that he might not even be able to marry again—even should he ever want to. In addition, her dress shop in Miami Beach had failed and he was having to absorb that. The young star he had made, and whom Grant had met tonight, was already beginning to dally her next producer-director, for her next film. When the whiskey was gone, they went to bed. What was the point of Grant going back alone to the New Weston? It was in the morning, after they’d started off with orange juice and vodka, that Buddy thought of Lucky. Lucky Videndi.
“I don’t know if I ought to introduce you to her, though,” Buddy said after he’d promised to call her and had already picked up the phone. He put the phone back in its cradle. “You’re one of those rough-tough brutal he-man types, and she’s a very sophisticated, sensitive girl.”
Grant grinned. He knew that a lot of people thought of him in that way, but he knew enough real ‘he-man’ types to know that this opinion of him was comparative, very comparative. “Cut the shit,” he said, “I’m no more of a brutal he-man type than you or anybody is.”
“Well, you’re not the type I—or Lucky either—would think of as a very hip, Ivy-League New Yorker.”
“Aw, come on. Then what’d you suggest her for? Okay, then don’t call her. And go to hell.”
Buddy had a peculiar but very common look on his face. It was the look of a man who has screwed a girl and is vain of it and wants everyone to know, but at the same time is committed by his code of honor not to say so or tell. His eyebrows registered smugness, a little embarrassment and some chagrin, all at the same time.
“I don’t know how to explain it to you, Ron. But she’s a very special type of girl. She’s not like most of the kids you and I run into in town. Hell, I could have put her into a couple of my films, groomed her a little, and made her a star but she said to hell with that. She thinks all actors and actresses are exhibitionist and stupid insensitive egos.”
“She’s right,” Grant put in.
“So she works for us a little every now and then, in bit parts or doubling or as script girl, whenever she needs money. She’s got her Master’s in Political Philosophy. Her old man was the biggest bootlegger in upper New York State in the ’20s and made a fortune. So she’s . . .”
He stopped. His face wore another look, one of genuine puzzlement now, one which he had unintentionally talked himself into.
“She just had a rich young South American she was going to marry shot out from under her, so to speak, down there. You know the South Americans. That was a year ago. She’s been working on a play since then. I don’t know if it’s good. She won’t talk about it. She’s been very low since her boyfriend got knocked off, says she’s looking for a new relationship. I . . .” Buddy stopped again, and scratched his rumpled head, a different, deeper kind of puzzled chagrin on his face now. “Well, I called her up and tried to get back in with her,” he said, “but she doesn’t want any part of me anymore. Says she’s had me, up to here. That way. We’re still friends, she still works for us sometimes, but that’s it.”
He looked at Grant with vulnerable eyes, his face puffy and his belly out from all the late nights and boozing. “This is all in the strictest confidence, Ron. But I had to tell you.”
“Okay okay,” Grant said. He suddenly felt sorry for old Buddy, who had not done a play in ten years now. “So call her or don’t call her.”
“And she’s very beautiful,” Buddy added. He drank off another half a glass of orange juice and vodka and then went back to the telephone. After he had talked to her awhile, he put Grant on. The voice, coming through the instrument, sounded husky with a shy edge of wit and laughter just under the surface. She also sounded rather embarrassed, as if she were trying hard not to think of this call and introduction as a form of male procurement.
“I don’t know if I ought to introduce you to her, though,” Buddy said after he’d promised to call her and had already picked up the phone. He put the phone back in its cradle. “You’re one of those rough-tough brutal he-man types, and she’s a very sophisticated, sensitive girl.”
Grant grinned. He knew that a lot of people thought of him in that way, but he knew enough real ‘he-man’ types to know that this opinion of him was comparative, very comparative. “Cut the shit,” he said, “I’m no more of a brutal he-man type than you or anybody is.”
“Well, you’re not the type I—or Lucky either—would think of as a very hip, Ivy-League New Yorker.”
“Aw, come on. Then what’d you suggest her for? Okay, then don’t call her. And go to hell.”
Buddy had a peculiar but very common look on his face. It was the look of a man who has screwed a girl and is vain of it and wants everyone to know, but at the same time is committed by his code of honor not to say so or tell. His eyebrows registered smugness, a little embarrassment and some chagrin, all at the same time.
“I don’t know how to explain it to you, Ron. But she’s a very special type of girl. She’s not like most of the kids you and I run into in town. Hell, I could have put her into a couple of my films, groomed her a little, and made her a star but she said to hell with that. She thinks all actors and actresses are exhibitionist and stupid insensitive egos.”
“She’s right,” Grant put in.
“So she works for us a little every now and then, in bit parts or doubling or as script girl, whenever she needs money. She’s got her Master’s in Political Philosophy. Her old man was the biggest bootlegger in upper New York State in the ’20s and made a fortune. So she’s . . .”
He stopped. His face wore another look, one of genuine puzzlement now, one which he had unintentionally talked himself into.
“She just had a rich young South American she was going to marry shot out from under her, so to speak, down there. You know the South Americans. That was a year ago. She’s been working on a play since then. I don’t know if it’s good. She won’t talk about it. She’s been very low since her boyfriend got knocked off, says she’s looking for a new relationship. I . . .” Buddy stopped again, and scratched his rumpled head, a different, deeper kind of puzzled chagrin on his face now. “Well, I called her up and tried to get back in with her,” he said, “but she doesn’t want any part of me anymore. Says she’s had me, up to here. That way. We’re still friends, she still works for us sometimes, but that’s it.”
He looked at Grant with vulnerable eyes, his face puffy and his belly out from all the late nights and boozing. “This is all in the strictest confidence, Ron. But I had to tell you.”
“Okay okay,” Grant said. He suddenly felt sorry for old Buddy, who had not done a play in ten years now. “So call her or don’t call her.”
“And she’s very beautiful,” Buddy added. He drank off another half a glass of orange juice and vodka and then went back to the telephone. After he had talked to her awhile, he put Grant on. The voice, coming through the instrument, sounded husky with a shy edge of wit and laughter just under the surface. She also sounded rather embarrassed, as if she were trying hard not to think of this call and introduction as a form of male procurement.
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