Джон Макдональд - The End of the Night

She turned the bed down. We undressed him on the floor, down to his shorts. He breathed little pink bubbles of blood out of the corner of his mouth. I sat him up against the side of the bed and then, kneeling, got my shoulder under his flexed knees and with one great heave, got him up onto the bed.

“I’ll do the rest,” she said. I went out to the living room. It was a spacious apartment, high enough so that the big windows looked toward the lights of downtown. The apartment had a hotel flavor about it, as though nobody ever lived in it very long.

I was looking at the lights when she said, “Oh, I’d thought you’d left.”

I turned. She looked exactly the same as when I had first met her. Glamorous, chic, controlled. Nobody could have guessed she had just put a drunk to bed. “I’ve got your change, Kathy.”

“Put it on the table.”

“You’ve got a beautiful place here.”

“Have we? It’s borrowed, for Chrissake. Every goddam place we live is borrowed. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Kirby Stassen.”

She gave me a tilted look of a special insolence. “All this courtesy, motivated by guilt. Get used to it, Stassen. You did well tonight. You might even be human enough to feel sorry for John. But I didn’t know that son of a bitch Shevlan ever hired anybody human.”

“I don’t work for Gabe.”

“So did he borrow you from Stud Browning? Don’t crap me about a technicality, darling. It doesn’t make you any cleaner.”

“I don’t know what this is all about, Mrs. Pinelli. Yesterday I was a senior in college. Today — I guess I should say yesterday — I quit. I drove to New York. I knew Gabe in school. The hotels are full. I’m staying with him. I’ve hardly had a chance to say hello to him.”

She stared at me. “For the love of God, he’s telling the truth!”

“I haven’t understood very much of what’s been going on this evening. I’m sorry, but nobody has explained anything.”

“Sit down, darling, and hear the facts of life.” She took my hand and led me to a long, low couch. “Gabe is on leave of absence from the agency. He’s been assembling a package for a great big television series. Stud Browning is the producer. Gabe calls himself the unit manager. Gabe came after John to direct. I told John not to trust the mealy little bastard, but John went ahead with it on spec, getting everything lined up for the two pilots they’re going to shoot. My God, he’s been in on the casting and the story editing, everything. It’s a big deal for John. He’s had bad luck. I was going to be in it. They claim they still want me. Tonight, Gabe, after using John all these months for free, kicked him off the team. Stud is going to be producer-director and Gabe Shevlan is going to be assistant director. That cuts the nut. And Gabe has milked John for all the ideas he’ll need. You’re in bad company, Stassen. You have a reasonably clean look. Do you want to be an actor?”

“God, no!”

“You don’t know how refreshing that is, sweetie.”

She smiled at me. She was close to me. I was full of wine. I felt very loose and sophisticated. So I took hold of her and kissed her. Her back felt lean and fragile under my hands. It was like kissing a corpse. When I released her she yawned and said, “Go the hell home, will you, before you really begin to bore me, Stassen.”

I walked home. It was a clear night. There was a light on. The bedroom door was closed. The daybed had been made up for me. I was touched. I hadn’t thought Gabe would go to the trouble.

I heard him leave in the morning. I looked at my watch. Twenty to ten. When I opened my eyes again it was noon. I padded, naked, through the bedroom and stopped with a grunt of shock and surprise in the doorway. Betsy Kipp, in bra and panties, was leaning toward the mirror over the basin, painting herself a new mouth with a small brush.

“I’ll be out in one minute, Kirby,” she said sweetly. “Gabe has some robes in the closet there.”

I put on a robe and sat on the double bed. She had a fresh outfit laid out on the bed, a pale blouse and a tweedy green suit.

“Sleep well?” she called to me.

“Pretty good.”

“That couch is lumpy. I’ve slept there a few times. I made it up for you.”

“Thanks.”

She came out of the bathroom. “All yours. Eggs, toast and coffee okay by you?”

“Fine.”

“They’ll be ready in a hurry because I’ve got a rehearsal at two, so don’t stay in there forever.”

When I came out, breakfast was ready. From the tiny table for two you could reach the small sink, stove and icebox.

“Sit down, Kirby. There’s sugar but no milk for the coffee. How did you like Kathy? Isn’t she a miraculous old broad?”

“She’s unusual, I guess.”

“Oh, I don’t know as she’s unusual. She’s got a nice little talent. And, of course, those marvelous looks. She’s fading now, of course. But I’d say she’s done as much as she can with what she’s got. People wonder why she didn’t dump John ages ago. There’s a word he has a hold over her or something. But Kathy never says much about herself. And when she does live it up, she never gets conspicuous.”

“She’s pretty sore at Gabe, apparently.”

“That’s stupid! Gabe does what he has to do. His job isn’t easy. He takes horrible abuse. And they give him the dirty jobs to do, like last night. Lord, I’ve got to run! Kirby, dear, would you mind cleaning the joint up? No maid service. We’re all meeting at the Absinthe on West 48th at six-thirty tonight. I’m bringing a girl for you. Doxie Weese. She’s lovely, and she’s a very sensitive little actress, and she’s been terribly hurt, and she hasn’t been out with anyone in ages. So be tender with her, will you? Thank you, darling.”

After she left, the apartment seemed exceptionally empty. I cleaned the place. Some of her clothes hung in the closet. I killed what was left of the afternoon. I got to the Absinthe early and was on my second drink when the three of them came in. Gabe looked weary. Doxie had brown hair, sleepwalking mannerisms, and looked about thirteen years old. Betsy was in a bad mood, something about the stupidity of some new choreographer.

Late that evening I got a chance to ask Gabe about John Pinelli.

“We tried to give him a break,” he said. “Old John just hasn’t got it any more. Too bad. He was eager, but we couldn’t take the risk. We’re playing with other people’s money.”

“What will he do?”

“Are you in a sweat about John, or about Kathy?”

“Just curious.”

“Maybe he’ll find something and maybe he won’t. Don’t mess with them, Stass. Kathy is a thousand years older and a thousand times rougher than you are.”

“I keep wondering how they’ll make out.”

“And I keep wondering if you had any change left from last night, buddy. Come up with it.”

Three days later I got a job, through Gabe. Office boy at the agency. I sorted and delivered mail and memos, and ran errands. Because of Gabe’s relationship with Betsy, I got stuck with the chore of squiring Doxie Weese around. She was a zombie. She could cry oftener and harder and for less reason than any girl I ever met. Betsy was very concerned about her. Betsy suggested to me that it might help Doxie if I slept with her. I said I was willing, but I couldn’t even take her arm to cross a street without she started crying her heart out. Betsy said try, so I tried, and I did. It didn’t help Doxie, and it wasn’t worth it.

I began to get restless again, so restless that I said the wrong thing to the wrong man at the agency, and was out on the street ten minutes later, with a pay check in my pocket. I looked for work in a halfhearted way. All of a sudden Gabe went off to Portugal with the unit to shoot the pilots. Doxie went along with the unit. Betsy, two days later, went out to the Coast. Gabe said I could use his apartment while he was gone.