Once Is Not Enough (15 page)

Keith reached for a pack of cigarettes from the bowl. Then he turned to Linda. “Listen, you better not plan on me for dinner tonight.”

“But this is the day Evie comes to clean. I told her to make a big meat loaf—the kind you adore.”

He shook his head. “I have an appointment with Milos Doklov. I have to be downtown at five thirty.”

“Who is he?” Linda asked.

“Just one of the best Off Broadway directors there is. He was nominated twice for an Obie.” He looked at January. “That’s an Off Broadway Tony.”

She smiled faintly. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Cheer up. Neither does Linda.”

“Keith, I have nothing against Off Broadway.”

“How could you? You’ve never been there.”

“I’ll come for the opening of this.”

“Cool it,” he said. “This is for Off Off Broadway. But it’s good enough for Milos to have done it, so it’s good enough for me.”

“Why, that’s wonderful,” Linda said with a forced enthusiasm. “Tell me about it. What’s the part like? When does it open?”

“It’s opened and is a hit—by Off Off Broadway standards. The leading man is splitting to do another show. So I may replace him.”

“Well . . . that’s marvelous. I’ll freeze the meat loaf and wait up for you. We’ll have pâté and wine to celebrate.”

“I don’t like pâté.” He looked at January. “Sorry you’re goofing out on us. I could use the bread and my old lady needs a good story. She doesn’t sleep nights unless the circulation climbs.”

January felt an undercurrent of hostility between them. Linda’s smile was forced and her hands fumbled as she tried to light a cigarette. Suddenly January felt Linda needed this story desperately—and not just for the magazine.

“Linda, maybe if I phoned my father and asked him . . .”

“Asked him what?” Linda was staring at Keith.

“About the story . . . I mean, what you suggested doing on me . . .”

Linda brightened. “Oh, January, do. Call him now. Use that phone on my desk.”

January realized she didn’t know her father’s office number.
Maybe Sadie would know. She called the Pierre. Sadie knew the number and also told her two dozen roses had arrived. She waited while Sadie read the card. “It’s from Mr. Milford. It’s on his business card. It says, ‘Thank you for a lovely evening. Will call you in a few days. D.’”

She thanked Sadie and dialed her father’s office. His secretary told her to try him at the Friars Club. She thought about the flowers as she waited for them to page him at the Friars Club. “Will call you in a few days.” Well, as Mike said, he hadn’t been just sitting around waiting for her to arrive. He probably was dated up. And the flowers were to show her he was thinking of her.

When her father came on the phone, he sounded breathless. “What’s up, babe?”

“Did I get you away from something important?”

“Yeah. A hot gin game and a double Schneid—”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Well, look, sweetheart, from where I’m standing I can see the guy I’ve got on the blitz trying to sneak a look through the pack. You want something special? Or is this a social call?”

“I’m at
Gloss
magazine and Linda wants to do a story on me.”

“So?”

“Is it okay?”

“Sure . . .” He paused. “That is, if it’s a story on
you
. I don’t want Dee kicked around. Look, get it in writing that you have complete approval of the story before it goes into the magazine.”

“Okay.”

“Oh . . . and listen . . . you’re all set with Sammy Tebet tomorrow at the Johnson Harris office. Ten
A.M
.”

“Thanks, Mike!”

“See you later, babe.”

She hung up and told them Mike’s demands. Linda nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll have a letter drawn up immediately. I’ll put Sara Kurtz on the story. Keith, you can start right in with the pictures.” She pushed an intercom buzzer. “Send Ruth in to take some notes.” She pushed another buzzer. “Janie, hold all calls. Unless Wilhelmina calls back. I want that new German model she has for the February cover . . . Shotzie something. Good Lord, you know I’m bad on names. What? No. And tell
Leon to leave the artwork for the new novel excerpt. I’ve got to see it before I leave tonight. Yes, that’s about it.” She looked up as an ugly birdlike girl timidly entered the room clutching a notebook. Linda gave her a brief nod and then hung up.

“Sit down, Ruth. This is January Wayne. Ruth is gorgeous at shorthand. I’ll ask questions, because I know the way the story should go. Then in a few days we’ll set up a date to put you and Sara together . . .”

Keith had finished loading his cameras. He took out his light meter, changed a lamp, then took a quick shot with a Polaroid to check composition. He stared at it, nodded, and started snapping with another camera.

Linda’s smile was all business. “Okay, January. After Miss Haddon’s, where did you go to school?”

“Switzerland.”

“What was the name of the college?”

January saw Ruth making all funny curlicues on the pad. She hesitated. She couldn’t remember the name Dee had given her. What Dee wanted to tell her friends was one thing. But she didn’t want to lie about it in print. Besides, it might get Linda in trouble. And to add to her personal confusion, Keith was suddenly all over the place, taking shots of her at crazy angles. She turned to Linda. “Look, let’s concentrate on
now
. I don’t want any stuff on Miss Haddon’s or Dee or Switzerland. I’m going to start job hunting tomorrow, and . . . well, let’s go from there.”

“Job hunting?” Linda laughed. “You?”

Keith came up close and snapped his camera. January jumped. “Ignore me,” he pleaded. “You and Linda keep talking. I shoot better that way.”

“If you want a job,” Linda said, “come work for me.”

“Here?” January was getting jittery. Keith’s clicking was nerve-racking.

“Sure, I’d love a name like yours on the masthead. You could be a junior editor. Only you wouldn’t be a slavey or a gofer. I’ll pay you one hundred and twenty-five a week and let you do some pieces.”

“But I can’t write!”

“Neither could I,” Linda answered. “But I learned. And now
I don’t have to. I have plenty of rewrite people. But all
you
have to do is get the interviews, go out on them, take notes or use a tape recorder. Then I’ll assign someone to rewrite them.”

“But why would you want me?”

“For your muscle, January. Look, last year Sammy Davis Junior was in town and there was no way I could get to him. Now if you had been working for us then, it would have been just one telephone call from your father to Sammy. Mike Wayne may have retired, but he still has entrée to people we could never reach. Right now we’re going after the young beautiful-people readers. You could do a monthly column—what’s doing with that set, where do they go. Also, your new stepmother knows the great Karla. Now—if we could get a story on her!”

“Karla’s never given an interview in her life,” Keith said.

“Of course not,” Linda agreed. “But who’s talking about an interview? If January happens to see her at one of Dee’s dinner parties and just happens to overhear some pearls dropping from that beautiful Polish mouth . . .”

“January, I’ve got six shots of you frowning,” Keith said. “Give me a different mood.”

January got up and walked out of camera range. “This is wild . . . the way you two are going on. I come to see an old friend and wind up doing an interview. I say I want to work, and you ask me to be Mata Hari. As you would say, Linda, NO WAY!”

“What kind of work do you want to do?” Linda asked.

“Act.”

“Oh, God,” Linda groaned.

“Any experience?” Keith asked.

“Not really. But I spent my life watching and listening. And at the—in Switzerland—I used to read aloud a lot. Every day for two hours. Shakespeare . . . Marlowe . . . Shaw . . . Ibsen.”

Keith clicked as she spoke. “Come along with me this afternoon. I’ll introduce you to Milos Doklov—he always has some project going. He may know someone else who might be doing something you could audition for. Do you sing or dance?”

“No, I—”

“That’s a great idea,” Linda said. “And Keith, see if you can get some pictures of January with this Milos. Also get some
background shots of her in the Village . . .” Then as Keith started packing his camera, Linda said, “I’ll check with you in a day or so, January. I’ll have the letter your father wanted drawn up and I’ll set up an appointment for you and Sara Kurtz.” She looked at Keith. “I’ll keep the meat loaf hot until eight. Try to get back by then.”

“I’ll try. But don’t count on it,” he said. “Come on, actress,” he took January’s arm. “You’re on your way.”

When they got outside, Keith said, “Well, rich girl, you’re about to travel out-of-work-actor style.”

“How’s that?”

“On the subway-Dutch Treat. Got thirty cents?”

“Yes, sure. Know what? I’ve never been on a subway.”

He laughed as he led her down the steps. “Keep talking, baby. You’re blowing my mind.”

She sat beside Keith fighting off a queasy feeling as the train rattled its way downtown. She decided there was nothing wonderful or colorful about poverty. The man sitting near her had body odor. A woman across from her had a large shopping bag cradled between her legs and was working diligently at picking her nose. There was a dank feeling in the car and the walls were covered with names and graffiti. She sat very straight and tried not to show her revulsion as Keith chattered through the noise of the car. At one point he almost broke his neck trying to stand on a seat across the aisle to get her picture. The train lurched and he sprawled across the floor. His camera slid down to the other end of the train. January ran down the car to help. It struck her as odd that no one else bothered to help or even seemed to notice. She was relieved when they got off.

They walked two blocks to a dingy building. Then they climbed five steep flights. “Milos keeps his office up in a loft,” Keith explained. They both stopped several times for breath before they reached a wet-looking steel door. Keith rang the bell and a strong voice boomed, “It’s unlocked. Enter.”

The voice was the only strong thing about Milos Doklov. He was a skinny, dirty-looking little man with long thin hair that only partially covered a shiny scalp. His fingernails were long and dirty and his smile revealed decayed teeth.

“Hi, man. Who’s the chick?”

“January Wayne. January, this is Milos Doklov.”

“So you’ve come home to Daddy,” Milos said, ignoring January.

Keith took out his camera and snapped January, who was openly staring at the place. “I didn’t get the job with Hal Prince, if that’s what you mean,” Keith answered as he tore open a new role of film with his teeth.

“Baby . . . baby . . .” Milos sprang to his feet like a cat. “That Broadway shit will kill your potential. After you make it here and find out what it all means, then you can go uptown for a season to make some bread. But always remember—this is the scene, this is where it’s at.”

“Cut the sales pitch, Milos . . . I’ll take the job.”

Milos smiled sadly. “You could have had the part originally . . . gotten all the reviews. Look what’s happened to Baxter—he’s going into
Ashes and Jazz.”

Keith clicked the camera again. “That’s still Off Broadway.”

“Yes, but he’s up for an Obie.”

“Look, I said I’ll take the part.”

“Split with the fashion lady?”

“No.”

“Then why the change of heart? Seems to me that was the main reason you wouldn’t take the part before.”

Keith began to reload his second camera. He checked the light meter. “I was still hoping for the Hal Prince deal. Let’s cut it. When do rehearsals start?”

“We’ll have just two days. Maybe next Monday and Tuesday. You watch the performance every night—learn the part and the moves. No sweat.”

“Okay, Milos.” He took a final shot of January.

“Why the pictures?” Milos asked.

“Doing a setup on the lady.”

“You a model?” Milo asked.

“Nope.” Keith strapped his camera back in its case. “She’s an actress. Know anyone who needs someone who looks like her?”

“Are you any good?” Milos asked her.

“I think so. That is, I feel I am,” she said.

Milos rubbed his chin. “Look, one of the Muses is leaving the same time as Baxter. I was going to call Liza Kilandos. It’s only ten lines and pays . . . ah . . . are you Equity?”

“Not yet.”

“Fine. Go see the show tonight with Keith. It’s the part Irma Davidson plays.” He tossed the script to Keith. “Bone up on it, man. And January, you come back tomorrow at four and read for the part.”

When they got out on the street she grabbed Keith. “Did he mean it? I mean, that I might have a job right away? Wouldn’t that be fabulous?”

The weather had changed. There was a sudden rumble of thunder. Keith looked at the sky. “It’s going to come down like bullets, but it won’t last. Let’s go in for some coffee.” He led her to a little cellar. “We can have a sandwich here and kill time until we go to the theater. No point in spending money going back uptown. Do you have to call anyone to say you’re not coming back?”

She called the Pierre. Her father wasn’t home and Dee was resting. “Tell them I can’t have dinner with them,” she told Sadie. “I—I have a date.” It wasn’t exactly the truth. But it was better than a long explanation.

She walked back to the table. The rain was slicing across the pavement. They both sat in the small booth and stared out at the wet gray street. They ordered hamburgers and Keith took a few more shots of her in the restaurant.

“Linda says you’re a good photographer,” January said.

“I get by.”

“She said you could be one of the best.”

“Look, I’d rather be a half-ass actor than the best photographer in the world.”

She was silent. Then he said, “The lady makes thirty thousand a year. I don’t want any more mercy jobs!”

“But she says you’re good.”

“Yes, but not with the camera.”

She knew she had blushed and she busied herself adding more relish to her hamburger. He began telling her about his career—the few decent roles he had in summer stock . . . his roles Off Broadway . . . the Industrials . . . the one TV commercial
which kept him going for a year. “But that’s run out . . . my unemployment insurance is oat too . . . and I have no intention of trying to be better than Avedon and all the others.”