Getting Garbo Page 2

  “Sheilah, huh?” Bogie says. I shrug nonchalantly. “Sunday story?” he asks. I’m too smart to answer. “She always dangles a Sunday story. Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Did,” Romanoff corrects him.

  “Shut the fuck up, Mike. Go get ’er, kid.”

  I cross the room to the green leather banquette where she’s waiting. Step into my parlor.

  She’ll never see forty again. But from where I’m sitting now, Sheilah Graham seems more like a zaftig aging starlet than one of Hollywood’s grand inquisitors. No studio press agent to chaperone. Just she and me and here we go.

  “Roy Darnell,” she begins. “They say you’re the most dangerous man in Hollywood.”

  So that’s how it’s going to be. Okay. “Hey, Sheilah, I’m peanuts compared to Sinatra. I slug snotty barroom drunks. He runs his limo over pushy photographers and clobbers columnists. He’s my hero.”

  She laughs and jots on her pad. It’s what she came for. Jack Havoc in person.

  “You took a swing at Jack Warner.”

  “Not since last Christmas.”

  “Do you ever have the urge to hit a columnist?”

  “You mean, are you safe?” I shrug. “So far.”

  She laughs. She jots.

  Time was, just three long years ago, no one cared what my opinion was about anything. Since then I’ve been interviewed by hundreds of publications ranging from Time magazine to the B’nai B’rith Messenger. They want to know if I sleep in the nude and what I think of Frank Costello and what food I hate the most and if I believe in the death penalty. Actually, they’re never talking to me. They’re always talking to Jack Havoc. That’s also me. Roy Darnell is Jack Havoc. That’s how the billing reads every week on the main title of my TV show. The press tends to confuse the two of us. Me and Jack. And that’s okay. I encourage the confusion. Makes better copy. Bogie taught me that.

  “How come you’re not in the Army?” Sheilah Graham wonders. “We probably would have won the war if you’d volunteered.” It’s a compliment with a depth charge attached to it. Simple arithmetic, see? Korea started in 1950, here it is 1956, and I’m 27. So what she wants to know is how I beat the draft.

  “Well, I tried to enlist. I begged the Marines but they turned me down. Punctured eardrum. Half deaf on my left side. Souvenir from a gang rumble when I was a kid in South Philly.” Actually, a mastoid from when I had the mumps. But how’s she ever going to know the difference? “Bunch of my buddies went to Korea. Some of ’em didn’t come back. Not in one piece, anyway.”

  She likes the answer. Jot-jot. She’s allowed to hit you with questions only a confessional priest is normally entitled to ask. Rules of the game. Hedda, Louella, and Sheilah are the self-appointed protectors of Hollywood’s morals. Big job. Takes three of them to do it.

  So go explain that now, on twenty minutes’ acquaintanceship, beneath the protective concealment of Romanoff’s finest linen tablecloth, Sheilah Graham is playing footsie with me.

  “Why haven’t we met before?” she says lazily as Laszlo the waiter fusses over us. Pouring straight shots of aquavit from a bottle embedded in a slab of ice. Imagine. I’m matching shots with F. Scott Fitzgerald’s last mistress, inspiration for The Last Tycoon, which he never finished because he drank himself to death. Another one of my heroes. “Have you been hiding from me?” she wants to know.

  She doesn’t remember, but our paths actually did cross before. Six years ago. Backstage after a performance of A Streetcar Named Desire. I was temporarily understudying a small role, the kid who knocks on the door in Act Two and almost gets seduced by Blanche DuBois. Only one scene, but a winner—except the regular actor was healthy as a packhorse so I hardly ever got to play it for an audience. Anyway, this night, Sheilah Graham and entourage brush past me without a glance and sweep into the star dressing room of Jessica Tandy to be introduced to her costar, Broadway’s latest sensation—fellow name of Brando.

  Expecting high drama? Better settle for low comedy.

  “Marlon, I’d like you to meet someone,” Jessica says.

  “Well, hello there,” Sheilah says.

  “So you’re Jessica’s mother,” Marlon says. Smiling boyishly.

  Sheilah, two years younger than Jessica Tandy, gapes in horror.

  Natural enough mistake, of course. Sheilah’s blonde and British, just like Tandy. Marlon is nearsighted, refuses to wear glasses, and has been told that Tandy’s mother is in town. It might have been glossed over, explained away. Except for the braying laughter. Coming from the hallway. Coming from me.

  Me and my sense of humor.

  Sheilah Graham fled. Never printed a pleasant word about Brando after that. So no point reminding her of our chance meeting.

  Now she’s asking about Bogie and me. This part of the interview I can do in my sleep. Friendly Philly cop arrests street punk. Steers him into acting class. Kid actor. New York radio scene. Kid’s voice changes, career’s over. Starving in New York. Until. Ta-dah! Bogie to the rescue. Comes to New York for “live” TV production of The Petrified Forest. Bogie as Duke Mantee once again. Kid auditions six times. Nobody wants me. Except Bogie. Makes them hire me as third mobster in the gang. Next gets Hollywood pal to give me a showy bit as a rapist hoodlum in Blackboard Jungle. Warner’s TV people come to Bogie. Wanna star in a TV series? Jack Havoc. Hired gun with a personal code. White knight in a black T-Bird, tilting against injustice. Have Gun, Will Travel without the horses. Get Peter Lorre to play your sidekick. How about it, Bogie? Big laugh. I’m too old and too rich. But Bogie recommends this kid. Me. I work cheap, I work hard. A star is born. Show’s a smash. Three years in the Top Ten. Blah-blah-blah. The truth with the edges rounded off.

  But she likes it.

  Sheilah is jotting with her right hand. Probing with her left foot. Shoeless. Her toes up my pants leg. I glance over at Bogie’s table. Others yakking. Bogie, munching his usual platter of French toast, grinning at me. Son of a bitch has X-ray vision.

  Clink! Another round of icy aquavit. Platter of cracked crab we’re sharing stands neglected. Skaol! And now she’s confiding in me. Her marriage has hit a bumpy patch. Looks like it’s never gonna recover. I don’t really give a shit, of course, and I’m not sure she does either. But I sympathize. I pat her hand, she squeezes my thigh. Hey. So what’s the big deal here? To boff or not to boff, that is the question. Not like it’s Louella the horned toad or Hedda the decrepit dowager queen. A roll in the hay with Miss Graham might be fun. Used to be a London chorus girl, bet she’s still got rhythm. Follow in F. Scott’s footsteps, what’s the matter with that? Damn. It’s the aquavit talking. Get a grip on yourself, Roy.

  I lean forward. Accentuating the importance of my next words. Tongue’s a little thick, but it’s straight from my heart.

  “Sheilah, can I tell you? I am in love with the most beautiful, wonderful girl in the world—my wife. That’s what I wish for you. But with a guy, of course.”

  She shrugs. “All the good guys are taken.” Her sunglasses slip down her nose. She pushes them back up again. Sighs. Disappointed? Maybe. What she’s really after besides my ass is secrets. Exclusives. Hot bulletins for her readers.

  We’re walking out now. Closing the joint. Last stragglers. Prince Mike kisses Sheilah’s hand. Shakes mine. Solemnly. We amble on. Cozy. Arms around each other’s waists. Clutching. Because we’re both shit-faced. Saunter, don’t stagger. Make it to the curb outside Romanoff’s. Usual knot of fans still there. Autograph books and flash cameras. The valet parking guy has Sheilah’s Rolls-Royce waiting. I bend close to kiss her cheek. She turns her face and I get a mouth full of tongue. Flashes go off. We both laugh. She whispers, “If anything changes in your situation, let me know right away.” For her column? For her bedroom? Probably both.

  The autograph kids swarm now. Waving pens and albums and 8x10s and candid photos they’ve shot. A
red-haired, freckle-faced boy holds out a folded hunk of paper. New kid. Built like a high school linebacker. Brassy smile. “What’s your name?” I ask. Ready to write on his paper.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “You can keep that.”

  “What?” Having a little difficulty focusing just now.

  “That’s for you,” the new kid says. “You’re served.”

  Unfold the hunk of paper. Legal mumbo jumbo. Subpoena. Fucking subpoena! Words blurry, dancing. Must be Jack Warner, that creep! Ruining my life. I look at the red-haired kid. He’s standing there in triplicate. All three faces grinning. What would Jack Havoc do? I take my best shot. Short right-handed jab. Straight from the shoulder. At the face in the middle. But I hit air. And tumble forward. Sprawling on the hood of Sheilah’s Rolls. All three red-haired kids snickering at me now. More camera flashes. Sheilah climbing out of the Rolls. Shark smells blood. Asks the red-haired kid what it’s all about. Ready to jot. “Divorce papers,” he tells her.

  I feel a friendly hand. Helping me sway up. I gaze into the sweetest face I know. Little Reva. Reva Hess. My number-one fan. Perky little teenager. Pops up wherever I am. New York. Hollywood. Always there. With that worshipful smile.

  “Hi, Reva,” I say.

  “You okay, Mr. Darnell?” Worshipful-worried.

  “Never better,” I say.

  Reva doesn’t look like she believes me.

  • • •

  I tool away in my sporty black T-Bird two-seater. Our sponsor, Ford Motors, gives me a fresh ride every year. For free. I’m a roving ambassador for my show and, of course, their product. Almost two-thirds of those T-Birds in the country are in Southern California. But none of them has the lustrous twenty-six coats of midnight black finish mine has, with the specially designed wire wheels. I change lanes carefully, with the concentrated attention that only the drunk put into their driving. I should go home and sleep it off. But I don’t usually do what I should do. God. I’m starting to sound like Jack Havoc—and on my own time.

  Rodeo Drive is just another sleepy second-string shopping street. Books, garden supplies, haberdashery. None of the exclusive shops and salons. The action is all a block east on Beverly Drive. But the rents are cheaper on Rodeo. I find a parking space easily in front of Francis Orr Stationers. Adrienne’s Emporium is next door. Tasteful window display done in imported-snobby. I sail into the store, still flying from the aquavit and the adrenaline from my Romanoff’s adventure. Full of righteous indignation. There are only a couple of shoppers browsing the inventory of expensive furnishings that I’ve paid for and hardly ever see any return on. But Addie claims that’s normal for a startup interior decorator operation. I always ask her, Addie, why don’t all the other decorators in town bother with their own showrooms? She says I don’t understand. And don’t call her Addie around the clients. She’s Adrienne.

  “Where’s Addie?” I loudly ask one of the sedate sales biddies.

  She looks like I just farted in front of the queen. Hands flutter. “Miss Adrienne is in the office, Mr. Darnell. But she’s in a meeting with—”

  I turn. Chug to the rear. In passing I give a nod to Benjy, the muscle-bound black security guy, sitting on a sale-priced Eames chair, reading the Hollywood Reporter. “Hey, Roy, how’s the man?” he greets. Benjy’s after me to help him get his SAG card so he can become the next Sidney Poitier.

  Through the glass wall of her office, I can see Addie. She’s with Guy Saddler. He’s this retired movie set decorator who once won an Oscar for Garbo’s Camille. Now he’s on our payroll as a “consultant.” That seems to translate into standing around fingering fabric swatches and reminiscing about “my most recent fortnight in Milano.” They spend a lot of time together, Addie and Guy, but he’s light in the loafers so I never mind—except for the sarcasm he aims in my direction. As if I’m too much of an animal to even understand I’m being insulted. He gestures in my direction and Addie looks over. He whispers something snively in his Clifton Webb voice and she gives a small laugh and steps out to meet me.

  So here she is, folks. The girl that I married. She still looks so much like the first moment I saw her. Shoulder-length chestnut hair. Beverly Hills Tennis Club tan. We used to play together. Good legs, terrific boobs. Hazel eyes that always used to be ready for laughter.

  When we met, that’s six years ago, she was working her way through Columbia pre-law by writing feature stories for Film Daily in New York. I was playing the Prince on CBS-Radio’s Let’s Pretend every Saturday morning. She did the first interview on me. At Sardi’s. Gotta love her, right? We were a perfect combination. Opposites attracting. The college chick and the high school dropout. She taught me how to read and I taught her how to fuck. Oversimplified? Sure. The important thing to remember is how close we were then. Two kids out to beat the world. Together. And it worked like a road map. She graduated Columbia University and through a Film Daily contact got a job at Columbia Pictures in New York. Negotiating contracts, keeping an eye out for work for me. After Bogie brought me to the Coast, she transferred here, too. Everything was marvelous when we were getting started. It was when I succeeded that the problems began.

  She hates Jack Havoc. Resents the heads turning on the street, the fans interrupting dinner at restaurants, calling her “Mrs. Havoc.” She despises that. So she blames me. “It seems you’ve acquired all the annoyances and none of the advantages of being famous,” she likes to say. Nice talk, huh?

  Also, she hit a roadblock at Columbia when Harry Cohn made a pass at her. She rebuffed him so vigorously that he canned her. End of one career. Start of another. Addie helped Bogie and Betty decorate their new house in Holmby Hills. Home run! Addie’s suddenly in demand as a decorator. Loves being Adrienne. Working the party circuit, trolling for clients. That’s when I got left behind. The kid from South Philly snoozing at dinner parties during heated discussions between elegant pansies and snide society bitches about Kurdistan carpeting and fun new fabrics. But at least Addie was making money at it then. When she talked me into backing her store, I thought that’d get us close again. It only got us deeper in hock.

  So now I look at her in the office doorway. She is far from smiling.

  “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop in,” I say. “Anything new goin’ on?”

  “Don’t play games, Roy. The process server just phoned.”

  “What the hell’s this all about, Addie? No warning, no discussion—”

  She reaches behind her into the office. Guy Saddler hands her an 8x10 envelope. She hands it to me. “I warned you.”

  “Addie, c’mon, don’t be dramatic. Whatever’s bothering you, we can talk it out, like always, if you just give me a—”

  She gives me a little tired wave. I think she’s weakening. But when Benjy grips my elbow, I realize she’s signaling him. “This is ridiculous, Addie, you can’t just—” I vigorously shake off Benjy. Just like I do on the show. But Benjy’s ready for me, twists my arm behind my back.

  “Roy,” Addie sounds so bored. “Sometimes I think you think you really are Jack Havoc.” She tosses a dismissive wave of her hand and Benjy starts giving me the bum’s rush toward the front door.

  “You’re gonna be sorry, sweetie, very sorry!” I yell over my shoulder before Benjy propels me bodily out onto the sidewalk.

  “No offense, Roy,” Benjy says, releasing me, dusting my lapel. “Just my job, y’know?”

  Yeah, I think, well, find someone else to get you your SAG card. Benjy goes back inside. I’m left with egg on my face and the 8x10 envelope in my hand.

  Feels like photos in the envelope.

  That’s when a chill runs down my spine.

  3

  Reva

  “It’s my fault,” I whisper.

  “What is?” Podolsky whispers back.

  We’re hiding in the bushes, watching the driveway portico of Earl Carroll’s
nightclub on Sunset Boulevard. A special event’s being held here tonight, the annual BOOMTOWN show, when all the Hollywoodites dress up in cowboy clothes for some charity. In another few minutes, the driveway’s going to be jammed with departing stars. We’re perfectly positioned, unless the parking attendants spot us first and chase us away.

  “Letting that guy with the subpoena serve Roy,” I say. “My fault.”

  “Grow up,” Podolsky says. He’s twenty-one, only two years older than I am, but he likes to gives me his condescending George Sanders sneer of disdain (in his Bronx accent). “Reva, you have a deluded sense of the amount of control you exert over the universe.”

  Barry Podolsky, my best friend and worst critic, is skinny as a string bean and has thick horn-rimmed glasses that fog up when he gets excited. We go back to the New York days.

  “No, really, I blame myself,” I tell him.

  It’s been bothering me all day. I feel like I should have left well enough alone when that redheaded kid, at least we thought he was just another kid, strolled up to us collectors outside Romanoff’s at lunchtime. He said, “Who you guys waiting for?” and we said “Ginny Sims,” as we usually do, because Ginny Sims, the former band singer who’s on the radio now, is well-known enough so that her name is recognized, but nobody’s ever sufficiently excited to hang around to see her, so they always walk off, which is what we want. But then the redheaded kid smiles his freckled Butch Jenkins smile and says, “Somebody said Roy Darnell was in there,” and I, of course, had to say, proudly, as if I were talking to a fellow fan, “As a matter of fact, he is.” So I figure I kinda trapped Roy for the subpoena guy.

  “You didn’t make him go into his Jack Havoc routine and try to take a poke at the process server,” Podolsky whispers.

  “Roy shouldn’t drink so much at lunch,” I concede.

  Podolsky snickers. “That’s like telling a camel not to tank up on water at the oasis.”

  I worry about Roy’s drinking lately. It’s where all the Roy the Bad Boy behavior comes from, I’m sure of it.