the world.
"I'll be goddamned," murmured Norman. "I really will be goddamned! I think my life is over."
Her face still wrinkled, Henny said, "Who produced the Olivier thing? Dan Freed? That's Freed at the table."
"Sure, Freed."
"Well, that's it, then. You introduced Lester to Freed, Norm, back in March. Don't you remember? The night of the Boyer opening. Lester cross-examined him about play financing for an hour. Lester's got money in this show. That's all."
"But why has he never mentioned it? Never even hinted it! How could he resist? Olivier! Lester always runs off at the mouth about himself like a five-year-old."
"That's how much you know about Lester," said Henny. "When he wants to, he talks. When he doesn't want to, he can keep mighty quiet. If it's a flop, he won't mention it. Lester Atlas never loses."
Paperman watched Atlas and Olivier laughing together, with stricken gloom. He had spent his days in the service of glamour. Nothing had ever been more real or more important to him than the radiance of a stage star. All his work, all his life long, had been an effort to generate tiny sparks of that radiance for his clients. Here was Olivier, the most effulgent of living actors, in the embrace of the squarest of squares, Lester Atlas. It was a total collapse of values. Brightness had fallen from the air.
He knew the reason for it. This was a foul triumph of the dollar. Broadway, with its strangling costs and shrinking audience, needed so much money to survive that it had no recourse left but to fall on its knees to the Lester Atlases. And Atlas would give money. The price was his public embrace, and his vulgar hee-hawing in your ear, at the number-one table in Sardi's.
In a flash like a waking vision, Paperman found himself picturing what the Gull Reef Club must be like at this instant: the glittering moon path across black water, the dancers, Negro and white, on the terrace, the hibiscus flowers scarlet in the flare of kerosene flames, the lights jewelling Queen's Row and the dark hills, the pure ocean breeze scented with frangipani.
Henny had not lived twenty years in wedlock with Paperman, and five years out of it, without becoming expert at reading his face. She said, "Norm, tell me, how serious are you about that hotel?"
He said with a sharp, almost guilty turn of his head, "I think I'm just waiting to die here in New York, Henny. There has to be something better to do with the time I've got left."
She played with her bracelet. "It's really Eden, and all that jazz? It really is?"
"Look, the natives live in shacks. It gets too hot. It's a pleasant place. Sweetheart, the point is I know sixty people in here tonight, and every one of them goes south in winter. Every one. Dan Freed would come to
Gull Reef. Half of them would. It's something different. It's making money now, and we'd make more. But that isn't the main thing. What I picture, for both of us, is a chance to-"
"HAW! HAW! HAW!" The violent bellow made them both jump. "NORMAN HILTON, I PRESUME? Haw haw! How's the old trade-winds king?"
They had been too absorbed in their conversation to see him bearing down on them. He loomed over them in evening dress, his pince-nez glasses perched on his sunburned nose, his bald head peeling in odd patches. He carried a fat cigar as usual and a dark brown highball. His frilled shirt was a light blue. This was the color for people going on television, and Paperman thought that Lester Atlas was likely to appear on television, if ever, only in a brief interview at the gates of Sing Sing. But it was like him to affect the blue shirt.
"Hi, Lester."
"How about our wandering boy, Henny? Two days in the tropics and he sheds ten years. Gone with the trade winds. Haw haw! Listen, I've been telling Larry about the hotel. You know, Sir Laurence Olivier. He's dying to meet you. He says you sound
"I'll be goddamned," murmured Norman. "I really will be goddamned! I think my life is over."
Her face still wrinkled, Henny said, "Who produced the Olivier thing? Dan Freed? That's Freed at the table."
"Sure, Freed."
"Well, that's it, then. You introduced Lester to Freed, Norm, back in March. Don't you remember? The night of the Boyer opening. Lester cross-examined him about play financing for an hour. Lester's got money in this show. That's all."
"But why has he never mentioned it? Never even hinted it! How could he resist? Olivier! Lester always runs off at the mouth about himself like a five-year-old."
"That's how much you know about Lester," said Henny. "When he wants to, he talks. When he doesn't want to, he can keep mighty quiet. If it's a flop, he won't mention it. Lester Atlas never loses."
Paperman watched Atlas and Olivier laughing together, with stricken gloom. He had spent his days in the service of glamour. Nothing had ever been more real or more important to him than the radiance of a stage star. All his work, all his life long, had been an effort to generate tiny sparks of that radiance for his clients. Here was Olivier, the most effulgent of living actors, in the embrace of the squarest of squares, Lester Atlas. It was a total collapse of values. Brightness had fallen from the air.
He knew the reason for it. This was a foul triumph of the dollar. Broadway, with its strangling costs and shrinking audience, needed so much money to survive that it had no recourse left but to fall on its knees to the Lester Atlases. And Atlas would give money. The price was his public embrace, and his vulgar hee-hawing in your ear, at the number-one table in Sardi's.
In a flash like a waking vision, Paperman found himself picturing what the Gull Reef Club must be like at this instant: the glittering moon path across black water, the dancers, Negro and white, on the terrace, the hibiscus flowers scarlet in the flare of kerosene flames, the lights jewelling Queen's Row and the dark hills, the pure ocean breeze scented with frangipani.
Henny had not lived twenty years in wedlock with Paperman, and five years out of it, without becoming expert at reading his face. She said, "Norm, tell me, how serious are you about that hotel?"
He said with a sharp, almost guilty turn of his head, "I think I'm just waiting to die here in New York, Henny. There has to be something better to do with the time I've got left."
She played with her bracelet. "It's really Eden, and all that jazz? It really is?"
"Look, the natives live in shacks. It gets too hot. It's a pleasant place. Sweetheart, the point is I know sixty people in here tonight, and every one of them goes south in winter. Every one. Dan Freed would come to
Gull Reef. Half of them would. It's something different. It's making money now, and we'd make more. But that isn't the main thing. What I picture, for both of us, is a chance to-"
"HAW! HAW! HAW!" The violent bellow made them both jump. "NORMAN HILTON, I PRESUME? Haw haw! How's the old trade-winds king?"
They had been too absorbed in their conversation to see him bearing down on them. He loomed over them in evening dress, his pince-nez glasses perched on his sunburned nose, his bald head peeling in odd patches. He carried a fat cigar as usual and a dark brown highball. His frilled shirt was a light blue. This was the color for people going on television, and Paperman thought that Lester Atlas was likely to appear on television, if ever, only in a brief interview at the gates of Sing Sing. But it was like him to affect the blue shirt.
"Hi, Lester."
"How about our wandering boy, Henny? Two days in the tropics and he sheds ten years. Gone with the trade winds. Haw haw! Listen, I've been telling Larry about the hotel. You know, Sir Laurence Olivier. He's dying to meet you. He says you sound
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