“Are you going to take notes, Jack?”
“Next time. Right now I’d just like to get to know you, and get a sense of what you think is the best way for me to tell your story.”
She sat back on the plump sofa with either arm outstretched regally along its upper edge. Did I mention her nails were red? Finger and toe? Those money-color eyes were a little scary; they were big and beautiful, but with so little make-up on, that left her eyebrows almost invisible, natural platinum blonde that she was.
“Well, I’m originally from Chicago,” she began. “Just a little girl from the South Side.”
“Illinois,” I said with a smile and appreciative nod. “The heartland.”
“Yes! Typical Midwestern girl.”
From the South Side of Chicago. Her and Big Bad Leroy Brown.
Tiffany leaned forward, hands folded in her lap. “I think people should understand my background isn’t glamorous. My father worked in a steel mill. My mother raised all six of us girls…and before you ask, there are more like me at home. Almost like me.”
I just smiled at that. She was a cartoon. But I like cartoons.
“I was in college and money was running short-I was studying nursing but I was going to have to drop out. That’s a human interest story, isn’t it? Something people can relate to?”
“Sure,” I said.
“So I got my boyfriend to take some nude photos of me and send them to Playboy. The rest is history.”
“You don’t live in Chicago now, do you?”
She shook her head and platinum locks bounced; she was framed against closed cloth blinds through which sunlight gave her a halo effect.
“I moved to California. I lived at the mansion for a year, but I was never one of Hef’s girls. Not in a major way.”
“Is that where you met Louis Licata?”
She froze. She frowned. Frowns on people with invisible eyebrows look weird no matter how beautiful they are. “Mr. Licata is just a friend.”
I sat forward. “Miss Goodwin-Tiffany-I don’t have any intention of including that in any PR material. It’s the last thing any of us want. But I’ll get calls. People will ask me questions.”
“ People magazine?”
“Maybe. But I mean people in general. It would be helpful if I knew what the situation really was, so I knew what to avoid. To protect myself and you. Plus, I’d like to know what the party line is.”
“What does partying have to do with it?”
“Nothing. Just…what’s the situation with Mr. Licata, really? And what should I say-what should anybody with the production say-if asked about it?”
She shrugged, vaguely nervous. Suddenly her voice was tiny, less confident: “We’re friends. He ‘s kind of my… mentor. I’m his protйgйe. He cou nsels me on career matters. He knows a lot about show business. Has interests in Las Vegas, you know. He’s a very important man. And sweet.”
“What do I say if asked about him?”
“That I never met him.”
Okay.
I pressed on: “Aren’t there pictures of you together? Outside restaurants and, uh, hotels?”
She wasn’t angry or upset. She could tell by my tone that I was trying to be helpful.
“He’s a fan,” s he said. “But don’t b rin g it up!”
“Of course not.” I gave her a concerned look. “We also might have to deal with the rumors about you and your director, you know.”
Her hands were on her knee s. She shook her head firmly, her confidence back. “We’re not an item. He’s married. To another actress in the company. But we have a good working relationship, Arthur and I. He respects me as an actress.”
I scratched my head. “Listen…Tiffany? This is a little delicate, but…do you think Mr. Licata might be jealous of your director? Could that be a problem?”
Big unblinking eyes. “A p roblem how?”
“Business, I guess. I understand Mr. Licata is backing this production.”
She nodded. “He’s what you call an angel.”
Not what I called an angel.
She was studying me now, the way a junior high girl studies a frog she’s been assigned to dissect. Then she slid over to one side of the couch and patted the space next to her.
“Come sit here,” she said.
I did.
She put an arm around me. Nothing nasty in her voice, pure velvet, she asked, “Why are you asking about this downer shit?”
“I just need to know what I’m dealing with. Don’t worry, I’m going to make you look great.”
“I already look great.”
“I noticed.”
She was looking right at me. Very close to me. I felt like I was sitting too close to a stove.
“I took a lot of acting classes,” she said. “I studied with some famous people in New York, and also in California. I want you to emphasize that. I’ll give you their names and you can write about my training.”
“Sure.”
“You can mention Playboy a little. Say I was a Playmate of the Year, ’cause that’s a calling card. Tell about me sending my photos in, because that’s a success story, a whaddya call it, an Alger Hiss story. And people like that.”
I could have told her she meant Horatio Alger, but I didn’t want to be rude. Anyway, she had her hand on my leg.
“Are you a gay?” she asked.
“Definitely not.”
“Because I want you to be my friend, Jack. Don’t be ashamed or afraid to say you’re a gay. Gays like me. They dress up like me.”
“Maybe, but it’s not the same.”
“And you’re not gay.”
“No.”
“We’ll, let’s see.”
She rose, and stood before me, and tugged at the shoulders of her robe and let it slide off her; it opened as it fell, like curtains parting. How can I do her justice? Let’s start with: she looked fucking great.
Large full breasts sitting high on her ribcage, with halfinch erect nipples against pink crescents of aureole; a narrow waist, a supple stomach, flaring hips, full thighs, dimpled knees, flowing calves. And that nicely trimmed pubic heart was as advertised: just as starkly white as her lush head of carefully tousled hair.
She raised a foot as if about to test the temperature of a bath and instead explored my lap with red-nailed toes.
“ Not gay,” she said.
Then she got on her knees before me, and undid my pants, taking my shorts along for the ride, and tugged them down around my ankles.
“Nice,” she said, looking at me. A little droplet atop my dick winked at her.
She stroked me, watching the shaft, not its owner, saying, “Jack, you’re going to say wonderful things about me, aren’t you?”
“Wonderful.”
Those pillowy lips took the head in and she sucked a while and then her head began to bob, as she went slowly down, incrementally, but finally making it all the way down.
She paused to look up at me impishly. “You’ll say nice things, Jack?”
“Nice.”
Head bobbing.
Pause.
“Sweet things?”
“Sweet.”
Head bobbing.
Pause.
“Make them know, Jack. That I’m a serious artist.”
“Serious. Artist.”
Head bobbing.
Pause.
“Nothing…nothing bad, Jack…”
“Nothing…nothing…nothing…nothing…nothing bad!”
She stood up, with a mouthful of me, and gave me an impish smile before she trotted over and spit it out in the sink. There was a bottle of mouthwash handy and she used that.
I was just sitting there feeling like a platinum truck had run over me.
She came over and got her robe back on and sat beside me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “No offense, Jack.”
“Huh?”
“That I didn’t swallow. You don’t think I keep my figure not watching my calories, do you?”
SIX
When I came down out of Tiffany’s trailer around noon, I could see that the fight scene over at the diner’s gas pumps-maybe a hundred yards away-was still shooting. The lights, reflectors and camera had all moved considerably, but it was the same fight.