Getting Garbo (15 page)

So I sit tight. Very tight. Bad day. Good Scotch. I pass out watching Jackie Gleason on
The Honeymooners.
Shaking his fist. “To the moon, Alice, to the moon!”

By the end of the week, Nate is back from D.C., and all my other offers have evaporated.

I'm not ashamed to tell you, I'm getting desperate.

Killer has been ducking me ever since our roll in the hay. I asked him why on the night I ran into him and Roy outside the Villa Capri, but we only had a moment to talk while Roy was signing autographs for some of the other collectors, and Killer denied ducking me. “I've just been busy, sis.” Sure, I'd seen what kind of busy when I spotted him on the street location escorting that slutty blonde extra into Roy's empty trailer. That was before I started puking and before I went to see Dr. Berman, who still hasn't gotten the lab report back yet because of some kind of screwup at the lab.

This morning Mother pounded on my bedroom door and woke me up with a jolt. “I've got very important news for you, Reva.”

“Okay. Tell me.” Hoping the morning sickness doesn't hit while she's delivering her bulletin.

“I just checked your chart and your Moon is in Scorpio and there's a trine with Aries so these next few weeks are a very delicate time for you. There could be a catastrophe in your life.”

That's my mother the astrologer for you. Always there after the fact. The day after President Roosevelt died she ran a chart that established unquestionably that the day he died was gonna be a real bad day for him.

Podolsky has driven me up to Will Rogers's old house in the Pacific Palisades. We're parked in the crowded row of spaces facing the polo field. Will Rogers was a big movie star in the '30s, but he began life as an Oklahoma cowboy. He started the polo game in front of his house, and the tradition has continued long after his death. Some of the riders are just rich playboys, but there's a hard core of celebrities who Podolsky assures me show up every week.

Frequently including Roy—and if he's here, I'm hoping Killer Lomax will be with him.

I spot Roy down on the grassy field with the other players. They're riding Arabian stallions and wearing jodhpurs and white crash helmets. There's Tyrone Power and Cesar Romero and Darryl Zanuck, the mogul who runs Twentieth Century Fox. They're all galloping around the field, wildly swinging mallets, and I wonder how Roy learned how to ride so well. I guess from acting in that crappy cowboy picture he made down in Durango last year.

“There he is,” Podolsky says.

I think he's spotting another celeb. But he's spotted Killer.

Down the line of expensive cars where spectators are hanging out, watching the game. Killer's loitering against a Silver Cloud Rolls, talking to Reginald Gardiner, the British character actor who specializes in playing witty upper-class drunks. They've both got beer bottles in their hands.

“Okay,” I say, with a deep breath, “here I go.”

Podolsky wishes me luck and I walk along the ridge in front of the parked cars. No one pays any attention to me, and Killer has his back to me so he doesn't notice my approach. I'm not sure exactly what I want to say. I hope Killer hasn't told Roy about him and me. Probably not, because I haven't sensed any change in Roy's attitude toward me up until now.

When I get fairly close, I stop and wait. Killer glances my way. He gives me a small smile and a small wave and is about to go back to his chat session, but Reginald Gardiner has swiveled away from him to hit on a buxom brunette perched on the hood of the next car, so this is my chance.

“What're you doin' here?” Killer says, surprised but not suspicious.

“Oh, just in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by.”

He really grins. “You are somethin'—you oughta be in the C.I.A. Bet you could find out where Hitler's hiding.”

“Only if he signs autographs.”

He laughs, wraps his arm around my shoulders and gives me a hug, then gestures at the game. Roy is thundering down the field and swings his mallet, gives the ball a devastating crack. “Scores again! Our boy's showin' 'em how.” Then shakes his head. “But look at that! Fuckin' Zanuck won't give Roy the time of day.”

“Why not? They're on the same team.”

“A long story, sis.” He keeps looking off at the field, but his arm is still around my shoulders.

“I've been wanting to talk to you, Kenny.” It's the first time I've called him Kenny.

“Yeah? About what?”

So I tell him. When I get to the part about missing my period, I really have his attention. He lets me continue without interruption through the snafu at the lab and how it's not official yet, but how scared I am. There's real sympathy on his face. When I stop talking, he touches my cheek gently with his hand.

“Gee, that's rough, sis. Your very first time out, and bingo!” He shakes his head ruefully. “So…looks like we gotta do something about this.”

I nod eagerly, my eyes brimming with tears. He said “we.”

“Important thing is to keep it very quiet,” he says. “Not only for your sake and mine, but for Roy, too.
Confidential
or some other rag gets hold of this, it'll get all twisted around so that Roy's to blame, that'll be the headline, and we don't want that.”

I shake my head, I definitely don't want that, it's the reason I didn't want to tell even the doctor any names.

“But you're cool, right, so there's nothin' to worry about. If you gotta go down to Tijuana and take care of it, I'll pay for the expenses,” then his eyes narrow. “You're sure it was me, huh? You haven't seen any other action since then, have you? Those guys you hang out with?”

“No, absolutely not. Kenny, I don't want to make any trouble, but—if my mother finds out, she'll kill me, she'll definitely throw me out of the house. And if I just disappear for a few days, you don't know her, she'll call the police—”

“No cops! I said I'd pay the freight, you gotta handle the details. That's fair.”

“But I—I don't know who to go to, or where, or—”

“Jeezus! Ask your goddamn girl friends, they'll know.” He's getting irritated and I don't want him to. “Look, I gotta go take care of some stuff for Roy—he's got exceptionally heavy things happening right now, I can't even begin to tell you, so we don't want to add anything to his load.”

I tell him I understand completely. I thank him for the help he's offering. I want to tell him I'm still scared, but I don't. He's going off now. I don't want him to go feeling I'm a burden. I want to do something to show him I'm grateful. I want him to like me.

“Kenny,” I call to him, he stops. “Here—” I hold out my hand to him, he's curious enough to come back. I open my palm and he sees the cigarette lighter inscribed, “Here's looking at you, kid. Love, Bogie and Betty.”

He takes it from me and stares at it.

“Where'd you get this?”

“I—found it.” Can't bring myself to say, “I dood it.”

“Where?” he demands.

“On the ground. That day when you guys were on location, remember, and—”

“I sure as hell remember! You were lurkin' around all day. What were ya, pissed 'cuz I took that other little twat in the dressing room instead of you?” He holds the lighter up in front of my nose. “You snuck in and fuckin' stole it, didn't ya?”

I'm shaking my head, not in denial but disbelief that he's guessed the whole thing. I wanted to punish Killer that day. But I only wound up hurting Roy.

“Don't lie to me! Y'got any idea the kinda heat I been takin' over this fuckin' thing since it's been gone?”

“I didn't mean to…” But, of course, I did. “I wanted to give it back.”

But not right away, of course. After I took it home, the lighter became the centerpiece of the Roy display in my bedroom. I loved it so much, it didn't occur to me how much Roy was missing it, until there was an item in Army Archerd's column in
Variety
the other day about how Roy's favorite keepsake had disappeared. I knew then I had to return it and this seemed to be the ideal occasion.

Just shows how wrong you can be.

Killer's sausage-like fingers close around the lighter, forming a fist. “Thanks for nothin', bitch,” he says. “Now do me a big favor and stay the hell away from me. Permanently.”

I'm still a star for at least a little while longer before the word spreads everywhere that I was shitcanned by Jack L. Warner. The studio arranged a personal appearance prior to the start of our hostilities. My name has already been announced in the newspaper ads. Can't disappoint my fans while I still have them. And it's for a good cause. The I Am an American Day Celebration on the Fourth of July.

Red, white, and blue bunting bedecks the streetlight poles along Hollywood Boulevard from Vine Street to LaBrea. Streamers draped overhead. Crowds line the curbs on both sides of the wide avenue. Kids wave little flags. Food vendors and pickpockets work the crowds. Local TV cameras cover local TV anchors excitedly reading off the descriptive details. Cars and floats, interspersed with high school marching bands and the vets from the American Legion Post. The only thing different from the ordinary small-town parade is that a flock of TV and movie stars are participating.

The assembly point for the parade is in the parking lot behind the Pantages Theater. I'm using my own car. Top's down on the T-Bird so Kim and I can sit up on the back and greet the folks. Killer is going to drive us. An efficient-looking gal with a clipboard checks us in. Gives us our position and hangs white identifying signs on the doors of the car with big black lettering that says:

ROY DARNELL (“Jack Havoc”)

KIM RAFFERTY

KENNY “KILLER” LOMAX

Kim is thrilled and hugs me. “Equal billing with the star—doesn't get any better than that.” She kisses me. I've told her most of what's happening. She doesn't believe it's all going to disappear like
Brigadoon.
Killer gestures me off to one side. He looks all churned up.

“How'd my name get on there?” he asks.

“I called Heifetz. One last perk.”

He looks over at the sign. “Never saw my name big like that before.” He punches me lightly in the shoulder. Like Tracy used to do to Gable, before winking and calling him Y'Big Lug. “Thanks, Roy,” Killer says.

We roll out onto the boulevard and slowly move west. A lot of start-and-stop. Waves and smiles for the fans. Screams and whistles from the fans. Our car is behind Tab Hunter and Natalie Wood and in front of Robert Wagner and Debra Paget.

“Look, there's your little friend,” Kim says.

It's Reva. She darts out from the curb, runs to our car. “Hi, Roy! Hi, Kim!” A cop yells for her to get back. But she kneels, calls for us to “Hold it!” and snaps a photo before racing away from the sternly approaching cop.

“Dumbass broad,” Killer mutters.

Bill Welch, a local TV newsman, strolls up to us carrying a hand microphone. A cameraman with a shoulder rig is grinding away. “Roy Darnell,” he greets us, “TV's Jack Havoc. What's this I hear about you leaving the show?”

“Moving on, Bill. Everything changes.”

“To bigger and better things.”

“You bet.”

“Got any special thoughts for us on this special day?”

“Just that it's the proudest thing any of us can say—I am an American.”

“Amen. Great seeing you, Roy.” He turns away. Facing his camera. “I see Jeff Chandler, ladies and gentlemen, Big Chief Cochise himself.” He walks off. We creep forward. Stop again. The horsemen of the Leo Carillo Riding Club are strutting their stuff. Old Leo, the Cisco Kid's sidekick, dressed all in black, cues his snow-white mount to rise up, pawing the air with its two front legs. Leo doffs his black sombrero with the silver spangles. It's a surefire applause getter.

As we inch forward, I can see Uncle Sam up ahead. He's on foot, engaging the people at the curb. “I want you!” he's yelling. “I want you!” Pointing a finger. Like in the famous Army enlistment poster. He's quite tall, wearing a blue and white striped frock coat, a red vest, white top hat with tri-color bunting. “I want you!” he shouts at a toddler. Scaring her into hysterics. Uncle Sam pats the toddler, tips his top hat and pivots away. Toward our car. I'm surprised to recognize, despite the white paste-on eyebrows and white goatee, that it's Dave Viola. He grins maliciously and straight-arm points at me:

“I
don't
want you!” he shouts.

I laugh as if he's said something funny. “How'd you get so tall, Uncle? Wearing Dave Viola's elevator shoes?”

“No, my boy, I just got bigger. All at once. Got so-o-o big they gave me my own TV series. Haven't you heard?”

“Yeah, congratulations, Davey.” What the hell, he didn't do anything.

“You, on the other hand, got smaller. Teenchy-tinyyyyy! Couldn't happen to a snottier guy.”

“Hey, do me a favor, Uncle, go back to scaring the kids.” I turn my back on him to wave at the crowd on the other side of the street. But Viola high-steps around the rear of the car like he's in the March of the Tin Soldiers—and he's in my face again. He tosses a snappy salute. Points his finger again. Loudly proclaims:

“Roy Darnell, folks! Noooooooobody wants youuuuuuu!”

“What's wrong with that man?” Kim is whispering to me. “Is he stoned?”

“I'll take care of this, boss,” Killer says. He leaves the motor running and hops out of the T-Bird. Uncle Sam is mark-time marching in place, elbows swinging. Repeating “Nobody wants you, Roy Darnell, nobody wants you!” Killer ambles up to him and pauses. Viola looks at him, grinning like a jack-o-lantern. “C'mon, Davey boy, don't make a fuss in front of all the nice people.”

“Yes sir, no sir! Yes sir, no sir! Three bags full! Just listen to your Uncle Sam!”

Killer grabs his arm and starts him away from my car. Viola goes with him, then breaks loose and runs back over to me. Sticks his tongue out—and gives me a big juicy Bronx cheer. The kids in the crowd snicker and shout, some of the grownups clap.

“Get him out of here, Killer!” I shout.

Killer's got Viola again, but Viola won't go. “Nyah, nyah, it's my series now, all mine! You're out! You're gone! Always treating me like a dumb hick! You stink! I'm the star now and the whole world knows it!”

“You gotta can this garbage, Davey,” Killer orders.

“Or else what?
What?
” Then just like in the comic strips, the light bulb goes on. Viola's giving birth to an idea. “Want me to go? Huh?”

Killer nods.

“Y'really want me to go? Then go with me!”

“Whaddayatalkinabout?”

Viola nods at a motorcycle and sidecar parked near the curb. Painted red, white, and blue, of course. “Go with me,” he repeats to Killer. “I don't want him—but I want
you.
I'm the top banana now. Come work for me. Right now. I'll pay you twice what he does.” Killer looks at him. “Okay, pay you
three
times as much but the offer ends in the next ten seconds. Ten-nine-eight—”

Killer looks over at me. Sonuvabitch is tempted! “—seven-six-five—” What the hell. The Titanic's going down. Every man for himself. “—four-three—” Our eyes are locked. Me and Killer. Killer and me. My boon companion. My steadfast friend. I nod to him, giving him my blessing. “—two-one-zerooooh!” Hoping he won't go. “So what's the big decision, Killer-willer-diller? Him or me?”

“You,” Killer says hoarsely. “I'm with you.”

“Well then, let's go!” Uncle Sam links arms with Killer and marches him off to the motorcycle. Viola climbs into the sidecar. Killer gets on the cycle, kicks the motor over and drives off. With never a look back at me.

“What's going on here?” Kim asks.

“Guess you're driving.”

I manufacture my best smile as the parade moves on.

• • •

I'm crying in my beer. Not literally, but you know what I mean. And I'm knocking back accompanying shots of the hard stuff. Boilermakers. Perfect drink to drown your sorrows in. Popping darvons like they're salted peanuts. Fuckin' head throbbing like a jackhammer. “They always know,” I pound the flat of my hand on the mahogany bar. “The rats, they always know when to desert the ship!”

“Shhhh!” Kim has her finger to her lips. Pretty lips. Ruby red. “You're disturbing the other people,” she whispers.

“What other people?” Louder yet. “Crummy place is empty. Used to be a hot spot. Where the elite meet to eat. And get schnockered. Where'd all the goddamn people go? Huh?
Where?
” I'm talking to the bartender now. But he's not talking to me. Just sighs and rolls his eyes and goes off to polish some glasses that don't need polishing.

Actually there are some people in the place. Not many, but some. A booth here, a table there, a smoochy couple down the bar. Hey, there are no small audiences, just small actors. I pick up the salt shaker and pretend it's a hand mike. Walk among the peasants. Mr. Show Biz.

“We're coming to you from the Cock ‘n' Bull, a pseudo-British pub, near the end of the Sunset Strip. A heartbeat away from Beverly Hills, where—” I burst into song “—every heart beats true for the red, white, and blue.” Came here from the parade. Don't ask me how many boilermakers ago that was.

“Keep it down, buddy,” my friend the wandering bartender calls.

“Shhhh!” I say to him. If looks could kill, I'd certainly be badly bruised. I'm down near the smoochers and the girl unlocks lips long enough to glance up at me and then stare.

“Aren't you—Roy Darnell, the actor?”

“No, madam,” I reply courteously, “my name is Captain Spaulding—” erupting into song again “—the African explorer, did someone call me schnorer, hello, hello, hello!” Doing my best Groucho crouch-lope in front of the smoochers. Tapping the ash off my imaginary cigar. She looks scared. He looks angry. Off his barstool, drawing back a fist, I'm still loping, moving target is hard to hit, but he's going to try. Where's Killer when you need him?

“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.