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Editing, scoring, dubbing, the works. They think they've done enough. I can't
argue with them, Valerie ... not really."
"I want to work, Arthur."
"Hasn't your agent been getting you work?"
"Two television guest appearances. Not much else. I guess the word went out
about me. The picture
..."
"You were fine, Valerie, just fine."
"Arthur, don't lie to me. I know I'm in trouble. I can't get a job. You have
to do something."
There was a pathetic tone in her voice, yet she was forceful. Like someone
demanding unarguable rights. Crewes was desolate. His reaction was hostility.
"I have to do something? Good God, Valerie, I've kept you working for over six
months on three days of shooting. Isn't that enough?"
Her mouth worked silently for a moment, then very softly she said: "No, it
isn't enough. I don't know what to do. I can't go back to the diner. I'm back
here now. I have no one else to turn to, you're the one who brought me here.
You have to do something, it's your responsibility."
Arthur Crewes began to tremble. Beneath the desk he gripped his knees with his
hands. "My responsibility," he said bravely, "ended with your contract,
Valerie. I've extended myself, even you have to admit that. If I had another
picture even readying for production, I'd let you read for a part, but I'm in
the midst of some very serious rewrite with the screenwriter. I have nothing.
What do you want me to do?"
His assault cowed her. She didn't know what to say. He had been fair, had done
everything he could for her, recommended her to other producers. But they both
knew she had failed in the film, knew that the word had gone out. He was
helpless.
She started to go, and he stopped her.
"Miss Lone." Not Val, or Valerie now. A retreating back, a pall of guilt, a
formal name. "Miss
Lone, can I, uh, loan you some money?"
She turned and looked at him across a distance.
"Yes, Mr. Crewes. You can."
He reached into his desk and took out a checkbook.
"I can't afford pride, Mr. Crewes. Not now. I'm too scared. So make it a big
check."
He dared not look at her as she said it. Then he bent to the check and wrote
it in her name. It was not nearly big enough to stop the quivering of his
knees. She took it, without looking at it, and left quietly. When the intercom
buzzed and Roz said there was a call, he snapped at her, "Tell
'em I'm out. And don't bother me for a while!" He clicked off and slumped back
in his deep chair.
What else could I do? he thought.
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If he expected an answer, it was a long time in coming.
After she told Emery what had happened (even though he had been with her these
last five months, and knew what it was from the very tomb odor of it) she
waited for him to say don't worry, I'll
file:///F|/rah/Harlan%20Ellison/Ellison,%20Harlan%20-%20Love%20Ain't%20Nothing
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.txt take care of you, now that we're together again it will be all right, I
love you, you're mine. But he said nothing like that.
"They won't pick up the option, no possibility?"
"You know they dropped the option, Emery. Months ago. It was a verbal promise
only. For the next film. But Arthur Crewes told me he's having trouble with
the script. It could be months."
He walked around the little living room of his apartment in the Stratford
Beach Hotel. A
depressing little room with faded wallpaper and a rug the management would not
replace, despite the holes worn in it.
"Isn't there anything else?"
"A Western. TV. Just a guest shot, sometime next month. I read for it last
week, they seemed to like me."
"Well, you'll take it, of course."
"I'll take it, Emery, but what does it mean ... it's only a few dollars. It
isn't a living."
"We all have to make do the best we can, Val--"
"Can I stay here with you for a few weeks, till things get straightened away?"
Formed in amber, held solidified in a prison of reflections that showed his
insides more clearly than his outside, Emery Romito let go the thread that had
saved him, and plunged once more down the tunnel of despair. He was unable to
do it. He was not calloused, merely terrified. He was merely an old man trying
to relate to something that had never even been a dream--merely an illusion.
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