James Chase: You Can Say That Again

‘You have no idea what he wants?’

‘No idea.’

‘No talk of money?’

‘No talk of money. This is an audition. It’s up to you.’

I thought about this. It seemed odd to me, but it could turn out to be a job.

‘He looks like money?’

‘He stinks of money.’

‘Well, okay. What have I to lose? I’ll be there.’

Lu switched on his oily smile.

‘Good. Now remember, a placid temperament. This guy means what he says.’

‘A placid temperament? That means a yes-man.’

‘Nice thinking, Jerry. That’s what it means.’

‘Suppose he hires me? How about the money? Do you handle that end of it?’

Lu’s little eyes turned cold.

‘If he talks money, refer him to me. I’m your agent, aren’t I?’

‘You must be. I don’t seem to have any other agent.’ I gave him my boyish smile, minus sincerity. ‘Well, okay, I’ll be there.’ I paused, then went on. ‘There’s one little thing, Lu, we should settle before I leave you to your hive of industry. I go to the Plaza. I buy Newsweek. I buy a dry martini . . . right?’

He regarded me suspiciously.

‘That’s what you do.’

I widened the boyish smile.

‘With what?’

Lu stared at me.

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘Let’s face the sordid facts. I’m bust flat. I even had to walk to your crummy office. I’ve even sold my car.’

Lu reared back in his chair.

‘Impossible! I lent you . . .’

‘That was six months ago. Right now, I am worth one dollar and twenty cents.’

He closed his eyes and released a soft moan. I could see he was struggling with himself. Finally, he opened his eyes and produced a twenty-dollar note from a loaded wallet and placed the bill, as if it was Ming china, on his desk.

As I reached for the bill, he said, ‘You had better get this job, Jerry. This is the last handout you get from me. If you don’t get this job, never let me see your face in this office again. Is that understood?’

I stowed the bill into my empty wallet.

‘I always knew you had a heart of gold, Lu,’ I said. ‘I will tell my grandchildren of your generosity. The little bastards will cry their eyes out.’

He snorted.

‘You now owe me five hundred and twenty three dollars, plus twenty-five percent interest. Now, go away!’

I went into the outer office where two aged, shabby looking men leaned against the wall, waiting to see Lu. The sight of them depressed me, but I managed to give Liz a bright smile. I walked down to the street. As I set off to my dreary apartment, I hoped, as I have never hoped before, that tonight would produce the vital break I needed.

* * *

As I walked into the lobby of the Plaza hotel, the wall clock showed 22.30.

In my better days, I had often frequented this hotel, using the bar and the restaurant when dating some willing dolly bird. Then, the doorman would lift his cap, but this time, he merely glanced at me as he hurried down the steps to open the door of a Caddy from which spilled a fat man and a fatter woman.

The hotel lobby was fairly crowded with the usual mob who milled around, greeting each other: most of the men in tuxedos and the women in their war paint. No one paid any attention to me as I walked across the lobby to the newsstand. The old dear who had been behind the counter since the hotel had opened, smiled at me.

‘Why, hello, Mr. Stevens! I’ve missed you. Have you been away?’

Well, at least someone remembered me.

‘France,’ I lied. ‘How are you?’

‘Middling. None of us get any younger. And you, Mr. Stevens?’

‘Fine. Give me Newsweek, will you, baby?’

She simpered. It is easy to please those without money or fame. She gave me the magazine and I paid.

Then conscious I might be watched, I gave her my charming smile, said she looked younger than when I had last seen her, and leaving her dazed with joy, I walked slowly through the mob to the bar. I resisted the temptation to look around to see if I could spot Mr. Durant. I only hoped he was there, watching my performance.

The bar was crowded. I have to weave my way through and past the fat, scented women and the fat, potbellied men to the bar.

Jo-Jo, the negro barman, was serving cocktails. He had put on a lot of weight since I last had seen him. He gave me a quick glance, then a double take, then he beamed at me.

‘Hi, Mr. Stevens. Be with you in a second.’

I rested my elbows on the bar: another who remembered.

When Jo-Jo eventually reached me, I asked for a dry martini.

‘Long time no see, Mr. Stevens,’ he said, reaching for a shaker. ‘You’re quite a stranger.’

‘Yeah. You know how it is.’ I didn’t give him the guff about being in France. Jo-Jo was too worldly wise.

‘Sure. We come and we go and we return to this city.’

Was there a look of sympathy in his eyes?

‘Anyway, nice to see you again.’

He poured out the drink and went to serve a party clamoring for refills.

I suddenly felt pretty good. It was months now since anyone had said it was nice to see me. Most of my so-called friends crossed the street when they saw me coming.

I wondered if my performance with Jo-Jo had been long enough. Holding my drink, I looked around, but the mob was so dense, I couldn’t pick out anyone who looked anything like Mr. Durant as Lu had described him. I sipped the drink and looked at the magazine.

When Jo-Jo had finished serving. I signaled to him.

‘A pack of Chesterfields, please.’

‘Yes, Mr. Stevens.’ He produced the pack. ‘Is the drink okay?’

‘Fine: no one quite like you to mix a dry martini.’

He beamed.

‘Well, I guess I’ve mixed a few in my time.’

‘I’m in a hurry. I’ll pay now,’ and I put a ten spot on the counter.

He gave change and I slipped him a quarter.

‘Hope to see you again, Mr. Stevens,’ and he went off to serve more drinks.

I finished the martini, lit a cigarette, then wandered into the lobby. It was less crowded. The mob was milling towards the restaurant and the exits.

My heart was now beating over fast. Would Mr. Durant appear? I put on my nonchalant expression and moved to one of the lounging chairs. I sat down, opened the magazine and stared sightlessly at the printed pages. Suppose I had flopped? There seemed no obvious rush to hire me.

Play it cool, I told myself, and stubbed out my cigarette in the ash bowl on the table by my side. I crossed one leg over the other and turned the pages.

Twenty long minutes dragged by, and nothing happened.

By now the lobby was nearly empty. I looked around. An elderly couple sat away from me. A thin man and a thinner woman were talking to the reception clerk. Four bellboys sat on a bench, waiting for new arrivals. A little old woman sat alone, looking forlorn and lonely with a toy poodle to keep her company. Two men, smoking cigars, studied papers. There was no sign of anyone remotely looking like Mr. Durant.

I waited. There was nothing else I could do, and while I sat there a black cloud of depression began to gather around me. Fifteen minutes later, the cloud was dense.

I had flopped!

I put down the magazine and lit a cigarette. So what was I going to do? I thought of the long walk back to my apartment. I couldn’t afford a taxi. Out of Lu’s handout, I had eleven dollars and a few cents left in my financial world, but, at least, for the moment, I had a roof over my head, but for how long?

Had Lu been serious about me not showing my face in his office? I thought about this, and decided he was bluffing. He wouldn’t release his hooks in me until I had repaid what I owed him.

So, back to my apartment to face another interminable wait by the telephone. At least, Lu’s handout would keep me from starving.