Sargeant himself,” said Mr. Bush, his face lighting up as he saw his next column practically composed already. He gave a polite but firm chill shoulder to a blond middle-aged star of yesteryear who had obviously got the Gloria Swanson bug; then we were alone together in the middle of the party.
“Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age!” said Elmer Bush, showing a row of capped teeth: he has the seventh highest Hooper in television with a program called “New York’s America” which is, they tell me, a combination of gossip and interviews with theater people … I never look at television myself because it hurts my eyes. Anyway, Elmer is big league, bald and ulcerous, the perfect symbol of metropolitan success for an earnest hard-working boy like me trying to get ahead in “the game.”
“Well, I’ve been pretty busy,” I allowed in my best bumpkin manner.
“Say, what about that murder you got in your company?” and the benign features of Elmer Bush (“justa friend of the family in your own living room giving you some
real
stories about
real
people in the news,” … just old horse-shit Bush, I thought) shone with friendship and interest.
“Some mess,” I said, because that’s exactly what he would have said had our roles been reversed.
“Well, it keeps the show in the news … that’s one thing. Hear my broadcast about it Wednesday night?”
“I certainly did,” I lied. “Just about the best analysis I’ve seen so far.”
“Well, I didn’t really try to analyze it … just straight reporting.”
Had I blundered? “I mean the way you put it, well, that was some job …”
“Get the facts,” said Mr. Bush, smiling mechanically. “When are they going to arrest the husband?”
“I don’t know.”
“He
did
do it?”
“Everyone thinks so. He certainly had a good enough reason.”
“Bitch?”
“Very much so.”
“I saw the man who’s on that case yesterday. What’s his name? Gleason? Yes. Used to know him years ago when I was covering the police courts. He was mixed up in the Albemarle business … but that was before your time. Anyway, he made it pretty clear to me, unofficially of course, that Sutton would be arrested in the next twenty-four hours and indicted as quick as possible … while public interest is high. That’s the way they work.” And he chuckled. “Politicians, police … the worst hamsof all. But I still don’t know why they’ve held off so long.”
“Pressure,” I said smoothly, as though I knew.
He pursed his lips and nodded, everything just a bit more deliberate than life, made sharp for the television camera. “I thought as much. Not a bad idea to string it out as long as possible either … for the good of all concerned. Are you sold out? I thought so. Take a tip from me!
This
will put ballet on the map.” And with that message he left me for a dazzling lady who looked like Gloria Swanson and who, upon close inspection, turned out to be Gloria Swanson.
“How’re you doing, Baby?” inquired a familiar voice behind me … needless to say I gave a bit of a jump and executed a fairly professional pirouette … never turn your back on the likes of Louis, as Mother used to say.
“I’m doing just fine, killer,” I said, showing my upper teeth.
“Such good boy,” said Louis, holding my arm for a minute in a vise-like grip. “Some muscle!”
“I got it from beating up faggots in Central Park,” I said slowly; he doesn’t understand if you talk fast.
Louis roared. “You kill me, Baby.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Come on out on that balcony … just you and me. We look at moon.”
“Not on your life, killer.”
“Why’re you so afraid of me?”
“Just two guesses.”
“But I tell you you won’t feel nothing. You’ll like it fine.”
“I’m a virgin.”
“I know, Baby, that’s what I go for. Last night …” But before he could tell me some lewd story concerning his unnatural vice, Jed Wilbur
“Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age!” said Elmer Bush, showing a row of capped teeth: he has the seventh highest Hooper in television with a program called “New York’s America” which is, they tell me, a combination of gossip and interviews with theater people … I never look at television myself because it hurts my eyes. Anyway, Elmer is big league, bald and ulcerous, the perfect symbol of metropolitan success for an earnest hard-working boy like me trying to get ahead in “the game.”
“Well, I’ve been pretty busy,” I allowed in my best bumpkin manner.
“Say, what about that murder you got in your company?” and the benign features of Elmer Bush (“justa friend of the family in your own living room giving you some
real
stories about
real
people in the news,” … just old horse-shit Bush, I thought) shone with friendship and interest.
“Some mess,” I said, because that’s exactly what he would have said had our roles been reversed.
“Well, it keeps the show in the news … that’s one thing. Hear my broadcast about it Wednesday night?”
“I certainly did,” I lied. “Just about the best analysis I’ve seen so far.”
“Well, I didn’t really try to analyze it … just straight reporting.”
Had I blundered? “I mean the way you put it, well, that was some job …”
“Get the facts,” said Mr. Bush, smiling mechanically. “When are they going to arrest the husband?”
“I don’t know.”
“He
did
do it?”
“Everyone thinks so. He certainly had a good enough reason.”
“Bitch?”
“Very much so.”
“I saw the man who’s on that case yesterday. What’s his name? Gleason? Yes. Used to know him years ago when I was covering the police courts. He was mixed up in the Albemarle business … but that was before your time. Anyway, he made it pretty clear to me, unofficially of course, that Sutton would be arrested in the next twenty-four hours and indicted as quick as possible … while public interest is high. That’s the way they work.” And he chuckled. “Politicians, police … the worst hamsof all. But I still don’t know why they’ve held off so long.”
“Pressure,” I said smoothly, as though I knew.
He pursed his lips and nodded, everything just a bit more deliberate than life, made sharp for the television camera. “I thought as much. Not a bad idea to string it out as long as possible either … for the good of all concerned. Are you sold out? I thought so. Take a tip from me!
This
will put ballet on the map.” And with that message he left me for a dazzling lady who looked like Gloria Swanson and who, upon close inspection, turned out to be Gloria Swanson.
“How’re you doing, Baby?” inquired a familiar voice behind me … needless to say I gave a bit of a jump and executed a fairly professional pirouette … never turn your back on the likes of Louis, as Mother used to say.
“I’m doing just fine, killer,” I said, showing my upper teeth.
“Such good boy,” said Louis, holding my arm for a minute in a vise-like grip. “Some muscle!”
“I got it from beating up faggots in Central Park,” I said slowly; he doesn’t understand if you talk fast.
Louis roared. “You kill me, Baby.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Come on out on that balcony … just you and me. We look at moon.”
“Not on your life, killer.”
“Why’re you so afraid of me?”
“Just two guesses.”
“But I tell you you won’t feel nothing. You’ll like it fine.”
“I’m a virgin.”
“I know, Baby, that’s what I go for. Last night …” But before he could tell me some lewd story concerning his unnatural vice, Jed Wilbur
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