Getting Garbo Read online

  I got the hang of it fast and censored stuff by myself. My nose really got busted by my father, the South Street bookie, who used me as a punching bag whenever he got drunk. Skip. Daddy passes out in the gutter on an icy winter night and freezes to death. Skip. Just say: Roy Darnell lost his father, a well-known Philadelphia sportsman, at an early age. Mother encouraged Roy’s youthful dream to act. Use. But skip parts about when she was half-bagged and came on to casting directors, stage managers, and anyone else who showed a flicker of interest.

  Then Merle and I went beyond the gossip columns and broke into the legit news pages.

  A cowboy, half a head taller than me, sashays up during jam-packed cocktail hour at the Polo Lounge and sneers, “So yer the lil’ peckerwood from TV who’s supposed to be such a badass.” He swings and misses. I give him one in the gut and he goes down. In front of the whole damn town. Story moves on both the AP and UPI wires. Merle Heifetz is proud as punch. Tells me now that it was a put-up job, he paid the cowboy to pick the fight and take the dive. “If Sinatra’s people can hire bobbysox swooners, why can’t we use a few barroom brawlers?”

  Pretty soon Merle didn’t have to hire ’em. I’d joined the select group of he-man actors who are magnets for every saloon blowhard out to show off in front of his girl. It’s like being the fastest gun in the west. They all want to test you.

  Not that I wasn’t kind of fast with my fists when I was a kid in Philly. You had to be to stay alive. Even during my New York days, I got into a scrape or two. For my art. I always thoroughly research my roles, and one time I was going to play a longshoreman on a TV show. So I hung out in some of the waterfront bars, studying the dock wallopers. Two bruisers followed me out onto the street one night. Push led to shove. But I pumped up on adrenaline. Pretended I was my guardian angel, who’s absolutely fearless. Really got into it. Like I became him. It had worked for me before and it did this time, too. I creamed those two guys. Definitely put the big one in the hospital with a concussion. So that was the attitude I used on the TV show. Got a good mention from John Crosby in the Herald Trib review.

  You probably want to know a little more about the guardian angel I just mentioned. Calling him that makes him sound like a cartoon cherub with wings. He’s more like a voice inside me. The voice of self-preservation. I only hear him when I’m really in trouble, I mean in deep shit. Then he’s there. It started when I was just a scared little kid. Whispering, warning, reassuring, always inspiring me to do what’s best for me. Like a survival instinct. But with street savvy. Cool but daring. The idealized me, I guess. He’s the last word on whether it’s time for fight or flight. Cross him and you’ve got a problem. I never gave him a name or anything. Until Jack Havoc came along.

  On the Jack Havoc set nobody wants to test me. Everyone is gun-shy. Trying to stay on my good side. I’m ashamed to admit I like it. People running scared of me. From the producer to the prop man, I win all the arguments. Saves a lot of time and aggravation. I frown and they jump.

  In the early days of the show there were a few problems. The lead stunt man was after the same wardrobe gal I was interested in that week. I warned him, but some people just won’t take a hint. So when we did the next big fight scene, I screwed up the choreography just slightly. Instead of safely fanning him with a roundhouse right, I flattened him. Broke his jaw in two places. No chance he could get back at me, of course. If I’m damaged, everybody’s out of work.

  Or the time the studio assigned this British phony-baloney to direct one of the episodes. Used to suck on his pipe, tell backstage stories about “Larry” and “Viv” at the Old Vic. And treat me like this dumbbell ex-radio actor. “Do be aware of your body language, dear boy, the performance can’t originate exclusively in your tonsils.” I could have reamed him in front of the whole company, but that would have been tacky. Instead, my stand-in arranged a little practical joke with the horse wranglers. This director’s pride and joy was a cute MG convertible with wrong-side English steering. He always parked it off to the side near the Western street so it wouldn’t get dinged. Well, one afternoon, wouldn’t you know, an entire truckload of horse dung accidentally got dumped on his MG. With the top down. I mean, buried. Everyone was in on the gag, so we all were there to see his face when he went looking for his wheels. It was a hoot. He never could get the smell out of the upholstery, wound up selling the car.

  But now it’s time for a change of pace—here comes Roy the Good Ol’ Boy.

  5

  Roy

  This is a dumb thing to do. Every time I do it, that’s what I think. Dumb. But it gives the troops a lift. So here goes nothing: I put a cigarette between my lips and turn sideways. So I’m in profile, me and my cigarette, for the man with the bullwhip.

  That’s Paco Alvarez, our production manager. He’s the guy who figuratively cracks the whip to set the tempo and keep track of the bucks on my TV series. But Paco, who began in the business acting as a villainous shtarka in Poverty Row westerns, developed this trick back then. He can take a cigarette out of your mouth. At twenty paces. If you’ll let him.

  It’s the tail end of our lunch break, a time when mischief often prevails on a set. We’re shooting on a residential street in Toluca Lake near the studio. Usually I eat my lunch in my custom-fitted trailer, mostly alone. But this is the new me. Standing in the chow line with the troops. Just one of the guys. Making nice. Tossing the football around with the teamsters. Now accepting Paco’s offer to perform the cigarette trick.

  CRRRRRRRACK!

  The bullwhip snaps in the air. Warmup shot to unfurl. Almost everyone in the company—from gaffers to actors to teamsters—is gathered in a circle to watch. A chance to maybe see Roy the Bad Boy get his head handed to him. Literally. Possible revenge for all the times I’ve chewed out one of them. Here’s the windup—Paco rears back like he’s about to flog one of the Bounty mutineers—here comes the lash and—the cigarette disappears.

  I clap my hands to my mouth. Muffling the shriek of pain. A gasp from the crowd. Paco is ashen, he’s done the unthinkable: damaged the on-camera talent. I take my hands from my mouth. Blood is oozing, covering my front teeth as I expose them—in a big shit-eating grin.

  Now they all laugh. Realize they’ve been bamboozled. A blood squib, hidden in my mouth. Just like in the movies. And they’re all over me, pounding my back, You wiseass sonuvagun, scaring the hell out of everyone. Well, you know me, anything for a gag.

  I’m fooling them. They’re accustomed to me as the incarnation of Jack Havoc. Handle with care. Liable to blow up in your face at any time. Now, on advice of counsel, I’m a pussycat. Within moments the story of how I clowned around with the bullwhip will be all over the studio. Proof of the emergence of a lower octane me. Roy the Good Boy.

  Kenny Lomax, my stand-in and stunt double, is showing off for some of the cute little extras. He squishes a squib in his mouth and then as “blood” drips down his face, Kenny yells, “Paco, you owe me a kicker.” Meaning the extra pay earned for doing a tough stunt.

  Kenny is rewarded with a hoot from the crew. It’s a running joke around here. Mostly I do my own stunts, but Kenny always claims he’s owed money anyway. Last season I did a wrestle-and-tumble down a steep, rocky hillside and dislocated my shoulder. With a deadpan face, Kenny asked for the customary kicker—plus disability pay. My pain is his pain.

  He’s from the old neighborhood, Kenny. South Street loudmouth. We grew up together, then lost touch—until I got my TV show. That’s when they all came out of the woodwork. I keep him around for laughs and to remind me where I’m from. His nickname is Killer. Killer Lomax. He lets everybody assume that he used to be a mobster. I let him do it. What the hell, we’re all wearing masks, right? Actually the correct spelling of the word is not “killer” but “killah”—which is Yiddish for hernia. The one Kenny Lomax had when he was eleven. We started calling him Killer as a put on. He’s been living off the reflected glory ev
er since.

  He sidles up to me. We’re dressed like twins in identical clothes. The resemblance ends there. I’m fairly tall, he’s not. He’s on the porkier side, and I sweat every pound. But he’s a bull. Kenny winks at me. I know what he wants before he asks.

  “Hey, sport, you gonna be using your trailer?”

  “Now?” I shrug. Making it tough on him. “No, I thought maybe I’d work a little. How ’bout you?”

  “Then it’s okay I use the trailer.” He waves reassuringly to a little dirty blonde extra, waiting for him nearby, giggling.

  “You leave a mess, I’ll kill ya, Killer.”

  He smiles reassurance. “I always leave everything the way I find it.”

  “The A.D. notices your playmate isn’t in the street scene, he’s gonna fire her ass.”

  Kenny Lomax shrugs. “Well, that’s the chance she takes.”

  • • •

  We’re back at work. A big part of my job is ignoring people. There’s always a crew of dozens behind the camera, and on a street shoot like today there are platoons of gawkers and fans lurking behind the ropes. I have to pretend none of them exist.

  The scene we’re doing is a walk-and-talk. Camera dollies in front of me and Dave Viola, who’s my comedy relief sidekick in the series. Kind of Gabby Hayes to my Hopalong Cassidy. We’re strolling down the street, babbling facts the audience has to know, mixed in with the scat lines that comprise our relationship. I don’t like the character much, and I like Dave Viola even less. He’s a graduate of the Borscht Belt school of acting. When in doubt, mug furiously or cross your eyes. We’re supposed to be best friends in the series.

  On the first take, Viola fakes a trip on the pavement and makes one of his patented schmuck faces, thereby taking the attention away from me and what I’m saying. The director catches it, yells Cut! We do it again. This time Viola gives a Groucho-like leer at an attractive girl extra passing by. Before the director can cut the scene, I give Viola a snappy slap upside the head. But grin affectionately at him like it’s part of the scene and go on with the dialogue. Viola rubs his head like a chastised kid and says his lines. We make it to the corner. Where a car zooms past and a hood with a gun leans out the window, firing at us. I yank Viola to the ground, saving my buddy’s life for the umpteenth time. That’s a print. Hey, we’re not doing Shakespeare here.

  “Roy make booboo on Davey,” Viola coos at me. Clutching his head. Loud enough for the spectators behind the ropes to hear.

  “It was a love tap,” I say.

  “Davey loooooooves Roy.” Clutching his heart. So what the hell can I say?

  “Roy loves Davey, too.” I pat his head like he’s an Airedale terrier. The spectators applaud. What they came to see.

  We start to line up the next shot. Viola doing his getting-up-from-a-pratfall shtick while I draw my trusty Walther 9 mm automatic and fire after the fleeing car. It’s just a rehearsal so I don’t really pop any caps, I just yell “Bang! Bang!” The crowd behind the ropes loves it. Movie magic revealed.

  “Second team!” the assistant director yells. Meaning it’s time for the stand-ins to step in while the cameraman sets the new lighting. Kenny Lomax materializes on cue, his face flushed but his fly zipped. As he takes my place under the lights, he tells me my lawyer called.

  I go to the phone in my trailer for privacy.

  I’m not expecting a call from Nate Scanlon. He’s been a whirling little dervish since Addie served me with the divorce papers six weeks ago. He and Jerry Giesler have been huddling and confabbing around the clock. Like negotiating the Korean War Peace Treaty. Mostly they’ve kept Addie and me on the sidelines, away from each other, which is fine with both of us. She’s still living in the house on Kings Road above Sunset. I’m renting an Englishy cottage on Coldwater Canyon, just up from the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  We did have to appear together in Beverly Hills court one morning to lock in her temporary alimony. Nate and Giesler worked it so we could be whizzed in and out through a back door. But somehow the four of us wound up in the same freight elevator heading up. The two lawyers chatting amiably, Addie and I standing in silence. She’s lost some weight and looks pretty damn good, but it doesn’t seem appropriate for me to tell her that. Suddenly she turns to me and says in this choked voice, “How could you?”

  I know this is a ploy, but it works. Guilt flashes across my face. She’s timed it beautifully: the elevator doors fly open and the press photographers, who’ve been tipped by someone—Nate and Giesler later accuse each other—fire away with their flash cameras. In the afternoon editions, I look like a murderer caught in the act and Addie looks like a wounded angel.

  Fortunately, the judge doesn’t allow photographers inside his courtroom. We sit there in our separate corners as if we’re dress extras without any lines until the judge asks each of us the same question, “Do you understand and agree to what has been stipulated for the record here today?” We say our “I do’s.” Just like we once did for another judge. Guess it all ends the way it began.

  I’m worried about public opinion. After all, what if the audience that’s wallowing in all the innuendos being fed them by the press, decides they don’t like Roy the Bad Boy anymore? Nate Scanlon thinks I’m an idiot to worry. “Errol Flynn was tried and freed on rape charges and he came away a bigger star than before,” he lectures me. “Bob Mitchum gets nabbed puffing a reefer and does thirty days sweeping the floor at County Jail and the studio doubles his salary when he’s released. Don’t you get it? The audience loves guys like you—not in spite of, but because you’re bad boys.”

  But I still worry. I know there’s a line you mustn’t cross. I’m just not that sure where it is.

  • • •

  When I climb into my trailer, I find that Lomax, the Lady Killer, has been true to his promise, more or less. The place is no sloppier than when I left it. Kenny calls it The Fuckmobile, but recently he’s gotten much more use out of it than I have. Not that I’ve been true blue during my marriage. I mean, I’ve succumbed to delicious temptation now and then. But only on a one-shot basis. No ongoing ring-a-ding-dings. I made that a rule. I’ve turned down a helluva lot more snatch than you’d imagine. But what am I going to do when I’ve got an insecure leading lady who’s scared about the love scene we’re filming tomorrow morning? Or, in the New York days, when the price of getting into an audition was screwing the casting agent? Okay, okay. I don’t want to act like every extracurricular broad I ever banged was for my art. But give me credit for those that were.

  What I’m saying is that basically I’m monogamous. Because it’s the right thing to do. And because Addie seems to have a built-in pussy detector. She tags me more times than not. Recently I haven’t been doing anything on the side. Maybe I’m growing up. Just my luck, my one slip and she’s got a private eye with a spy camera on my case. Though how he tracked me, careful as I was, I still can’t figure out.

  I slouch on the couch in my trailer and dial Scanlon, Traxel, and Borison, Attorneys-at-Law. I say it’s me and the switchboard chick puts me straight through.

  “How do you feel?” Nate asks.

  I say okay.

  “Do you feel divorced? Because that’s what you are.”

  He’s major-league pleased with himself. Not only has he concluded the deal, but he also got the judge—after the last in-person press fiasco—to accept individual affidavits from Addie and me, saying we understand and accept blah-blah-blah. We don’t have to go to court. We’ve been granted an interlocutory decree that’ll be final in a few months. It’s all over. We’ve managed to give her a package consisting of everything she could think of—she gets the house, full custody of the dog (yes, Fluffy is mentioned in the divorce agreement by name and attached photo), she keeps full title to her business—and that could be my revenge, if it keeps costing her what it’s cost me. And, of course, she gets my TV royalties. I pay her legal
expenses, as well as my own. That one rankles. Like hiring the biggest bully in town and paying him top dollar to kick the crap out of you.

  “I may be disbarred for being too efficient,” Nate Scanlon says. “We lawyers, one of our favorite phrases is, ‘Time is of the essence.’ But we usually take as much of it as we can.” He emits a deep contented sigh. “I’ve never rammed a divorce through this fast.”

  Is that a hint or what? I step up immediately.

  “Thanks, Nate. Santa’s gonna put something extra special in your stocking.”

  I hang up. Tickled that I’m now officially a pauper. Pending completion of the interlocutory wait. But it’s a binding deal. Neither of us can change the terms. Nate’s made that clear. So Addie may think she’s fucked me over—but now I’m free to get on with my life.

  As soon as Nate Scanlon can spring me from Burbank.

  I reach for the open carton of Lucky Strikes on my dressing table, grab a loose cigarette, and scrounge around for my lighter. The gold-plated lighter I got for my twenty-seventh birthday. Inscribed, “Here’s looking at you, kid. Love, Bogie and Betty.” The lighter’s not here. Killer Lomax, I bet. He loves that lighter like it’s his own and it winds up in his pocket half the time. So he can torch my smokes for me during the day, he says. Sometimes it goes home with him overnight. That Killer, looking out for me even when he’s asleep.

  The A.D. raps on the door. “First team,” he calls.

  • • •

  It’s 7:30 when we quit. We came when it was dark and we’re leaving when it’s dark. Somebody once compared working on a TV series to fucking an eight hundred-pound gorilla. You decide when to start and the gorilla decides when to stop. Killer and I are in the backseat of the limo that’ll take us back to the studio lot so we can pick up our own cars. As we pass through the opening in the ropes, the diehard fans are still there, Reva among them. Tiny Reva. First autograph I ever signed was for her. The radio days. She was in junior high school then, must be eighteen, nineteen by now. Still looks like an adolescent elf. Her usual Prince Valiant haircut, dressed like a tomboy in dungarees, polo shirt, and sneakers. A small, earnest face that lights up when she sees me.