he was cheating on me.”
“But Helen, I’ve had tons of dates with Allen and he’s never . . . tried to get fresh.”
“Stop the shit!”
For a moment the silence was heavy. Then Helen broke it with her little-girl voice. “Now don’t be mad, Annie-pie. I believe you. But Jesus, don’t you want to? I mean, how do you know you’ll like marriage with the guy? He may be lousy in the kip. You’re going to have a trial run first, aren’t you?”
“I certainly am not.”
This time Helen was momentarily silenced. Then in a hard voice strangely tinged with admiration, she said, “Then it’s just his loot that interests you.”
“I went with Allen for six weeks when I thought he was just a poor little insurance agent.”
A slight pause. “Well, what the hell—you one of those frigid dames?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Whaddaya mean think! Next thing you’ll be telling me you’re a virgin. Anne? You still on? Oh, Jesus, I bet you are a virgin at that.”
“You make it sound like a disease.”
“No, but even at twenty most girls aren’t . . . I mean, hell, if you dig a guy, you want him to jump on you. You can’t wait.”
“Is that the way you feel about Gino?”
“Sure—and I’m not even in love with him yet. But I could be.”
“Well, give it a little time,” Anne said wearily.
“I’ll try tomorrow night. There’s an opening at La Martinique.”
“Do you have a date with him?”
“Not yet. I’ll call him at the office tomorrow and make one.”
“Helen . . . why not wait?”
“For what?”
“Give him a chance to call you.”
“But suppose I wait and he doesn’t call.”
“But you wouldn’t want to go out with him if you were forcing it, would you?”
She could hear Helen yawn. “Why not? Sometimes you get to be a habit with a guy whether he started out wanting you or not.”
Anne felt Gino could not put off Adele three nights in a row. But most of all, she did not want Helen to be humiliated. “Helen, do me a favor. Don’t call Gino tomorrow. Give him a chance to call you.”
“Suppose he doesn’t?”
“He might not. He might not call for several days—even a week.”
“A week! Aw no, I’m not waiting that long!”
“You might not have to. But try it . . . don’t call tomorrow. Maybe Gino isn’t up to three nights in a row.”
“All right.” Helen sighed. “But I still think my way is best. I’ll give him a day to call me. Only I wanted to go to the opening of La Martinique.”
“Isn’t there someone else who can take you?”
“Oh, I can always scare up someone. My designer will take me, or Bobby Eaves, my accompanist. But they’re both fags. That’s the trouble—no real men these days. Plenty of fags, but no men. I hate to go to an opening with a faggot. It’s like wearing a sign: ‘This is all I could get.’”
“I would think you could have your pick of men.”
“That’s what every girl thinks when she first hits New York. It used to be like that, in the good old days when they had Prohibition. I guess they knew what they were doing making booze legal, but it sure was a great time. The speakeasies were great—places like the Park Avenue Club, The Ha-Ha. There’s no night life any more. I liked the days when you dressed, when Eddy Duchin played in the Casino-in-the Park, when Society Charlies sat at ringsides of speaks, when you went to Harlem for breakfast. . . . In those days Tony thought nothing of handing out fifty-dollar tips. Today, if a guy gives you a quarter to go to the can he thinks he’s a big spender. God, how I loved that Tony! Now there was a man!”
“I thought you said Frankie was the only man you ever loved.”
“He was. Tony was exciting—a great guy in the kip—but he was a shit at heart. Frankie was good and kind and . . .” Suddenly Helen began to sob. “Oh Annie, I did love Frankie . . . honest . . . he was the only man I ever loved. And now he’s gone.”
“But Helen, at least you had the real thing once,” Anne stammered.
“I guess so . . .” Helen seemed appeased. “I guess I was lucky having one guy I really loved. Some women never have that.”
“Didn’t you love Henry?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you were in love with Henry Bellamy, weren’t you?” But somehow Anne sensed she had said the wrong thing.
“Did he tell you that?” Helen’s voice was cold.
Anne was shaken by the incredible change of tone. In an instant the warm intimacy of their friendship had vanished.
“No, I just assumed it from the warm way he spoke about you,” Anne said evenly. Her head was spinning with confusion and fatigue.
“Hey, wait a minute! Jesus, you’re touchy. Sure, I knew Henry way back. But why can’t people forget it? We went to bed together, but it meant nothing. To me, anyway. I never dug him that way. But I was young and Henry was important for my career and there was no one else I could be seen with and—oh, hell, that’s ancient history. I sometimes forget there was ever anything like that between us. But he’s still my business manager, so for Christ’s sake don’t you ever tell him this.”
“Now Helen, why should I? I like Henry. I wouldn’t want to hurt him.”
Helen yawned. “Funny, about a year ago we went out. I was depressed, so Henry came home with me. And we decided to try it for old times sake. Nothing! I couldn’t pretend, and Henry couldn’t get it up. Well, after all, Henry’s getting on—he’s in his fifties. I guess it’s not easy to put starch in his lob.”
Anne muffled an involuntary exclamation. Then she said “But Gino’s in his fifties. . . .”
“He’s Italian, and those wops got real fire in them all the time. There’s nothing like a wop in the kip. That Gino! I can’t wait! Listen, I’m gonna call him now and say good night to him. . . make him dream of me.”
“Helen! You can’t! It’s four in the morning. You’ll wake him.”
“Nope, because outta the blue just now, I thought of him. Know what that means? It means he’s thinking of me. Whenever you think of someone out of the blue like that it means the other person is thinking of you.”
“This was not out of the blue,” Anne said sternly. Helen’s warmth had restored her confidence in their friendship. “We’ve been talking about Gino on and off for almost an hour. You just can’t call him now, Helen.”
“All right,” Helen promised. “I’ll listen to you. I’ll wait till he calls me.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, angel,” Helen said sleepily. “Talk to you tomorrow. Sleep well. . . .”
Three days passed and Gino didn’t call. Helen impressed this on Anne several times a day. She called at the office, she called when Anne was dressing to meet Allen, she called at two in the morning.
Neely was also pressing her for advice. She was going to Brooklyn to have dinner with Mel’s family. She dragged out her entire wardrobe; Anne had to help with the decision. Naturally she knew the purple taffeta was the right thing. She just wanted to be sure. A violent argument ensued when Anne insisted on a tan wool. “Geez, that’s two years old.” They argued about it endlessly. Neely finally gave in and went off in the tan wool, much against her better judgment.
The office was filled with the activity of the Ed Holson radio show. But Anne was exhilarated with all the excitement around her. She was busy with her work; Henry needed her; Helen and Neely needed her; she was climbing Mount Everest and the air was invigorating and wonderful. Even if every second verged on crisis, this was part of li
ving—not just watching from the sidelines.
On the fourth day of Gino’s silence, Helen demanded action. “Listen, I don’t care how busy he is,” she shouted on the phone. “If a guy digs you, he can at least get on the horn to say hello.”
“Well . . . maybe I was wrong. I mean . . . maybe he doesn’t care,” Anne said carefully. Allen had tickets for the theatre. It was late and she wanted to get home and change.
“He dug me, I can feel it,” Helen said stubbornly. “I’m gonna call him now.”
“Helen, please . . .”
“Listen. Your advice is for the birds. I been winding up with nothing listening to you.”
“But you said if he cared, he’d call . . .” Anne said patiently.
“I let it go too long. If I’da called, by now I’d be a habit with him. Christ! That’s the story of my life. I always get kicked in the ass. . . .” She began to sob. “Honest, Anne—the minute I’m nice to a guy he dumps me. I been hurt more than any girl alive. I’ve got nothin’. I just work, work, work—make money for everybody—and I’m so alone. I thought Gino liked me. You said so too that night at Morocco. Why hasn’t he called, Annie?”
Anne’s heart rushed out to the woman. She felt a sense of responsibility—she had introduced them. It wasn’t right for Gino not to call even once. It wouldn’t hurt him to see her once in a while. He should be flattered.
“Helen, give it one more day . . . please.”
That night after the theatre Anne suggested going to El Morocco. Gino was at his usual table. He waved at them effusively and insisted they join him. Adele was glowing in the new mink, her arm possessively linked through Gino’s. Anne suddenly wondered what she had hoped to accomplish. She had forgotten how beautiful Adele was. Ronnie Wolfe joined them. Adele mentioned a new nightclub that was opening the following evening; Gino enthusiastically formed a party, inviting Anne and Allen along.
It had been a mistake coming to Morocco. Why had she come? Had she hoped, in some crazy way, that seeing her might remind Gino of Helen? She watched his hand caress Adele’s shoulder and thought of Helen, with her bloated face and figure. She ached with compassion for the middle-aged star.
“C’mon, Anne, dance with me.”
It was Gino, hauling his robust form from behind the table. “I never yet danced with my son’s intended.” He winked at Ronnie Wolfe. “Can’t pass up a chance like this.”
After they had circled the floor and Gino had nodded to everyone he knew, he said quietly, “Listen, Anne, you gotta do me a favor. Get that Lawson dame off my back.”
“I don’t understand . . .” She forced herself to sound innocent.
“She called me tonight. Wants to know when we’re going on the town again. You know what—she had the nerve to ask if I was sick because I hadn’t called.”
“But why haven’t you called? I thought you liked her.”
“Sure. She’s a good Joe. I liked taking her out. She was a lot of laughs. I’d take her out again—if that was all she wanted.”
Anne’s voice was cool. “I think you’re reading something into it that doesn’t exist.”
“Anne . . .” He lowered his voice. “I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but you got to know so’s you’ll understand. After we dropped you and Allen that night, that old bat practically touched my—my privates . . . and begged me to come up for a nightcap. I pretended not to understand. Boy, I ran for my life!” He shuddered at the memory.
“I think she’s . . . attractive,” Anne said lamely.
“That’s because she’s old enough to be your mother and you got respect for older people and respect for her talent. But listen, Anne, to a man she’s not attractive. Oh sure, when she’s on a stage and belts out a song, no one can touch her. But when it comes to romance . . .” He glanced over to the table at Adele. “I’m only interested in the body in my arms.”
Anne took a deep breath. She couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Helen humiliated by such total rejection. With a little time—and with the play going out of town—Helen would probably forget him. But at the moment, Helen’s pride was at stake.
“I’m surprised at you, Gino,” she said quietly. “A man like you . . . a man who has created an empire. You mean you can fall in love with a girl just because she has a pretty face? Why, Helen Lawson is a living legend. She’s someone you should be proud to be seen with. Someone of stature.”
“Look, honey, you got this all wrong. Who said anything about love? Do you think I’m in love with that featherbrained broad over there? I was in love once—with Allen’s mother. She was a lady. But when a man my age thinks about love, then he’s in for trouble. Who needs love now? I just want a girl who’s pretty, who has a good body. She doesn’t have to have brains or be a legend. She just has to look good and satisfy me. And I pay my part of the tab with a few furs and trinkets to keep her happy.” He shrugged. “What do I want with Helen Lawson? She’s like a bull in heat. Now Anne, do me a favor—call her off my back or I’ll have to insult her.”
“But you will go to New Haven for her opening?”
“New Haven?”
“Gino . . . you suggested it. You promised!”
“New Haven. Jesus, that’s hours on a train. I must a been drunk. Look—she wasn’t too hot for us coming there anyway. Tell her I’ll come to Philadelphia.”
“Will you?”
“No, but that’s a long time off. I’ll think of something by then.”
“No, Gino. She’s a friend of mine. I won’t be part of a deception like that.”
“All right, then I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her she’s an old cow and to leave me alone.”
“If you do that I’ll never forgive you.” Anne’s voice was quiet, but her eyes were dark with anger.
Gino looked at her. He smiled. “Anne, Anne. What do you want from me? I don’t want to hurt her. But I can’t be a loverboy with her, either.”
“You can go to Philadelphia for the opening.”
“And then what? It’ll only encourage her.”
“I wouldn’t take myself that seriously,” Anne said coldly. “You’re a very attractive man, but I hardly think Helen will wither from your neglect. It’s just that I introduced you, and when someone makes a promise I think it should be kept. Once her show opens on Broadway you’ll have to stand on line at the stage door to see her.”
“Okay, okay. God forbid I should cause a situation with a coming member of my family. I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll go to Philly—there’s a late train I can take back the same night—but only if you promise to get her off my back until then. Is that a deal?”
“All right, Gino, it’s a deal.”
Helen had been even more difficult. Anne invented a story about Gino being involved with some new business deal. He was too busy to see her, but he would come to Philadelphia for the opening.
“Whaddaya mean he’s in the middle of a business deal?” Helen had shrieked. “What the hell do you think I’m doing, peeling potatoes?”
“But you wanted him to come to Philadelphia rather than New Haven.”
“Yeah, but this jazz about a business deal. Listen, no matter how busy I am, if I like someone I can find time to see him.”
“Well, then forget Gino,” Anne said wearily. “He’s not worth all this trouble.”
“But I need a guy—and I don’t have anyone, Annie.” Her voice was small. “So I’ve just gotta get Gino.”
“Helen, maybe Gino doesn’t really want a steady girl. . .”
“Sure he does. I got all the dirt on him. He goes with a showgirl, a big broad named Adele something.”
“You know that?”
“Sure, I read the columns. But look, he took me out while he was going with her, didn’t he? So he’s not that hot for her. I heard he’s been keeping her for about six months, but you notice he hasn’t asked her to quit her show to spend full time with him. So I figure he’s ready for a change. And it’s gonna be me! We had a ball both nights we were together. I
could tell he digs me. I think maybe because of who I am he’s a little afraid—the legend and all that shit. I’m gonna call him now!”
“Helen!”
“Well for Chrissake! So he’ll say no and I won’t see him tonight. Just sitting and not calling isn’t gonna bring him to me.”
“Helen, he’s coming to Philadelphia.”
“How can I be sure?”
“Because Allen and I are also going. I promise you he’ll be there.”
“Okay.” Helen was cheerful again. “Maybe it’s for the best. The next ten days will be kind a hectic. And there’ll be a big party after the opening in Philly. Gino and I will make a fast appearance and then sneak off to my suite and have a ball. Boy, Annie, once I get him in the feathers . . .”
The week before “Getaway Day,” as Neely tagged the New Haven opening, was one never-ending crisis. The office was filled with hysterical meetings on the Ed Holson show as writers came and went. Helen called several times a day, sometimes just to chat, but mostly to complain about Gino. He’d been at El Morocco with Adele Martin three nights in a row—her designer had seen them. What was with his business deal?
“But Helen . . . he doesn’t have to meet her until after eleven. Perhaps it was just for a quick drink.”
“I’d meet him for a quick drink.”
“I’m sure he thinks too much of you to make you wait around like that . . .”
Then, in the middle of the chaos, Allen took a sudden stand. With Helen temporarily out of the picture, they had returned to their easy relationship. They were at the Stork Club; she was idly stirring a wooden stick in champagne and making a pretense of sipping it.
Suddenly he said, “Anne. How long does this go on?”
“What do you mean?”
“When are we going to get married?”
“Married?” She repeated the word tonelessly.
“Well, it has been the general idea.”
“But Allen . . . I thought you understood. I mean . . .”
“I said I’d wait. And I’ve waited. It’s been a month.”
“Allen, I don’t want to get married.”
When he spoke his eyes were strange. “I’d like to know something. To settle it in my own mind. Is it marriage you dislike—or me?”