these years.”
Clay pushed his hands deep into his slack pockets. “Why don’t you two bastards get out of here?”
“Look, baby,” Hoff said. “Don’t take my word. Ask her. She has any honesty, maybe she’ll tell you. She wants something. All right. So we’ll know, you ask her.”
Stuart stared at them. Their gazes did not waver. If they had looked away, glanced down, or flushed, he would have slugged them, thrown them out. But they were worrying about him, deeply concerned about him.
His own doubts plagued him, yet against this was his own healthy exuberance, his belief in the good he had. His contempt for their whining doubts pushed him into gambling. His laugh was cold.
He turned, crossed the room. He opened the door, called: “Joanne.”
She came across the flagstones. He felt pleasure watching her walk toward him. “Are they gone?” she said.
He shook his head. “They say you want something, Joanne. And they want you to tell them what it is.”
She flushed, her neck growing red and the color moving up to the roots of her hair.
He looked at her face, winced. “I’m sorry. I’ve no right to subject you to this.”
Her face was rigid. “That’s all right.” She looked at Hoff and Shatner levelly. “What do you want to know?”
“The price,” Hoff said. “We just want to know. We are willing to meet it. We just want to know.”
“Do you want a career in pictures?” Shatner said. “Is this what you want?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“You want money?” Hoff said. “If so, how much?”
“Why not? How much am I offered?”
Shatner’s mouth twisted. “All right. You tell us what you want.”
She stared at both of them as if they’d crawled out of wormwood. Then she moved past them, gathered up her purse.
“I just want to get out of here,” she said.
Clay ran after her. “Joanne.”
She looked at him coldly. He was a stranger. She had never seen him before. She shrugged his hand down. He didn’t blame her for what she did, not if she spat in his face. She’d given him nothing but pleasure. This was the way he repaid her.
She walked out of the room, closed the door behind her.
Clay swung around, his gaze locked on them. His voice was so low they could barely hear him. “For God’s sake,” he said. “What did we want to do that for?”
“We were thinking of you, Clay.” Hoff’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Get out,” Clay said to them. “Go on. Get out.”
• • •
He waited an hour, pacing the library, walking out on the terrace, trying to find some memory of her that would put warmth in the day, trying to find some sign that she had ever been here. But the wind was chill, and the leaves skittered on the grass dryly, a lonely winter sound.
He walked to the edge of the pool, trying to picture in his mind how long it would take her to get home. She had walked out. She would have had to walk a mile before she could even get a cab.
He dialed her number. His hand sweated on the instrument. A girl answered.
“Joanne?” he said.
“My name is Flo,” the girl said. “Who is this?”
“Clay Stuart. Is Joanne there?”
“No. I’m sorry. She isn’t.”
“Will you have her call me? The minute she comes in?”
“I’ll tell her,” Flo said. She hung up.
He sat there a long time with the receiver in his hand. He called information, tried to find the address by supplying her telephone number.
“I’m sorry,” the operator said. “We don’t give out that information.”
He threatened the operator, the manager, the president of the company, and finally got a promise that they would call him back with the information.
Her name was not listed in the Los Angeles telephone directory. He hadn’t thought it would be. He could see her telephone, hanging in the hallway of some dump. No wonder she wanted something. What was the matter with him? With Hoff? Shatner? Everybody wanted something. Everybody on earth. Few people ever gave anyone else what
Clay pushed his hands deep into his slack pockets. “Why don’t you two bastards get out of here?”
“Look, baby,” Hoff said. “Don’t take my word. Ask her. She has any honesty, maybe she’ll tell you. She wants something. All right. So we’ll know, you ask her.”
Stuart stared at them. Their gazes did not waver. If they had looked away, glanced down, or flushed, he would have slugged them, thrown them out. But they were worrying about him, deeply concerned about him.
His own doubts plagued him, yet against this was his own healthy exuberance, his belief in the good he had. His contempt for their whining doubts pushed him into gambling. His laugh was cold.
He turned, crossed the room. He opened the door, called: “Joanne.”
She came across the flagstones. He felt pleasure watching her walk toward him. “Are they gone?” she said.
He shook his head. “They say you want something, Joanne. And they want you to tell them what it is.”
She flushed, her neck growing red and the color moving up to the roots of her hair.
He looked at her face, winced. “I’m sorry. I’ve no right to subject you to this.”
Her face was rigid. “That’s all right.” She looked at Hoff and Shatner levelly. “What do you want to know?”
“The price,” Hoff said. “We just want to know. We are willing to meet it. We just want to know.”
“Do you want a career in pictures?” Shatner said. “Is this what you want?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“You want money?” Hoff said. “If so, how much?”
“Why not? How much am I offered?”
Shatner’s mouth twisted. “All right. You tell us what you want.”
She stared at both of them as if they’d crawled out of wormwood. Then she moved past them, gathered up her purse.
“I just want to get out of here,” she said.
Clay ran after her. “Joanne.”
She looked at him coldly. He was a stranger. She had never seen him before. She shrugged his hand down. He didn’t blame her for what she did, not if she spat in his face. She’d given him nothing but pleasure. This was the way he repaid her.
She walked out of the room, closed the door behind her.
Clay swung around, his gaze locked on them. His voice was so low they could barely hear him. “For God’s sake,” he said. “What did we want to do that for?”
“We were thinking of you, Clay.” Hoff’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“Get out,” Clay said to them. “Go on. Get out.”
• • •
He waited an hour, pacing the library, walking out on the terrace, trying to find some memory of her that would put warmth in the day, trying to find some sign that she had ever been here. But the wind was chill, and the leaves skittered on the grass dryly, a lonely winter sound.
He walked to the edge of the pool, trying to picture in his mind how long it would take her to get home. She had walked out. She would have had to walk a mile before she could even get a cab.
He dialed her number. His hand sweated on the instrument. A girl answered.
“Joanne?” he said.
“My name is Flo,” the girl said. “Who is this?”
“Clay Stuart. Is Joanne there?”
“No. I’m sorry. She isn’t.”
“Will you have her call me? The minute she comes in?”
“I’ll tell her,” Flo said. She hung up.
He sat there a long time with the receiver in his hand. He called information, tried to find the address by supplying her telephone number.
“I’m sorry,” the operator said. “We don’t give out that information.”
He threatened the operator, the manager, the president of the company, and finally got a promise that they would call him back with the information.
Her name was not listed in the Los Angeles telephone directory. He hadn’t thought it would be. He could see her telephone, hanging in the hallway of some dump. No wonder she wanted something. What was the matter with him? With Hoff? Shatner? Everybody wanted something. Everybody on earth. Few people ever gave anyone else what
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