of voices.
“Hal, so glad you could make it.” Gadson met him at the door and showed him through a corridor hung with turn-of-the-century posters of gay nightspots—LittleBucks, the Artistic Club, the Black Rabbit of Bleecker Street where the French Fairy had put on his remarkable floor show. There was a blown-up page from
The New York Herald
of 1892 describing activities at a Greenwich Village nightclub called the Slide where “Orgies Beyond Description” took place. The bear studied the posters, struck by the men in their evening attire, with canes and capes. He’d have to talk to Elliot about getting a cape.
Gadson was leading him into the main room of the loft, whose entry was decorated with tall ferns in slender vases. Converted gas lamps illuminated the walls, and the furniture was Victorian. The guests were mostly from the literary world, and had already heard rumors about Hal Jam’s forthcoming book and the sale to Universal. “He does look like Hemingway,” said more than one person, though some said it was just a superficial impression, not a true likeness.
Bettina appeared like the queen of the bumblebees, her gold and black dress clinging to her buzzing little figure, and her eyes bulging with the feverish fires that ruled her. Her path through the room was erratic, for she wanted to be everywhere at once. A tortilla chip attached itself to her flying scarf as she pivoted past the buffet table, and Chum Boykins removed it with a compulsive nip of his fingers.
Bettina waved to Eunice Cotton and joined her in a corner of the room.
Angels in Bed
had now sold a millioncopies, and Eunice was everlastingly grateful for Bettina’s genius. Bettina had toured her heavily in Bible Belt country, and sales had soared, because Bettina had included a cute young male stripper on the tour. She’d had the stripper wear a short white tunic and gaze with impartial love at the ladies while Eunice read from
Bed
. During the book-signing session afterward, the muscular angel was especially attentive to Eunice, fussing over her, whispering to her, all of it stage-managed by Bettina, to give the impression of what angels actually did for people. Turnouts for the readings had been high, and the angel was now making promotional visits on his own to shopping malls. Gadson had signed him up to write his autobiography, tentatively titled
Tarnished Wings
.
“Hal Jam is here,” said Bettina to Eunice excitedly. “I was afraid he wouldn’t come.”
“That man is a saint,” said the angel writer.
“Can we go quite that far?” asked Bettina.
“He’s above it all, Bettina. You told me yourself he doesn’t care about publicity.”
Bettina had to admit this was true, to her great puzzlement. She’d known writers who were indifferent to politics and even to sex, but she’d never met one who was indifferent to publicity.
Eunice tilted her head back slightly and closed her eyes. “It happens the minute Hal Jam appears. I’m hearing my angel.”
“What’s he saying?” asked Bettina with real interest. She desperately wished she had an angel but she knew she’d never qualify. She felt like the remains of a broken travel agency, had sent too many people off on trips peddling books. Her eyes swiveled to the door. “That’s Zou Zou Sharr walking in. Do you know her? She’s a killer Hollywood agent.”
“I used to do my hair that shade of red,” said Eunice. “I used to do a
lot
of people’s hair that shade.”
Bettina zipped across the room and slipped her arm through the bear’s. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. If he likes your work it could help enormously.”
She introduced him to Kenneth Penrod, professor of English at Columbia and the author of
The Decline of Literature
. Penrod found the bear unusually taciturn and liked it. Penrod waited, wineglass in hand, as the bear struggled to express what was on his mind, glancing in the direction of Washington Square Park with haunted eyes. Finally
“Hal, so glad you could make it.” Gadson met him at the door and showed him through a corridor hung with turn-of-the-century posters of gay nightspots—LittleBucks, the Artistic Club, the Black Rabbit of Bleecker Street where the French Fairy had put on his remarkable floor show. There was a blown-up page from
The New York Herald
of 1892 describing activities at a Greenwich Village nightclub called the Slide where “Orgies Beyond Description” took place. The bear studied the posters, struck by the men in their evening attire, with canes and capes. He’d have to talk to Elliot about getting a cape.
Gadson was leading him into the main room of the loft, whose entry was decorated with tall ferns in slender vases. Converted gas lamps illuminated the walls, and the furniture was Victorian. The guests were mostly from the literary world, and had already heard rumors about Hal Jam’s forthcoming book and the sale to Universal. “He does look like Hemingway,” said more than one person, though some said it was just a superficial impression, not a true likeness.
Bettina appeared like the queen of the bumblebees, her gold and black dress clinging to her buzzing little figure, and her eyes bulging with the feverish fires that ruled her. Her path through the room was erratic, for she wanted to be everywhere at once. A tortilla chip attached itself to her flying scarf as she pivoted past the buffet table, and Chum Boykins removed it with a compulsive nip of his fingers.
Bettina waved to Eunice Cotton and joined her in a corner of the room.
Angels in Bed
had now sold a millioncopies, and Eunice was everlastingly grateful for Bettina’s genius. Bettina had toured her heavily in Bible Belt country, and sales had soared, because Bettina had included a cute young male stripper on the tour. She’d had the stripper wear a short white tunic and gaze with impartial love at the ladies while Eunice read from
Bed
. During the book-signing session afterward, the muscular angel was especially attentive to Eunice, fussing over her, whispering to her, all of it stage-managed by Bettina, to give the impression of what angels actually did for people. Turnouts for the readings had been high, and the angel was now making promotional visits on his own to shopping malls. Gadson had signed him up to write his autobiography, tentatively titled
Tarnished Wings
.
“Hal Jam is here,” said Bettina to Eunice excitedly. “I was afraid he wouldn’t come.”
“That man is a saint,” said the angel writer.
“Can we go quite that far?” asked Bettina.
“He’s above it all, Bettina. You told me yourself he doesn’t care about publicity.”
Bettina had to admit this was true, to her great puzzlement. She’d known writers who were indifferent to politics and even to sex, but she’d never met one who was indifferent to publicity.
Eunice tilted her head back slightly and closed her eyes. “It happens the minute Hal Jam appears. I’m hearing my angel.”
“What’s he saying?” asked Bettina with real interest. She desperately wished she had an angel but she knew she’d never qualify. She felt like the remains of a broken travel agency, had sent too many people off on trips peddling books. Her eyes swiveled to the door. “That’s Zou Zou Sharr walking in. Do you know her? She’s a killer Hollywood agent.”
“I used to do my hair that shade of red,” said Eunice. “I used to do a
lot
of people’s hair that shade.”
Bettina zipped across the room and slipped her arm through the bear’s. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. If he likes your work it could help enormously.”
She introduced him to Kenneth Penrod, professor of English at Columbia and the author of
The Decline of Literature
. Penrod found the bear unusually taciturn and liked it. Penrod waited, wineglass in hand, as the bear struggled to express what was on his mind, glancing in the direction of Washington Square Park with haunted eyes. Finally
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