by John Kaye
The phone rang and Burk dropped the newspaper on the rug before he put the receiver to his ear. Loretta said, “I think we should give this a rest for a while.” Her voice vibrated, slightly out of control. Before Burk could speak, the hotel operator broke in, saying, “I’ve got an emergency call from Boyd Talbott.”
Loretta cleared the line and the phone clicked twice before Talbott spoke. “Ray, you on?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“You’re tough to reach.” Talbott’s voice was cold and deliberate, with a trace of the British accent he’d picked up while he attended the London Film School between his junior and senior years at Yale. When he graduated, Paramount hired him as an intern, assigning him to Pledging My Love as Warren’s assistant. “Jon would like to know if you could knock off a short scene at the bar, before Crumpler arrives.”
Burk waited for Talbott to go on. When he didn’t, Burk said, “What kind of a scene?”
“Just something brief, to give us the flavor of the place.”
“I thought I did that with the dart game.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“And later when the waitress gets pissed off at the stuntman who—”
“What Jon thought would be interesting,” Talbott said, cutting in cautiously, “would be a scene between a couple of out-of-work actors. They’re both drunk, complaining about all the stuff they’ve had repossessed over the last few months. One guy has lost his car, a convertible he bought when he was a regular on a series; the other actor—he’s younger, just married—has had his living room set pulled out. Maybe the bartender chimes in about his Master Charge, how he went five hundred over the limit and the marshal showed up on his doorstep to reclaim it in front of his kid. A quick two-pager.”
“You’re sure we need it?”
“Absolutely. See what you can work up,” Talbott said. “When you’re done, bring it by the set.”
Later that same morning (while Burk labored over a scene that would never be filmed), Bobby Sherwood sat listlessly by the window in the room he shared with Ricky Furlong, watching the traffic pass by in front of the St. Francis Arms. Up the street a bus pulled to the curb in front of Ernie’s Stardust Lounge, discharging a blind black man wearing a lemon-colored suit and a panama hat.
A large-boned and clumsy-looking nurse stepped off next and began walking up Hollywood Boulevard. She was in her sixties and her gray hair was pulled into a bun, except for one loose strand that fell across her face. The way her shoulders rolled when she walked reminded Bobby of Mrs. Hooten, a guest from California who stayed regularly at the Hotel Sherwood during the month of August.
“I don’t have any relatives in Omaha,” she tells Bobby one morning when they ride down in the elevator together. She is wearing plaid Bermuda shorts and a wide-rimmed straw hat. “They’re all dead, or they moved away like I did. But I like to come back every year, especially during the harvest season when the memories of my childhood are the fondest.”
Mrs. Hooten never speaks of these memories to Bobby, but late one evening when the dining room and the Cornhusker Lounge are closed, he sees his uncle chatting with her in a quiet corner of the lobby. They are seated on a small banquette, so engrossed in their conversation they don’t hear Bobby crawl slowly across the worn carpet to a hiding spot behind a large potted plant. “I was there that night. I was at the Orpheum,” she tells Bobby’s uncle. “My dad took us, my big brother and me. I was nineteen and Dave was twenty-two.”
“David became a doctor, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did. A radiologist. We were both home from college that summer. He was a senior at Nebraska and I was a sophomore at Creighton, majoring in journalism. We finished bringing in the wheat on Friday, and seeing the vaudeville show that night was Daddy’s treat. I had never seen a live stage show before, and in the back of my mind was the possibility that I might write about it for my journalism class.”
“A review?” Daniel Schimmel says, smiling.
“Possibly.”
“Did you?”
Mrs. Hooten pauses before she replies. “No, I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It was too painful. Why they hated you so much I never understood.”
Here Daniel Schimmel loses his smile. “We weren’t funny.”
“You were awful. True. This is very true.”
“Max was drunk. You remember that, of course?”
“Max? You mean—”
“My partner, Max Rheingold. The fatty with the stovepipe hat and the oversized shoes. You must remember him vomiting onstage.”
“Yes, of course. We thought it had to be part of the act. And such profanity,” she says with disgust. “They beat him, didn’t they?”
“They beat us both. And not just the people who were in the audience.”
“The police?” Daniel Schimmel nods. “Mr. Rheingold exposed himself,” Mrs. Hooten whispers, “didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did.”
“We couldn’t believe our eyes.”
“It was the last vaudeville show in Omaha, ever.”
“I remember a clown called Sad Sack and a gentleman with a dog act.”
“Elmer Freedom. He beat me bloody with his fists. His dog took several chunks out of Max’s legs.”
“Elmer Freedom. What a wonderful name. My lover Miriam will laugh so when she hears it. There was also a lady with birds.”
“Celia and her doves, but she never got to go on. We were the last act.”
“Yes. But I remember seeing her afterward, outside the theater, running down the street toward the bus station with a cage in each hand. What a queer sight.”
“Max was on the same bus, on his way west with three dollars in his pocket. Me? I spent two days in the hospital, then two more days here recuperating, before I went downstairs to work in the kitchen.”
“You told no more jokes?”
Daniel Schimmel shakes his head. “None.”
“They threw tomatoes at you.”
“And two days later I was peeling them into boiling water for the vegetable soup.”
“A comedian in the kitchen.”
“I was a fraud, but Max was a bigger fraud.”
“His Johnson was formidable, as I recall.”
“His Johnson?”
“You’ve never heard that term? His dingus, how about that?”
Daniel Schimmel laughs. “That I understand.”
“It was formidable,” she repeats.
“What did your father say?”
“He said, ‘Sometimes it never pays to leave the farm.’”
This time they both laugh.
“What happened to that man?” Mrs. Hooten asks Daniel Schimmel, her face becoming serious.
“What happened to Max Rheingold?” Daniel Schimmel leaves the question in the air, while he removes his glasses and gazes off into the blur of the lobby. When he turns back toward her, he says, “That’s a long story.”
“I bet it is,” Mrs. Hooten says, and smiles. “Why don’t you begin and I will let you know if I become bored.”
Burk circled the block twice before he found a metered parking space in front of the Mayfair Market. Directly across the street was the Raincheck Room, where crew members were milling about or drinking coffee in small huddles, obviously on a break. An overweight cop loaned to the production for the day was waving cars around the cables and lights that blocked off the lane by the curb.
Burk used his Levi’s to dry his palms before he got out of his car. When he looked up he saw Talbott appear in the open doorway of the Raincheck Room. He was wearing a blue button-down shirt, knife-creased chinos, and shiny cordovan loafers without socks. The script he was holding against his chest was protected by an expensive leather binder.
The light flashed to green, and a white Cadillac glided to a stop in front of the bar. The woman driving had jet-black hair and a sharp profile. Jon Warren was sitting in the passenger seat. He was wearing dark shades and a straw cowboy hat, wh
ich he tilted back on his head when the woman leaned to kiss him on the lips. There was some good-natured whistling and scattered applause from the crew, and when Warren opened the door and stepped into the sunlight he bowed deeply, removing his hat in a sweeping gesture. Then he threaded his way through the cables and lights, nodding to Talbott in a perfunctory way before he disappeared inside the bar.
Snake Myers loped out of the Mayfair Market and caught up to Burk in the middle of the crosswalk. “What’s shakin’, my man?” he said, clapping Burk on the shoulder. “Snake Myers, remember?”
Burk nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
“So, what’s up?”
“Not much.”
“Just in the neighborhood?”
“Not really,” Burk said. He held up his script. “I’m dropping off some revisions.”
“New pages. That’s cool,” Myers said, and a goofy smile worked its way across his face. “Give ’em to me and I’ll make sure they get to Warren.”
“Talbott wants to see them first.”
“Talbott’s a punk,” Myers said, looking around impatiently once they reached the other side of the street. “Fuck him.”
“He works for Warren, so—”
“He’s a studio snitch. He works for himself.” Myers turned away, and Burk saw a pint of Old Grand Dad in the pocket of his jeans. “See you around.”
Burk was moving toward Talbott when Warren stepped outside the Raincheck with his arm around Chickie Green. They went off to one side and spoke in hushed voices, deciding which lens to use for the next shot. When there was a lull in the conversation, Burk said to Warren, “I’ve got the scene worked out.”
Warren glanced at Burk, holding his eyes for the briefest of moments, and then looked past him, distracted. “Let’s go with a twenty-five millimeter,” he said to Chickie, putting a viewfinder up to his left eye. “We’ll start on the billboard and pan down to the street; then we’ll pick up Crumpler and follow him into the bar.”
“You want me to light the phone booth?”
“Yeah. But keep everything flat.”
When Warren lowered the viewfinder, Burk held out his typewritten pages. “Here they are,” he said.
Warren looked over at Talbott, who was now standing just behind his right shoulder.
“The business in the bar,” Talbott said finally. “Before we see Crumpler.”
“Oh, yeah,” Warren said, nodding. “I thought we could put some topspin on the opening.”
“I nailed it,” Burk said. Talbott reached out, but Burk ignored him. “I want Jon to read it first.”
“Don’t need to. I’ve decided to improv it,” Warren said, and gazed off down the street. “I’m gonna use some old character actors, guys you would recognize but who don’t work much. I’m just gonna let them riff about the biz, keep it real, let the cameras roll, and see what we get.” Warren turned his head and looked at Burk with a smile that was both meek and superior. “I think it’s gonna be cool.”
Burk said, “I spent all morning on this. You should’ve let me know before I did the work.”
“I just came up with it,” Warren said, beginning to ease away. “I’m sorry, man.”
After Warren disappeared into the bar, Talbott blinked his eyes and tried to look contrite. He said, “If it’s any consolation, he’s been shooting your pages word for word. This is the first thing he’s changed.”
Burk remained silent, fighting back his anger as he watched a long black limousine double-park in front of the Raincheck. Before the driver could open his door, Tom Crumpler stumbled out of the backseat with an idiot smile plastered on his face.
Someone said, “That dude is righteously fucked up,” and an electrician with a weight lifter’s body took Crumpler by the arm and led him inside the bar.
Burk turned and started back up Santa Monica Boulevard. He passed Snake Myers, who was leaning against a camera truck speaking softly into a walkie-talkie. Burk heard Warren’s voice over the light interference. He said, “Make sure Burk is off the dailies list, and under no circumstances do I want him on the set while we’re shooting.”
Burk ducked inside the Billiard Den and called Loretta from the pay phone by the men’s room. She was currently officed at Universal, polishing an original screenplay, Scorched, the story of a sexually precocious teenager living in Las Vegas with her showgirl mom and a retarded brother. Hal Ashby was supervising the rewrites but had not yet committed to direct.
“What did you mean this morning?” Burk asked Loretta when she picked up.
“Just what I said: that we should take a break, not see each other for a few weeks.”
“Are you seeing anyone else?”
“I can see anyone I want, Ray.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A dull-looking kid with half-shut eyes came out of the men’s room and leaned against the wall across from Burk. He was wearing baggy sweatpants and broken leather sandals that were patched together with duct tape. “You gonna be long?” he asked Burk, smiling in an unfriendly manner.
“Awhile.”
“How long’s awhile?”
Before Burk could reply, Loretta said, “Who’re you talking to, Ray?”
“Some hippie kid waiting to use the phone. I’m at the Billiard Den.”
“That’s across from the Raincheck. I thought you weren’t supposed to go by the set.”
“Warren wanted me to revise a scene. I just dropped it off.”
The kid against the wall said, “I gotta call home to Rockford, Illinois, and I gotta do it soon so my folks can wire me the cash.”
“I’m bringing Louie down this weekend,” Burk said to Loretta, keeping one eye on the kid. “Sandra wants to see him on Sunday.”
“When did you find this out?”
“I got a letter from her last week.”
“How come you never mentioned it?”
“I don’t know,” Burk said. He sounded evasive. “I’ve got a lot of things on my mind.”
“Yeah, right,” Loretta muttered, clearly annoyed.
“It’s been almost two years since he’s seen her. That’s a long time.”
Loretta started to speak, then stopped. The kid against the wall took out a dime and held it up to Burk’s face. “I gotta make a call,” he said. “It’s important.”
Burk was going to tell the kid to fuck off but there was something crazy in his ratlike eyes, a look that made him seem ready to explode.
“I gotta get back to work,” Loretta finally said. “Let’s talk in a couple of days.”
Burk ate a taco and a big, sloppy burrito at a fast-food stand on Robertson. Loitering at a table nearby were a group of derelict teenagers who looked deeply stoned on acid. A girl wearing a purple velvet Salvation Army dress glanced at Burk and smiled. Pinned over her right breast was a button that said If it moves, fondle it.
The boy next to her stood up suddenly to order a strawberry shake. He wore a belt of bells and a blue shirt with the signs of the zodiac all over the front and sleeves. At the counter he did a weird little dance, tossing his head about and flailing his arms awkwardly. Suddenly he stopped and turned around, his eyes taking on a weird glow as he unsuccessfully tried to stare Burk down.
By now it was nearly four o’clock, closing in on the cocktail hour, and Burk decided he needed a drink fast. But instead of driving back to his hotel, he took Robertson north to Sunset, made a quick left, and pulled into the parking lot next to the Cock and Bull. A few spaces away, he noticed a high-breasted blonde get out of a white Corvair. She was wearing a red silk blouse and white Levi’s that were so tight that Burk could see a crease between her legs. He followed her inside and watched her walk past the bar, joining actor Mike Connors in a back booth.
At the far end of the bar Aldo Ray was playing liar’s dice with a pudgy man dressed in a dark suit that fit him too snugly through the chest. When Burk took a seat nearby, he overheard Aldo Ray say, “Fucker’s got a hit series, and all of a sudden he’s got m
ore gash than Errol Flynn.”
The pudgy man nodded, meeting Burk’s eyes for a brief moment before he said, “I worked with him on The Baron of Arizona. We were both kids.”
“Vincent Price and Ellen Drew. Who directed that?”
“Forgot. Budd Boetticher, I think. No, wait. . . .”
Burk said, “Sam Fuller.”
“That’s right,” the pudgy man said, and Aldo Ray shot Burk a look.
“McQueen was in here yesterday,” said the bartender. He was a swarthy man with shrewed eyes that were sunk deep into his face. “He was with Lee Marvin and what’sisname, his other motorcycle buddy.”
“Keenan Wynn,” the pudgy man said. “Talk about a guy who can put away the booze.”
Aldo Ray lit a cigarette and took a quick drag. “Christ,” he muttered, “I’d drink too if my old lady ran off with a fag.”
Mike Connors stood up. On his way to the cigarette machine he waved to Aldo Ray and his pudgy friend. “Mike’s a good guy,” Aldo Ray said.
“Yeah?” The pudgy man sounded unconvinced. “If he’s such a good guy, how come you’re not doing a guest shot on Mannix?”
“Aldo don’t work the small screen,” said the bartender, after he poured himself a shot of Johnnie Walker Red.
“That’s right. I’m a movie star,” Aldo Ray said, and everyone at the bar grinned, especially those who were familiar with the notorious stag reel that he did back in the early fifties with stripper Candy Barr.
The stacked blonde sitting alone in the back booth was now staring at Aldo Ray. Her lips parted in a small, canny smile that hardened her eyes. The bartender leaned across the bar. He said, “Her name’s Cherry, which obviously she isn’t.”
Aldo Ray nodded and ran his fingers through his short blond hair. “So much pussy, so little time,” he said, his gravelly voice sounding detached while his small blue eyes caromed off the bartender and landed on Burk’s face. “You an actor?”
“No,” Burk said. “I’m a writer.”