Getting Garbo (18 page)

“You're on, Harry.” Tap his shoulder. Exchange grins. Good guy. Maybe he'll give me a job as a waiter. People have to eat.

• • •

It's my lucky night. Another juicy parking space opening up on Doheny across from Carl's Market. I tool the T-Bird up to the curb and hop out. There are Academy members across the street streaming toward the theater located around the corner. Kim's not one of them. I start walking briskly toward the crosswalk when I hear a familiar female voice call my name.

I turn expectantly. And see that it's little Reva. My first fan. Maybe she'll turn out to be my last fan. “Hey, Reeve, how are you?”

“Fine and dandy.” She falls in step with me. “Goin' to the show by yourself?”

“Hope not. Kim's supposed to be here.”

“She's so nice.”

“Yeah, she sure is. What're you eating?” She's popping something into her mouth from a small box in her hand.

“Jujubes. Want some?”

“Haven't had one of those in years.” She shakes several colorful candies into my palm. Taking candy from a kid. I start to chew, realize I haven't eaten anything else all day.

“What's playing tonight?” she asks.

“What? Oh.
A Star Is Born,
not the Judy Garland musical. The old one—”

“With Janet Gaynor and Fredric March. The original version. I loved it.”

“That was before your time, you're just a kid.” Enjoying the gummy candies. “Where'd you get to see it?”

“The Museum of Modern Art in New York. Saw all the old classics there. Garbo's movies. They're the best.”

“You've got good taste. A serious student of the cinema.”

“A lot of the collectors are.” Collectors. That's what she calls her fellow autograph hounds. “She lives in New York now, Garbo, did y'know that? So all the collectors back there have seen her. Lots of times. But she never signs autographs. Not ever. Nobody gets Garbo. That's like Mount Everest. The unattainable.”

Here we are walking and talking like two old friends. Which, in a weird way, I guess we are. But it's the first time we've had anything resembling a real conversation. “You miss New York?” I ask her.

“Not the weather. How about you?”

“Well, matter of fact, I'm probably going back there for a while. Do a play.”

“You are? Well, then I better start saving my pennies so I can get back there and see you again on Broadway.”

We're approaching the milling crowd in front of the Academy theater. So I start scanning the faces, looking for Kim. Almost forgetting Reva is at my side.

“Know what my favorite line is in
A Star Is Born
?” she asks.

I turn back to her. Certain she's going to recite the famous tag line, “This is Mrs. Norman Maine.” But she surprises me.

“In the beginning of the picture, someone tells Janet Gaynor that the odds of becoming a movie star are one in a million. And she says, ‘But what if I'm the one?' Like you. I always knew you were gonna make it.”

Looks like you were wrong, sweetheart, I think. But at the same time I'm touched. “Thanks, Reva, that's very sweet.” I pat her cheek. She beams a smile and her face reddens.

“Hope I wasn't out of line saying that,” she mumbles.

“Just what I needed to hear.” Then, gazing past her, I catch a glimpse of hair that looks like Kim's. “Good talking to you,” I toss over my shoulder as I take off. But it's a false alarm. Not Kim. I prowl the population in front of the theater. No sign of Kim.

On the fringes of the crowd I can see Reva and the pack of collectors also patrolling. They're looking for stars and I'm looking for salvation. I'm buttonholed by two old friends from New York, both veterans of the “live” TV wars. Ralph Bellamy used to be
Man Against Crime
and Bill Gargan used to be
Martin Kane.
I guested on both their shows in my scrambling New York days. Reva and her cohorts spot a photo op and move in on us to flash their cameras. Caption: Three used-to-be TV stars. Talking about the good old days. I've gotta get away. I spot Kim's acting coach, the Maria Ouspenskaya lookalike, chatting with an elderly English couple. I elbow over to them.

“Hi, 'scuse me, good evening. Where's Kim?”

“Not veeth you? Must be here sahmplace. Maybe vent inside.”

Maybe she did. I go inside. To the far right section of seats where we sat the last time. No Kim. House lights are flashing, show's about to start. Aisles crowd as the sidewalk set makes their entrance. Usual waving and blowing of kisses. I stand beside a couple of aisle seats and keep scanning the faces. Not as large a turnout tonight as for the Hitchcock double. Maybe Kim's in the ladies room. Lights dimming. I take the aisle seat, not near anyone else. If she comes in now we can whisper unheard.

What am I going to say? Start with I'm sorry. Don't give up on me. I'm teetering on the edge. I need you.

But she doesn't appear.

The RKO logo comes on screen. The globe with the transmitter perched on top. Sparking out a telegraph message to the world. And suddenly I know it's impossible for me to sit through this movie. Of all movies. Story of an actor on the skids. Who suicides in the ocean for a third act curtain. Mourned only by the woman he loved and lost. Who's just starting the biggest and best part of her life. Without him.

I know that story. I am that story. Gotta get out.

I do it inconspicuously. Crouch in the darkness and slip through the nearby blackout curtain. Small alcove. Exit door. Push it open. Slip out into the alley behind Carl's Market. Fast. Close the metal door behind me. Get into my T-Bird. Where to now?

Go see Addie.

Stop dramatizing so much. Forget that crazy stuff about bumping her off. Just stop by. Pick up a cold bottle of champagne on the way. Maybe we can have a civilized chat. Like grownups. I'll explain my situation. Calmly. Honestly. Tell her I'd appreciate it if she could help me out. The royalties. If she says no, she says no. Worth a try. Sure, she doesn't love me anymore, but must be something left. Even if it's only pity. I'll take that. Settle for whatever I can get now. Then I remember. I've got an edge. Something going for me.

Today's our anniversary.

There aren't any other cars parked on the street up on Kings Road. The house looks as dark as the others near it. Guess she's not home. But I've come this far. I walk up to the front door. Reach for the doorknob. Force of habit. Catch myself. You can't just walk in here anymore. I ring the bell. Wait. Nothing. I'm about to leave when the entryway light above my head goes on. Through the carved wood door I hear Addie's muffled voice: “Yes?”

“It's me, Ade.” I smile, knowing she's peering through the peephole.

The door swings open. She looks like hell. No makeup, eyes red and nose swollen as if she's got a cold. Or been crying. Hair yanked back into a ponytail held by a rubber band. Clad in a baggy-tufty baby blue sweater with a hole in one elbow and grass-stained dungarees. Her gardening outfit. Barefoot. Perfectly pedicured carmine toe nails. Wearing the diamond earrings but not her wedding ring. When she sees what I've got, her eyes widen.

“Happy anniversary.” I show her the bottle of champagne. Offer her the flowers.

“Calla lilies,” she says. Then going into Hepburn's lockjaw Yankee twang. “Such a lovely flowahhhh.” She hugs the flowers to her chest. “I just noticed the calendar. Didn't think it was still in your memory bank.”

“Some things you never forget. Luncheon at Sardi's.” It gives me a heart pang to say it. “Boy Meets Girl…”

“…and They Hate Each Other On Sight,” she says.

“And here's the switcheroo—they
didn't
live happily ever after.”

She laughs, points at the bottle of Perrier-Jouet. “Hey, if that champagne's cold, you can come in. We'll hoist a toast to the ghosts of yesteryear.”

“Thought you'd never ask.” I give her my little boy smile. I'm in the door.

Now I better explain. Today isn't the anniversary of the day that we were married. It's the anniversary of the day that we first met. She was still working as a trade paper reporter. I was still shagging radio roles and plugging a way-off-Broadway production of
Hamlet
about to open in a church up in Yorkville. I was playing Laertes. We desperately needed some publicity. So I'd phoned her office, pretended to be the CBS publicity guy for
Let's Pretend,
pitched her an interview with this brilliant new actor—“The Man of a Thousand Voices.”

Me, of course.

We met at Sardi's. She tagged me right away. Knew the man who'd phoned her wasn't the CBS flack. She said my voice wasn't much like his.

“Okay,” I said, “then you better call me ‘The Man of 999 Voices.'” She laughed.

We went to bed that night.

My place.

Billie Holiday's tremolo voice wafting in through the window from the jazz club below, singing “I Wished On The Moon.”

A million years ago.

Now Addie's leading the way into the den. Where the bar is in our—oops,
her
—house. I hear a man's voice coming from there. Whiny-sarcastic. Guy Saddler? Turns out to be Oscar Levant. Doing his talk show on TV. It's on a local L.A. station and it's a sensation. The piano virtuoso turned psychotic-hypochondriac. The show's done “live” and people tune in to see if this is the week he's going to flip out on camera and be carted off in a straitjacket.

“Know what Oscar said just before you rang the bell?” she asks. “That he's not allowed to watch Dinah Shore's TV show because he has diabetes.”

We both laugh. Levant always tickled us. Something in common. A taste for nasty-funny. This is starting off nicely. She's at the sink behind the bar, pouring water in a tall vase for the flowers. I'm grappling with the cork on the champagne bottle, wondering how to gracefully get the conversation around to the subject of money. My money.

“Strip the tinsel off Hollywood,” Oscar is telling his studio audience, “and you'll find the
real
tinsel underneath.”

“Amen,” I intone. “Guess you heard I ran into Guy at the supermarket. We had quite a chat—” The cork fires off like a rifle shot. Addie jumps with fright. Almost drops the vase.

“Silly. I don't know why I still do that.”

“Always takes you by surprise.” I pour champagne into the tapered flutes we bought in Majorca. “So we're drinking to…”

“…our first love cottage.”

“My fourth floor walkup…”

“…shared by half the cockroaches in mid-Manhattan. Funny the things you miss.”

She clinks glasses with me. We sip. Was she crying about that before I came? Nostalgia for the old days? This may be easier than I'd hoped.

Addie flops down on the deerskin couch that cost me a fortune. Coquettishly tucks her bare feet beneath her. Gestures for me to sit near her—but not too near. On the club chair that used to be my TV-watching spot. I put the champagne bottle on the bulky glass coffee table, so we both can get at it. That's the ticket. Good wine and lots of it. She tends to get girlish after the first couple of drinks.

“I could never have a mistress,” Oscar Levant is saying, “because I couldn't bear to tell the story of my life all over again…”

Thanks a whole lot, Oscar, you had to remind her?

“And how's your new little friend?”

“Who? Oh, Kim. Fine, I suppose. I don't know. That's over.''

Addie smiles. Like Gale Sondergaard as the Spider Woman. “Well, easy come, easy go. And the lady definitely was easy—right?”

I shrug. Let it go. Finish off my champagne, reach for the bottle. Start to pour myself more. She holds out her glass, too. Glad to oblige. I fill hers again. To the brim.

“I'm moving back to New York,” I say. “Blowin' this burg.” Giving it a gangster reading.

She smiles. “Roy, maybe it's a good thing you're not going to play Jack Havoc anymore. Honestly, I think you were getting confused sometimes as to who's who.” She sips the wine. “Guy didn't mention you were leaving.”

“Just decided. Things aren't working out for me here.”

“Guy told me.” She looks concerned.

“So I wanted to talk to you about—”

She interrupts. “Guy has a vile mouth sometimes.”

“Tell me about it. He said the two of you were tap dancing while you made up an invitation list for my funeral. Unquote.”

“Lying old queen! I'd never take joy from your troubles.”

I'm tempted to remind her about the curse she placed on my brow. But things are going so well. “Guy mentioned the great stuff coming up with the store—or should I say, stores. He said you're going national and—”

She reaches out and covers my hand with hers. “Roy, I know we've exchanged some pretty harsh words lately, but I've been thinking. We were together a long time…”

I squeeze her hand. “A lot of good times,” I agree. “That's why I knew, if we could sit down and discuss things, calmly and fairly…”

“Yes, fairly, like…like old best friends...” She squeezes my hand back.

I can't believe it. I'm in like Flynn.

“And I know,” she says, “that despite everything that's happened, because of all we've meant to each other, and because you were there every step of the way and you saw how terribly hard I've worked, so I know that you'd never do anything to harm me.”

What the hell's she talking about? I'm not here to hurt her, I'm here to beg for crumbs. Crumbs she'll never even miss. Royalties that
I
worked hard for. She mistakes my confusion for hesitation.

“Promise me, Roy, promise you won't do anything…foolish.”

“Like what?”

She drains her champagne glass. Nervous smile. “Oh, I don't know. Guy is such a gabby old twit. Gossip he might have babbled to you about off-shore bank accounts—he's always making up stories and then believes them himself.” She pours herself some more champagne.

It comes to me in a flash. Why she's been crying, why she's being so unexpectedly nice. And who's really conning who around here.

“You're worried that I might drop a nickel on you. With the IRS or someone.”

Her latest glass of champagne is at her lips. But she quivers as if I've physically shaken her. Wine spills down her chin and onto her chest. She stares at me.

“That could spoil your whole day, couldn't it, Addie? Not to mention scaring away your big investors.”

“I knew that's why you came here tonight! To shake me down. You cocksucker!”

She hurls her glass at my face. I block it with my hands. The glass careens off me and smashes into the mirror behind the bar. I stare at it in amazement; she's really out of control tonight, busting up her own property. I look back just in time to see her coming at me. The champagne bottle raised high, she's swinging it at my head like a battle club. I manage to duck under the bottle and butt my head into her belly. Ooof! Wind's knocked out of her. It's like a shtick out of an old Fredric March–Carole Lombard comedy. Girl tries to clobber Boy, but Girl never manages to lay a glove on Boy. I feel a giggle bubbling up inside me. Until I see her stumble and fall headlong onto the coffee table. It collapses like a movie prop. A jumble of shattered glass. She's on her face. Not moving a muscle. Then I see the pool of blood seeping out beneath her.

I know she's dead. Even before I kneel and turn her over. Her eyes are still wide open. Unblinking and unseeing. I look deep into them and see my life ending with hers. There's a stiletto-like shard of glass sticking out of her chest.

“And they say that Shakespeare stole his plays from Christopher Marlowe,” Oscar Levant is prattling, “and then murdered Marlowe when he complained. That's my idea of a true artist.”

I reach out to feel for the pulse beneath her chin. The way the tech advisor taught me for the show. No pulse.

Careful now,
Jack Havoc says.
Watch what you touch, got to think about fingerprints.

“Where'd you come from?”

Been with you all along. I didn't say anything 'cuz you were doing great all by yourself.

“You make it sound like I came here to…”

Didn't you?

“It was an accident. You saw it!”

Hey, you know what Freud says. There are no accidents.

“But it was! I didn't have the slightest idea in my mind of—”

Okay, okay, if you say so, then I believe you.
Sly smile.
But you're gonna have a helluva time convincing anyone else. Roy the Bad Boy, whose hobby is punching out people.

“Maybe I ought to call an ambulance. They still might be able to revive her—” I reach for the phone. But it's as if an invisible hand grabs my wrist. Stopping me.

You don't want to do that, pal. If Lady Luck dealt you the winning cards, just say thank you and cash in all the chips.

“You mean, just walk away?”

Like you were never here tonight. Who's to know?

“Yeah.” I'm wiping my prints off the champagne bottle. “I'll wash up my glass, put it away. They find her, everybody'll assume she drank too much and fell down. Got jabbed by the broken glass, bled out, did it all by herself. That way they won't even be looking for anyone else.”

Won't fly, amigo.

“Why the fuck not?”

Because of that.
He points at the mirror behind the bar, where the champagne glass she hurled hit. The mirror is shattered.
Better stick with the original plan. A burglary that went sour.

“Yeah, but—what about the alibi?”

C'mon, kid, you already got that base covered. You were at the movies. Now hurry up.

I trash the den a little to make it clear there was a scuffle. Don't have to worry too much about wiping off fingerprints. I used to live here. I get a screwdriver from a kitchen drawer, go into the backyard, close the door, and pry it open. Put the screwdriver back. Race into the bedroom, grab a pillowcase. Yank open bureau drawers, mess up the contents, dump the baubles and bangles from her jewel box into the pillowcase. Mostly junk jewelry. She generally keeps the good stuff in the bank vault. I see a relic of the past. My first gift to her. A gold-plated locket. Inscribed “For Addie, Love Forever. From Roy.” With a three-for-a-dollar photo of us inside. Junk jewelry. I toss it in with the rest, heft the pillow case. Ready to go. Starting for the front door.

Jack Havoc calls me back.

Forgetting something, aren't you, boychik?

I can't think what. Look around. Frantically. Checking my watch. Gotta get back to the theater. “Don't play guessing games with me, Jack. If you know, tell me!”

The earrings,
he says.
No self-respecting burglar is gonna leave them behind.

He's right. I rush back into the den. As I take the earrings her eyes are still staring up at me. “What big eyes you have,” I whisper.

• • •

I don't have much time.
A Star Is Born
probably runs just under two hours. Most of the big pictures of that era did. No time to detour to the Santa Monica pier to dump the contents of the pillowcase into the ocean and still get back to the Academy before the end of the movie. Just sling that crap on the floor of the T-Bird's back seat. Get rid of it later. And burn rubber now. Of course, I catch every goddamn red light along the way. When I reach Melrose and Doheny, my parking space on the street is long gone. I spend the next ten minutes circling the area, not finding another space. I'm tempted to go into the Carl's Market lot. But it's so well lit I'm afraid someone will spot me getting out of the car. It's imperative that no one is able to say that I wasn't inside the theater for the entire show. I explode with frustration.

Pounding on the wheel won't help,
Jack Havoc says.

“Who asked you?”