10

That evening Blazer Gates returned to his room at the Ambassador Hotel fairly early. The kick-off meeting of the sales convention had been a success—he guessed so, anyway. As much of a success as those things ever were. The convention had been badly time-tabled, that was the main thing. Kicking off on a Saturday like that, with an empty day Sunday with not a damn’ thing to do, well—it seemed like a lot of wasted time. The delegates would find plenty to do on Sunday, of course. By five o’clock in the afternoon the upper floors of the hotel would be clattering with cocktail parties. Movie starlets, so called, would be in giggling profusion and a large amount of cheap glassware would end up smashed on the floor or dropped from open window-sills into courtyards and light wells. Delegates, lipstick-smeared and wearing their plastic-coated convention badges, would charge out of the hotel in the early evening to investigate Olivera Street, Skid Row, or the glossier spots along the strip. Blazer had turned down three invitations to cocktail parties and one invitation to join a bus tour of the movie stars’ homes. He didn’t know why he turned them down; he wasn’t trying to act superior to these people. He just didn’t want to go. He planned to stay in his room on Sunday, and loll around and read.

He unlocked the door to his room, went in, flipped on the light, and hung his coat over the back of a chair. He turned, loosening his necktie, towards the closet, and noticed that there was a message envelope under his door. He stooped, picked it up, and tore it open. It said, “Please call Operator 60 in Somerville, Conn.”

Blazer looked at his watch. It was now nine o’clock; it would be three hours later in Connecticut. But, well, it might be important. And who could it be? Who, at home, knew he was in Los Angeles? As far as he knew, Claire was the only one who knew where he was. But possibly whoever it was had called Claire first and got the information. He sat down on the bed, picked up the phone, and placed the call. He lighted a cigarette with his free hand.

Finally, at the other end of the connection, he heard a woman’s husky, cultured voice say, “Hello? Hello? Hello?”

“Hello,” Blazer said. “Who’s this?”

“Hello?”

“Hello!” he shouted. “Who’s this?”

“Blazer! It’s Mrs. Denison! How are you, dear?”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “How’re you?”

“What, dear? I can’t hear you! This is a terrible connection.”

“Fine,” he yelled. “I’m fine! How are you?”

“How’s Claire-y?”

“Fine. How did you know where I was?”

“What?”

“How did you know where I was?”

“How’s Claire-y, I asked.”

“Fine,” he roared. “Hey, let me see if I can get us a better—”

“Ju wants to talk to you. Hold on,” Mrs. Denison said.

Junius Denison’s voice boomed across the continent. “Can you hear me, Blaze?” it roared.

“Yes,” Blazer said. “How’re you, Pop?”

“Fine. Fine. What’s new, Blaze?”

“Not much,” Blazer said, and he added inanely: “What’s new with you?”

“Oh, the same old treadmill, the same old treadmill,” Mr. Denison said.

“Say, how’d you know I was down here?” Blazer asked.

“Had a letter from Claire. She said you’d be in the City of the Angels this week-end, and I figured you’d be at the ’Bass. First place I tried, anyway. Say,” he said, “speaking of angels, you don’t have any little angels in your room right now, do you? Eh?” He chuckled loudly. “Do you?”

Blazer laughed. “No, Pop,” he said. “No little angels.”

“Say, Blazer,” Mr. Denison said, “the real reason I called—you ever bump into Harry Masterson out there?”

“No,” Blazer said. “Can’t say as I have.”

“Ever hear of him?”

“No—”

“Well, Harry’s an old friend of mine. Harry and I were in the Navy together, back in the dim, dark days beyond recall. He’s with Monarch Mills now—president.”

“Masterson, eh?”

“Yes. Well, Blaze, the reason I wanted to get you to-night was that Harry’s in Los Angeles right now. Could be he’s there for the same shindig you’re at. I dunno—but what I thought I’d do, Blaze, was give Harry Masterson a buzz and see if he wouldn’t like to get together with you. Maybe you two could have a little talk. Harry’s been in that business of yours for a long time. You never can tell, Blaze, he might be able to give you a couple of good steers.”

“Say, that would be swell,” Blazer said. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Well, then, I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll call Harry Masterson right now. Or, no, let’s see—is it earlier or later out there, I never can remember?”

“It’s earlier here—about nine-fifteen.”

“Well, I’ll give him a call—ask him to get in touch with you in the morning. He’s at the Bel Air—they told me that yesterday at his office.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Blazer said. “Monarch Mills is a pretty big outfit.”

“Yeah—well, I thought I’d just see how you felt about it, Blaze, before I did anything. Wouldn’t want to do anything behind your back, you know—or make you think I was butting in or anything like that.”

“Heck, no,” Blazer said. “I appreciate your consideration—it was darned thoughtful of you, Pop.”

“Well, I keep my ears open for you, Blaze. You know that. How’s Claire-y?”

“Oh, she’s just fine,” Blazer said. “She’s got a job.”

“Yeah—so she wrote her mother. Well, she’ll get over that. You know how these women are, Blaze—always feel that they’ve got to be doing something.” He laughed. “Well, take care, boy. And, oh, before I forget, Claire mentioned that you two have been seeing quite a bit of Jim Keefe’s boy, Jimmy.”

“That’s right,” Blazer said, “he’s been down a few times.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Fine, I think,” Blazer said. “He’s doing some kind of publicity work up in Sacramento.”

“Oh? Well, I ran into his dad the other day at the club. He was a little worried. That girl he married, you know—I guess they’ve split up.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Blazer said. “But I think he’s taking it pretty well.”

“Oh, that’s good. He’s a good boy. I’ll tell Jim Keefe when I see him. He’ll be pleased to hear. Well, good night, Blaze.”

“Good night, Pop—take it easy.”

“Good night.”

Blazer replaced the telephone. Unbuttoning his shirt, he stood up and wandered across the room to the writing-desk. He pulled open the desk drawer, pulled out a sheet of hotel stationery and a pencil. He wrote “Harry Masterson” in big block letters on the paper, and placed the paper under the telephone by his bed. It was damned decent of Claire’s old man to be on the lookout for him like that, he thought. Claire thought he was a pompous old fool, and, hell, maybe he was a little on the pompous side, but he had sure been nice to them. This Masterson thing, for instance—that was typical of the kind of thing Claire’s old man would do. Monarch Mills was an important outfit. Masterson was president. That was the kind of contact you couldn’t make every day of the week.

Blazer took off his shirt, wadded it up, and tossed it into the corner of his Val-Pak. He yawned. He was dog-tired. It would do him good to get to bed early. He would read himself to sleep.

He finished undressing, turned on the lamp by the bed, crossed the room, and turned out the overhead light. He returned to the bed, pulled down the covers, and crawled in. From above and below, in the hotel, he could hear muffled party sounds; the delegates to the convention were beginning the week-end in typical style. Blazer picked up his book and started to read.

Blazer was reading Death in the Afternoon, and enjoying it immensely. Blazer was fascinated by bullfights, the history of bullfighting, and the biographies of the matadors. In the clash of el torero against el toro, Blazer saw symbolized man’s eternal conflict against the bestiality in his own soul. In the orgiastic “moment of truth” with the sword, he saw a deeper, more poignant meaning. He had seen bullfights in Mexico; they had excited and disturbed him.

But to-night Blazer’s thoughts strayed from the book. He began thinking about Claire, and then about Jimmy. He thought of the week-end on the mountain. He had lied to Claire’s father, telling him that he thought Jimmy was bearing up well in the business with Helen. Jimmy had acted like an ass up there on the mountain, getting silly-drunk. He didn’t enjoy seeing people act that way, especially Jimmy. He thought of the three of them, up there.

There was this about Blazer. He was not a homosexual, certainly. In fact, the thought—anything connected with the thought—disgusted him, sickened him almost physically, revolted him to a degree that another person might have thought was unwarranted. And yet Blazer had a recurring fantasy, a fantasy of violence and aggression. He had experienced it in college, and even before; it was inevitably a fantasy of three. Three people—himself, a girl, and another man. It lurked so far back in his mind that he was seldom consciously aware of it, but sometimes it emerged, like now, and became hauntingly real. In college, it had sometimes involved Jimmy, since Jimmy was his room-mate—but it was not always Jimmy. Sometimes his co-assailant was a faceless man, a private creation of his own. Lately, however, with Jimmy around a good deal of the time—and Blazer wanted him around, there was no question about that—it was always Jimmy. Jimmy, himself, and Claire. In actual detail, the dream could become as elaborate as he cared to make it. It came now, and he stood back from it and watched it; it stopped, then came closer. It came and fluttered all around the edges of his eyes. He turned off the light and retreated into it.

He began a curious tap-tapping with his foot, his right foot moving in a rapid, steady rhythm. It was a habit, a carry-over from the cradle when he had jogged himself to sleep that way. It was a conscious habit; it was a childish one, he knew. He knew it was probably not common in people of his age. But then he knew that he was not precisely like other men his age.

It annoyed Claire. Sometimes, in the night, she would struggle awake and kick him sharply to make him stop the tapping. But to-night he was all alone.