Getting Garbo Page 16

  “Stop it!” Kim yells in my face. She’s interceded between me and the ham-fisted smoocher. “You’re behaving just like that lunatic at the parade!”

  Dave Viola. She’s right. I am. Don’t want to do that. I bow and apologize to the smoochers. Kim and I go back to our drinks. “Thought you liked the Marx Brothers,” I say.

  “Only Harpo. He never talks.”

  Okay. I can take a hint. So I hop back on my barstool and polish off another round. Can I go fifteen rounds? For the championship. For the crown. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. Yesterday you’re the prince of Hollywood, tomorrow you’re a bum. From harboring Oscar ambitions to filing for unemployment insurance. In one mighty leap. I feel Kim’s hand on my shoulder. Patting. Rubbing. Consoling. Yeah. That’s good. Oh, so good.

  “Ever been to New York?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head. “Heard of it, though.”

  I smile. But the mirror behind the bar registers it as a grimace. “New York, New York, a really wonderful town.”

  “The Bronx is up, but the Battery’s down,” she teases. Borrowing Comden and Green’s lyric.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Sure you never been there?” Give her a real smile. Man in the mirror confirms it. “I had this terrific apartment on 52nd Street, top floor front, four-story brownstone walkup. Leon & Eddie’s and the ‘21’ Club were our neighbors. But the thing that made it great was that it was over one of the jazz clubs—”

  “Isn’t that the street where they all are, the jazz places?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s it. In bed at night, with the window open, the music would drift up. We’d be there in the darkness—”

  “You and who else?”

  “—and real late sometimes there’d be this woman’s voice. Smoky and full of hurt. Didn’t sound like anyone else you’d ever heard. Six notes and you knew you were listening to greatness.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Billie Holiday. She’d been in jail on a drug thing. For a year and a day. When she got out they revoked her cabaret license. Cops won’t let her sing in any New York nightclub—”

  “For how long?”

  “Forever. So she’d sneak in downstairs, just before closing, because she has to sing. Just has to. Even if it’s against the law. If she can’t do that, it’s like she’s dead.”

  “That’s—so sad.” Kim’s eyes misting. For Lady Day.

  “Hey. Maybe I can do the same thing. Sneak into the studio late at night and make movies by myself. When nobody’s watching. What do you think?”

  Kim’s eyes misting. For me. “Who else was with you, in bed, listening…”

  The bartender delivers another boilermaker. I must have signaled for it. “Addie. My never-lovin’ almost ex-wife.”

  “Did you love her? Back then?”

  “What, are you taking a survey? Gonna report back to Addie, see if the info is good for bonus points?”

  I’m hoisting the shot glass to my mouth. She slaps at my hand. Probably aiming for my face and missed. Splash. Waste of good whiskey. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, stupid thing to say.”

  “Very stupid.” She blots up the booze with her napkin. Cleaning up my mess. Oh God. This is a good one. A keeper.

  “Hey. Want to go to New York with me sometime?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  “How about right now? Let’s go.”

  She looks at me. A long one. Then. “I’ve got a better idea. You have any Billie Holiday records at home?”

  “All of ’em.”

  “Then let’s go there and get naked and climb into bed and leave the lights off and listen to her sing in the darkness.”

  “And who knows, I might get lucky—”

  “Never know.”

  I don’t need a pity fuck. “Don’t you want to call your camera crew so they can meet us there?”

  She flinches. Stares at me. Can’t believe what she heard. A rap in the mouth. I wait for anger. Tears? All I get is an infinitely weary shake of her head. “See you around sometime,” she says.

  Before I can stumble off the barstool and plead with her to stay, she’s gone.

  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 sid
e 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.

  17

  Roy

  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…” Ad
die’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.”