by Vanda
I was shocked to see Jimmy the Crusher walk in. I hadn’t seen him since … well, you know. He even smiled at me. Jimmy didn’t smile. Not ever. Maybe that thing his lips were doing wasn’t a smile. It could have been a smirk or a grimace. With the fire scars on his upper lip, it was hard to tell. When he slipped the hand that still had a thumb into his coat pocket I froze. A gun?
He lifted out a small box and palmed it; he handed it to me and walked away. I stared at the box gayly wrapped in clown birthday paper sitting in my hand. I looked up to see him watching me from across the room. My heart beat in my throat as I undid the wrappings. Inside lay a silver bracelet, the kind you might put a charm on, but there were no charms. Why would Jimmy give me a present? Do I say thank you? I’d never even spoken to him before. When I looked up from the box to find him, he was gone.
There were lots of Broadway people and a few Hollywood folks who were in town, too. I added more names to my wheeldex, and my name got added to theirs. Broadway and Hollywood people, gay or straight, all knew about these parties. It was one of those open secrets. As long as it didn’t get out to the public, we were fine, but if the press started blabbing to Middle America, we’d be ruined. We all knew what had happened to Billy Haines when he’d been caught at the Y in LA with a sailor. Louis B. Mayer tore up his MGM contract and his acting career was pretty much over.
Marty and I danced when he wasn’t flirting with Max. I wondered what Scott thought about that.
That party was the best birthday party I ever had in my whole life.
“So Tommie,” Marty said, leaning around me. “Come on. Give. What’s happening in Hollywood?”
“Here’s something juicy. Hasn’t hit the wires yet.” Tommie said. “Our very own Walter Liberace is taking Cassandra—you know, that London columnist, real name William Connor—to court. Suing him for libel because in his review he implied Libby was—” he whispered for effect, “a homosexual.”
“Taking him to court?” I exclaimed. “His career will be ruined.”
“That’s what I told him,” Tommie explained. “But he’s convinced he’s going to win. He’s decided to prove to the whole world that he is as straight as an arrow.”
We all laughed. “That’s exactly,” Marty added, more seriously, “what Oscar Wilde tried to do, and we all know what happened to him.”
“What?” Tommie asked.
“You really must read, boy,” Marty said. “They sent him to prison. That was in England too. You think it’s rough here? Phew, England makes the U.S. look like a walk in the park.”
“Oh. Poor Libby. Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Tommie said. “Enough with the sad faces. What you really want is the absolute latest Hollywood gossip.” He leaned forward to flick an ash into the clay ashtray made by Virginia’s illegitimate daughter. He sat back in his chair, waving his cigarette in the air as he crossed one leg over the other and winked at Marty.
Marty leaned forward, all eagerness.
“Not even Hedda or Louella know this.” He paused dramatically while he took a long drag from his Kent.
“What?” Marty could barely stay in his seat.
“Well, this Miss Nancy,” Tommie pointed at himself, “is getting married.”
“To what?” Marty asked.
“Stop. A girl, of course. I met her at one of George Cukor’s Sunday soirées and fell instantly. A sweet little starlet George has been introducing around. Only eighteen. I immediately felt protective.”
“A name?” I said.
“Bobby McClaren.”
“Well, that will certainly go well with Tommie,” Max said.
“That’s what I thought. Tommie and Bobby—Bobby and Tommie. It’ll look cute on our towels. We want a traditional marriage, something like my parents.” One of his hands danced in the air; the other delicately pushed back the hair that had fallen onto his forehead. “We both want children. But enough about me. Al, how are things going with Juliana’s career?”
“Moving steady, but she still doesn’t have a top ten single. She needs to do a film, but the stuff they send us—”
“I’ll ask around,” Tommie said. The intercom near the door rang. Tommie jumped up, flapping his hands as if he were likely to take flight. “I’ll get it. I’ll get it.”
He slid on his slippers down the highly polished floor.
Max said, “Tommie deserves to have someone to settle down with. He’s been alone for a long time.”
Tommie came back waving a cigarette in the air. “It’s Bart. The little shit. He’s on his way up. He’s odd, don’t you think?”
“Maybe a little foggy,” Max said. “But no odder than anyone sitting here.”
“Before I left for LA, I went out with him. A date. One.” He held up a finger for emphasis. “I don’t know why, but I did not want a repeat engagement. This nancy boy,” he pointed a delicate finger at himself, “has the instincts of a real girl. That boy is up to no good. There’s something in his eyes. Shifty. Still, he’s awfully cute. What’s a sister to do?” He sighed as he sat down, carefully arranging his robe so that his shapely legs up to his thigh peeked out. Was that for Marty’s benefit?
“I think your instincts are off with this one,” Max said.
“Maybe.”
The doorbell rang and Marty ran to get it. I heard Bart say, standing in the foyer, “Well, hello there, sweetie, and who are you?”
The two men entered the breakfast nook. “I brought genuine New York bagels!” Bart announced as he put the bag on the table. “You must be so deprived out there in that Hollywood wasteland. How ya been, Tom-a-la? Kissy kiss.”
They both kissed the air. Then Bart laid out the bagels on top of the bag.
“For Pete’s sake, get a tray,” Tommie complained, standing to get one.
“So where’s the lox and cream cheese?” Marty asked.
“We can put butter on them.”
“Butter!” Marty gasped. “There must be a special hell for people who do that.”
“I’m full anyway,” Tommie said, as he laid the bagels on the silver tray he had retrieved from one of Max’s cabinets.
“You can’t be full,” Bart whined. “I brought them for you.”
“You can’t expect him to eat them without lox and cream cheese,” Marty moaned, leaning back in his chair, lighting a cigarette.
“Who are you? I’ve seen you hanging around the club, but who are you?” Bart said.
“I told you. Marty Buchman. No, Buck Martin.” He deepened his voice and stood extending his hand. “Howdy, pardner.” He sounded like he’d parked his horse out front. “Buck Martin, here. Didn’t mean to give ya a hard time about your bagels, pardner.”
“You’re a Jew, aren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Bart smirked.
“If you’re referring to my advanced knowledge of bagel eating, then you and I are okay. But if you mean something else then you and I are not okay.”
“I didn’t mean anything. I love the Jews. Some of my bests friends are Jews.”
“Name two.”
Bart continued. “The Jews are the chosen people. Aren’t they?”
“Come on, guys,” Max said. “No sense getting upset over bagels.”
“I don’t think this is about bagels, anymore,” Marty said. “Is it, Bart?”
“Stop this now,” Tommie said, waving his cigarette through the air. “The Jews went through the worst possible time. What those Nazis did to them was awful. Marty, or any of his people, don’t need you putting your three cents into their already difficult lives. So drop it, Bart! I won’t put up with it.”
“And who are you? Moses?”
“Now you wanna fight me?”
“Heavens, no. I wouldn’t want you scratching my eyes out, Miss Nancy.”
“You don’t get to call me that, so don’t.”
“Hey, Marty—Buck, I should’ve brought lox and cream cheese. It was thoughtless of me.”
/> He put out his hand and Marty reluctantly took it. Bart took a seat near Max.
“You won’t believe the parties I go to in Hollywood,” Tommie said, breaking into the tension. He sat back down at the table.
“Maybe I should head off to Hollywood,” Marty said. “Skip Broadway.”
“I could introduce you around,” Tommie said.
“You could? Maybe I could leave with you next week when you—”
“You have a contract with me,” I said.
“I didn’t sign anything yet.”
“Oh? And you’re certain Hollywood is going to embrace you?”
“Oh, that. Just kidding, Al.”
“Sure,” I said, unconvinced.
“You should get your stage experience first,” Tommie said, helping me out. “They’re really impressed with that out there. Hey, have any of you heard of the Mattachine Society? It’s an organization that was started a few years ago in L.A. by some homosexuals.”
“An organization started by homosexuals?” Marty said. “Don’t you mean a tea party?”
“It’s very hush, hush. No one knows the real names of the members. Someone approached me to join, but I have no interest in cutting my own throat. Hollywood is tough enough without hanging your name on a homophile organization. But still, they put out this magazine I occasonally, very carefully, peak at when I find it lying around. They claim to be fighting for the rights of homosexuals.”
“The rights of homosexuals?” Bart laughed.
“A bunch of fags claiming their rights,” Marty laughed. “Rights to what?”
“The right to go into a bar with our own kind and not be terrified of being arrested,” Max said. “The right to openly proclaim our love to whomever without having our reputations ruined, or our businesses destroyed. None of that’ll ever happen.”
“They sound very serious about it, Max,” Tommie continued. “One of the magazines I glanced at had a whole list of civil rights they think we should have.”
“An organization that’s fighting for the rights of homosexuals.” Max shook his head. “Poor suckers. The government’ll shut them down. But not until they’ve ruined the lives of the dreamers who dared to hope there could be such rights.”
Chapter 57
February 1954
“NICE SUIT,” RICHARD said as we sat across from each other one evening at Child’s. “It’s kind of violet-blue, isn’t it?”
“You’ve seen this jacket before.” I took a sip of my tea. “Tell me you didn’t sign anything.”
“Something’s different in how you look today. Maybe it’s the hat. Is that new?”
“Richard, stop talking about my clothes. Just tell me you didn’t sign anything.” A waiter dropped a tray of silverware, and it clanged to the floor.
“This is perfect for her,” Richard said, lighting a cigarette. “I don’t understand why you’re worried.”
“She’s never done this before. She’s never even had an acting lesson. We can’t afford a flop at this point in her career.”
“She’s not going to flop. She’s been doing that gourmet cooking show. That’s acting.”
“No, it’s not.” The orchestra started up in the other room. A samba.
“Lili Donovan’s already done Broadway twice, she’s signed in Hollywood, and you’re doing nothing for Juliana. How do you think that makes Juliana feel?”
“I don’t know.” A pain stabbed through my stomach. “Is she hurt?”
“What do you expect? You’re holding her back.”
“Does she think that? I’m only doing what I think’s best for her.”
“You haven’t even read this script yet, and already you’re against it. Why is that, Al? Do you want Juliana’s career to grind to a halt?”
“I’m not against this script. I only said I wanted to read it before you signed anything.”
“So you can say no like you always do.”
“I’ve been talking to some Off-Broadway producers who—”
“Off-Broadway? Jeez, Al, you really have lost faith in Julie if you want to stick her in one of those little dead-end shows.”
“The Three Penny Opera is not a dead-end show. People are starting to take notice of this Off-Broadway movement. With the right property, at the right time, Juliana could be a part of something brand new. No one knows what’s going to happen with Broadway. Prices are going through the roof with audiences staying home watching television. But this new thing might—”
“Juliana belongs in a big Broadway house with a big Broadway audience and you know it.”
He was right. I knew it as soon as he said it. “Okay, yes, but, Richard, we have to be careful. Look how long it took her to get where she is now. We don’t want her to lose that.”
“You’re playing it too safe.”
I wondered if he were right. I wondered if my feelings for Jule were making me protect her too much.
“This is perfect for her.” He pushed the script toward me. “You’d see that if you’d give it a chance.”
“I’ll look it over tonight. Maybe now is the right time.” I took the script into one of my hands, lifting my coffee cup with the other. Summer Daffodils. “Nice title.”
Richard flicked an ash into the ashtray. “And titles sell shows.”
I turned to the first page. “Summer Daffodils, a drama in three acts. A drama? Richard, it’s a drama. Not a musical. She can’t do this.” I closed the script and pushed it back at him.
“Ben completely agrees with me.”
“Sure. He gets his ten percent no matter what happens to Juliana on that stage.” I leaned across the table, pointing my words at him like bullets. “Richard, it’s not a musical. It’s all talking. A drama. Do you have the slightest idea of what New York critics will expect from her? Have you the slightest idea how many will want her to fail because she’s coming from cabaret? No. She can’t do this.”
“I already signed the papers.”
“What? Whatever possessed you?”
“I’m her manager.”
“No. This isn’t possible. Why would these producers even want her for this?”
“I talked them into it.”
“How?”
“I reminded them about her work on the front during the war and how good that would be for PR. Broadway’s hurting right now, and I’m an excellent salesman.” He proudly took a puff of his cigarette. “A few months ago, Juliana and I were at the theater and she wondered what it would be like to act in a play. She said she wanted to do it someday. I want to give her whatever she wants.”
“You have to give her what is good for her; not respond to every whim. That’s why you’re her manager. To protect her from herself. And you are supposed to listen to me, and do as I say. That’s our agreement.”
“I have a mind of my own, and people respect me in this town. I don’t need to check with you about every move I make. I’ve learned a lot in these last few years.”
“Obviously not enough. I’m going to contact these people and try and get her out of this.”
“You are not. You’re not going to make a fool out of me.”
“You did that to yourself. Does Juliana know about this? Did she sign papers?”
“I discussed it with her. She didn’t need to sign. I did. I’m her husband.”
“And she didn’t call me?”
“Why should she? I’m her manager.”
That hurt. “I need some wine.”
“Waiter,” Richard called, waving. “Two glasses of wine, please.”
“Don’t worry, Al. I know you have Juliana’s best interest at heart, but she’s going to be wonderful in this. She can do anything. Oh, jeez, will you look at those two daffodils over there.” His face was creased with disgust. “All dressed up to go dancing, I suppose.”
I turned to see two young men in tuxedos moving through the dining room to the back where the orchestra played.
“Those types,” Richard continued, “usually don�
�t show up till past midnight. I hope Childs’ isn’t encouraging them to come at the dinner hour, too. Broadway must be going downhill if they’re letting the cupcakes in before sunset.”
“I’ve heard the tourists like to come and laugh at the fairies,” I said. “They’re good for business.”
Chapter 58
BACK IN MY office, I went into action. First I called Ben, Juliana’s agent. He was happy with the arrangement, especially with the ten percent he’d be getting from the hefty figure he’d negotiated for Juliana.
As I hung up with Ben, Marty called, wanting to know if I had anything for him. He only had a couple months' rent left before he’d be evicted, and he couldn’t ask his mother again. I picked up a note that someone—Max?—had left on my desk. “Yeah, I might have something. But you have to be careful with this one,” I said into the phone. “It’s the lead in Sorell Morton’s new one, Hey There, I’m Here, with Dame Margaret Dunton. Yeah, I know. Big. Career-maker. They want a newcomer. You fit the description. But Dunton can be hell on her leads. If I refer you, you have an excellent chance. If you do get it, don’t sleep with her. You wouldn’t be the first gay boy she tried to “convert.” I’m telling you, don’t fall for it, no matter how much pressure she puts on you. I don’t have time to go into detail right now, but let me know if you get it, and if you do, we’ll meet so I can brief you. Contact your agent right away. Who are you with now? Okay, good. They know what they’re doing over there. Have Billy set it up.”
I hung up the phone and immediately dialed Juliana. I took a deep breath before speaking. I couldn’t be the hurt friend when we spoke. I had to be the businesswoman whose only objective was to save her client from what could be a major career disaster. As soon as I heard her voice, though, the two got mixed up and the hurt friend, lover, or whoever came rushing out like hot liquid spilling all over her. “Jule, why the hell didn’t you call me about this contract? Dammit.”