Winning is Everything (35 page)

71 

Ron and Eileen flew home to New York together. He got drunk, and she cried. All the way to Kennedy Airport.

Ron taxied from the airport straight over to Casey’s apartment. Priscilla was there waiting for him. She led him into the bedroom and watched as he packed all his clothing. She didn’t leave him alone for a moment. It was obvious that when Casey telephoned her maid from Bermuda she gave instructions to make sure Mr. Zinelli did not leave with the dining silver in his luggage.

Twenty minutes later, Ron walked into the apartment on East Sixty-seventh Street and found Kip sitting on the couch in the living room, a half-empty bottle of Scotch before him.

“What are you doing here?” Ron asked Kip.

“What am
I
doing here?” Kip asked Ron. “What are
you
doing here?” How was Bermuda?”

“It rained.”

“Too bad.”

“Too bad? That was the best thing to happen all weekend!”

“What are you doing home?”

“I’ve been screwed,” said Ron. “It’s all over between me and Casey.”

“Welcome to the club,” said Kip. “I just walked out on Phyliss Dodge.”

“Holy shit,” said Ron quietly. “I guess it’s like that old Dorothy Parkerism: ‘Is the fucking I’m getting worth the fucking I’m getting?’”

“Exactly!” said Kip. “Pull up a glass. Let’s get blind.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” said Ron, dropping his luggage to the floor and walking over to the couch.

Kip poured himself another shot of Scotch. “Where’s your glass?” he asked Ron.

“Who needs a glass?” Ron asked with a manly belch as he reached down, took the bottle of J&B in his hands, and swigged down a mouthful. “We’re trying to get drunk, aren’t we? Hey!” Ron put the bottle down. “This is almost empty. Isn’t there any Daniel’s in the house?”

“Not a drop,” said Kip. “This is all there is of anything!”

“Well, then,” said Ron, “let’s us go out on the town. Boys’ night out. Wadda ya say? I got seven bucks, what about you?”

“I don’t even have that much,” said Kip. “And to think just a few hours ago I turned down a hundred-dollar bill Phyliss wanted to give me.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Ron. “Okay, what do you say? Shall we go drown our sorrows at the bar at Maxwell’s Plum? Maybe Gary has some dough.”

“No such luck. He was leaving as I came in to meet Nora Greene for dinner.”

“Those two seem stronger than ever,” said Ron.

Kip took another slug of Scotch, draining his glass. “Let’s go!” he said, banging the glass down on the coffee table for emphasis.

“Great!” said Ron. “But I can’t stay out too late. I gotta be in the office at nine-thirty on the button tomorrow morning. Now that I’ve lost my lady and my future fortune, I gotta start getting on the stick, gotta start really concentrating on what I’m doing!”

“Good for you!” said Kip.

“I’ll just throw my luggage into my room,” said Ron. “And change shirts.”

He carried his bag into his room and proceeded to change clothes. When he looked on his bed, he saw that Gary had piled all his mail there. He sat down on his pillow and quickly thumbed his way through the collection of bills. Somewhere near the bottom of the pile he found a postcard. From an island called Tortola in the British Virgin Islands.

From Warren Talbot.

It read:

Weather’s here.
Wish you were beautiful.
Working on a new play. Third act.
Don’t know why, but I was thinking of you….
Call if you wish: (07) 791-363.
Warren

Fat chance, thought Ron, grateful at least the playwright seemed to be no longer mad at him. He tore up the card and went into the living room to get Kip.

They went to five different bars. They drank Cuba libres. They got very much more drunk. They got home after three in the morning. Kip took three aspirin and went straight to bed, and Ron took four aspirin, threw up, and went straight to bed.

He bounced into Barton & Broomstead forty-five minutes late Monday morning. Even the extra half-hour’s sleep he had allowed himself had done nothing to alleviate his monster hangover.

“Herb Nelson wants to see you in his office right away,” one of the secretaries told Ron as he passed his desk en route to his cubicle.

“Can’t it wait?” Ron asked.

“Think not,” said the secretary. “He called twice already this morning, looking for you, and then said the minute you walked in, to ask you to go directly to see him.”

“There’s one thing I must do first,” said Ron, holding his forehead.

“What’s that?” asked the secretary.

“Take a few more aspirin.”

“Come in, Ron,” said Herb Nelson pleasantly enough as Ron appeared at his office door. “Close the door.”

Ron walked in, closed the door, and took a seat in the chair across from Herb’s desk. “’Morning!” he said, hoping to sound less like the zombie he felt.

“Well, Ron, this is it! It’s not as if you haven’t been warned before, you know. Not as if you didn’t know this was coming—”

“Sorry I’m late, Herb. Honest I am.”

“You may remember our last talk on this subject, Ron. No more tardiness. No more being late.”

“I know,” said Ron. “And it’s
never
going to happen again. I’m ready now, finally ready to devote all my attention to Barton and Broomstead. That’s all I want to do.”

“Well, Ron … I think it may be a little late for that. I spoke to the boys upstairs this morning, and they’ve given me the go-ahead to let you go. We all feel you’ve taken advantage of your position here.”

“You’re going to fire me?” Ron was astounded. “But … please … No…. Why? Just because I had the flu and couldn’t come to work on Friday? I was too sick to get out of bed.”

“Ron!” Herb scolded.

“It’s true!” said Ron. “I had a fever. I still don’t feel well, but thought I should come in to work today, just to show I can be part of the team.”

“Ron, you think I was born yesterday? What’s that peeling all over your face?”

“This?” Ron pinched a chard of hanging, singed, and decayed flesh from his cheek. “I overused a sun lamp, is all. I was trying to dry up my sinuses.”

“Ron!”

“I swear it!” said Ron. “I swear it on my mother’s life!”

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” said Herb.

“But why?” Ron raised his voice. “It’s true.”

“On Friday, Steve Sokol didn’t know where you put the Pepsodent-account file. So I asked my secretary to call Casey’s apartment. A lady named Priscilla said you’d gone to Bermuda for the weekend.”

After cleaning out his desk, Ron said a few short farewells and then took the elevator to the lobby.

What had happened to his plan to succeed? To get not just ahead, but to the top of the heap? Where was his future now? He sat down on a stone bench in Rockefeller Center and considered his options. There was, he suddenly realized, one glimmer of hope. It was a long shot, but right now it seemed to be the only chance he had.

Ron got up from the bench and began taking long strides back to his apartment. He had to get there as fast as he could to retrieve from the wastebasket and piece together the postcard he’d received from Warren Talbot.

72 

Gary entered the Italian Pavilion and walked directly over to the head-waiter, saying, “I’m meeting Michael Reese for lunch.”

“Yes”—the captain snapped shut his reservations book—”Mr. Reese is already here. Please follow me.”

The captain led Gary over a red carpet across a noisy, crowded dining room to a table where a young man was hidden behind a menu.

“Michael Reese?” asked Gary.

Reese dropped his menu to his lap. “Ah, Gary!” he said, offering his hand.

“I’m glad to meet you,” said Gary, shaking Reese’s hand.

His future editor was in his late twenties, had a pleasant face, thick, dark wavy hair, and lots of laugh lines around dark brown eyes.

Reese ordered a bottle of Valpolicella from a waiter.

“I have to tell you, Michael,” said Gary. “All my life I’ve dreamed about having lunch with my editor. It’s long been one of my New York fantasies.”

“Well, then …” Michael stabbed a bread stick into a pat of butter. “I’m certainly happy to help you realize that dream.”

“But I always expected you would have silver-gray hair and a paunch and would be smoking a pipe.”

“That’s okay,” said Reese. “After reading your work, I figured you’d be tall, emaciated, and probably not have a strand of hair on your head.”

They both laughed politely as the waiter arrived with the wine. “Shall I open it?” he asked.

“Certainly not!” said Reese, pointing to Gary. “Hit my friend over the head with it. We’re about to launch his career!”

Back at the apartment, Ron was putting a collect call through to Warren Talbot.

“That you, Warren?”

“Ron? Ron Zinelli? What a surprise!” said the playwright.

“Thanks so much for accepting the call,” said Ron. “I would’ve paid for it, but I’m so broke right now I can’t afford a pay toilet. How are things with you?”

“Coming along quite well, actually. I’m working on the third act of my play and expect to see a first draft in another two, three months.”

“Good for you,” said Ron. “Thanks for the postcard.”

“Sure,” said Talbot. “I’ve given up the booze, too. Feel like a new man.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. But what’s with you? I came across a photo of you and Casey Kramer in a month-old issue of
Women’s Wear Daily,
and I figured, well, you see, one of my boys finally made it.”

“Not quite,” said Ron. “That’s one of the disadvantages, I guess, of reading dated material. Casey and I are yesterday’s news.”

“That’s too bad. You seemed the perfect couple. You had the charm, she had the credentials.”

“Don’t I know? And on top of that, I just lost my job this morning!”

“Gee, Ron. I’m sorry. What will you do now?”

“Oh, I thought after I finish talking to you, I just might stroll down to the South Street pier and start swimming to Le Havre.”

“Hey, seriously. Got any immediate plans?”

“Not a one.”

“Well … here’s a thought …” Talbot took a deep breath. “The work, as I said, is really going well down here. And it’s an incredibly beautiful island. There’s only one real drawback. It’s lonely. How about if I send you a round-trip ticket to Tortola? You can come down here, take some time off, sort things out, put Humpty-Dumpty together again?”

“Christ, Warren … that’s real sweet. Believe me, it’s nice to know that even after my rudeness, I still have a friend like you. But, no, I couldn’t accept anything like that.”

“’Course you could,” Talbot insisted. “Why the hell not?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ron. “It’s not fair, that’s all. Why should you pay for me? What would I be giving you in return?”

“Companionship, Ron. And that’s all. Honest. No strings attached. All I’m looking for is a little company. Let it be my Christmas present. The sunsets down here are colorful beyond belief. I’m tired of watching them alone. Giving up drink was bad enough. If I have to give up people to support my art, I’m not certain I can manage.”

The idea suddenly started sounding attractive. Maybe there were no strings attached. Perhaps there was something he could do to make certain there’d be no monkey business. Ron weighed his words carefully as he spoke.

“Well… Warren, it sure is a tempting offer. And I certainly would like to go somewhere to sort out my life….”

“Good!”

“Trouble is … I got other problems here at home. You know my roommate, Kip?”

“The gorgeous jock?” asked Talbot.

“One and the same. He’s just come through a rotten deal with Phyliss Dodge, the agent—”

“That cooz!” interrupted Talbot. “What was he doing with her?”

“Being led down a lot of blind alleys is what. Anyway, it’s now all over between them, which means his career has gone into hibernation.”

“Listen!” said Talbot. “Ask Kip to come down with you! Why not? Hell, so I send two tickets to you; what’s the diff? I mean, they won’t be first class if it’s going to be the two of you; I can’t afford that until I become Arthur Miller. But, sure, I’d love to see Kip. He can keep you busy during the morning while I write. Sounds great!”

“Sounds great to me now, too,” said Ron. “Why don’t I talk to him about it?”

“Wonderful,” said Talbot. “Call me back—collect, of course. Let me know what he says. I know you boys are broke. Food down here is cheap and fresh and good. Uncle Warren will take care of his kiddies….”

“I’ll call you back,” said Ron with the first smile his lips had experienced in several days.

Talbot greeted Ron and Kip at the Tortola airport in khaki shorts and a T-shirt. He was in great need of a haircut and looked very native. Pointing to his sandals, he said, “See, for your arrival I got all dressed up!”

“Appreciate that,” said Ron.

“It’s very casual here,” said Talbot.

“And very beautiful,” said Kip.

“True,” Talbot agreed. “The trade winds never stop blowing. Come. The sun never stops shining … except at night. Let’s get your luggage. Hope you brought lots of bathing suits; you rarely need anything else.”

Ron and Kip taxied with Talbot over to the other side of the lush Caribbean island to the playwright’s open-air, cozy beachfront house. They sped past battery-operated cardboard Santas waving and winking beneath palm trees.

And it only took them a few hours to realize just why the playwright had been so desperate for company on Tortola.

There was nothing to do.

Kip didn’t mind. He was glad to unwind, but Ron thought if Talbot didn’t have several party invitations for them, he’d start climbing the waves. Finally, sensing his boredom, Talbot booked them a sunset sail for the following evening.

After dinner, Ron and Kip discovered why it had been so easy for Talbot to give up alcohol. He had taken up drugs.

Hashish and marijuana.

He smoked a few tokes before sitting down at his typewriter the following morning, continued puffing on his small peace pipe throughout the day, and then rolled himself a stiff, plump joint once he’d finished work, his way of getting away from his characters, unwinding.

That night, just before leaving for their sunset sail, Talbot came up to the boys and opened his hand, exposing three cubes of sugar and saying gleefully, “Welcome to paradise!”

“Sweets for the sweet?” asked Ron.

“Not quite.” Talbot smiled a Cheshire grin. “We’re about to embark on a very special journey.”

“Is it what I think it is?” asked Kip.

“It is!” said Talbot. “LSD. I’ve been waiting for just the right occasion to try it again.”

“But … wait a minute!” said Ron. “You don’t really think Kip and you and me are about to …”

“Sure,” said Talbot innocently. “Why ever not?”

“I can think of a million reasons,” said Ron.

“Name two!” said Talbot.

“Hallucinations!” said Ron.

“That,” said Talbot, “is a plus. Not a minus.”

“Life
magazine says some kids freak out on this stuff,” Ron stated with authority.

“Life
magazine!” Talbot complained. “You dare mention that tabloid rag in this house of literature? Really! Those kids probably didn’t know what chemicals they were taking. This stuff comes straight from Harvard. It’s pure, I tell you. Beautiful.”

“And you’ve tried it?”

“Are you kidding?” asked Talbot. “I wrote most of the second act of
Distant Barrier
on this stuff. It’s most illuminating.”

“Really?” asked Kip.

“Hey, kids … it’s a passport to paradise. That’s why I’m offering it. Unlocks your mind and brings out the best in you. Youll love it. Believe me.”

“But …” Ron stammered as Talbot placed a sugar cube into his hand.

“We drop now,” said Talbot. “Taxi’ll be here any minute. It’ll be fifteen minutes to the pier. Drug should start coming on in around thirty, forty minutes, just as we’re at sea. Couldn’t be more perfect.” Extending his open hand still farther, he said, “Boys? …”

Ron and Kip looked at one another, each searching the other’s face for some reaction of confirmation or rejection.

“What the hell.” Kip shrugged, putting out his hand to accept a cube. “We all gotta go sometime.”

Ron stared at his cube of sugar. “Does this mean diabetics can’t take LSD?”

Talbot lifted his sugar cube into the air. “Cheers!” he toasted.

The three voyagers swallowed the psychedelic.

“That was easy,” said Ron. “I don’t feel a thing!”

Talbot pulled a marijuana cigarette out of his shirt pocket.

“More drugs?” Ron protested.

“This is all part of the experience,” said Talbot, lighting a match. “The LSD will be so major a rush, it’s supposedly a good idea to have a few puffs of marijuana, you know—to kind of ease you into it. Don’t worry. You’re with your Uncle Warren now and he’s going to take care of everything.”

The joint was passed around several times before they were interrupted by the honking of the taxi’s horn.

“Oh, good!” said Talbot. “Our chauffeur is here. Shall we? …”

“Why not?” said Ron. “Paradise awaits!”

The boat,
Monica’s Cay,
was manned by a native Tortolan and his two teenage sons. When the skipper asked Talbot if they were ready to pick up anchor, the playwright smiled and said, “Blast off!”

A large white canvas sail was hoisted up a long, thin white mast and as the late-afternoon wind filled it, Ron suddenly realized that there was nothing waiting for him back in New York, nothing for him to go home to.

Fifteen minutes later they were out in the Caribbean and the island of Tortola was only a small bump of land far off in the distance. The sun was just a bit above the water now, giving all that it touched an orange glow.

Kip said he’d never seen anything quite so beautiful. Talbot sat at the rear of the boat, lost in thought about his play, and Ron stretched out in the bow watching as ripples in the water created infinitely intricate and remarkable patterns.

The drug had begun to take effect.

Half an hour later Kip sat down next to Ron and handed him a beer.

“Is it all right to mix these two together?” Ron asked.

“Talbot says it’s fine,” said Kip. “Says beer will calm that anxiety in the stomach caused by the speed. How you doing?”