The Age of Cities (11 page)

Ed turned his attention to his plate. Noting Johnny's misuse of allegory, Winston wondered how he'd react to being corrected. His wrath would be formidable. Winston was not prepared to meet it. In any form, Johnny's retort would be withering.

Ed turned his face from Winston to Johnny. He asked, “Are you being sarcastic? You know I can never tell with you.”

A flock of waiters arrived carrying plates and platters of food. Dickie named the inventory of dishes as the headwaiter—several decades older than his assistants—silently placed them on the rotating core of the table. The intense savory steam reminded Winston that cocktails were no substitute for dinner.

“Our duck. We're missing our duck.” Dickie spoke to the elderly waiter.

“No duck.” The waiter began moving from their table.

“Yes, I know it's obviously not here. We ordered it, however, and would like to eat it. Preferably now while the rest's still piping hot.” Dickie had raised his voice.

The elderly waiter turned to his assistant, a jet-haired newt of a boy who looked no older than ten.

“We're sorry, mister. The kitchen ran out of duck a couple minutes ago.” He added, “That item will not appear on your bill,” after the headwaiter sprayed him with Chinese words.

“Thank you, young man.” Dickie saluted him with his highball glass.

“You're really missing out, Hayseed. The crispy Peking duck here is the best in town.” Winston smiled at Dickie. He thought of the Port-Land and his sense of watching characters on the silver screen. Here, though, the décor and conversation conspired to make him acutely conscious of being on stage. The evening had not yet revealed whether he had been cast in a comedy, melodrama or tragedy.

“But there's plenty here, and it's all good.” Ed seemed set on enjoyment.

“You're really pushing that ‘every cloud has a silver lining' bit tonight, aren't you,” Johnny said, picking up the Prohibition strand of their argument. He spun the pork chow mein in Ed's direction.

“It's better than seeing only gloom and rain.” Ed had poured a volcanic island of mushroom fried rice into the middle of his plate.

Dickie cleared his throat theatrically and asked, “Shall I serve?” He held the thermos in his hand, pivoting it slowly like an intent mesmerist.

 

 

Winston could see that Frankie did not share his uncle's gift for public speaking. When he was not shoveling in his food as though it were his last meal, his attention was directed toward a young woman at an adjacent table of coarse-looking career girls. Her white angora sweater—at least a size too small, Winston gauged—was all hills and valleys.

“And what do you think, young Franklin?” Dickie had followed Winston's eyes.

“I was thinking about doing some skiing, sir. It's ‘Frankie,' please.” Frankie faced Dickie reluctantly, his thick brow furrowing.

“So long as I am paying for your tickets, Frankie, you might want to pay attention to the gentlemen you're keeping company with.” Johnny's tone was a perfect vehicle for his disappointment.

“Are you visiting your uncle, Frankie, or do you live in town?” Winston decided his goal tonight should align with Ed's; he hummed
you've got to accentuate the positive
quietly. Sweet yet potent, the Manhattan was going straight to his head.

Frankie rapidly shifted his attention from Winston to Johnny, but did not answer.

Johnny said, “Oh, Frankie is deciding if he wants to settle here for a while. His folks sent him up from Los Angeles. They thought he was falling in with a bad crowd, so they shipped him off to the country so that he could gain some perspective. Country air and all that. Isn't that the case, young man?”

“That's it, sir.” Frankie was rigid and attentive.

“The city is home to one of the best universities in the country.” Winston adopted a paternal demeanour he reserved for those shy and intent students who sought him out for counselling with a surprising regularity. While he had never visited any university campus, he trusted what he'd heard.

“C'mon, Farmer, you can only dive so deep in a shallow lake,” Dickie commented before Frankie could say a word.

“Well, I hope you are finding the city worth your while, Frankie.” Winston kept a strict focus on Frankie. He did not approve of how Dickie treated the young man and wanted to smooth over the rough edges of the conversation.

“Yes, Frankie's become a regular nature lover, if his hikes through Lord Stanley's Park are anything to judge by. A real pro. He must have legs like Johnny Weissmuller.”

“Dickie, please shut up,” Johnny barked. “For Christ's sake. You just don't know when to quit, do you?” Dickie's face was set, an expressionless mask. He collected up the glasses from the table so that he could pour a fresh round of Manhattans. He lifted the thermos. “Oh-oh. It's empty. The party's over. Let's get home before we sober up,” he said.

Winston's discomfort was escalating. He felt certain that a dispute was still running between the men, though he had missed its beginning. The expression about cutting tension with a knife was perfectly illustrated at their table. Winston had never exchanged hard words with Alberta. Even when they disagreed they never spoke harshly. He made up his mind: lifting that tension would be the most prudent tact he could take.

“Johnny, did you meet your nephew when you were in Hollywood?” It was a story Winston guessed that Johnny could not resist.

“Oh Lord, not that. I am going to use the facilities,” Dickie said, leaving no doubt that anything would be preferable to being present as Johnny's tale unraveled. He stood up, carefully pushed his chair close to the table, and cut a fast track to the staircase.

“Yes, it was something like that, though it took us awhile to run into each other.”

“I'd like to hear about it, if you don't mind.”

“Well, why not?” Johnny raised his brows, suggesting that if anyone had any objections, now was the time to express them. Frankie and Ed concentrated on the remaining food.

“It was a bright lights, big city kind of deal. After being canned by Malkin's, Tinseltown seemed like the best bet. I had grand ambitions. I thought Hollywood would be the sort of place where a man could get off the train and walk to MGM Studios and take a job, and six months later he'd be making a movie, collaborating with Edith Head and trying to calm Bette Davis's frayed nerves with French champagne and cigarettes by the crate. Or vice versa. And, naturally, rolling in the dough. The thing is, everybody who goes there believes the same dream. It's the oldest story. But I didn't learn that until I'd already stepped right in.”

“That's a terrific story, Johnny. Does anyone want more mushroom rice?” Ed was reaching for the platter. Winston patted his own belly for Ed's benefit.

“I haven't quite wrapped up the story, Ed, as you might have noticed if you were paying attention. So, anyway, Winston, it knocked me off my high horse, I'll tell ya. Nobody knew Malkin's, my agency, nothing. Hell, they wouldn't recognize goddamned Winnipeg if I gave them a souvenir box of Red River black flies. I did get work, though, that was a cinch. My first job was with the costume department at the Republic Pictures studio. That didn't work out.” He added,
sotto voce
: “Here, if you get fired, it's bad news. There, well, it's as common as sunshine.

“Then I branched out. Tried acting, became an extra. I played up my PR skills and got on re-writing a program called
Honeychile
. I don't imagine you saw it? That was an experience, I tell you. The pace was something I could not get used to. One job, then another, and a whole new set of folks to work with. Not to mention mean, stingy personalities. And let's not say even a word about that desert climate. It was all too much. So I settled down, and slaved away in some rinky-dink public relations company that did studio business. I thought it would be a foot in the door.”

“Pride goes before the fall,” Ed commented, then asked Frankie to divide the remaining chow mein with him. Looking toward the staircase for Dickie, Winston could see that the mezzanine was emptying out.

“Anyway, one day I was in some Tiki dive on the Boulevard with a couple of cronies and who comes in but Vera Hruba Halston, dripping B glamour, a shade too much flash, looking trampier than Flame LaRue. Her gal pal is none other than Judy Canova. I'd worked with that hillbilly before and had met her on
WAC from Walla Walla
. Don't know if anyone sat through that gem.” Johnny surveyed his audience. He lit a cigarette and placed the match on his plate.

As he approached the table, Dickie rolled his eyes. “We all saw it, I'm sure, Johnny. Everyone in this place.” His gesture swept through the room. “I'm surprised no dreamy-eyed secretary has cornered you and begged for an autograph.” Winston felt his face redden as adjoining tables noticed the commotion. In public and in large doses, Dickie's flamboyance became an embarrassment. Winston stood and pulled the chair out for Dickie. The patrons would lose interest once he was seated.

“All settled in, missy?” Johnny's voice was chilly, his words aiming to put Dickie in his place. “Okay then. Well, I didn't exactly work
with
Judy but on the same picture. As an extra. And they even gave me a line: ‘Yes, sir.' I was a clerk in the army clerical pool. An unforgettable performance, I tell ya.” Winston's lips stretched from the urge to laugh; if the sheer extravagance of their talk was shocking, it was also delectable. They had no shame, not caring a whit that they were drawing comments. What would those other customers be saying, he wondered.

“Did you see
I Was a Shoplifter?
Even Rock Hudson had to start somewhere,” Dickie barked.

Ed said, “I saw that. Where was Rock?”

“It was just a bit part. He was an auto mechanic, I think. Now there's a career for young Franklin … an auto mechanic, I mean, not a bit player.”

“Are you sure? I remember the mechanic. It wasn't him, I'm sure of it.” It was a mystery Ed needed to solve.

“It doesn't really matter, Edward, the point is that everyone, even the biggest star, has to start somewhere.” For a second, Dickie was an effigy of exasperation, his pitch none other than that of a teacher with students who are slow to grasp a simple idea.

“Ladies, do you mind? I am trying to answer Winston's question, not gossip like a schoolgirl. Dickie, the well's really run dry?” Johnny held up his highball glass.

“Afraid so, my dear. Next time each of us will have to smuggle in a thermos.”

“I hope Winston knows what we're going on about,” Ed said to the gang.

Winston had heard all the names, but was enjoying Johnny's fish-out-of-water tale. He replied: “My mother's the one who follows the lives of stars, not I, I'm afraid.”

Johnny resumed his vivid storytelling. “Vera was like Esther Williams, only on ice; instead of America's Mermaid she was … I dunno, she didn't really catch on the same way. ‘Skated out of Czechoslovakia and into the hearts of America.' That was how the studio packaged her, anyway. An accent heavy as Russian bread. Big brown cow eyes and a bosom like she was Jayne Mansfield's cousin from the old country. Sharp as a tack, though.

“So there I was, a bit soused. The cocktails were giving me Dutch courage, you know, and I thought I'd walk over to them with a proposition.” He emptied his cocktail glass. “I said before that when I went to Hollywood with dreams of the big time, I didn't know that everyone from Flin Flon to Florida tries their luck there with the same fairy tale lodged in their head. By this time, though, I had learned that every two-bit player has some scheme they want to sell to a producer or a studio. I had an idea, too, you see. But I'll be damned if I was going to pitch it by going up to these ladies and saying, ‘Excuse me, miss, I have this vision that'll make us all millionaires.'” Johnny's imitation of an eager nobody dreamer was shaded with kindness and contempt.

“I walked past them on the way to the toilet and nodded briefly at the hillbilly. On the way back she greeted me with, ‘Corporal Clerk. Am I right or what?' I smiled and said, ‘Yes, ma'am,' in a corny hick accent. They invited me to share a cocktail with them, and I thought ‘Why not?' We got along like gangbusters. They were pissed and brimming with complaint. Men and movies, bastards and bitches, basically. Judy wanted Chekhov and got corn pone. Vera exclaimed that she was not bloody Carmen Miranda on skates. She wanted
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
, she said, and got foreign temptress bits. Or was asked to skate. Or both…”—“Once you're typecast, it's curtains for your career,” interjected Dickie with a slow knowing nod—“…and besides, as she said, she wasn't ‘no spring chicken no more.' That woman had more cuss-words up her sleeve than a sailor.”

The old waiter and his slip of an assistant appeared, clearing the table without a word. The boy returned with a scallop shell plate holding a bill and five fortune cookies. He asked if they wanted jasmine tea.

“We'll pass on the tea, young man. But thank you.” Dickie gave the boy a grandfatherly smile. “God, who can drink that stuff? I'd rather sip gasoline,” he said a beat later.

“So, I thought now would be as good a time as any to pitch my idea. Like some circus barker I said, ‘Ladies, what do Laraine Day, Peggy Wood, Sally Rand, Una Merkel, Ilona Massey, Leatrice Joy, Pola Negri, Lola Lane, Blanche Yurka, and that lover of women Lizabeth Scott have in common?'” Johnny paused.

“They all know the same Mexican surgeon?” said Dickie, approximating Vera Hruba Halston's accent.

“Why, I can't say. They've had their day in the sun?'” said Ed with a Southern drawl.

Johnny smiled at their efforts. “I said, ‘It's true they're all a bit older than twenty-five. But does their age make them box office poison? Nags that ought to be sent to the glue factory? Or does it make them veteran professionals with more tricks up their sleeves than a grifter?' Then I threw them my pitch, a talent agency”—Johnny drew a line with his index finger—“as yet unnamed that would represent a powerful corps of actresses, women who are usually considered used goods and who have no leverage with the studios because they're old news and has-beens. It was brilliant. And they agreed.”