Harlan Ellison Love ain,t nothing

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Full hips, small breasts, blonde; a loveliness that was never wispy like a
Jean Arthur, never chill like a Joan Crawford, never cultured like a Greer
Garson. If Valerie Lone had been identifiable with anyone else working in her
era, it would have been with Ann Sheridan. And the comparison was by no means
invidious. There was the same forceful womanliness in her manner; a wise kid
who knew the score. Dynamic. Yet there was a quality of availability in the
way she arched her eyebrows, the way she held her hands and neck. Sensuality
mixed with reality. What had broken that spine of self-control, turned it into
the fragile wariness Handy had sensed? He studied the film as the story
unreeled, but there was none of that showing in the Valerie Lone of
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As the deep, silken voice faded from the screen, Arthur Crewes reached to the
console beside his contour chair, and punched a series of buttons. The
projection light cut off from the booth behind them, the room lights went up,
and the chair tilted forward. The producer got up and left the room, with
Handy behind him, waiting for comments. They had spent close to eight hours
running old prints of Valerie Lone's biggest hits.
Arthur Crewes's home centered around the projection room. As his life centered
around the film industry. Through the door, and into the living room, opulent
beneath fumed and waxed, shadowed oak beams far above them; the two men did
not speak. The living room was immense, only slightly smaller than a
basketball court in one corner where Crewes now settled into a deep armchair,
before a roaring walk-in fireplace. The rest of the living room was empty and
quiet; one could hear the fall of dust. It had been a merry house many times
in the past, and would be again, but at the moment, far down below the
vaulting ceiling, their voices rising like echoes in a mountain pass, Arthur
Crewes spoke to his publicist.
"Fred, I want the full treatment. I want her seen everywhere by everyone. I
want her name as big as it ever was."
Handy pursed his lips, even as he nodded. "That takes money, Arthur. We're
pushing the publicity budget now."
Crewes lit a cigar. "This is above-the-line expense. Keep it a separate
record, and I'll take care of it out of my pocket. I want it all itemized for
the IRS, but don't spare the cost."
"Do you know how much you're getting into here?"
"It doesn't matter. Whatever it is, however much you need, come and ask, and
you'll get it. But I
want a real job done for that money, Fred."
Handy stared at him for a long moment.
"You'll get mileage out of Valerie Lone's comeback, Arthur. No doubt about it.
But I have to tell you right now it isn't going to be anything near
commensurate with what you'll be spending. It isn't that kind of appeal."
Crewes drew deeply on the cigar, sent a thin streamer of blue smoke toward the
darkness above them. "I'm not concerned about the value to the picture. It's
going to be a good property, it can take care of itself. This is something
else."
Handy looked puzzled. "Why?"
Crewes did not answer. Finally, he asked, "Is she settled in at the Beverly
Hills?"
Handy rose to leave. "Best bungalow in the joint. You should have seen the
reception they gave her."
"That's the kind of reception I want everywhere for her, Fred. A lot of bowing
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and scraping for the old queen."
Handy nodded, walked toward the foyer. Across the room, forcing him to raise
his voice to reach
Crewes, still lost in the dimness of the living room, the fireplace casting
spastic shadows of blood and night on the walls, Fred Handy said, "Why the
extra horsepower, Arthur? I get nervous when I'm told to spend freely."
Smoke rose from the chair where Arthur Crewes was hidden. "Good night, Fred."
Handy stood for a moment; then, troubled, he let himself out. The living room
was silent for a long while, only the faint crackling of the logs on the fire
breaking the stillness. Then Arthur
Crewes reached to the sidetable and lifted the telephone receiver from its
cradle. He punched out a number. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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