the kitchen, Mrs Gomez had arrived and was making one of her great cheese and tomato omelettes. So he would cut back on lunch.
A half-hour later he was in his office, reading the L.A. Times. And was reminded of his dream by a sudden pounding in chest and temples. Page four held a story about American Nazis in California, and included a picture of six men in uniform giving the stiff-armed Nazi salute to a swastika flag. This small group, the caption said, was in San Francisco. Another even smaller group was located near Vargas, and a family-sized group was in the tiny farming community of Bethills in the San Joaquin Valley. Bethills, the text stated, was approximatley six hours by automobile from Los Angeles.
Storm-troopers, swastikas and Heil Hitlers six hours from David Howars.
He closed the paper and stood up from his desk.
His secretary Carrie came in just then, but hesitated before speaking. Because Mr Howars looked strangely different.
Trying to think of what it was, Carrie had the feeling that he had grown larger somehow, had been flexing his muscles . . . like Bruce Lee getting ready to chop down an opponent. Or maybe like Arnold Schwartzenegger in Pumping Iron, straining to lift hundreds of pounds.
That made her smile. Mr Howars with his conservative suits, shirts and ties from Mr Guy on Rodeo Drive, his greying hair and soft voice, his kind, fatherly face and gentle personality, breaking heads or straining to lift hundreds of pounds? Not likely!
Besides, he seemed normal again.
She told him that Mr Jitzler and the three men he called ‘the Canadians’ were here.
Jitzler was Swiss, old and fat, but he had the quickest pinch this side of Rome and she had learned never to turn her back on him. She had even complained to Mr Howars, who’d said, ‘Slap him . . . after we make the deal. He’s guaranteeing foreign distribution.’
She sent them in. Jitzler said, ‘Call me Johan, darlinggg. I could do wonders for you!’
Maybe five minutes later Carrie heard shouting in Mr Howars’s office. She couldn’t believe it – had heard nothing like it in her two years here. The door flew open and Jitzler came out, fast. He was so red in the face, he was almost purple. Carrie gasped as she saw that it was Mr Howars who was shoving him out with a hand at the back of his neck and another at the seat of his pants.
‘. . . mine lawyer!’ Jitzler was shouting.
‘Fine,’ Mr Howars said, panting, white-faced, and threw him toward the hall door. Jitzler bounced against the door, got it open and ran out, still shouting about ‘mine’ lawyer and bringing suit.
Carrie stared at Mr Howars, wondering at his being strong enough to handle a blimp like Jitzler so easily. He looked bigger again, as he had beside his desk. And then he didn’t. Then he rubbed his face, which was oily, and said, ‘I’m sorry,’ to no one in particular. And walked out.
When one of the Canadians, a tall, thin man named Bevins, came to the doorway, she said, ‘Mr Howars had to see someone down the hall for a moment.’
‘Incredible,’ Bevins muttered. ‘Jitzler’s a boor, yes, but still an incredible reaction.’
She had caught him looking her over a few times when Jitzler had been making passes, knew he was shy and uncertain with women, and so was emboldened to ask, ‘Just what happened?’
‘Jitzler told a joke. How do you get twenty Jews into a Volkswagon?’
She said she didn’t know.
‘Four in the seats and sixteen in the ashtray.’
She frowned. She didn’t get it. ‘I’ve got a Volkswagon,’ she said.
‘You’re too young. And not Jewish. The Nazi ovens . . .’
‘Oh,’ she said, and began to smile; then heard footsteps in the hall and put a finger to her lips. Bevins disappeared back into the office.
Mr Howars came in, looking embarrassed. He went into his office, head down, and closed the door. She wondered if he had blown the deal on Coast to Coast, the movie based on the novel he had under option. She hoped not. She planned to ask for a small part – that girl in the motel, maybe. She had been attending Estelle Harmon’s school of acting and felt she could handle it.
At seven that evening, after eating far more of the chicken and rice dinner Mrs Gomez had prepared than he should have, David went to the study where the housekeeper left his mail. He put on his glasses. Three letters lay on the desk. One was from home, as he still thought of the big old apartment on lower Park Avenue, just south of the Pan Am Building. Arlene continued to live there with their son, Mark, because New York’s rent control law made it not only affordable but the best deal she could find by far.
The second envelope held an advertisement pitching high-priced hair-pieces.
The last envelope had a name and return address unfamiliar to him: Miss Rita Goran in Santa Monica. It was hand-written, or rather printed, in small, very neat letters in deep blue ink. Inside, the hand-printing continued on a book-folded sheet of fine, off-white linen stationery with the letter G embossed at the top. There was a faint scent of perfume, very faint, as if passed on by chance from Miss Goran’s fingertips.
He re-examined the thick envelope and matching sheet of stationery. ‘Nice,’ he said conversationally. ‘Some actress has a good background, or is studying it.’
He heard his voice. It didn’t bother him. He’d been talking to himself for quite a while now; generally evenings, as he grew tired; sometimes in the car. He watched himself in the office.
He sat down in the swivel chair, tilted the goose-neck lamp, and read:
Dear Mr Howars
Thank you for answering my advertisement in the New York Review so promptly and courteously. I apologize for being less prompt, and plead an attack of embarrassment. You did not give a phone number. I suppose it is up to the initiator of the project to do that, so you will find mine at the bottom of this letter.
While your note was terse, it was the only one among the four answers I received that seemed honest, that did not suggest a headlong gallop toward intimacies, that did not make me wince at gaucheries and excesses. So even if we go no further, I thank you for that.
Sincerely, Rita Goran
The signature was thin, spidery, far less attractive than the printing, and perhaps explained the printing. But on the evidence of her letter, he felt he would like Miss Goran.
He read the phone number and glanced at his watch. Eight thirty. A good time to call.
He decided to read his ex-wife’s letter first; then felt he was avoiding that call, was afraid of that call, he who dealt with beautiful women every working day.
‘That’s just it,’ he said. ‘She may not be beautiful. She may be older than “mature” implies. She may be worn and lost and pitiful. What will you do then? How will you get through your date without hurting her?’
And even that wasn’t it, wasn’t the bottom line.
‘What if she finds you worn and pitiful?’
He opened Arlene’s letter. Mark was doing well at Columbia after a rather shaky freshman year.
Arlene’s wealthy older brother was suffering from high blood pressure caused, he claimed, by the approach of the tax season. Her younger brother was considering divorce . . .
He put aside the letter, lifted the phone and dialled, his palms sweating.
The woman’s voice was high and tremulous. For a moment he thought it an aged voice. ‘Hello?’ When he didn’t answer, she said, ‘Now who is this?’ crisply, losing the old-woman tremor.
‘David Howars, Miss Goran. In reply to your letter.’
It was her