The City When It Rains (25 page)

“Didn't think you'd make it,” he said. “Haven't had a guest in a long time. Forgive the mess.”

“Don't worry,” Corman said. “I'm used to mess.”

Groton waved his hand groggily. “Ain't it the truth.”

Corman pulled the camera bag from his shoulder and let it drop to the floor.

“Want a drink?” Groton asked.

“Do we have time?”

“Sure. What the fuck.”

“Okay,” Corman said. “Thanks.”

“Sit down anywhere,” Groton told him. His hands swept out from his sides in a gesture of resignation. “I'm a man of simple tastes.”

Corman took a seat in a small wooden chair and let his eyes take in the room. Groton's sleeper-sofa was still out. It sagged at the center, and a large rumpled pile of bedding spilled over the right edge and gathered on the uncarpeted floor below. The curtains were frayed at their edges, and there were no photographs on the walls.

“Two sixteen a month,” Groton said. “That's what I pay for this place.” He shook his head. “Shit, they'll probably get close to fifteen hundred for it when I …” He stopped, catching himself. “When it's vacant.”

Corman smiled. “At least.”

Groton pulled two paper cups from a stack of them on a small table. “Scotch okay?”

“Yeah.”

“What? Two fingers?”

“Yeah, that's good.”

Groton smiled. “Can't get tight,” he said, wagging his finger scoldingly. “Them's the rules. Can't get tight if you got a shoot.”

He handed Corman a glass. “You look like shit,” he said, then lifted his cup. “To shit.”

Corman turned toward him. “How many have you had, Harry?”

Groton waved his hand. “Not enough.” He walked uneasily over to a chair, slumped down in it and took another sip.

“When's the shoot?” Corman asked.

Groton started to answer, then looked as if he'd misplaced something, and said nothing.

“Did you write it down?”

Groton nodded. “Somewhere.” He stared about blearily. “Where the fuck could it be?”

“What was it on, a piece of paper?”

“Yeah,” Groton answered dully. “Some piece of paper, somewhere.”

“It's at the Plaza,” Corman reminded him. “That's what you said yesterday.”

“That's right,” Groton said, suddenly remembering. “The Plaza. Pomegranate, something like that. Some fruit name. At four-thirty.”

Corman looked at his watch. “That's in fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Groton said without concern. “Yeah, that's right. Fifteen minutes.”

Corman glanced at the cup which tilted back and forth unsteadily in Groton's hand. He'd poured himself a good deal more than two fingers.

“You going to make it?” Corman asked.

Groton grinned childishly. “Nope,” he said quietly. He shook his head. “Nope. Nope.”

Corman shrugged. “Don't worry about it,” he said. “I can handle it.”

Groton looked at him softly. “Would you do that, Corman? Would you mind? I mean, to tell you the truth—” He thrust his hand out, and a wave of scotch washed over the front of his shirt. “Shit,” he hissed angrily. “Shit.” He began to slap at his shirt, sending small amber drops across the floor. “Shit. Shit.”

Corman grabbed a handful of Kleenex from the box beside the bed, rushed over, bent down and began wiping the scotch from Groton's shirt.

“I'm entitled, right?” Groton asked brokenly. “Just one time?”

Corman nodded quickly. “Yeah, you're entitled. Don't worry about it.” He could feel Groton's fingers toying with his hair. He drew them out and lowered the hand back into Groton's lap. “You're okay now,” he said.

“Right, right,” Groton said. He sat up slightly, his chest thrust out, chin held up. “Just fine,” he said determinedly. “No problem.”

There were no “fruit names” listed among the people who had rented ballrooms in the Plaza, but one of the families was named Pomeroy, and Corman thought it was a safe guess that that was the one Groton had meant. It was a wedding reception, and he managed to rush up the stairs to the designated room just as Stuart Clayton was glancing nervously at his watch for what Corman figured was probably the thousandth time.

“Where the hell is Groton?” Clayton asked as Corman mounted the last step.

“He came down with something,” Corman told him. “He sent me instead.”

“Sent you?”

“Yes.”

“Why you? This is not a blood-and-guts shoot. No offense,” Clayton said, “but I've never worked with you. And you can't just work with anybody on this kind of thing. This is serious business.”

“I know how to handle it,” Corman assured him.

Clayton eyed him suspiciously. “You do, huh? Well, let me ask you something. How many of these shoots have you done, anyway?”

“Ten, twenty,” Corman said, lying through his teeth.

Clayton wasn't buying it. “Really? When? Where? Give me some details.”

“In Boston,” Corman replied, grasping for straws. “I worked in Boston before I came to New York.”

Clayton still looked doubtful. “Where in Boston?” he demanded. “What rooms? What affairs? Jesus Christ, we're not talking about the Ramada Inn here. We're talking about the Plaza-fucking-Hotel.”

Corman knew his bluff had been called and made a do-or-die grab for the job.

“Look,” he said firmly. “Groton's sick. He sent me. If you've got a problem with that, fine. I understand. So, go get somebody else.” He turned and started to leave.

“No, wait,” Clayton said quickly. “Sorry. Don't take it personally. It's just that …”

“Forget it,” Corman said, cozying up again. If he was going to replace Groton permanently, he'd have to get along with Clayton, and he didn't want to ruin any chance of that on his first solo shoot. “Just relax,” he said easily. “Believe me, I'll do a good job for you.”

“Okay,” Clayton said. “We'll forget all about this little dispute. We'll just go to work, okay?”

Corman nodded. “If you want anything special,” he said, “just let me know.”

Clayton smiled halfheartedly. “Good, thanks.” He slapped his hands together softly. “Well, as they say, we're into the arena.”

Corman forced out a small laugh, then followed Clayton into the ballroom, walking slowly behind him, making sure he kept the lead.

It was over in less than two hours. Corman stood in the corner, munching a small cracker while Clayton worked the room, methodically pumping the last Pomeroy hand just one more time.

“Well, that's it,” Clayton said, as he walked over to Corman, snapped off a bit of what was left of the cracker and chewed it slowly. “What'd you think?”

“It was okay,” Corman said.

One of Clayton's light green eyes seemed to reach out toward him like a small, searching probe. “But did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah,” Corman said lightly. “It was fun.”

Clayton laughed. “You think so?” He laughed again. “Well, anyway, you did a good job. Really. Not bad at all. Maybe we could team up again sometime.”

Corman nodded.

“Would you like that?” Clayton asked.

Corman offered him a quick smile. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

Clayton looked pleased. “All right,” he said. “But if we're going to work together from time to time, I want to make a few things clear.” He turned and began to stroll out of the room, waving Corman up beside him. “You know what they call this beat?” he asked.

Corman shook his head.

“The snoot patrol,” Clayton told him. “That's what they call it, all the so-called ‘real' reporters.” He stopped, studying Corman's eyes. “Real reporters,” he scoffed. “What bullshit. The editorial writers, the critics, the political reporters with their noses stuck two feet up some Congressman's ass.” He laughed. “And they have the balls to turn up their noses at this beat?” The laugh thinned into a derisive chuckle, then trailed off entirely. “They're lost, Corman. Take it from me, they're completely lost.” He continued on, sailing gracefully over the littered carpet. “Because what they don't understand is that in this city, what the rich do is the only real news there is.” He looked at Corman earnestly. “I'm talking about
human news.
I'm talking about the human fucking spirit.”

They moved out of the room, down the stairs. At the side of the Palm Court, Clayton stopped again, his eyes lingering on the wide dining room. The band was playing softly, the piano in the lead, the accompaniment no more than a swaying presence in the background. “The people in editorial, international, all those people,” he said, “they think they've got the inside track on how things work, on what people are really like.” He shook his head. “But I'm a student of psychology just as much as they are, and let me tell you something, if you want to know what people are like, you have to study the ones who have everything. You don't study the hustlers, the scroungers, the ones who have nothing. They're lost in bullshit. You can't learn anything from them.”

Corman nodded.

“But if you study the rich,” Clayton went on, “I mean study them very closely, if you do that, you can really find out what people need, what people miss.” He looked at Corman and pointed to his chest. “I'm talking about in here. You know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

Clayton began walking again, strolling quietly among the potted palms, a lean white skiff cruising over tranquil waters. “That's what makes this beat worthwhile,” he added in conclusion. “The insight.”

Clayton picked up his pace suddenly. Corman trailed after him, just a single step behind, his eyes following the smooth gait and uplifted shoulders, the high, straight back. He wondered where Clayton had gotten all that style, whether he'd been born with it, or just soaked it in over time, like a tan.

Once outside, Clayton stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Several limousines were lined up in front of the hotel. One by one they came forward and people got out of them, then either rushed under the great awning or ducked beneath the doormen's large black umbrellas.

“Very elegant,” Clayton said musingly as he watched. “The way they keep out of the rain. And very, very serious.” He glanced toward Corman. “You want to see something different?” he asked, as if it had just occurred to him.

“Different?”

“I always go to a certain place after one of these assignments,” Clayton told him. “I usually go by myself. But I was thinking that you might want to come along.”

Corman thought of Lucy, of keeping her, of giving Lexie some bit of encouraging news about his work, of how important Clayton had suddenly become to all of that. “Yeah, okay,” he said.

“Good,” Clayton said happily. “Follow me.”

They walked east to Lexington Avenue, then north into the Sixties, finally stopping at a noisy bar, crowded with people who were gathered in tight circles around tiny marble tables.

“A lot of the ‘real' reporters hang out in this place,” Clayton said after the two of them had found a table. “This is their real beat, Corman. Not the ‘corridors of power' they're always talking. No way. This is their real beat. You know why? Because it determines the way they see things, the way they report things. It determines what they are.” He looked at Corman piercingly. “You understand what I'm saying?”

“I think so.”

“Good,” Clayton said. He ordered a fancy brandy for both of them, sniffed it when it came, then lifted his glass toward Corman. “Fuck 'em all,” he said with a smile.

Corman smiled back, drank, rolled his glass a little nervously between his hands and smiled again.

Clayton watched him for a moment, then nodded toward a man in a tan jacket who stood at the end of the bar. “He's probably carrying three thousand dollars' worth of cocaine in his left coat pocket.” He smiled. “Not exactly a Colombian with a buzz-saw, is he?”

“No.”

“Customers look different, too,” Clayton added.

Corman nodded.

“But they're customers, all right,” Clayton said. “Do you know why? Because they need an up, a thrill.” He gave Corman a long, penetrating glance. “But why they need it, that's a separate question.”

Corman felt obligated to bite the hook. “Why do they need it?”

“Because the deepest thing any of them have ever experienced is a dose of aggravation,” Clayton answered matter-of-factly.

Corman laughed.

“I'm serious,” Clayton insisted. “Listen, aggravation is the only really safe form of excitement left on the Upper East Side.”

Corman glanced about. Everywhere around him, people were laughing, talking, showing off their clothes. They looked no different than most people of means, and long ago Corman had come up with the simple nightmare truth that if a camera followed anyone around for twenty-four hours, that person would look ridiculous, no matter who he was. Pope. General. Average guy. All in the same boat. Ridiculous because no one ever fully appreciated how small he was. Only the camera appreciated that.

Clayton leaned over toward him. “Take it from someone who knows, Corman, these are the only really worthless people in the world. They don't have power like the rich. They don't run things. And they don't have any purpose, like the working people do. They don't make anything. Their whole lives, not so much as a goddamn doorknob.” He laughed. “You know what they produce, Corman? Self-esteem. It's the basic goal of their whole productive process.”

Corman nodded silently.

Clayton turned away from him, watched the bar for a moment, then returned to him. “Were you in the war?”

“No.”

“Too young for it?” Clayton asked.

“I'm thirty-five.”

“Yeah,” Clayton said. “You just missed it.” He shook his head. “I did two tours as a combat reporter. What I saw every day, you can't even imagine. Not in your worst nightmare. A real shit-storm.” He looked at the crowd and laughed under his breath. “Sometimes, I feel like calling down some NVA fire on a place like this. Just a little strafing run down Third Avenue on a Saturday night, give these people a taste of how little they're made of.”