The Five Acts of Diego Leon (26 page)

“Thank you.”

They had more drinks and sat in the living room. By the time Lawrence came in again and announced that dinner would be served shortly, they were both quite drunk. Cage sat near him. He reached out and placed his hand on Diego’s knee. Then he rose and led Diego through a pair of French doors and into the next room. They ate in the large dining room, which was grander than any room Diego had seen. A large chandelier hung from the tall ceiling. Long curtains covered the windows, and there were candles lit and fresh flowers in glass vases.

“So,” Bill said as they ate. “Do you enjoy working at the studio?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

Diego smiled. “I’ve always wanted to perform. It gives me the greatest thrill in the world.”

“What roles have you taken?” Bill lit them both a cigarette.

“Everything,” Diego said. “A bank robber, a policeman, a pirate, a French peasant.”

“Sounds a bit menial,” Bill said, laughing.

Diego took a puff of his cigarette, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “It’s steady work. Not exactly what I would like to be doing forever, but it’s good for now.”

Lawrence and a plump maid in white nylon stockings cleared the dishes, and the two remained there, drinking more wine, then whiskey, smoking cigarettes as the gramophone in the adjacent room played on and on. It was getting late, and Bill started stumbling
about, changing the records and singing along. When Lawrence walked in and asked if there was anything else, sir, Bill waved him along.

“No, no,” Bill slurred. “You can both retire.”

“Very well,” said Lawrence, who turned and left.

“Are we alone?” Diego asked.

“Yes,” said Bill, who led him to the living room. They sat close to one another on a couch with velvet pillows and oversized arms. “Finally,” he said. “At last.”

Their knees touched. Diego looked into William Cage’s eyes. He placed his hand on Cage’s leg. “Thanks for having me over.”

Bill smiled, his hair tousled, untamed, crazy. “My pleasure.” He leaned in and whispered, “You’re a very handsome young man.”

“I’m glad you think so.” He kept his hand on Bill’s leg when he leaned in and kissed him on the lips.

Bill then rose, cleared his throat, and said, “I need some air.” He reached his hand out. “Come with me,” he said. “Come on, come on.”

He led them to the backyard where, beyond an expansive green lawn, the pool sat, lined on either side with stone pots. Bill stood at the end of the pool, taking deep breaths, swaying on the balls of his feet. He removed a loafer, and when he went to dip his toe in the water, collapsed and fell in, splashing about, arms flailing uncontrollably.

Diego laughed. “You’re drunk.”

“You’re adorable,” Bill said. “Come. Jump in.”

“Like this? I’m fully dressed.”

“Then undress.”

“Here? Now?”

“You’re not ashamed, are you?”

“Why, no,” Diego said.

“Because you shouldn’t be,” Bill said. “You have a wonderful body.”

He undressed slowly, removing one piece of clothing at a time and tossing them in a pile near one of the large pots. The water was warm when he jumped in, and he watched as Bill flung his soaked
smoking jacket and trousers out of the water until the only thing left were his underpants, which he kept on. They swam for a while, splashing one another before slowly crawling out.

“There,” Bill said, draping a towel over Diego’s shoulders and drying him off. “Better?”

“Yes.” Diego turned, faced him, and they kissed. He pointed to the cabana behind the pool. “Got anything to drink in there?”

“I believe I do.” He opened the door and switched the lights on. “Be my guest,” he said, bowing slightly.

The cabana was small but tidy and well kept. There was a lounge area with two seats and a couch, a kitchenette, and a bedroom and bathroom. Enough for someone to live comfortably back there, Bill said, as he reached inside a closet and grabbed two robes.

“Put this on,” he said. They changed, and Diego sat on the ground, which was covered by a large mohair area rug.

Bill walked to a cabinet and pulled out bottles of whiskey and scotch, seltzer water, and a container of ice from the icebox. He poured two strong drinks, handed Diego one, and sat on the floor next to him. From there, he could see through the double doors to the pool, the water aquamarine, shimmering ghostly, as the moonlight bounced off the surface. He took a sip of his drink and relaxed. They lit cigarettes, and soon the air was thick with smoke, the scent of tobacco perfuming everything—their robes, the furniture, the rug.

Bill talked on and on. He told of how he was born in Massachusetts. He’d been a banker, he explained, a financier. He met R. J. Levitt on a business trip out to California many years back, when the movie industry was just beginning. R. J. had a dream, a vision about starting what he hoped would become one of the biggest and most influential movie studios in Hollywood. So Bill agreed to help him fund his business, and the two founded Frontier Pictures with R. J. as president and Bill as head of production and finance.

“What does that mean?” Diego asked. “What do you do?”

“Supervise mainly,” he said.

“Supervise what?”

“Everything!” Contracts. Budgets. Actors and actresses. Stagehands. Directors. Assistant directors. Set designers. Carpenters.
Painters. Casting, which he said oversaw the hundreds and hundreds of extras. Accountants. Scripts. Wardrobe and costume designers. Makeup and hairstylists. The publicity department and advertising.

“With all that you do, it sounds like R. J. Levitt doesn’t have to lift a finger,” Diego said.

Bill laughed, and his Adam’s apple rolled up and down over his throat when he threw his head back. He stroked Diego’s cheek. He touched his hair and his arms, his fingers and palms. “You’re something else,” Bill leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Do you like working for me?”

“Sometimes I do,” Diego said. He reached out, took his glass of whiskey, drank some, and handed it back. “The things I do aren’t exactly the best, but they’re fine. Steady. What I really need is a chance,” Diego whispered. He untied Bill’s robe and reached between his legs.

“A chance?” Bill asked, moaning softly.

Diego kissed his cheek, felt Bill’s hardness. “A chance. I want people to know my name. I want to be recognized. I’m tired of always being in the background. A face in the crowd.”

“I can see,” Bill said, panting now, closing his eyes. “I can maybe ask …”

Diego crouched and took him inside his own mouth. Bill moaned—soft, gentle—and breathed in and out, faster and faster, his thighs clenching, hips thrusting up just before the release. Diego reached for the glass of whiskey and took a gulp. He let the liquor mix with Bill’s seed before swallowing everything down, his eyes watering. He stood now, and Bill lay there, still moaning, muttering something until, slowly, his breathing grew heavier and deeper. Diego knew he had fallen fast asleep.

He gathered his things and walked out of the cabana and up to the house. Inside, he wandered from room to room. Upstairs, he walked down the long main corridor. In one room, he saw that a light was on. He pushed the door open and entered and found Bill’s office. There was a large claw-footed wooden desk, a leather swivel chair with brass studs along the seat cushion and back, and a globe beside a stack of papers and documents. He walked toward a credenza crowded with photographs: Bill in a hunting jacket and hat
holding a rifle; Bill and R. J. in tuxedos with a group of men and women in suits and ball gowns; Bill and an older man standing in front of a palm tree. He picked this one up, regarded it, let his finger run over the smooth glass, the heavy silver frame. He studied the image carefully, slowly, noting how close the old man held Bill, how tight around his shoulders his grip was, the genuine warmth of his smile. It was William Cage’s father, Diego could tell. The old man wore a look of pride on his face. Here was his son. Handsome. Successful. Known the world over.

Diego set the picture back down and went into the library to call a taxi. He waited at the curb until he saw the yellow headlights appear in the distance.

April 1931

S
TRICTLY BUSINESS
. T
HAT’S WHAT
B
ILL’S MESSAGE HAD SAID
when he contacted him again. It was business. A discussion. Bill said he had some ideas.

The car came once more, and so did the same driver, in his white gloves and little cap. They drove into the sun, which was a rust orange ring hovering just above the gray-green ocean, until the chauffeur pulled up to a small building with white plaster walls and dark windows perched on a cliff. Below, boats bobbed up and down as they skimmed across the choppy waters of the Pacific. He came around and opened the door.

“Mister Cage will see you home,” the driver told him and left.

It was dark inside, and the air smelled of brine and cigarette smoke. He was led by the maître d’, past a maze of tables where diners ate and drank in the shadowed darkness of the restaurant, to the very back of the restaurant. Bill sat in a large booth, a glass of wine and a lit cigarette before him. He was talking on a telephone that was connected to a nearby wall. The waiters that walked into and out of the kitchen made sure to step lightly over the coil stretched out across the carpeted floor each time they passed. Bill smiled at Diego and beckoned him to sit as he finished up his conversation. He placed the phone down and he poured Diego a glass of wine.

“A very dry, very crisp chardonnay,” Bill said, stabbing his cigarette into the ashtray. “Goes perfect with seafood.”

“Thank you,” Diego said. He could hardly see the glass because
it was so dark. He groped the air, inching his hand across the table. “There’s not much light in here.”

“I like it,” Bill said. “The darkness. No prying eyes.”

Diego agreed.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about you ever since our night together,” Bill said, lighting a cigarette for Diego, then another for himself.

“Oh?” Diego took it, and their fingers touched. “I have, too.”

“You’re very bold, very brash. I like that in someone. You’re a confident person. What compelled you?”

“I want to succeed,” he said. “I want to be recognized, admired.”

“Why?” Bill asked, stabbing his cigarette into the ashtray and lighting another.

“Because I love acting, this industry. When I perform, I can become anyone other than myself. It makes me feel like I belong to something more. I want to be a leading man. More than anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.” Diego looked him straight in the eye, his gaze unflinching. “Can you help me? Will you help me?”

Bill sat back in the booth. He loosened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. He was quiet for some time before he spoke again. He said he had asked around, and people told him that Diego was good, a dependable worker, loyal, punctual, that he never complained. Still, he admitted, he was hesitant about his abilities.

“What do you mean?” Diego lit another cigarette.

“You’re good-looking,” Bill said, crossing his legs under the table. He was very stern when he spoke, matter-of-fact, businesslike. “But look,” he said. “I must level with you.”

“Fine. Go ahead. Level with me.”

He was about to begin when their stuffed crab arrived. “It’s very good,” Bill said, picking up his fork and knife. “You should have some before it gets cold.”

Diego studied the dish—the creature’s hard outer shell, small rings of green scallions chopped and sprinkled throughout, cloves of garlic swimming in the buttery sauce—and pushed it aside. “I would rather you say what you were about to say.” He took another gulp of wine and puffed on his cigarette.

Bill placed his fork and knife down and sighed. “I’ve asked
around about you,” he said. “I hear your acting needs some finessing. Some depth.”

“But every director I’ve worked with—”

“The people you’ve been working with are not the studio’s best and brightest. You’ve been relegated to the low-budget productions. What I’m saying is that you are forgettable. That the majority of the people out in the world don’t even know someone like you—countless others like you—exist.” Bill sat back and folded his arms, then continued. “I’m not trying to discourage you. I want to help you realize just how harsh, just how competitive and scrutinizing the business could be. It’s more than just working hard, more than just staying on your mark or taking direction well. It’s the full package.”

“What do you mean, by the full package?” Diego asked.

“Looks,” Bill said. “Personality. Charisma. Charm. Resilience. Intelligence.”

“And talent?” Diego asked.

Bill shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes a little of that, too. If one is lucky. Like I said, it’s the full package.”

“What are you saying?”

“We make stars by assessing what they have and what they lack.”

“So, what do I lack? What can I do to have the full package?” Diego took a bite of the crab.

Bill cleared his throat and leaned in. “You have the looks, though they need some work. An element of danger, of mystery perhaps. Your talent’s raw, all over the place.”

Diego took another bite of the crab and sipped his wine.

“May I be frank?” Bill said.

“I thought that was what you were doing,” he said, laughing.

“Why should I and my company invest in someone like you?” Bill explained that each of the major studios had a Latin actor under contract. MGM had Ramón Novarro. Empire Pictures had Orlando Mendoza. Frontier, he said, had no one. “I was thinking that maybe you could be it,” Bill said. “But I’m not entirely sure.”

Diego asked, “Why aren’t you sure?”

“What makes you so different from those others? What makes you unique?”

“I’m talented. I’m hardworking. I won’t let you down.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “Spare me the pat responses. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that before?” He raised his voice above the hum of conversations, the din of dishes and glasses and silverware around them. Suddenly the darkness was quiet, everything still, only the roar of the ocean outside penetrating the silence. “Go on,” he said. “I haven’t got time for rank amateurs. Go home. Go back to wherever it was you came from.” He picked up the telephone and began to dial.