Somebody's Darling: A Novel by McMurtry Larry

Author:McMurtry, Larry [McMurtry, Larry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2010-05-24T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

ACTUALLY, having Jill help with the post-production work on old Tony’s picture was the best thing that could have happened. I would have suggested it myself if I’d had time to think about it. For one thing, it kept her busy, and of course it got me free access to the cutting room. I carted off all kinds of discarded footage, some of which could be spliced into my own little film.

Bo had found a sharp kid for me to work with, a cutter named Jimmy Boyd. He went to work with the outtakes and the location documentary, putting them together in crazy sequences. He was a pale little mole who hardly ever came out into the light, but he knew what he was doing. The longer he worked with it, the funnier it all got, until it was the kind of documentary the Marx brothers might have made, if they had made documentaries. I just let Jimmy Boyd go to it. I believe in professionals, and he was very professional. I was the coach, he was the quarterback, and Bo Brimmer was the team owner, who checked in every few days. I was happy to have him snoop. I figured we’d have a very salable product by the time Jimmy got through.

While Jill put the finishing touches on Tony Maury’s awful picture I had about a month’s worth of affair with Lulu Dickey—a nice relief after seven or eight months of nobody but Jill.

One thing that made it nicer was that Lulu wasn’t in love with me. She had one of the funniest bodies I’d ever grappled with: legs about twice as long as a normal woman’s, no tits, frizzy hair, and a cunt the color of a plum. It looked like a plum with a short black wig.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked, referring to her cunt, the first time I had a chance to contemplate it. We were in her palatial mansion on a big pink bed, with a telephone with at least forty buttons on it right beside us. The buttons were constantly blinking, but Lulu let them blink. Up until a few minutes earlier her cunt had been blinking more rapidly than the telephone buttons.

“Lebanon,” she said, swabbing herself with a Kleenex.

The nice thing about her was that she took nothing seriously except money. Her bedroom was full of huge blown-up pictures of her bombed-out boyfriend, Digby Buttons. “Where’s old Digby?” I asked.

“In the dope hospital,” she said. “Don’t talk about him. I have a soft spot for him, even though he couldn’t fuck if his life depended on it.”

“Nobody’s life depends on it,” I said.

“Yeah, but it’s not to be despised,” she said.

She had cool, bright little black eyes and a sparrow face. Emotionally she was dry as a palm tree, which I liked.

“Impotence fascinates me,” she said. “It’s on the increase, you know. Over the last two years I must have tried to get it on with at least twenty guys who couldn’t.

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