Carrie put down the phone. ‘He’s on a long distance call. He’ll buzz when he’s off.’
Vanessa nodded, and Carrie looked at her as if something were wrong. Vanessa said, ‘What is it, hon?’
‘Uh . . . is Mr Howars okay? I mean, is he feeling all right?’
Vanessa played a little game with these secretaries. In all the offices she visited, and Dave’s was no exception, she cultivated friendships, invested a little time, and the pay-off was having a sympathetic – at least, not an antagonistic – contact and source of information.
Now she used her relationship with Carrie to draw her out. And with sinking heart heard the story of Dave manhandling Johan Jitzler because of a stupid joke. Jitzler was, as Dave himself had said, critical to the packaging of his latest film, Coast to Coast, and Vanessa had a stake in that film. Dave said she stood a good chance of landing the main supporting role of the worn-out go-go dancer. Vanessa thought the part had been written for her – maybe at Dave’s directions to the scriptwriter – though she hadn’t asked for favours for several years.
Not that she didn’t need favours. Kids like Carrie thought she had it made because they’d seen her on the tube doing the female lead in a ‘Quincy’ and a guest-star role in a ‘Mash’. But that was over a period of nine months and there’d been nothing but promises, promises otherwise. She’d never earned more than ten thousand at her acting in any one year, which was where walking that tightrope between poverty and prostitution came in; Dave’s picking up the big repair bill on her ageing Jaguar, for example.
She listened to Carrie express amazement that Dave could have become violent. She agreed it was ‘unbelievable’ . . . but it wasn’t. Dave had been having bad moments lately – bursts of temper, and more importantly to their relationship, a lack of desire. He’d been a bull for six years, and now he was fading fast.
She said, ‘He’s just a little overworked. Doctor Brooks will give him some of her special medication.’ They giggled together, and the phone buzzed.
Carrie said, ‘You can go in now.’
Vanessa opened the door. ‘Dave bunny! Three interminable days and nights apart!’ She came to the desk, smiling. The smile was natural, unplanned, sprang from the true affection she felt for this protective lover, this helpful friend, this good man whom she trusted beyond any man she had ever known. She glanced playfully at his black leather couch. ‘Is it illegal for the woman to use the casting couch?’
He smiled, but it wasn’t convincing. ‘I’m starving. Let’s not go home. Let’s go right across the street to Thomasine’s.’
She said, ‘Of course, I wouldn’t want you suffering from malnutrition,’ but now she was forcing the lines and the smile. Because home was where the bed was. ‘We can get together tonight, can’t we?’
When he hesitated, she turned away, waving an arm. ‘No importante, querida. Some other time.’ Force-feeding a man your love was disaster.
He cleared his throat in a nervous way. ‘Maybe we need a few weeks’ vacation from each other. Maybe until after New Year’s.’
She said, ‘We might as well be married,’ laughed heartily, and walked out the door. She felt like a fool for feeling like crying.
In David’s opinion, Thomasine’s was a mediocre restaurant with a great bar. What made the bar great was his old friend Teddy Bear, actually Teddy Brown. Teddy was in the tradition of the mythic film bartender who dispensed alcohol and wisdom at the same time. Teddy also dispensed charm to the ladies and landed a goodly percentage of them.
A black Adonis, he called himself, except that he was sixty-one and no Harry Belafonte. His upper front teeth, lost while protecting a dancer from a drunk when he’d tended bar in a nude club, came out for ‘cleaning, spare-rib gummin’, and cunnilingus.’ He seemed short at five eight because of a strong, stocky build, was just a shade off deep black in complexion, and had receding bushy hair and an evil-looking, drooping, Fu Manchu moustache.
He had told David that his father and brothers were ‘still in the pimping trade, back home.’ In his cups, he’d also said that his mother had been ‘the best little whore who ever rolled a redneck hot for black ass.’ She’d died in her late forties ‘in bed with a teenaged black dude. The doctor said heart attack. The black dude said too many orgasms.’
The restaurant named for her belonged to Teddy and a silent partner, who David guessed was Mafia. Teddy simply said the purchase price had been offered for favours owed him, which he’d finally called in after the beating in the nude club convinced him he was ‘too old to be independent’.
Teddy didn’t work his daily shift at the bar just for the money; his cut of the successful restaurant’s profits was considerable. His reasons were mainly social and psychological. ‘All those white chicks wanting to try what Momma and Poppa would die if they knew baby had tried. All those chicks itching for the most forbidden of all fruit. Which is why I score more with cracker chicks than with the Easterners and hip native locals. Gives hope for the world, don’t it?’ And there would sound a very evil cackle of laughter.
It sounded now as David helped Vanessa onto a bar stool and seated himself between her and a very heavy woman who had raised her enormous rump to lean over the bar and whisper in Teddy’s ear.
‘Well, maybe,’ Teddy said, rocking back on his alligator-boot heels, cackling again. His establishment may have been in the Valley, but it was among Studio City’s best, drew a large showbiz clientele, and matched anything in the Basin for style and decor . . . as did Teddy himself. Like David, he wore Beverly Hills’ finest, but from hipper shops like Dernier Cri and Le Fancy Pants. (The Lebanese woman who owned Le Fancy Pants was addicted to cocaine and Teddy Bear, and gave him whatever he wanted.) Even behind the bar, as befit a top-grade restaurateur, Teddy wore the best: an exquisitely tailored double-breasted black jacket, pleated grey trousers, pale grey silk shirt and matching handkerchief, and those five-hundred-dollar Gucci boots. The only concession he made to his job was going tieless. ‘Maybe, maybe,’ he repeated, still cackling, ‘if you promise not to hurt me.’
The heavy woman smiled uncertainly. She was in her late thirties and had silver-blonde hair fluffed about a round, pretty face. She kept her eyes glued to Teddy, and he said, ‘Let me work now, lady, and I’ll get back to you.’ His voice had changed, thickened subtly in a way that David recognized. The fat woman had kindled a flame.
David became aware that Vanessa had moved her stool closer to his and was climbing back on again. He glanced past her. A large, florid man in expensive cowboy attire, including feathered J.R. hat, jerked his eyes away from her and began examining his glass. Teddy then stepped over and murmured to the man. Vanessa was looking in the opposite direction, down the crowded bar past David and the other bartender, smiling brightly, waving to a woman at the far end. Which, David knew, was her way of detaching herself from an unpleasant situation. Happened all the time to her.
The florid man said to Teddy, voice rising, ‘See here, fellow, I don’t have to take that kind of . . .’
Teddy interrupted, voice steely thin. ‘We all appreciate a knock-out chick. No one blames you for looking, even trying for a phone number when her escort’s in the john. But you’re a grabber and I want you out of here.’
‘Do you know who you’re talking to?’ The man’s ruddy face was turning pale, his hands were clenching into big fists.
Vanessa began to say something placating to Teddy. Teddy reached under the bar. The man got off his stool and hurried out the street door.
Teddy grinned and came up with a stuffed animal – one of the teddy bears that were his trade mark; that he gave to women who caught his fancy. He said, ‘You want the usual brandy, Duvid’l? Or would you like to try Teddy Bear’s Holiday Spirits? Would you believe hot mulled wine? Electric Egg Nog – no, not acid but a blend of rum, brandy and vodka for a real kick