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  “Oh, I see.” She seemed vastly relieved. “Well, it is late,” she said, faking a little yawn, “and I am tired. I went swimming today at some club—I forget which one—with Bruce.” Her voice seemed to throb when she mentioned his name. “Then he took me to El Paseo for dinner. . . .”

  “Your father and I lunched there today. Very good.”

  “Yes. Mr. Shelburne told me so, and he sang our song.” I didn’t dare ask what it was, and Emily seemed to sense that she had been indiscreet. “He’s very nice.”

  “Bruce?”

  “No. Mr. Shelburne. Oh, Bruce is very nice, too,” she added casually, but her knees seemed to buckle at the mention of the name. “Well, thank you for the cigarette. I hope Daddy will be home soon.”

  “I’m sure that he hopes so, too. Good night, Emily.”

  “Good night.”

  We were just about to call it a night when a slumped-over form appeared at the entrance to the patio and sagged weakly toward our general direction. It was Starr.

  “Leander,” I said. “We’ve been wondering about you.”

  “As well you might, dear boy, darling girl. Not that I got any moral support from you. Oh, no. You can go out skylarking with some totally fictitious friends from Sheboygan I believe you said. . . .”

  “Chicago. Truly. Russell Straley and Grace Dodge.”

  “Chicago, then, leaving me to face the music.”

  “Mrs. Pomeroy’s Mr. Overton did seem to lack any appreciation for the artistic nuance.”

  “Mr. Overton is a thoroughgoing schmuck. I’ve met hundreds of them—dried-up little bookkeepers with not the faintest notion of how one creates a masterpiece. The best thing to do with them is to throw them out.”

  “Did you?”

  “Certainly. I let him go through his song and dance, said ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you,’ and personally ushered him out of Clarice’s ostentatious house.”

  “Then you didn’t get the money? That’s a shame, Starr.”

  “Shame is the correct word. However, I did get the money.”

  “Why, Leander!” I said, jumping up to shake his hand.

  “But I also got something else. A fiancée—Clarice Obendorfer Pomeroy.”

  XI

  We were breakfasting in bed the next morning when a great avalanche of mail arrived—most of it actually intended for us. There was an air-mail rush, rush, rush letter from my agent, informing me that the fiction editor of that refined women’s magazine was calling me a word they would never dream of printing, that the June issue was going to press at any moment and that if that wholesome story about Salli, Mr. Right, and the broccoli wasn’t in New York by the end of the week I could start looking elsewhere for eating money.

  We had letters from both children—a standard weekly assignment at their schools—both saying, for once, almost the same thing, namely that their spring vacations started late this year but lasted longer and that they would arrive in Mexico City on Friday, April 13. Someone would put them on a plane—my daughter wrote that their grandmother would do it; my son seemed to think that a master from his school was going to see that they got aboard—and would we please arrange for tickets and tourist cards.

  “Well, it will be nice to see the children again. Easter and all that sort of thing.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” my wife said from the depths of a letter. “Mother says it’s been a very mild winter in New York.”

  “That’s too bad.” If there’s anything that annoys me, it’s to go some balmy place and then discover that there hasn’t been snow up to the rooftops back home. “Any good dirt?”

  “When does Mother ever know any good . . . Ooooo!”

  “What?”

  “Well, here’s a fairly hot item—not that it hasn’t happened before. Mother says: ‘My dear old friend, Mrs. Elsworth Barney (Lucy Brooke as was, we were in school together), took her son Lucien on a cruise . . .’”

  “Hardly his first if what I think about Lucien Barney is true.”

  “Shut up. ‘. . . on a cruise of the Caribbean, and when they returned Lucien discovered that a young man he had befriended had disappeared taking Lucien’s lovely new car, a lot of clothes and jewelry, and many valuable things from the apartment. You know what exquisite taste Lucien always had.’”

  “But not in his boy friends, apparently. How many times does this make?”

  “Three that I know of. There was that Panamanian soccer player, the gifted Irish playwright, and that standard piece of rough trade who was going to enter the Mr. America contest.”

  “They earned it. What else?”

  “Well, Mother’s very cross at Mr. Bernstein and the whole Philharmonic for the new things they’ve been playing this year. She also says that your sister is going to put the children on the plane.”

  “I see. Anything more?”

  “Yes. ‘P.S. In answer to your question, I have never had lunch with Nellie Poindexter Dane and never would, so I couldn’t have met your fabulous Mrs. Pomeroy. And if she’s a friend of Nellie Dane’s, I wouldn’t care to, although I do know some very nice Pomeroys—much younger—in Bronxville. Again, love. Mother.’”

  “Somehow the picture of Clarice and your mother never quite came off in my developing tank.”

  “And the picture of Clarice and Leander Starr? He must be out of his mind.”

  “So must she. She’s got all the dough in Deauville, which Starr would only spend. She’s getting a little long in the tooth to think too much about a bash on the Beautyrest, she hasn’t got the intellect to care about any movie much beyond the Ma and Pa Kettle series. What do you suppose she’s after, granting that Starr is attractive to women?”

  “Are you out of your mind?” my wife said. “I’ll be happy to tell you what Mrs. Pomeroy wants. Ready? A. Starr is very attractive. B. He needs money and she must know it—she’s not an idiot. C. From the way she’s been sniffing around Emily, she’s obviously dissatisfied with her own social set. She has plenty of money, and now she wants to go places where money won’t take you—or at least it won’t take her. She’s too vulgar for Real Society, too square for the International Set, and too stupid for the Intellectuals. But if she had a lion like Starr on a leash, he could lead her into groups where she wouldn’t ordinarily be allowed to pass the canapés. And with Emily as the adoring stepdaughter to launch her in Philadelphia . . .”

  “Emily? Emily hates her guts. You heard her last night. She wouldn’t launch Clarice in the Delaware River.”

  “But Clarice doesn’t know that. Besides, Emily adores her father. She’s proud of him, too. No matter how she feels about Clarice, she’d hardly spit in her father’s eye because of his common wife. I think Clarice realizes that, too. Remember, I’m a girl—you’re a boy.”

  “I still can’t believe he’ll go through with it.”

  “He may have to.”

  “Making this picture is very important to him—vital. And he can’t do it without the Pomeroy bankroll.”

  “That’s Mrs. Pomeroy’s magic hold on him. And she knows it. Do you suppose I ought to send her a dozen hand towels as a sort of engagement present?”

  “Marked His and Its. And I’ll send him a dozen hair-shirts. But let’s hold off. As you said, I’m a boy, and I’d bet my last dollar that Starr is one old boy who can wriggle out of it some . . .”

  The bedroom door burst open, and there stood Starr. He was dressed the way successful male novelists used to dress for their dust-jacket photographs a quarter of a century ago—stout tweeds, foulard ascot, and pipe. All he lacked was a noble hound at his side. “Great Scott, man,” he said, “here it is eight o’clock, and you’re still abed. We’ve got to get to work on a script conference immeejutly. Good morning, my dear,” he said more affably to my wife. “That coffee looks uncommonly good.”

  “Well, it’s uncommonly bad, but if you’d like some you’re welcome.”

  “Splendid. I’ll just have a cup while Patrick dresses. Get along with you, boy.�
��

  A few minutes later we were sitting out in the patio at Starr’s insistence. “Nonsense, dear boy, the sunshine, the fresh air, the songs of the birds will inspire you.”

  “I’d be a lot more inspired if I know that Catalina Ximinez couldn’t overhear every word we say about her part, which, as far as I can see, doesn’t even exist.”

  “Nonsense. That savage can’t understand English.”

  “She understands more than you think. Then there’s your friend and neighbor, Mr. Guber. He’s still longing to see you.”

  “I’ll take care of him in my own good time.”

  No sooner had I put out the typewriter and paper, plus Starr’s scratchings and scrawlings, than he said, “Jesus, but it’s hot! Excuse me while I slip into something a bit more comfortable. I don’t know how you writers work in these clothes.”

  “We don’t,” I said.

  “I’ll be right back.” With that he disappeared into his own apartment.

  I settled back to read what Starr thought was a screen play and the dog-eared article that had inspired it—a very red and very old-fashioned piece culled from New Masses many, many years ago. “Good morningue,” a voice said. I looked up and there was Mr. Guber, bulging briefcase, seersucker suit, and smelling strongly of a manly after-shaving lotion.

  “Good morning, Mr. Guber,” I said.

  “Mr. Starr around?”

  “Why, no.”

  “Now listen, I just two minutes ago saw him.”

  “Do you see him now?”

  “No. Where’s he gone to? I’m gettingue awfully sick of hanguingue around here just waitingue on Starr.”

  “He’s gone to the bathroom,” I said. “If you’d like to join him . . .”

  “In that case I’ll wait. By the way, just what are you to Starr?”

  “Why, didn’t you know, Mr. Guber? I thought everyone did. We’ve been lovers for the past fifty years.”

  He thought it over for a moment and then said, “You’re kiddingue.”

  “Have it your own way then.”

  “Well, you cert’ny seem to cover up for him. You and his daughter and that fagele butler he’s got. How come he can afford to keep a butler an’ still not pay up his back taxes?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that. Maybe the butler keeps him.”

  “Very funny, I’m sure. Highly amusingue. However, by your unco-operative attitude you’re impedingue the course of American justice. The Department of Internal Revenue. Ever think of that?”

  “I think of it constantly, Mr. Guber. But have no fear. My taxes are paid. If you have any doubts, just get in touch with the excellent Mr. Badian of 355 Lexington Avenue, New York 17.”

  “Oh yes. A sterlingue outfit. But you wun’t fall under my jurisdiction. P through T, that’s me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s my section of the alphabet for delinquent taxes—only the big money, though,” he added patronizingly. “I handle the letters P, Q—not much there of course—R, S, and T.”

  “Good for you, Mr. Guber. My but U, V, W, X, Y, and Z must be a lead-pipe cinch.”

  “We all help each other out. I got plenty others to contact down here. Starr’s not the only delinquent to run off to Mexico. But of course Starr’s the biggest.”

  “Starr’s the biggest what?” Wearing bathing trunks no larger than a diaper, Starr strode across the patio conscientiously lifting his chest and pulling in his stomach. “Good morning, Mr. Guber. We meet again.”

  “Well, Mr. Starr, I’ve cert’ny been runningue after you from pillow to post.”

  “And now that you’ve found me?”

  “Could I have a word with you alone, Mr. Starr?”

  “There is nothing—no matter how intimate—you cannot say in the presence of my great and good friend, my constant companion, Mr. Dennis.” He patted me affectionately on the head. “Isn’t that right, darling boy?”

  Mr. Guber gave me a look that left no doubt that he was beginning to believe my earlier statement.

  “Knock it off, Leander,” I said. “Mr. Guber’s only interested in your money.”

  “Well, yeah. Now look here, Mr. Starr, this has been goingue on for ten years. At six per cent, the interest is mountingue up every day to the tune of . . .”

  “Mr. Guber, I am penniless. But here, I give you the very clothes off my back.” He fumbled with the top of his bathing trunks.

  “No, wait a minute, Mr. Starr. Uncle don’t want that. We just want some assurance that you mean to pay up. Why, just to get you off of the books we’d be willingue to settle for . . .”

  “Mr. Guber, as you well know, I am destitute. Howsomever, I shan’t be in a few weeks—in a very few weeks. I’m shooting a picture at this very moment. A superb film. When it is released I shall be able to pay you in full and to return to my native soil with my head held high. But until then you are wasting your time—your time and mine—with these meaching entreaties upon my bounty, which for the time being . . .”

  “But, Mr. Starr, you were shootingue a picture in It’ly and in France. . . .”

  “And I could have paid you double at Monte Carlo had but the noir, pair, première douzaine come up, as it was supposed to, instead of that God-damned double zero. I would have broken the bank and settled for Grace Kelly. My intentions were the noblest, Mr. Guber. Do be fair.”

  “And in England?”

  “I wasn’t paid. Now, Mr. Guber, I must get on with my film. If you’d care to ransack my quarters, please do so. But be careful not to awaken my daughter. Or if you’d like to sit here with Mr. Dennis and me—silently, that is—while we confer, you are perfectly welcome to do so. Do be seated,” he said, indicating a chair splattered with parrot droppings. “Now, dear Patrick, to get on with the basic script. You do feel that with a few essential changes we have the germ of a story here?”

  “Now listen to me, Mr. Starr . . .”

  “Shhhhhhh. I told you, Mr. Guber, that I would have to have a deathly hush. Now I thought we could work in a series of flashbacks to utilize those performers who must be used. . . .”

  “Now listen to me, Starr,” Mr. Guber said angrily, “I’m sick of your bluffingue. First you talk how poor you are, then you talk what a big picture you’re makingue, then I see you ridingue around in a big Cadillac, throwingue away money in fancy rest’rants and night clubs like you’re rich as Creases. This time I’m callingue your bluff. I’m goingue out for breakfast now, and when I come back I’m sittingue right in that chair and listeningue to every fumblingue word. And if you really are makingue a picture—the veracity of which I sincerely doubt—I’m even goingue to be in it. So you and your—uh—friend better write a good part for Irvingue A. Guber, U.S. Department of Internal Revenue!” With that, he picked up his briefcase and stomped out of the patio.

  “Starr,” I said, “I think he means it.”

  “He might be good as the evil priest, dear boy. Keep him in mind.”

  “Now about that evil priest, Leander, and that nude bathing scene when he assaults the girl. There’s an organization called the Legion of Decency still very powerful with American film makers, and they may well have more than one objection to the entire concept.”

  “Really, dear boy? How so?”

  Starr’s grasp of a story line was tenuous at best. Heretofore, he had happily shot several hundred miles of film, spliced the best parts of it together, and had it acclaimed as art. It may have been art, but it wasn’t economy, and I had fairly rough going explaining to him that first one started out with a story that had a beginning, a middle, and an end, with settings and characters and the words they were going to say all systematically written down on paper before the camera work even commenced. Grudgingly he agreed.

  Politically he was a babe in arms. When I pointed out that the article he had cribbed his story from was pure Communist propaganda—and very naïve and old-hat propaganda at that—he was stunned. “But it’s right there in black and white, dear boy, as
any fool can see.”

  “Any fool can write anything and any other fool can print it and still more fools can read it, but that doesn’t necessarily make it true.”

  “But my dear young man. There it is—the history of Mexico. The land torn from the Indians by the decadent Spanish nobility, who forced the former owners into slavery and sent all the gravy back to Spain.”

  “That’s not what the most impartial modern historians say, Starr.”

  “Then working this fine, fertile land to the very bone—or whatever you call it—threshing all the corn, bottling the olives. . . .”

  “Spain forbade the growing of olives in Mexico, Leander. There wasn’t an olive tree in the country until the nineteenth century.”

  “Well, what-ever! And the landlords, with the help of a corrupt church, allowing the soil to erode. . . .”

  “How could the church be responsible for soil erosion?”

  “Well they didn’t irrigate it, you fool!”

  “Did you expect them to sprinkle holy water over the whole Valley of the Vultures?”

  “And then, just as it says in Jaime What’s-his-name’s piece, the people, the poor, the downtrodden arose. They threw out the corrupt Spanish grandees. . . .”

  “Who had been out for more than a century.”

  “Be still! They kicked out the lecherous clergy and their concubines, and with their leaders they took this arid desert and transformed it once again into a fertile valley of the people, by the people, and for the people! There, now how does that sound?”

  “Sounds pretty pinko to me.” Mr. Guber had quietly returned from his breakfast and was sitting in the shade of the jacaranda tree. “And speakingue of pink, you’re invitingue a ve-ry se-vere sunburn, Mr. Starr.”

  “Oh, shut up, Irving!”

  “Starr,” I said, “have you ever seen the Valley of the Vultures?”

  “No, but I can well imagine it—rolling terrain, fields of golden grain, neat red barns. Pity we can’t do this in color.”

  “Starr. I’ve driven through it a dozen times. It’s a dust heap. There’s no water, nothing. The only green thing you can see for miles is cactus.”