Tell-All (16 page)

“ ‘ “Webster,” said Katherine, “you stupendously virile male animal, this majestic tower is your only phallic rival in the world.” Adding with a lascivious grin, “And I’d gladly climb a million steps to sit atop both.…” ’ ”

In contrast with the ripe voice-over, the dreamy, idealized Miss Kathie and Webster merely devour the food quickly, swilling wine, their cutlery clattering against their plates, swallowing so quickly their belches threaten to overwhelm the singing. With greasy fingers they gnaw the tiny squab carcasses, spitting the chewed bones from their mouths toward the street far below. The blindfolded waiters stagger about.

Despite such louche behavior, the voice of
Terrence Terry
continues reading, oblivious, “ ‘Even now as Katherine and I stood and strode to the tower’s lofty parapet, preparing to raise our glasses in a champagne toast to this, the world’s most glamorous city, countless lesser mortals dwelt at our feet, unaware of the bliss which existed so far above their heads. Somewhere below wandered
Elia Kazan, Arthur Treacher
and
Anne Baxter
, each in their own limited existence. Down there drifted
William Koenig, Rudy Vallee
, and
Gracie Allen
, no doubt imagining they lived lives of rich fulfillment. But no, if
Mary Miles Minter, Leslie Howard
and
Billy Bitzer
were indeed so wise and aware then they would’ve been us.’ ”

The idealized man and woman shove themselves away from the dinner table, grab their drinks and lurch to the building’s edge.

“ ‘In hindsight,’ ” says the voice-over, “ ‘perhaps we too were blinded by our supreme happiness. “Oh, Katherine,” I distinctly recall saying, “I do so love, love,
love
you!” Communicating this sentiment not merely with my probing love pipe, but also my mouth. If I dare say it—with my very life’s breath, every word comingled with the lingering aftertaste of her saucy nethers.…’ ”

The star-filtered, stylized version of Miss Kathie tosses back the last of her champagne and hands the empty glass to the idealized Webster. Even as the blindfolded musicians continue to saw away on their violins, the Webster substitute checks his wristwatch and yawns, patting his open mouth with the palm of one hand.

“ ‘During that blazing violet moment of our splendorous adoration,’ ” reads the voice-over, “ ‘Katherine’s elegantly shod foot skidded against a leftover layer of our spent passion. In that infamous moment, mankind’s most dazzling star fell, a
flashing, shrieking
Halley’s Comet
hurtling to the bustling sidewalks of
West Thirty-fourth Street.’ ”

The Katherine stand-in shrugs her perfect shoulders in resignation. She kicks off both her high-heeled shoes, climbs the guardrail and swan-dives into the abyss. The idealized Webster stand-in watches her plunge; then he stoops to collect her discarded high heels and flings them after her.

Terry’s voice reads, “ ‘The end.’ ”

Forgive me, please, but I must violate the fourth wall once more. Even as Miss Kathie dodges and parries the attempts on her life, a curious reversal appears to be taking place. The constant threat of violent death sculpts
Katherine Kenton
down to tensed muscle. The perennial threat of poisoning deadens her appetite, and the need to be continually vigilant deters her from indulging in pills and alcohol. Under such strain, her spine has stiffened with resolve. Her carriage stands erect, her stomach is hollowed, and she carries herself with the bravado of a soldier advancing onto a field of battle. The presence of death, always haunting, always at hand, has awakened a sense of vibrant life within her. Roses bloom in the cheeks of my Miss Kathie. Her violet eyes sparkle, alert for sudden danger.

More than all the plastic surgeries and all the cosmetics
in existence, the terror of her imminent destruction has brought Miss Kathie back to glowing, youthful life.

In contrast,
Webster Carlton Westward III
, once so young and ideal, now appears haggard, wounded, battle-scarred, his handsome face strafed with wrinkles … scratches … stitches. The Webb specimen’s dense hair sheds itself in daily strands and clumps. Thwarted at each turn, he adopts the whipped demeanor of a cowering dog.

Still he perseveres, whatever his motives, to endear himself with my Miss Kathie. Always there’s the chance of an assassination plot we haven’t previewed, and Miss Kathie must forever be on guard. Once, in her heightened wariness, she pushed young Webster down a flight of stairs near the
Bethesda Fountain
, and he still staggers with a limp, a steel pin surgically embedded to heal his shattered ankle. On another occasion, at
the Russian Tea Room
when she misjudged a quick movement of his as possibly malevolent, she lanced his arm with a steak knife in preemptive self-defense. Another time, she pushed him from a subway platform. His all-American face looks livid and swollen from the burns caused when Miss Kathie assaulted him with a flaming
bananas Foster
. His bright brown eyes are dull and bloodshot from a prophylactic blast of Miss Kathie’s mace.

Thus the reversal: as Miss Kathie becomes more vital and vibrant, the Webster specimen falls into increasing decrepitude. A stranger, meeting the pair for the first time, would be hard-pressed to name the younger and the older. With her haughty expression, it’s difficult to decide which Miss Kathie finds more disgusting: Webster’s apparent plots to murder her, or his declining physical virility.

And with every scar and burn and scratch, this defaced
Webster specimen looks more like the monster I warned Miss Kathie against.

In a hard transition, we cut back to final dress rehearsal for the new
Broadway
show, at the moment the music is peaking with the voices of the entire cast singing, while Miss Kathie raises the American flag on
Iwo Jima
, assisted by
Jack Webb
and
Akim Tamiroff
. A
Florenz Ziegfeld
chorus line of
Mack Sennett
beauties gotten up as imperial Japanese airmen in low-cut, peekaboo costumes by
Edith Head
link arms and execute precision high kicks which expose their fascist buttocks. The spectacle fills a medium shot, busy with motion, color and music, until the shot pulls back to reveal the audience seats are—once more—almost all vacant.

Luise Rainer
sings slightly off-key during the
Rape of Nanking
, and
Conrad Veidt
flubbed a couple dance steps during the
Corregidor Death March
, but otherwise the first act seems to work. A constant plume, really a mushroom cloud of white cigarette smoke rises from Lilly Hellman’s seat in the center of the fifth row, flanked there by
Michael Curtiz
and
Sinclair Lewis
. On
West Forty-seventh Street
already the marquee carries the title
Unconditional Surrender
starring
Katherine Kenton
and
George Zucco
. Music and lyrics by
Jerome Kern
and
Woody Guthrie
. At the stage door, a truck from the printer unloads stacks of glossy programs. Backstage,
Eli Wallach
in the role of
Howard Hughes
practices some business, seated within the cockpit of a full-size balsa-wood mock-up of the
Spruce Goose
.

The first act curtain falls as the chorus girls rush to change into their sequined shark costumes for the sinking of the
USS
Indianapolis
at the opening of the second act.
Ray Bolger
prepares to die of congestive heart failure as
Franklin Delano Roosevelt. John Mack Brown
preps to assume office as
Harry Truman
opposite a small cameo appearance by
Ann Southern
as
Margaret Truman
.

Amid the sea of empty seats,
Terrence Terry
and I sit in the twentieth row center, buttressed by our parcels and
Bloomingdale’s
bags and various
thermos
bottles.

Alone in row twelve, stage right, sits
Webster Carlton Westward III
, his bright brown eyes never leaving the form of Miss Kathie. His broad shoulders leaning forward, both his elbows planted on his knees, he thrusts his American face toward her light.

From any closer than row fifteen, Miss Kathie’s dyed hair looks stiff as wire. Her gestures, jittery and tense, her body whittled down by fear and anxiety to what
Louella Parsons
would call a “lipsticked stick figure.” Despite the constant threat of murder, she refuses to involve the police out of fear she’ll be humiliated by
W. H. Mooring
in
Film Weekly
or
Hale Horton
in
Photoplay
, depicted as a dotty has-been infatuated by a scheming gigolo. It’s a choice between
the devil
and the deep blue sea: whether to be killed and humiliated in book form by the Webb, or to remain alive and be humiliated by
Donovan Pedelty
or
Miriam Gibson
in
Screen Book
magazine.

Even as the stagehands change the plaster rocks of
Iwo Jima
for the canvas hull of the doomed
Indianapolis
, I’m scribbling notes. My fountain pen scratching my handwriting along line after line, I scheme and conspire to save my Miss Kathie.

Eyeing the Webster specimen, the matinee idol outline of Webb’s American profile, Terry asks if we’ve discovered any new murder plan.

Midsentence, still writing, I retrieve the latest pages of
Love Slave
and toss them into Terry’s lap. I tell him that I found this newest revision in Webster’s suitcase this morning.

Terry asks if I’ve arranged an escort for the show’s opening next week. If not, he can stop by the town house to collect me. His eyes skimming back and forth across the typed pages, Terry asks if Miss Kathie has seen this version of her demise.

Flipping to a new page of my notebook, still writing, I tell him, Yes. That accounts for her vibrato.

Peering over the top of the
Love Slave
pages, squinting at my notes, he asks what I’m writing.

Tax returns, I tell him. I shrug and say that I’m answering Miss Kathie’s fan mail. Reviewing her contracts and investments. Nothing special. Nothing too important.

And reading aloud from the new finale of Miss Kathie’s life story, Terry says, “ ‘
Katherine Kenton
never knew it, but the Japanese Yakuza are deservedly world-renowned as ruthless, bloodthirsty assassins.…’ ”

“ ‘A Yakuza assassin,’ ” reads the voice of
Terrence Terry
, “ ‘can perform an execution in as little as three seconds.…’ ” We dissolve to a misty street scene. The fantasy stand-ins for Miss Kathie and Webster stroll, window-shopping along a deserted city sidewalk, gilded by a rind of magic-hour sunlight. Whether this is dawn or dusk, one can’t tell for certain. The lithesome pair linger at display windows, Miss Kathie perusing dazzling necklaces and bracelets proffered there, dense and heavily set with glittering clusters of diamonds and rubies, even as Webster never takes his eyes off her face, as bewitched by her beauty as she is by the resplendent wealth of lavish, sparkling stones.

The voice-over continues reading, “ ‘A common assassination technique is to approach the target from behind.…’ ”

Trailing a few steps in the wake of Miss Kathie, we see
a figure dressed in all-black garments, his face concealed within a black ski mask. Black gloves cover his hands.

“ ‘What actually occurred may always be one of film-land’s most enduring mysteries. No one could say who had paid for the gruesome attack,’ ” says Terry’s voice, “ ‘but it did exhibit all the earmarks of a professionally trained killer.…’ ”

The happy couple saunter along, aware of only the glittering gems and their own happiness. They move in the slow-motion bubble of their own supreme bliss.

“ ‘The weapon was an ordinary ice pick …’ ” reads Terry.

We see the masked figure extricate a gleaming spike of needle-sharp steel from his jacket pocket.

“ ‘The assailant has merely to step close to the victim’s back …’ ” reads Terry in voice-over.

The masked figure sidles up immediately behind Miss Kathie. Shadowing her footsteps, he reaches toward her svelte neck with the cruelly sharpened ice pick.

“ ‘Thereupon, the well-practiced assassin extends an arm over the victim’s shoulder and plunges the steely weapon’s point deep into the soft area above the clavicle,’ ” reads Terry. “ ‘A quick side-to-side jerk effectively severs the subclavian artery and phrenic nerve, causing fatal exsanguination and suffocation within an instant.…’ ”

Yeah, yeah, yeah, on-screen all this happens. Blood and gore spray an adjacent shopwindow filled with sparkling, glistening diamonds and sapphires. The clots and gobbets of gore slide streaks of brilliant crimson down the polished glass even as the masked assailant flees, his running footfalls echoing down
Fifth Avenue
. At the death scene,
Webster Carlton Westward III
kneels in the spreading pool of Miss Kathie’s scarlet blood, cradling her movie-star face in
his massive, masculine hands. The light in her famous violet eyes fading, fading, fading.

“ ‘With her final dying breath,’ ” reads
Terrence Terry
, “ ‘my beloved Katherine said, “Webb, please promise me …” She said, “Honor and remember me by sharing your incredibly talented penis with all the most beautiful but less fortunate women of this world.” ’ ”

On-screen, the idealized Miss Kathie sags, limp, in the embrace of the soft-focus Webster. Tears stream down his face as his stand-in says, “I swear.” Shaking one bloody fist at the sky in frustrated rage, he shouts, “Oh, my dearest Katherine, I swear to perform your dying wish to my utmost.”