“Mr. Groton?” the concierge said into the black receiver, “Mr. Corman to see you. Yes. Thank you.” He looked at Corman. “You may go up: 20–B. Turn to your right when you step out of the elevator.”
Groton’s apartment was near the end of the corridor and Groton himself was already standing in the door, his body wobbling slightly as he offered Corman a quick wave.
“Didn’t think you’d make it,” he said. “Haven’t had a guest in a long time. Forgive the mess.”
“Don’t worry,” Corman said. “I’m used to mess.”
Groton waved his hand groggily. “Ain’t it the truth.”
Corman pulled the camera bag from his shoulder and let it drop to the floor.
“Want a drink?” Groton asked.
“Do we have time?”
“Sure. What the fuck.”
“Okay,” Corman said. “Thanks.”
“Sit down anywhere,” Groton told him. His hands swept out from his sides in a gesture of resignation. “I’m a man of simple tastes.”
Corman took a seat in a small wooden chair and let his eyes take in the room. Groton’s sleeper-sofa was still out. It sagged at the center, and a large rumpled pile of bedding spilled over the right edge and gathered on the uncarpeted floor below. The curtains were frayed at their edges, and there were no photographs on the walls.
“Two sixteen a month,” Groton said. “That’s what I pay for this place.” He shook his head. “Shit, they’ll probably get close to fifteen hundred for it when I …” He stopped, catching himself. “When it’s vacant.”
Corman smiled. “At least.”
Groton pulled two paper cups from a stack of them on a small table. “Scotch okay?”
“Yeah.”
“What? Two fingers?”
“Yeah, that’s good.”
Groton smiled. “Can’t get tight,” he said, wagging his finger scoldingly. “Them’s the rules. Can’t get tight if you got a shoot.”
He handed Corman a glass. “You look like shit,” he said, then lifted his cup. “To shit.”
Corman turned toward him. “How many have you had, Harry?”
Groton waved his hand. “Not enough.” He walked uneasily over to a chair, slumped down in it and took another sip.
“When’s the shoot?” Corman asked.
Groton started to answer, then looked as if he’d misplaced something, and said nothing.
“Did you write it down?”
Groton nodded. “Somewhere.” He stared about blearily. “Where the fuck could it be?”
“What was it on, a piece of paper?”
“Yeah,” Groton answered dully. “Some piece of paper, somewhere.”
“It’s at the Plaza,” Corman reminded him. “That’s what you said yesterday.”
“That’s right,” Groton said, suddenly remembering. “The Plaza. Pomegranate, something like that. Some fruit name. At four-thirty.”
Corman looked at his watch. “That’s in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Groton said without concern. “Yeah, that’s right. Fifteen minutes.”
Corman glanced at the cup which tilted back and forth unsteadily in Groton’s hand. He’d poured himself a good deal more than two fingers.
“You going to make it?” Corman asked.
Groton grinned childishly. “Nope,” he said quietly. He shook his head. “Nope. Nope.”
Corman shrugged. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I can handle it.”
Groton looked at him softly. “Would you do that, Corman? Would you mind? I mean, to tell you the truth—” He thrust his hand out, and a wave of scotch washed over the front of his shirt. “Shit,” he hissed angrily. “Shit.” He began to slap at his shirt, sending small amber drops across the floor. “Shit. Shit.”
Corman grabbed a handful of Kleenex from the box beside the bed, rushed over, bent down and began wiping the scotch from Groton’s shirt.
“I’m entitled, right?” Groton asked brokenly. “Just one time?”
Corman nodded quickly. “Yeah, you’re entitled. Don’t worry about it.” He could feel Groton’s fingers toying with his hair. He drew them out and lowered the hand back into Groton’s lap. “You’re okay now,” he said.
“Right, right,” Groton said. He sat up slightly, his chest thrust out, chin held up. “Just fine,” he said determinedly. “No problem.”
There were no “fruit names” listed among the people who had rented ballrooms in the Plaza, but one of the families was named Pomeroy, and Corman thought it was a safe guess that that was the one Groton had meant. It was a wedding reception, and he managed to rush up the stairs to the designated room just as Stuart Clayton was glancing nervously at his watch for what Corman figured was probably the thousandth time.
“Where the hell is Groton?” Clayton asked as Corman mounted the last step.
“He came down with something,” Corman told him. “He sent me instead.”
“Sent you?”
“Yes.”
“Why you? This is not a blood-and-guts shoot. No offense,” Clayton said, “but I’ve never worked with you. And you can’t just work with anybody on this kind of thing. This is serious business.”
“I know how to handle it,” Corman assured him.
Clayton eyed him suspiciously. “You do, huh? Well, let me ask you something. How many of these shoots have you done, anyway?”
“Ten, twenty,” Corman said, lying through his teeth.
Clayton wasn’t buying it. “Really? When? Where? Give me some details.”
“In Boston,” Corman replied, grasping for straws. “I worked in Boston before I came to New York.”
Clayton still looked doubtful. “Where in Boston?” he demanded. “What rooms? What affairs? Jesus Christ, we’re not talking about the Ramada Inn here. We’re talking about the Plaza-fucking-Hotel.”
Corman knew his bluff had been called and made a do-or-die grab for the job.
“Look,” he said firmly. “Groton’s sick. He sent me. If you’ve got a problem with that, fine. I understand. So, go get somebody else.” He turned and started to leave.
“No, wait,” Clayton said quickly. “Sorry. Don’t take it personally. It’s just that …”
“Forget it,” Corman said, cozying up again. If he was going to replace Groton permanently, he’d have to get along with Clayton, and he didn’t want to ruin any chance of that on his first solo shoot. “Just relax,” he said easily. “Believe me, I’ll do a good job for you.”
“Okay,” Clayton said. “We’ll forget all about this little dispute. We’ll just go to work, okay?”
Corman nodded. “If you want anything special,” he said, “just let me know.”
Clayton smiled halfheartedly. “Good, thanks.” He slapped his hands together softly. “Well, as they say, we’re into the arena.”
Corman forced out a small laugh, then followed Clayton into the ballroom, walking slowly behind him, making sure he kept the lead.
It was over in less than two hours. Corman stood in the corner, munching a small cracker while Clayton worked the room, methodically pumping the last Pomeroy hand just one more time.
“Well, that’s it,” Clayton said, as he walked over to Corman, snapped off a bit of what was left of the cracker and chewed it slowly. “What’d you think?”
“It was okay,” Corman said.
One of Clayton’s light green eyes seemed to reach out toward him like a small, searching probe. “But did you enjoy it?”
“Yeah,” Corman said lightly. “It was fun.”
Clayton laughed. “You think so?” He laughed again. “Well, anyway, you did a good job. Really. Not bad at all. Maybe we could team up again sometime.”
Corman nodded.
“Would you like that?” Clayton asked.
