Fridays at Enrico's (12 page)

Linda came home and Dick forgot about the story, leaving it out on the coffee table while he and Linda went into the bedroom. After dinner he came out into the living room while drying one of the dishes to find Linda reading Stan's little story. For some reason this made him angry, but he kept it to himself.

“How do you like it?” he asked, nonchalant, his stomach hard as a rock.

“This is your best story,” she said, looking over at him seriously. She went back to reading as if she couldn't tear herself away. Dick exploded.

“My best story? Can't you tell I didn't even type it? And it's not my style, and it's a piece of shit.” He stood trembling. She calmly kept reading. Linda didn't react to his tantrums anymore. He breathed deeply to relieve the strain, waiting for her to finish. To his disgust she gave a little exclamation, as if the end had surprised her, and then smiled up at Dick.

“Who wrote it?” she asked.

“Some asshole,” he snapped. He grabbed the story from her hands and took it into his office.
Tres Assholes
, he remembered, and his mood softened. He was acting like a jealous idiot. And in front of Linda. He rubbed his face hard, to break up the nasty expression, stretching his facial muscles into a big smile. It hurt. What the hell did she know? He went out into the living room. Linda sat looking at him.

“I was just kidding,” he said. “I think it's a great little story. For a pulp story.”

Linda picked up a copy of
Esquire
and began thumbing through it. Dick wandered into his office.
Your best story
.

They met to discuss the story at Caffe Espresso on Saturday afternoon.

“First,” Dick said to the pathetically tense face of Stan Winger, “I liked the story a lot. It needs work, don't get me wrong, but hell, I was expecting some piece of
crap
, not a story as smooth as this.” Stan's face stayed tense. His knuckles, folded on the white tablecloth, white with strain. Dick handed him the manila envelope. He felt warm, even paternal. “I'd say run it through your typewriter one more time, then it's time to look for a typist and a possible submission.”

“That's really great,” Marty said. Stan said nothing.

“In fact,” Dick said in his deepest voice, calmly, nicely, “I think I could send this to my agent. Then you'd have a professional opinion.”

“Thanks,” said Stan tightly. He wasn't very good-looking. Really, no threat to Dick. Dick would have to learn to control his jealousy. This was actually a very pleasant experience, being the teacher, being the expert.

“See?” Marty said to Stan. “I told you he'd be helpful.”

“I really appreciate it,” Stan said to Dick. “Your time and everything.”

“Think nothing of it,” Dick said expansively. “Some day we'll be colleagues. You'll be helping me.” He hoped he wasn't piling it too deep. But people never seemed to tire of flattery.

“One little thing,” Dick said. “I'd work on the character of the burglar a little bit. Doesn't quite ring true.”

Marty snorted and gave Stan a look.

“What's funny?” Dick asked.

“Nothing,” Marty said. He looked at Stan. “Can I tell him? He's very cool.”

Stan smiled shyly. “I used to be a burglar,” he said. “You know, little stuff. I based the story sort of on that.”

“You're a criminal?” Dick said.

“A professional criminal,” Marty said smoothly.

“Used to be,” Stan said. There was a light in his eye Dick had not seen before. “Need anything?” he asked Dick, wickedly.

20.

“You liked the story so much,” Dick said to Linda, “why don't you type it up for him?” They were at Buttermilk Corner, the upstairs cafeteria where Linda liked to have her lunch. She was buying. Dick had the cheeseburger and a baked apple, while Linda ate two chicken pot pies. She worked in a
law office and sometimes had empty hours to fill. She'd offered to type Dick's clean copies for him, but he saw a trap in it. He felt more comfortable typing his own stuff, thank you, especially because it gave him another run at the material.

“I wouldn't mind,” she said. “He's fascinating anyway.”

“You mean because he's a second-story man?” Dick had been unable to keep the secret.

Linda smiled. She had a peasant face, he decided. As she got older her features would thicken, likely her body would thicken, and she'd become one of those solid women in cloth coats and babushkas you used to see in
Life
magazine. “Why don't we have a party?” she said. “You could bring your criminal friends and I could decide if I liked him enough to do his typing.”

It was another guitar and banjo party, with a lot of dancing. Brownie McGee and Sonny Terry had been in Portland the week before and played in a garage over on the East side. The place had been packed, a memorable night, and everybody was still running around singing the blues. Dick invited Stan Winger, but Stan just sat in a corner nursing a beer and listening. He didn't even tap his foot while everybody else was stomping and screaming. It was a great party, lasting until five in the morning, and Stan was one of the last to leave. He seemed drunk but able to hold it.

He'd liked the party. It was the first he'd been to, or just about, and it made his stomach tense at first, but the people seemed so open-hearted and willing to accept him among them that he relaxed and spent the evening sneaking looks at the pretty girls. The beautiful girls. He couldn't get over how good-looking the girls were at this level of society. And Marty Greenberg's girl, more beautiful than anybody, wasn't here. Marty was with a tall redhead he introduced as Cybella. Whoever she was, a great dancer, with wonderful long legs that she kicked up into the air not caring what she showed, panties and all. All the women were like that, openly getting drunk and kissing guys and showing their bodies. Half had on low-cut dresses or blouses and there were tits everywhere.

As he was leaving, Dick and Linda, arm-in-arm, thanked him for coming
and then Linda, with a sparkle in her eyes, took him aside on the front porch. The clouds to the east were getting light underneath. She put her hands on his arms and looked him in the eyes very seriously. Of course they were both drunk, and Dick was only a few feet away, talking to others who were going down the stairs, falling down, whooping, etc.

“I love your story,” she said. “Here's your reward,” and kissed him gently on the mouth. After the kiss was over he just stared at her, feeling her fingers on his arms. “I'll type it for you, if you like,” she said. “So Dick can send it to his agent.”

“Gee,” Stan said like an idiot.

Linda laughed and pulled him to her. “Such a fine writer,” she said into his ear.

He walked home filled with Linda, and hating himself for it. Not love, but certainly passion. She was Dick's girl and just being kind to Stan, but he couldn't help wanting her. This was how he repaid Dick for going out of his way to help. It was evil of him to think about Linda's kiss and how her breasts felt against him, how warmly he felt them now, remembering. But before he completely vanished into a daydream about Linda, he told himself severely that even if the opportunity arose, he wouldn't make a pass at Linda. He'd never made a pass at anybody anyway. Though maybe Linda would be different. She'd kissed him, hadn't she? And said that nice thing about his story. Maybe she'd make all the moves. The thought warmed him.

But the business of getting the story typed and sent to Robert P. Mills was not the pleasure Stan had hoped. He finally met Linda late on a Tuesday night at Jolly Joan's with his latest revision, now fourteen pages long. They sat in a booth and Stan sipped coffee while Linda read over the new pages. His buttocks sweated while he waited for her verdict. Not that it was going to be a verdict, but that was how he felt. Finally she looked up, her eyes soft. “You're a good writer.”

“Sorry about the bad typing,” he said. “And the grammar and spelling and all that stuff.”

“I can help you with that if you want. I can clean it up.”

They spent an hour drinking cup after cup of coffee and going over the story. By the end of it, Stan wondered what she'd meant by “good writer.” She'd sweetly and quietly taken apart just about every sentence in the thing. She didn't like his choice of words and she didn't like the way he used exclamation points and she didn't like the characters, or at least she wanted to change them into entirely different people. By now Stan wasn't sure he even recognized the story. He didn't feel like a writer anymore. She was the writer. All he'd done was put down some crude stuff that she turned into a real story. She stacked the pages, squared the edges, and put them back into the envelope.

“What a night, huh?” she said with a grin. He didn't have the strength to speak, so just sat with his mouth open, gasping like a fish out of water. “I'd better drive you home,” she said. “Dick will think we've run off.”

“I can walk,” he said. He'd been daydreaming that after they cleaned up the story she'd make a pass at him and he'd easily take her into his arms. But now he felt empty and sexless. “Give it back to me,” he said. “It's not ready to type.” He held out his hand for the envelope, but Linda put it in her lap with her purse.

“No. Let me type it and we'll see. If you don't like it, then we'll change it.” She smiled as if everything was fine.

When they got to his part of town he suddenly panicked at the thought that she might, just might, ask to come up. He couldn't let her do that. He lived in a hole in the wall. “Let me out anywhere,” he said.

At the corner of Jefferson and Second she stopped the car. There was no traffic. It was nearly three. Was he supposed to lean over and kiss her? He remembered from the party that these people kissed at the drop of a hat. She wouldn't be upset if he gave her a little kiss. He tried to smile, but grimaced instead. They were side by side in Dick's little yellow MG and he could smell her.

“I'll have this typed in a day or two,” she said. “It depends on the workload.”

“I appreciate this,” he said. She leaned over and kissed him. When they broke she looked at him inquiringly. He could think of nothing to say except,
finally, “G'bye!” and he was out of the car. He watched it drive away. Exactly the kind of car he wanted for himself some day. But he couldn't keep his mind on the car. He knew he'd failed. She'd given him the go-ahead to make a pass, and he'd been tongue-tied.

As he undressed in his tacky little room where they never could have come, he realized she hadn't been inviting him at all. The inquiring look had to do with something entirely different, like maybe he had bad breath and didn't know it. As he walked down the empty hall naked carrying his white towel, he decided to get a bottle of Listerine. You never knew.

21.

After Dick read the rewritten, edited, and cleanly typed version of Stan Winger's story he had to admit it was pretty good. His agent might not reject it. Maybe Dick had discovered an important new talent. Maybe he'd given a helping hand to somebody who was now going to kick him in the face. Could he turn his back on Stan? Just tell him coldly that the story wasn't good enough? No. He sent it to Bob Mills and sat back waiting, hoping, to hear bad news. He might be ashamed of himself, but he wasn't a perfect human being or anything close to it. He felt jealous. Being a thief gave Stan an unholy fascination, especially to Linda, who spoke of him constantly and enthusiastically. She'd say, “This guy would get along so well with Corso,” or “Jack would love Stan.” She'd never offered to introduce Dick to any of her Beat friends. In fact, every time he suggested they might take a trip down to San Francisco she put him off. “I'm not ready to go back,” was all she would tell him.

Linda was getting letters from her Beat friend John Montgomery, full of gossip about Jack and Gary, Phil and Michael, etc., driving Dick crazy. Montgomery was in
The Dharma Bums
, and Linda would tell people she'd
gotten a letter from her dharma bum. Then she'd call Dick her ski bum. “From dharma bums to ski bums,” she joked once. “What a
schuss!
”

Dick's agent seldom wrote to him. Mills was content to scrawl a penciled note across the bottom of letters of rejection or acceptance, and he did so on the matter of Stan Winger. “Winger story like O. Henry,” he scrawled across the bottom of a rejection slip, “but I'll send it around.” The slip was from the
New Yorker
, cold flat rejection. Mills had been sending Dick's stuff to better and better magazines since the
Playboy
publication, but getting nowhere. Yet Dick's stories were getting too good for the regular girlie magazines, and
Playboy
was curiously reluctant to repeat.

Dick thought about writing a story about Stan Winger. Good revenge, if Stan's very first submission got accepted somewhere. A story about a thief who steals his mentor's girlfriend. Of course that hadn't happened, but the elements were there. The fiction would exaggerate reality into something entertaining. What kept him from writing the story was that Linda would read it. Not that it would give her ideas, but one never knew. It might even make her mad. “Don't you trust me?” in that indignant righteous voice. So a good story didn't get written, and everybody in West Portland sat around waiting for Stan Winger's story to be accepted or rejected.