To Kill the Duke (29 page)

Powell looked at the man’s face in the photograph. It was a perfect face if he were casting for a western. Then again, with make-up and the costume, this man would do. “Of course we can use him. It’s a western from the past,” Dick muttered to himself as he smiled at helping the law by employing the type of man whom he reasoned, the deputy didn’t like finding on the streets — off season, of course.
He probably knows how to
sand ski, too,
Powell further thought as he put the picture to the side. He made the decision to hire the man.

The second letter was from a woman. She was naked and not very good looking. He chuckled and started a pile to show everyone else when the time was right.

How come I don’t get a gorgeous broad’s picture?
He pondered as he fished for another applicant’s letter. It was another woman, but she wasn’t naked in her picture… which made him smile. She was a housewife and just looking to do something different than raising children, keeping a clean house and loving her husband. Dick Powell would have hired her for what she wrote, even if she was the ugliest woman on earth. There wouldn’t be many woman needed as extras… he could even dress up some of the men as women if needed, too, but she would do. He wanted to help a housewife who was proud of being a housewife. He decided to hire her to clean on the set.
After all, she likes being a housewife
, he said to himself.

He reached for another letter in the bag. He was really glad he found this one.

It was from a man. It had the required photo. There was nothing wrong with the attached picture.

“Take a look at what he wrote as to why he should be considered to be an extra,” Dick told Oscar when the group was going over the applicants that Dick Powell had set aside… because the time was right to make them all laugh.

Oscar Millard read silently from the letter and then broke out into a hearty laugh.

“Read it to us!” screamed Ed.

“First, a drink for us,” Mel announced as he poured a shot of whiskey into the glasses in front of the men gathered around the table.

“To Dick Powell. Nobody entertains on location better than he does,” Oscar toasted his friend and now boss. Powell nodded toward the compliment. All the men downed their drink and Oscar read what was written.

“No one walks in the background better than I do,” Oscar began reading and everyone broke out into laughter.

“Does he have references?” Mel asked the group.

“Maybe we can use him at the end of the caravan in scene seven,” Ed chimed in.

“Does he have pictures of this amazing feat?” Boyd asked the group.

“How do we find such men?” Dick asked them all as he poured another round and handed the next envelope to Oscar. It was the one with the picture of the ugly naked woman in it. Again, the time was right; as with anything in the movie business — timing was everything. And Dick Powell would find a place for the guy who walked in the background better than anyone else.

As soon as Oscar saw the picture he recoiled so quickly, he banged the table and spilled what was left in everyone’s drink.

“Millard, what’s the matter with you? Refill please!” ordered Dick with a wink.”

“This picture is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen,” Millard announced as he handed the picture to Ed and retrieved the bottle.

“Well…,” Ed began “at least she isn’t doing it with an animal.” And Ed handed the picture to Mel.

“Yikes! She’s what snakes see when they are drunk!” Mel blurted out as he handed the picture to Boyd.

“I wouldn’t fuck her with
your
dick… Oscar,” ‘Red’ said.

“I think I’m going to contact Howard and tell him to hire her. Hughes owns a lot of horses’ guys,” Dick said.

The other men looked at their boss totally bewildered.

“See, I would walk up to Howard’s horse… after I had made a substantial bet on it to win. I would hold up the picture of that woman to the horse’s eyes, and tell the horse that if he lost the race, this woman would be waiting back in the stall to kiss him,” Powell said.

The others started to howl.

Boyd then went to the counter, picked up the bottle and poured everyone another drink. He asked if he could look at the next application. Dick Powell pointed to the stack and Boyd opened up the envelope. A picture fell out. Boyd picked up the picture and studied it. “It looks like Shemp Howard.”

“No one looks like Shemp Howard.
Even
Shemp Howard doesn’t look like Shemp Howard,” Oscar Millard said as he took a peak at the picture.

“Dick, you can’t put this Shemp Howard look-a-like in any close -up,” Mel added.

“Why not?” Dick asked.

“He’s not Mongolian looking enough,” Mel said with a laugh.

“There’s a bigger problem with Shemp,” said Boyd.

“What’s that?” asked Ed.

“Moe and Larry will be pissed if they are not in the movie,” Boyd said.

This led to a rousing debate between the four men of who was the best Stooge.

“Guys,” Dick Powell began. The picture of Shemp was a red herring. I thought it’d be funny,” Dick Powell told them.

Oscar Millard then made a motion that Dick Powell had to do a double shot and it was unanimously voted on.

As Dick struggled to down the double, Ed picked up another envelope.

“Let’s make it the last one for the night,” Ed said as he opened it up and noticed that the others all nodded their heads in agreement. He skimmed what was written and then burst out laughing, handing the note to Mel. Mel read a few lines, and he too started to laugh. Then Boyd picked up and followed suit.

“This, I gotta read,” Oscar Millard said, as he retrieved the letter from a hysterical Boyd.

“You’re the writer Oscar… read some of it to us all,” Dick Powell said.

Oscar looked at the accompanying picture and remarked that the guy would fit in perfectly as an extra in the movie he’d written. “Let’s see… his resume is more complete than any of the others,” Oscar said in a serious tone. “He has experience from working on many movie sets throughout Nevada and California due to his ‘nomadic upbringing.’ He was once Indian Number Seven. He was also the guy on top of a building who is shot, but doesn’t fall… just slumps and slowly drops his rifle. He was also a guy walking into the saloon as the star walked out for the gunfight in the streets. He was American Soldier Number Fifteen as the camera panned the dead men on the beach. He has been a fight spectator with popcorn thrown on him. Most impressively, he has been in a juror box in more films then he cares to remember.”

“Notice anything else?” Powell asked his friends.

After their collective laughter had died down, they all looked at the picture and scanned the words.

They all shook their heads no.

“He doesn’t mention any of the titles of the movies he allegedly was in!” Powell shouted.

“It’s all made up?” Boyd asked.

“You’re right,” agreed Ed.

“You’re kidding me,” Mel said.

“It’s why we all work for Dick Powell,” Oscar said.

“I’m hiring the guy,” Powell said. “He’s all into make believe and isn’t that what we do?”

After everyone had left, Dick tossed and turned trying to fall asleep, but he couldn’t do it, even though he was plastered. He tried counting sheep. He tried remembering the entire phone call with John Wayne. Both activities left him wide awake. Then, he remembered something his wife had told him that she’d remembered from a movie set she had been on. One of the stars couldn’t fall asleep, and the director advised the star to heat up some milk and sip it calmly. There was only one problem — no milk was to be found in Dick Powell’s trailer. With nothing else to do, he went back to the piles of letters and photos lying on the floor by the table. He grabbed a few to take back to his bed. Once again, he remembered that his wife had told him how the same director had said “if warm milk doesn’t put you to sleep, there is nothing like reading in bed.”

The first letter was from a man who went on and on about screenplays. His letter was full of insights about what to look for in a good screenplay. Who had written some good ones and who had written some bad ones (Oscar Millard wasn’t on either list). The letter went on and on and on for 16 pages, and then came the kicker — the letter writer had written 20 screenplays! Dick was surprised that none of them were enclosed in the envelope, when it hit him that he had already hired this guy for research! He made a mental note to show the letter to Oscar and fell into a deep sleep.

Dick Powell woke up with a terrible hangover. He took a look at the breakfast menu and wasn’t happy. Dick Powell believed in only one type
of breakfast that would start the day off right by killing a hangover, and that type of breakfast was not on the menu for his staff and crew.

“And I hate oatmeal anyway,” he said out loud as he tried to remember the closest greasy spoon to feed his hunger and kill the hangover. He slipped into some loose-fitting clothes, splashed cold water on his face and put on his sunglasses. He tip-toed to his car and slowly left the set. The restaurant was about nine miles up the road and he remembered that all the truck drivers who’d hauled supplies to the set had told him the food was excellent… especially breakfast. He drove just under the speed limit, because he still felt slightly drunk and knew that if he got pulled over for speeding — producer, star or celebrity — he was going to not only get a ticket, but bring bad publicity to his set because for some strange reason, all celebrities who receive a speeding ticket become gossip material for the country.

How I hate cops who have nothing better to do than write speeding tickets, when there are so many better things to be doing with police manpower,
Powell thought as he drove at the speed limit.

Only the stars with big tits get out of tickets
, he thought, which made him think of Hughes, which made him think of how he was able to land Susan Hayward, which made him think of her breast size, which made him think that Howard would be happy. Susan Hayward’s bust was 38C. She was only five foot three inches tall, which made her breasts look even bigger, which would make Howard Hughes even happier; which should make Dick Powell’s job that much easier.

Actually, getting Susan to say ‘yes’ was the easy part. His meeting with Hughes was where Dick Powell had to work.

Susan Hayward was excited about being offered the part of Bortai
before
she had even read the script.

“You haven’t even read the script, Susan,” Dick said to her over the phone.

“Dick Powell, don’t you know me by now?” Hayward said teasingly. “When can we meet?”

“I’m free all day tomorrow. Come to the studio for lunch,” Powell suggested.

“No. But I’ll meet you at the drugstore down the street for lunch,” Hayward countered.

“A drugstore? Why?” a befuddled Dick Powell asked.

“They have the best raspberry lime rickeys in the world,” Hayward said.

“Okay,” agreed Powell while he wondered
what in the hell a raspberry lime rickey was.

As usual, Dick had arrived at the drugstore 15 minutes earlier than the agreed-upon time. Powell had been taught by both his parents that it was important to show respect for the person(s) you were meeting by being there
before
them.

“Why?” young Dick Powell asked his parents.

“Because we said so!” both his parents had answered in unison.

It wasn’t the answer he had hoped for. But the lesson had served him well over the years.

So, Dick Powell arrived at the drug store 15 minutes before Susan Hayward did and took a seat in the first booth. He opened up the sports section and scanned the baseball box scores to kill some time, hoping that the raspberry lime rickey would be something that he would like. As he skimmed the box scores, he smiled at himself for learning to bring the sports section with him before any meetings; it was a great way to kill the 15 minutes that his parents had told him were so important. Furthermore, most places he waited in had terrible reading material. And, he couldn’t bring a script, because that would draw attention to what he did for a living. Or worse… who he was. And, he liked the smoke screen of anonymity that burying his face in the sports section gave him when he was in public.

After five minutes of looking at the sports, Dick felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and there was Susan Hayward.