‘Welcome to the real world,’ said his mother.
Greg Peshkov and his father were in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Washington, DC, when they ran into Dave Rouzrokh.
Dave was wearing a white suit and a straw hat. He glared at them with hatred. Lev greeted him, but he turned away contemptuously without answering.
Greg knew why. Dave had been losing money all summer, because Roseroque Theatres was not able to get first-run hit movies. And Dave must have guessed that Lev was somehow responsible.
Last week Lev had offered Dave four million dollars for his movie houses – half the original bid – and Dave had again refused. ‘The price is dropping, Dave,’ Lev had warned.
Now Greg said: ‘I wonder what he’s doing here?’
‘He’s meeting with Sol Starr. He’s going to ask why Sol won’t give him good movies.’ Lev obviously knew all about it.
‘What will Mr Starr do?’
‘String him along.’
Greg marvelled at his father’s ability to know everything and stay on top of a changing situation. He was always ahead of the game.
They rode up in the elevator. This was the first time Greg had visited his father’s permanent suite at the hotel. His mother, Marga, had never been here.
Lev spent a lot of time in Washington because the government was forever interfering with the movie business. Men who considered themselves to be moral leaders got very agitated about what was shown on the big screen, and they put pressure on the government to censor pictures. Lev saw this as a negotiation – he saw life as a negotiation – and his constant aim was to avoid formal censorship by adhering to a voluntary code, a strategy backed by Sol Starr and most other Hollywood big shots.
They entered a living room that was extremely fancy, much more so than the spacious apartment in Buffalo where Greg and his mother lived, and which Greg had always thought to be luxurious. This room had spindly legged furniture that Greg imagined to be French, rich chestnut-brown velvet drapes at the windows, and a large phonograph.
In the middle of the room he was stunned to see, sitting on a yellow silk sofa, the movie star Gladys Angelus.
People said she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Greg could see why. She radiated sex appeal, from her dark-blue inviting eyes to the long legs crossed under her clinging skirt. As she put out a hand to shake his, her red lips smiled and her round breasts moved alluringly inside a soft sweater.
He hesitated a split second before shaking her hand. He felt disloyal to his mother, Marga. She never mentioned the name of Gladys Angelus, a sure sign that she knew what people were saying about Gladys and Lev. Greg felt he was making friends with his mother’s enemy. If Mom knew about this she would cry, he thought.
But he had been taken by surprise. If he had been forewarned, if he had had time to think about his reaction, he might have prepared, and rehearsed a gracious withdrawal. But he could not bring himself to be clumsily rude to this overwhelmingly lovely woman.
So he took her hand, looked into her amazing eyes, and gave what people called a shit-eating grin.
She kept hold of his hand as she said: ‘I’m so happy to meet you at long last. Your father has told me all about you – but he didn’t say how handsome you are!’
There was something unpleasantly proprietorial about this, as if she were a member of the family, rather than a whore who had usurped his mother. All the same he found himself falling under her spell. ‘I love your films,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Oh, stop it, you don’t have to say that,’ she said, but Greg thought she liked to hear it all the same. ‘Come and sit by me,’ she went on. ‘I want to get to know you.’
He did as he was told. He could not help himself. Gladys asked him what school he attended, and while he was telling her, the phone rang. He vaguely heard his father say into the phone: ‘It was supposed to be tomorrow . . . okay, if we have to, we can rush it . . . leave it with me, I’ll handle it.’
Lev hung up and interrupted Gladys. ‘Your room is down the hall, Greg,’ he said. He handed over a key. ‘And you’ll find a gift from me. Settle in and enjoy yourself. We’ll meet for dinner at seven.’
This was abrupt, and Gladys looked put out, but Lev could be peremptory sometimes, and it was best just to obey. Greg took the key and left.
In the corridor was a broad-shouldered man in a cheap suit. He reminded Greg of Joe Brekhunov, head of security at the Buffalo Metal Works. Greg nodded, and the man said: ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Presumably he was a hotel employee.
Greg entered his room. It was pleasant enough, though not as swanky as his father’s suite. He did not see the gift his father had mentioned, but his suitcase was there, and he began to unpack, thinking about Gladys. Was he being disloyal to his mother by shaking hands with his father’s mistress? Of course, Gladys was only doing what Marga herself had done, sleeping with a married man. All the same, he felt painfully uncomfortable. Was he going to tell his mother that he had met Gladys? Hell, no.
As he was hanging up his shirts, he heard a knock. It came from a door that looked as if it might lead to the neighbouring room. Next moment, the door opened and a girl walked through.
