The Modigliani Scandal Part 8

Are you going to give us an edition start?

As a personal favor to you, Jim-yes. Joe leaned back in his leather-upholstered chair with a feeling of triumph. Now the writer owed him a favor. Joe had won on points.

Incidentally, whats up with your blue-eyed girl?

Joe sat forward suddenly. Whitewood had a card up his sleeve after all. Joe put a false nonchalance into his voice. Which one?

Joe, how many of them did I interview this week? The malnourished Miss Winacre, of course.

Joe frowned into the telephone. d.a.m.n Sammy. He was on the defensive now. I meant to ask you: how did it go?

I got a great story-'Samantha Winacre retires. Hasnt she told you?

Christ, what had Sammy told the reporter? Between you and me, Jim, shes pa.s.sing through a phase.

An unfortunate one, it seems. If shes turning down good scripts like Thirteenth Night, she must be pretty serious about retiring.

Do yourself a favor-don't put that in your article. Sh.e.l.l change her mind.

Glad to hear it. I left it out anyway.

What line did you go on?

Samantha Winacre says: I'm in love. Okay?

Thank you, Jim. See you soon. Hey, just a minute-did she say who shes in love with?

The name is Tom Copper. I met him. Seems a sharp lad. I should watch out for your job.

Thanks again.

Bye.

Joe put the phone down with a clatter. He and Whitewood were even again in the personal favor stakes: but that was the lesser misfortune. Something was wrong for Sammy to tell the reporter she was turning down a script without telling her agent.

He got up from his desk and walked to the window. He looked out at the usual traffic snarl-up: cars were parked all the way along the double yellow lines. Everybody thinks hes an exception, Joe thought. A warden strolled along, ignoring the violations.

On the opposite sidewalk, an early-rising prost.i.tute propositioned a middle-aged man in a suit. Cases of cheap champagne were being carried into a strip club. In the doorway of a closed cinema, an Oriental with short black hair and a loud suit was selling a small packet of something to a haggard, unwashed girl whose hand trembled as she gave the man a note. Her gaunt face and butch haircut made her look a little like Sammy. Oh, Christ, what to do about Sammy.

This guy was the key. Joe went back to his desk and read the name he had scribbled on his pad: Tom Copper. If shes in love with him, shes under his influence. Therefore it is he who wants her to retire.

People hired Joe to help them make money. People with talent something Joe had never understood, except he knew he didnt have it. Just as Joe couldnt act to save his life, so his clients could not do business. He was there to read contracts, negotiate prices, advise on publicity, find good scripts and good directors: to guide naive, talented people through the jungle of the show business world.

His duty to Sammy was to help her make money. But that did not really answer the question.

The truth was, an agent was a whole lot more than a businessman. In his time Joe had been mother and father, lover, psychiatrist: he had provided a shoulder to cry on, bailed clients out of jail, pulled strings to get drugs charges dropped, and acted as marriage guidance counselor. Helping the artist make money was a phrase which meant much more than it said out loud.

Protecting inexperienced people from the sharks was a big part of it. Joes world was full of sharks: turn producers who would give an actor a part, make a pile out of the film, and leave the actor wondering where next months rent was coming from; phony gurus pus.h.i.+ng quack religions, meditation, vegetarianism, mysticism or astrology who would milk a star of half his income; screwball organizations and semi-crooked businessmen who would bamboozle a star into supporting them, and then squeeze every ounce of available publicity out of the a.s.sociation without regard to the artists image.

Joe was afraid Tom Copper was one of the sharks. It was all too fast; the guy had come from nowhere and suddenly he was running Sammys life. A husband she needed: a new agent she did not.

His decision was made. He leaned over his desk and pressed a buzzer. The intercom hissed: Yes, Mr. Davies?

Come in right away, will you, Andy?

He sipped his coffee while he waited, but it was cold. Andrew Fairholm-he p.r.o.nounced it Fareham-was a smart lad. He reminded Joe of himself. The son of a bit-part actor and an unsuccessful concert pianist, he had realized at an early age that he had no talent. Bitten with the show business bug all the same, he had gone into management and made a couple of second-rate rock groups into big earners. About that time Joe had hired him as a personal a.s.sistant.

Andy entered without knocking and sat down in front of the desk. He was a good-looking youngster, with long, dean, brown hair, a wide-lapelled suit and an open-necked s.h.i.+rt with a Mickey Mouse pattern. He had been to university and cultivated a posh accent. He was good for Joes agency: gave it a slightly more modern image. His brain and youthful trendiness complemented Joes experience and renowned cunning.

Trouble with Sammy Winacre, Andy, Joe said. Shes told a newspaper reporter that shes in love and shes giving up acting.

Andy rolled his eyes up. I always said that chick was weird. Who is the guy?

Names Tom Copper.

Who the h.e.l.l is he?

That's what I want to find out. Joe ripped the sheet of paper from his pad and handed it over. Quick as you like.

Andy nodded and left. Joe relaxed slightly. He felt better with Andy working on the problem. For all his charm and fine manners, the lad had very sharp teeth.

It was a warm evening, with a summery smell in the still air. The sunset over the rooftops leaked blood into the high, spa.r.s.e clouds. Samantha turned away from the bas.e.m.e.nt window and went to the c.o.c.ktail cabinet.

Tom put a jazz record on the player and sprawled on the sofa. Samantha handed him a drink and curled up beside him. He put his large arm around her thin shoulders, and bent his head to kiss her. The doorbell rang.

Ignore it, he said, and kissed her mouth.

She dosed her eyes and worked her lips against his. Then she got up. Id rather keep you in suspense.

It took her a few moments to recognize the short, velvet-suited man at the door. Julian!

h.e.l.lo, Samantha. Am I bothering you?

Not at all. Would you like to come in?

He stepped inside the door, and she led him down the stairs. I wont keep you very long, he said apologetically.

Julian looked a little embarra.s.sed when he saw Tom on the sofa. Samantha said: Tom Copper, Julian Black. Tom towered over Julian as they shook hands. Samantha went to the bar. Whisky, isnt it?

Thank you.

Julian runs an art gallery, Samantha said.

Thats a little premature. Im opening one. What do you do, Tom?

You could call me a financier.

Julian smiled. You wouldnt like to put some money into an art gallery, by any chance?

Not my line.

What is?

You might say I take money from A and give it to B.

Samantha coughed, and Julian had the feeling he was being laughed at. He said: Actually, its gallery business that brings me here. He took the drink Samantha handed him, and watched her settle snugly in the crook of Toms arm. Im looking for someone attractive and interested to open the place. Sarah suggested I ask you. Would you do it, as a favor to us?

Id love to, but Ill have to make sure Im not supposed to be somewhere else on the day. Can I ring you later?

Sure. Julian took a card out of his pocket. All the details are on here.

She took the card. Thanks.

Julian swallowed his drink. I wont bother you any longer, he said. He seemed slightly envious. You look so cozy. Nice to meet you, Tom.

He paused at the door and looked at a postcard perched on top of the thermostat on the wall. Whos been to Livorno? he said.

An old friend of mine. Samantha got up. I must introduce you to her one day. Shes just got a degree in art history. Look. She took the postcard down, turned it over, and showed it to him. Julian read it.

How fascinating, he said. He handed the postcard back. Yes, Id like to meet the lady. Well, dont bother to climb the stairs with me. Goodbye.

When, he had gone Tom said: Why do you want to open his wretched picture shop for him?

His wifes a friend. The Honorable Sarah Luxter.

Which makes her the daughter of ... ?

Lord Cardwell.

The one whos selling his art collection?

Samantha nodded. Its oil paint in the veins, you know.

Tom did not smile. Now theres a caper.

The party was at the lifeless stage that parties go through in the small hours before they get their second wind. The unrestrained drinkers were getting sloppy and disgusting and the restrained ones were feeling the beginnings of their hangovers. The guests stood around in cl.u.s.ters, concentrating on conversations which varied from the intellectual to the comically incoherent.

The host was a film director just returned from the exile of television commercials. His wife, a tall, thin woman whose long dress exposed most of what little bosom she had, welcomed Samantha and Tom and took them to the bar. A Filipino barman whose eyes were glazing a little poured whisky for Samantha and emptied two bottles of lager into a pint gla.s.s for Tom. Samantha gave Tom a sharp look: he did not often drink beer, especially in the evening. She hoped he was not going to be aggressively working-cla.s.s all night The hostess made small talk. Joe Davies detached himself from a group on the far side of the room and came over. The hostess, glad to be discharged, returned to her husband.

Joe said: Sammy, you have to meet Mr. Is.h.i.+. Hes tonights star guest, and the reason were all at the lousy party.

Who is he?

A j.a.panese banker who is known to want to invest in the British film industry. He must be mad, which is why everyones trying to get in with him. Come on. He took her arm, and with a nod to Tom, led her over to where a bald man with gla.s.ses was talking soberly to half-a-dozen attentive listeners.

Tom watched the introductions from the bar, then blew the froth off the top of his lager and sank half of it. The Filipino absentmindedly wiped the top of the bar with a cloth. He kept eyeing Tom.

Tom said: Go on, take a drink-I wont tell on you.

The barman flashed him a smile, grabbed a half-full gla.s.s from under the bar, and took a long swallow.

A womans voice said: I wish I had the courage to wear jeans-theyre so much more comfortable.

Tom turned to see a short girl in her twenties. She was expensively dressed in imitation fifties clothes: pointed, stiletto-heeled shoes, a tapered skirt, and a double-breasted jacket. Her short hair was in a swept-back ducktail style with a quiff at the front.

He said: Theyre cheaper, too. And we dont have many c.o.c.ktail parties in Islington.

She opened her heavily shadowed eyes wide. Is that where you live? Ive heard that working-cla.s.s men beat their wives.

7esus Christ, Tom muttered.

The girl went on: I think thats awful-I mean, I couldnt stand being beaten by a man. I mean, unless he was ever so nice. Then I might like it. Do you think you would enjoy beating a woman? Me, for instance?

Ive got better things to worry about, Tom said. His contemptuous tone seemed to be lost on the girl. If you had some real problems to think about you wouldnt be making a fool of yourself with me. Privilege breeds boredom, and boredom breeds empty people like you.

He had needled the girl at last. If thats how you feel, maybe you should choke on your privileged beer. What are you doing here, anyway?

That's what Im wondering. He drained his gla.s.s and stood up. Crazy conversations like this I dont need.

He looked around for Sammy, but he heard her voice before he saw her. She was shouting at Joe Davies. In a second everyone was watching.

Her face was red, and she was more angry than Tom had ever seen her. How dare you investigate my friends? she yelled. Youre not my guardian angel, youre my lousy f.u.c.king agent. You used to be my agent, because youre fired, Joe Davies. She slapped the mans face once, hard, and turned on her heel.

The agent purpled in humiliation. He stepped after Samantha with a raised fist. Two long strides took Tom across the room. He pushed Joe, gently but firmly, so that the agent rocked back on his heels. Then Tom turned and followed Samantha out of the room.

Outside on the sidewalk, she broke into a run. Sammy! Tom called. He ran after her. When he caught up with her, he gripped her arm and stopped her.

What is this all about? he asked.

She looked up at him, confusion and anger in her eyes. Joe had you investigated, she said. He said you had a wife, four children, and a police record.

Oh. He looked piercingly into her eyes. So what do you think?

How the h.e.l.l do I know what to think?

I have a broken marriage, and the divorce isnt through yet. Ten years ago I forged a check. Does that make any difference to anything?

She stared at him for a moment. Then she buried her head in his shoulder. No, Tom, no.

He held her still in his arms for a long moment. Then he said: It was a lousy party, anyway. Lets s get a cab.

They walked up to Park Lane and found a taxi outside one of the hotels. The driver took them along Piccadilly, the Strand, and Fleet Street. Tom got him to stop at a newsstand where early editions of the morning papers were on sale.

It was getting light as they drove under Holborn Viaduct. Look at this, Tom said. Lord Cardwells paintings are expected to raise a million pounds. He folded the paper and looked out of the window. Do you know how he got those pictures?