The figure in the doorway startled him. It was backlit, and he jumped when he saw it. Martine always brought him the coffee and took away the silver service after the men were out on the court. Wolfson squinted.
"Yes?"
"Charlie?" a young man's voice said.
Wolfson was nervous. Slowly the figure moved into the room. Good God. Wolfson's heart sank. It was Davey. David Kane. Marlene's boy. Was he crazy? What could he be thinking? Why would he come here? How could he even dream of coming here? Wolfson would send the little bastard on his way.
"Look, Davey," he said, getting up. That's when he noticed David was carrying a gun.
Wolfson stopped in his tracks. David was holding the gun with two hands and it was pointed right at Wolfson's chest.
"David," he said gently. "You found out I'm married and you've come here to vindicate your mother. Is that it?"
"No," David said.
He looked bad. His face was bright red and tear-stained, his eyes were bloodshot. Maybe he smoked marijuana. A lot of these kids were doing that now.
"I've known for over two years you were married," he said.
Wolfson was getting very nervous. Given some time, he knew he could calm the kid down, cool him off. But that gun. He'd seen the statistics. Handgun deaths were common fare. Many times the guns just went off by accident. He read about it at least once a week. And saw it on the news. Innocent people were—he tried to see the clock on the bar. Maybe the others would drive up and frighten the kid off. Oh, Jesus. Maybe their arrival would scare the kid into pulling the trigger. Wolfson was trembling visibly.
"Upset, Mr. Wolfson?" David asked thickly.
"David," Wolfson said, "I love your mother. I swear to God I do. I love her goodness, and her sweetness and all of the things you love about her. And I want to marry her. She knows that. I tell her that every time we're together. You ask her. It's true. But my littlest daughter. Kate? She's only seven. And, well, I couldn't leave her now." Wolfson was talking very fast.
"I mean, it's such a formative time. You know? Marlene understands that, Davey, and she's willing to wait. But I swear I'm going to . . ."
David's arms dropped to his side and he let the gun fall to the floor. He closed his eyes in exhaustion and sank into a chair, sobbing.
"She's dead," he managed to say through the tears. "Dead. Abortion. Didn't want anyone to know," he coughed.
Wolfson stood silently for a long time. The only sound was the boy's terrible agonized sobbing.
"Davey," he said. "Go home and get some rest. Stay by the phone. I'll call you later today. I'll take care of everything. Including you."
David didn't say another word. He was too numb. He got up, left the gun on the floor and walked out to the car. He drove back to the apartment and cleaned up his mother's blood from her bathroom. When he finished, he fell asleep on her bed. At three o'clock Wolfson called. He had made arrangements for a small funeral at a nearby mortuary. He had also found David a job he could start right after graduation. It didn't pay much, but it didn't require a college degree, and it was a steppingstone to bigger things. The job was in the mail room at Hemisphere Studios.
two
Mickey Ashman's brother, Harvey, was a genius. When Mickey was seven and Harvey was ten, Harvey was attending special classes at the University of Chicago. Mickey and Harvey looked alike. Sometimes relatives would grab Mickey and pinch his cute little face and say, "Your parents are so proud of you, Harvey. You are the greatest joy they could ever ask for." And Mickey would say, "I'm not Harvey. I'm Mickey." Then the relatives would look closer at him and realize that what he had just said was true. He was Mickey. Not Harvey. And they would be disappointed and say, "Oh. Right. Well, Mickey, you're a nice boy, too."
Actually, Mickey was a very special boy. In any other family he would have been the star. But in a family that also had Harvey, he could never be more than second best. Every time company came to visit the Ashmans, Harvey was trotted out, and the people would ask him questions and marvel at his knowledge. Mickey always stayed in the bedroom during those sessions and watched television.
At least once a year there would be a feature article in one of the newspapers about Harvey; in fact, one night while Harvey was in the living room performing for the company and Mickey was watching television, there was a special news feature report on, which had been shot earlier that year, and there was Harvey on television at the same time.
Little by little it occurred to Mickey that in order for him to get any attention at all from his parents (who always referred to Harvey as "our Harvey" and to Mickey as "Michael," which was his real name) he would have to be special in his own way.
Maybe because Harvey had a very busy schedule and Mr. and Mrs. Ashman always seemed to be taking him to this seminar or to that interview, Mickey spent a lot of time alone. He and Harvey had a television in the room they shared, which Harvey had won as a prize in some contest, and Mickey liked watching television. Even more than that, what Mickey liked doing when he was alone was looking in the mirror. Not just looking in the mirror to look. But to make faces, and try out reactions, and make himself look like other people, and then to talk in voices that seemed to go with the various faces. He could even do imitations of some of the people on television.
When Mickey was eleven and Harvey was fourteen and a chess master, there were tryouts for the sixth-grade play entitled What Is Health? Mickey auditioned for the part of Mr. Pneumonia and won the role over several other candidates. Mr. Pneumonia had lots of good lines, and everyone agreed that Mickey was very funny and the best one in the play. His parents and Harvey came to see him in it.
The teacher who directed the play told Mr. and Mrs. Ashman that Mickey was "a natural comedian." When the family went out for ice cream afterward and they bumped into a woman Mrs. Ashman knew from the P.T.A., and Mrs. Ashman asked the woman, "Have you met my Harvey and my Mickey?" Mickey knew he was on the right track.
When Mickey was fifteen he played the part of Fancourt Babberley in the Senn High School production of Charley's Aunt. Every time he took his curtain call during the entire run, he got a standing ovation. On closing night he was in his dressing room and a girl who was a senior and seventeen came backstage and told him he was so funny in the show that she was in love with him. Mickey was still wearing a hoop skirt at the time, because of the scene where Fancourt pretends to be Charley's aunt, but he managed to lift the skirt sufficiently so the girl could get under it, because she also told him that she wanted to suck his cock. Even though his appearances in What Is Health? and Charley's Aunt were several years apart, somewhere along the line Mickey was able to formulate an equation from his experiences with these two productions, which was that being in show business meant getting a lot of approval.
In Chicago the advertising agencies frequently used local talent in commercials. So after he finished high school, Mickey got a part-time evening job cleaning up the floors and counters at the Sara Lee Kitchens, had some black-and-white pictures taken and printed of himself, and, still living at home, paid visits to the various advertising agencies, to try out for jobs in commercials during the day. His parents liked his decision. Harvey was in graduate school at Yale. It was costing them a fortune to keep him there, and Mickey's lack of interest in college lightened some of their financial pressure.
It didn't take long for Mickey to start getting jobs in commercials. He was chubby and sweet-faced and the clients knew the viewers would relate to him. The account executives told one another, as they each took the credit for finding him, that he looked "ordinary." Mickey played the kid who begs Dad for the car keys in a car commercial, he played the guy whose potato chip falls apart in the dip in a potato chip commercial, he played a guy who cringes because his grandfather has bad breath in a mouthwash commercial. After that he quit the job at the Sara Lee Kitchens.
Things were great. He was starting to know the executives at the advertising agencies by their first names, and they loved him.
One year when Harvey came home for Easter vacation Mickey took him on location to a shoot. It was a local bank commercial. Mickey played a newly married groom. The bride was a pretty blond girl, and Mickey had to kiss her. Later, on their way home, Harvey told Mickey he'd heard of many strange things in his life, but never anything as strange as a creep like Mickey getting paid a lot of money to kiss a gorgeous girl like that. Mickey was the happiest he'd ever been in his life. People would see him on the street or in a store and recognize him and not know why.
"Did you go to Roosevelt High School?" they'd ask, trying to figure out why he looked so familiar. Or, "Did you ever live in Evanston?"
Sometimes Mickey would just smile mysteriously and walk away without telling them why they recognized his face. Other times he'd tell the people which commercial they'd seen him appear in that particular month, and they would really get excited. He loved it.
And the girls. They all saw the commercials on TV, too, and they called his house and invited him to parties, and wanted to be with him. And the more forward ones touched him and undressed him and caressed him, and one of them asked if she could please leave the light on when he made love to her so she could watch a mouth that had been on television sucking on her nipples.
After he did the peanut butter commercial Mickey bought his first car. It was used. A '58 Ford convertible. Black with a white top and a gold metal streak across the body. He loved driving it with the top down, and when he'd stop at a light, sometimes the person in the adjacent lane would look at him, look away, and then look back in recognition.
"You're Mr. Chunky!" they'd say.
Mickey would give a little wave as if he were running for office. He was getting used to it.
He had just decided to take his own apartment. After all, he had what seemed to be wealth beyond his wildest dreams.
He was shaving that morning when the phone rang. In fact, he left the shaving cream on his face because he was at the end of the can and didn't want to waste it by wiping it off just to come to the phone. It was Howie Krakow, one of the advertising agency guys he'd worked for.
"Mick? I have some incredible news. I mean you're not gonna believe this."
"Don't tell me. You're rerunning Chunky for an added thirteen weeks."
"No."
"You're casting me in a spot opposite Gina Lollobrigida?"
"No. Sit down, you lucky putz. Did you ever hear of Lowell Spears?"
"No."
"He's a producer in Hollywood. He saw you in the Chunky spot, tracked us down and wants you to come to California to do a television series."
Mickey knew Krakow was kidding. Not that he hadn't thought about the possibility of someday trying to work in Hollywood but . . .
"Bullshit, Krakow," Mickey said.
This was really a dumb joke. The other guys at the agency were probably on extensions right now listening to his reaction. Jerking him off. Big joke. Mickey was getting pissed.
"I can't talk now. I have an interview in a half an hour and I gotta get dressed."
He was waiting for Howie to laugh and then admit it was bullshit. But he didn't.
"Mickey, I'm serious."
Mickey closed his eyes. It was true. Of course he'd heard of Lowell Spears. Now, in context, he remembered. A Lowell Spears Production. It was all over television. On comedy shows, dramatic shows. Everywhere.
"What do I do?" he asked nervously.
"Call Spears' office collect." Krakow gave him the number, excitedly. "They're waiting for you now. Good luck, killer. And don't forget, when you're big, who cast you as Mr. Chunky!"
Mickey hung up the phone. A television series. He took a deep breath. Jesus Christ. He hadn't written the number down, but he remembered it. He dialed the operator.
"I'd like to call Hollywood, please," he said. "Person-to-person to Mr. Lowell Spears, and make it—" That was when he decided it was better not to have the call be collect. "Uh, make it fast, Operator," he said instead.
Mickey was picked up at the Los Angeles Airport by a long black Cadillac limousine. The driver called him "Mr. Ashman" and drove him to the Sportsmen's Lodge in North Hollywood. The bellhop told Mickey there was a stream outside his room with trout in it, and patrons could fish there for their own dinners. Mickey laughed and gave the bellhop five dollars. His meeting with Lowell Spears wasn't until the next day. It would be at Hemisphere Studios where the series was being produced. Actually it wasn't a series at all, but what they called a pilot for a potential series. The lead character was described in the script they'd sent over to Mickey as zany, ambitious, energetic and audacious. Kind of like Mr. Chunky in the peanut butter commercial.
Mickey was confused. Spears obviously liked him well enough to bring him all the way to Los Angeles and get him a car and a driver and a room near the trout, but then why did he still have the feeling he was going to be auditioning tomorrow instead of signing a contract?
BOBBY (sweetly)
Can I carry your briefcase, Mr. Holloway? Looks awfully heavy to me.
Was that line supposed to be a joke? Was Bobby trying to butter Mr. Holloway up, or was it just meant to be straight? Mickey read the script over and over. He never left the room. He ordered room service for dinner, and at eleven that night wheeled the untouched meal into the hallway outside the room. He wasn't hungry. He wasn't sleepy. Looks awfully hollow to me, Mr. Heavy-way. No. Shit. Was he supposed to memorize the lines or read them? Did he have the part or didn't he? Maybe he'd look outside the door and see if his room service tray was still there. At least he could eat the piece of cake he'd left there. The tray was gone. He paced. The telephone. Sure. Hemisphere was picking up the tab. He'd call Harvey. Harvey would still be up because of the time change.
Mickey got the operator to dial the number at Harvey's apartment in New Haven. The phone rang for a long time.
"H'lo!"
"Hey, Harv. It's me, your brother, calling from Hollywood. Can you beat that?"
"Hmm!"
"Harv? It's Mick."
"Jesus, Mickey. It's—what the hell time is it?—three o'clock in the morning?"
Mickey was embarrassed. He knew the time difference was three hours. But he thought it was in the other direction.
"Ahh, shit, Harv. I'm really sorry."
"No. It's okay. How are you doing?"
"Great. Oh, it's great. I've got a room in this hotel right near Hemisphere Studios, and my own driver and stuff."
"Whaddya mean?"
"Well, I mean he's not exactly my own guy. But he drove me here and he's picking me up in the morning and he calls me mister—"
"Hey, Mick. Could you do me a favor?"
"Sure, Harv. Are you kidding? Anything. Sure. I'll do you a favor."
"Call me another time, okay? I got a final tomorrow."
"Yeah, but, Harv, see I—"
Harvey hung up. Mickey put the phone down and looked around the room. In the room next door he heard a toilet flush. He lay down on the bed and looked at the script again.
BOBBY
Can I carry your briefcase, Mr. Holloway? Can I carry your briefcase, Mr. Holloway? Can I . . .
When the bellman dropped a copy of the morning Los Angeles Times outside Mickey's room, Mickey had slept for a total of fifteen minutes. He was feeling rotten. He wanted to get dressed and go to the dining room for breakfast—but what if Spears called? He opened the door and took in the morning paper. Finally the phone rang. Thank God. Mickey let it ring three times, even though his hand was on the receiver the minute it started ringing.
"Mr. Ashman?" It was a woman. "This is Lowell Spears' secretary. Mr. Spears would like to see you in his office at ten this morning. Is that all right with you?"
"Uh . . . ten?" Mickey said. "Let's see, well, uh, yes. Ten. Ten is good. Ten at his office."
"We'll send a car for you," the woman said and hung up.
Hemisphere Studios, my God. Mickey had to take a deep breath to stop himself from screaming out "There i
t is!" to the driver as they rounded the corner and the big gold building came into view. Of course the driver knew where it was. And what it was. But Mickey, who had only seen the photograph on picture postcards, or the logo at the end of television shows, or movies, was dazzled. It was better than he had ever imagined. And now he would be part of it.
The guard at the gate waved them by, and the driver maneuvered the car with ease through a Western street filled with façades of saloons and bathhouses, past a metal truck where a lot of men dressed in cowboy clothes stood drinking coffee, eating donuts and laughing. Probably about some funny show business story. Mickey couldn't see enough. He wanted the driver to slow down so he could wallow in it, memorize it, remember every second to tell Harvey, to tell his parents. The car stopped and Mickey looked anxiously around. Obviously they were there. Where? Wherever it was he was supposed to meet Spears.
The driver got out of the car and came around and opened Mickey's door for him.
Mickey could now see that the car was parked in front of a pink stucco house with a tile roof that was one of several of those houses. There was a wooden sign nailed to the door that said "Casita de Lowell Spears." Mickey was clutching his now dog-eared script in his hand, and he looked at the driver. It was the first time he really had. The man was about fifty years old and very trim and handsome. This guy had probably driven major big-time people to premieres and parties. Why hadn't Mickey thought to ask him? Well, he would later. He stood for a moment, hoping the driver would wish him good luck or give him some advice about how to behave with Hollywood producers or something. But the guy just tipped his hat, got back in the car, picked up a newspaper and started to read.
The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel Page 2