Dreams Are Not Enough Page 6

  “Yes, but am I . . . you know . . . cheap?”

  “You’re incredible is all. Liz Taylor, only younger and more gorgeous. Take it from me, Dad’d sign you right away.”

  “Sometimes Barry—” She stopped abruptly, before she could say anything that would imply disloyalty. “I really don’t know anything about style.”

  Hap’s head tilted, and his gray eyes were no longer crinkled into a smile. He had very dark lashes for somebody with such light hair. Alone in the room with him, she was acutely conscious of how his suit bared him, the odor of salt and tanning lotion on him, and how large and muscular he was. Barry’s narrow height did not make her feel diminutive like this, or fragile and weak.

  “You’re nervous, aren’t you?” he asked quietly.

  “Me? Why should I be shook? Because I’ve never been in a house like this? Or because PD’s father is a famous director? Or because your father owns Magnum—”

  “He works for Magnum,” Hap interrupted. “He’s vice president in charge of production. It’s a job like anyone else’s.”

  “Yes. Except he runs a big studio.”

  Hap sat in one of the chairs, apparently unconcerned about the effects of suntan oil on the plaid fabric. “He didn’t always.”

  “No, he was a boy. A rich boy.”

  “Is that what Barry told you?”

  “We don’t talk much about families.” The way Barry kept silent about his made it clear that questions on the subject were off limits: the sum total of her knowledge about her husband’s background was that his Jewish grandparents had disowned his mother for marrying Tim Cordiner.

  Hap’s thoughtful gaze seemed to go with his size, and maybe for that reason the way his gray eyes remained on her, rather than draining her limited supply of self-confidence infused her with more of the commodity. She sat on a wicker ottoman. “But I’m interested in knowing.”

  “My grandparents left Hungary when Dad was a few months old,” Hap said. “The name, incidentally, wasn’t Cordiner, but some unpronounceable mouthful that the immigration official wrote down as Cordiner. They were starving—the local baron had sold the two fields where they grew rye out from under them. Grandpa became a contract laborer at a Pennsylvania steel mill—”

  “Contract laborer?”

  “In those days the mills paid the passage for cheap foreign labor. In return grandfather agreed to work seven years for a pittance. The only hitch was that the mill owned the town. Rents and prices were exorbitant and Grandpa never did work his way out of debt. There was no money for luxuries like medicine or doctors. Grandma had nine children. Only Dad, Aunt Lily and Uncle Tim survived.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It gets worse.” The gray eyes were somber. “Grandpa was drowned—or boiled maybe—in tons of molten metal. This was a couple of weeks before Aunt Lily was born. It goes without saying there were no widows’ pensions or free rent. They moved to Pittsburgh. Dad—he was ten at the time—ran errands at a cheap whorehouse. His tips supported the family. And, by the time he was sixteen, he’d saved enough for fares to Los Angeles. Here, he lugged heavy props at Magnum, which Art Garrison had just started. Within a year he was producing two-reelers and had gone into hock for a big house for the family in the Wilshire District. He has a reputation for being cutthroat in business, Dad, but he’s a terrific family man. Anyway, you can see the Cordiners aren’t exactly quality folk.”

  Alicia nodded. The reassurance of Hap’s person, rather than his story, had calmed her. The horrors of another generation were historical events, and the Cordiners were quality now, rich and important.

  “Thank you, Hap,” she said.

  “For what? Telling you about your new family?”

  He reached out as if to touch her bare shoulder reassuringly. She knew from the heat in her cheeks that she was flushing. His hand dropped to his side, and his voice was again huskily deep as he said, “Don’t worry about the suit, it’s great on you.”

  • • •

  “It’s not like there was any choice,” Alicia said. “This is the only one that halfway fit me.”

  It was just after one. The others were inside changing to go out for lunch.

  “Halfway is the crucial word,” Barry said tightly.

  “Oh, Barry, don’t ruin the day.”

  “Thank God Beth’s finding you a shift to wear over it. Otherwise they’d never let you in the Crab Cooker,” he said. Then, realizing that his embarrassment over the explicit lushness of his wife’s body had led him into gratuitous unkindness, he added in a conciliatory tone, “What were you and Hap doing down there anyway?”

  “Talking.”

  “About what?”

  She realized that Barry wasn’t questioning her out of jealousy but curiosity. She also understood that although her husband resented his role of poor relation, his pride was intricately tethered to being part of the shining Cordiner galaxy. He would not care for Hap’s dimming the family glow. “Oh, just stuff,” she said lightly. “Nothing special.”

  • • •

  Alicia had been anticipating a formal, stiff restaurant like the one in Las Vegas, but eating at the Crab Cooker was as casual as a picnic. The chowder came in Styrofoam bowls, and seafood main courses were served on paper plates. Amid the smells of barbecuing fish, the rush of tanned young waitresses, the laughter of casually clad people, Alicia, wearing the flowered shift Beth had found in a guest closet, traded quips with Our Own Gang. Afterward, the six of them crowded back into PD’s open Chrysler convertible, the salty breeze blowing away their loud rendition of “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Polka Dot Bikini” as they drove back to the house.

  A large black Rolls-Royce was parked imperially to block the Zaffaranos’ three-car garage.

  “Jesus, that’s Dad’s car,” Hap said.

  “What’s Uncle Desmond doing here?” Barry asked. He was blinking rapidly, as if a bug had caught in his eye.

  “Who knows?” PD said. “Maybe he got his weekends mixed up.”

  “Dad?” Maxim said. “PD, you weasel, try again. Why is he here?”

  “Okay,” PD said agreeably. “He asked me to get Barry and Alicia down so he could settle this crap between Barry and his folks.”

  “You’re a shit, PD,” Barry said, his voice clenched yet frightened. “And my marriage and my parents’ reactions to it are nobody’s concern but my own.”

  “Evidently, paisan, Uncle Desmond doesn’t agree,” PD replied equably.

  7

  The casual ease with which Desmond Cordiner lounged against the dock rail would convince a stranger that he was the proprietor of the big Chris-Craft and Cape Cod beach house. In his slip-on loafers with discreet gold buckles, well-tailored gray slacks and open, gray-striped sport shirt with a paisley ascot tucked in, he was infinitely distinguished. The two wings of silver in his thick, recently barbered black hair appeared placed there by aristocratic heredity. His tall, well-toned body—at sixty thickened a bit around the beltline—gave no hint of childhood deprivation. Neither did his face offer a clue to his peasant origins. The grooved forehead was high, the nose long and narrow, and in relaxation, the mouth showed a quirk of superiority.

  In the seven years since Art Garrison, the near-dwarf founder of Magnum Pictures, had died and Desmond Cordiner had taken over as studio chief, the Magnum publicity department had been planting items linking the current boss with world-class celebrities. Desmond Cordiner had been on the cover of Life in a golf cart with President Eisenhower, and visited Hyannisport to spend a weekend with Senator Kennedy, who was currently campaigning to get the Democratic nomination for the presidency. A much televised strip of film showed him relaxing aboard HMS Britannia with Her Majesty and Prince Philip. A recent issue of Forbes devoted to an in-depth article on Magnum Pictures pointed out that Desmond Cordiner was no vulgarian like his dead boss, Art Garrison; no crude Harry Cohn; no malaprop-making Louis B. Mayer; no arriviste Skouras or Zanuck: here was one movie mogul capable of holding
his own with the patrician New York bankers who financed films.

  As his sons, his nephews and niece came into sight, he showed his slightly oversized white teeth in a fond smile, moving up the steps, greeting them indulgently.

  Barry mumbled, “Uncle Desmond, this is my wife, Alicia.”

  Desmond Cordiner took off his sunglasses; his dark eyes fixed on her.

  She had never seen eyes quite like this. As he stared at her they seemed to turn to black glass, depthless and flat. The worldly gentleman faded and there were only the coldly assessing eyes probing into her flesh, her skull, her guts, her ovaries.

  “So you’re the hot little number who’s caused all the fuss.”

  Alicia hid her trepidation in the usual way, with bravado. “Guilty,” she said blithely.

  “Well, you do have something. Even in a town of pretty girls, I have to admit you have something. Maybe the eyes, maybe the skin. . . .” He shrugged as if reminding himself he wasn’t in his office considering some young actress’s physical attributes. “You and Barry come on inside.”

  Barry made an uncertain sound in his throat.

  “Dad,” Hap said, “we were all at the wedding. It’s legal and binding.”

  Desmond Cordiner replied genially, “When the law’s in question, Hap, I get advice from the head of legal.” He opened a glass door, glancing from Barry to Alicia.

  Barry went inside, and a second later Alicia followed. He has a reputation for being cutthroat in business, Dad, but he’s a terrific family man, Hap had said. Now if only she knew whether she were business or family.

  The living room of the Zaffarano beach house had a wall of windows overlooking the bay, which made it appear yet more expensive, not that it needed such embellishment. Centuries-old Provencal tables and chests mingled with deep chairs and couches upholstered in various patterns of blue and white toile de jouy. Desmond Cordiner went to the paneled bar, poured himself a large shot of J&B and carried the drink to an ell at the far end of the room where they could not be seen from the deck, indicating with his free hand that Barry and Alicia should sit on the bergère chairs facing him.

  “Barry,” he said jovially. “The good news about this is it proves that you’re not a faggot.” Desmond Cordiner stubbornly manifested his hatred of homosexuals in a business where a large number worked with great and indispensable talent. Of necessity he hired gay people, but whenever problems arose on a film, he laid the blame on them. His loathing was psychotic—and implacable.

  Barry smiled uncertainly. “Were you worried, Uncle Desmond?”

  “Hardly.” Desmond Cordiner spoke in a way that indicated such proclivities were impossible among his relations. “On the other hand, the bad news is you’re a horse’s ass.”

  Barry’s left eyelid began twitching.

  Alicia shifted in the deep upholstery, moving closer to her husband. “You don’t have any right to talk to Barry like that, Mr. Cordiner,” she said.

  The drink splashed violently in Desmond Cordiner’s hand. He was the tribal chieftain, and nobody in the family had ever dared tell him what he could or could not say. His face was terrifying. It was as though the tanned skin were stretched into a mask—obviously the mannered charm could be put on and off like a piece of clothing. “Since when do I need a fucking right to talk to my nephew?”

  “You weren’t talking to him, you were insulting him.” Alicia’s heart was banging so hard that she was positive the erratic movements were visible through the borrowed shift. “And whether you like it or not, we’re married.”

  Desmond Cordiner turned to Barry. “Barry, I’m about to show you how easy it is to become a single man again.”

  “Uncle Desmond . . . I don’t w-want—” Barry stammered.

  But the sunglasses were fixed on Alicia. “How much have you got in mind?”

  “Much?”

  “Money.”

  “We have enough,” she said.

  “Of course you do. That’s why you’re scrubbing other people’s shit out of toilets.”

  Alicia’s surge of fury blanked out fear. “For the time being, Mr. Cordiner, I work. Later on Barry’ll support me.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “He’ll have his law practice.”

  “If you’ve a brain in your head you’ll see that he’ll never make it through college, much less law school, if he’s married to you.”

  “I will, Uncle Desmond,” Barry muttered.

  “You don’t have the staying power, you never did. Beth got the stamina and sense of responsibility. All you want to do is waste your time at the typewriter and pretend you’re Ernest Hemingway.” His shielded gaze returned to Alicia. “I want your claws out of my nephew—so tell me the tab.”

  “Uncle Desmond—”

  “Shut up, Barry. This is between me and Mrs. Bigmouth Cordiner here. One thousand bucks?”

  “You’re only embarrassing yourself, Mr. Cordiner.”

  “I’ll do a damn sight more than embarrass myself to get one of my family out of hot water. Fifteen hundred?”

  “I don’t want your money.” The fury that gave her courage had blanched her face.

  “Two thousand.”

  Alicia got to her feet.

  Desmond Cordiner’s frightening tension remained, but for a moment his head tilted as if her continued refusal not only surprised him but also challenged him. “Twenty-five hundred.” He shifted his weight so he could reach into the back pocket of his slacks to draw out a large wad of bills that were divided by five paperclips. Heavy paper thumped and metal clicked as he tossed the money on the coffee table.

  Alicia stared. Angled across the corners of the visible bills was the number 100. She had never before seen a hundred-dollar bill. It was incomprehensible to her that anyone, even a man who owned—no, ran—Magnum Pictures, could carry all this money, much less toss it at a stranger.

  “Not a nickel more.” Now Desmond Cordiner was smiling benignly. “Cash on the line.”

  “Barry,” she said quietly, hiding her sudden, panicky dizziness, “I’d like to go home. Right away.”

  The blood drained from Barry’s head. Desmond Cordiner was the man before whom all Magnum trembled, and none of the hierarchy of executives, none of the major stars or the thousands of employees—including his father and uncle—dared walk out before he signaled the interview was over. Yet Barry found himself mutely leading the way to the front door.

  The instant Alicia got into the old De Soto, she crumpled and began to weep.

  Barry drove jerkily down the block and was toiling up the humpbacked bridge before he realized that he’d left the handbrake on. “Jesus, Alicia, how can I drive with you caterwauling?”

  She wept harder. “. . . I’ve stolen . . . your aunt’s swimsuit and shift.”

  She drenched his spare handkerchief and then used the dirty one. Barry, by now even more distraught about her hysteria than his uncle’s rage, patted her knee. “Stop worrying. As soon as we spot a pay phone, I’ll call the house. Beth’ll bring up your things and take back Aunt Lily’s.”

  Even though he made the promised call to his sister, Alicia wept all the way to Disneyland. As they passed the enormous parking lots her tears finally ceased.

  Wiping her swollen eyes, she stared up at the fake Matterhorn. “Barry?” she said.

  “What, hon?”

  “I never saw a hundred-dollar bill before.”

  “Mmm,” replied Barry, who hadn’t either.

  • • •

  The next morning, Monday, the door chimes sounded before nine. Mrs. Young bitterly resented being wakened so early. Alicia, anticipating Beth’s arrival with the clothing swap, reached for the big paper bag containing the swimsuit and shift, both of which she had carefully laundered, darting through the hall before a second repetition of the loudly unmusical sound.

  At the front door stood an elderly black chauffeur. “Does Mrs. Cordiner live here?” Politely he removed his peaked cap. “Mrs. Barry Cordiner?”

>   She nodded. The Rolls-Royce at the curb told her whose chauffeur he was, and therefore she felt no surprise to see Desmond Cordiner emerging from the gleaming limousine. Yet instinctively she took a step backward.

  “We didn’t get a chance to finish our conversation,” Desmond Cordiner said as he gave her short, tight nylon uniform the once-over. “That Pucci thing you wore yesterday didn’t do you credit. Your body’s top grade.”

  Did he think to flatter her out of marriage? Or was he making a pass? Did men this powerful and rich make passes? “Mr. Cordiner,” she said, “I’m not allowed to have company.”

  “Alicia?” Mrs. Young, frowning irritably and tying her chenille bathrobe, came into the hall. Then her eyes bulged at the apparition in a handsome black silk suit that had cost more than the entire contents of Dr. Young’s closet.

  “Mrs. Young,” Alicia said, “this is my husband’s uncle.”

  Desmond Cordiner formed his urbane smile. “I hope it wasn’t my man who woke you, Mrs. Young.”

  “No,” she said, glancing out the open door. The elderly chauffeur was rubbing a chamois on the Rolls-Royce’s windshield. “No, of course not. Alicia, dear, why don’t you take Mr.—”

  “Cordiner,” he said with another smile. “Desmond Cordiner.”

  Mrs. Young recognized the well-publicized name. She said respectfully, “Alicia dear, take your guest in the living room.”

  Desmond Cordiner made himself comfortable on the plastic-covered couch. “My approach yesterday was crass,” he said affably. “But you’d be surprised at how often the actual sight of green does the trick.”

  “Barry and I want to stay married.”

  “So you made abundantly clear,” he said, pausing. “I could have been far, far worse, you know.”

  “Mr. Cordiner, there was no point in your coming here.”

  “How do you know what I have in mind?”

  “To separate me and Barry.”

  “Many, many years ago I learned not to waste energy on losing battles,” he said. “I’ve decided you’ll support your husband in a more dignified manner.”