by Peter Corris
'Who'll be there?' the police sergeant asked me, after I'd contributed to his welfare fund.
'Bogart, I hope.'
'I mean broads, Mac. Are all you actors queer?'
I gave him one of my manly grins. 'Maybe you'd like to come down to Sammy's gym and spar a few rounds with Larry Spielberg and me?'
Spielberg had recently won a six-rounder at the Figueroa Auditorium – decked a tough Mex in the second, and the sergeant knew it. 'No offence, Mac.'
'None taken, sarge. Jean Harlow's invited. Maybe Betty Grable'll come along and bring her legs with her.'
'Maybe I'll drop by for a glass of water.'
There was nothing formal about a Casablanca party. You asked people, and they came or they didn't, drunk or sober. Bogart wasn't a big star then, so you could count on a message left at the Warners front desk reaching him. Robinson was bigger and you couldn't be sure. I had no idea what women were being asked – that was Belinda's department. I was pretty sure she wouldn't bother about Garbo.
There was only me and Spielberg in residence then. It being September and school holiday time, Eben Cartwright had gone to the south, Mississippi or Georgia, to visit his folks and Duluth was serving three weeks in gaol for drunk and disorderly. Spielberg invited some guys from the cannery and the gym.
'The boys from the gym'll keep the guys from the cannery in order,' he said.
'Great,' I said, 'we've got the makings of a real party here.'
I wasn't short of money, and the booze and food were an investment, so I spent up big. I got in ten cases of beer, three of champagne, plenty of hard liquor and jugs of muscatel and dago red for the rough element. Belinda made a rum-based fruity punch she called a 'W. C. Fields special'. The beer and wine went on ice in the kitchen and bathroom. We had hams and bread, olives and cheese, a couple of pounds of crackers and nuts and six different kinds of salads. We scattered packets of Camels and Luckies around the place and I hired a phonograph and a stack of records, mostly jazz – drinking, dancing and sex music. It was a nice, warm day that promised a soft night. On those nights, if you stood at one of the upstairs windows and listened real hard, you could hear the sea.
Belinda, Spielberg and I spent all day on the arrangements, and we really worked. I tidied up the yard while Belinda washed up a couple of weeks of dishes. Spielberg swept the house out and stowed the empties and the old newspapers and magazines under the house. I didn't see another soul, didn't turn on the radio or take my usual walk to get a paper for the sports results. We were fairly bushed by the evening so we took a few quick drinks to get ourselves going. I remember thinking that everything seemed very quiet, but that's often the way it is before a party. I danced with Belinda, and she danced with Spielberg. We ate a bit to stop from getting too stewed. A few of the cannery and gym men turned up and started to demolish the food and beer. By 10 p.m. I was getting worried. A good party never kicked off before 11, but this was ridiculous. Someone should've arrived, even if it was only the gate-crashers or the lushes who swiped all the bottles they could and left early.
At 11.30 I said, 'No one's coming.' A beer bottle hit the cement out in the yard and shattered. 'I mean, no one from the movies.'
Spielberg had been trying to keep pace with his buddies, and he was almost paralytic. 'Too bad,' he muttered. 'You think I can win the title, Dick?'
'I don't understand.' Belinda was dancing slowly in the middle of the room by herself, nursing a drink and crooning softly. She wore a little black dress that she could get out of in about three seconds, and I knew that was exactly what she was planning to do.
Just before midnight, the telephone rang. I lurched over and picked it up. A cannery worker dropped one of the records just as I did so and I had to stick a finger in my ear to close out the crash and the noise of his cursing. 'Hullo, hullo. Who's this?'
'It's Robert Silkstein, Dick. Sorry to call so late and under the circumstances, but I finally got it worked out, and I hadda tell you.'
'What are you talking about?'
'My idea, to promote you.'
'No, no. What circumstances?'
'Ain't you heard?'
'Heard what, for Christ's sake?'
'About Thalberg. He died today. The whole town's in mourning.'
21
I must have hung up on Silkstein. I don't remember doing so the way I don't remember anything much about the next twenty-four hours. We held our own wake for the boy genius Thalberg, dead of pneumonia at 37, and I bet there was no one in Los Angeles drunker than me and Belinda Douglas, Larry Spielberg and the guys from Sammy's gym and the cannery. We drank a devastating amount of everything on offer, ate a lot of the food, smoked all the cigarettes and smashed a lot of the records. The party that never was put a big hole in my bank account and all for nothing. I was still hung over when I arrived at Warners on the 16th to report for work on Kid Galahad.
The first person in the picture I saw was Bogart. He squashed a cigarette out on the edge of the ring they'd mounted as a set. 'You look worse than I feel,' he said.
'Impossible.'
'British, eh? I didn't think there were any limeys in this picture.'
All those 's' sounds got me a little bit wet. 'I'm not British.'
'So long's as you're not a Kraut. Too many Krauts in this business.'
I don't know how Billy Wilder, Marlene Dietrich, Paul Muni, Fred Zinnemann and Fred Astaire34 would have felt about that, but Bogart never did care much about how people felt about him. I worked hard in the film; I was KO'd several times by different boxers, I skipped rope in the gyms, did roadwork and got in and out of cars. I spoke only two words. I said, 'Thanks, boss,' to Bogart, and they cut it out of the final print.
The picture took rather longer to shoot than expected, because of an accident to one of the actors. It was the usual Hollywood schemozzle. The actor they got to play the champ, Bill Haade, was a big guy who'd been a steelworker. He came to Warners with a reputation of being the all-Navy heavyweight boxing champion. Fact was, he'd never had a pair of boxing gloves on in his life. First boxing scene he's in, he gets knocked flat on his face by Wayne Morris. This is no good – he's supposed to fall on his back. He didn't get up either, and they found that he'd twisted his ankle in falling. They shot around him but he was on crutches for a couple of weeks and getting paid for doing nothing. I heard he bought real estate with the windfall and got rich. The luck of some people.
Warners were notorious for their small budgets and, apart from Haade's bonanza, there was no fat in Kid Galahad – no freebies, as they'd say today. Curtiz was a good, economical director (for some reason I've always admired the directors that didn't waste money – maybe I should have gone into production instead of acting). He knew what he wanted, and how to get it quickly.
Kid Galahad was a good picture, and I came out of it with some money and fitter than I'd been in years. I could run five miles without puffing, skip for an hour, and I could even move around in the ring to make it look as if I knew how to fight. In fact, I knew how to avoid getting hurt and not much more, but for movie work that was enough. I don't know how many takes have been spoilt in movies by actors not getting out of the way of a punch quickly enough. Never happened to me.
It didn't do much for my career though. Ironically, Belinda's role in Show Boat turned out to be bigger than she expected. I went over to her apartment in Culver City during the shoot and found her all dressed up like a Mexican fan dancer. She threw a knife at me as I walked in, but I could see it was one of the rubber prop knives and I caught it.
'What's this?'
'I'm rehearsing my next role.'
Bit players didn't usually have a 'next bit', let alone a 'next role'. I poured myself a drink and watched her stamp her feet and hammer the castanets. She wasn't bad. She finished with a swirl of skirts and a flash of the teeth that made me put down the drink and reach for her.
'Later,' she said. It was the closest I'd ever heard her get to saying no. She went on dancing, and I w
ent on drinking, and when we finally got into the cot I was lousy. She compensated herself the way she had the first time.
'Selznick saw the rushes,' she said.
'David?'
'No, Myron.'
I put on my Bogart accent – I fancy I was one of the first people to do that. 'Too many goddamned brothers in this business.'
Belinda didn't laugh. 'He's taken me on. He's getting me into a picture where I play a Mexican dancer. I get to talk, sing and kill a man with a knife – it sounds like fun.'
'It sounds like money, too. How'd this happen?'
'I guess it must've been the teeth. There's a shot of me smiling in the rushes.'
'Well, I hope they won't get in the way.
That got me a laugh and a vicious dig in the ribs. 'It's not like that with Selznick. It's all business. But since you mention it, let's see if we can't do a little better this time.'
We did better.
But I was jealous and envious and frustrated. I took it out on Larry Spielberg in the gym, or tried to, but he was so much better than me he just tied me up in the corners, tapped me once or twice and danced away. Like all good fighters, he had the knack of turning an opponent's aggression back onto him. That's how it looks anyway, and that's how it felt. A few days after my talk with Belinda, I was sparring with Larry, whaling away to the body and cursing under my breath. He propped me with a stiff right; I started to black out and he held me up, carried me to the corner stool.
'Hey, Dick. You OK? I didn't mean to hurt you, but you were acting kinda crazy there.'
He shoved the smelling salts under my nose and my brain cleared. 'I am crazy. Feel like getting drunk?'
'Hell, no. I gotta fight in a week. Whatsa matter? C'n I help? Cause you'n me's pals, Dick. I mean, you let me run for weeks on my rent when I was broke an' I don't forget things like that.'
He didn't know I was afraid to ask him for it on account of the muscles and the fists, but it never hurts to have people think well of you. I let go one of my brave, I'm-just-one-hell-of-a-guy grins, and we went off to shower. Under the spray, I got to thinking about Casablanca, and how much longer I could stand the place. I could afford an apartment in a better district, and it might do my movie rating some good. Truth was though, I found the place interesting. When you don't read or play the violin or write poetry, you need something to occupy your mind. That is, unless you're a gambler or such a lush that emptying bottles is a full-time occupation. I liked cards and horse-playing and the numbers and lotteries and drinking, but I seem always to have had time left over to study people. Not that it's done me any good, but that's not the point.
Just then at Casablanca the residents were myself, Spielberg, Duluth (in between gaol terms), Eben Cartwright and a cousin of his he'd brought back from the south. There was no physical resemblance. Cartwright was tall and lanky with a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead; the cousin was a scrawny yellow-haired hayseed with buck teeth and one shoulder higher than the other. He wore a suit jacket too big for him, over a checked shirt and old army trousers hitched up high. On his feet were boots, what else?
'Mr Browning,' Cartwright said in his formal way, 'I'd like you t' meet m' cousin.'
'How do,' the cousin said.
'Fine.' I shook a hand as hard as a horseshoe. The callouses were so rough and sharp, it hurt to touch them.
'This's Abell Buzzacott, Mr Browning, an' I was wonderin' if it'd be all right for him to rent the small room a while. I c'n pay.'
'Sure.' The small room had been vacant for weeks, and every paying customer was a load off my back. Abel looked at Eben every time someone spoke, as if he didn't understand English. 'Will you explain the rules to him, Eben? He . . . ah, looks as if he hasn't spent a lot of time in the big city.'
'Abel's a little slow, I admit. Fact is, down home people call him A.B. which is his initials right enough, but they also mean he hasn't mastered the alphabet too well. But he's a good god-fearin' man with the right principles.'
To me, Abel's principles looked like deep holes for fence posts and tight bales for hay, but I was curious about Cartwright, who seemed like a mixture of scholar and something else I couldn't quite place. 'What principles are those, Eben?'
Cartwright handed his carpet bag to his cousin and pointed to the stairs. Abel ambled off, now carrying two fully stuffed bags as if they contained nothing heavier than candy floss. 'I'd like to talk to you about that some time, Mr Browning.'
'Happy to,' I said. 'Perhaps you'd like to let me have Abel's rent in advance in accordance with the rules of the house.'
Cartwright counted out the money, adding in the tariff for his own room. That put me in a good mood. 'We had a little party while you were away, and you'll find a bottle or two left over if you look around. Feel free to drink up whatever you fancy.'
Eben turned with one foot on the bottom stair. 'I don't drink, sir. Neither does my cousin. That's one of the principles I mentioned.'
I nodded and lit a cigarette. When in the presence of saints there's only one thing to do – sin all you can. I went on with my life – squiring Belinda around, keeping an eye on things at Casablanca, waiting for N. Robert Silkstein to call and tell me he'd landed a big one. I didn't hear from him for some time after the phone call on the day Thalberg died. I decided I must have offended him and that I should make amends, but I never seemed to get around to doing it. In the end, it was him who contacted me. I answered the phone late one night after driving Belinda home. Silkstein always phoned late, to give you the feeling that he was working for you, twenty -four hours a day. The phone was on the wall in the hallway; we all used it and put nickels and dimes in a jar to pay the bill. I noticed that the jar was full – someone had been making a lot of calls.
'Howsa kid?' Silkstein said. 'In shape?'
'I'm OK. Look, Robert, I'm sorry about hanging up on you. I was . . .'
'Forget about it. You was having a party the day Thalberg croaked. You didn't invite me, incidentally, but forget about that too. You got talked about for your lousy timing.'
'Can we forget about that?'
'Sure, sure. Remember I said I hadda sure-fire idea to build you up? Get the attention you need?'
'Yes. Have you got a part for me? What is it?'
'Not a part exactly. There was a coupla things looked good for you, but they didn't work out.'
'The story of my life.'
'Don't go getting negative on me, as the editor said to the chorus girl. Haw, haw.'
I laughed dutifully. I needed N. Robert. An actor in Hollywood without an agent immediately sank back to being an extra and was at the mercy of Central Casting – which basically meant you chose between humiliation and hunger. So I laughed.
'Here's the thing. First, this has gotta be a secret between you 'n me. You don't breathe a word to anyone, understand? Not Belinda Douglas, not your confessor.'
'I'm not a Catholic, Robert.' Eben Cartwright walked past just then and nodded in a friendly way.
'Just a manner of speaking. I hear you been sparring with a real fighter?'
'That's right. Larry Spielberg.'
'I'll have to try to catch him. I like a good fight, once in a while. I also hear you did all right punchwise in the picture.'
'I did most of my acting on my back. And no jokes, Robert. Ah . . . it's late. Can I call you tomorrow?'
'No, you gotta hear it now because this is Day One, whatever the hell time it is.'
I yawned. 'Going on for 3 a.m., Bobby.'
'I'll give it to you short and sweet. I got it all set up. I've been laying the groundwork. This is the greatest stunt since Johnny Weismuller went over Niagara Falls in a barrel.'35
'Short and sweet, Robert.'
'You're gonna fight Errol Flynn. And you're gonna knock the sonofabitch out.'
'What? You must be crazy. Flynn's ten years younger than me, and he'd outweigh me by ten pounds at least.'
'The guy's a cream puff. You can tell by looking at him, and all thos
e broads he runs around with must be weakening him. Stands to reason. And he drinks like Prohibition's coming back tomorrow. I been checking up on him.'
'What else have you been doing?'
'Spreading the word that you say he's not a real Ossie. And that he can't fight. 'Course that's not strictly true. I understand he did a bit of fighting in Australia.'
'Jesus, Bobby, you don't know what you're saying. The fight game in Australia's the toughest in the world. If he fought there, he can fight.'
'You scared of him?'
'No, but . . .'
'You can take him. And one thing, Dick. Don't mess up that pretty face of his. Warners wouldn't like it.'
22
'What's this I hear about you and Errol Flynn?' Belinda said.
'God, not you too! How far has this thing spread?'
We were in a bar on Hollywood Boulevard. Belinda was about finished with Show Boat – she was wearing what looked like a riverboat whore's costume, all plumes and flounces – and she was feeling skittish.
'It's all over town that you've called Flynn a fairy. I suppose that's why you keep looking over your shoulder? In case he comes in.'
I kept my head very straight. 'I am not looking over my shoulder. The whole idea's a mad scheme of Silkstein's.'
Belinda sipped her martini. 'Do you some good if it works. Flynn's not the most popular guy in town.'
'I have no intention of brawling with Errol Flynn. It wouldn't be dignified.'
Belinda put her big white teeth into the flesh of the olive in a way that made my palms sweat. 'I know you can box,' she said, 'but I gather Flynn's no slouch. You hear what happened when they were making Light Brigade?'
I closed my eyes. Tell me.'