Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [31]
“Any action?” I asked.
“Little slow tonight,” he said.
I nodded toward Val.
“She alone?”
“She’s not accepting.”
“What’s she drinking?”
“Whiskey sour.”
“Fix me up one.”
“I think you’re wasting your money.”
As I sidled over to her, She crossed her legs enticingly.
“Hi. Your drink,” I said.
She looked me up and down. “Thanks, but no thanks. You’re a little short for my taste.”
“I’m tall in the saddle,” I said, taking a seat opposite her. (Tonight Val was the wife of a Navy flier out in the Pacific, somewhere.)
“Writer, huh?”
“Author. One of the best.”
“If truth be known, I’ve already turned a trick here tonight. He didn’t do me much good.”
And so forth and so forth and so forth. When I whisked her out to my suite two drinks later, the railbirds at the bar gawked and the bartender gave me a V for victory sign. Nothing, fellows, really nothing.
It was two in the morning. I couldn’t sleep. Val flicked on the bed lamp.
“Honey, you’re dressed.”
“I’ve got to get some air,” I said.
“Everything okay?”
“I’m just a little on edge about tomorrow. I won’t be out long.”
I walked down the hill toward Broadway and stopped in front of Stationers Book Store. The window held several dozen copies of Of Men in Battle, along with a blowup photograph of me—my first author’s photo, pipe, patches on the elbow of a corduroy jacket, the whole thing. Meet the Author, Autographing Party, Friday at 2 P.M.
Was I really standing there! So much flooded through me. The old memory of Broadway came alive and the street was filled with hundreds of swabbies and gyrene recruits and I could hear the voices of my buddies pretending they were tough and having fun. Seventeen years old, a long way from home, and all the world out there ahead of me. Meet the Author. What beautiful words ... meet the author ... you don’t know me, do you? I was one of those bewildered kids sick to the stomach from too many Singapore slings.
It was empty. Not a soul around. My books in the window. I started to cry.
“Looking for company, mister?”
It was Val. She’d thrown on a dress and coat and followed me from the hotel.
A squad car pulled up and one of the cops jumped out.
“What’s going on?”
Before I could answer, he saw my photo in the window.
“Hey! That’s you!”
“Jesus! Hey, Sean. It’s the author! Gideon Zadok. We heard you over the radio this evening. This broad bothering you?”
“She’s the mother of my children.”
The cop had been a Marine. He wouldn’t hear of us walking back up the hill. We had a couple of drinks with them in the old Mexican section and they drove us back to the El Cortez. I took their names and addresses and said I’d send them books.
Although the evening ended up with laughs, there was a disturbing undertone. The instant Val had broken my reverie before the store window, I felt put upon. I wanted to be alone, dammit, alone with my buddies. I wanted Pedro to be proud of me now.
Why was I so ticked? Val and I had shared everything. Or had we? I’d never told her about Pedro.
April 10, 1953
My Son! My Son! The first copy of your novel was received by me with its beautiful inscription. Confidentially, I don’t like, too much, the colors on the cover. And for why were they trying to hide your name?
Nevertheless, your leap into American letters comes as no surprise to me. From the time you were a little boy I helped you grow, encouraged you and now the fruits of our labors have been realized. My son the writer! And I, a humble paperhanger, a celebrity in my own right. I did not have any chance in my life to achieve in the arts, so you will realize for me, all my dreams.
Every night now we have over to our humble apartment, friends, filled with good wishes. “How will Gideon react when he is famous and wealthy?” Some would like to believe that Gideon will become like all other celebrities, go live in luxury, forget the little man and soon his writing will decline in quality and he will adapt his writings to the taste of the less literary minded. But we the majority categorically defeated that school of