Then he slammed the door and went back to his unit and the next day he tried to phone her. There was no answer. It was too late to go back to London, in spite of his desperate pleading. The unit moved to Greenock for embarkation and every day, every minute of every day, he phoned her, but there was no answer, and no answer to his frantic telegrams, and then the coast of Scotland was swallowed by the night, and the night was only ship and sea, and he was only tears.
Grey shuddered under the Malayan sun. Ten thousand miles away. It wasn’t Trina’s fault, he thought, weak with self-disgust. It wasn’t her, it was me. I was too anxious. Maybe I’m insane. Maybe I should see a doctor. Maybe I’m oversexed. It’s got to be me, not her. Oh Trina, my love.
Trina sipped her martini and smiled the special smile that a starlet smiles to producers, particularly one that has a juicy part in a movie ready to begin production. “You’re looking very well, Mr. Durstein. Isn’t the rain miserable?”
Max Durstein was not looking at all well and he was not feeling well, hating London, hating the downpour, hating Sunday, hating the V2s that fell on London Town. He fought out of his hat and his raincoat and put them on top of the steaming pile of soaking topcoats.
A freezing squall battered the windows of the large hotel reception room that looked out on the bleak puddles of Piccadilly. He shuddered and wished himself to Los Angeles and the sun and the warmth.
“You’re looking well, Mr. Durstein,” Trina said again.
“Yeah,” he replied sourly. He was tired and his ulcers hurt and his arches had fallen and he had been given the same smile for years — but only when he had a movie on the planning boards and not when his last film had been panned — but he remembered that this little harpy had a good film under her girdle and the trade moguls had picked her as potential box office draw, and she would fit “Dolly Saunders” to a rubber glove.
He cursed under his breath, what a dreck name — Dolly Saunders! How is it possible when I pay so much money to a lousy writer that the least he could do was to invent a name that has impact. Dolly! The name made him feel sick. But, he told himself, that’s what a producer is for — to take notalent and make it talent, to take a nothing name and give it grandeur. Gotta think of a name!
He looked at Trina, not listening to her chatter, not listening to his automatic answers, but thinking of a name. The name must be a name of names. Harlan. Possible. But not enough sex. Harlan Foy? Coy Harlan?
“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly, bursting into Trina’s patter.
“Trina John.” She was astonished. Who the fat pig in hell does this slob think he is, anyway, to ask me that when the cocktail party’s in my honor to celebrate my role, Princess Zenobia, in Spears on the Volga?
“I know that,” he said testily, letting the cigarette ash join the rest of the white stains on his blue pinstripe suit. “I mean your maiden name, darling.”
“It was Trina Johnson.” Actually it was Gertrude Drains. Trina kept a sweet smile on her face but inside she was spitting blood. Gerty! She could still hear her mother calling her. Gert, wipe your nose. Gerty do this, Gerty do that. And again, after two whole years of not thinking about her mother, Trina spat a stream of curses on the smelly harpy fishwife who bore her. Thank God I got away from her, thank God!
“You were married, weren’t you?”
“Oh yes. He was a Colonel in Intelligence. His name was Grey. My present husband’s name — ”
“I know. Billy Stern, the agent.” He looked at her.
Trina was svelte and looked like a lady, but she had that so necessary quality of dirt somewhere mixed up with the lady. She dressed well. Hips okay. Legs long. Dress tight around the buttocks. Easy to bed. He was sure because Billy had indicated, round about, that she was cooperative. Christ, what a business! But no good, that’s what he’d heard.
Grey? Possible. Harlan Grey? How about Harlana Grey? No. Harlana Lunt! That’s it. Rhymes and has class to boot. Harlana Lunt! Everything, it has everything.
“Why the smile, Mr. Durstein?”
“I liked your ‘Princess,’ darling,” the producer in him was saying. “And it’s making a bundle. With luck you may be a star one day. Sell tickets, that’s the only thing that counts. You’ve got a lot of talent.”
“I’ll say,” he told himself. “But in bed you haven’t. Not according to Jules.”
“How’s Jules these days?” he asked.
“He talked a lot about you while we were shooting. A nice man, and such a talented producer. A darling.” She let her eyes mist prettily. “I think producers are so important. He helped me so much.” She let this fall, then brightened in the right way, taking care that she didn’t stand too tall in her shoes, for this Durstein was small. “I’m so happy the public is paying so much to see Spears. Jules was saying that they’ll make their costs back in the first twenty weeks.”
That’s a lie, Durstein told himself, seething. Why, that rotten little picture cost well over a hundred thousand pounds! Jules always was a liar, and a thief. And an assassin. But still, he had knifed him but good out of the Four Swords in Hell project, and the thought warmed him nicely.
“Interesting,” he heard himself saying. He was still looking at Trina. He’d take her if he could get her cheap. But Billy can be a hard trader if he knows that one of his clients has a chance. Yes, she’d fit. But how much…
“Money,” he said aloud.
“What about it, Mr. Durstein?” Trina bubbled happily as though the word was a witty remark.
“Money’s the only thing that counts in the business. Money making films.” He smiled a false-toothed smile, patted her buttocks paternally, but Trina knew that it wasn’t really paternal. And Durstein kept his hand there, just too long, just enough to let her know that he was interested. How much, depended on her. “Maybe I can do something for you in my next picture. Of course, that depends.”
His eyes were quite cold and calculating. Trina looked at them and while her face smiled, her eyes told him, it also depends on how much.
Across the smoky room, Billy was talking to Jules and his eyes were on Jules, listening to his plans for his next film, how he might be able to up Trina’s money and sweeten the part a little. But Billy’s senses were concentrating on Durstein and Trina and he was watching them closely. As to Jules, well, Jules had served his purpose and he’d be damned if he let Trina play in another of Jules’s second features. Not for five thousand. Well, for ten, maybe. But the “Dolly” role was what he wanted for Trina. Yes, he told himself, that part she’d play like a house afire. And with a little of the Billy luck, he’d get the part for her.
He saw, with cynical amusement, Durstein’s hand on her buttocks and the linger of it. Good. Don’t have to show Trina any of the tricks. That bitch learned them with her mother’s milk. When Durstein wandered away, Billy excused himself from Jules.
He walked through the crowd of neophytes and hangers-on and out-of-work actors and actresses and protégés and columnists and newspapermen, and for each he had a crack and a smile — for those of any importance. When he got to Trina, she was sipping another martini.
“Go easy on the liquor,” he warned.
In an equally low voice Trina snapped back. “Go to hell! I can drink this slop until the cows come home. If I want to drink, I’ll have a drink.”
Billy was smiling, but inside he wasn’t. “How’d you get on with the Creep?” he asked, using Durstein’s nickname. It came from way back. Durstein’s first picture. The Zombie Creeps. Made a fortune.