The Storyteller by Harold Robbins

Author:Harold Robbins
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

21

HIS PRE-WAR CHRYSLER Airflow seemed out of place among Rollses, Cadillacs and Continentals parked on the street in front of A. J.’s house at the corner of Rodeo and Lomitas in Beverly Hills. The red-jacketed parking attendant gave him a ticket and drove the car away. Joe stood there for a moment before walking to the entrance of the house. He saw the car being driven far down the street, away from the more important cars in front of the house. He smiled to himself. Even automobiles were victims of the caste system.

A Chinese butler in a tuxedo opened the door for him. “Your name, sir?”

“Joe Crown,” he answered.

The butler glanced at a list in his hand, then nodded. He gestured toward the living room already crowded with guests.

Blanche Rosen, A. J.’s wife, stood next to the entrance of the living room. She was an attractive woman, looking much younger than her fortyish years. She smiled, holding out her hand. “Joe,” she said in a warm voice. “I’m so happy that you could come.”

He shook her hand. “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Rosen.”

“Call me Blanche,” she said. She gestured toward the room. “I’m sure you know most of the people here. You just make yourself comfortable. The bar is set up at the far end.”

“Thank you, Blanche,” he said, but she had already turned away from him to greet the next guests. He moved toward the bar. He recognized many of the guests, but very few he really knew or had met. A black barman smiled at him. “Your pleasure, sir?”

“Scotch and water,” Joe said. He took the drink and moved to the side of the room. A. J. was standing, a circle of people around him, with Judi, dressed in a black sheer see-through sequined dress, beside him. Everyone in the circle seemed to be talking at the same time.

A mild flurry of excitement came from the entrance to the living room and A. J. suddenly took Judi by the arm and half-pulled her with him toward it. Joe followed them with his eyes. He saw the woman’s hat, and knew at once who she was: Hedda. Her hats were famous, her trademark. She was one of the two most important Hollywood columnists. Photographers suddenly appeared and flashbulbs popped. Even A. J. fawned over the columnist.

Ray Stern’s voice growled low in Joe’s ear. “I really fucked myself, didn’t I?”

Joe turned to the director. “What makes you say that?”

“I could have made that picture and I blew it.”

“It’s not that important a picture.”

Stern looked at him. “Any picture that will gross like that is important.”

“I don’t see what it’s doing for me,” Joe said. “I haven’t gotten a job since.”

“You’ll get them now, you’ll see,” Stern said. “Why do you think A. J. invited you to this party? You’re the writer of the biggest-grossing picture out of his studio this year.”

Joe looked at him silently.

“He’ll probably sign you up for a sequel before the party is over.”

“He never even saw me,” Joe said.

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