Getting Garbo (13 page)

“No, whaddaya mean?”

“I tried it last night, outside Mocambo's. We walk out at one ayem into an ambush. A photographer's baiting Roy, calling him a motherfuckin' fairy, tryin' to get him to swing, while his buddy is ready and waitin' to get the fight pictures. And start the lawsuit. So…I just took Roy away from it all.”

“But—how?”

“Just grabbed him from behind, wrapped my arms around him like a straitjacket, lifted him off the ground, and carried him into the car, kicking and screaming. He cussed me out last night, but he thanked me in the morning.”

“You ever get there too late?”

He frowns, then shrugs, like there's something he doesn't want to mention. “Now and then. So I just jump in and—tidy up after him. Best I can.”

The more I talk to Killer, the nicer he seems. He's had a hard life, growing up on the wrong side of the tracks. “Sis, it's a wonder I'm not in jail,” he says to me one chilly evening when I've snuck onto the Warners back lot to watch the night shooting for an episode of
Jack Havoc.

We're supposed to be in Paris, but actually we're on the cobblestoned European street, dressed up with French signs. It's a block away from the New York street and around the corner from the Western street. From where we're standing among the cables and cameras, our teeth chattering as the Burbank mist settles in over Paris, we can see Roy and Anne Francis, his co-star for this episode, come out of the French bistro and walk up the street. Anne Francis is playing the daughter of a CIA agent who's been murdered and she's trying to find out whodunit. Jack Havoc is helping her. They flirt a little and chat about the case a lot as they stroll along and at the corner there's an old woman selling flowers, and as she offers one to Anne Francis, a shot is fired from the rooftop across the street that's intended for Anne Francis but it gets the old lady instead and Jack Havoc pulls out his gun and goes into action. He shoots the gunman off the roof and the gunman, who's a stuntman, falls down into the gutter.

That's the scene. I know, I know, we've all seen it a million times, but the director is trying to make it interesting by doing it all in one long uninterrupted dolly shot. The problem is that every time they try it, something goes wrong in the middle or tantalizingly close to the end. This time the old woman is killed on cue, but she bumps into Jack Havoc in her death fall and he misfires at the wall. The eager stuntman hears the shot and jumps off the roof anyway. It's a mess. “One more time,” the director yells through his bullhorn.

“They're gonna be doin' this shot all night,” Killer whispers to me. “C'mon, let's get some coffee. I'm turnin' into a friggin' icicle.”

He leads me to the catering truck, where we get steaming coffee and then up onto the prop truck, where the propman pours double shots of cognac into our coffee to really warm it up. No one challenges me because I'm with Killer. From the tailgate of the truck we watch them blow another take.

“Let's go inside Roy's trailer for a couple minutes, warm up a little.”

I've never been inside Roy's trailer before. It's strictly a guy's place, a table set up with cards and poker chips, dirty dishes in the sink, some of Roy's street clothes tossed around, a couple of small comfortable club chairs, a couch that's got bedroom pillows on it at one end under a gooseneck lamp; I guess that's where Roy stretches out and studies his lines. There's a framed poster of Roy as Jack Havoc hanging on the wall facing the couch.

Killer laughs as he watches me taking it all in. “You look like you just stepped into a cathedral.” He gestures at the couch. “Siddown, sis.”

I do. I can breathe Roy's scent in here. It's very musky and intimate. Killer is at the cabinet over the refrigerator getting a new carton of Lucky Strikes. He pops out a fresh pack, tears it open, offers me one. I shake my head.

“Don't smoke? Good. Don't start. It's a filthy habit.” He picks up a gold lighter from the poker table and lights his cigarette. Then he shows me the inscription on the lighter, “Here's looking at you, kid. Love, Bogie and Betty.”

“This is the house that Bogart built,” Killer says. “Bogie opened all the doors for Roy.”

“But Roy was ready,” I say.

“Ready, willing, and able,” Killer agrees. He slips Roy's lighter into his pocket. He notices that I noticed. “Hey. What's mine is his and vice versa. We're brothers. Besides, I have to be ready—for when he needs a light.” He plops down on the couch next to me, leans back. “Know what the secret of success in Hollywood is?”

“Having a lot of talent—and a good agent?”

He laughs. “Not bad. Those things are important, but the real secret is not givin' a shit. If you let 'em know you do, that's when they screw you. They can smell the fear when you really want something. They want you scared. 'Cuz then they got ya.” He points at the poster on the wall. “That's how Roy was when he came to town—didn't give a shit. Strong. Now I think they're startin' to get to him.”

“Can you help him?”

“Any way I can, sis. He's the one and only. I know you, of all people, can dig that.”

“Of course.” I'm flattered. It's like I'm part of the inner circle.

“We've got that in common. Among other things.”

His face is close to mine and he kisses me, not in a very brotherly fashion. His face is bristly and he smells of cigarettes and booze, and he pushes me down flat onto the couch and before I know it he's on top of me and we're clinching and he's telling me what a terrific person I am and he's got his pants off and so do I and so on and so forth until we're naked, except he still has his shoes and socks on and he's telling me “C'mon, baby, give it to me,” and we're doing it, really doing it, his face buried in my hair and I'm looking up at the poster of Roy on the wall, so maybe I'm doing what Charming Billy did that time, only it's not Monty Clift I'm imagining I'm with, but it doesn't take all that long, either. I feel a little pain because it's my first time, and you're supposed to, I guess, and then he grunts and there's stickiness in my crotch that I'm not sure if it's blood or semen or both. Then he's climbing off me and tells me, “The can is down there,” and I go to this tiny bathroom and clean myself up and now I guess I'm really a woman, but I really don't feel that much different.

And that was it. Truly wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am. But without the thank-you-ma'am part. The end of my five-minute love affair.

But maybe not quite the end.

• • •

“What did you think of him?” Podolsky asks as we wait in the empty corridor for the elevator.

“The doctor? You were right, he's very nice.”

“So what'd he say?”

“He said I'm healthy, and maybe I'm pregnant, in which case he'd be glad to provide prenatal care, but that's it, 'cuz abortions are illegal in California, and I should try not to worry because we won't know for sure until the results of the rabbit test come back.”

Podolsky gazes at me through his Jimmy Dean horn-rimmed glasses. He looks worried enough for both of us. Then the elevator dings and the door opens and we get in.

It's a balmy night on the edge of Beverly Hills and the klieg lights set up on the sidewalk in front of the Fox Wilshire Theater pierce the cobalt sky. It's the world premiere of
Trapeze.
There are bleachers set up for the fans. They cheer like crazy when Kim and I get out of the limo. I catch a glimpse of Reva in the front row. She's chanting my name, “ROY-ROY-ROY-Y-Y-Y!” and now the other kids pick it up. I give them a Pepsodent smile and a royal wave, blow a kiss to Reva. It's the first public appearance I'm making since Warners let me out.

“So, listen, Roy boychik,” George Jessel, the emcee on the interview platform, brays into the microphone, “So you quit your job in TV. Think you could put in a good word for me?” Lapsing into heavy-duty Yiddish accent: “
Jake
Havoc—vouldn't be so bad.”

I laugh. Ha-ha. “I'll tell 'em you're interested.”

“Jack Warner can make it up to me for giving away my part in
The Jazz Singer
to Jolson. And who might this lovely young lady be?”

“She's too old for you, Georgie.” He's been married countless times to younger and younger girls. “This is Kim Rafferty. A new actress you'll be hearing a lot about.”

“Listen, Kimmy, if your talent as a thespian matches your radiant beauty, I predict a fabulous career. And if this guy gives you trouble, let me know. God love ya, Roy. Roy Darnell, everyone!”

We step down to make way for Burt Lancaster, his costar Tony Curtis, and Tony's wife Janet Leigh. Burt gives me a rib-cracking hug and whispers in my ear. Grins and pinches my cheek. Then leaps up onto the interview platform and makes the fans shriek. He looks like a Greek god making a personal appearance.

“What'd you think of all that?” I ask Kim as we proceed up the red carpet leading into the theater.

“Those fabbbbulous things George Jessel was saying about me? I thought maybe I'd died and gone to heaven and didn't know it.” Jessel is best known lately for delivering heartfelt eulogies at celebrity funerals. “What did Big Burt whisper to you?”

“Thanked me for coming tonight. He said, ‘Feels like you're part of the family already.'”

After the movie, there's a two-ring circus, I mean, an actual circus, set up in the parking lot. Ed Sullivan is there to tape the festivities and interview the stars. Burt and Tony do handstands for Sullivan. I schlep Kim along when I do my spot, which involves Kim's friendly elephant. After that the limo whisks us to a sound stage at a small studio in Hollywood, where a private party is in progress. Only four, five hundred guests. Still in the French circus motif. Jugglers and mimes and tumblers circulating in the crowd.

There's a lavish buffet—Kim asks why the chicken legs are so stringy and I have to tell her they're frog legs. She won't eat them once she knows. Dom Perignon champagne flows. Burt introduces me to his director, Sir Carol Reed, one of my favorites. The kind of director I dream of working for. Studio executives are treating me like I'm hot shit. And I'm delighted that Kim is there to see it all. Remember how I mentioned Cinderella when I sent Killer in search of Kim? Well, tonight is like Cinderella's Ball. But I'm playing two parts—Prince Charming and also the Fairy Godmother who makes it all happen for her.

Midnight comes a little early at this ball.

“Look who's here,” Kim says.

I look where she's indicating. Rosalind Russell is talking with Jack and Mary Benny. Oh God. Behind them, near the bar, I see what Kim saw.

Addie.

She's here. At the party. Squired, as they say in the gossip columns, by Guy Saddler, her art director chum. First time I've seen her since divorce court. I nudge Burt. “Did you invite her?”

“She's Guy's guest. He worked with me at Universal when I started out.” The alligator grin. “I could throw her out—or
you
could.”

“Hey. Let 'em eat cake. What do I care?”

Now Addie has spotted us, too. She mutters to Guy, who glances over. Then she holds her champagne goblet up in my direction. I hoist mine in return. Like the Red Baron saluting a worthy opponent. We're both out of bullets, so we may as well be polite. Kim has turned her back so Addie, her ex-employer, won't see her face.

“Great party,” Kim says. “Can we go now?”

I tell her we can't. Not for a while. This is my world, not Addie's. I belong here. She doesn't. I'm not going to let her chase me out before I'm goddamn ready to go. Which I'd like to do right now, of course, but I won't give her the satisfaction.

A minuet for four ensues. Two couples elaborately ignoring each other. Keeping lots of people between us. I'm constantly aware of her exact location. She's keeping track of where I am. We try not to get caught looking at each other. But Addie is circling and circling. Craning her neck. Trying to get a clear view of the girl I'm with. Kim does everything she can to prevent being recognized. “She'll kill me if she knows it's me.” Kim holds her goblet in front of her face, dabs at her mouth with her linen napkin, casually pirouettes to constantly keep her back to Addie. Who's getting desperate. Starts to come closer. Guy restrains her. Shaking his head. She turns to hassle with him. While they're at it, Kim and I slip away from the party.

And burst out in laughter as soon as we step outside.

Clutching at each other, we howl. Uncontrollably. Staggering in the direction of the limo. “Did you see her?” I crane my neck in exaggerated imitation. Doing Addie as a spastic bird. Making Kim beg me to stop, she'll wet her pants if I don't. Which both of us find even funnier. It's been a long time since I laughed like this.

A shadow stirs just ahead of us.

Kim pauses. Startled. Are we snookered? Yes. But not by Addie.

Reva steps out. My tiny fan. “Hi, was it a good party?”

We both laugh again. Relief. “Great party, great,” I gasp to Reva.

“We—we thought you were the wicked witch.” Kim still laughing. Wiping the tears away from her eyes. “Reva, how'd you manage to get inside the studio?”

“Professional secret,” Reva says with a wink. Perky as one of Santa's elves. Walking along with us. “Is Killer Lomax here tonight, too?”

“I gave him the night off.”

She shrugs. “Can I take a picture of you two?”

“Already got one,” I tease. “From the last time.”

“But not all dressed up like this.” She backpedals out in front of us. “Only take a second. Just keep walking toward me.”

We do. She snaps. Camera flashes. And we hear:

“It
is
you—you treacherous twat!” The dulcet tones of my almost-ex-wife. She's bearing down on us like a battleship. Guy Saddler's trying to catch up to her. He grabs her sleeve, she shakes him off. Confronts Kim, pointing an accusatory finger. “I'm going to sue your filthy little ass off!”

I intercede. Protective. “For going to a party with me?”

“Let me tell you a thing or two about your little playmate here, she's—”

I cut Addie off. “You don't have to tell me anything.”

Addie looks glazed for an instant. Stares at me, then at Kim, then she's got it. Lewd, nasty smile. “So
that's
how it is.” Targeting Kim again: “I paid you to
fuck
him—not to
date
him!”

Kim shrugs. “That was then. This is now. I'm on my own time.”

“Aha! This explains everything! A plot against me. The two of you! In cahoots! Conspiracy to defraud!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Think I'm a fool? So clever. You sneaky sonuvabitch!” Ranting. Wild eyed. “Tricking me into filing suit for divorce so you could screw me out of a fortune!”

“Huh?” I turn to Saddler. “Better get her out of here, Guy.”

“Admit it, admit it!” Addie yells.

“Sweetie, you already got all the fortune I have.”

“But not what you're
going
to have! You knew you were about to break your TV contract. Now there's no limit to how much you'll make—and that money should've been mine!”

She's getting too close to the truth. I go on the attack. “Yeah, that's what I did! I
forced
you to file for divorce, I
tricked
you into faking evidence against me,
twisted
your arm to take my royalties and everything else in sight—remember how much that dress you're wearing cost me at Coco Fuckin' Chanel's salon in Paris? And those diamond earrings, ten thousand, right there. Made you keep those! I sure am sneaky.”

“You're not going to get away with it! Neither of you! I'll see you both in jail.”

“Addie, you take any of this garbage to court and the judge will have you fitted for a straitjacket. You already made your deal. Now you gotta live with it. We both do.”

She stops ranting. Stares at me. Knows I'm right. Hates that it's so.

“I hope,” she says in a hushed voice, “that you never have a moment of happiness.” She's putting a curse on me. It hurts. I won't tell you it doesn't. Kim takes hold of my hand. Squeezes.

“Addie,” she says, “why don't you get on your broomstick and go take a flying leap?”

Interceding for
me.
Protective.

Kim holds up our hands, fingers interlaced. “Finders keepers,” she says to Addie, “losers weepers.”

“Tramp,” Addie says to her. Pivots on her heel, stalks away. Guy Saddler trailing.

I hear a small voice behind me. “How could she say those awful things to you?”

It's Reva. Forgot she was there. She looks shaken. Like a child caught in the middle of a vicious fight between her parents. I know that feeling. “I bet she never loved you,” Reva says.

I don't want to think that's true.

• • •

Kim and I go back to her place, and suddenly I'm incredibly hot for her. I can't get her clothes off fast enough or into her bed soon enough and we make stupendous, passionate, endless love.

You believe that?

It's what I wanted to happen. But when we got into bed, nothing happened. Endless love never started. A first for me. Limp dick doesn't begin to describe it. I'm embarrassed. Shocked. Disappointed. Confused. Angry.

“That bitch! Still messing up my life.”

“Shhhh!” Kim whispers. She's rubbing my back.

“Old faithful never failed me before, I swear.” Make a joke of it. If I can.

“It's okay. You're upset. Perfectly normal reaction.”

I ask her to suck me. She does. Doesn't help. I try conjuring up my wildest fantasies as inspiration. Nothing helps. Story of the big head and the little head. The big one is hot to trot. But the little one is out to lunch.

“We'll try later, sweetheart,” she murmurs. Spooning with me. Holding my shriveled penis gently in her hand. That's how we fall asleep. My last thought before I nod off is that this is a really good person.

When I wake up in the morning, she's gone. There's a note. “Roy, see ya later, gotta go to work. Love, Kim.” It's a lovely morning.

• • •

As I drive up to my rented faux English cottage, my next-door neighbor is tinkering with his power mower on the lawn of his miniature Mexican hacienda. It's United Nations row on this street.

“Hi, Phil,” I yell from the driveway and keep moving. Phil is a talker. He sells insurance, so I guess that's a good thing. For him.

“Hey, you just missed your friend,” he calls over. That stops me. Brings me closer.

“Was it Killer?” He's tried to interest Killer in a term insurance policy.

“No, a big fella. He was ringing the bell, knocking, then I saw him kinda prowling around, peeking in back. So I asked him what he wanted. Said he was looking for you. So I said you were out. And he says—”

See what I mean? Saying “Good morning” to Phil can trigger a filibuster.

“Did you get his name?”

“Yeah, but I can't remember it. Think he left a message stuck to your front door. He—”

“Thanks, Phil.” I'm moving for the front door. But he's got to finish what he's saying.

“He said he's your agent.”

Now I have to put this in context for you.

There's an old Hollywood joke about the writer who comes home to find his house has burned down. Helpful neighbor—not unlike our Phil—tells him that's not all. This motorcycle gang pulled up, right after your agent stopped by. They robbed the place, raped your wife, killed your dog, and set fire to your house on their way out. The writer listens to all that. Stunned, he says, “My agent came to my house?”

Obviously it's different depending on your level of success. I'm sure John Wayne's agents stop by his house all the time. Probably wash and detail his car while they're there. Since
Jack Havoc
I've had agents over for dinner. But for me it's still a bit unusual. Particularly unannounced. I find Val Dalton's business card wedged in the molding on my front door. He's over at the Beverly Hills Hotel coffee shop having breakfast. If I get back soon enough, why don't I join him?

• • •

The Beverly Hills Hotel is a great big pink landmark on Sunset Boulevard. When it was built, back at the time the first movie pioneers came west, it was an elegant watering hole in the middle of a green wilderness. Nothing else around, except orange and date groves. Since then the city of Beverly Hills has grown up. And several of the busiest streets converge at Sunset, making it seem like all roads lead to the sedately garish old hotel. The Polo Lounge, a lovely, airy garden room, is the place for power breakfasts at the Beverly Hills Hotel. But the regulars eat at the windowless coffee shop downstairs near the barber shop. That's where I find Val Dalton, his tall frame scrunched onto a counter stool. Devouring eggs Benedict and reading
Daily Variety.