The Troubled Air (13 page)

“Zero,” Archer mumbled, blinking.

“What?” Kitty asked.

Archer shook his head to clear it. “Nothing,” he said. “I was dreaming.”

“Mr. Barbante’s downstairs,” Kitty said. “I said you were sleeping, but he said he’d wait.”

Archer sat up. “Have I been asleep long?”

“A half hour,” said Kitty.

“How long has Barbante been here?”

“Twenty minutes. I told him you were tired and I wouldn’t disturb you for awhile. If you don’t want to see him, I’ll tell him you’re not feeling well.”

Archer swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll see him,” he said wearily. He went into the bathroom and rubbed his face with cold water, waking himself up.

He put on his jacket and went downstairs, leaving Kitty in the bedroom. Kitty was standing in front of the mirror, staring speculatively at herself.

A
RCHER WENT TOWARD HIS STUDY, FROM WHICH HE HEARD THE SOUND
of Jane’s voice.

“Soda or water?” He heard Jane say and then Barbante’s voice, very precise and actorish, answering, “Water, please. I always take water.” He opened the door. Barbante was sitting in the big chair, fluent in a dark suit, tapping a cigarette on his gold case. The bottle of Scotch in Jane’s hand seemed, to Archer, incongruous and vaguely disturbing.

“Hello,” Archer said, coming into the room.

“Daddy,” Jane looked up from the bar. “I’m entertaining for you.” She finished mixing the drink.

“Hello, Clement,” Barbante said, getting up politely. “She’s doing it handsomely, too.”

Archer shook hands with Barbante. “Glad to see you, Dom,” he said, trying to sound as though he meant it.

“I was passing by,” Barbante said, seating himself again, balancing his glass on the arm of the chair. “And I thought I’d take a chance and drop in. There’re one or two things I have to talk to you about.”

Archer sat down, conscious suddenly of the heavy smell of Barbante’s toilet water in the room. God, he thought, that man leaves a trail wherever he goes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” Archer said, “when you called …”

“Perfectly all right.” Barbante waved graciously. “It gave me a chance to become acquainted with the charming member of the family.”

“Daddy,” Jane said, “can I make you a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Archer said. He really wanted one, but he preferred not to have the scene too cosy and friendly.

“I think I’ll have a Martini,” Jane said. She looked obliquely at Archer, half-daring him to object. She had been permitted to drink for the last two years, but only a little wine before and during dinner, and this, as far as Archer knew, would be her first Martini.

“Here,” Barbante said, standing up and going over to the little bar, where Jane was irresolutely facing the collection of bottles, “let me make it. I have an objection to lady bartenders. Old family prejudice. Roughens the hands and coarsens the female spirit. You just get a glass, Jane,” he said easily, “and sit down and leave the rest to me.”

My, Archer thought, putting up a cloud of smoke, he really makes himself at home fast. Twenty minutes and he’s taking over the bar, ordering the child around … Archer watched Barbante deftly mix the drink, his large gold cuff links flickering expensively over the shaker. Jane brought him a glass and Barbante rewarded her with one of his slow, enigmatic, ambassadorial smiles. Jane sat down on the couch near the bar and watched him seriously.

“There,” Barbante said, giving Jane the brimful glass. “Salut.”

“Salut,” Jane said self-consciously. “This is an utterly delicious Martini.”

How would she know, Archer thought resentfully; why does she have to put on these grownup airs?

“I was telling Jane about my father’s ranch, before you came in,” Barbante said, seating himself with his glass. “In California. About the roundup in the spring when the range begins to go dry and the drive up to the pastures in the mountains for the summer …”

“He’s a cowboy, Daddy,” Jane said. “He can rope a steer.”

“That must come in very handy,” Archer said, “at the Stork Club.”

Barbante laughed easily.

“You’d never guess he was a cowboy,” Jane said. “He looks so urban.”

“Dom,” Archer said, “what is it you wanted to see me about?”

“Oh, yes,” Barbante said. “Jane,” he turned familiarly to the girl, “don’t you think you’d better go up and dress? You can finish your drink while you’re doing your face.”

“I’ll be down in a flash,” Jane said, standing obediently, subtly flattered at the conception of herself among the company of women who did their faces with the aid of alcohol.

“Are you going out?” Archer asked.

“Yes, Daddy,” Jane said. “Mr. Barbante has two tickets for the ballet tonight and he’s invited me. And he’s going to give me dinner. Isn’t he a nice man?”

Barbante, the ever-ready man, Archer thought, roaming the world with two tickets to something in his pocket at all times, always ready for any emergency.

“Didn’t you have a date for tonight?” Archer asked, not looking at Barbante. “With Bruce?”

“We left it up in the air,” Jane said carelessly. “I’d rather go to the ballet, anyway.”

Poor Bruce, Archer thought.

“Look,” Barbante said, “if your boy-friend—what’s his name …”

“Bruce,” Jane said, standing at the door.

“If Bruce shows up,” Barbante went on, “why don’t you leave a message for him? Tell him to meet us for a drink after the theatre. Say, the Oak Room of the Plaza, about eleven-fifteen.”

“Daddy,” Jane said, “if Bruce happens to call, will you tell him?”

“I’ll tell him.” Archer nodded. “The Plaza. Eleven-fifteen.”

“I’ll just be a minute,” Jane said, starting out of the room, carefully holding her drink.

I’ll bet she pours it down the drain, Archer thought, as soon as she gets upstairs. “Darling,” he said, “will you tell your mother we’ll be alone for dinner?”

“I’ll pass on the happy news,” Jane said. She went out, leaving Archer vaguely annoyed at her flippancy. She wasn’t flippant with him at other times. Young people, Archer thought, turning to Barbante, invariably pick the most unpleasant techniques of appearing adult.

“A delightful child,” Barbante said, making it sound like an official proclamation. “So fresh and unspoiled.”

“Yes,” Archer said bleakly. “You said you had one or two things to talk to me about …”

“Oh, yes.” Barbante rolled the ice around in his glass. Say, listen, amigo, what’s this about Pokorny?” He looked curiously at Archer.

“What about Pokorny?” Archer asked carefully, trying to figure out instantaneously how much to tell Barbante.

“He called me today,” Barbante said, “and I went down to see him. He’s sick in bed.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Archer said, stalling for time.

“Cold, grippe, general dissatisfaction with life,” Barbante said. “Viennese weltschmerz.”

“I’ll call him tomorrow,” said Archer, “and see how he’s doing.”

“He’s really in bad shape,” Barbante said. “Not only from the cold.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He told me you fired him,” Barbante said. “Is that true?”

“Not exactly,” Archer said. He filled a pipe and took a long time lighting it, conscious of Barbante’s eyes on him, critical through the thick lashes. “We’re trying someone else. Temporarily.”

“Who?”

“We haven’t decided yet,” Archer said.

“Amigo,” Barbante said, pretending to be hurt, “you are going into the old agency double talk. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

I wish he’d stop calling everybody amigo, Archer thought, resenting the short, richly dressed, self-confident man with his gold appointments and his familiar manners. We all know he comes from California and his family is of old Spanish stock; he doesn’t have to remind us in every sentence,

“Actually, Dom,” Archer said, keeping his voice friendly, “Pokorny is a big grown man. He can take care of his own problems.”

“Actually, amigo,” Barbante mimicked Archer’s tone, “Pokorny is not a big grown man. He’s a naked, unhappy child and he’s been through a lot and he has a tendency to fall to pieces over his problems, as you call them.”

“Still,” Archer said stubbornly, angry with Barbante because everything Barbante had said was true, “I don’t see where you come into the picture.”

“Well,” Barbante drawled, getting up and pouring himself some more of Archer’s whiskey, “for one thing, I’m his friend, if he can be said to have any friends. For another thing …” Judiciously he dropped a cube of ice into the glass and poured a few drops of water on top of it “…it’s to my advantage to see that the show does as well as it can.” He smiled agreeably at Archer. “From a purely crass, materialistic basis, you understand. When the rating goes up, I buy my hardware at Carrier’s. When the rating goes down …” He shrugged and seated himself, once more, crossing his legs deliberately, exposing a gold buckle on his garter. “I might have to start handling cattle again.”

“Don’t give me that, Cowboy,” Archer said shortly. “You’re one of the top writers in the business and you’ll do all right, no matter what.”

Barbante chuckled. “Don’t sound so gloomy about it,” he said. “You don’t begrudge me my sordid little success, do you?”

“Of course not,” Archer said hastily. He looked at Barbante. The expression on Barbante’s face was cold and amused. He would gladly do me harm, Archer thought, if he had a little more ambition.

“I have a more personal interest, too,” Barbante said, veiling his eyes. Fleetingly, Archer wondered, if Barbante, too, was mixed up in Pokorny’s politics. Oh, no, he thought. I mustn’t start
that.
“Pokorny and I,” Barbante said, “are collaborators.”

“I know you are,” Archer said. “After all, I got you together.”

“I don’t mean only on University Town. We’re writing a musical comedy together. In the spare time we steal from the air waves.”

“I’d like to hear it when you get through with it,” Archer said politely. “I’m sure it will be very good.”

“Maybe.” Barbante smiled deprecatingly. He took a long drink. “It’s about the West.” His smile continued into a chuckle. “You’d be surprised how Western your friend Pokorny can be. The spirit of Texas, New Mexico and Nevada in every bar. And he’s never been past Buffalo.”

“He’s a very talented man,” Archer said.

“He certainly is,” said Barbante. “That’s why I’m curious about his losing his jobs.”

“What do you mean jobs?” Archer asked, noting the plural.

“He had one other job. With Crowell and Hines. He lost that this morning, too. Temporarily.” Barbante put a mocking emphasis on the last word. “They suddenly felt the need for changes in their program, too. Isn’t the world full of coincidences this year?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Archer said, sorry for Pokorny. “Why don’t you ask Crowell and Hines?”

“I intend to,” Barbante said. “But I thought I’d ask you first. Since we’re such old friends and since we’ve worked together so happily for so many years.” His voice was flat and artless and he stared candidly at Archer as he spoke. “You’re not particularly fond of me …” Barbante said surprisingly.

“Now, Dom,” Archer began to protest.

“You’re not particularly fond of me”—Barbante waved his hand to silence Archer—“and I know it, but I’ve never gotten anything but a square shake from you. And I’ve never heard that you’ve double-dealt anyone else, either. You’re a bloody monument in the radio business, Archer. You have to be seen to be believed.”

“Thanks,” Archer said. “I’ll put it in my scrapbook.” But he felt uncomfortable and tongue-tied.

“I want a square shake now, Clem,” Barbante said soberly, “for Pokorny. He’s on the verge of breaking up. He’s defenseless and he feels persecuted. What the hell, he
is
persecuted. God persecuted him in the beginning when He made him look like that and made him a Jew in Vienna in the twentieth century.”

“Now, don’t bring
that
up, Dom,” Archer said, grateful that at least on this charge he could feel righteous. “You know that has nothing to do with his being dropped for awhile.”

“I don’t know anything.” Barbante drank again. “And Pokorny doesn’t know anything. And he fears the worst. Pokorny is a man who automatically fears the worst all the time, because up to now, the worst has almost always happened to him. At least if he finds out that he’s been rejected now for one specific sensible reason, he can localize his depression.” Barbante smiled a little at his own phrase. “He won’t feel that it’s a general, nameless attack on him from all points of the compass. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

“I understand,” Archer said.

“Now,” Barbante said, “are you going to tell me that Pokorny is being dropped, ‘temporarily,’ just because you think some vague changes ought to be made in the program?”

“Yes,” Archer said, after a little pause, “that’s what I’m going to tell you.”

Barbante finished his drink. He stood up and went over to the bar and put the glass down. It made a little damp click on the chromium surface. “You’re not leveling with me, Clement,” Barbante said gently. “For the first time. I regret it.”

He turned and faced Archer silently. He looked serious and intelligent and friendly and there was a sense of reserved emotion in his dark face. For the first time, Archer got an inkling of what it was in Barbante that made him so attractive to women.

“I’m sorry, Dom,” Archer said quietly. He stood up and made a task of knocking his pipe out. “In a few days,” he said, knowing as he said it that it was unwise to promise anything, “in a few days maybe I’ll be able to tell you more.”

“I’ll be around,” Barbante said more lightly. “With questions. Never fear.”

“Here I am.” It was Jane, at the door. “Wasn’t I fast?” She came into the room, presenting herself a little uncertainly in her grownup black dress for Barbante’s approval.

Barbante looked at her gravely. “You look very tasty,” he said.

Archer glanced sharply at the writer. That’s a stupid thing to say to an eighteen-year-old girl, he thought, in front of her father. But Jane was smiling widely, delighted with what she obviously took as a compliment. The dress was cut low, Archer noticed, and showed quite a bit of bosom. Jane was quite full in front and for the first time Archer realized that it was not just the healthy robustness of a child that was being displayed there. Who the hell picks her dresses, he thought. I have to have a conversation with her mother on that subject.