by Bernard Gordon
We were deep into the film when it was time for Telly Savalas to report. Having already worked together, Telly and I were good friends. I had met the beautiful lady for whom he had acquired the London apartment. Sally was one of the loveliest women I have ever seen. She was Anglo-Indian, with burnished coppery hair and a glowing, golden complexion. She was a show-stopper in any country, but in any language she was also the most languid person I had ever met. She seemed to drift along in a dreamworld of her own, never really responding to anyone or any situation.
Shortly after their arrival in Madrid, I called Telly at his hotel. Sally answered.
"How are you, Sally?" I asked in my hartiest tone, genuinely pleased to talk with her.
"I don't know," she murmured.
"Are you glad to be back here?" I asked, trying to make friendly conversation.
"I don't know," she replied.
"Don't you ever say 'yes'?" I coaxed her. "To anything?"
A pause. "Try me," she replied.
Her tone didn't suggest she really meant that, but her tone never betrayed anything. I confess she was so attractive that for a fleeting moment, a stray thought ripped through my mind. After all, what did I know about what went on behind closed doors with these two? But if opportunity it was, I let it pass.