Getting Garbo Page 12

  The reason I particularly dislike the scene is because it makes me sorry for Shelley Winters and I don’t want to feel sorry for her, because Monty and Liz Taylor are clearly meant for each other and Shelley’s out to ruin everything, which she ultimately does, but she has to die in order to do it. In her own way, of course, Shelley loved him, too, but a lot of good that did Monty.

  So that’s what’s running through my mind as I’m sitting here in the waiting room of this medical office on Wilshire near Fairfax. My mother works as a teller in a bank just a few blocks away. She’d flip if she knew where I am and why.

  I’m late.

  First time. I’ve never been late. I’m like clockwork.

  I never even made the connection with the puking. Until I accused Podolsky of wrecking me with his passion for anchovies, and he listened and said, “Sounds like morning sickness.”

  I’ve been terrified ever since, because I think maybe he’s right.

  “There’s a ninety-eight-year-old woman in Tibet who just gave birth to triplets,” Podolsky says. He’s sitting beside me in the waiting room reading a copy of National Geographic he found here. I don’t know this doctor I’m about to see; his name is Irving Berman, and Podolsky knows him from when he had the flu and someone at work recommended Dr. Berman. Podolsky says he’s a nice man. We’ll see.

  The inner door opens and the nurse comes out. She leads me into an examination room. “The doctor will be right with you.” She has the information sheet I’ve just filled out and she clips it into a folder and hangs the folder on the outside of the door. She closes the door as she leaves. I don’t know where to sit. There’s an exam table covered with white paper and a chair next to the counter with the sink. I decide to lean against the exam table. There’s a knock on the door, and here’s the doctor. He’s a smallish guy with salt-and-pepper curly hair and a shaggy mustache, he looks sort of like Sam Levene, the character actor. Dr. Berman is carrying the folder, he tosses it on the counter and leans against the counter, real informal. We’re eye to eye.

  “So you’re a friend of Barry’s,” he says.

  For a second I forget that’s Podolsky’s first name, then I nod, in fact, I bob my head. I want Dr. Berman to like me. I want him to help me. I don’t even know for sure if I need help, or what kind, but I’m grinning like a goof.

  “You nervous?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “What do you think’s wrong?”

  “I think maybe—I’m pregnant.”

  “It’s going around,” he says. “And Barry’s your young man?”

  I laugh. It’s more like a sputter. I’m sorry right away. “Don’t tell him I laughed,” I say, “he’s my real good friend. But he’s not, I mean, we didn’t…”

  Dr. Berman shrugs. “Okay. We don’t have to go into that now.”

  “Well, I just want to be careful, because there’s someone very well-known who’s involved, and I definitely don’t want to cause him any, you know, unnecessary embarrassment.”

  “Let’s concentrate on you,” he says.

  He begins the examination, very gently, and I find myself stretched out on the table, looking up at the ceiling, remembering how I got here.

  • • •

  There are some things that are glamorous in the movies but very disappointing in real life. The Hollywood Bowl isn’t one of them. I first saw the place from a front row seat in the Biltmore Theater in Brooklyn, staring up at Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly on the screen doing scenes at the Bowl with pianist Jose Iturbi in Anchors Aweigh. Now, on a balmy summer night in the summer of l955, I’m really here and it’s as good as a movie even though Podolsky and I are in the cheap seats way up close to heaven.

  I’ve only recently arrived in L.A. Mother and I made the move right after my father died in the Naval Hospital on Staten Island. Podolsky came out to the Coast several months ago but already looks like a native with a Cary Grant tan, sunglasses worn day and night, indoors and outdoors, and loose-fitting, untucked Hawaiian shirts under which his autograph book can be easily concealed and quickly drawn when he sees stars.

  Tonight is Tchaikovsky Night at the Bowl. The big event at the end of the evening is the 1812 Overture culminating in cannon explosions and dazzling fireworks. But the program begins with Roy Darnell, formerly radio’s Man of a Thousand Voices, now TV’s Jack Havoc, narrating Peter and the Wolf, so you know why I schlepped Podolsky here.

  It’s a special occasion: today is Roy’s birthday. I haven’t seen Roy since I got to L.A., we’ve been too busy finding an apartment, a job for Mother, a couple of part-time jobs for me and although I’ve made contact with the local collector community via Podolsky, who has his own job at Wallich’s Music City at Sunset and Vine, I haven’t been out yet to Warner Brothers Studio in Burbank where they shoot Jack Havoc.

  The Bowl is filled to capacity and I don’t know exactly how I’m going to get to Roy to give him his gift—before we left New York, I bought him a necktie at Sulka’s that I once saw him admiring in the window—but collectors are nothing if not resourceful.

  “We’ll improvise,” I tell Podolsky.

  “And if all else fails—you can always give me the necktie.”

  Up here in the bleachers, the music lovers are munching on hot dogs and popcorn and sipping sodas from the vending stands. Way down close, separated from the stage by an illuminated water-filled lagoon, there are rows of cozy, upholstered box seats. The elegant folk there are eating box dinners (what else) of cold chicken and Caesar salad accompanied by white wine (the menus are posted near the Bowl entrance).

  “That’s where they’ll be,” I tell Podolsky. “I bet Addie’s there right now.”

  The house lights dim and the lights on the stage grow brighter as the orchestra takes its place and the conductor, Carmen Dragon, is applauded as he comes to the podium. “Ladies and gentleman,” a voice on the P.A. system announces, “Mr. Roy Darnell.”

  Roy walks out of the wings and steps behind a small lectern at the side of the stage. From the heights where Podolsky and I are sitting, he looks about five inches tall, but I can recognize his distinctive walk.

  The music begins and Roy’s voice—voices, really—delights the audience in the enormous outdoor amphitheater. He’s Peter and the wolf and the Cossacks and all the forest creatures. It reminds me of the good old days at Let’s Pretend. When the various instruments finally come together for the big finish, there’s a wave of appreciative applause and then the house lights brighten again for intermission.

  “Let’s go,” I say to Podolsky, and we’re off. The crowd’s looking for refreshments and rest rooms. We’re looking for stars. There are ushers at the lower level to guard the box seats from intruders, but there are so many bodies moving around in a confined area that it’s easy to slip past them. We stroll along nonchalantly, scanning the box seats, and Podolsky spots Gregory Peck and his wife chatting with Claudette Colbert and her husband. After that I catch sight of Addie and a couple of other chic people standing outside a front tier box. Then I see Roy coming toward us in the center aisle, shaking hands and accepting congratulations. I’m so excited that I shriek, “Roy!” and start rushing toward him. I get pretty close before a powerful hand grabs my arm and yanks me to a halt. I stare up at this guy I’ve never seen before. He’s got bulgy eyes and a mean mouth and he looks like Elisha Cook Jr. from the neck up and Charles Atlas from the neck down. He’s squeezing my arm so hard my eyes are tearing.

  “Hey, Killer, don’t kill her!” Roy calls to the guy. “She’s a friend.”

  The guy eases his grip. But I’m already ignoring him as Roy reaches me and kisses me, yes, kisses me on the cheek. “Reva, where’d you come from? You’re supposed to be in New York.”

  “Yeah, well, I moved out here,” I say.

  “Permanently?”

  I nod.

  “In order to be near me, I
bet,” he says. “Kenny, this is Reva, my first and foremost fan. This is Killer Lomax.”

  We shake hands. It’s like putting my hand in a bear’s paw, but this time the bear is gentle. “Pleased to meet you, Killer.”

  Then I wish Roy happy birthday and give him the gift box and he unwraps it right there and he likes the tie, says it’s just his taste, and I say, “I know,” and he says, “You know everything about me.” The thing is he looks the same as before but he also looks different. What’s different is that there’s an aura emanating from him. Maybe it has to do with gaining success and recognition, but since then I’ve noticed it in a number of other cases. Take Charlie Bronson, who was a lowly paid character actor bopping around town unnoticed for years, but then he went to Europe and became a star, and after he returned to Hollywood I saw him one day on an escalator going up at Bullock’s department store in Westwood and just by looking at his back, before you could even see his face, you knew it was Somebody. A Star. Well, that’s what’s happened to Roy since I saw him last.

  Two little boys have come running up to Roy to get him to autograph their programs. Pretty soon there are some young girls swarming around him, too, squealing and holding out their programs. The days when I had to ask Roy to sign in order to attract attention to him are clearly over. “I love Jack Havoc,” one of the girls is gushing. Killer Lomax is standing beside me, carefully watching the fans surrounding Roy.

  “Sorry if I scared you,” he says. “But you shouldn’t oughta run at people like that.”

  “You’re Roy’s bodyguard?”

  “Me?” He doesn’t look threatening when he smiles. “Nah, I’m just his pal. We go way back. And look at him now…”

  • • •

  In New York, the Secret Six made it a policy to cultivate good relations with the support troops who surround the stars. The studio publicists, the limo drivers, the doormen and parking valets at the best hotels, theaters and restaurants—they all could provide much-needed info. I brought that idea to California with me. So, of course, I make it a particular point now to schmooze whenever possible with Killer Lomax, the new gateway to Roy’s activities.

  At first it’s just basic meat-and-potatoes stuff. “Howyadoin’? When’s Roy coming out?” But as we see each other more and more over the months at various spots where we both have to hang out and wait for Roy it gets to be more sociable. I’m fascinated by what Killer can tell me about Roy as a boy. How they used to swipe Baby Ruth bars from the candy store. “I’d stand chickee—” that meant being the lookout “—but Roy always took the risk snatchin’ the merchandise. If we got nabbed, he’d usually sweet talk us out of it. If he couldn’t, we’d run like hell. He was fast on his feet even then, Roy.”

  I like to listen to him talk. His Philly accent is a lot like my own New York accent, even though he says some words funny, such as “gaz” (instead of “gas”) and “attee-tude” (instead of “attitude”). He enjoys sounding like a gangster. Maybe because in a minor way he is one.

  “Call me Kenny,” he sometimes says, but I prefer “Killer.” It seems much more exciting and a guarantee that despite the increasing crowds that mob Roy during public appearances, Killer will keep Roy safe. Killer also functions as Roy’s stand-in, which is puzzling because he doesn’t look at all like him. But Podolsky, who has become very knowledgeable about movie-making techniques, explains that away. “All they need is a body, a hulk, to stand there while the lights are being set.”

  Killer is also Roy’s stuntman, drinking partner, and social arranger. “He wrangles for Roy,” Podolsky says one day while we’re noshing on corned beef sandwiches at Canter’s Deli on Fairfax. There are horse wranglers, dog wranglers, camel wranglers, whatever type of specialty wrangler is required on the set. “Killer Lomax,” Podolsky insists, “is Roy Darnell’s chippie wrangler. He rounds ’em up, moves ’em in, and moves ’em out. Gee-haw!”

  I’m pissed at Podolsky for saying that, but I know it’s true. Since I’ve been in Hollywood, I’ve become aware that Roy is still being unfaithful to Addie. I’ve seen a threesome go into Chasen’s—Roy plus Killer, who’s wearing a gorgeous starlet on his arm. But later on, when they come back out to the parking lot, it’s Killer’s job to get the car while a tipsy Roy smooches the starlet in the shadows.

  When I delicately broach the subject with Killer, he’s bluntly honest. “It’s that bitch Addie. If she was more of a wife to him, Roy’d be home shackin’ up with her instead of doin’ the town with me.”

  “Well, I hope Roy and Addie work out whatever it is before Hedda or Louella pick up on it.”

  “Shhh! It’s our secret to keep, sis.”

  That’s what he calls me, “sis.” Like little sister. I’m proud he trusts me.

  Then an even more pressing problem develops. Roy is drinking too much, and he’s a belligerent drunk. Fist fights with photographers have made him a front page figure. Roy the Bad Boy. “When he gets a snootful, he thinks he’s really Jack Havoc,” Killer confides to me. “Lately that’s my number one chore, keeping him out of trouble.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Well, I’ve tried talkin’ ’til I’m blue in the face, but when he’s blitzed he don’t hear nothin’. So now I got a new technique. Bull by the horns, y’know?”

  “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?”