Whispers Read Free Page B

main entrance, uniformed valets were parking and delivering cars: two Rolls-Royces, three Mercedes, one Stuts, and a red Maserati.
    A long way from the poor side of Chicago, she thought happily.
    When she stepped into the Polo Lounge, she saw half a dozen movie actors and actresses, famous faces, as well as two powerful studio executives, but none of them was sitting at table number three. That was generally considered to be the most desirable spot in the room, for it faced the entrance and was the best place to see and be seen. Wally Topelis was at table three because he was one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood and because he charmed the maître d’ just as he charmed everyone who met him. He was a small lean man in his fifties, very well dressed. His white hair was thick and lustrous. He also had a neat white mustache. He looked quite distinguished, exactly the kind of man you expected to see at table number three. He was talking on a telephone that had been plugged in just for him. When he saw Hilary approaching, he hastily concluded his conversation, put the receiver down, and stood.
    “Hilary, you’re lovely—as usual.”
    “And you’re the center of attention—as usual.”
    He grinned. His voice was soft, conspiratorial. “I imagine everyone’s staring at us.”
    “I imagine.”
    “Surreptitiously.”
    “Oh, of course,” she said.
    “Because they wouldn’t want us to know they’re looking,” he said happily.
    As they sat down, she said, “And we dare not look to see if they’re looking.”
    “Oh, heavens no!” His blue eyes were bright were merriment.
    “We wouldn’t want them to think we care.”
    “God forbid.”
    “That would be gauche.”
    “Trés gauche.” He laughed.
    Hilary sighed. “I’ve never understood why one table should be so much more important than another.”
    “Well, I can sit and make fun of it, but I understand,” Wally said. “In spite of everything Marx and Lenin believed, the human animal thrives on the class system—so long as that system is based primarily on money and achievement, not on pedigree. We establish and nurture class systems everywhere, even in restaurants.”
    “I think I’ve just stumbled into one of those famous Topelis tirades.”
    A waiter arrived with a shiny silver ice bucket on a tripod. He put it down beside their table, smiled and left. Apparently, Wally had taken the liberty of ordering for both of them before she arrived. But he didn’t take this opportunity to tell her what they were having.
    “Not a tirade,” he said. “Just an observation. People need class systems.”
    “I’ll bite. Why?”
    “For one thing, people must have aspirations, desires beyond the basic needs of food and shelter, obsessive wants that will drive them to accomplish things. If there’s a best neighborhood, a man will hold down two jobs to raise money for a house there. If one car is better than another, a man—or a woman, for that matter; this certainly isn’t a sexist issue—will work harder to be able to afford it. And if there’s a best table in the Polo Lounge, everyone who comes here will want to be rich enough or famous enough—or even infamous enough—to be seated there. This almost manic desire for status generates wealth, contributes to the gross national product, and creates jobs. After all, if Henry Ford hadn’t wanted to move up in life, he’d never have built the company that now employs tens of thousands. The class system is one of the engines that drive the wheels of commerce; it keeps our standard of living high. The class system gives people goals—and it provides the maître d’ with a satisfying sense of power and importance that makes an otherwise intolerable job seem desirable.”
    Hilary shook her head. “Nevertheless, being seated at the best table doesn’t mean I’m automatically a better person than the guy who gets second-best. It’s no accomplishment in itself.”
    “It’s a symbol of accomplishment, of