This Time We Love by Reynolds Mack

Author:Reynolds, Mack [Reynolds, Mack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-6317-1
Publisher: Prologue Books
Published: 2012-12-16T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

HE GOT BACK to the motel after dawn and scarcely found the energy to undress before falling into bed. He had a brief second before sleep reached up to engulf him and in that second he decided the woman was mad. He was a dishrag. No man should be expected to be able to …

He was awakened by the insistence of the telephone. Telephone? He opened an eye in protest. It must be a wrong number. So far as he knew, nobody had his phone number. For that matter, he didn’t know it himself. He pulled a pillow over his head and waited for it to still. It kept ringing.

All right, damn it. He fumbled for the instrument and brought it to him, saying into the mouthpiece, “Scusi, numero sbagliato.”

A voice said, dripping disgust, “Like hell it’s the wrong number. This is Fielding, isn’t it?”

Max looked at the phone in astonishment. He muttered, still in Italian, “Tenga la comunicazione, un momento, per favore.” He put the phone down, went into the bath and splashed some cold water on his face, grabbed up a towel and dried himself as he made his way back to the bed. He picked up the instrument again and said, “Who is this?”

“Giotto! Do you know what time it is? Why aren’t you down here, Fielding? I want to run those tests and if they’re okay start you to work this morning.”

“How did you get my phone number?”

“Elimination, you fool. You had to be in some hotel. Now you get on down here or you’re fired, understand?”

“Well,” Max said philosophically, “that’s the shortest time I ever held a job. Good-bye, Signore Giotto.”

“What! What do you mean!” the other shouted.

Max said evenly, “I mean non-pros like myself evidently aren’t dependable, Giotto, and I suggest you hire some professionals — at a reasonable wage, of course — to do your dubbing.”

The Italian producer was sputtering in rage as Max dropped the receiver back on its cradle.

Before he could get back in bed, it rang again. He picked it up and said evenly, “I’m sleepy. Please don’t bother me.”

“Listen, Fielding,” Filippo Giotto said dangerously, “you don’t play with me, understand? Now you get down here or I’ll have you blackballed in every studio in Italy.”

Max couldn’t help laughing. “Listen,” he said. “I keep telling you I’m not in the business. I’m not an actor, not even a dubber, or whatever you call them. I’m in the toy business. Can you blackball me in that field, in the States? My family owns the concern. Now go away and let me sleep.”

He hung up again and returned to the bed.

This time when he awoke, the usual morning sour taste was in his mouth. It didn’t go away as he rehashed the previous day’s activities. Oh, it had been interesting enough, seeing the cinema crowd at work. The set, the performers. That guy Alec had been interesting with his story about breakaway chariots and such. But the siege at the conte’s place.

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