Getting Garbo (16 page)

Botched that pretty good, didn't ya, kid?

I recognize the voice. It's inside my head. Jack Havoc. Must be more drunk than I think I am.

“Well, I do what I can,” I mutter. “She's better off without me anyway.” Meant it as self-sacrificing, but it comes out as self-pity.

Yeah, but she didn't know that.
He laughs.

Other boozers conjure up jolly little green men, I've got a snotty alter ego putting me down.

“Know something? You're not funny.”

Neither are you, pal. This your new hobby—burning bridges?

“None left to burn, Jack, haven't you noticed?”

“Hey, mister.” Raspy voice. Not inside my head. Look up. The bartender. Standing right in front of me. Like he's gazing at a loony. “Who you talkin' to?”

“Just trying to remember the words to an old song. ‘Smoke Blows Up Your Ass.' Ever hear it?”

Face reddens. Pushes the tab on the bar toward me. “Time for you to settle up and scoot on home.”

I smile. “Want to show me how to scoot?”

Watch it,
Jack Havoc's voice says inside me,
he's got a sawed-off bat under the bar.

Check it out. I notice the bartender's left hand is on the counter, but his right is out of sight. Below the bar. Could be holding a billy. I toss some bills on the bar. “This ought to cover it. Had a great time, can't wait to come back.”

The bartender sullenly counts the bills. Watches me go. He turns to ring it up. I catch a glimpse under the bar. Where he's been standing. See the sawed-off bat.

“I owe you one,” I say.

And then some,
Jack Havoc says
.

• • •

We're in the car. Jack and me. My imaginary pal is playing navigator. I'm driving. Never gonna drink again.

“Hey, I'm goin' the wrong way,” I say.

Goin' the right way,
he reassures me.

“Not for where I live now, buster, I—” and I get it as I see it: the turn up into Kings Road. I make a left without signaling, cut off an MG who blasts his horn after me. I give him the finger.

Making friends wherever you go,
Jack says.

“Up yours.” Steering like I'm handling a sixteen-wheeler. Around the steep curves. Climbing higher and higher. “If you're so smart, why am I coming up here? And don't tell me force of habit.”

The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.
He laughs and lights a Gauloises.

“Don't be blowing that frog smoke in my face,” I warn him.

What're you gonna do when you get there?

“Oh, you know. Knock on the door. Say, ‘Trick or treat.'”

Now that's funny. Save that one for me on the show.

“We don't have a show anymore. Don't you read the trades?”

There's the house up ahead. Other side of the street. All lit up. Flag flying on the pole on the lawn. Ten, twelve cars in the driveway, some out front. I park across the street. Turn off my motor and lights.

And she didn't even invite you to the party,
he says.

“Just shut the fuck up—or get out of my car!”

Your car? Sponsor gave it to Jack Havoc. That's me.

I'm not paying attention to him. I'm staring across at the picture window in the living room. Happy couples celebrating the Fourth. Some boy-girl, some boy-boy. The high society folk gathered at the piss elegant watering hole I'm still paying for but can't even piss in anymore. There's Addie, flitting and flirting, gesticulating with a can-you-fuckin'-believe-it foot-long cigarette holder. Auntie Mame on the rampage.

I get out of the car and walk around the side of the house toward the back. Where the view is. Why we bought the house. Good-sized lawn and small pool. Overlooking the lights of the city. They go on and on. It's like being in an airliner swooping in for a landing. “Welcome to Los Angeles, ladies and gentlemen, please keep your seat belts fastened.” There are a couple of giggling partygoers sitting barefoot on the edge of the pool, dangling their feet in the water. I stay in the shadows so they don't see me. I hear a popping sound and the night sky bursts into Technicolor. Fireworks from the park down near Melrose. Followed by another overlapping display. Whistling sound, exploding rainbow. Attracting Addie and Guy Saddler and the rest of her hoity-toity guests. Hurrying outside. Holding their highballs, oohing and aahing at the fireworks. Politely clapping for the ones they particularly like. As if it's all being staged for their private pleasure.

The queen and her court.

He's followed me out here. Jack Havoc.

A round of applause if you please her,
he says,
otherwise—off with your head.

“Yeah. Thinks she owns the world,” I mutter. Or am I just thinking it.

She owns your world, babe.
He laughs.

Another whistler. Screeching. Soaring up and up. Like a V-2 bomb over London. Detonating higher than the others. Dazzling white light, like a strobe, catching everyone in arrested motion. Addie standing so near the rim of the lawn. Straight drop. Hundreds of feet down into the canyon. White light fades. Into something cold and dark.

There's an easy way out of all this for you,
Jack Havoc whispers.
But you don't want to think about that, do you?

I don't answer him.

Nate Scanlon stomps around his office like God's angry man. Trampling heathens and infidels underfoot with his imaginary infantry boots. “Warners thinks they're fooling with snotnose kids? We'll fix 'em! You're going to own Burbank.”

It's a comedown. Burt Lancaster said we were going to own the whole town. What Nate has in mind is another lawsuit against Warners.

“For restraint of trade. Sure, they'll fight it—but we'll win, if we have to take it all the way to the Supreme Court.”

By which time, of course, my career will be long gone. I'll be as well remembered by then as Sonny Tufts.

Nate is brimming over with righteous indignation—maybe magnified by guilt at having marched me into the Okefenokee swamp. He's giving vent to his rage. Me? I'm cool, man. Projecting serenity, with a dash of nonchalance. All to conceal my feelings of absolute panic. I am going down the tubes, nevermore to be heard from. And my lawyer is going to file a brief.

Nate stops pounding the carpet and turns on me. “Oh, yeah,” he glares. “It is my duty to inform you that I have received an offer for your services.” Daring me to ask.

“An offer?” I repeat. Heart goes pit-a-pat. Hope dies slowly.

“From Warners,” he says. “Don't get too excited. You're not going to like this.”

Okay. I steel myself. “Let's hear.”

“The Colonel called. Personally. He wants you to film one more appearance as Jack Havoc. In which your replacement is introduced—and you are killed. Your replacement vows to avenge you.”

“To be continued next week,” I say. “For the sake of argument—what's he want to pay?”

“They want you to work for guest star rate.”

“That isn't
half
of what I was making under the old deal!”

“That's what I said. The Colonel said, quote, ‘That contract unfortunately is no longer in force,' unquote. And then he cackled as if he had a feather up his ass.” Nate kicks the coffee table. It's as sturdy as Nate's old Army foot locker and can take it. “He called it an opportunity to provide an orderly transition. He said you ought to do it for your loyal fans.”

“Yeah, well, according to his research geniuses I don't have any loyal fans, so you can tell Jack L. Warner to—”

“Don't get your shorts in a bunch. I already turned 'em down.”

Nate plops down on the chair opposite mine. We gloom together in silence. Then. “There's always a home for me at Warners,” I recall. “Isn't that what the man said? When he let me out of the contract?”

“Yeah, but he didn't mention that if you came back you'd have to sleep in the outhouse.”

More gloom. Then I ask the question that's been buzzing in my head.

“How about we go back to the divorce judge? Explain that circumstances have
drastically
changed.”

“See if we can renegotiate? Hold on to the royalties?”

I nod. He's way ahead of me. Already shaking his head.

“Not a chance, my boy. It's a done deal. Anyway, I'd have a hard time pleading poverty with your face on the current cover of
Look
magazine.”

“Not alone, a group shot. Along with Jack Webb and Dick Boone and Jim Garner. That story was done months ago, it just happens to be appearing now and—”

“—and the judge has never had his face on anything except his driver's license. So he might think it's a big deal. I'm telling you, Roy, he'll have the bailiff toss us both out of the courtroom.”

So I asked my question. That's my answer. And my head starts to ache again. I feel myself being pushed in a direction I'm afraid to even contemplate. Step by terrible step. Closer and closer. But wait, maybe—

“Suppose Addie was willing, if she'd be agreeable, could we go back then?”

Nate looks as if it's a trick question. “Sure, if she's cooperative, we can do anything, but—are we talking about the same Addie?”

“I—I just thought I might ask her. Explain the spot I'm in.”

“That's a negotiation I'll leave to you,” Nate says. Not holding his breath.

• • •

It does seem like a tall order.

After that horrible scene in the parking lot after the
Trapeze
premiere, when Addie attacked Kim and accused me of cheating her out of my next fortune.
After
I told Addie in no uncertain terms that she's cut
her
deal and nothing can change it. Yeah,
after
she made her wish that I never have a moment of happiness.

So—how can I go back to her now?

Asking for a goodwill gesture, a voluntary rewrite of the divorce judgment that gives me back a chunk of the assets I've already signed away to her?

Well, to tell the truth, I'm not quite sure how to go about that either.

I drive into Beverly Hills, park in the lot around the corner from Adrienne's Emporium. Walk up to the front of the store. Peek in, yeah, she's there. Talking to the sedate sales biddie. No one else around. Been a long time since Addie's shop showed a profit, so she might not be in a particularly giving mood. But who knows? Nothing ventured.

All I have to do is bounce in there, flash my
Photoplay
smile, do a bit of the old soft-shoe, charm the pants off her. I used to be able to do that with one testicle tied behind my back. Take her for a nostalgic spin down Memory Lane, and ease into it—You'll never guess why I dropped by.

She'll guess.

Flowers. Definitely. Gotta find a world-class bouquet.

I hurry to the florist on Beverly Drive. Closed. Death in the family. Hey, I'm not doing that well myself. But McDaniel's supermarket is only a couple of blocks away on North Canon Drive. They sell flowers. I hotfoot it over, start looking at the bouquets. Roses? Six, eight dozen roses? Nah, too on-the-nose. Violets—surrounded by lacy baby's breath? Too high school prom. Nice big cactus plant? Too close to the truth. Armful of lilies of the valley? She hates the Valley. Sunflowers? Colors are right, but still too middle of the road.

Need something tasteful, understated in an overstated sort of way. Something that plugs into the old happy days. Yes! I see them. Calla lilies. That'll do the trick. Tall, regal, an echo: “The calla lilies are in bloom, such a lovely flower…” Addie's favorite actress. Katharine Hepburn. She said the lines in
Stage Door
—or was it
Morning Glory
? One of 'em for sure. We saw both flicks as a double feature at the Thalia on the West Side before we were married. On the way home, I bought her three calla lilies from a sidewalk vendor. Addie held them in her arms and imitated the Great Kate: “The calla lilies are in bloom…”

“My, my. Talking to ourselves now, are we?” Sardonic voice. Right behind me.

I turn. Not Jack Havoc, can't be, I'm sober now. Worse. It's Guy Saddler. Dressed in white, from his patent leather loafers to his French sailor pants and chambray work shirt—with a Gucci tri-color scarf knotted around his neck, matching the Gucci necktie he's wearing as a belt.

“Hey, Guy—you look like you mugged Fred Astaire in the parking lot and stole his wardrobe.”

“Fred copies me,” he says evenly. He's at the fruit and vegetable counter, meticulously filling a bag with perfect gleaming red apples. “Going to the funeral?” Nods at the lilies.

“Who's dead?”

“Well, reliable rumor has it that you are. Addie and I were giggling about that just this morning. Roy Darnell, D.O.A. in Tinseltown.”

“Don't believe everything you hear,” I say. Dropping the calla lilies back in the rack. That game's over. Starting to leave.

“You know, dear boy, it's really rather ironic,” he calls after me. Should have kept going, so much might've been different if I did. But curiosity prevails. I stop. Listen.

“Addie was so angry at you when it looked like you were going to be a mammoth movie star and she felt you'd tricked her out of her fair share—”

“Blah-blah. We've been there already, Guy.”

“—but now the slipper is on the other foot, isn't it?”

He examines the shiny apple in his hand, turning it this way and that, like the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Offering knowledge. If you bite.

“Meaning what?”

“Well, I'm probably telling tales out of school, but it's such a delicious twist, especially after what you tried to pull. I told her it was a hoot. Tit for tat. Because, of course, she'd done the very same thing to you.”

With waspish delight, he spells it out for me. Addie's store. Not a money pit, but a money maker. She's been hiding assets like crazy. Phony write-offs, stashing the cash and the bailout checks I've been giving her in a numbered Swiss bank. He ought to know. He's her silent partner. Blabbing now, of course. Can't resist. Just can't. Best for last: Guy has used his contacts to arrange a national affiliation. Lots and lots of Adrienne's Emporiums will be sprouting all across the land. As soon as the divorce decree is final.

“That's the cream of the jest, you see. She's going to be a very wealthy woman—even without a penny of what she's getting from you in the divorce.” He winks at me. “Just thought you'd like to know.”

• • •

I'm on top of the world. Looking down. Don't like what I see. Not a bit.

I fled McDaniel's market. Guy Saddler's snicker pursuing me. Had to get away from him. From everyone. Fast. So here I am. A place where I've never been, never even thought of going to.

The bell tower on top of Beverly Hills City Hall.

Walked, almost ran, blindly down the street. Too many people. Ducked into the post office on Santa Monica Boulevard. More people. Stopped at the water fountain. Just long enough to wash down the last of my darvons. Pushed a few doors. A staircase I hadn't noticed before. Up, up, up. Leading here. Where I'm alone. With my frantic jumble of thoughts. If the pain in my head doesn't stop I'm going to have it chopped off. Ha! Why bother? Got other people who'll do that for me.

On a clear day you can see the ocean. It's not a clear day. So I have a terrific view of the smog hanging over the chic shopping streets of Beverly Hills. Little toy cars darting this way and that. Tiny antlike people scurrying about. All going somewhere.

Not me.

I'm going nowhere.

All washed up.

Not only has Addie skinned me in the settlement, but she robbed me before and after. Raped me financially. I know better than to try and prove it. Guy Saddler wouldn't tell me all that if Addie hasn't made the trail untraceable. I should be entitled to at least part of what her business is worth—or about to be worth. But she's maneuvered it so I get goose egg.
Gournisht.
Nada.

Unless…

The unthinkable thought.

It's starting to seep out.

Of course, I'd been happy when the divorce moved along so briskly. Didn't know Addie had her own agenda going. While I was doing it to her, she was doing it to me. I'm beyond anger. Filled with hate. Boiling with outrage. That cunt! She lied, stole, absolutely ambushed me. And her punishment is she wins it all.

But the wild thing is that there's a new sensation rising within me. I feel relief. Release. Almost thankful. Because she's given me the excuse I craved. Done something that tips me over the top. Supplied my justification to think the unthinkable. Which goes like this:

Addie doesn't win until the divorce judgment is finalized.

In two weeks I am a pauper. Probably permanently.

Providing she's still alive.

There. I said it out loud.

Until then we are still married in the eyes of the courts of California. And a surviving spouse owns the entire joint estate. If anything happens to Addie before then, I'll not only retain my TV royalties—I'll probably even own a controlling chunk of the store. Which is a local gold mine about to go national. Even if she's changed her will, which she probably hasn't bothered to do yet, as co-owner the worst I'd hold on to is half. Of everything. Without begging.

Sounds fair to me. Either way.

Of course, just wishing won't make it so.

I look over the small city below. Hodge-podge of rooftops. Sun glittering off the gold dome of the Beverly Theater, like the top of the mosque in
Gunga Din.
“We've got to save the regiment—before it's too late.” Let's just imagine. Adrienne's Emporium is about there. Two blocks over, one block up. Suppose I just stroll in at lunchtime. Find the bitch alone and—and—

That's where I get hung up. Because the simple fact is—I don't know how to do this.

Not in real life.

But I do,
says the voice inside my head.

It's Jack. He's back.

No, I've been here all along. Just waiting for you to wake up to what has to be done
. His voice is soothing.
I'll show you how.

“You don't know anything. You're just a fucking figment of my imagination.”

Hey. I was there with you. When the technical advisers on the show taught us.

“Who remembers all that stuff?”

I remember. Listening to those guys was an education.
He's materializing now, I swear he is, I can see his body language as he rattles 'em off.
They showed us how to kill with a gun, a garrote, a stiletto. How to eviscerate, asphyxiate, defenestrate, defoliate. Doing 'em in by drowning, burning, poisoning, bludgeoning, disemboweling, freezing, frying, am I forgetting anything?

“It's enough.”

Lucky we were working on an action show.

“What about getting caught?”

You won't.
He puts his arm around my shoulders. Protective.
Don't be scared, Roy. I'll be with you.

I listen. He makes it sound easy. My headache starts to fade.