The Love Machine (24 page)

“I’m waiting for a call from New York. I’ll be a little late.”

“Then we’ll cancel. I’ll wander over to Schwab’s.” Christie sounded glum.

“Why, it’s not as if you’re waiting alone. You’ve got Amanda.”

“She conked out.”

“What happened?”

“She called me an hour ago. She has a sore throat—must be from the smog. So she took a sleeping pill and went to bed. I’m sitting here all alone. Jesus, this is a real hick town—no one goes out except on weekends. And if you’re not in pictures you don’t mean a damn thing out here. Hey, Alfie and his pack just came in—”

“Alfie?”

“Jerry, you’re not with it. Alfred Knight.”

“Oh, the English actor.”

“Christ! You’d think he was
Sir
Alfred the way everyone’s jumping around here. You should see what’s going on. I had a reservation. Know where they put me? In left field. But Alfie boy, who just happens to waltz in, gets the big front table, the number-one spot. I think he’s a switch-hitter. I not only hate the town—I also hate the people.”

“Cheer up,” Jerry laughed. “June will be here before you know it.”

“I can’t wait.”

Jerry hung up and sat on the bed and lit another cigarette. Maybe Amanda would have something from Room Service with him. He called her.

She was polite, but she refused his invitation.

“I couldn’t eat, Jerry, my throat is sore and I have a swollen gland in my neck. I’m coming down with something, and the show is in two days. I want to look all right—it would be terrible if I missed it.”

He hung up and felt vaguely let down.

He suddenly felt hemmed in, and lonely. He opened the French doors onto the lanai garden outside his room. Amanda raved about her garden. She said it was wonderful to lie out there at night and look at the stars. He stepped into the patio of the garden. The night sounds of the crickets seemed intensified by the silent darkness. Amanda’s garden was three doors down. Suddenly his loneliness engulfed him. He had to talk to someone. Maybe she wasn’t asleep. He didn’t want to ring and disturb her, but a pill didn’t always work—he knew from experience. He went out to his garden hoping to see if her lights were on. No luck! Each patio was enclosed by a high wooden wall. He tried his gate—it was stiff, but he got it open. He walked down the path toward her patio.

Suddenly he heard another gate being opened. He ducked behind one of the giant palm trees. It was Amanda. She came out and looked around cautiously. She was wearing slacks and a loose sweater. She was heading toward the bungalows. On impulse, he followed her. She stopped in front of one of the bungalows and looked around. Jerry knew he was hidden by the darkness and the
massive foliage. She tapped on the door. Ike Ryan opened it.

“Jesus, babe, where in hell have you been?”

“I wanted to wait a reasonable time in case Christie called back. I just turned off my phone.”

“When are you going to unload the bum?”

“As soon as the show goes off. I might as well finish the season with no hard feelings.”

The door closed. In the shadow of the window he saw them embrace.

He called Room Service and tried to watch television. But his thoughts were on the bungalow across the way. It was two o’clock when he heard the scraping sound of her patio gate. No wonder she was always too tired to go out—a swollen gland!

Actually she did have a swollen gland. Ike had noticed it too. When she returned to her room she stared at herself in the mirror. Her makeup was messed up. Ike was not the most gentle lover in the world, but she was sure he cared about her. He kept at her to break up with Christie. When she explained that the show was her main source of income, he said, “Listen, toots, you’ll never have to worry about a buck as long as you’re with me.” But that wasn’t exactly a marriage proposal. Well, she’d stall till June, then ask him right out. And if he didn’t want to marry her, she’d marry Chris. It wouldn’t matter too much, one way or another. Suddenly she was tired; all the blood seemed to drain from her. She had been taking amphetamines. They pepped her up—of course they killed her appetite, but she forced herself to eat. But tonight she had hardly been able to pick at her food. There were little cold sores on her gums and on the roof of her mouth. Maybe a penicillin shot would help, or a good night’s sleep. She fell into bed.

The following morning she felt worse. When she brushed her teeth, her gums bled. She was alarmed—this was some kind of infection. She called Jerry. Yes, he knew a doctor, but from her symptoms it sounded like a general run-down condition. “Maybe it’s trench mouth,” he said.

“Oh God, Jerry, where would I have gotten that?”

“I can’t imagine,” he said coldly. “After all, you stay home every night.”

She noticed the tinge of sarcasm in his voice. “Well, I guess I better see a doctor.”

“Wait until after the show tomorrow. Meanwhile, gargle with peroxide-and-water. I had it once, it’s not such a big deal.” Then he hung up.

She took two amphetamines before she left for her modeling job. They gave her some energy but her heart was racing. The photographer drove her to Malibu. She stood in the bathing suit while the shots were set up. The sun was beating down on her, but she got on the water skis and managed to hang on. They completed the shot on the first take. The photographer wanted one more to play it safe. She felt wobbly as she got back on the skis. The boat began to move, the photographer followed in his boat, she bent her knees and held the rope, then pulled herself straight as the boat gathered speed. Suddenly everything seemed to sway—the sun was falling into the sea, and she felt the cool softness of the ocean close over her.

When she opened her eyes, she was on the beach—wrapped in a blanket. Everyone was staring at her with concern.

“I guess I just blacked out,” she said.

She spent the rest of the day and night in bed. When she woke the following day her face was fine and her mouth seemed better, but her legs were black-and-blue. She must have bruised them when she fell—probably banged them against the skis in the water. Thank goodness she could wear a long dress on the show!

The following day she felt worse. The sores had returned to her mouth, but it was the bruises that frightened her. They had fused into one alarming pattern of purple covering her entire legs from the ankles to the thighs. When Christie called, she told him about it.

“Well, you’re the one who wants to go out on those crazy jobs. According to the law of averages you shoulda died of pneumonia two years ago. Standing in summer clothes in zero weather! You’re run-down. And anyone would be bruised if they fell with water skis.”

“Chris, find me a doctor …”

“Look, doll, I’m meeting with the writers in ten minutes. Then
I got a UP interview. There must be a croaker connected with that fancy hotel.”

The doctor in the hotel was out on call. She was desperate now. She canceled her afternoon booking. She was supposed to pose in tennis shorts but makeup couldn’t cover her legs. She was dozing off when Ike Ryan called. At first she was evasive, then she told him the truth.

“Don’t move, toots. I’ll be right over with the best doctor in L.A.”

In less than twenty minutes Ike appeared accompanied by a middle-aged man carrying the usual satchel. “This is Dr. Aronson. I’ll leave you two alone. But I’ll be right out in the hall, so just holler if he gets fresh.” His wink at the doctor proved they were friends of long standing.

Dr. Aronson examined her with impersonal casualness. He checked her heart and her pulse and nodded approvingly. She began to relax. His easy attitude told her nothing was radically wrong. He looked into her mouth with a light. “How long have you had these blisters?”

“Just for a few days. But it’s my legs that worry me.”

He felt her neck, and nodded. There was no change of expression on his face when he examined her purple-blotched legs.

She explained about the water-skiing accident. “Do you think that’s what it is?”

“It’s hard for me to tell. These things are probably all unrelated, but I’d like to put you into the hospital for a few days. When was the last time you had a blood test?”

“Never.” She was suddenly frightened. “Doctor—is something really wrong?”

He smiled. “I doubt it. Probably just a case of old-fashioned anemia—all you fashionable girls lack blood. But I want to rule out a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, mononucleosis for one thing—there’s a lot of it around. You have some of the symptoms—fatigue, the bruises, headaches.”

“Couldn’t I have the tests in your office? I’m afraid of hospitals.”

“If you like. I’ll give Ike the address and we’ll arrange for them tomorrow.”

She watched him as he left the room. She felt better. She went into the bathroom and combed her hair. She really looked awful, and Ike would be back any second. She put on some lipstick, added some mascara, then settled into bed.

Ike came into her room with a big smile. “Pack your bag, put in your prettiest nightgowns, and be all set when I get back. I’m going down to the bookstore and buy you all the top novels.”

“Where am I going?”

“To the hospital—and no back talk. Listen, toots, the doc thinks you may have mononucleosis. If you have, you’ll infect the whole damn hotel—you won’t even be able to get room service. Besides, he feels you should have complete bed rest, maybe even some transfusions to build you up.”

“But a hospital—Ike, I’ve never been sick!”

“You aren’t sick now, but this is Hollywood, toots. Everything is done larger than life. And if you’re Ike Ryan’s girl you don’t schlepp to a doctor’s office for tests. You lie in state like a duchess. I’ve ordered the biggest corner room. Listen, for a few days live it up. I’m footing the bills—it’s a cinch a broad like you has no hospital insurance.”

“No, I’ve always been healthy.”

“Okay. You be ready when I get back. And just leave word you’ve gone to Frisco for a job. And that you’ll be back in time to do the show.”

Jerry was waiting at the Lancer Bar. At this moment he should have been in Los Angeles attending the Christie Lane rehearsal, but he had decided to stretch his week in New York to ten days. It was two o’clock in Los Angeles now, the bedlam was just beginning. He sipped his martini and waved as Robin approached the bar.

After his second martini, he knew he was going to miss the last decent train home. Robin was telling him about a new idea he had for a news show when the bartender signaled Jerry to the phone. He was surprised. “For me? I never leave word that I’m here.”

Robin smiled. “Your wife is probably tracking you down.”

It was Christie Lane. “Listen, Jerry, I called your office and you were gone for the day. I called your home and your wife said to try you here. Jesus, am I glad I got you. Amanda ain’t doing the show tonight. We put in a rush call and got a model. She’ll get by, but I think you should do something about it.”

“Where is she?”

“It’s all a mystery to me. The other day she disappeared. Just left word she was going to Frisco on a job. Then today she calls and calmly announces she can’t do the show. This was at nine in the morning yet! And where is she? In the hospital.”

“Hospital!”

“Relax, nothing is wrong. I threw a raincoat over my p.j.’s and tore over. And there she was, in a big sunny room, the place filled with flowers, all made up, looking gorgeous. She claims she’s anemic and isn’t leaving until she gets all built up.”

“Well, she must need it if she’s there, Christie. A hospital doesn’t let someone check in for no reason.”

“In Hollywood? Are you kidding! Half the broads in this town check in for what they call nervous exhaustion. It’s really to catch up on their beauty sleep. Look, I saw Mandy—she never looked better.”

“I’ll be out the end of the week, Christie. And look, don’t worry about Amanda. I’m sure it’s not serious.”

“I’m not worried—I’m goddam mad. Even if she’s just doing a commercial, she’s part of a show. And you don’t just skip a show for a rest cure. I know it sounds corny, but I played joints when I had flu. I sang when my throat was killing me. I don’t go along with anyone who goofs on a show. This is a business I love. It’s given me everything I’ve got. And she’s got to respect that. What kind of a marriage will we have if she thinks she can just casually cancel a show like she used to with some of her modeling bookings? You know what I mean?”

“I’ll talk to her when I get back.”

He hung up and went back to the bar. Robin listened carefully as Jerry told the story.

“She’s not the type to just check into a hospital,” Robin said.

“Ike Ryan is behind this,” Jerry muttered.

“What has Ike to do with it?”

Before he realized it, he was telling about Amanda’s secret visits to Ike’s cottage. “If you ask me,” Jerry went on, “I think the sore throat was just a buildup—I’ll bet you anything Ike knocked her up and she’s there for an abortion. What do you think?”