“I know where to find him,” Colombe said matter-of-factly, and turned and walked off.
Minutes later there was a knock at the door. Rose flung open her dressing-room door, expecting to see Colombe. But there stood none other than Jimmy Bonaventura. They looked at each other, unable to speak.
“How did—”
“I was sitting in the box. A sort of moody-looking girl said you wanted to see me backstage.”
She was wearing her black coat as a robe. He could see her bare legs underneath it. So he assumed that, other than the coat, she was naked. She let him in. There was a photograph of Pierrot from a newspaper that she had Scotch-taped to the wall. There were vases on the table that were filled with roses. Because there was nowhere else to put it, a vase with roses was on the floor. They seemed lackluster somehow, compared to her.
“You want the moon,” Rose said. “But I can’t give it to you tomorrow because the show has been extended. By popular demand. They’ve sold out another month.”
“I know, I got the message from McMahon.”
“Perhaps there is some information that gets lost this way. It might be efficient if we communicated one-on-one in the future.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I think that’s a good idea.”
“Can I come to your office tomorrow to review the situation with you?”
“Yeah, we’ll discuss it properly . . . when you’re dressed.”
He stepped back and she closed the door. She was so nervous that she leaned her forehead against the door, the tip of her nose touching it. On the other side, Jimmy, overcome by the urge to be closer to Rose, stepped up against the door and pressed his face against it. Only a few inches of wood prevented them from kissing.
59
THE HERO OF ANOTHER NOVEL
The next morning Rose neurotically did her hair and sat at the end of the bed, cleaning the toes of her button-up boots with a brush. She had on a white veil—as though a spiderweb had formed below her hat. She had arranged to meet with Jimmy that afternoon. Pierrot was dressed in his checkered suit, which was just back from the cleaners.
“We have to look professional,” Rose stated as Pierrot put out their breakfast.
“But why?”
“You know why. This isn’t Montreal.”
The New York City mobsters were murderers. They carried around machine guns, and they would actually kill each other. That’s why they were each so famous. She had been reading about the New York City mobsters in the newspapers since she had arrived. They assassinated each other on a regular basis. They were merciless. You couldn’t be an actual mobster unless you killed somebody.
In Montreal, the mobsters would come up behind you with a stale loaf of bread and bang you on the head. They would kidnap your dog if you weren’t careful. They would pick on women. They were cowards. They weren’t real mobsters. This meeting with Jimmy was just as much of a performance as the clown act they had put on the previous night.
“Don’t be so erudite today,” Rose pleaded. “Don’t say anything at all. Can you do that? Don’t say anything about your ideas about life and the universe. Don’t say anything about just how happy we’ve been during the last few days.”
“I get it. We have to look like maniacs. Damn you, croissant. Oh, I thought you were a smile, but all along you were nothing but a frown!”
And with that Pierrot launched his croissant across the room. Rose put her hands up to her mouth and started to laugh. She knew that Pierrot could play any role except that of a tough guy. But she wasn’t entirely certain that Jimmy wasn’t going to shoot her the minute she walked in, before listening to her proposition. And if she was to die, she wanted to go out the way she had come into this business—holding Pierrot’s hand.
She tapped the shell of her egg with a spoon. A little earthquake spread across its surface.
? ? ?
THEY PASSED ONE of their chorus girls in the lobby. She was squashed in a love seat with an extravagantly dressed bald man. She was teaching him how to speak French, and judging by his flushed face, he was finding it adorable. She pointed coyly to each of her body parts as she recited its French nom.
“Voici mes petits doigts. Et voici mes genoux. Et ah, ?a, c’est mon oreille! Qu’est-ce que j’ai sous ma chemise! Je ne connais pas le bon mot!”
Rose and Pierrot laughed.
? ? ?
THEY SAW THE NEON SIGN as soon as they turned onto the street where Jimmy Bonaventura and his men had their headquarters: