Ideal Read Online Free PDF Page B

about the woman. I’d never want to go near her if for some fool reason the yokels didn’t part with their cash so readily for a peek at that bleached pan of hers!”
    â€œWell, now, I couldn’t quote that in the paper.”
    â€œI don’t care what you quote. I don’t care what you do as long as you get out of here and go to the—”
    â€œThe publicity department—first,” said Morrison Pickens, rising.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    In the publicity department, four different hands slapped Morrison Pickens’ shoulder, and four faces looked at him, sweetly bland, as if they had never heard the name of Kay Gonda before, and it took an effort to remember it, and remembering it, they found they knew nothing but the name. Only one face, the fifth, bent closer to Morrison Pickens and whispered:
    â€œWe don’t know a thing, pal. Not allowed to know. And wouldn’t know if allowed. There’s only one person who might help you. Might, but probably won’t. Go see Mick Watts. I’m sure the bum knows something.”
    â€œWhy? Is he sober, for a change?”
    â€œNo. He’s drunker than usual.”
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Mick Watts was Kay Gonda’s personal press agent. He had been fired from every studio in Hollywood, from every newspaper on both coasts, and from many others in between. But Kay Gonda had brought him to the Farrow lot. They paid him a large salary and did not object to him as they did not object to Kay Gonda’s Great Dane on Anthony Farrow’s Josephine chaise longue.
    Mick Watts had platinum blond hair, the face of a thug, and the blue eyes of a baby. He sat in his office, his head buried in his arms on the desk. He raised his head when Morrison Pickens entered, and his blue eyes were crystal clear—but Pickens knew that they saw nothing, for two empty bottles lay conspicuously under his chair.
    â€œNice weather we’re having, Mick,” said Morrison Pickens.
    Mick Watts nodded and said nothing.
    â€œNice, but hot,” said Morrison Pickens. “Awful hot. Supposing you and me slip down to the commissary for something cool and liquid?”
    â€œI don’t know a thing,” said Mick Watts. “Save your cash. Get out.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about, Mick?”
    â€œI’m not talking about nothing—and that goes for everything.”
    In the typewriter on the desk, Morrison Pickens saw the sheet of a press release which Mick Watts had been composing. He read, incredulously:
    â€œKay Gonda does not cook her own meals or knit her own underwear. She does not play golf, adopt babies, or endow hospitals for homeless horses. She is not kind to her dear old mother—she
has
no dear old mother. She is not just like you and me. She never was like you and me. She’s like nothing you rotters ever dreamt of.”
    Morrison Pickens shook his head reproachfully. Mick Watts did not seem to mind his reading it. Mick Watts sat there, looking at the wall, as if he had forgotten Pickens’ existence.
    â€œYou could stand a drink, once in a while, couldn’t you, Mick?” said Morrison Pickens. “You look thirsty to me.”
    â€œI don’t know a thing about Kay Gonda,” said Mick Watts. “Never heard of her. . . . Kay Gonda. It’s a funny name, isn’t it? What is it? I went to confession once, long ago—very long ago—and they talked about the redemption of all sins. It’s a funny thing to yell ‘Kay Gonda’ and to think that all your sins are washed away. Just pay two bits in the balcony—and come out pure as snow.”
    â€œOn second thought, Mick,” said Morrison Pickens, “I won’t offer you another drink. You’d better have something to eat.”
    â€œI’m not hungry. I stopped being hungry many years ago. But she is.”
    â€œWho?” asked Morrison Pickens.
    â€œKay