The Fame Game (44 page)

Sam Leo Libra decided not to give a cocktail party this year because so many of his clients and friends were out of town, so he and Lizzie attended several parties given by other people instead, and he decided it was high time he did this all the time because he saved so much money.

All in all, it was a nice Christmas for everyone, even for Vincent/Bonnie, who managed to forget the trauma of his arrest when he went home to his mother for Christmas dinner and the new husband of one of his high-school girl friends made a pass at him. Vincent gave the initialed silver money clip Mr. Libra had given him to his father, because it was a shame to let anything so expensive go to waste.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It snowed for days that January. The city was almost a white wonderland. Cars were parked along the curbs under mounds of snow, and there was virtually no traffic. Vincent Abruzzi hopped a bus, which he hated to do because people always stared at him, and was a mass of nerves by the time he reached the Plaza Hotel where Mr. Libra had summoned him. He hadn’t worked at all for nearly three weeks and had gotten back into his habit of sleeping late, so having to be here at ten in the morning made him feel sick. There was eyeliner in the corners of his eyes and eyelash glue stuck on his long lashes from the night before (he’d been romping with his friends until half past eight that morning and had just had time to get out of drag and put on something neuter and suitable for his appointment). His thrift-shop fox coat, an exact copy of Lizzie Libra’s, smelled funny when it rained or snowed, and his hair was all matted down from the falls he’d pinned on it the night before. He looked the worst. He was wearing an oversized pair of dime-store sunglasses, so covered with fingerprints and make-up that he could hardly see, but he could see enough in the mirrors in the hotel corridor to make him sorry he’d looked. He turned up the collar of his coat to hide the stubble that was already growing in on his upper lip even though he’d shaved the night before, and he wished he was home safe in the dark apartment.

At the door to the suite Gerry gave him an anguished look and ushered him in to Mr. Libra. There was coffee and Danish on the table and Vincent looked at it hungrily. He was starved. He hoped he didn’t smell from all the liquor he’d been drinking.

“Coffee?” Mr. Libra said.

“Yes, please.”

Vincent poured himself a cup of coffee, half cream, with three spoons of sugar, and took a Danish. He gobbled it down and felt a little better. Gerry left the room.

“Cigarette?” said Mr. Libra.

“No thank you.”

Libra took a folder from the desk and opened it. It was full of contact sheets from Vincent’s last two photo sessions for
Vogue
. “Look at these,” Libra said.

Vincent looked. He’d known the photographer hated him, the nelly little closet queen. Look at those terrible shots! They made him look just like a boy—an ugly girl at best.

“Impossible,” Libra said. “These pictures are impossible.”

“They’re pretty bad,” Vincent admitted. “That photographer was the worst.”

“Not the photographer,” Libra said. “Not the photographer. You, Bonnie. Take off that coat.”

Vincent took off his coat.

“God in heaven, you look like the halfback for the Green Bay Packers. I’m afraid Bonnie Parker, model of the year, is going to have to go into a convent. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean?” Vincent squeaked. Whenever he got excited, or upset, like now, his voice slid around the upper registers just as if he was an adolescent and it was changing.

Libra took Vincent’s contract out of the desk drawer. He held it out so Vincent could see it, and then slowly, deliberately, he tore it in half. “No screen test, I’m afraid,” he said. “You don’t actually have to go into a convent; I’m just going to put it in the columns that you did. I think that would be nice since you’re Catholic.”

“What do you mean, convent?” Vincent screamed.

“A beautiful, touching send-off,” Libra mused. “I’ll send them an old picture, you don’t have to worry. I can’t call you Bonnie any more … What’s your real name?” He looked at the contract. “Oh, yes, Vincent.” He sighed. “I had great hopes for you, Vincent, great plans. You were like a butterfly, one short season and then faded. But it was all worth it, wasn’t it? You had fun? You made a lot of money. I saved it for you, so you won’t have to want for anything until you decide what you want to do in life.”

“I want to be a model!” Vincent screamed. “I want to be a movie star! You
said
I could be a movie star.”

“Wrong. I said Bonnie Parker could be a movie star. You, probably, could be a lifeguard. Why don’t you try Miami? It’s in season now. Do you like the sun?”

Vincent stared at him. He couldn’t believe it, it was like a nightmare. Maybe he was asleep and he would wake up. He knew he shouldn’t have drunk so much last night.

Libra reached into the desk drawer again and took out a little box wrapped in blue paper. He handed it to Vincent. Vincent took it, stunned, and ripped off the paper. Inside was a box from Tiffany’s, holding a solid-gold fountain pen.

Libra gave a wry smile. “A Bar Mitzvah present,” he said. “Today you are a man.”

Vincent threw the pen on the floor and stamped on it. “I’m not a man!” he screamed.

Libra picked up the pen gingerly with his handkerchief. He put it into Vincent’s hand and closed Vincent’s fingers around it. “Take it. Maybe some day you’ll want to write your memoirs. If you do, I’ll be glad to handle you for that. You could make quite a bundle. Magazine serialization, publication, paperback rights, maybe even a film. Think about it, Vincent.”

He wasn’t going to cry in front of this bastard, he wasn’t. He gritted his teeth and forced back the tears. “Where’s my money?”

Libra handed him a bankbook. “You’ll find you made quite a lot,” he said. “Maybe you’ll want to get married someday. Don’t throw it all away. There will be other days, other careers. Keep in touch.” He held out his hand. “Good luck.”

Vincent wouldn’t shake that pig’s hand if his life depended on it. He picked up his fox coat and ran out of the suite. He ran down the stairs and out to the street, the tears coming freely now, sobbing great gulps of the frosty air that hurt his lungs. He ran for blocks, slipping on the snow and falling once or twice. He didn’t even know where he was going and he didn’t care. He knew people were looking at him and he didn’t care about that either. He ran all the way to the apartment, locked and bolted the door, pulled the curtains closed, and fell on the floor, crying until he was exhausted. Dimly he heard the phone ringing and thought it must be Gerry, but he didn’t answer it and finally it stopped ringing.

Maybe an hour later, maybe more, he got up and went to the mirror. He had never seen anything so awful. His eyes were red and swollen, the tears had streaked his make-up, his sprouting moustache looked like a black and red rash. Why did he have to have a dark moustache when he was so blond? A halfback, Mr. Libra had called him. Oh God, what was he going to do now?

He could never face his friends—they were all jealous and now they would be so glad they had a chance to laugh at him. He could never hold his head up in a gay bar again. No one he knew would believe that story about going into a convent. They would all know he was fired, finished, wiped out, rejected. He felt as if he was walking through water. He made his way into the bathroom, reached into the dirty-clothes hamper, and took out one of his bottles of sleeping pills. Then he took another from a drawer, another from the back of the closet, and another from his shoebag. There were enough pills here to kill an elephant. He found a quart of orange juice in the refrigerator and took it and the pills to the couch.

The first few pills made him feel more relaxed and not so depressed, so he piled his favorite records on the turntable and listened to them while he took the rest of the pills. His tongue felt fuzzy, his lips numb, and his feet like lead. His finger tips were cold and numb, too. He decided to write a farewell note, so he took a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk and wrote:

“Dear Mother: I am sorry. I love you. This bankbook is for you.”

He laid the bankbook on top of the note on the desk and sighed. He didn’t feel well. His whole body felt weighted down; his eyelids felt as if they had weights on them too. He put the sofa pillows on the floor and lay down on them, listening to the music. Dimly, he heard the phone ring, then stop, then ring again. He’d forgotten to sign the note. Was that because he didn’t know what name to sign? It didn’t matter; they would know who wrote it when they found him. How sad that he had to die without ever having found anyone to love. But he wasn’t really dying. Bonnie Parker was dead, and there had never really been a Vincent Abruzzi. What was dying was this unwanted freak of a body that was of no use to anyone now. He wondered who would get all his clothes. They were too big for Gerry. Maybe she could have them altered. It would be a shame to let all those beautiful clothes go to waste …

They’d be sorry …

They’d remember beautiful Bonnie and some of them would cry …

If he had lived, what would have become of him …?

He’d never hear that record again …

Someone was putting a dagger down his throat with a balloon at the end of it. He thought his stomach was about to burst from the pain. He couldn’t swallow, but he wanted to swallow or else he would throw up. God, his stomach hurt. Who was holding him down? It felt like a two-ton octopus had hold of him. He was hot and cold and his face and body were bathed in sweat. The room was full of a blinding white light that he could see through his closed eyelids. Then the pain turned into a sore numbness and everything went mercifully black again.

He was strapped into a bed with sides and Gerry was holding his hand. His other hand was strapped down because his arm was attached to a board and there was a needle in his arm. The needle was attached to a tube that led to a bottle above the bed. The room was painted greenish-white and it was dim. Gerry’s face kept swimming away.

“Oh, Bonnie,” she said. “Oh, Bonnie. How could you do a thing like that? Don’t you know we all love you? You are a stupid turd. Do you know it cost me fifteen dollars for the locksmith to break down the door and replace the lock? You’re lucky you’re not in Bellevue.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re in a private hospital. I came home early because I was worried about you. You’re lucky you’re not dead.”

“My stomach hurts.”

“I don’t wonder. They had to use a stomach pump on you. Where did you ever get all those pills?”

“I want to die,” Vincent said. He began to cry. Crying made his stomach hurt even more, and the pain in his stomach only made him cry harder. “I want to die.”

“You can’t die—it’s against the law. So you’re not a model, so what?” She wiped his tears gently with a tissue from the metal table beside the bed. “Don’t cry, Bonnie. Everything will be all right. You’re still beautiful. So you’re not a beautiful girl. You never were a girl in the first place. But you
are
a beautiful boy. Everything is going to be all right, Bonnie.”

“Stop calling me Bonnie.”

“Vincent. You’re getting better already. Listen to me, Vincent. Are you listening?”

Vincent nodded. He squeezed Gerry’s hand. “Don’t go away.”

“I’m not going away.”

“I hate that Libra.”

“It’s not his fault. Blame nature. Everything is going to be all right, Vincent. When you get home in a couple of days I’m going to have weights and bar bells ready for you. You’re going to use them, every day. You’re going to develop those beautiful muscles. I’m getting you a membership in a health club. You’re going to swim, and jog, and do exercises, and sit under the sunlamp. You’ll even meet numbers there, you’ll see. You’re going to be a beautiful man, Vincent. You’re not going to look like a nelly fruit. Vincent is going to be just as beautiful a man as Bonnie was a girl. You’ll start all over again.”

Vincent looked at her. She looked serious and enthusiastic. Maybe she really meant it … maybe she really believed it … maybe it could come true. “You think so?”

“I know it.”

He tried a little smile. “If I get to be a man, will you marry me?”

“No, but I’ll make you a movie star.”

“As a
man?
”

“Why not? Do you think you’ll be the first fruit who ever became a sex symbol? You’re going to be about six feet two, with those gorgeous shoulders and your new muscles; and that blond hair and those violet eyes will be wonderful with a tan. Libra still owes you a screen test, you know. If Bonnie doesn’t take it, maybe Vincent can.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Why would I do that? So you’d kill yourself again when you find out I’m lying? No, I mean it, Vincent. You get well and do what I tell you, and if Mr. Libra won’t handle you,
I
will.”

Vincent felt a great wave of peace wash over him. He closed his eyes. “I want to sleep now. Don’t go away.”

“I’ll be right here.”

“Gerry?”

“What?”

“What will you call me when I’m a movie star?”

“Vincent … not Vincent Abruzzi. Vincent … Stone! Vincent Stone. How does that sound?”

“I like it,” Vincent said. He felt himself drifting off into peaceful, healthy sleep. Gerry’s hand felt so tiny in his … God, girls had tiny hands. “I have money,” he murmured.

“I know. That will pay for the new Vincent.”

Vincent Stone … sex symbol. Vincent Stone … movie star. Bonnie Parker in the convent and Vincent Stone in Hollywood … Gerry’s hand was so tiny, so delicate, but at that moment Vincent knew with love and gratitude that it was the strongest hand in the world.

When he woke later it was night, and she was still there beside him. “Where’s my mother?”

“We didn’t tell her.”

“That’s good. Gerry?”

“What?”

“Is it true? What you said before? I didn’t dream it?”

“You didn’t dream it,” Gerry said. She kissed him on the forehead. “You hurry up and get well so you can get out of here. You’re going to be a star, Vincent Stone.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX