Making Love (8 page)

“Children.”
 

“That's a very clever statement. Jane, how come you're here tonight? Friend of Mel's?”
 

“No, my roommate is.”
 

He clenched her wrist and moved his mouth to her neck, but she twisted away.
 

“Kid with the freckles?”
 

“I think your wife's looking for you.”
 

“Let her look. I spend my life trying to get out of her line of vision.”
 

She managed to signal Conlon who fought her way through the crowd.
 

“Our guest of honor, the distinguished, brilliant Mr. Salkind,” Conlon said.
 

“How do I lose him?” Jane whispered.
 

“I'll stall him,” she said, allowing Jane to dart to the other end of the suite.
 

She never enjoyed cocktail parties, always feeling vaguely menaced by men in a hurry to extract promises, arrange lunches in out-of-the-way suburban French restaurants. The married men unceasingly persistent, the singles short on conversation, long on promises, and impatient, since the possibility of missing a willing girl just around the alcove haunted them, and they all had this habit of staring over a girl's head while delivering a spiel on the advantages they above all had to offer. Another date, another orgasm, that's all it really amounted to. From childhood she remembered the cheap glamor, never elegance, that all these parties aspired to. Like the common cold, they were incurable and always the same. At the more advanced parties nowadays a group smoked grass and tittered; but that didn't make it any different, only noisier.
 

Sonny was emptying ashtrays on his tray and he avoided looking at Jane, who sat down on the edge of a sofa. She motioned him with her glass.
 

“Vodka and tonic, wasn't it?”
 

“He embarrassed you.”
 

“I'm used to it. I always catch one like him when I work a party.”
 

He waited awkwardly for her glass.
 

“Do you do this full-time?”
 

“No, couple of times a week to pick up a little extra.”
 

“I don't want another drink.”
 

He wandered off to a group of men anxiously waving their glasses. It was a peculiar, irrational sensation, but she liked him instinctively, perhaps because he hadn't been able to defend himself. She hadn't felt anything for Alan Sawyer. Their sex had been effective but impersonal and no one was really to blame for the absence of feeling. It was simply expediency and she realized that if she hadn't been going to bed with Alan, it would have been somebody else close at hand. She'd never been in love and the thought didn't depress her. Sooner or later she'd meet a man, or was it men nowadays, since marriage had been officially declared a disaster area? What she didn't want to do was take anything on trust, because she hadn't met anyone whose experience or advice was worth respecting. What imagination she had was firmly rooted in reality.
 

“You're coming out to dinner with us after this,” Mel informed her.
 

“I don't know.”
 

“Have you got a date?”
 

“Not yet.”
 

“Leave it to Uncle Mel.”
 

“Can I ask
you
a personal question?”
 

“You want two pillows on your bed. I'll arrange it.”
 

“Seriously.”
 

“For that I have to put on my glasses.”
 

“What do you do about your wife?”
 

“I'm glad you asked me that question,” he replied, removing his glasses.
 

“I'm just curious.”
 

“For you, Jane, the truth. August was our eighth anniversary—that's eight the hard way—I gave her a six-carat diamond ring. That wasn't enough, she wanted another child, I gave her two false alarms; then I went to F.A.O. Schwartz and bought her Aggravation. She wanted a home in King's Point, so I spoke to my father-in-law and we got a split-level. Five nights a week I'm a perfect husband. My children call me Daddy. We've got a great marriage, as long as she doesn't interfere with my private life.”
 

“Conlon?”
 

“Conlon I'm in love with, and she's got her own ideas. She doesn't want me to divorce Iris, and she doesn't want to be my children's stepmother or have them visit us.”
 

“That's what I don't understand.”
 

“It's very simple. She likes the idea of having an affair with a married man. Life's too short to be nervous. Most people I know have even stopped going to the shrink, which was a popular activity a few years ago during the Bull market.”
 

“You're not for real, Mel.”
 

She had to admire his cynicism, it was so determined, so complete. Disposing of one's humanity was no easy task, even for a hustler. And Conlon under the guise of worldliness had become the perfect tool. No one wanted to be accused of naïveté; there simply wasn't that kind of courage around, so they all pretended to be unshockable and the son of a bitch had taken on the role of culture hero. He admitted to being a pig, so all had to be forgiven. In an odd way Jane respected her father more, for he had the consideration to deceive, make excuses, protest his innocence. She supposed he was capable of common decency. Wasn't his hypocrisy proof?
 

“The truth is I'm in love with her and she's in love with me,” Mel babbled on. “But we're not biting our nails about it. We both might be dead tomorrow—this is New York.”
 

Al reappeared at Jane's side, his eyes rolling from happiness and scotch.
 

“Do you believe in love at first sight, Jane?” he asked.
 

Disagreement meant an argument, so she said:
 

“Why not?”
 

“Well, I'd like to fly down to Mexico, unload Sylvia, and marry you. If Mel can get us a cottage at Las Brisas we're in business. One other thing, do you need parental consent? Because if you do, my brother-in-law was formerly a kite specialist and knows how to forge signatures.”
 

“I'm engaged,” Jane said.
 

“Then what's the guy waiting for? I'm offering you security and a quick deal. We'll even do a premarital agreement, so you don't think I'm after your money.”
 

Al was interrupted by a black crocodile purse which thumped against his ear, Sylvia's calling card. This was followed by a J&B right in the face, blinding him momentarily. The purse hit him in the face in a perfectly executed backhand passing shot.
 

“Everywhere we go he humiliates me. And as for you, Mel, introducing him to B-Girls. You know that I'm the brains of the business. Glamor boy doesn't know a sauna from a steam cabinet. Back to Roslyn, Mister,” she informed the chairman of HCA, “and no more monkey business. I'm putting you in escrow. Hy, get the car.”
 

She glowered at Jane and approached menacingly, the purse in position.
 

“Never rile a Weinberg,” she noted ominously.
 

“He attacked me,” Jane said angrily.
 

“Liar. Don't you think I know a Buffalo hooker when I see one? You're an ice skater with the Ice Capades, I suppose. You lousy kids don't know anything except smoking pot, rioting, and screwing. What about personal hygiene, have you got any?”
 

As a parting gesture to enforce her point she was about to strike Jane, but a pair of muscular arms lifted her from behind and carried her through the room, depositing her at the door. Sonny Jackson with something larger than a football in his hands was unlikely to drop it.
 

The party had thinned out, and some bus boys were picking up dirty glasses and putting out small cigarette fires on the carpet and sofa. Jane found Sonny in the bedroom, changing into street clothes. His uniform was neatly hung on a wire hanger.
 

“Sorry,” he said. “I didt know anyone was usin' this.”
 

“I wanted to say thank you.”
 

He gave her a blank stare and nodded his head.
 

“I thought she was going to belt you.”
 

“She was.” He buttoned his shirt and put on a black knit tie. “Where are you going from here?”
 

He looked at his watch, then wiped his shoes with a towel.
 

“It's seven, and I have my dinner at the place about now.”
 

“Where's that?”
 

“Where I work.” He seemed surprised by her question. “At Joiners on First Avenue. Single city. The rush don't begin till eight thirty.”
 

“You've got a job there—I hate to sound stupid.”
 

“That's right. I been there since it opened”—he thought for a minute—“about eighteen months now.”
 

“So this isn't full-time work.”
 

“Right. I do it a couple of times a week, you know. What do they call it—two jobs?”
 

“Moonlighting.”
 

“I moonlight to pick up a few.”
 

He lifted the hanger and inspected the black trousers for stains. A blotch of mustard was on one of the pockets.
 

“You can get it off with hot water.” She went into the bathroom, ran the water, and came out with a wet towel and rubbed the pocket, then picked off the dry bits with her nails.
 

“That's terrific, thanks, you've saved me one seventy-five for cleaning.” He stopped and looked at her quizzically. “Did you ask me something?”
 

“If you liked your work.”
 

“I guess I do. I'm always meetin' new people and I like the kids that come in. I let people in, you know, enforce the safety regulations. Every place in New York has a limit, you see. Unlawful for more than a certain number. We can hold three hundred and fifty, but it's real tight. Sometimes somebody has more than he can handle and I see that nobody starts pushin' anyone around, or if a guy gets fresh with a girl, well, she's got no protection, so I straighten things out. I'm the equalizer. Then if they're short at the bar, I double as a bartender, but I don't like it much. You know, mixin' drinks, then runnin' to the rigister every second to make change. It gets very confusin'.”
 

He smiled with embarrassment and shuffled his feet, waiting for her to move away from the door so that he could leave.
 

“I'm runnin' a little late, so if you don't mind....”
 

“I'm sorry, it's just that I was interested.”
 

“Well, maybe, to be continued if you're around.”
 

He extended his hand and shook hers firmly. They were large hands with uneven nails, thick fingers with a college ring.
 

“Where'd you go to school?”
 

“Florida Tech. Little before your time. What about you?”
 

“I'm a junior at Saranac.”
 

“That's one helluva good school.” He opened the door. “See you, kid.”
 

She stood in the middle of the room with a growing sense of perplexity. Before making any kind of decision she had to see her father, for whom she maintained a limitless tolerance despite his total inability to involve himself in her life. He was a sweet, harmless child who had played amateur golf for twenty years, collected dividends on his stock, and for all she knew never experienced a woman's love. Neither war, the Dow Jones average, elections, nor riots and strikes could elicit more than a feigned interest from him. He lived for one thing: Surviving the cut in a tournament qualifying round. God, where was Napa, California? Somewhere near San Francisco, her mother had said. Why the hell hadn't her parents divorced years before? She couldn't accept her father's explanation: “We don't get divorces or legal separations; we just avoid each other.”
 

Mel was on the phone making a reservation at El Morocco. The new all-in package had caught his eye in the paper. But he'd have to keep the girls away from the à-la-carte menu. Twenty-one was sudden death; he still had that big bill to settle there. Let them send all the lawyer's letters they liked. He had lawyers too—on retainer.
 

“I'm sorry, Jane, that it turned out like this. But this is what I have to contend with. Where have all the Harrimans, Lehmans, Loebs, and Drexels gone? Gentlemen, a handshake, respectable, a pleasure to do business with. I wind up with the Salkinds of the world or with fund managers who'd steal the pastrami sandwich out of your attaché case. All is not lost: Elmo, followed by a choice of Nepantha, Numero Uno, Le Club, or Salvation.”
 

“I'd like to stay in,” Jane said.
 

“'Mel can get you a date if you don't want to call someone you know,” Conlon suggested.
 

“I can handle both of you if you like. I'll dance you silly.”
 

“Come on, Jane, please.”
 

“Christ, you don't have to treat me like a child. If I wanted to go, I'd say I did.”
 

Jane removed her shoes and sat on her ankles, exposing a lot of leg, which wasn't wasted on Mel, whose eye for special situations and thighs were renowned. He wondered if he could make them both together. Dangerous thought, which he rejected, because he had once before tried a similar experiment with a pair of sure things and wound up alone.