Stabs at Happiness (9 page)

He led the way up some rickety back stairs of what was evidently a kind of chop house. He reached the landing and went up another flight of wooden, badly-nailed stairs, then used a key to open a door, holding his finger up to his lips when she tried to ask him what was going on.

They went inside without turning on a light, and he locked the door and set the bolt. This was his room. All he had for a bed was a mattress on the floor. They lay down there together and cowered (after a fashion), listening to more gunshots and then some voices, an ambulance siren…until eventually, gradually, all became still.

“I must be crazy,” he said, in a low, half-whispery voice. “They'd kill me if they knew I had a white girl up here in my room.”

“What's your name?” she asked.

“Hush yourself.”

She obeyed. And as she relaxed, she realized the extent of her intoxication; the darkness was full of moving colors, tiny darting wraiths.

They lay there for a long time, warming each other. To lie more comfortably, she took off the wig, laying it down on the floor next to an old banjo.

“I'm a rich girl,” she said whispering, thinking of the movies. “I ran away from home.”

He was listening, she knew it. In a few moments he proved it by saying, “Why'd you do a fool thing like that?”

“My father was too strict.”

“He probably knew what's best. You oughta be thankful you got family care what you do. You oughta go back home and pray to God all you get's a good whipping: you be lucky if they still take you back.”

“It's sweet of you to care what happens to me,” she said, play-acting, snuggling up to him. “Won't you tell me your name?”

“Why you wanna know it? I don't want to know yours. What difference it make? And don't do that. I don't wanna get no disease.”

“I'm clean. Really. You think I'm a whore?”

“Don't make no difference what I think. Just don't fool with me. I don't like it. Leave your hands off me.”

“I won't touch you if you don't like it.”

“Don't make no difference if I like it or not,” he said. “I ain't fooling with you and that's that.”

And, as that seemed indeed to be his last word on the subject, Harlow tried to go to sleep. But although she was weary, her eyes wouldn't stay stuck shut.

Her bladder was full. She asked the musician where to go: he told her to use the bucket over there by the wall. She crouched over the metal bucket and let loose with a clatter, a warm hiss, getting some of the pee on the floor and on her thigh. She thought about telling him who she was, but knew he'd never believe it. In fact, it was possible he wouldn't even recognize her name.

It wasn't her real name, anyway. She had been born Harlean Carpenter. Her mother just called her “Baby.”

He woke her before it was light. It was time for her to leave, he said, and told her where she could find a trolley-car. Very seriously, he asked her if she needed any money. He said he could give her 50 cents. She said no thanks. He told her to be quiet going down the stairs.

She still felt high or something, hungover, she didn't know… The air outside was misty and cool. She shivered for awhile before the walking warmed her up. Going past some broken glass, garbage cans, a slinking, ugly gray cat, and then some Chinese men in a hurry, their hands in their pockets…They scared her, she thought of white slavery and was glad she had on the wig, her usual extreme blondeness would have made her seem more of a prize. As it was, they scarcely looked at her, having their own business to conduct between themselves, talking together at sing-song high speed.

It was light. She got on a trolley-car. Counting the money in her purse, she had the ungracious suspicion that the cornet-player might have robbed her while she slept. It seemed like she was missing thirty or forty dollars from her wad. Funny then that he should have asked her if she needed 50 cents.

Jean Harlow walked through a green park with dew on the grass located a few blocks from her hotel. Some kids dressed in identical uniforms were exercising under the supervision of a tall man who looked sort of like a less-handsome Gary Cooper. He blew a whistle and they all ran off, in orderly lines, over the knoll and down the hill.

“Hi,” said Jean, friendly and ingenuous. “What's going on?”

“Technocracy,” he said. He avoided looking at her directly, glancing at her and then gazing down the hill after the boys.

“What's that? I thought you were Boy Scouts.”

“No… This is a Technocracy Youth Brigade. The world's being taken over by machines, you know; we're trying to get ready for it.”

“Are you sure? I mean, about the machines.”

“It's been scientifically proven. The machine is making human labor obsolete. Pretty soon all anyone will have to know is how to push the right buttons. Salaries will be based on how many ergs of energy each worker can produce; everything will be fair because everything will be counted out and measured, no more trickery or exploitation.”

“You're a Communist?

“Oh no,” he exclaimed, dismayed to be so misunderstood. He was wearing a gray jacket, gray shirt, darker gray tie, gray hat with charcoal band, black shoes… He started to explain some more, using numbers, but Harlow broke his concentration by reaching down and picking up something from the half-wet grass.

“Zap!” she exclaimed, laughing, pointing it at him. “What's this?”

“I don't know,” he said reluctantly. “It's not mine, and I know it can't belong to anyone in the Youth Brigade.”

“It's a Buck Rogers Disintegrator Ray Gun,” said Jean. “If it's not yours then I guess it's mine. Finders keepers.”

“Wait. It might be…”

“So long. Zzzzap!”

She walked away, swinging her hips, highly pleased with her new toy. It was becoming morning in the city. Birds were calling, dogs were barking far away, some cars were honking their horns.

In
Red Dust
there'd been a scene in which she had taken a bath in a rain-barrel, covering up her breasts with her hands. She had been offered the use of a flesh-covered bathing suit, but she hadn't liked it, it got too tight when it was wet. Paul Bern had not yet gotten around to dying: he was, in the meantime, in the absence of real sexual exploits over which to be jealous, taking things out on her in other ways, such as criticizing her in public (her clothes or choice of jewelry, correcting her diction or her manners, treating her as if she was stupid, etc.); and, naturally, when he found out that she was going into the rain-barrel for retake after retake, totally nude, he was furious, it drove him wild. He threatened (absurdly) to come down to the studio and sock Gable in the mouth: Jean dared him to, knowing full well he'd be scared to death to come anywhere near that set.

Taking a hot, luxurious bath in the hotel, she spilled some water onto the floor. She made her breasts slick with her new soap. Her nipples stood erect. For some reason she got the feeling someone was watching her, spying on her in the bath. She looked around meticulously, more out of form than out of a real hope of finding anything out. On the sets, it wasn't unusual to discover that peepholes had been drilled in the walls of her dressing room, until the place was like swiss cheese. She didn't ever feel safe in the bathroom, for instance, but she'd got kind of to the point where she figured there was nothing she could do, they all wanted to see everything she had.

Languorous in her robe, wig back in place (although she was getting tired of it), she called Room Service. She wanted a ham sandwich, a piece of apple pie, and a cold glass of milk. She was really hungry.

The bellboy knocked on the door, then came in with her lunch. He was a teenaged Latin lover, his hair slicked down like they'd all been doing ever since Rudy Valentino…not bad-looking, but with an attempt at a mustache that just didn't have enough individual hairs.

She gave him his tip, and he smiled as if he knew more than he should, saying, “Thank you very much, Miss Jones.”

“It's Johnson, not Jones.”

“Oh, excuse me. I thought it was Jones.”

“Well, it isn't.”

He was openly leering. “Not much difference, though, is there? Hey, it might as well be Smith. I know what you're up to.”

“Oh you do, do you?”

“I saw you when you came in this morning, and my friend told me about what went on last night.”

“Why don't you mind your own business, kid, and just get out of here?”

“I don't think I want to.”

“I'll call the manager.”

“I don't think you really want to be doing that,” he said, shaking his head in mock-gravity, playing out the part of ‘knowing the score.' “There's no reason for you to get sore at me. We could be good friends, help each other out. You're on the loose here, you don't know anybody — it's dangerous trying to go solo in a town like this. You need protection. You need some friends who could get you out of a jam.”

So he thought she was really a professional. Jean found this amusing. He was so smalltime it was unbelievable.

“I got a bottle of good gin stashed in the linen closet down the hall,” he said, and underneath the patter he was uncertain, ready to break into a sweat. “Why don't I go get it, come back, and we'll have a nice discussion, figure things out. Oh, my name's Rodrigo.” And he almost gave her a genuine smile. He went to get the booze.

Jean thought: Why not? Maybe there was something, after all, about these Latins. She was eating the ham sandwich when he came back.

Her robe fell open as she reached for a cigarette, and Rodrigo said, “You got nice boobs,” like he was some kind of a connoisseur. She kept wanting to laugh at him. She zapped him with the Ray Gun as he took off his jacket. He kissed her clumsily, his hands going after the tenderness of her body like jaguars in the jungle after meat.

“I bruise very easily,” she told him. “Don't be so rough.”

The ceiling was ordinary and old. Rodrigo sucked in big gasps of air, as if he was drowning while he swam. There was friction, friction and squeezing… something was almost on the way.

The bed rocked like it might go through the floor. Jean had finally shut her eyes, preferring the darkness there to the ceiling or the progress of a daddy longlegs spider on the wall. It was starting to feel real good: the motion was starting to drive her crazy—and then, too soon, Rodrigo went rigid and shot his wad in hot feeble jets, groaning like he'd been stabbed in his sleep.

“Get off me,” she said, when he continued to lie there, as if on the shore of a desert island, a castaway. She had to push him with her hands.

He finally roused himself from his trance, getting out of bed while pulling up his pants.

“You're pretty hot. I'll call up my friend Diego to come check you out. He's very big around here, he got connections to some of the big houses – he does some jobs for Johnny Cade.”

“Forget it. I'm not putting out for your friends.”

“Listen, sister…”

“Get out of here. I need to take a nap. You had your chance.”

“I buy and sell whores like you all the time, dime a dozen, so don't give me any lip. I'll pop you one.”

“Where'd you get that dialogue?
Public Enemy
or
Little Caesar?
You can kiss my ass.”

“Either you start minding, or I'll show you how to mind.”

“Go fuck yourself, greaseball. Don't make faces at me, just blow. Get out of here, I mean it.”

She was using the voice she used in fights with Marino Bello and which she had used a few times on Paul Bern. Pure young bitch. She stood up, seeking to hide fear that Rodrigo would try to hit her. He didn't seem to know quite what to do, visibly searching through his mind for the proper pose, wandering despite himself towards the door — when suddenly he had a change of heart and turned back, taking off his brown leather belt.

“I'm going to teach you who's boss.”

“Stay away from me,” she said, very loudly. “Stay away from me with that. I swear, if you make one mark on me I'll kill you! I'll get some guys I know to help me cut off your balls and shove ‘em down your throat. Stay away from me!”

Her naked fear gave Rodrigo an illusion of power like he had when he shot up some hop. He enjoyed it when he snapped the belt at her, he liked hearing her little cries and the way she jerked away. This was better.

“You're going to kiss
my
ass,” he said, “and like doing it. You got to learn who's boss. Little sluts should be seen and not heard.”

Harlow was right by the bottle of gin. She picked it up by the neck. Rodrigo made the mistake of lunging at it too, arriving too late, his head suddenly in range. She hit him on the temple, but the bottle didn't break; she hit him again, harder, and the glass shattered as he fell to the floor in a mess of broken glass and blood and cheap booze. He started to rise up on his hands and knees, cursing her in Spanish, and she hit him again, taking her time, with a brass-based lamp. Then Rodrigo was quiet as a mouse. Not even a squeak.

Harlow got dressed, quickly packed her bag, went downstairs to pay her bill and checked out, leaving the Biltmore Hotel in Seattle as her forwarding address. She'd heard of it sometime. She took a cab to the train station, then walked a few blocks and took the trolley-car someplace else.

By now she was calming down some, gathering her wits. She checked into the Hampstead Arms on Geary Street under the name of Rosemary Carpenter. For dinner she had chops and a baked potato, sliced tomatoes, and two cups of pretty good coffee with cream and two spoonfuls of sugar. She didn't feel like having dessert. She didn't want to get fat like Mama Jean.

Wearing a robin's egg blue print dress and beige high heels, blue hat with a pink carnation, seamed stockings, fur coat, pearls, a new application of makeup, she went out for the evening, asking the taxi driver to take her someplace where she could play blackjack and get something to drink.