Getting Garbo Page 7

  7

  Roy

  “A small expression of the agency’s congratulations—or condolences,” my agent says. He’s brought two of Vendome’s most expensive gift baskets, each overflowing with sweetmeats, cheeses, and a jeroboam of champagne. One basket gaily wrapped in red cellophane with flowing ribbons. The other somberly encased in black cellophane, the sort of thing you bring to a wake. “We didn’t know if you were celebrating or mourning. So we covered both bases.”

  “I’m not sure either,” I tell him.

  “You know what they say. Into each life a little rain must fall. Well, Addie, let’s face it, she was a deluge.”

  He never liked Addie. Can you tell?

  As he leans over and sets the brimming baskets on the coffee table, I get a whiff of him. My agent smells good. He really does. It’s not perfume or toilet water, whatever that is. He says it’s cologne. Don’t get him started, though, because he can do a half hour on the subject. He gave me a huge bottle of the stuff for Christmas, but I still haven’t worked up the nerve to use it yet. He says just think of it as aftershave.

  His name is Val Dalton and he’s a moose. I’m big. He’s bigger. Extra-large guy. He handles the two gift baskets like they’re cupcakes. Sartorially, he’s turned out as elegantly as a diplomat. Shirts and suits tailored in Hong Kong. Bench-cobbled British loafers with cute tassels. Carefully sprayed pompadour. Don’t get the idea he’s a pansy or anything. Val used to play goalie in the pro hockey league in Canada.

  He’s originally from Kansas, family of dirt farmers. But he claims his great-great-great uncles were the Dalton Brothers, notorious bank robbers of the old west. “Makes me a birth member of the Ride Back Club,” he likes to say. Translation: in the western movies when one of the guys gets left behind and the other cowpokes realize it. “We’re the guys who’ll ride back for him.” Now that’s a great background for an agent.

  “I’ve got a question,” I tell him. “It seems like half the country’s getting divorces. How come they all manage to take it right in stride?”

  “If that’s the line someone lays on you, they’re lying. Trust me, I’m an expert on this subject.” Val is slightly older than I am, but he’s been divorced twice and things have gotten noisy lately with his third marriage. “When it happens, even if you hate her guts, it still rattles you. Guys’ll tell you you’ll get over it in two months. Two years is more like it.”

  The quid pro quo seems out of whack. Addie and I were only married six years. Some shiny-nice ones, in the beginning. Quick. Cover the pain with a gag. “Don’t I get any time off for—whaddayacallit?”

  “Good behavior? Only if you qualify.” My agent knows me too well.

  We’re sitting in my penthouse living room. Not mine, exactly. It’s Jack Havoc’s living room. A standing set on Stage 11. Posh perfection, with breakaway walls. The better to photograph you with. Panoramic view of the city. Look closer, just a backdrop. Running water in the bathroom for my bare-chested beefcake shaving scenes. But no toilet bowls, check it out, not anywhere in a Hollywood movie or TV show in those days.

  Carpenters are banging nails, the electrical crew clattering lights into position for the next setup. Too noisy to talk here. So Val and I gather up my goodie baskets and step out of the penthouse into the semi-gloom, clutter, and confusion behind the camera, stepping nimbly over cables as we move toward my dressing room.

  Stage 11 is the oldest one on the lot. Ghosts hide in the seventy foot high rafters and narrow catwalks. Sound-padding was added when Jolson began to shout for his Mammy. Cagney shoved a grapefruit into Mae Clarke’s face right over there. The 3-D version of The Phantom of the Rue Morgue was shot here. Now my TV series is paying the rent.

  We settle down in the dressing room. It’s a roomy place, until someone Val’s size comes inside. Then it starts feeling like a toy house. I pour some Chianti for us and then Val drops a bomb. The divorce isn’t the only reason he came by.

  “We’ve received an offer from Warners,” he says.

  “To do what?” I’m feeling guilty that I haven’t told Val or anyone at the agency that Nate Scanlon is going to take a shot at breaking the Warners contract.

  “They’ve got a theatrical feature they want you to do during the series hiatus.”

  “How about Marty’s movie?” Martin Ritt, one of the best directors in Hollywood and an old pal from the New York “live” TV days, is about to make a waterfront movie with Sidney Poitier. He’s been talking to me about co-starring.

  “This would be instead. Warners will give you thirty-five thousand. Outside the TV deal. They know you’re hurting for cash after the divorce settlement.”

  “The money’s good,” I admit.

  “In return, they want you to extend your contract.” Val fiddles with the foil on the red gift basket. “Agree to give them two extra years as Jack Havoc.”

  Deep breath. Let’s hear it all. “What’s the Warners movie?”

  “A western. Aldo Ray plays Wyatt Earp. You’re one of his younger brothers.”

  “How many younger brothers are there?”

  “Three. You’re the middle one. You don’t get killed until the O.K. Corral.”

  “They’re killin’ me right now! C’mon, Val, this is horse pucky. Not even a ‘B’ movie, it’s ‘B’ minus!”

  “It’s not what we were looking for, I know. But like you said, the money’s good, and I’m sure we can get them to step up your Jack Havoc fees in a healthy way for the extra couple years. So you’ll get to be a movie star a little later. What’s the big hurry? Look at Bogie or Coop or Duke. You’re going to have a long, long career, like them.”

  I’m not feeling guilty anymore. My agent is shilling for the studio.

  “I’d rather do the picture with Poitier. Even if Warners grabs all of my loanout fee like they did the last time.”

  “The Poitier movie is no longer a possibility.” Boom!

  “Maybe you better spell this out for me, Val.”

  “Warners is exercising their right to pre-empt. You take the Earp picture and whistle all the way to the bank, or—they’ll suspend you. Force you to sit out the hiatus, off salary. Until you go back to work on the series.”

  “They can do that?”

  “According to the contract.”

  I look at Val Dalton. He’s squirming. I know why.

  He was there to welcome me when I first came to California. We’d never met, but he was easy to spot. Look for the tallest head on the station platform. In those days, flying was still a hassle, so actors being signed up by the New York talent scouts were shipped west by train. The Twentieth Century to Chicago, transfer to the Super Chief from Chicago to Pasadena.

  That’s how Val Dalton became a rising star at the agency.

  Because all the senior guys there couldn’t be bothered, schlepping all the way to Pasadena. For what? To meet some scruffy, scratching, mumbling kid who’d be taking the bus back to New York before anyone knew it. So they sent the big kid, Val, the agency gofer, to meet the trains. When some of us started to get somewhere in our careers, the only person at the agency we knew was Val Dalton.

  But apart from business, the two of us have shared a lot of history. We’ve gotten drunk together in a Durango cathouse, won big and lost bigger at Santa Anita racetrack, risked our asses motorcycling through the Santa Monica mountains, told each other our dreams and fears. He’s never lied to me. Before.

  “So you think it’s a good deal.” I want to hear him say it.

  “The agency recommends it.”

  “What do you say, Val?”

  “I say—” here we go now, our relationship hangs on this “—let’s tell Jack Warner to go screw himself! He just wants to exploit your name power from the series to bolster his crappy western. That helps him, not you. So they suspend you, so what? I know Addie cleaned you out. But if you need
dough, I’ll loan you whatever you need. Pay me back when you can.”

  “Thanks, man,” I mumble like Marlon. I want to tell Val about what Nate Scanlon’s doing. But I’ve promised not to. So guilt returns, bigger and better than before. While I’m so busy feeling sorry for myself, I again miss one of those moments that can shape your future. Life and death stuff, but who knows that at the time?

  “The agency sent you over to sell me the deal,” I say.

  He shrugs.

  “They gonna bust your balls when I pass?”

  “Hey, I can always get myself another job,” he says. I start to protest, but he laughs. “Don’t sweat it, man. I’ll just tell ’em you’re a thick-headed, crazy actor. I know they’ll buy that.”

  I walk him out of the dressing room. We start to shake hands. Instead we hug. A first. As he starts to go, I call after him. “Val, how come you don’t like Addie?” I always pretended not to notice.

  He stops, looks back at me. He’s never tried to put it into words. The carpenters’ hammering still going on in the background. “I know you think you were a lousy husband,” he says slowly. “But Addie, as a wife—well, I felt like she was mostly rooting against you.”

  “It wasn’t always that way.”

  “Glad to hear it. Call me. About anything. Anytime.”

  As Val goes off on his rounds, Killer Lomax comes rushing onto the sound stage. One glance tells me. I’ve sent him on a mission. He’s hurrying back because he’s come up empty-handed.

  “Can’t find that bitch anywhere,” he says. “She’s vanished.”

  • • •

  Flashback time. Let me fill you in on some stuff you need to know.

  It happened, of course, at Romanoff’s. Just a few weeks ago. Killer and I were finishing dinner. The Bogarts were in New York. So we got Bogie’s booth just below the bar. That’s when I first noticed her. Perched on a stool. Waiting for someone. She disappeared from view when the bar got crowded. Now Killer had gone off on his merry way. Prince Mike and I were playing backgammon. He’s good. I’m better. The crowd at the bar thinned. And she was still there.

  “Who’s that?” I asked him.

  He turned his baleful face with the pouchy eyes toward the bar. “A brand-new face.”

  “Looks like a civilian,” I said. Meaning not show biz. She was dressed in a simple black sheath, black pumps, string of pearls. Ladylike. Alabaster skin, no makeup except for a touch of lipstick. Did I mention gorgeous? Little younger than I am, but not too young. Long auburn hair, excellent legs. At first glance I thought I knew her from somewhere. No, really. Would I lie to you?

  Kurt the maitre d’ brought a problem to Prince Mike and the two of them went off to deal with it. What the hell. I got up and sauntered to the bar. She barely looked at me. Until I stopped beside her.

  “He must be crazy,” I said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Your boyfriend. Whoever he is. Standing you up like this.”

  She hesitated. Deciding whether to talk to me or not. Deciding yes. “It’s a she. My old school chum. And this is definitely not like her. Unless she’s changed.” She looked around. “I haven’t seen her in years. Maybe she’s here and I don’t recognize her.”

  “Then we can both look for her.” I shielded my eyes like a sailor on watch. Stared off at the room. Buster Keaton in the Navy. She laughed. It was a nice laugh. And we were off and rolling.

  She joined me in my booth. After all, you can keep an eye on the bar from there. She’d been trying to call her girlfriend on the pay phone. Left messages. So I had the waiter plug in a line at the booth. We played backgammon. I’m good. She was better.

  Her name was Chris Patterson. She was from Alhambra, a blue-collar suburb just west of the city. Born and bred. Teaching music and art at her old high school. Never married. Bright. Funny. Just my kind of girl. Now I knew who she reminded me of—Addie. When I first met her.

  “What happened here?” A Band-Aid. Flesh colored, wrapped around Chris’s right index finger. I took her hand. Casually. To better examine the Band-Aid. Yeah, sure.

  “Tennis blister. The P.E. teacher has the flu and I was filling in. Been a long time since I held a racquet. Do you play?”

  “Used to. Maybe I should again.” Still holding her hand.

  “You could get hurt,” she said. “I did.”

  “Gotta take a risk now and then.”

  She took her hand away. Looked flustered. Then tried her friend on the phone again. Visiting from Chicago, staying at the Beverly Hilton. This time her friend was there. Chit-chat. Chris hung up. Embarrassed. “It’s tomorrow night. We’re supposed to meet here tomorrow night.”

  “Well, then we’ve got a lot of time to kill. Want to play some more backgammon?”

  “I’m tired of backgammon,” she said.

  “I know some other games,” I said.

  We took my car. She was a stranger to Beverly Hills, so I drove around a little. Showing her some of the sights. Making sure I wasn’t being followed. Confidential magazine was lurking everywhere lately. I didn’t mention that to her. She wouldn’t have understood.

  See, I didn’t tell you the best part. From the moment I began flirting with her it was clear that she had no idea who I was. Actors specialize in eye contact. I could see in her gaze that I was just a guy in a bar. Came out in conversation, she didn’t watch TV, didn’t even own a set. Hated all that noise and gossip. Just my kind of girl. When she’d asked what I did, I’d said just a hard-working insurance executive, how are you fixed for whole life? Don’t know why I lied, guess I didn’t want to let Jack Havoc spoil things.

  I suggested a nightcap at the Hotel Bel-Air. Elegant. Swans gliding in the lagoon. Isolated. I could’ve taken her to my house. Addie was away in Santa Barbara at an antique dealer’s convention. But Addie can smell things that hardly register on the Richter scale. We hadn’t had that kind of earth-shaking battle in a while, and I wasn’t looking for one. So as Chris and I were sipping cognac at a candlelit table in a dark corner of the Bel Air’s near-deserted bar, I slipped my pal the bellhop a fiver. He brought back a key to one of the remote bungalows.

  It was a magical time. No other way to put it. I hadn’t been with a woman for a while. This was like a foreign film. Fireworks, the whole extravaganza. As if we were designed to give each other pleasure. But then, once we were past the initial lust, a tenderness emerged. We finally fell asleep, bodies intertwined. I could hardly tell where I ended and she began.

  What I had no way of knowing, of course, was that it was all being recorded for posterity. Probably the boyish-looking private investigator who served me the divorce papers. A red-haired snake in the grass. Shooting pictures. Making something tacky and vile out of something sweet and beautiful. I don’t think I can ever forgive Addie for that.

  In the divorce papers Chris was referred to as a Jane Doe. Apparently they didn’t know her name. I stayed away from all contact with her during the settlement negotiations. My career might be able to withstand—or even be enhanced, as Nate Scanlon insisted—by the glare of scandal, but Alhambra school teachers have been fired for less.

  Now the divorce was done. I couldn’t wait any longer. I wanted to tell her who I really am. Maybe she knows that already, from the newspapers. I wanted to apologize for unwittingly endangering her. Those are the reasons I gave myself. The truth is I just wanted to see her again.

  So I sent Killer to locate her.

  The Prince searching for Cinderella.

  And the sonuvabitch brings back only excuses.

  • • •

  “Calm down, sport, calm down.” I’m yelling at him in front of everybody on the sound stage. “Won’t do any good racking my tuchis over the coals,” Killer says, as he herds me back inside the dressing room. “I’m telling you—she’s vanished.”

  He may not have been suc
cessful, but he insists he was thorough. No Chris Patterson teaching music and art or anything else at any high school in Alhambra. No one by that name ever graduated from there. The phone number she gave me doesn’t work. Checked phone books for the entire vicinity. Nothing. Got a cop friend to run driver’s licenses. The nearest Chris Patterson lives in Fresno and is a forty-two-year-old male plumber.

  “Vanished,” he repeats.

  “Keep using that word and I’m gonna belt you, Kenny!”

  “Okay. Try this. Maybe she never existed. Know what I mean? Wouldn’t be the first broad who ever gave a guy a phony name and a wrong phone number.”

  I know he’s right. She lied to me. Just like I lied to her. Makes us even on that score. I still want to find her. See her. But I’m frustrated, don’t know what else to do. So I take it out on the Killer. Ream him for failing. “Teaches me a lesson,” I yell at him, “sending a dumb schmuck like you to do a job.”

  “Fuck you, Roy! I don’t have to take this shit!” He stomps out of the dressing room. Off the lot. Goodbye forever. Yeah, right. But it’s not my finest hour. Even if being my whipping boy is part of his job description. Now he’ll go off and pout until I persuade him back. I’ll have to give him a consolation prize. Last time we hassled this bad, it took a Swiss wristwatch like mine. Speaking of which. The goddamn cigarette lighter. Still hasn’t turned up. I feel better blaming him for that. Asshole!

  • • •

  I’m leaving the studio after work. One more day of shooting and we’re done with this season’s shows. If Nate Scanlon springs me, that could be it. I could be finished with Jack Havoc forever.

  As I drive out the studio gate, a small figure darts forward and waves me down. Reva Hess, my best fan. I pull over to the side, roll down the window. She holds out a small bouquet of blue forget-me-nots. She looks like a tiny sparrow who’s just fallen out of the nest. Tears welling in her eyes.

  “What’s the matter, Reva?”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says. Choked. “About the divorce.”

  What do you say? She bought the Modern Screen magazine version of our marriage. I take the flowers from her. “Maybe everything turns out for the best. Let’s hope so.”