Getting Garbo

by Jerry Ludwig

  “Hi, Reva!”

  “G’morning, Everett.”

  Strolling together now. Toward Santa Monica Boulevard. Okay. No rush. Let ’em get ahead. Then roll along behind them.

  On the Boulevard, they both turn east. Past the market, shoppers going in and out. Reva buys herself and Everett donuts at the outdoor counter on the corner of Bundy. They both munch as the bus pulls up. She waves and gets on. Everett waves back and walks on.

  I follow the bus. It’s not hard. Just annoying. Creeping through traffic. I can let the bus get ahead on the non-stop streets. Just so I’m close enough to see if Reva hops off at the next stop. Or the next. But she’s in for the long haul, too. Down Santa Monica Boulevard. Through Westwood.

  Where the hell’s she going? Jack’s impatient.

  “Think like an autograph collector,” I tell him. “If she gets off at Beverly Glen, it’s near Twentieth Century Fox.”

  She doesn’t get off at Beverly Glen. Now we’re in Beverly Hills.

  “Maybe Rodeo Drive. Down the street from the Derby and Romanoff’s.”

  You sound like a Hollywood tour bus driver.

  She stays aboard. Moving into west L.A.

  Got any other bright ideas?

  “Bet she’s going to the Goldwyn Studios, up ahead on Formosa.”

  Wait. But. Lost your bet. You sure she’s still on the bus?

  I don’t answer. There’s no talking to him when he’s in a mood like this.

  We’re going past the film labs and the industrial film houses that make the movie trailers. Then, just when I’m feeling real nervous—maybe she did get off the bus without me noticing—she gets off at Vine Street. Crosses in front of the bus. Heading north. I’m stuck in the right hand lane. Traffic’s locked beside me. So I have to go a block past Vine before I can get over and make a U-turn.

  Take your time, Jack Havoc says. Doesn’t matter if she disappears on us again.

  “You wanna drive?” That shuts him up. That and the sight of Reva. Still on the west side of Vine Street. Strolling up toward Sunset.

  Wouldn’t you love to just reach out and grab her off the street?

  “Too many people.” He’s getting crazy.

  I’m just saying, wouldn’t you love to?

  Up ahead, Reva crosses Sunset. I catch the red light. She enters Wallich’s Music City.

  Okay, genius, what you gonna do now?

  I’m not sure. Should I park the car and—what? Go inside? Risk being spotted by her? Better to stake out the place. How long can she be in there? Only one entrance to the store, right there on the corner. Before the red light changes, I spot her again. Just entering one of the soundproof listening cubicles inside the record store. Facing out through the front window. There’s a white-coated salesman with her, carrying a small stack of LPs. I know him. Her pal Podolsky. They chat a moment, then he leaves her. She settles down. Starts enjoying the music.

  That makes it simple. Just ace a little old lady out of a parking space. Commanding a view of Reva across the street in the window. Put coins in the meter. Slouch down. Watch and wait. She’ll be out after a while.

  Jack Havoc laughs.

  “Okay, what?”

  Role reversal, he says. Usually she stands around and waits for you to come out of places. Now you know how it feels.

  “Couple of minor differences, of course.”

  Oh yeah. For instance, she knows everything about you. And you know next to nothing about her.

  “Well, I guess today’s the day I play catch up.”

  • • •

  At noon they both leave Music City. Reva and Podolsky. They ride out of the employees’ parking lot in a fading blue Hillman Minx convertible. Top down, Podolsky driving. I follow them, hoping he’s going to drop her off somewhere. Preferably somewhere secluded. They only go a mile or so to the entrance off Melrose to the Paramount lot. A photo shoot in progress in front of the famous two-story wrought-iron gate. Like a senior class graduation picture. All the major stars working on the lot are there, linked arm in arm. Fred Astaire, Audrey Hepburn, Alan Ladd, Betty Hutton, Charlton Heston, Shirley MacLaine, Dean Martin, and Jerry Lewis. Photographer behind the 8x10 camera on a tripod cues the herd, they all smile and take a simultaneous step forward. Click!

  Of course, there’s a crowd watching. Mostly office workers and blue-collar guys on lunch break from the studio. Plus a number of autograph collectors. Reva and Podolsky have joined them. They move in now for signatures and snapshots before the stars retreat behind the studio walls.

  Reva and Podolsky get back in the parked Hillman. With a couple of the other fans. Reva’s now insulated by that many more. I tail them up Melrose to LaBrea. Another stop. I hang back and watch while the collectors nosh at Pink’s Hot Dog Stand. Jammed with people. Will she ever be alone?

  Back in the Hillman. Continuing up Melrose, past Robertson. They’re parking again. Reva, Podolsky, and the others walking to the Academy Theater in the next block. Apparently there’s an afternoon performance today. I find a parking space facing toward the theater. Moviegoers are arriving. I spot Ernie Borgnine, who recently copped the Oscar for Marty, as he’s engulfed by the autograph hunters. Like a school of piranha swarming.

  The Academy, Jack Havoc says, scene of our past triumphs.

  “If you don’t have anything to say, just shut up.”

  Just reminiscing. Your first real date with the lovely Kim.

  “Don’t start, Jack.”

  You figure they’ve got a cop camped on her doorstep? I mean, if they went after chumpy Killer Lomax.

  I’ve been thinking of nothing else. “They don’t know who she is. And she was probably on the train goin’ to visit her aunt in Oregon or Arizona or wherever at the time.”

  Hey. Y’convinced me. Salty old Walter Brennan and Marjorie Main, Ma Kettle herself, are signing autographs across the street. Must be Old Fart’s Day at the Academy.

  As I look, I see Reva and Podolsky break away from the crowd and come back up the other side of the street. Toward the Hillman. We’re on the move again.

  • • •

  The Hillman goes south down Doheny to Pico. Right turn, heading toward Beverly Hills. I stay several car lengths behind them. Enough traffic to keep me from being conspicuous. Left turn at Beverly Drive, going into the Beverwill area. A middle-class neighborhood. One cut-through street leading into Culver City. Fortunately, there are a few other cars taking the shortcut. But I have to widen the gap to keep from being spotted.

  Gotta be MGM, Jack Havoc says. What else is there in Culver City?

  Turns out he’s no better at guessing Reva’s itinerary than I am. The Hillman continues south to Washington Boulevard, but turns left—away from MGM. We’re traveling along Car Row now. All the new car dealerships and maintenance shops.

  “Maybe the Hillman needs a lube and oil change,” I suggest.

  Then why’s he stopping in front of the Ford dealership?

  That’s what the Hillman is doing. In a parking space. But motor still running. Neither Podolsky or Reva making a move to get out. They’re staring through the plate glass window into the car showroom. Discussing. Then Reva excitedly points at something or someone inside. Podolsky switches off the engine. Reva’s taking out her pen as they enter the showroom.

  I swing around and park on the other side of the boulevard. Through the plate glass window I can see Reva and Podolsky approaching one of the car salesmen. He says something in greeting. Probably the classic line, “Hey, folks, can I sell you a car today?” But Reva says something to him. The salesman shrugs. Grins. Looks a tad embarrassed. Then Reva and Podolsky offer him their autograph books and he begins to sign them.

  Tom Drake, Jack Havoc says. In amazement.

  “You’re kidding.” I’m amazed, too.

  Sure enough. It’s him. Tom Drake.
One of MGM’s young male stars during World War II. The guy who caught the trolley when Judy Garland sang “The Trolley Song” in Meet Me In St. Louis, the star of The Green Years and Words and Music. While the A-team was away in the service, guys like Tom Drake, Van Johnson, Dana Andrews, and Lon McCallister were headliners.

  ’Til the war ended and the heavy hitters came back home, Jack Havoc says. Reading my mind. That’s why you gotta get it while you can.

  “Wowee. There’s a bulletin.” But I’m still watching Tom Drake.

  From kissing Judy Garland to hawking ragtops. In one quick fall.

  “You don’t know that! Maybe he owns the fuckin’ car dealership! He was real hot.”

  So were you.

  • • •

  Now we’re a mile-and-a-half down the road. At MGM. Flagship lot of Filmland. Boasting that they have “More Stars Than There Are In The Heavens.” There’s a small mortuary on the corner next to the huge alabaster white Thalberg Administration Building. Evidence of a stubborn grave-digger who refused to sell his land, so they had to build around him. The guard at the studio gate is named, unbelievably, Ken Hollywood. It’s a slow afternoon, so he intermittently chats with Reva and Podolsky. Apparently they’re old friends. Every once in a while business intrudes. Ken Hollywood has to automatically raise the gate for an incoming or outgoing vehicle. Or Reva and Podolsky have to approach Van Heflin, who’s on foot, leaving the studio for the parking lot outside, or Jennifer Jones, who stops her Bentley at the barrier long enough to sign autographs. But star sightings are few and far between.

  I’m parked a half block away, slouching low, as usual, yawning and trying to stay awake. There’s a lot of dull, dead, downtime involved in collecting autographs. Beside me, Jack Havoc has nodded off. Now I nudge him. Reva and Podolsky are rolling again.

  • • •

  The Hillman wends its way north out of Culver City into Westwood.

  Maybe they’re goin’ to Fox now. Hey, Mr. Zanuck, can Betty Grable come out and play?

  But they go past Fox. Into Beverly Hills again. North on Linden Drive. Past the house where Bugsy Siegel was shotgunned to death. Onto Sunset Boulevard, east to the far side of the Beverly Hills Hotel. I’m pacing them all the way. Onto Coldwater Canyon and—now I’m starting to drive on automatic pilot, because—I can’t believe it—they’re turning into the driveway of my house.

  I go beyond the entrance. Make a U-turn and glide slowly past the opening to my place. Podolsky is still in the car, reading the Hollywood Reporter. Reva is at my front door. Knocking. Knocking again.

  Too bad there’s nobody home, Jack Havoc says.

  “But why’s she even here? With that schmuck.”

  Someone’s honking behind me so I have to continue on. Make another U-turn and come back. By this time I see Reva getting into the Hillman and Podolsky is starting to emerge from the driveway. I follow him back down to Sunset. He leads the way into Santa Monica.

  Polite gent, Jack Havoc says, driving his little girlfriend right to her doorstep.

  Wrong again. The Hillman doesn’t turn on Bundy. Instead continues on along Montana Avenue. Mostly residential, but up ahead there’s a run of stores and restaurants for about a dozen blocks. In the center of this activity, the Hillman pulls over into the red zone near a corner. Reva gets out. I hang back. She says a quick goodbye and Podolsky drives off. Reva is alone at the corner waiting for the red light. I swing into the center lane on Montana, signaling a left. She’ll be playing into my hands when the light changes.

  Look, if she walks down that side street, nobody’s there, it’s all shady-dark from the big trees—

  Telling me what I know. Green light. Reva crosses. I make my turn. But she doesn’t proceed down the side street. When she reaches the curb, she turns toward a neighborhood movie theater near the corner. The Aero. Playing Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much and Frank Sinatra as Johnny Concho. Reva waves familiarly at the woman in the ticket booth and walks inside. Without buying a ticket.

  Double feature. She’ll be in there for hours, Jack says. Hey, perfect opportunity. You go inside, too. All that darkness. Probably hardly anyone in there this time of day. Murder in the Movie House. Try to kill her during the Hitchcock picture, cover up Reva’s screams with Doris Day’s.

  I’m staring at him. “Are you for real?”

  Of course not. Just want to keep you on your toes. Make sure you’re considering all the possibilities.

  I’m about to tell him what he can do with his possibilities.

  But here’s Reva again.

  Coming out of the Aero.

  Standing at the door to the ticket booth.

  The woman inside opens the door and they switch places. The woman taking her purse with her, walking off. Door’s closed again. Changing of the guard complete. Reva is now in charge of selling tickets. To a little old couple lined up at the booth window.

  Okay. She works here. Going on duty. Be here for hours. What are you gonna do?

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

  • • •

  Jack Havoc is singing. He sounds a bit tipsy.

  Oh, she’s only a bird in a gilded caaaaage…

  We grabbed a quick bite at Zucky’s deli nearby on Fifth and Wilshire. Corned beef on rye. Two beers. That became three beers. First food I had today. The beer hit him hard. I’m not feeling much pain, either. At least I don’t think I am. It’s dark now. We’re parked comfortably with a view of the marquee of the theater and Reva in the illuminated ticket booth. Occasionally when she moves or a car passes, the light bounces off the locket. That damn locket. Like Pandora’s box. If the world gets one peek, I’ll never be able to clamp the lid back on again.

  I can just imagine the scene. “Where did you get this locket, Miss Hess?” Found it on the floor in the back seat of Roy Darnell’s car. “Do you recognize the faces pictured inside the locket?” Sure, Roy and Addie Darnell. “Was the night you found the locket the same night his wife was killed?” Uh-huh. “See anything else there?” Oh, just a bunch of other jewelry stuff. “Would you look at this insurance company photo of a pair of diamond earrings.” Yeah, I saw them there, too. “Your Honor, the Prosecution rests its case.”

  If you had a high-powered rifle, you could pick her off from right here. Baaaaang!

  “I’d still need the locket. And anything else incriminating that she swiped.”

  Incriminating. He savors the word. Sound like a goddamn lawyer. Incrimmmmminating evidence.

  “I’m just saying that what we’re looking for is the proper time and place. And this isn’t it. A brightly lit booth on a busy street.”

  Never here, always somewhere else. Not now. Definitely not in the movies. How ’bout in the ladies’ room? What the fuck happened to improvisation?

  “Hey, Jack, something scorching your ass today? I woke up happy and you’ve been ragging on me ever since. What’s worrying you? Spit it out.”

  You, babe. You’re worrying me.

  “Why? You were after me to get us close to Reva. So now we’re close. There she is.”

  Yeah, but when push comes to shove—is there really any shove in you? This isn’t gonna be like tossing creampuff punches at flabby photographers.

  “I’ll handle it.”

  Just keep in mind. If you screw up, you won’t be peddling Fords in Culver City—you’ll be sniffing cyanide fumes in San Quentin. He leans back against the head rest. How’s that scene grab you, big fella?

  • • •

  When we were at the deli, I made a couple phone calls. To the transit authority. And to the Aero Theater. So I know a few things now. The way I figure it is that when she gets off work she’ll go home. There’s no bus along Montana that’ll get her there. But if she walks up to Wilshire, she can take the bus to Bundy, then transfer and get off at Santa Monica Boulevard. Back whe
re she started this morning, just around the corner from her apartment. That’s what she’ll probably do. Because it’s a little too far to walk all the way home. And it’ll be late. Because the last showing of Johnny Concho goes on at ten.

  I’ll be able to pick my spot. Lot of dark secluded streets along that route.

  Jack Havoc is dozing in the seat beside me. Or maybe he’s pretending. You never can tell with him. I’m studying Reva. In her glass booth. Can’t take my eyes off her. Like watching a goldfish in a bowl. Funny. She’s been on the periphery of my vision for years now. But tonight is the first time I’ve ever really looked at her. Seen her. Not so pretty. But sort of attractive in a tomboy way. Small but pleasant. Smiles at every customer who steps up to her window. Sasses the ticket-taker who brings her out a Coke. Nice girl.

  Hard to imagine she’ll be dead so very soon.

  Okay. Time to give that one a little attention. Killing someone. Committing murder. I’ve done it on stage. On screen. But this will be a premiere. No camera, hopefully no audience. But I’m hoping I can use the same muscles. It’s just a scene. An acting moment. I’m trained in bringing up sense memories and adrenaline. Block out everything else. I’ve played Othello strangling Desdemona. Six nights a week and two matinees. But then you wash off the greasepaint and go home. Leaving any guilt behind.

  It’s the same!

  Just do what you have to do. And go home.

  That’s the ticket.

  I look at the dashboard clock. Almost ten o’clock.

  She’ll be off soon.

  A Chevy parks across the street in front of the closed and darkened beauty salon. A man gets out and heads for the box office. Must be a die-hard Sinatra fan, catching only the last half of the double. But now the man walks out of the dark into the bright lights under the marquee. And I recognize him in an instant.

  I jab Jack Havoc in the ribs. He’s awake and alarmed.