Paperback Jack, page 13
“Kaspar says Van Johnson’s a fairy.”
“Who doesn’t know that? He’s prettier than I am.”
“You said it. I didn’t.”
They were in bed in his apartment. The television was on in the living room, loud enough for Ellen to follow Your Hit Parade, her favorite program. Snooky Lanson, the host, was trying to sing rhythm-and-blues. She traced the spiral in Jacob’s ear with a finger. “Crestfallen?”
“Where’d you get that word? You’ve been cheating on me with Dostoevsky.”
“I only read this guy Holly. Someday he’s going to write a masterpiece. They’ll bind it in leather and give him the Pulitzer Prize. They’ll make him a professor at Columbia—the university, not the movie studio—and he’ll go to work every day wearing a corduroy coat with patches on the elbows.”
“That’s how Kaspar dresses, when he’s not in riding breeches. He can’t make up his mind whether he’s Erich von Stroheim or Arthur Miller.”
“Is Desi Arnaz as handsome in person as he looks in Billboard?”
“Now you’re cheating on me with a bongo player.”
“Listen to you. For all I know you went out dancing every night with Yvonne De Carlo.”
“Like you wouldn’t dance with Burt Lancaster.”
They tired of the game. She reached across him, brushing his bare chest with a breast, and retrieved a cigarette and a book of matches from the nightstand.
“I wish you’d give those up,” he said. “This place is starting to smell like a back room in Tammany Hall.”
“I’ll make you a deal.” She shook out the match and blew smoke toward the other side of the bed. “I’ll quit smoking when you cut back on your drinking. You were practically teetotal when we met. Now you’re never out of reach of a glass.”
“I don’t even keep liquor here.”
“You don’t need it, with three bars on your street and a setup waiting every time you drop in on Phil Scarpetti.”
“I guess maybe I’ve been identifying too much with the people I write about.” He smiled. “Okay. From now on I stop at one snort.”
“In that case—” She leaned across him again, pressing harder against his chest, and ground the cigarette out in the copper ashtray. Before she could retreat to her side of the bed, he grabbed her and kissed her deep.
Later, she sat up and planted her chin on his shoulder. “What do you think of June?”
“Rhymes with ‘spoon,’ ‘moon,’ and ‘pontoon.’ I sure know how to stink as a poet.”
“You know we’re discussing a date for the wedding.”
“Why June? I spend most of my time trying to avoid clichés. I suppose you want to go to Niagara Falls afterwards.”
“Maybe. I can be corny even if you can’t.”
“Didn’t you ever wonder why a bridegroom would consider going to a place with a hundred-and-sixty-foot drop onto solid rocks?”
She pulled back. “Are you having reservations?”
“Yeah, if they’re with a hotel in Niagara Falls. I’d be up ten times a night going to the bathroom.”
“Okay, we’ll table the honeymoon. Let’s talk about the service. Do you want a rabbi?”
“My Hebrew’s rusty.”
“Any kind of church wedding?”
“You mean veils and a top hat? Okay, if it’s a deal-breaker.”
“As romantic as you make it sound, I don’t see myself shoving a cake in your face. There’s always city hall.”
“Why not Blue Devil? We can get a preacher, and Elk’s secretary Alice can take pictures.”
“Swell. I’ll make one of Hank Stratton’s hookers my maid of honor. Let’s start over. You suggest a date.”
“February twenty-ninth.”
“There isn’t one this year. You want to wait two years?”
“Look at it from my perspective. I wouldn’t have to buy you an anniversary gift until 1956.”
“You’re impossible. And I’m going home.” She slid out of bed and hooked on her bra.
He put his hands behind his head and watched. “Free for lunch tomorrow?”
She paused with one leg inside her slip. “What makes you think—”
“Shh!” He pushed himself into a sitting position.
“Are you telling me to shut up?”
He waggled a hand, tilting his head toward the living room, where the TV was still playing.
“… the pervasive and toxic influence of the publishers who deal in this filth.”
Your Hit Parade had ended and the news was on. The shrill female voice came through louder than the musical numbers.
He tore aside the covers, got up, and bounded naked past Ellen into the living room, lit only by the blue glow of the picture tube.
The woman who’d spoken, whoever she was, had stopped. John Cameron Swayze’s earnest face filled the screen.
“That was Margery St. John, the Democratic congresswoman from Nebraska, who today pressed for the appointment of a congressional committee to investigate charges of subversion and pornography in the publishing industry. She announced plans to subpoena testimony from parents, teachers, clergymen, police officers, publishers, and writers, and call upon industry representatives to show cause why they should not be indicted for acts of sedition and contributing to the delinquency of thousands of minors.
“Mrs. St. John expressed particular concern over one branch of publishing: The manufacturers and distributors of paperback novels.”
The newsman put aside a sheet of paper and smiled. “We pause now for a few words from Timex.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Robin Elk hung up the phone and looked across his desk at his visitors. “That was Fritz Waterman, my attorney. He’s not a Constitutional scholar, but he thinks we’re shielded by the First Amendment; a distinct improvement, I must say, over our Official Secrets Act back home.”
“That’s what Henry Miller’s lawyer said.” Phil Scarpetti put out a cigarette in the stand next to his chair. “It didn’t stop the Coast Guard from dumping an entire shipment of Tropic of Capricorn into the harbor last year. We’ve come a long way since the Boston Tea Party.”
“Forgive me, Phil, but why are you here? Mrs. St. John made no mention of artists in her address.”
“Moral support,” said Jacob.
Scarpetti shook his head. “Sorry, Jake, but I learned in the can not to stick my neck out for anybody but yours truly. It’s just a matter of time before she gets around to me. It’s the covers that got her attention. Politicians only read summaries written by aides. Why wade halfway through Down by the Docks to get to the brothel scene when it’s right up front?”
Jacob winced. “That scene ran a page and a half, and the nudity was only implied.”
“You can’t imply in oils. I’m the one who found the bondage theme in Jane Eyre, don’t forget.”
“In retrospect, I regret approving that design,” said Elk. “The Brontës were my favorite when I was at school.”
“When was the last time any of them sold forty thousand copies?”
“How serious is this threat?” Jacob said. “How many of these freshman representatives have any real power?”
“I’m not sure if ‘freshman’ is the proper term in this case; but we’re not here to discuss gender.” The publisher looked at the pad he’d scribbled on during the phone consultation. “Fritz did his homework. She’s thirty-six, a widowed mother of two children in elementary school. Her public service is rather in the way of an inheritance. The Honorable Conrad St. John was running for re-election when he suffered a fatal stroke. She took up the reins; and as it seems to be a challenge for voters in the Corn Belt to embrace a new player from out of nowhere, the good people of Nebraska cast their ballots for the surname.”
Jacob said, “I grew up in the Midwest. We vote like everyone else, hoping the next one isn’t worse than the last. What I want to know is can she do what she says?”
“As you indicated, few in Congress make much of an impression during their first term. What bills they manage to introduce perish in committee. However, if they stumble upon an issue that resonates beyond their own constituency—well, I’m sure you’re aware of what’s been happening in the motion picture industry.”
“That’s about Communism.” Scarpetti lit another cigarette. “I’m not a Red. Jake’s a Republican, so he’s in the clear. What about you, Elk? You a Robin red-breast?”
“Who said I was a Republican?” Jacob put in.
“You don’t like Truman.”
“Who does, including Bess?”
Elk broke in. “In answer to your question, no, I’m not a Communist. I doubt Mrs. St. John would know Joe Stalin from Joe McCarthy, nor care. As a PTA mother she’s more concerned with the corruption of our nation’s youth through the glamorization of sex and violence. She threw in sedition merely to draw support from across the aisle.”
“Sex is pretty damn glamorous without our help,” Scarpetti said. “As for violence, Jake blew up his guy in The Fence and plopped his severed arm smack dab in the middle of Columbus Circle. If we’re doing anything, we’re turning kids against violence by showing it for what it is; not like in movies, where they spray bullets like Flit and guys grab their chests and fall over without bleeding.”
“There’s been grumbling about that as well, at least where television is concerned. The crusaders keep count of the corpses that spill into the nation’s living rooms every evening; but that may be to our benefit, if it draws the fire away from us. And let’s not overlook the collateral effect. When TV Guide called Lash Logan, Private Eye ‘a sadistic feast,’ sales of Hank Stratton’s books doubled. He doesn’t even have anything to do with the series creatively.” Elk sat back, twirling the crook of his cane.
“That doesn’t let me off the hook,” said Jacob. “This could kill the Hollywood deal.”
“No need for concern. You have a contract, and Blue Devil has agreed to issue a new edition of The Fence with the star’s likeness on the cover, whomever he turns out to be. The book will sell tickets and the movie will sell books. Our rustic congresswoman would have to have a great deal in her bag of tricks to overcome that. Gentlemen, this is a feather in the breeze. At all events, Blue Devil is in your corner. We share the same risks.”
Scarpetti’s grin was bitter. “The U.S. v. Blue Devil Books. I want to paint the cover.”
* * *
The Goliath Typewriter Mart had more machines on display than he’d ever seen in one place, including the offices of the Clock: They lined shelves in every make and model, some tagged for repair, others on sale new and used, and the odor of ink, oil, and solvent was a physical presence. The new International Business Machines electric had its own pedestal, with a printed card listing its price and features. It was mostly motor and as big as a mangle.
A dusty window in the partition in back looked into a mechanical charnel-house: naked chassis, sprung springs, broken cogs, and spools of tattered ribbon spread out like entrails. A graybeard in a smeared apron bent over a bench, dismantling a McKinley-era Oliver with a screwdriver.
The counterman, ten years younger than Jacob and wearing a white lab coat, frowned at Jacob’s Remington, lifted the occasional key with the eraser end of an unsharpened pencil, pressed a thumbnail into the rubber sheathing the platen, and let out a whistle.
“How long have you had this machine?”
“Four years.”
“You sure gave it a workout. These portables aren’t designed for heavy use.”
The finish was as glossy as ever, but he’d worn most of the lettering off the keys. Lately his copy had begun to look like a ransom note, letters wandering above and below the line and some barely leaving an impression. The machine worked as hard and as reliably as always, but the results weren’t the same. Seabiscuit was turning into a milk horse.
“It hasn’t failed me in two hundred thousand words.”
“What are you, a stenographer?”
“Worse. Writer.”
“Would I know your stuff?”
“I doubt it.”
“E. B. White came in just last month. Stuart Little? Turned out all he needed was a good cleaning.”
“Can you fix the strikers?”
The bright eagerness went out of the clerk’s face. Jacob thought maybe he should have asked him something about E. B. White. “You need a new platen.”
“I asked about the strikers.”
“The platen’s what threw them out of line. The rubber gets hard and loses its flexibility. We can realign the strikers, but without a new platen, they’ll be back out of line again in no time.”
“How much for the realignment?”
“They need to be pried loose and resoldered; that’s a time-eater. Cost you forty. Platen’ll run another ten.”
“I could get a new typewriter for that.” He seemed to have had this conversation before.
“I would. Something else is bound to break, probably the space-bar mechanism, which is a pain to replace. That IBM’s a steal at three hundred, and it’ll still be going after ten of these relics have gone to scrap.”
“I don’t know anything about electrics.”
“They’re the future.”
“The present’s fine with me. I don’t write science fiction.”
“Let’s give it a try.”
One of the hard-sell boys; there was a commission in it for him. Jacob wanted to walk out, but he’d been to three places already and the prognosis hadn’t changed.
The mechanism seemed simple enough, but the young man insisted on coming around the counter anyway. He cranked in two sheets and flipped a switch. The motor made a whirring noise like a tank engine. “Needs to warm up.”
“My Remington doesn’t.”
“Go ahead, take it for a test drive.”
He frowned at the square keys, touched a key. The machine chattered, typing jjjjjjjjj across the page. He jerked back his hand as if a snake had struck at it.
“I don’t need that many j’s to write my name.”
“You’re not letting the machine do the work. All you have to do is touch it. Here.” He tapped a different key; the carriage swooshed all the way to the right and stopped with a clunk at the left margin, one line down. He flicked a key. Jacob looked at the sheet.
“That’s a j, all right. Can I see a manual?”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“At least I’m making them one at a time.”
He left with a slightly used Smith-Corona standard on sale for twenty-five dollars; the clerk allowed him five bucks in trade on the Remington for replacement parts. It took a different ribbon, so he bought a spare for six bits. He felt sick leaving behind the machine that had jump-started his life. It was as if he’d brought a faithful old dog to the vet for a worming, then put him down instead.
And he couldn’t shake the uneasy sensation that his luck was about to change for the worse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
They set the date: June, in a small ballroom in a downtown hotel that was booked through October, but had a miraculous last-minute cancellation. Phil Scarpetti had placed a brief call to Ellen, advising her to try the hotel again. He didn’t identify the source of his information.
“Spill,” Jacob said, when they were smoking an illegal substance in the artist’s apartment. “It was one of your shady contacts, wasn’t it?’
“Nothing so sinister. I’m Carmelita’s son Philip, not Pittsburgh Phil. The bride got caught shoplifting in the store where she was registered. Groom-to-be bugged out.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“I didn’t plant the stuff on her, if that’s what you mean. I’ve got friends in store security all over town.”
“I’m relieved. I considered asking Irish Mickey Shannon for a favor, but since I never heard from him after The Fence came out I didn’t want to press my luck.”
Scarpetti blew smoke out his nostrils. “You still might, when he gets out. The state gave him time to catch up on his reading.”
“Prison?”
“Short stretch, and he was lucky to get it. He sold a set of steak knives to a detective from the Third Precinct. It had the governor’s crest on the box.”
“He must not have read my book.” Jacob felt woozy. He snuffed out his butt and laid it in the ashtray. “Where are you taking me for my bachelor party?”
“That’s a surprise.”
“Tell me you’re not planning to throw a bag over my head and kidnap me to some roadhouse. I’ll go into cardiac arrest. Any minute now, Frank Costello might recognize himself as Blinky Fantonetti, the Juke King of Jersey.”
“Simmer down. Nobody recognizes himself in books. Where’s the ceremony?”
“United Church of Christ on Houston, the Reverend Charles Odell presiding. I met him at the Clock. He likes Chinese.”
“Ellen okayed him?”
“She’d be okay with the captain of the Staten Island ferry.” He paused. “Phil?”
“Um-hum?”
“I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d want to stand up for me.”
“I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d trust me not to hock the ring.”
* * *
Scarpetti took a suite in the wedding hotel for the stag party. Robin Elk attended, along with Skip Glaser, his art director, and Howard Belknap, the Blue Devil receptionist in the horn-rimmed glasses. Several brands and varieties of whiskey occupied a low table and cigar smoke hazed the air. Young Belknap declined a cigar, but after a few sips of bourbon he tried one, and spent the next ten minutes in the bathroom.
Someone knocked. Scarpetti ushered in a diminutive blonde dressed like Annie Oakley, all in white, from her cowboy hat to her high-heeled boots. Rhinestones crusted her short fringed skirt and suede vest, which covered only her nipples. She carried a portable phonograph.
“Which one’s the bridegroom?” She beamed.
He pointed his cigar. “The one with his tongue hanging out.”
She set down the record player and switched her hips Jacob’s way. She threw her arms around him and grinned up. Her perfume stung his eyes. “My name’s Calamity. What’s yours?”
