Getting Garbo (25 page)

I'm parked in a rental car under a shady elm tree on a sleepy street in Santa Monica. Slouched low, in for the long haul. Been here over an hour already. It's a street in transition. Some of the low-cost, pre-fab bungalows built just after the war are still left. Giving way to newer ten, twelve unit two-story apartment houses. The entrances to the apartments are all on the outside, like in a motel. I'm looking at the doorway to the apartment where Reva Hess lives.

Yeah. Reva
Hess!

It came to me like a dream in the middle of the night. Actually, it was the TV set. Channel 11. I'd boozed my way to sleep on the living room couch with the tube still on. When I opened my eyes, there was a documentary. About Spandau Prison in Germany. Where the last of Hitler's inner circle monsters is doing life. Rudolf Hess.

Hess!

Yes!

Bingo!

Eat shit, Jack Havoc. I'm on the job.

The rest was easy. Grab the phone books. Make a list of every Hess. Not that many, really. Start phoning at seven o'clock. Wake 'em up? Too fuckin' bad. Is Reva there? Doing a prissy lady. Pays to be the Man of a Thousand Voices. No Reva there? Next. Until the woman in Santa Monica who answers yells, “Reva-a-a-ah, phone call.”

And then I hear her voice.

My Reva.

I make up a bullshit story about how she's won second prize in the drawing, she doesn't ask what drawing, everyone's always entering drawings, and we're sending you two tickets to the premiere of
Around The World in 80 Days
at the Carthay Circle Theater, just want to verify your address.

And here I am. Made in the shade. Under the elm tree. Waiting for her to appear. Why the rental car? C'mon. She'd spot my Jack Havoc–mobile a mile away. I'm in disguise. Nothing bizarre. Just my biggest pair of sunglasses and a wide-billed L.A. Angels baseball cap. I've found if you dress down and don't put out celebrity vibes, nobody notices you. That's definitely how I want it today.

The mother came out a half hour ago. Dressed in a starchy blouse and a tacky suit for work in an office or a bank or something. I remember her face from years ago in New York. She used to accompany Reva in the beginning. The mother's gone fleshy since then, looks like booze weight. She drives off in a three-year-old Nash Rambler. I keep watching the door to the apartment.

You got a plan for when you see her?
Jack Havoc wants to know.

Thought I'd shaken off the sonuvabitch. But he's here in the rental car.

“I'll improvise,” I assure him. “Actors are good at that.”

Do it right, kid. There are no retakes in real life.

“So sayeth the Old Philosopher from the Faraway Hills.” I'm feeling terrific.

Now the door opens and the girl of my dreams appears. Reva. On the second floor landing. Locking the door behind her. Wearing white tennis shoes, beige slacks, a black V-neck T-shirt—and, bingo, there's the locket. Take 'em both out and I'm home free. No links between me and Addie's sad demise.

“We're gonna wrap this up in a hurry,” I tell Jack.

He's just sitting there. Staring at her. Almost licking his chops.

She skips lightly down the stairs. I turn on the car motor. The street is deserted. When she reaches the sidewalk, I'll just glide up beside her. “Hey, Reeve, give you a lift?” It can be that easy. But, just before she reaches the sidewalk a door opens, ground floor front. Out pops a tow-headed schoolkid. Nine or ten. Backpack, lunchpail.

“Hi, Reva!”

“G'morning, Everett.”

Strolling together now. Toward Santa Monica Boulevard. Okay. No rush. Let 'em get ahead. Then roll along behind them.

On the Boulevard, they both turn east. Past the market, shoppers going in and out. Reva buys herself and Everett donuts at the outdoor counter on the corner of Bundy. They both munch as the bus pulls up. She waves and gets on. Everett waves back and walks on.

I follow the bus. It's not hard. Just annoying. Creeping through traffic. I can let the bus get ahead on the non-stop streets. Just so I'm close enough to see if Reva hops off at the next stop. Or the next. But she's in for the long haul, too. Down Santa Monica Boulevard. Through Westwood.

Where the hell's she going?
Jack's impatient.

“Think like an autograph collector,” I tell him. “If she gets off at Beverly Glen, it's near Twentieth Century Fox.”

She doesn't get off at Beverly Glen. Now we're in Beverly Hills.

“Maybe Rodeo Drive. Down the street from the Derby and Romanoff's.”

You sound like a Hollywood tour bus driver.

She stays aboard. Moving into west L.A.

Got any other bright ideas?

“Bet she's going to the Goldwyn Studios, up ahead on Formosa.”

Wait. But.
Lost your bet. You sure she's still on the bus?

I don't answer. There's no talking to him when he's in a mood like this.

We're going past the film labs and the industrial film houses that make the movie trailers. Then, just when I'm feeling real nervous—maybe she did get off the bus without me noticing—she gets off at Vine Street. Crosses in front of the bus. Heading north. I'm stuck in the right hand lane. Traffic's locked beside me. So I have to go a block past Vine before I can get over and make a U-turn.

Take your time,
Jack Havoc says.
Doesn't matter if she disappears on us again.

“You wanna drive?” That shuts him up. That and the sight of Reva. Still on the west side of Vine Street. Strolling up toward Sunset.

Wouldn't you love to just reach out and grab her off the street?

“Too many people.” He's getting crazy.

I'm just saying, wouldn't you love to?

Up ahead, Reva crosses Sunset. I catch the red light. She enters Wallich's Music City.

Okay, genius, what you gonna do now?

I'm not sure. Should I park the car and—what? Go inside? Risk being spotted by her? Better to stake out the place. How long can she be in there? Only one entrance to the store, right there on the corner. Before the red light changes, I spot her again. Just entering one of the soundproof listening cubicles inside the record store. Facing out through the front window. There's a white-coated salesman with her, carrying a small stack of LPs. I know him. Her pal Podolsky. They chat a moment, then he leaves her. She settles down. Starts enjoying the music.

That makes it simple. Just ace a little old lady out of a parking space. Commanding a view of Reva across the street in the window. Put coins in the meter. Slouch down. Watch and wait. She'll be out after a while.

Jack Havoc laughs.

“Okay, what?”

Role reversal,
he says.
Usually she stands around and waits for you to come out of places. Now you know how it feels.

“Couple of minor differences, of course.”

Oh yeah. For instance, she knows everything about you. And you know next to nothing about her.

“Well, I guess today's the day I play catch up.”

• • •

At noon they both leave Music City. Reva and Podolsky. They ride out of the employees' parking lot in a fading blue Hillman Minx convertible. Top down, Podolsky driving. I follow them, hoping he's going to drop her off somewhere. Preferably somewhere secluded. They only go a mile or so to the entrance off Melrose to the Paramount lot. A photo shoot in progress in front of the famous two-story wrought-iron gate. Like a senior class graduation picture. All the major stars working on the lot are there, linked arm in arm. Fred Astaire, Audrey Hepburn, Alan Ladd, Betty Hutton, Charlton Heston, Shirley MacLaine, Dean Martin, and Jerry Lewis. Photographer behind the 8x10 camera on a tripod cues the herd, they all smile and take a simultaneous step forward. Click!

Of course, there's a crowd watching. Mostly office workers and blue-collar guys on lunch break from the studio. Plus a number of autograph collectors. Reva and Podolsky have joined them. They move in now for signatures and snapshots before the stars retreat behind the studio walls.

Reva and Podolsky get back in the parked Hillman. With a couple of the other fans. Reva's now insulated by that many more. I tail them up Melrose to LaBrea. Another stop. I hang back and watch while the collectors nosh at Pink's Hot Dog Stand. Jammed with people. Will she ever be alone?

Back in the Hillman. Continuing up Melrose, past Robertson. They're parking again. Reva, Podolsky, and the others walking to the Academy Theater in the next block. Apparently there's an afternoon performance today. I find a parking space facing toward the theater. Moviegoers are arriving. I spot Ernie Borgnine, who recently copped the Oscar for
Marty,
as he's engulfed by the autograph hunters. Like a school of piranha swarming.

The Academy
, Jack Havoc says,
scene of our past triumphs.

“If you don't have anything to say, just shut up.”

Just reminiscing. Your first real date with the lovely Kim.

“Don't start, Jack.”

You figure they've got a cop camped on her doorstep? I mean, if they went after chumpy Killer Lomax.

I've been thinking of nothing else. “They don't know who she is. And she was probably on the train goin' to visit her aunt in Oregon or Arizona or wherever at the time.”

Hey. Y'convinced me.
Salty old Walter Brennan and Marjorie Main, Ma Kettle herself, are signing autographs across the street. Must be Old Fart's Day at the Academy.

As I look, I see Reva and Podolsky break away from the crowd and come back up the other side of the street. Toward the Hillman. We're on the move again.

• • •

The Hillman goes south down Doheny to Pico. Right turn, heading toward Beverly Hills. I stay several car lengths behind them. Enough traffic to keep me from being conspicuous. Left turn at Beverly Drive, going into the Beverwill area. A middle-class neighborhood. One cut-through street leading into Culver City. Fortunately, there are a few other cars taking the shortcut. But I have to widen the gap to keep from being spotted.

Gotta be MGM,
Jack Havoc says.
What else is there in Culver City?

Turns out he's no better at guessing Reva's itinerary than I am. The Hillman continues south to Washington Boulevard, but turns left—away from MGM. We're traveling along Car Row now. All the new car dealerships and maintenance shops.

“Maybe the Hillman needs a lube and oil change,” I suggest
.

Then why's he stopping in front of the Ford dealership?

That's what the Hillman is doing. In a parking space. But motor still running. Neither Podolsky or Reva making a move to get out. They're staring through the plate glass window into the car showroom. Discussing. Then Reva excitedly points at something or someone inside. Podolsky switches off the engine. Reva's taking out her pen as they enter the showroom.

I swing around and park on the other side of the boulevard. Through the plate glass window I can see Reva and Podolsky approaching one of the car salesmen. He says something in greeting. Probably the classic line, “Hey, folks, can I sell you a car today?” But Reva says something to him. The salesman shrugs. Grins. Looks a tad embarrassed. Then Reva and Podolsky offer him their autograph books and he begins to sign them.

Tom Drake,
Jack Havoc says. In amazement.

“You're kidding.” I'm amazed, too.

Sure enough. It's him. Tom Drake. One of MGM's young male stars during World War II. The guy who caught the trolley when Judy Garland sang “The Trolley Song” in
Meet Me In St. Louis,
the star of
The Green Years
and
Words and Music.
While the A-team was away in the service, guys like Tom Drake, Van Johnson, Dana Andrews, and Lon McCallister were headliners.

'Til the war ended and the heavy hitters came back home,
Jack Havoc says. Reading my mind
. That's why you gotta get it while you can.

“Wowee. There's a bulletin.” But I'm still watching Tom Drake.

From kissing Judy Garland to hawking ragtops. In one quick fall.

“You don't know that! Maybe he owns the fuckin' car dealership! He was real hot.”

So were you.

• • •

Now we're a mile-and-a-half down the road. At MGM. Flagship lot of Filmland. Boasting that they have “More Stars Than There Are In The Heavens.” There's a small mortuary on the corner next to the huge alabaster white Thalberg Administration Building. Evidence of a stubborn grave-digger who refused to sell his land, so they had to build around him. The guard at the studio gate is named, unbelievably, Ken Hollywood. It's a slow afternoon, so he intermittently chats with Reva and Podolsky. Apparently they're old friends. Every once in a while business intrudes. Ken Hollywood has to automatically raise the gate for an incoming or outgoing vehicle. Or Reva and Podolsky have to approach Van Heflin, who's on foot, leaving the studio for the parking lot outside, or Jennifer Jones, who stops her Bentley at the barrier long enough to sign autographs. But star sightings are few and far between.

I'm parked a half block away, slouching low, as usual, yawning and trying to stay awake. There's a lot of dull, dead, downtime involved in collecting autographs. Beside me, Jack Havoc has nodded off. Now I nudge him. Reva and Podolsky are rolling again.

• • •

The Hillman wends its way north out of Culver City into Westwood
.

Maybe they're goin' to Fox now. Hey, Mr. Zanuck, can Betty Grable come out and play?

But they go past Fox. Into Beverly Hills again. North on Linden Drive. Past the house where Bugsy Siegel was shotgunned to death. Onto Sunset Boulevard, east to the far side of the Beverly Hills Hotel. I'm pacing them all the way. Onto Coldwater Canyon and—now I'm starting to drive on automatic pilot, because—I can't believe it—they're turning into the driveway of my house.