by Jerry Ludwig
“I keep telling you, I am not going through with this!”
Still haven’t given me a good reason why not.
“Who’re you that I have to give you reasons?”
Don’t have one, do you? Fucker’s laughing at me.
“An alibi! I’ll be the first one the cops’ll go after. Nearest and dearest.”
So you’ll have an alibi—we’ll cover that base, I skipped over it ’cuz you said it was the deed itself you were scared about—
“I’m scared about the whole damn thing! Situation’s bad enough the way it is, I don’t want to go to prison for the rest of my life—or the fuckin’ gas chamber!”
Bubela, babela, you’re gonna walk away from this smelling like a rose. It’s like taking a lesson at Arthur Murray’s. You’ll be a rich man, Roy, if you can just follow these few simple steps.
“Oh yeah? Easy for you to say. Tell me my alibi. C’mon, wisenheimer. Lemme hear. What’s my alibi?”
Okay, and then you’ll cool out and we can get this show on the road?
“First tell me the perfect alibi.”
Let’s see. You couldn’t have been in the store because you were somewhere else…
“Yeah, riiiight. Like where? Having cocktails with the Pope?”
Good example. A person who’ll swear they were with you. How about Kim?
“I can’t even get her to return phone calls.”
Your ex-pal Killer would’ve been a likely candidate.
“All of Killer’s alibis belong to Dave Viola now.”
So the trick is to have you seen somewhere by a lot of people and then you slip away, do your stuff, and get back in time so no one knows you were gone.
“Sure, that sounds real easy.” Maybe sarcasm will get him off my back.
Don’t shoot me down, Roy. Spitball with me. What if…if you were in a private steam room, or…a photo darkroom—
“Hey, got it,” snapping my fingers. “Suppose I was locked in a bank vault, like Houdini. Better yet, maybe in jail, a nice jail with an inconspicuous revolving back door.”
You don’t want to find an answer.
“No, you just don’t have one.”
It’s not so difficult. Art gallery opening. Eat some hors d’oeuvres, lose yourself in the crowd, sneak out, sneak back in. What’s the matter with that?
“Too damn risky. Don’t you see that? It could fall apart in so many ways, I can’t even begin to count ’em—”
Hey, man, just tryin’ to help you out here.
“Don’t help me! Leave me alone!”
Look, if it makes it easier for you—pretend it’s a show. You’ve done these scenes before. Remember playing the lead in Dial M for Murder in summer stock? You were great.
“But I got caught! The perfect crime and they still nabbed me.”
That was their idea of a happy ending. We’ll write our own. You bump her off, empty the cash register and her purse, grab her watch, the diamond earrings, anything else that’s loose and valuable. Burglar got surprised in the act and killed her. It’ll work.
“They’ll be able to trace her stuff—”
You’ll drop it all off the pier into the ocean.
“Get out of my head! I don’t want to talk about this or think about it or—”
Hey, man, I’m not in charge of what you think. He lights a Gauloises. Blows smoke in my face. So let me get this straight. You’re just gonna sit back and get reamed by that treacherous bitch, gang-banged by the whole damn scheming-dreaming town, castrated by Jack L. Warner and—
I cover my ears, scrunch my eyes tightly shut, and make a loud humming-droning sound. “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
And the waves crash.
When I open my eyes, he’s gone.
• • •
I realize I’m changing.
When I first arrived in L.A., I’d be driving along on a sunny day and the smog would get to me. My eyes would water and sting so bad that I’d have to pull over to the curb and blink and blot until my vision cleared. Now, that doesn’t happen anymore. I know it’s not because the smog has vanished. Bob Hope wouldn’t still be making jokes about it. And they wouldn’t still be announcing on TV which days the school kids should avoid unnecessary exertion. It’s me. I’ve changed. I’ve built up a tolerance for what used to throw me. Maybe I’ve mutated. For better or for worse.
Want to hear something funny? Now I’ve changed my brand of cigarettes. Dropped Luckies, after all these years. Started smoking Gauloises. Don’t say it, I know, that’s Jack Havoc’s brand. Okay, could be it’s a case of life imitating art. Or is that overstating the case for a lousy TV series? But Jack Havoc blowing that French smoke in my face stirred a desire. I know it was just imaginary smoke, but actors are trained in sense memory, so the smell I conjured up was vivid to me. Enough so that today, when I was out of butts, I bought a carton of Gauloises.
So that’s what I’m doing. Hiding out in my rented house, smoking Jack Havoc’s cigarettes, torching ’em up with my gold lighter from the Bogarts, that fucker Killer “found” it in the lining of his jacket. Bet he wouldn’t’ve given it back if he knew he was gonna get a better offer so soon. I’m drinking large quantities of Stoli on the rocks (yeah, Jack Havoc’s favorite beverage), and trying to figure what my next move should be. Short of murder.
As mad as I get at Jack Havoc, I have to admit that I envy that confident voice of his. He’s got guts and smarts and a nothing-can-stop-me determination. It must be great to be so certain of everything. But I’m not Jack Havoc.
And while I sit here unshaved and unbathed and unnerved, I’m amazed at how much I miss Kim. Amazed and depressed. Because I’ve left messages for days with her answering service and Kim hasn’t called me back. She might be my last, best chance. If I haven’t blown it with her forever. Hey, anyone’s entitled to get blitzed and make an asshole out of himself once. Right? Well, I’m convinced. But how do I get her back?
I look at the calendar. I look at my watch. Does Lancelot sit around lamenting about losing Guinevere? Or does he shave and shower and get on his horse and go do something about it?
• • •
Miracle of miracles, although it’s Sunday night, there’s a big fat parking space waiting for me on Sunset just a few doors down from the Hamburger Hamlet. It’s crowded inside the restaurant, and unfed customers clog the entrance waiting for tables. I shoulder forward, hear people whispering my name to each other behind me. Enjoy it while I can. I look for Kim, but she’s not on the floor. Behind the counter I see the owner, ex-actor Harry Lewis. He’s dressed in a blue blazer with gold buttons and an old school tie, but he’s slinging plates from the kitchen with the best of his staff. He’s like a ballet dancer. Showing ’em how it’s done. Harry spots me and waves me over. We know each other from some boozy evenings at Bogie’s house in Holmby Hills. Harry played Edward G. Robinson’s gunsel in Key Largo and got to smack Betty Bacall, for which he paid dearly in the last reel.
“Hey, stud,” he says, “if you’re looking for her, you just missed her. Or are you here for the chili?” He slips out from the counter and we chat in an alcove near the rest rooms. There’s a drunk on the pay phone behind us pleading with a bookie for credit.
“Thought I might take her to the movies,” I say. Harry seems to think everything’s hunky dory. Maybe it is.
“That’s where Kim went. The Academy’s running the old A Star Is Born. She said she was in a mood for a good cry. Heard anything from Bogie?”
“Still working in Europe. I tried phoning him today in Rome but he had a couple days off. He and Betty went to Paris.” So I won’t be able to cry on his shoulder until he calls back.
“They’ll always have Paris,” Harry says. Quoting Casablanca.
“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,” I counter. Like a pair of Freemasons exchanging the secret si
gn. “Standing room only in here,” I say.
“Uh-huh. Business is great. We’re opening two more places before the end of the year. After that, who knows?”
“Tomorrow the world.”
“Yeah. I’m making more money than if I’d managed to stay alive at Warners for the full seven year deal, pay increases and all. And it’s steady. People don’t have to go to the movies, but they have to eat.” I laugh. It’s a joke he must use a lot. “Incidentally, congratulations on getting loose from the Colonel. Invite me to the premiere of your first big movie. Maybe you’ll even let us cater the party.”
“You’re on, Harry.” Tap his shoulder. Exchange grins. Good guy. Maybe he’ll give me a job as a waiter. People have to eat.
• • •
It’s my lucky night. Another juicy parking space opening up on Doheny across from Carl’s Market. I tool the T-Bird up to the curb and hop out. There are Academy members across the street streaming toward the theater located around the corner. Kim’s not one of them. I start walking briskly toward the crosswalk when I hear a familiar female voice call my name.
I turn expectantly. And see that it’s little Reva. My first fan. Maybe she’ll turn out to be my last fan. “Hey, Reeve, how are you?”
“Fine and dandy.” She falls in step with me. “Goin’ to the show by yourself?”
“Hope not. Kim’s supposed to be here.”
“She’s so nice.”
“Yeah, she sure is. What’re you eating?” She’s popping something into her mouth from a small box in her hand.
“Jujubes. Want some?”
“Haven’t had one of those in years.” She shakes several colorful candies into my palm. Taking candy from a kid. I start to chew, realize I haven’t eaten anything else all day.
“What’s playing tonight?” she asks.
“What? Oh. A Star Is Born, not the Judy Garland musical. The old one—”
“With Janet Gaynor and Fredric March. The original version. I loved it.”
“That was before your time, you’re just a kid.” Enjoying the gummy candies. “Where’d you get to see it?”
“The Museum of Modern Art in New York. Saw all the old classics there. Garbo’s movies. They’re the best.”
“You’ve got good taste. A serious student of the cinema.”
“A lot of the collectors are.” Collectors. That’s what she calls her fellow autograph hounds. “She lives in New York now, Garbo, did y’know that? So all the collectors back there have seen her. Lots of times. But she never signs autographs. Not ever. Nobody gets Garbo. That’s like Mount Everest. The unattainable.”
Here we are walking and talking like two old friends. Which, in a weird way, I guess we are. But it’s the first time we’ve had anything resembling a real conversation. “You miss New York?” I ask her.
“Not the weather. How about you?”
“Well, matter of fact, I’m probably going back there for a while. Do a play.”
“You are? Well, then I better start saving my pennies so I can get back there and see you again on Broadway.”
We’re approaching the milling crowd in front of the Academy theater. So I start scanning the faces, looking for Kim. Almost forgetting Reva is at my side.
“Know what my favorite line is in A Star Is Born?” she asks.
I turn back to her. Certain she’s going to recite the famous tag line, “This is Mrs. Norman Maine.” But she surprises me.
“In the beginning of the picture, someone tells Janet Gaynor that the odds of becoming a movie star are one in a million. And she says, ‘But what if I’m the one?’ Like you. I always knew you were gonna make it.”
Looks like you were wrong, sweetheart, I think. But at the same time I’m touched. “Thanks, Reva, that’s very sweet.” I pat her cheek. She beams a smile and her face reddens.
“Hope I wasn’t out of line saying that,” she mumbles.
“Just what I needed to hear.” Then, gazing past her, I catch a glimpse of hair that looks like Kim’s. “Good talking to you,” I toss over my shoulder as I take off. But it’s a false alarm. Not Kim. I prowl the population in front of the theater. No sign of Kim.
On the fringes of the crowd I can see Reva and the pack of collectors also patrolling. They’re looking for stars and I’m looking for salvation. I’m buttonholed by two old friends from New York, both veterans of the “live” TV wars. Ralph Bellamy used to be Man Against Crime and Bill Gargan used to be Martin Kane. I guested on both their shows in my scrambling New York days. Reva and her cohorts spot a photo op and move in on us to flash their cameras. Caption: Three used-to-be TV stars. Talking about the good old days. I’ve gotta get away. I spot Kim’s acting coach, the Maria Ouspenskaya lookalike, chatting with an elderly English couple. I elbow over to them.
“Hi, ’scuse me, good evening. Where’s Kim?”
“Not veeth you? Must be here sahmplace. Maybe vent inside.”
Maybe she did. I go inside. To the far right section of seats where we sat the last time. No Kim. House lights are flashing, show’s about to start. Aisles crowd as the sidewalk set makes their entrance. Usual waving and blowing of kisses. I stand beside a couple of aisle seats and keep scanning the faces. Not as large a turnout tonight as for the Hitchcock double. Maybe Kim’s in the ladies room. Lights dimming. I take the aisle seat, not near anyone else. If she comes in now we can whisper unheard.
What am I going to say? Start with I’m sorry. Don’t give up on me. I’m teetering on the edge. I need you.
But she doesn’t appear.
The RKO logo comes on screen. The globe with the transmitter perched on top. Sparking out a telegraph message to the world. And suddenly I know it’s impossible for me to sit through this movie. Of all movies. Story of an actor on the skids. Who suicides in the ocean for a third act curtain. Mourned only by the woman he loved and lost. Who’s just starting the biggest and best part of her life. Without him.
I know that story. I am that story. Gotta get out.
I do it inconspicuously. Crouch in the darkness and slip through the nearby blackout curtain. Small alcove. Exit door. Push it open. Slip out into the alley behind Carl’s Market. Fast. Close the metal door behind me. Get into my T-Bird. Where to now?
Go see Addie.
Stop dramatizing so much. Forget that crazy stuff about bumping her off. Just stop by. Pick up a cold bottle of champagne on the way. Maybe we can have a civilized chat. Like grownups. I’ll explain my situation. Calmly. Honestly. Tell her I’d appreciate it if she could help me out. The royalties. If she says no, she says no. Worth a try. Sure, she doesn’t love me anymore, but must be something left. Even if it’s only pity. I’ll take that. Settle for whatever I can get now. Then I remember. I’ve got an edge. Something going for me.
Today’s our anniversary.
20
Roy
There aren’t any other cars parked on the street up on Kings Road. The house looks as dark as the others near it. Guess she’s not home. But I’ve come this far. I walk up to the front door. Reach for the doorknob. Force of habit. Catch myself. You can’t just walk in here anymore. I ring the bell. Wait. Nothing. I’m about to leave when the entryway light above my head goes on. Through the carved wood door I hear Addie’s muffled voice: “Yes?”
“It’s me, Ade.” I smile, knowing she’s peering through the peephole.
The door swings open. She looks like hell. No makeup, eyes red and nose swollen as if she’s got a cold. Or been crying. Hair yanked back into a ponytail held by a rubber band. Clad in a baggy-tufty baby blue sweater with a hole in one elbow and grass-stained dungarees. Her gardening outfit. Barefoot. Perfectly pedicured carmine toe nails. Wearing the diamond earrings but not her wedding ring. When she sees what I’ve got, her eyes widen.
“Happy anniversary.” I show her the bottle of champagne. Offer her the flowers.
“Calla lilies,” she says. Then going into Hepburn’s lockjaw Yankee twang. “Such a lovely flowahhhh.” She hugs the flowers to her chest. “I just noticed the calendar. Didn’t think it was still in your memory bank.”
“Some things you never forget. Luncheon at Sardi’s.” It gives me a heart pang to say it. “Boy Meets Girl…”
“…and They Hate Each Other On Sight,” she says.
“And here’s the switcheroo—they didn’t live happily ever after.”
She laughs, points at the bottle of Perrier-Jouet. “Hey, if that champagne’s cold, you can come in. We’ll hoist a toast to the ghosts of yesteryear.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” I give her my little boy smile. I’m in the door.
Now I better explain. Today isn’t the anniversary of the day that we were married. It’s the anniversary of the day that we first met. She was still working as a trade paper reporter. I was still shagging radio roles and plugging a way-off-Broadway production of Hamlet about to open in a church up in Yorkville. I was playing Laertes. We desperately needed some publicity. So I’d phoned her office, pretended to be the CBS publicity guy for Let’s Pretend, pitched her an interview with this brilliant new actor—“The Man of a Thousand Voices.”
Me, of course.
We met at Sardi’s. She tagged me right away. Knew the man who’d phoned her wasn’t the CBS flack. She said my voice wasn’t much like his.
“Okay,” I said, “then you better call me ‘The Man of 999 Voices.’” She laughed.
We went to bed that night.
My place.
Billie Holiday’s tremolo voice wafting in through the window from the jazz club below, singing “I Wished On The Moon.”
A million years ago.
Now Addie’s leading the way into the den. Where the bar is in our—oops, her—house. I hear a man’s voice coming from there. Whiny-sarcastic. Guy Saddler? Turns out to be Oscar Levant. Doing his talk show on TV. It’s on a local L.A. station and it’s a sensation. The piano virtuoso turned psychotic-hypochondriac. The show’s done “live” and people tune in to see if this is the week he’s going to flip out on camera and be carted off in a straitjacket.