A Choice of Enemies (20 page)

Sonny Winkleman toyed unhappily with his glass. “Tell them what you told me, Charlie,” he said.

Charlie hesitated.

“Come on. Don’t be embarrassed.”

“Karp,” he said, “has told me in so many words that Norman Price is mentally unstable.”

“Come again,” Bob Landis said.

“Do you know how many times they opened up Price’s head in the hospital?” Graves asked.

“No,” Bob said, “do you?”

“Go ahead, Charlie.”

“Karp says that Norman feels he’s wasted his life – as he puts it – getting mixed up in headlines and ephemeral angers. He told Karp that the fight we put up for the Rosenbergs was vitiated by the fact that we shut our eyes to the grosser injustices of the other side.”

“Is he a Trotskyite?”

“How should I know?”

“Hey, what
are
Norm’s politics?”

“Charlie?”

“I dunno. Not any more.”

“Didn’t he go to Spain recently? I mean a guy who would give Franco dollars.…”

Landis grinned avidly. “Let’s get him down here,” he said, “and make him tell us what his politics are.” But the others didn’t see the joke.

“What else, Charlie?”

Charlie shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Tell them what you told Sonny,” Graves said.

“What I told Sonny was private.”

Winkleman explained. “I bought a story from Charlie here – a real cute comedy – and hired Norman to work on the dialogue here and there. This afternoon Charlie comes roaring in here to tell me that he doesn’t want anything more to do with the picture. All this, mind you, after we’ve set up a production. He tells me that I can have my money back and that Norm can take all the credit for as far as he’s concerned.”

“That was something else,” Charlie protested weakly. “There’s another reason for that.”

“Come on.” Winkleman slapped Charlie on the back. “Stop trying to protect him.” He told the others something of the history of
All About Mary
. “They’re old friends,” he said.

“That’s not why I want my name off the picture,” Charlie said. “I –”

“There’s loyalty for you.”

“Mr. Chairman,” Bob began drunkenly. “A point of –”

Jeremy slapped the table. “I’ve got it,” he said. “I can easily figure out why Norman didn’t want Charlie to know that he was the other guy on the script. He was afraid that someone with Charlie’s guts never would have agreed to work with an informer.”

Charlie rose swiftly from his chair. “I never once said Norman was an informer,” he shouted.

“A point of order,” Bob insisted loudly.

“What’s with you, Bob?”

“Why isn’t Norman here to defend himself?”

“I never once said that Norman was an informer.”

“But he’s a bit screwy, Charlie, isn’t he?” Graves asked. “How do you know that when he has one of his lapses he doesn’t …” Graves tapped his head and drew quick circles with his finger. “He, you know … You know, like – Ask any psychiatrist.”

“Maybe Bob’s right,” Plotnick said. “Let’s call Norman.”

Winkleman took Bella by the arm. “Tell them why Norm isn’t here,” he said.

“When I told him that Sonny had given up everything he had in Hollywood for a principle he actually asked what that principle was.”

“Really,” Bob said.

“When she insisted on it,” Winkleman added, “he told her that she was a very silly woman.”

“Maybe,” Bob said. “But I don’t like the tone of all this. Norman should be here.”

“Bob’s right,” Charlie said.

“Why,” Graves asked, “so that he can hit somebody again?”

“Or get more information for the
FBI,”
Jeremy said.

“I never said that Norman was an informer.”

“Here,” Winkleman said, passing Bob the phone, “call him.”

Landis hesitated.

“I guarantee you that he won’t come,” Graves said. “He doesn’t want to have anything more to do with us.
We’re mediocre
. That’s what he told Karp.”

Charlie scratched his head furiously.

“Look,” Winkleman said, “don’t you think we were fond of him too? But he couldn’t do enough to help that little Nazi bastard. He –”

“Sure, but –”

“Obviously somebody here has informed on Boris. Was it me?”

“No, but –”

“Maybe I’m an informer,” Graves said.

“No, but –”

“Charlie’s living in his flat. The shelves are crammed with people like Trotsky and Koestler. Do you know what Charlie found in his desk? Three back issues of the
Intelligence Digest
. That’s a fascist magazine that you can only get by subscription.”

“How do we know,” Landis asked, “that anyone here did inform on Boris in the first place? Maybe the passport people just happened to get around to him.…”

“Yes,” Charlie said hopefully, “that’s it.”

Graves embraced Charlie affectionately. “I know you don’t like this, boy. It’s a shock to you. We understand. I worked with a guy for fifteen years.…”

Graves told him the story of his partner who had testified against him.

“I feel sick,” Charlie said.

“Go home, boy. We understand.”

Charlie rose shakily. As he slipped round-shouldered out of the living room he just had time to hear Jeremy say, “How come there isn’t more work for a guy like Charlie?”

“If things work out for me tomorrow,” Plotnick said, “I’ll be able to use him myself.”

I should go back, Charlie thought, and explain. Explain what? That Norman had cuckolded him? He wasn’t going to be made a laughing-stock for Norman’s sake.

“Well,” Graves asked, “what are we going to do about Norman?”

But with Charlie’s departure they had all been purged of their fury. Everyone except Graves was ashamed.

For an hour they had created the illusion that they were back in Hollywood. For an hour they had been powerful executives once more, for an hour they had been resurrected as creative gamblers, as men with functions and offices. But then Winkleman had looked out of the window, where there was no studio lot below, and Plotnick had
leaned on his desk, where there were no buzzers to summon obsequious aides, and Jeremy had walked past the window, which looked out on no swimming pool, and Landis had rested his hand on the phone, which could summon no starlets, even though he was bored. So the illusion had been destroyed.

“I dunno,” Plotnick said.

“Come to think of it,” Jeremy said, “maybe we’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Winkleman sighed. “Norman’s coming here tomorrow afternoon. I’m supposed to see him about his contract.”

One by one they said good bye. Nobody paired off. They drove or walked home one by one.

Charlie drifted towards Swiss Cottage. I never once said that he was an informer, he thought. They twisted my words. They drew their own conclusions. But somebody, he thought, must have informed on Jeremy. How do I know that it wasn’t Norman? Could I swear to it? Norman
is
a bit odd. Then there’s that story about Graves’s partner. Maybe they’re right.

Charlie stopped off at the nearest pub and ordered a double whisky. There he realized for the first time that the post-dated cheque he had come to return still lay on Winkleman’s desk. Nothing had been settled about
All About Mary
. He was still broke. He still had to see his bank manager in the morning.

Where am I going to get some money, Charlie thought, where?

Norman came round to see Charlie early the next morning. Charlie came to the door in his dressing gown. He looked shocked. “I thought it was the milkman,” he said, holding the door half-open. “It’s not even nine o’clock yet.…” He gathered up his newspapers anxiously. “Joey is still in bed.”

“I came to see you.”

They sat down together at the kitchen table. Charlie put aside his copies of the
Manchester Guardian
and the
Daily Worker
and scanned the headlines of the
Daily Express
. “What do you want?” he asked sharply.

Norman, who had come directly to Charlie’s flat from the small hotel off Curzon Street, risked a friendly smile. “I’ve had a hard night,” he said.

Joey moaned something inaudible from the bedroom.

“You might as well come in,” Charlie said. “He’s
your
friend.”

“I’d rather speak to you alone,” Norman said.

Joey came in, yawning, and rubbing the nape of her neck drowsily.

“I’ve come to apologize,” Norman said.

“For what?” Charlie asked.

Norman smiled inanely. “I’m not quite sure.…”

“First you make a shady deal with Rip Van Pinkleman behind my back and then, as if to prove that it wasn’t a fluke, you hop into bed with my wife at the first opportunity.”

Norman took out the cheque Charlie had sent him and laid it on the table. “This is yours,” he said, “no matter how you feel about me.”

“Keep it.”

“You’re upset, Charlie. You have every reason to be angry with me. I shouldn’t have gone ahead with the Winkleman deal without speaking to you first. But nothing happened last night. Joey hasn’t been unfaithful to you.”

“I know that you two went to bed together,” Charlie reached for Joey’s hand. He clasped it warmly. “But it doesn’t really matter any more. You can’t harm us now. We’re going to make a fresh start.” Charlie winked desperately. “Like Abelard and Heloise.”

Norman looked inquiringly at Joey.

“What makes it doubly sad,” Charlie said, “is that I was about to forgive you the Winkleman deal. I thought to myself we’ve been friends for years so what the hell. As a matter of fact,” he added, “I
was going to ask you to lend me two hundred pounds. Now it’s out of the question.…”

Norman pushed the cheque towards him again.

“No,” Charlie said,
“this
cheque I could never take. Borrowing would have been different. But I couldn’t even do that now. I’ll just have to manage as best I can.” Charlie rustled his
Daily Worker
nervously. “Look at this,” he said, “our old pal Waldman is the latest to sing. Son-of-a-bitch. If I,” he said, watching Norman intently, “had as little integrity as these guys I could be pulling down two grand a week on the coast. No thank you, Daryl.”

“I’ll lend you two hundred pounds.”

“I need it badly. But I couldn’t take it.”

“I’ll mail it to you,” Norman said. “You don’t even have to see me.”

“It’s something I just couldn’t do.”

“Look,” Norman said, “we didn’t make love last night. Or any night. I swear it.”

“I hate saying this,” Charlie said, “but you aren’t well. I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to remember.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, Norman, but you’ve been known to suffer from lapses of memory before.”

“Why, that’s absurd,” Norman said, but his voice was slivered with weakness.

“I tried to tell him,” Joey said, “but he wouldn’t believe me.” She looked from Charlie to Norman, her eyes filled with tears, and rushed out of the room and slammed the bedroom door after her.

Charlie smiled helplessly. “Another cup of coffee, huh?”

“No.”

I hate you, Charlie thought. You make me lie. You make me cheat. You’re no better than me any more. I hate you.

“Hey,” Charlie said, “I’ve been offered a picture deal. They’d like me to do a story with a mining background.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like to work on the storyline with me?”

“No.”

Charlie passed his sweaty hand over his forehead.

“I’ll write you a cheque for the two hundred pounds,” Norman said.

“I’d be able to pay you back in a couple of months. But I couldn’t take it. Not now.”

Norman wrote out a cheque. This would mean another overdraft at the bank, but there was nothing he could do about it.

“I couldn’t,” Charlie said. “Really I couldn’t.”

“It would make me feel better.”

“Would it?” Charlie asked. “Are you being sincere?”

“Yes.”

“
O.K
.,” Charlie said, “but it’s a loan. Remember that.”

Norman got up. “So long, Charlie,” he said.

“Hey, what do you mean ‘so long’? We’ve known each other for years.” He followed Norman into the hall. “I’ll call you.”

“Sure.”

“You ought to get married. You need someone to take care of you.”

“Yeah.”

Charlie laughed nervously. “See you soon,” he said. Then, on impulse, he chased after Norman. He caught up with him outside. “Wait,” he said. “I’d like to speak to you.”

They went to an espresso bar around the corner. The place was choked with boys in duffle coats and girls with pink polished faces.

“Don’t you think I know deep inside that I’ll never make it?” Charlie asked. “Don’t you think I know?”

“Why don’t you pack it in, then?”

“I’m forty years old, Norman. I haven’t got a trade or a cent in the bank or anything. I haven’t even got a son. Sure, sure. I know. I’m a failure.”

Charlie looked up at Norman hopefully. He seemed to expect praise, a friendly gesture, the gift of a lie.

Help him, Joey had said. Tell him he’s good
. Norman felt sympathetic, he wanted to lie whitely, but he couldn’t. Charlie, he felt, had been waiting for Lefty all these years. He was forty. Godot had come instead.

“I’m a failure,
O.K.
, but don’t you think that if I wanted to I could have been a successful executive or lawyer or agency man?” He leaned closer to Norman. “Don’t you think …?”

Norman’s head ached. “I guess so, Charlie,” he said.

Charlie’s laughter spilled out humourlessly, like bile. “Sure I could have,” he said. “Only I decided early that I wasn’t going to get into the rat-race. Maybe I’m a failure, but I never squeezed out a smaller competitor or squirmed to a boss or worried about keeping up with the Joneses. I’ve always been free.” Charlie leaned back; he cleared his throat. “I’m a non-conformist.”

“A beautiful person bashed to bits by the soul-destroying machine of American capitalism.”

“Something like that.”

“Charlie,” Norman said. “Charlie.”

Charlie bit his lip. “I’m a bum,” he said, offering his confession to Norman like a cake. “You look at Hale, though. A big cheese he is in Toronto. He’s a frustrated artist, that’s what he is. He sold out.”