Getting Garbo (31 page)

I'm in the driver's seat now. Not a fuckin' moment too soon. Hey, this is no power grab. Roy wants to step aside. Really does. Wants me to handle this. Finally agreed on that on the ride over. Not a question of guts. I give Roy a lot of shit, but I know he's basically one tough hombre. He just can't do certain things. And I can. No problemo.

See, if Jack Warner had asked me that question, I'd've given him the answer in a mini-second. “Fuckin' right I'm a survivor.”

All I've got left now are two hurdles. Getting rid of Reva is the easy one. Talking Roy back into the TV series is gonna be a tad tougher. He's a dreamer, my boy Roy. I want him to realize his dream. Be a big movie star like Bogie. But how's it gonna hurt him to keep me alive for another season or two? He's still on the fence on that score, but after tonight he's gonna owe me big time.

So here we are at last.

In Reva's backyard.

Staked her out at the theater. Tailed her back here. Waited for my moment. Couldn't have hoped for a better shot. Gotta stop her bawling. Make nice. Roy's not the only actor in this family. She tells me what happened. Fuckin' mother burned up her autograph collection. Hey, my heart's not made of stone. I feel for the kid. Watching your dreams go up in smoke.

I soothe her, calm her, tell her I came by to discuss something important, something she may like a lot. Can we go get a cup of coffee? It's that easy. Out of the backyard and into the car. The gods are with me: no one sees us. Now we're really rolling.

She's still whimpering in the front seat. “My memories.”

“Hey, Reeve, gotta think of the future,” I say. In that warm fuzzy way Roy would. Roy's whispering guidance in my ear when I need it. He's in the back seat, but still on the team.

“What future?” she asks.

“Yours. Since Killer Lomax took off on me, I need some help. Scheduling appointments, keeping track of money, screening calls, handling requests and sorting mail, generally making sure I'm where I'm supposed to be when I'm supposed to—”

“Are you asking me to be your secretary?”

“More like an overall kind of executive assistant, you know, taking charge of my life.”

She stares at me. Like Cinderella must've at the Prince when he turned up with the glass slipper.

“I—I never did anything like that,” she finally says, “I wouldn't want to mess you up.”

“You wouldn't mess me up. You're smart, you're loyal—that's number one, I can trust you, everything else I can show you and you'll pick up real fast.”

“Well, if you think so.”

“You'd really be doing me a favor.”

Kid's got a knockout smile. Radiant. “When would you want me to start?”

“How about now? I've gotta swing past the studio for a second, pick up some things. If you've got the time to go with me.”

She says she does.

Then she reaches in her pocket. “Got something of yours.” She brings out the jackpot. The locket. “I'm sorry I took it. I wanted to give it back to you. I came by your house, but you weren't there.”

I take the locket. “You're probably wondering how I got this—and the other stuff,” I say.

She shrugs, like
who cares?
But I know she does.

“I went to Addie's house and found her dead. Who knows who did it? She ran around with a lot of freaks. But I knew I'd be blamed, so I made it look like a robbery.”

“I knew it was something like that!” She's so relieved.

See how easy it can be, I beam silently to Roy.

Just don't scare her,
he whispers in my ear.

• • •

She's chewing my ear off. Won't stop talking. All through the Sepulveda Pass into the Valley. Yak-yak-yak. About her monster mother. No wonder this kid's so fucked up. Be doing her a favor, put her out of her misery. If she doesn't stop telling these mama stories, I'll pull over and do it right here.

Bad attitude,
Roy murmurs.
You can't be that way.

Why not? How should I be?

Like you are on TV. Jack Havoc who cares for the little people.

But what do I say to her?

Just change the subject. Ask her about something else.

“Hey, Reeve, what's up with your father? Where's he?”

Good tip from the Royster. Kid lights up.

“My dad, you'd've liked him. Everybody did. Never yelled, never hit me, just went to work, came home, read the paper, listened to
The Cisco Kid
on the radio. He never said it, but I knew he loved me.”

“He, err, passed away?”

“Yeah. Right before we came to California. He was an electrician, worked in the Brooklyn Navy Yard during the war, first real steady money he ever made. We were doing pretty good. Then he fell off a ladder and scrambled his brains.”

“Was that the medical diagnosis?”

“That's what my mother called it. He didn't die for a long time. They put him in a Navy hospital on Staten Island. A sanitarium, really. He could remember stuff that happened when I was a baby, but he couldn't always remember what happened an hour ago.”

“Like shell shock.”

“I guess. I'd go visit him. Took the subway to the Battery for a nickel and then the Staten Island ferry for another nickel. Sail past the Statue of Liberty, over to the hospital.”

“You and your mom.”

“Well, she only went with me once. She said she was stopping off on the way home after work a few times a week, but I think she was lying. Anyway, on Saturday mornings, I'd go there by myself. On the way over I'd be so excited, coming back I'd always cry.” She looks out the window. We're on Ventura Boulevard now, heading for Burbank.

“Sounds grim. Didn't you ever, like, horse around, share a laugh?”

“Not much. Well, there was this one time. We were walking on the hospital grounds with all the other nutcases and their visitors, and I'm telling him all about how I got Red Skelton, who always writes “I dood it” above his autograph, and I thought Dad would be interested, 'cause that was a kind of private joke between us when I was younger, but it doesn't seem to register on him now. All he suddenly says is, ‘Doctor.' Which startles me because it's like the first word he's said all morning. And I see this tall guy in a white lab coat with a stethoscope dangling steaming toward us on the path. ‘My—doctor,' Daddy says.

“The guy stops in front of us and smiles. ‘I'm Dr. Borovac,' he says and I know he's waiting for Dad to make the introductions, but I know how hard that can be for him. So I jump in. What's goin' through my mind in that instant is that the ladylike thing is to say, ‘How do you do?' But for some reason, I feel this real urge to say ‘Howdy.' Kinda casual and western, you know? Anyway. When I open my mouth what comes out is ‘Howdydoodleedo.' The doctor gapes at me. Then, like he understands, he smiles even bigger and says, ‘So
this
is your daughter.'”

I explode. Cackling, clutching the wheel. She's laughing along with me. “I could've gone right through the ground straight down to China if there'd been a hole deep enough.”

“I bet.” Wiping away my laugh tears. “So that's it, huh?”

“Well, there was a little more. The doctor walked off. I kept strolling with Dad. Neither of us talking, because I was ashamed. I was sure my father wanted to make a good impression and I blew it. But then while we were strolling, Dad took my hand. Very unusual. He never was much on touching. And then he put something in my hand. It was this ring he always wore on his pinkie. It was gold and had his initials on it in zircons, ‘R.H.,' same as mine, his name was Renko, and he puts the ring on my finger.” She wags her index finger. No ring. “It was the only gift he ever gave me. ‘Thanks, Dad,' I said, ‘I'll wear it always.'”

Reva stops. Looks away out the window. We're on the Barham Pass. “So where's the ring now?”

“Oh, I lost it. Back in New York.” She looks sort of funny.

Say something to her,
Roy whispers.
She's hurting.

“Easy come, easy go,” I say. Just like I do on TV every week.

Kinda soft, she repeats. “Yeah, easy come, easy go.”

• • •

We reach the crest of the Barham Pass and there's the Warner Bros. lot down below. Lockheed's aircraft factory is farther out in Burbank. But in the dark, the two places look alike. Hangar-size sound stages. A water tower as tall as an air traffic controller's flight deck. We're approaching the main car entrance. Opposite a billboard that proclaims,
Warner Bros. Studio—Combining Good Citizenship With Good Picture-Making.

“Reeve, you need a pass to get on the lot and I didn't think to call—”

“I can wait outside for you.”

“No, no, I want you to come in. See the
Jack Havoc
stage. Maybe if you duck down on the floor 'til we get past the gate man.”

She does it. Without question. Good kid. I toss a car blanket from the back seat over her and I greet the studio cop on the gate.

“Hey, Teddy, they swipe any sound stages tonight?”

“Not on my watch, Mr. Darnell.” He raises the metal bar and waves me through.

As soon as we turn the corner, I give Reva the all-clear and up she pops. Eagerly looks around. We stop in front of Stage 11 and although the entire street is empty, I park in the space marked ROY DARNELL ONLY. Usually when they give you the boot off the lot, they paint over your name even before you're out the front gate. It's a Hollywood tradition.

So why'd the Colonel keep my name here?
Roy mutters.

Maybe he had 'em put it back today—after he made you the new offer.

Jumpin' the gun, isn't he? Devious old fucker.

Keep an open mind, Roy. “We'll discuss this later.”

“Who are you talking to?” Reva asks.

“Just thinking out loud. Reminding myself. Something I've gotta do.”

I open the heavy soundproof door and guide her inside the stage. Only the security light on, but I go to the master switch and announce in a deep Roy Darnell voice, “Let there be light.” I throw the switch and the gloom lifts enough so Reva can see the permanent sets. It takes her breath away. She's really in Jack Havoc Land.

“Is it okay to walk there?” Inside the sets.

“You're with me. You can go anywhere you want.”

She starts forward. Slowly.

Isn't that cute, Roy? Like she's in Buckingham Palace.

This isn't going to work. It's a bad plan.

Whaddaya mean? It's a great plan. Your number one fan sneaks onto the lot. Who knows how? She goes to the Jack Havoc sound stage. Tragedy strikes. In the dark, something falls on her. Or she trips on one of the cables, bangs her head, all this equipment around. You happen to stop by, discover the body. You call the studio cop. Perfect!

Reva's in the penthouse living room. Examining the bar glasses. Touching her fingertips to the gold embossed initials, “J.H.” That's me.

They'll think I did it,
Roy says.

Always the fuckin' scaredy-cat. Who? Who'd suspect you?

Marshak and Tigner.

The Keystone Kops! They signed off. I'm telling you, you'll be in the clear. All loose ends neatly tied up, plus a bonus of a million dollars worth of free publicity for the show.

Who cares about that? C'mon,
Roy cajoles,
let her live.

His begging is really steaming me. It's over, kid, end of the line!

Okay, okay, look, Jack. I'll give her this cockamamie job you invented to lure her here tonight. You said she's loyal, we can keep an eye on her, hey, without the locket she's got no proof, it'd be my word against hers that I ever left the theater, and she'd never do anything to hurt me or—

You're not coming back to the TV show, are you?

What's that got to do with—

I knew it. You selfish scumbag! Everybody does for you and you never do for anybody but Roy. So worried about her, how about me? I'm your best friend, Roy. Let me live! Without this show on the air, I vanish. Poof! Three months from now I'm forgotten. Dead. Kaput. Less than dust. Not gonna happen. You're gonna do this for me.

Okay, okay, let's cut a deal. I'll do the series, but you let her go.

That's cute. Think you're dealing with a putz? I know what goes on inside your head, Roy. You're just bullshitting me. I'll cut her loose, and you'll still walk away from Jack Havoc.

I wouldn't. I swear I wouldn't.

Too late, baby. We're going all the way.

I won't let you!

Try and stop me. I'm stronger than you are, Roy.

“Can I ask you a question?” Reva's voice. Where the hell is she? Okay, there: standing in the saloon set, behind the bar. “When they shoot you here talking to someone, you know, that funny angle—where do they put the camera?”

“Good question. Let me come over there and show you.”

Roy steps in my way. To block me.

I walk right over him as if he's not even there.

Tell you the truth, I'm not that knocked out being on the
Jack Havoc
set.

I've snuck onto movie sets before, so the novelty is gone. I know there are fronts that don't have backs and generally things don't look as good as they do on film and that's all they care about. But I'm making a fuss examining the sets because Roy keeps watching me from the sidelines like I'm a kid on my first visit to Disneyland.

That's not how I want him to see me. I want him to realize I'm not a kid and I'm hip to the business and he's not making a mistake offering me this great new job. That's why I'm asking him this technical question.

And here he comes, walking out of the shadows beyond the set. As he steps into the saloon there's a minor transformation. Roy's posture changes and he becomes Jack Havoc. The lion returning to his native habitat. Master of all he surveys. Actors are incredible.

“Now,” he smiles across the bar at me, “you're asking about what we call The Hiring Scene. Somebody, usually a pretty girl, slinks into the saloon to ask for Jack Havoc's help. We try to make it look a little more interesting by shooting from down here—” he pats the bar top “—straight up at me and the chick.”

“But I've seen the camera. It's won't fit in that small a space.”

He looks over his shoulder as if to see if anyone's listening. Then leans forward. “Gonna betray a trade secret, Reva, but you can't tell anyone.”

He waits until I nod. “Won't tell a soul.”

“Good. Know how I'm usually drinking a dry martini? With an extra olive in the martini? Well, the camera—it's inside the second olive.”

I stare at him.

“That's why you'll never see me pound the bar for service. Because that'd make waves in the martini glass and the camera would bob around and spoil my close-up. Do you believe that?”

“No,” I blurt.

“Good girl! Neither do I,” he says, and he laughs. So I laugh, too. Glad I passed the test. Though I feel a bit jerky. I didn't know Roy likes to tease.

“The way we make that shot is to pull out a chunk of the bar. This place is built to come apart at the seams at a moment's notice.”

“Sounds like my mother.”

He chuckles. I made him chuckle. He raises the flap door next to me at the end of the bar. “Ready to come out of there?”

“Said the Spider to the Fly?” Try for another chuckle. Get a smile.

“Now that's a story we never did for
Let's Pretend.
Too gory, I guess.”

I step out from behind the bar. He lowers the flap door behind me. But doesn't move aside, so I'm boxed in and can't go any further.

“What was your favorite fairy tale on the show?” he asks.

“
Hansel and Gretel.
I always wished I had a brother around my own age to play with.”

“Want to know my favorite?
Little Red Riding Hood.
Had everything. Sex, violence, humor, suspense, spunky little heroine, great villain.” He lets loose a Big Bad Wolf basso growl. Then in a tiny girl voice, “What big teeth you have, Grandma.”

“The Man of a Thousand Voices,” I say.

“That's me. Nine-hundred ninety-eight to go.”

I wish he'd step aside. I feel jammed. Something's been bothering me. One of those memory ticklers. An itch you can't scratch. Suddenly he moves back. Making room for me. He gives a courtly half-bow. I go with it and sweep past him with a regal wave as if we're acting in one of the fairy tale shows.

“Your Highness,” he says, “may I take you on a personal tour of my realm?”

He offers his arm. I take it, and he chatters away as we amble back into the penthouse set.

“Nobody ever asks how Jack Havoc can afford to live in a snazzy place like this. Particularly since I never seem to collect a fee from any of the people I help. The rumor is—I sell drugs on the side.” He gives me that roguish Jack Havoc wink.

“Hey, don't make fun of Jack Havoc,” I say.

“Why not? What's so special about him?”

“C'mon. You know. You created him.”

“I want to know what you see. Tell me.”

I hesitate. Is this another test? Take a deep breath. Take a chance. “Look, I know Jack's a made-up person, but—we all wish he were real. That there was someone around in our lives who's strong who'd watch out for us.”

His smile fades. “Don't be so sure about old Jack. That's what he does for one hour on Friday nights. You don't know what he does the rest of the week.”

“I'm sure. I've seen every show. Bet I know him as well as you do.”

“Bet you don't.” For a split second he gets this weird look. Then he gestures at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases with a set of the Great Books series that turns out to be the hand-tooled covers only. Elegant pieces of pottery and blown glass art objects perch on the other shelves. “My set decorator and I have exquisite taste,” he boasts.

I reach for a glass figurine of a woman with her arms upraised. “And the winner of the award for Best Actor In The World is—Roy Darnell.”

He takes the “award” and grips it by the glass woman's torso. “I want to thank the members of the Academy and also my landlord, my tailor, my orthodontist, my lawyer, my ex-wife, my ex-agent, and most of all—my fans, who made it all possible.”

Roy grins in mock triumph and lifts the heavy glass figure aloft. Responding to the cue, I applaud him vigorously. He acknowledges the applause by swinging the heavy glass figure downward, right past my head, across his waist in an elaborate bow. Then he puts it back onto the shelf.

“That's the first award anyone ever gave me,” he says.

He guides me to the fireplace. There's a vivid abstract oil painting hanging above it. “Move back a couple of steps and focus on the brightest colors in the painting,” he suggests. I do it. “Now scrunch your eyes shut, I'll tell you when to open 'em, and you'll really see something. Don't open 'em yet.”

So I'm standing there with my eyes closed, smiling in anticipation at the wonder Roy's about to show me. Colors pinwheeling inside my head. That's when the memory tickler kicks in. Sparked maybe by talking in the car about Daddy's ring, just before Roy asked me to hide on the floor to get past the gate man. What I remember is the night in the stage door alley at
Streetcar,
when Tamar the mugger led me off, like a lamb to the slaughter, “Want to go backstage? C'mon with me, I'll take you.”

My eyes pop open. I'm startled to see Roy is so close to me that he's a bit out of focus. Like the extreme close-ups of Monty and Liz at the big party in
A Place In The Sun.
He's staring at my forehead. A gentle smile.

“You've got a wisp of hair that's loose—”

He reaches for the wisp and smooths it down on my temple, then pats my cheek.

“You're a pretty girl.”

“No, I'm not.” I feel embarrassed.

“Sure you are. Look—”

He puts his hands on my shoulders and slowly turns me so I'm facing a mirror on the other wall. I look in the mirror. What I see is a portrait of Roy and me. He's standing right behind me. We look great together. His hands still on my shoulders. And I—well, he's right, I look pretty. Never looked this pretty before. I smile at myself in the mirror and behind me Roy gets a faraway look in his eyes.

“Easy come, easy go,” he murmurs.

His right hand comes down off my shoulder and for a second I think he's going to cop a feel and I close my eyes again. But instead his palm covers my mouth and nose and clamps my head against his chest, as snug as a vise, and my eyes open again, in fact they're bugging, as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I can't breathe, I can't yell, but I can see Roy's face, so close to mine, still with that dreamy look, as he whispers in my ear. “Relax, Reva, just relax, make it easy for both of us.”

I struggle, but he holds me easily. I'm gasping for air and getting none. If I don't do something real soon I'm going to pass out, so I lift my foot and kick backward with all the force I can muster. The stack heel of my new puddle-stomper shoe connects with his shinbone and I scrape down with the sharp edge of my heel. He shrieks and lets loose of me. I whirl and see him clutching his leg, hopping around in pain on one foot like Fred MacMurray in a screwball comedy. I do what Carole Lombard would do. I shove my hands against his chest. He goes over backwards onto the sandalwood coffee table with the inlaid mosaic top. Table legs buckle, tiles shatter, the table collapses. I'm clutching my throat and sucking in all the oxygen I can swallow. He's spread-eagled on top of the wreckage and hooting with laughter.

Yeah, laughter.

“Broke the fuckin' table. Prop man's gonna go crazy looking for a duplicate. They'll probably take it out of my salary. No, I'll blame it all on you, Reva. Rabid fan runs amok.”

“Why are you doing this, Roy?”

“Don't call me Roy!”

He's on all fours scrambling to get up and he cuts his hand on some of the broken tiles. That strikes him even funnier. Holding up his bloody palm. “Starting to look just like Addie's house around here!”

That tells me everything I need to know.

I'm already on the run before he lurches to his feet.

“Don't leave, sweetie,” he calls, “the party's really starting to cook.”

He's coming after me. Loping in a half-crouch to favor his wounded leg. Lon Chaney, Jr. as
The Wolfman.
I'm out of the penthouse and racing for the exit door to the studio street. He disappears into the gloom beyond the sets. I'm not that far from the exit. I'm going to make it, I'm way ahead of him, I'll scream bloody murder as soon as I'm outside, attract the studio cops, just a little farther, almost there—when I stumble over a strut supporting the back of a set wall and sprawl headlong on the floor. Lucky thing, too. There's a false window above me looking into the lobby set and I catch a glimpse of Roy galloping by. He doesn't notice me lying prone in the semi-darkness. But the shortcut he's taken totally blocks my escape route. He's already at the exit door, standing guard like a hockey goalie.

One of my shoes kicked off when I stumbled, and I slip off the other shoe and barefoot away as quietly as I can from the exit into the semi-darkness. I don't know where to go and I think I hear him behind me and I'm getting frantic. When I see the ladder. Leading up into the rafters. I don't want to go up there, but there's nowhere else.

I begin climbing and it's all going fine. As I rise, I can see Roy is still guarding the door, scrutinizing the area below for signs of movement. His back is to me; he's calling “Reva, come out, come out, wherever you are.” Then I brush against an object wedged in a niche in the wall. It's an empty Coke bottle some sloppy asshole left up here. It goes tumbling down and smashes on the cement floor. Roy turns, sees the shattered glass on the floor, his gaze swings upward and like radar we make eye contact.

He winks. And begins to stroll. Not rush, not even speed walk. Just strolls toward the ladder.

I'm making use of the time, climbing faster, upward to I-don't-know-where as long as it's away from him.

Down below as he starts up the ladder, he begins singing. The words float upward. He knows they're familiar to me. “Cream of Wheat, it's so good to eat, we eat it every day-y-y.” Then he switches to his announcer's voice, “Cream of Wheat brings you—
Let's Pretend.
”

I'm getting splinters in my hands, but I don't care. I just keep scurrying higher and higher. A squirrel seeking the safety of the top branch. Or maybe there's a magical escape hatch waiting for me up there. When I glance down, I'm alarmed at how fast he's closing the distance between us, his big hands claiming rungs at twice my rate, swinging him up like an athlete working on the bars. Loudly regaling me all the while.

“Our story today is—
Little Red Riding Hood.
” He goes into Little Red Riding Hood's voice: “Here I am in the deep, dark forest, on my way to my sick Grandma's house.” Then the announcer's voice again: “What she doesn't know is that the Big Bad Wolf has already devoured her Grandma.”

He emits a ferocious howl that echoes off the roof of the sound stage and raises my hackles. I'm trying to shut him out, concentrate on escape. He's ascending so fast, but there's a catwalk up above me…

I hear Red Riding Hood's voice: “Here's Grandma's cottage now, I'll just go inside and give her this get-well basket of goodies. Oh, she's in bed resting. Hi, Grandma!” Now he does the Big Bad Wolf-pretending-to-be-Grandma's voice: “Hello, sweetheart, glad you could come see me.”

I reach the catwalk; it's a narrow footbridge extending diagonally over the sound stage. I glance down. From up here the sets are as small as a dollhouse. And he's still coming, so I run out across the catwalk, as I hear Red Riding Hood's voice…

“My, what big eyes you have, Grandma.”

And he's on the catwalk too. So I race onward, and he's following me, doing his ferocious wolf howl and shaking the handrails of the catwalk so hard that I'm afraid I'll fall off. I'm whimpering with terror as I reach the far end of the catwalk. No escape hatch. Just another ladder. Not going down. Going up. Higher.

I climb. It's like a nightmare. Straining but not getting anywhere. My heart is pounding. Sweat running down my face, stinging my eyes. I can't see anything except the next rung above. I'm too scared to look back because I don't want to know how close he is and I'm getting dizzy and as I lift my foot to climb a step higher the fingers of his hand lock around my ankle. I look down and he's smiling toothily up at me. He's right, he's not Roy anymore. He's someone else only vaguely familiar. The diseased
Picture of Dorian Gray
finally out of the closet. It's Jack Havoc gone psycho, his features twisted, eyes glaring evil.