Flavor of the Month (35 page)

Because now he was a player. At least for now, he possessed an office at International Studios. He possessed a secretary, and he had taken Crystal Plenum, the movie star, as his lover. He possessed her, too. It was still hard to believe. It still bothered him that she was married. But Crystal had explained that the marriage was over in all but name, and it did not seem to complicate their affair. Nor did her four-year-old daughter.

It meant, of course, that he’d had to unload Bethanie, but that had been a mistake from the beginning. After all, he’d promised her nothing, and she’d gotten herself a ticket to L.A. and a place to stay. She’d even snagged a small continuing part on
Houston
, one of those dying prime-time soaps. She should have no complaints. But of course she did. They always did.

Except Mary Jane. She flickered across his mind’s eye again. In all the time since he left New York, guilt and something else had stopped him from calling her. What’s gone is gone, as his father used to say. But after all this time, it surprised him how he still thought of her, missed her. They would have had a lot of laughs over the ridiculousness of L.A. And somehow all the other women in his life seemed to drain him. Only Mary Jane had filled him with confidence, and more. She had comforted him.

But it was just as well he hadn’t contacted her. Not now, with this thing with Crystal going on. It was too much to run on the side; it had become a full-time thing. The film and Crystal’s performance had become his whole life; the set and locations and cast and crew were their world. During the months of preproduction and the last two months of shooting, he hadn’t known any other.

Yes, the pressure was intense, but the reward, he hoped, would be worth it. He was eking out a performance from Crystal that would startle. Her name would ensure box office; his direction would do the rest. His work would be seen. And now, if he could just find the time to write, he’d be all right.

Jahne left the stage of the Melrose Playhouse after her final curtain call, the applause still echoing in her ears. The adrenaline from her performance made her almost skip backstage, passing Beverly, the stage manager, who thrust a newspaper under Jahne’s arm as she passed. “A review on page thirty-six. Read it and cheep, Jahne. You should be happy as a lark.”

Jahne closed the door to her dressing room and leaned against it, trying to catch her breath. Really, what she wanted to do was laugh out loud. Today was her fifteenth performance as Nora in
Doll’s House
. Each night, her curtain calls had increased. Tonight she’d had eight—count ’em, Jahne—
eight
curtain calls, and she was delirious with joy. This was what it was all about, after all, she told herself. The applause, and the love and respect of the audience. And so what if it was only a West Hollywood theater with an audience who couldn’t tell Ibsen from Ionesco. She hugged herself to keep from crying out with joy.

She got undressed and stood in front of the full-length dressing-room mirror. She placed her hands on her hips, and turned first one way, then the other. Her once low, pendulous breasts were reduced and high, her nipples pointing to the ceiling. Funny to think they had been cut off and placed there, giving the illusion of an even perkier bustline. Catching sight of some of the scars, she quickly jumped to check that her door was locked. She had made it a point to lock it whenever she was dressing or undressing, and found that, of course, it was. She didn’t take any chances.

The incision line across her lower abdomen had already begun to fade, from angry red to a light-brown line just above her pubic hair. But the two scars that cut down the center of her breasts, from the nipples to the rib cage, were still an angry pink. She put vitamin E on them all every day, but they still glowed. The lines around her nipples were hard to see, but when she lifted her arms, the scars from elbow to armpit were obvious. So were the ones on the insides of her thighs, and the ones below her buttocks. No one except Pete ever saw her naked and she still insisted they do it in total darkness.

Dr. Moore had said she had “good tissue,” and he was right. All the incisions had healed quickly, and the scars were fading. But they would always be there. They reminded her of New York, of what she had been, and of what her life had been like. She hated to look at them.

She put on a cotton kimono, dimmed the rheostat, and continued to study herself. You’re beautiful, she told her image. Beautiful and talented. Finally, both. She dropped down into the battered chaise longue provided only for the star and snapped open the newspaper Beverly had given her. The paper was folded to the theater section, and Blitstein’s review jumped out at her. “The history of the Melrose Playhouse,” he wrote, “is, for all intents and purposes, the history of theater on the West Coast. And while it isn’t the Lunt-Fontanne or the Winter Garden on Broadway—Melrose can boast many consistent successes. And all can envy the discovery of great talent that has been the design—not luck, you will note—of this great Western American theater. Once again the MPH makes history, not only in its courageously updated production of
A Doll’s House
, a play without peer, but also in its choice of leading lady. Jahne Moore is the consummate actress, and beautiful beyond words. As a Hollywood wife, trapped by the Beverly Hills life-style but longing for freedom from her gilded L.A. cage, she evokes pathos and compassion—a difficult trick since she is so lovely and her life so enviable. But Moore’s talent overcomes the obstacle and, while the adaptation of the play is flawed, her performance is flawless.”

Jahne read on, feeling her jaw drop, in spite of the fact that the review was so similar to the others she had received since the play opened. In fact, some of the others had not been as positive about the play as this, but all agreed that Jahne Moore was a major acting talent. This, however, was Blitstein in the
L.A. Times
. It would draw the Hollywood crowd.

She crushed the paper to her in a burst of intensity, then immediately unfolded it and straightened out the kinks. This was going in her scrapbook.

The crackling noise of the paper covered the light tapping at the door. She stopped, and heard the noise. The knock was gentle, but nonetheless it startled her. She jumped for her longer dressing gown and called out, “Who is it?”

“It’s Marty,” a voice said. “Marty DiGennaro.”

Jahne smiled to herself and opened the door. The cast had taken to teasing her about her success, and had been playing a series of practical jokes on her. “I never heard of any Marty DiGe…” She stopped, the doorknob in her hand. He stood, a small man, outside the half-open door. Holy shit! “Mr. DiGennaro, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought one of the guys was playing…You know how the crew gets when we’re working on a hit. I mean, of course
you
do.” She almost giggled now. If Marty DiGennaro didn’t know about hits, who did?

“May I come in?” he asked, his eyes crinkled into a smile. He was small, ethnic, a real New York Italian. He walked across the room and slid into a straightback chair, not saying anything, simply looking at her. Jahne didn’t have a clue what to do, so she looked back. The silence stretched out.

“Mr. DiGennaro, please excuse me, but I feel like Fanny Brice did when she opened her dressing room door and found Nicky Arnstein. I’m a little giddy. Can I get you something to drink? Anything?”

“No, nothing, Jahne. And please call me Marty. I had to come back to see you…to tell you what a wonderful performance you gave tonight. I have to admit, I didn’t want to come to the theater—I was dragged here by friends who raved about you. It’s been my experience that when friends say, ‘You must see so-and-so, she’s great’…well, I’ve been disappointed so often.” He paused, continuing to look at her, his dark eyes so intense she almost felt they were piercing her flesh. She thought of Superman’s X-ray vision. Could he see the scars under her wrapper? The director smiled. “Tonight, I wasn’t disappointed. You’re as talented as everyone is saying you are.” He chuckled. “I agree with the theater critics one hundred percent, for a change. What an honor to see you perform.”

He began to rise, and Jahne found her voice. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, thank you, of course. But you must know what this means to me. More than anyone, you’re the person in the business whose opinion I respect. To have
you
say those things…” She paused. “Thank you.” She laughed; then her voice lowered, and she grew mock-serious. “You really
are
Marty DiGennaro, aren’t you? Not some celebrity look-alike. This isn’t a practical joke?”

“Hey, who’d want to admit they looked like me?” Marty laughed, stepped through the door, almost out of Jahne’s life. But he hesitated, turned around for a moment, reached into his pocket, took out a business card, and handed it to her. “Call me tomorrow. My private-line number is written on the back. I’d like to work with you.” Then he was gone.

Jahne stood at the open door for a moment, watching Marty’s back as he walked away. “Hey, Susan,” she called to the stagehand; then she yelled to Pete’s sister and the rest of them. “Beverly, anybody. Listen!” Several of the cast stopped what they were doing and looked toward her. Mary came rushing over. “Listen,” she announced to everyone, waving the business card in the air. “Marty DiGennaro just told me he’d like to work with me.”

Beverly’s face broke into a grin as she turned to the rest of the crew and winked. “So who’s Marty DiGennaro?”

After the performance, Jahne usually spent her evenings alone, except for the once or twice a week that she went over to Pete’s place. They had fallen into a pattern: he’d make a couple of burritos, they’d drink a beer, watch the late news, and then make love. His body was strong, his face was handsome, and he was both enthusiastic and gentle. He never spoke while they made love, and he never protested over Jahne’s insistence that they kept all the lights off. If he felt any of her scars in the dark, he never mentioned them.

But tonight, after the visit from Marty DiGennaro, she insisted they go out to dinner: her treat. “After all, it’s through you that I found out about the auditions.”

They went to a cheap Italian joint on Melrose. As a celebration, she ordered a bottle of Chianti.

“What’s that?” Pete asked.

“Italian wine,” she told him, and nearly sighed. Well, after all, he
was
young and Californian. How could she expect him to know about European wine? Bistros with candles stuck in Chianti bottles? Still, his youth and inexperience sometimes made her lonely.

“Do you think he really meant it?” she asked him, both playing the coquette and also truly frightened about it. “Does he have a part in mind for me? Will I get it?”

“Sure you will,” he told her.

His certainty would have reassured her if she could have trusted what he based it on. “Why?” she asked. She wanted his dissection of her strengths and weaknesses. She wanted his analysis of the Industry, and of Marty DiGennaro specifically. “Why?” she repeated.

“Because you’re so pretty and so smart,” he said simply. She felt her mood begin to slip. He hadn’t reassured her.

They ordered dinner, and she tried to keep the conversation going, but she felt her excitement draining out of her, slowly. She kept drinking the Chianti, annoyed that his glass remained full.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked.

“Not much,” he admitted.

“Well, then, order a Corona, for God’s sakes!” No wonder she never went out with him, she thought. He was impossible. She wondered how long this relationship could last. And she wondered if she could do without his comforting physical presence. She looked across the table at him. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, and shrugged his wide shoulders.

“Oh, come on,” she pushed.

“It’s going to be like my sister told me: you are going to get real successful and then you’re going to drop me.”

She was stung by the accusation. And the fact that she had just been thinking of breaking it off made it worse. She had always been a loyal person, the type who was left, not the type who left others. To her own surprise, she felt tears spring to her eyes. Pete had been kind to her, but his fear of losing her was the first sign of deeper affection that he had shown. Like a sweet and friendly big dog, Pete had kept her company. Now he expected to be forgotten.

“Maybe they’ll need a cameraman,” she said softly. “I could talk to Marty, if he hires me.”

“Oh, he’ll hire you,” Pete said sadly, but he smiled. And, smiling, he reminded Jahne of a grinning golden Lab, or some other slow but affectionate puppy.

Paul Grasso sat in the grimness that was his office. The open pages of his desktop appointment calendar flipped back through the printed months, stirred by the sudden breeze that fluttered through the semifunctional air conditioner below the dusty window. The motion brought Paul’s eyes down from the ceiling, where they had been searching the cracks for solutions. He took his hands from behind his head, brought his reclining chair back up to a sitting position, and began to rearrange the pages, grateful for any activity. But the emptiness of his daily booking sheets reproached him, proving the validity of the worries that had been occupying him.

Nothing!
Nada!
Not a fucking thing new in months. Okay, to be honest, in almost a year. Thirty years in the business, but that counted for shit. You’re only as good as your last deal, and that one was too long ago. Christ, he hated the Industry!

At least he did at times like this, when he was scrambling like a wetback for every scrap of work he could get, just to keep his head above water. It hadn’t always been this way, of course. He used to be the best. He and Milton Glick, his ex-partner, were
the
casting house for quality television, movies, you name it. No bullshit commercials, no exploitation flicks then. Then there was a different babe every night. An office with a view. And the high-roller suite in the Sands, where he could really let himself go.

Hey, he’d
been
a high roller. Paul Grasso. Rolling in it. Christ, he was good.
Was?
The word chilled him. Was he himself talking in the past tense already? Holy shit, he couldn’t let it get to him. Because, despite the split-up with Milton, despite his current lousy business, he wasn’t a has-been. He’d told Milton, the day he walked out the door, that Milton would run back to
him
. Milton cried, said he, Paul, was running him into the ground, but Paul was sure Milt would come back. He needed
me
to make it rain. To bring in the really big ones. “What are a few gambling debts?” he’d asked. “C’mon. Loosen up, Milt. Without me you’ll sink.”