double!”
Harris ignored these financial loaves and fishes. He could only marvel: Howard Kenyon—that cinematic sheik, that heroic screen doughboy, that movie-palace pirate … was a
feygele
? Why, he wondered, was she telling him this? Did she just assume that he’d be too scared to print any of the beans she was spilling? He tried looking further into those green eyes, and he hit an emerald wall.
“So let me tell you how you’re gonna shoot me for your cover,” said Rosemary.
Harris came out of his frightened revery. “Actually, Miss LaRoche, that’ll be up to Mr. Lord, whom you’ll—”
“You’re gonna have me on a couch with just a fancy silk sheet covering my hoohah and melons. My wrists and ankles are gonna be tied together with pearls. I got a picture called
Chained
coming out around the time you’ll be getting your show on the road, and I’m gonna need people to think this crummy masterpiece is a little hotter than it is.”
“Was the director a nellie?” It was all Harris could think to say.
“Worse,” said Rosemary. “A gentleman. Of course, you are, too. But in the best sense of the term. Which is why I know you’ll be square with me. I get a nickel on each thirty-five-cent copy you sell above a hundred thousand.”
Harris chose to concentrate not on the meaning, but the mere sound, of what she was saying. Where had he heard such a voice before? On the rodeo cowboy
Bandbox
had once let loose in the city for a babe-in-the-metropolitan-woods piece? No, it was too deep, and not quite twangy enough. On the old lady he and Betty had met last winter down at the Vinoy Park in St. Petersburg? The one who’d actually been
born
in Florida? No, not enough syrup. And the way Miss LaRoche said “term”—didn’t it sound faintly like “toim”? Whatever head she might have for figures, this dame didn’t add up.
“I’ll have to talk with Mr. Burn, my publisher,” Harris finally said.
“You do that, ’Phat. Otherwise we got no deal. Hel
-lo
,” she then uttered, without a pause to mark the shift from business to pleasure. “What have we
here
?” She parted the smilax once again. Harris stretched his neck to get a look at the gentleman checking his overcoat with the girl at the entrance. A good-looking fellow, even if he was in need of a hair-combing and—
Rosemary LaRoche had him so agitated that it took several seconds to realize he was looking at Stuart Newman.
“That’s your writer, Miss LaRoche. I asked him to join us for coffee.”
Staring at Newman with her fierce green eyes and smile, the actress said to the editor: “You’re goddamned right it is.”
Newman approached the table, trying not to recall a long-ago bender that had ended here at the Plaza in a broom closet on the eleventh floor.
“Stuart!” cried Harris. “Come meet Rosemary LaRoche.”
Newman took his last steps with a certain hesitation, trying to guess why the boss was looking at him as if he’d already accomplished something wonderful.
The actress put out her hand. Newman, uncertain for a moment what to do, finally took hold of it and brought it to his lips. Harris thought this tough-talking cookie might swallow his man in two bites, like a second order of strip steak. But in a soft little voice, creme-filled with vowels from yet another indeterminate part of the country, Rosemary LaRoche purred: “Mr. Newman is
très, très charmant
.”
15
Around other tables here at Lindy’s, the showgirls outnumbered the fighters and newsmen and producers who were buying them supper. So Daisy felt grateful for the odds where she was: two to one, the one being herself, seated between Eddie Diamond and Judge Francis X. Gilfoyle. The numbers would only improve once Arnold Rothsteinarrived at his usual spot, though perhaps it was the absence of his rather glum presence that had made this evening, so far, a little gayer than the one she’d spent at 912 Fifth Avenue a few weeks ago, shortly after Carolyn
Harris ignored these financial loaves and fishes. He could only marvel: Howard Kenyon—that cinematic sheik, that heroic screen doughboy, that movie-palace pirate … was a
feygele
? Why, he wondered, was she telling him this? Did she just assume that he’d be too scared to print any of the beans she was spilling? He tried looking further into those green eyes, and he hit an emerald wall.
“So let me tell you how you’re gonna shoot me for your cover,” said Rosemary.
Harris came out of his frightened revery. “Actually, Miss LaRoche, that’ll be up to Mr. Lord, whom you’ll—”
“You’re gonna have me on a couch with just a fancy silk sheet covering my hoohah and melons. My wrists and ankles are gonna be tied together with pearls. I got a picture called
Chained
coming out around the time you’ll be getting your show on the road, and I’m gonna need people to think this crummy masterpiece is a little hotter than it is.”
“Was the director a nellie?” It was all Harris could think to say.
“Worse,” said Rosemary. “A gentleman. Of course, you are, too. But in the best sense of the term. Which is why I know you’ll be square with me. I get a nickel on each thirty-five-cent copy you sell above a hundred thousand.”
Harris chose to concentrate not on the meaning, but the mere sound, of what she was saying. Where had he heard such a voice before? On the rodeo cowboy
Bandbox
had once let loose in the city for a babe-in-the-metropolitan-woods piece? No, it was too deep, and not quite twangy enough. On the old lady he and Betty had met last winter down at the Vinoy Park in St. Petersburg? The one who’d actually been
born
in Florida? No, not enough syrup. And the way Miss LaRoche said “term”—didn’t it sound faintly like “toim”? Whatever head she might have for figures, this dame didn’t add up.
“I’ll have to talk with Mr. Burn, my publisher,” Harris finally said.
“You do that, ’Phat. Otherwise we got no deal. Hel
-lo
,” she then uttered, without a pause to mark the shift from business to pleasure. “What have we
here
?” She parted the smilax once again. Harris stretched his neck to get a look at the gentleman checking his overcoat with the girl at the entrance. A good-looking fellow, even if he was in need of a hair-combing and—
Rosemary LaRoche had him so agitated that it took several seconds to realize he was looking at Stuart Newman.
“That’s your writer, Miss LaRoche. I asked him to join us for coffee.”
Staring at Newman with her fierce green eyes and smile, the actress said to the editor: “You’re goddamned right it is.”
Newman approached the table, trying not to recall a long-ago bender that had ended here at the Plaza in a broom closet on the eleventh floor.
“Stuart!” cried Harris. “Come meet Rosemary LaRoche.”
Newman took his last steps with a certain hesitation, trying to guess why the boss was looking at him as if he’d already accomplished something wonderful.
The actress put out her hand. Newman, uncertain for a moment what to do, finally took hold of it and brought it to his lips. Harris thought this tough-talking cookie might swallow his man in two bites, like a second order of strip steak. But in a soft little voice, creme-filled with vowels from yet another indeterminate part of the country, Rosemary LaRoche purred: “Mr. Newman is
très, très charmant
.”
15
Around other tables here at Lindy’s, the showgirls outnumbered the fighters and newsmen and producers who were buying them supper. So Daisy felt grateful for the odds where she was: two to one, the one being herself, seated between Eddie Diamond and Judge Francis X. Gilfoyle. The numbers would only improve once Arnold Rothsteinarrived at his usual spot, though perhaps it was the absence of his rather glum presence that had made this evening, so far, a little gayer than the one she’d spent at 912 Fifth Avenue a few weeks ago, shortly after Carolyn
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