Alison Lurie - The Nowhere City

“And this is Maxie Weiss, one of the best agents in the business, or should I say the best, baby?” Petersen gave Glory a quite meaningless wink. It was unknown whether he was called “Baby” because of his predilection for this epithet, or whether it was a nickname retained from his childhood, an era now some distance away. Detractors claimed that Baby was really over sixty; he admitted variously to fifty and forty-five, but dressed and deported himself like an extremely young man or boy. He had a deep tan and very white teeth, and wore a seersucker suit, perforated shoes, and some well-made artificial hair.

“And how’re you, Glory; how’re you doing today?” he asked noisily, meanwhile putting his arm round one of the blondes and pinching her haunch in a friendly way “Is the sun smiling on you?” It had sometimes been suggested that Baby had his dialogue written for him cheap by hack writers who had been dropped by the studio.

“Just fine, Baby.” Of course it was impossible that Baby had not seen the papers this morning. He would not speak about the brawl in front of these kids, but the look he gave her was greedily searching under the smile and the tan. Glory certainly pulled a boo-boo last night, it said. Is she cracking up, maybe? Is she already on the way out? “How’re you feeling yourself?” she counter-attacked, turning a sexy smile on and then fading it off, like an electronic door opening and closing in a supermarket.

“Ah, I’m in great condition. I was working out in the gym two hours this morning.” To demonstrate his vigor, Baby grabbed another one of the starlets, this time the redhead, with his spare arm, and squeezed her with some difficulty to his chest. “I’m ready for anything!” This time he winked at Maxie.

“Isn’t he a great guy, huh!” the blonde said, rubbing against Baby. He pinched her again, in gratitude.

“Well, got to get back to work,” he added in a heavily kidding voice. “It was really fine to see you, baby. All right, girls.”

Squeaking, they trooped out.

“That guy makes me sick,” Glory said as they disappeared. “He’s a creep, that’s what he is.”

“Aw, he’s not so bad.” Maxie had returned to his sandwich. “He’s got good intentions.”

“He has my ass. Do you know he was blowing off to Petey Thorsley last week how he’s screwed with two hundred and thirteen girls, or some number like that.”

“Yeah? Whew.” Maxie sighed, as when one hears of an exhausting athletic feat.

“The little blonde in pink wasn’t bad-looking,” Glory went on, testing for reassurance.

“I liked the redhead better. She had a good walk.”

It was not exactly the right answer; what Maxie should have said was that none of the bunch would ever rate a look if she was around, or something to that effect.

“Yeah, but did you get a look at her expression when Baby grabbed her like that. She really didn’t like it.”

“Oh, she’ll learn to play along.”

“Maybe,” Glory said, drinking from the Thermos.

“If she can’t, there’s plenty others where she came from.” Maxie’s tone was quite neutral; still, it implied that the clients of a successful press agent, too, were not irreplaceable. He had the tact not to point his moral, but allowed a minute of silence for it.

“How about half a pastrami sandwich?” he asked then. “I eat any more on a day like this, I’ll get acid indigestion.”

“Uh-uh. ... You want some Tiger’s Milk? It’s good for your stomach.”

“Uh, no thanks.” Maxie could not control a tone of distaste for this drink, which he knew to be made of orange juice, powdered skim milk, brewer’s yeast, vitamins, minerals, and raw egg. He shifted around and sat sideways on his chair again, facing Glory directly, but not looking at her.

“What I don’t like to picture,” he said, beginning to fold the waxed paper around what was left of his sandwich. “It’s how Rory is going to feel when he hears you turned him down. Naturally, he’s going to be hurt.” He finished wrapping the sandwich and put it into the paper bag. “Aw yeah, he’s going to think, all these nice statements she put out, she won’t even have supper with me. She can’t stand to talk to me for a couple hours with food. Actually she must hate me, probably.”

“Ah, Maxie, you know it’s not like that,” Glory protested throatily. “I mean, considering he’s a complete lunk-head and a real screaming queer, Gunn’s a pretty straight guy. And he’s a real dancer. He’s got a style that won’t quit.”

With the shrewdness born of hard experience, Maxie did not speak; he only looked at his client with a sad expression, waiting.

“You really figure he’ll be all broken up if I don’t go out with him?” Glory asked, in a tone half ironic, half serious.

Maxie shrugged. “A guy like that, naturally he’s sensitive. Already he’s got the idea he can’t make it with girls, not even as a friend. ... An incident like this comes along and proves it, there’s still less chance he’s ever going to be able to relate normally.”

“Gee, you sound like my husband,” Glory said. She frowned, gazing up into the darkness above them. Maxie said nothing.

18

THE SUN SHONE DOWN hard on Wilshire Boulevard, and everything under it glittered. Spots of light rebounded off chrome and glass and painted metal, and a thousand blinding sparks leaped up from the grains of sand in the sidewalks. Katherine squeezed her eyes almost shut, painfully.

It was Friday afternoon, and she had come to Beverly Hills for the first time, looking for something to wear to a beach party the Skinners were planning. Susy Skinner had gone through Katherine’s closets and said that nothing there would really do; and Iz had suggested that she try the stores in Beverly Hills. He had given her part of the afternoon off. By three o’clock she was supposed to have finished shopping, and report to his office on Bedford Drive.

How could everyone else on the street endure the glare? Because, she suddenly realized, they all had on dark glasses. That was what she needed, right away. Squinting, she plunged across the street towards a drugstore.

There was a tall rack of sunglasses inside the door, octagonal, and spinning round on its pole at the least touch, so that a hundred pairs of green and black eyes quickly looked at her; at wicked, impossible Katherine, the sex criminal, the adulteress. But, of course, there was nothing behind all those eyes but cardboard. Nobody was watching her; she was in Los Angeles, she reminded herself again, where nobody saw or cared what she did. And at this thought, as always recently, came a little burst of giddy euphoria, like a gas balloon exploding far up in the sky on a bright day: It didn’t matter, nothing mattered here!

Rapidly, like a movie run through a projector at high speed, scenes passed through Katherine’s mind. That first day, trembling or shivering as Iz pulled her into his bedroom. The green plants, the smooth sheets, the shades drawn down against the sun. Her hands were wet, cold. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m afraid of you”; a nervous, hysterical whisper. The hair on his body was black, curly, dense and fine, as if a design had been drawn all over him in India ink. And when she was feeling most cold, clumsy, and despairing (but she hadn’t said anything, only made an ambiguous noise that might even have been a sigh of passion), “Ah, Katherine. Don’t try so hard. There’s nothing at stake.” And later, lying back with the pillow folded under his head, “I’m sorry. Next time we’ll take it much more slowly.”

“Can I help you with something?” A salesclerk had appeared.

“No thank you; I’m just trying some sunglasses.” To prove it Katherine took a pair off the rack at random and put them on. Immediately the whole store, and the retreating clerk, turned dark green.