Hot Properties (62 page)

When they landed he realized the isolation on the plane with Chico was a blessing compared to the invasion of his brothers at the airport. The Minicams, the microphones, the notebooks rustling like autumn leaves, the pasty eager faces made bodiless by their equipment, swelled in their way, flowing with their attempt to escape the airport, a moving aggressive pack of animals unconscious of everything but the pursuit of their prey. The lights they cast followed their every step—David noticed other passengers watching the spectacle with confused expressions on their faces. Who are they? he could almost read their lips. You’ll know soon, David thought to himself. He was going to make every network, every paper, every wire service, both national newsmagazines. He could see the camera photos, read the captions, hear the laughter at
Weekly,
and write their stories with just the right touch of sardonic disparagement. Two of the big boys had fucked up, rushed off half-cocked into a dubious arrangement, and were now at least responsible for the ruination of a young woman, and possibly for the death of an innocent con man.

David stared at them. He felt no panic at the press of their bodies and the thrusts of their questions. I know who you are, he thought to himself, cold passing throughout his system, numbing fear or embarrassment. Chico, however, was bursting with energetic terror: “Sorry, no comment. We’ll have a news conference as soon as possible. Nothing to add.” He tried desperately to behave grandly, confidently, but surely the scene must have brought it home:

Their careers were over. They’d crapped in their pants, and Mrs. Thorn wasn’t going to admit she had toilet-trained them badly. They wouldn’t be fired. But all the rungs of the ladder above them were being sawed off now—and eventually, when enough time had passed, they would be “promoted” to some special project away from the weekly magazine, to the book division, to work on new magazines, something on another floor, away from the barrel so their rot wouldn’t spread.

“Come on, fellas, give us a break,” some print reporter shouted. “We’re newsies—give us a crumb. Was it Gott?”

“Everything on that point, all the information we have, has already been given to you,” Chico said, sweating and speaking nervously, so that this truth sounded like a desperate lie. Every time he responded at all, as though his answers were the cries of a desperate animal, the pack drew closer, baring their teeth, tasting the meal they would soon have.

“Mr. Bergman? You’re Jewish, aren’t you?” Janet Halston from CBS shouted above the rest as they reached the doors to the street. It was the first question directed only to him. “How did you feel,” she continued, knowing the answer to her previous question, “sitting across from one of the most heinous Nazis?”

As though a high-pitched whistle had been blown that only the dogs of the press could hear, the pack paused, their lights, their eyes, their pens focused on David.

All he could think of was the anchorman’s expression, neutral, superior, after this clip of his answer would be shown.

“Did you tell Tamar Gurion of the meeting ahead of time?” someone called out.

“Oh, please!” Chico said, and tried to push them through.

But Janet Halston, holding her mike casually, her cool blond hair unruffled in this crush, clung to David, asking her question in a tone of gentle insinuation, as though they were lovers confessing sins. “Did you feel sympathy for the killer’s action?”

David turned away from her—he didn’t want her to get a usable clip—and addressed the print reporter. “I had never met or known of Tamar Gurion until she appeared in the coffee shop. I did not tell her.”

“No more!” Chico shouted into the shouts. David smiled to himself at the panicked tones coming from Janet Halston. She couldn’t use his answer. She had thought she’d get something. Chico pulled him through the doors. A limo, waiting to take them to
Newstime
to meet with Mrs. Thorn and Rounder, was there for them to dive into. David turned back and caught Janet’s frantic eye—she was shouting her provocative questions at him. He winked at her while he closed the dark limousine window electronically. Fuck you, honey, he whispered. Fuck you.

Tony heard the insistent surf and felt the bobbing movement of the water. He was sleek and young, a boy lying happily on the shore, stroked with love. There were bodies beside him whom he could trust. The agony was over, the poison out of his system. I’m not hung-over, was the first clear thought.

My prick is in someone’s hand, was his second.

Tony opened his eyes to see a gray light. The soft surface was bedding, not sand. The crash of the water came from outside, the bobbing was Bill Garth fucking his wife right next to Tony.

The actor moved slowly on top of his woman, sleepily, in a steady rhythm, his eyes closed, his forehead butting gently against a pillow. Helen’s arms were around him, kneading his broad muscled back. One of Garth’s hands was holding Tony’s erection, his fingers lightly closing on the tip, flower petals closing and blossoming.

Tony closed his eyes. The lids felt rough, a harsh curtain closing. The back of his skull opened like a trapdoor and he felt he was falling into unconsciousness. Helen groaned softly. Garth’s hand felt feminine, gentle, soothing. Their motion on the bed quickened. The hand clutched him. He opened his eyes, the world coming into place wobbly, a table in danger of collapse. But I could stop this, he argued to himself. What’s the proper etiquette? I need you to make my picture, but get your hand off my penis.

“Ah,” Garth said as he climaxed, like a runner taking a first sip of liquid after exercise. He moved off Helen and noticed Tony. “Hello,” he said casually. Helen, her face soft from sleep, her body glistening with her husband’s sweat, turned in his direction.

She smiled. “How are you feeling?”

“He’s still hard,” Garth reported, and squeezed tightly before letting go, a handshake of farewell. “That was fun,” he said.

“Don’t get used to it,” Helen teased. They behaved like a cute television couple about the situation, as though they were involved in this week’s harmless prank.

Garth got up. Helen turned on her side, revealing her spectacular figure, and put a hand on Tony’s chest, lovingly, patting him. Tony was hypnotized by her body, entranced by his intimate proximity. “We’re willing to have your mother killed if you want,” she said.

“Damn right,” Garth said, putting a robe on. “I’m gonna make Tony some more herb tea.” He shuffled out, humming.

“You’re lucky to be alive. That woman who brought you home could barely stand.” She glanced down at his penis. Then she smiled. “Does your mother often get you drunk and then tell you you have no talent?”

“I told you about it?” Tony’s voice croaked. He felt childlike, but his voice was an old man’s. He looked at her with awe, flabbergasted by the perfection of her tall, full, but fatless olive-skinned body.

“You talked constantly. Even while you were passing out, you went out mumbling. It was kinda sad and wonderful at the same time.” She took his hand and kissed it. “Poor baby.”

Garth’s voice boomed from the doorway. “You want anything?”

She turned her head to answer. Her long hair streamed like a waterfall over her shoulders. “Coffee.” Tony felt her take hold of his penis, offering it to the air, pleading its case, showing an object for consideration. “Can’t I do something about this?” she asked her husband.

Tony looked to Garth for an answer with mild curiosity, as though he himself were merely a spectator watching an interesting drama unfold. The sexual ache of his genitals seemed divorced from his consciousness, but he was also enslaved to the desire for her, unable to resist its needs, no matter how bizarre or disgusting the circumstance. The question seemed pertinent: shouldn’t somebody do something about loving him?

“I don’t know,” Garth said, a hand running through the hair over his right temple. “That really kind of freaks me out. I’m pretty possessive about you.” He frowned. “Do what?”

My God, Tony thought, it’s a negotiation. His brain recoiled further from them and his circumstance while her hand—warm and casual, tentatively considering the value of his passion, a tempted shopper afraid the cost might be too high—made protest impossible. He not only wanted her, he wanted Garth’s permission. He had slept in their bed, breaking the barrier of house servant, but that had been pity—or perversion. This might be more, a kind of acceptance into the family, an embrace of both his being and his talent. Surely Garth’s agreement would be forthcoming only if Tony belonged, not only in their hearts but also in their world.

Helen turned to Tony, her long hair brushing his shoulder. He shivered. Her hand rested on the base of his penis, the fingers curling around his testicles. “What would you like?” she asked.

The question made him want to laugh, but looking into her eyes didn’t. No matter how decadent, foolish, and phony the situation totaled in Tony’s intellectual inventory, her soulful eyes elevated the query into a spiritual one. “I want to be loved,” he said, meaning it utterly.

“We love you,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“Not a blow-job,” Garth commented. He moved toward the bed. “I couldn’t handle that.”

“I want to kiss him,” she said, still searching Tony’s eyes sorrowfully.

“That’s okay,” Garth conceded.

She came at him, her lips parting slightly. They looked pale and puffy from sleep. She closed on his mouth, her free hand caressing his cheek, stroking it. Tony put a hand on her breast and withdrew as though burned, thinking: I don’t have permission. She moaned (to show approval, he thought) and pressed herself against him to resume contact. He closed his eyes and almost swooned from the heat, the relief of being touched, and the magic of her kiss: her lips accepting him, her tongue liquid and quivering.

When she withdrew after a few moments, he felt crushed, abandoned. He heard a high-pitched whistle, and until he opened his eyes, he didn’t recognize it as a teakettle boiling. Helen had turned her head to speak to Garth: “Why don’t you make the tea and wait? It won’t take long.”

Garth stood up against the bed, looming over them. “Oh, no,” he said firmly. “Whatever happens, I want to see.” He looked at Helen as though answering a criticism: “Not as a voyeur.”

“I understand,” she said so earnestly that it somehow sounded plausible.

“What do you feel comfortable doing?” Garth asked her.

Helen looked into Tony’s eyes, a compensating angel. She kissed him lightly on the lips and said, “Inside me.”

Garth moved so he had a clear view of Tony. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you think you could masturbate?” he asked Tony almost apologetically.

Helen twisted irritably. “Billy! He doesn’t need me for that.” Tony noticed a small beauty mark on her long neck. Her body was so warm on the side where they touched that the rest of him felt chilled. The happiness he felt at having this beauty lie beside him made the bizarre discussion seem dreamlike—unimportant and silly nonsense. He didn’t feel frustrated, he liked this passive pleasure. She softened to add to her husband: “That isn’t lovemaking.”

Garth nodded. “You could do it for him,” he argued happily, as though a lucky notion had just flown in. “You know, he could be touching you …” Garth paused, holding a palm out to Tony, selling the idea. “Anything but her …” He lowered his head. “Not her vagina.” Embarrassment seemed to overwhelm him. “I wish you’d say what
you
want, Tony,” he snapped.

“You didn’t ask what he wanted during the night,” Helen said angrily. “You didn’t bother asking whether he wanted to be touched.”

“Hey!” Garth protested in an injured voice, a kid whose secrets had been betrayed by his best friend.

Tony felt his throat contract. He had assumed Garth’s morning handshake had been his only imposition: the dark confused memories of the night might have curtained a hundred violations. “What did you do?” Tony cried out. He tried to sit up, but his skull seemed loaded with pronged weights that stabbed and dragged him down.

“Oh …” Helen embraced him awkwardly.

“You see!” Garth whined. “You’ve made it sound …”

She kissed Tony’s cheek, whispering, “He only played with it—he wanted to see how long you could …” She bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

Something was in the voice, cracking through the perfect appearance of kindness, something calculated and mean. This was a performance, Tony sensed, a plan she had. It wasn’t Garth manipulating this event, using his vulnerability and her sweetness. She was after something.

Helen raised her head. There were tears forming in her eyes. “You were so much in need. So badly wounded. We liked making you feel good—”

“Oh, don’t bullshit him. I wanted to know what another man’s prick felt like,” Garth said. He turned and walked away. “Do what you want,” he added, leaving.

Tony stared at her. He was confused. His head hurt now and his penis felt sore, unsatisfied, almost angry. He couldn’t think it through, see past her outward gentleness. Most of Helen’s body was on him now, and that pleasure took over. The sudden feeling that he was in power, controlling this Prince and Princess of Hollywood, sobered him. He could taste the sour bitterness of last night’s wine and ugly insults. “Fuck me,” he said.

She nodded, abashed.

Tony moved his pelvis against the side of her belly. “Put me in,” he said.

There were no newspeople in front of
Newstime.
On the Marx Brothers’ floor, things seemed quiet at first, but as they approached Animal Crackers, the noise began. Five writers were seated in the waiting area. They all gawked at Chico and David as if they didn’t know them. At the sight of them, Chico’s secretary pointed to Rounder’s office. “They’re waiting in there.” She nervously continued to David, “Patty Lane has called many times. She’s not at your home number.”

David turned to Chico, who had paused in mid-step. “I haven’t been able to get a hold of her—”

“Okay, use my office. But just a few minutes.”

David took the number from the secretary and walked into Chico’s office, picking up the phone. The number looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Betty Winters answered the phone. “David? Are you all right?”