Stuart Kaminsky - The Howard Hughes Affair

“Is there?”

“I’m getting $48 a day plus expenses,” I said in answer.

He nodded, understanding, and I sat up. My back was feeling better and through the window I could see that the rain had taken a break to load up for another attack.

“Back to work,” I sighed. Gunther nodded, climbed down from the chair and went back to his room. I had three friends: Gunther, who said little; Shelly Minck, the dentist I shared an office with and who never made any sense; and Jeremy Butler, my office landlord, former wrestler and part-time poet. Jeremy was so big and ugly, he never had to say anything he didn’t want to say. I had never tried to get the group together. I was afraid we’d be taken for a remake of The Unholy Three .

Putting on my second suit, a too-heavy blue gabardine, plus a robin’s-egg-blue tie with just a touch of real egg still on it, I ventured out again into the late afternoon. The thunder rumbled a threat, and the little girls were back outside jumping rope and practicing to be witches under the protection of Mrs. Plaut’s porch.

The toothless kid was turning the rope this time, and a new girl was jumping. One of her dark pigtails flopped on her shoulder; the other was held tightly in her mouth. Toothless chanted merrily:

Last night and the night before

Twenty-four robbers came to my door,

And this is what they said:

“Buster, Buster, hands on head;

Buster, Buster, go to bed;

Buster, Buster, if you don’t,

I’m afraid they’ll find you dead.”

My faith in the future generation restored, I ambled to the Buick, patted the list of names and numbers in my pocket, and headed for Culver City and a freshly built, elongated two-story white antiseptic building with cheap but pleasant-smelling carpets. Anne Peters, nee Anne Mitzenmacher, lived there. Well, she used it as an address. It didn’t look lived in. If I put my clothes down in a place for twenty minutes, it looked lived in. If Anne spent five years in a single room, it would never look lived in. I found a parking place next to a dripping frond that bounced with joy at the moisture on its fat-ass leaves. I straightened my tie, pushed the bell and listened for the soft bong far away. It was after five and if she was coming home, she would be there. If not, I was on my way to the office, if a twenty-minute detour can be considered on the way.

The buzzer sounded, and I leaped for the inner door, I hurried up the stairs and to the hall. She was waiting and, as usual, not at all happy to see me. At least she didn’t slam the door in my face. One time when she did that I had stumbled around the hall pretending to be drunk and singing “Annie, Annie was the miller’s daughter, far she wandered from the singing water.” She didn’t like attention called to her, and she didn’t like to be called Annie. She had opened the door that time, but the victory had been a hollow one. She had refused to talk to me when she let me in and actually called the police after giving me ten minutes.

I waited through five years of marriage for Anne to get fat like her mother. She didn’t. Anne had remained full, dark and beautiful. Her hair was long and when she opened the door this time she wore a happy white dress with puffy shoulders and a not-too-happy look on her face.

“Business visit,” I said, holding up both of my palms as I moved forward. She backed away to let me into her apartment. Her arms were folded, which was not a hopeful sign.

I stepped past her into the apartment. She hadn’t changed a thing in the living room since I had last seen it. It was furnished with a modern brown chair and sofa, a light-brown carpet and tasteful brown wallpaper. On the wall was a painting of two factory workers shaking hands. Anne had always been a realist.

“Annie, don’t you ever feel like throwing your bra on the floor and just leaving it there for a week or two?” I said in greeting.

“Never,” she said closing the door behind me. “Business.”

“You’re looking great,” I said, sitting on the uncomfortable-looking chair. “What happened to the executive you were going to marry?”

“I never said I was going to marry Ralph, you assumed that. Toby, I’m not going to let you goad me into battle. I’ve had a tough day at work and I want to be left alone.”

On the sofa was a copy of The Keys of the Kingdom by A. J. Cronin with a golden bookmark about one-third of the way in.

“I saw Hughes today,” I tried, my eyes watching her for that glint of interest. I caught it before she could cover up, and she knew it. She sighed and sat down.

“Toby, that doesn’t buy your way into my life again.” She sat stiffly, but her body quivered, and I smiled politely. She talked fast, “Ralph mentioned that Mr. Hughes had a problem and I mentioned your name.”

“Annie…” I leaned forward.

“I mentioned your name,” she said, putting Cronin on her lap for protection, “because they wanted someone who was discreet and reasonable. Fortunately, they didn’t ay anything about intelligence.”

“You can’t hurt me that way, Annie,” I grinned.

“I know it,” she said. “I threw you a job because God knows you can always use one. We have nothing to talk about.”

“We have hundreds of battles, thousands of hamburgers, and years of apologies to talk about,” I said.

She put the book down, walked to the door and opened it.

“Don’t you want to hear what Hughes wants?” I said.

“I want to hear,” she said softly, “but I don’t want to pay the price for it. Your price is always too high, Toby. You can make a person live a century in fifteen minutes.”

“And you used to love it,” I tried.

She shook her head.

“I never loved it. I accepted it. We’ve been all through it, Toby. I’m almost 40 years old. I have no family, no kids. I’ve got a career and some hope. You don’t cheer me up when you come around. You just remind me of everything I’ve missed.”

“You sent me a perfumed letter,” I said, getting up and moving toward her.

“I pay my gas bill with perfumed letters,” she said. “I buy it by the box. Come on, Toby, I’ve had a bad day. My feet hurt and I have to look in the mirror soon.”

“You’re beautiful, Annie.”

She shook her head and smiled sadly.

“I’m holding on, Toby,” she said. “I heard someone in the office describe me as a handsome woman today. That depressed me almost as much as this visit is. Please take your needs someplace else. I’m not an emotional gas station that can keep pumping it out.”

It had gone all wrong, and I was depressed and feeling sorry for her and myself.

“I tried,” I sighed and went toward the door.

“Yes,” she said softly, “but did you ever stop to think about what it was you tried and why?”

I stepped toward her, and she held her hand out looking like Kay Francis. It would have been a great lobby poster.

“I’ll see you,” I said.

“Take care of yourself,” she said.

On the way back to the car, I decided to visit my nephews some time soon. Christmas was on the way. I’d get the boys the Foto-Electric Football game I saw advertised at Robinson’s for $4.95. I’d get my sister-in-law Ruth a jacket from Bullock’s. I’d get Phil a bottle of Serutan with a clipping of the ad that said “I’m 46 but I look and feel younger.” I’d cheer everybody up. I’d be dear old Uncle Toby. Like hell I would. That wasn’t the way to put Anne’s words out of my mind.

Even Burns and Allen on the car radio didn’t help. Three tacos and a large Pepsi didn’t help. I was getting desperate enough to get to work. I pulled out the sheet from Hughes. The closest person on the list was Basil Rathbone. He lived at 10728 Bellagio Road in Bel Air, which wasn’t too far. I spent a nickel and got Rathbone’s wife on the phone. After I told her Howard Hughes had given me the number, she told me her husband was at NBC rehearsing a radio show. I thanked her, considered myself lucky that I wasn’t too far from NBC and got back in the turtle and head down Sunset.