“Jill, you know Susan Silverman, our consultant. This is her friend that I mentioned to you, Mr. Spenser.
”Do you have a first name, Mr. Spenser?“ Jill said. She had a soft girlish voice with just a hint of huskiness at the edges. I told her my first name.
”I don’t like it,“ she said.
”I was afraid you wouldn’t,“ I said. ”I’ve been worried about it all month.“
A small frown line deepened momentarily between her eyebrows and went away.
”I’ll just make up a name for you,“ she said.
Susan’s inward smile was widening. She said softly, ”Boy, oh boy.“
Jill stared at her coldly, and then turned back to me.
”What shall I call you,“ she said.
”Cuddles,“ I said. ”Most of my closest friends call me that.“
”Cuddles?“
”Yes,“ I said.
”You seem to have awfully big shoulders for Cuddles. “
Everything Jill Joyce said was said in a sort of halfchildish lilt that implied sexual desire the way an alto sax implies jazz.
”Well,“ I said, ”we’ll think of something, I’m sure.“
”Sandy says you’re a dick,“ Jill Joyce said.
”Un hmm,“ I said with a straight face. Susan looked down at her salad.
”Are you going to help me, Dick?“ she said. When she said help she leaned a little forward and let a hand flutter near her mouth. Tremulous.
”Sure,“ I said. ”Tell me a little about what you need help with.“
A dark-haired guy wearing a tee shirt and an apron came over with a tray. The tee shirt said First Run Catering on it. The tray carried a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket and a wineglass. The darkhaired guy put the tray down, opened the wine bottle, poured half a glass, waited while Jill sipped it. She nodded and he picked up the tray and departed. Salzman said, ”Jill, let me fix you a plate.“
Jill smiled rather vaguely and nodded. Salzman got up and headed for the serving line. Her eyes never left me. From the corner of my eye I saw Susan pick up a leaf of red-tipped lettuce, inspect it carefully, and take a neat little bite from one edge of it. Jill finished the half glass of wine and looked at me. ”May I pour you some?“ I said.
”Oh, Dickie,“ she said, ”how sweet.“
I poured the white wine into her glass, waiting for her to say when or gesture with the rim that the glass was full enough. She did neither until I stopped because it was full. She drank about a third of it.
”So, Dickie,“ she said, ”you’re friends with, ah, this girl?“ She made a sort of groping gesture with her left hand and finally nodded her head toward Susan.
”I’m friends with that girl,“ I said.
”Good friends?“
”Good friends.“
”Sleep with her?“
”None of your business.“
Susan was still nibbling on her greens, but she looked less amused. I knew how much she enjoyed being referred to in the third person. Almost as much as she liked being called a girl. I paused, giving her a moment to kneecap Jill Joyce. Nothing happened.
”Ohh, Dickie,“ Jill said with her lilt getting more pronounced. ”No need to be snarky about it. A girl needs to know things.“
”So does a dick,“ I said. ”Tell me about these harassments you’ve been suffering.“
Salzman came back with a dinner plate on which, carefully arranged, were small portions of nearly everything on the serving line. He put it down in front of Jill and slipped into his seat. Jill looked at the plate with distaste and drank more wine.
”I don’t wish to discuss it in front of her,“ Jill said. Susan looked at her quietly for a long moment.
”Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy,“ I said softly.
Then Susan smiled beatifically and said, ”Of course.“
”Of course?“ I said.
”Please, Dick,“ Susan said.
She picked up her tray and moved over to another table and sat down with a couple of people at the end of a long table across the room.
”A girl has a right to privacy,“ Jill said, her eyes cast down on her untouched plate, her hand fluttering again near her mouth. I looked across the room at Susan. The force of her look was palpable. Don’t make trouble, the look said. I took in a large amount of air and let it out slowly through my nose.
”So tell me,“ I said.
She looked at her empty wineglass. Salzman reached over and filled it.
”We got four and a half pages to shoot this afternoon, Jilly,“ he said.
”Fuck you,“ Jill Joyce said without looking at him. The lilt left her voice for a moment, when she said it.
Salzman nodded as if she had said something interesting. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms quietly. He didn’t seem upset. Jill drank some of her wine.
”I think it’s one of those creepy crazed fans,“ she said and smiled at me. When she smiled there was a deep dimple in each cheek. She was something to look at.
”Un huh,“ I said and waited. I thought of steepling my hands before me and placing them gently against my lips when I said it, but decided to hold it in reserve. So far un huh seemed enough.
”Well,“ Jill said, ”do you?“
”It’s a little hard to decide yet,“ I said.
”But it could be,“ Jill said.
”Un huh.“
”I mean, you know about these people, like the one that killed John Lennon, people like that, crazy people.“
”Um,“ I said.
”I need prodection,“ she said.
”How clever,“ I said, ”combining the words like that.“
”Huh?“
”You need protection during production so you put the two together and formed a neologism.“
”I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Dickie-do, but I sure love to listen,“ she said. She didn’t wait for anyone to fill her glass now; she poured the rest of the bottle out and looked around.
”Hey,“ she yelled toward the serving line. ”I need some wine, for Christ’s sake.“
The same dark-haired guy in the tee shirt came over with another bottle, already opened. He put it down beside her and walked back to the line. Most of the crew had started to leave the dining room. Susan had eaten enough of her lettuce. She stopped by at my table for a minute.
”I’ll be in the wardrobe trailer… Dick.“
I nodded. Susan moved off and out of the room. Sandy Salzman was gazing at the ceiling, his arms still folded across his chest.
”So you gonna protect me, Dickie-do? Or what?“
”Soon as I find out from what,“ I said, ”I’m going to protect the ass off you.“
Jill Joyce giggled.
”I’m sick of it here,“ she said. ”Come on back to my mobile home and I’ll dishcuss it with you in more detail.“
”Sure,“ I said.
”Sandy, you go shoot some fucking film, or something. This will be just me and Dickie-bird.“ She giggled again. ”Are you a dickie-bird?“ she said.
Salzman smiled as if Jill had suggested a new approach to lighting.
”Sure, Jilly,“ Salzman said. ”Maybe a little nap before the afternoon is gone. The four and a half pages await.“
”Four and a half pages of shit,“ Jill said. ”C’mon, Dickie-bird, we’ll fly over to my mobile home.“ She picked up the second wine bottle and her glass and waggled on out of the dining room ahead of me. I looked at Salzman. He shrugged.
”No reasoning with her when she’s drunk,“ Salzman said.
”Or when she’s not,“ I said.
Chapter 3
THe mobile home was parked on the Common behind the Park Street subway kiosk. It was big enough for Jill Joyce, or four hundred boat people. I wasn’t sure it was big enough for Jill Joyce and me. ”Sit down, Dickie,“ she said.
She put her bottle of wine on the table in the breakfast nook and slid her black mink off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. She slid in on one of the bench seats and let her long legs sprawl. The tight red dress was forced to hike up over her thighs. ”Want a little wine?“ she said.