by Robert Evans
At the time, Dickie had the juvenile lead on Broadway in Terence Rattigan’s O Mistress Mine, starring Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne. On Saturday night, I’d meet him after the show backstage at the Empire Theater. With Jeremiah, Alfred Lunt’s black valet, we’d hop a cab to Harlem.
The Red Rooster was a gambling parlor and whorehouse. Dickie and I were the only white faces in the joint. The poker tables were downstairs, the bedrooms upstairs. We never ventured upstairs, but we didn’t have to. All the waitresses could do it: you’d hold out a dollar bill, and in one movement, they’d lift their skirts, squat, and pick up your tip with their pussies. Through the eyes of a fifteen-year-old, it was tantamount to discovering an eighth continent.
For years, Dickie had the juvenile lead on “Young Widder Brown”—radio’s top soap. Through him, I got a running part on the show as his best friend. During rehearsal breaks, we’d hang out with all the other soap actors around the third-floor stairwell of NBC.
Dickie knew that the one thing I couldn’t say no to was a dare. One day, he pointed to the railing over the stairwell. “A buck says you can’t hang by your fingers for five minutes.”
It was thirty feet down, enough to kill me.
“You’re on.”
Everyone gathered around. And there I hung, and hung, and hung.
While Dickie counted off the minutes, I shut my eyes and counted off the seconds, trying to block out the pain. Finally, four hands pulled me up. There was no applause, but it sure filled up my little black book with more numbers than I had pages for. Only the day before, no one even knew my name.
Haaren High, located on Eleventh Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, smack in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen—was the roughest school in Manhattan. An all-boys prep school for jail. After my year at Bronx Science, I thought I’d won the right to go to Professional Children’s School. My father said okay, but my mother still insisted on a “normal” school.
Nobody in his right mind would ever choose Haaren—that is, if he wanted to come out alive. I did. It was the one place I could matriculate and be out by 11:40 in the morning.
The only thing I learned there was survival. It didn’t take long to figure out my only shot to make it out alive was not to show fear, and not to let on I was an actor. Luckily, the toughest kids in the school were the dumbest. That was my ace. Suddenly, their homework was done, and cheating became an art. For this, I ascended to a king without a throne. Without it, my next address could have easily been the morgue next door.
Haaren High was an embarrassment, especially for my folks. But by bus, it was ten minutes to Rockefeller Center. Once the bell rang, I was out the door and off like a sprinter to the bright lights of big Broadway.
The gusher decade of the eighties was a fizzle compared to the postwar forties. Watch out 1945, here I come. Close to ninety shows a year hit the Broadway boards. The eight major film studios each turned out between fifty to sixty flicks a year. (Today, the eight combined don’t turn out that many.) Each studio had between forty to seventy actors under contract. Broadway was the mecca—Hollywood the next stop. There were more agents in New York than police and more actors than cockroaches.
Now fifteen, attending Haaren finishing school, scratching out a buck or two on radio, I copped a big one—the co-lead on “Henry Aldrich,” the most popular half-hour family comedy on radio, with a paycheck of $175 a week to boot.
Next, the lead in the stage production of Booth Tarkington’s Seventeen at the Equity Library Theater, New York’s most prestigious showcase for actors. The pay was zip. The exposure, unbuyable.
My parents attended opening night. Just two weeks later, they were sitting across a large, oval oak desk from Charles Abrahamson, New York’s most prestigious film agent, head of Famous Artists.
“Your son’s got a presence. That’s the key in film. More than talent; more than looks. With your permission, I’d like to put him under personal contract, get him on the boards, do a play or two, test the waters, sign him with Warners, Twentieth, or Metro—whoever shows the most interest.”
Mom and Pop were in shock. Me! I was now a Famous Artist.
Chamberlain Brown was the oldest, most revered, and by far the most snobbish purveyor of talent in the theatrical world. Whether it be W. C. Fields, Clark Gable, or Douglas Fairbanks, every actor on his way to them Pearly Gates of Hollywood passed through his doors. He must have been in his seventies when I met him. A foppish man on a couch, he didn’t smile but pointed to a bookcase.
“Walk over there, pick out a book, and bring it to me.” I obeyed. “You move well. Sit down.” I sat. “What have you done?”
“Mostly radio.” I reeled off my credits.
Looking me over. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Huh. Abrahamson was right. Your voice—who trained you?”
“Nobody.”
“Well, we’ll find out just how good you are. We’ll fit you in at our New Amsterdam Theatre showcase. Find a scene—ten or fifteen minutes max.”
With a sarcastic laugh, “Let’s see how that untrained voice of yours responds to pressure.” Walking out, his high-pitched voice squeaked. “You’re sure your voice is not trained?”
“Wish it were,” I smiled.
On Tuesday afternoons, the New Amsterdam Theatre, seating more than eight hundred people, was the hottest ticket in town. Credentials, not money, allowed one entrance.
Chamberlain Brown, the guru of tomorrow’s stars, presented his showcase—twelve to sixteen actors, all with ticker tape credentials, presenting their wares before an array of directors, producers, writers, talent scouts, and every top Hollywood mogul in town. Each seat was filled with a “somebody,” seeking to discover the next Humphrey Bogart, Lana Turner, or Cary Grant.
There I stood backstage—my big break. Hollywood, here I come! Only a month before, Chamberlain Brown gave me the big news of my big break, that I was gonna be front and center at his New Amsterdam Theatre showcase. Excitedly, I called Abrahamson, my mentor. “Don’t stretch,” he advised.
I looked through play after play, realizing the one way to be underwhelming was to give a road show performance of a remembered performance. Why not write an original?
My brother, Charles, had just gotten out of the army and was unemployed. Why not do a scene between brothers—one confronting the other? The elder comes back from the army, finds out his kid brother’s been playing around with his “lady” while he was landing at Normandy.
Didn’t Abrahamson say “Don’t stretch?” Well, I wasn’t.
Charlie had never worked professionally, but so what—he had only four words to say: “Why’d you do it?”
Then for nine pages, I copped to the truth about his so-called lady. Furious, he pulls a gun out and blows me away.
Each day, for the next month, we rehearsed, rehearsed, and rerehearsed; by now, my nine pages of dialogue down so pat, I could have done them backward.
From behind the curtain I look out. There’s Charles Abrahamson in the third row, next to him, Jack L. Warner, “Mr. Big” of Warners. Watch out, Hollywood—here I come. Half a dozen actors already had done their gig. From center stage, Chamberlain Brown’s high-pitched voice echoes through the theater. “May I now introduce Robert Evans.”
I jab Charlie with a left, “Okay, let’s give it to ’em.”
The curtain parts. From stage left Charlie walks to center. From stage right, I do the same. I’m standing there. He’s standing there. His lips part—nothin’ comes out.
The fucker’s frozen.
I shake him, whispering.
“Give me the fuckin’ line, will ya.” He’s a glacier.
I grab both his arms:
“Tell me I’m no good, tell me I’m a piece of shit, tell me anything.”
Nothing.
“Kill me if you wanna!”
He takes his gun out and shoots me. Is he fuckin’ nuts? What about my nine pages of dialogue? Now, I’ve gotta drop to the floor
dead. I did.
Suddenly Charlie’s defrosted, but it was too late. I was dead, so was my career. He looks down at me. I look up at him. I wanna kill him, instead both of us burst out laughing.
There we are, center stage, two hyenas in hysterics. The audience loved it—a new comedy find—the next Abbott and Costello. They’re laughing too. Yeah, but we couldn’t stop.
Wham! The curtain closes.
It’s Chamberlain Brown, he’s screaming.
“Throw ’em out! Throw ’em out!” His temple vein was about to burst. “Lunatics! Lunatics! You’ll never work on Broadway as long as Chamberlain Brown’s alive.”
That did it. Laughter turned to convulsions.
“Garbage, garbage!” as blood began pouring from his nostrils. “Throw ’em out! Out! Out!”
Like garbage, four stagehands grab us and throw us out into the back alley. Was it worth it? Yeah, it was the longest laugh of our lives.
Did Chamberlain Brown keep his word? Forget Broadway. I couldn’t get an audition for summer stock. Was I angry with Charlie? That’s what you call love.
* * *
“If your feet are as fast as your hands, you could be one hell of a scrapper—maybe make the pros. There ain’t many white kids around. Maybe I’ll even manage you, call you Pretty Boy Floyd.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m an actor, not a fighter.”
“Good for you, kid. Your hands, usin’ ’em right, is as important in acting as it is in fighting—that’s if you wanna make the pros. So keep ’em up.”
The words were coming from Mike Todd, who was getting a kick out of watching me punch the bag at the Gotham Health Club. Me, I enjoyed nothing more than showing off in front of him, for in total awe was I of this adventurer, gambler, entrepreneur, showman, and, oh yes, cocksman to boot. And there he was watching me.
Many a day, we would leave the Gotham Health Club, walk up Sixth Avenue to Central Park South, and grab a quick sandwich at Rumpelmayer’s; never sitting at a table, but at the counter—it was faster. He always ordered the same thing: a chicken salad sandwich on rye toast and a strawberry soda. Naturally, I ordered the same, not caring, just wondering why he wanted to break bread with me—a sixteen-year-old kid.
As years passed, his myth only grew, marrying some funny-looking dame, Elizabeth Taylor, at the height of her career, and accomplishing the near impossible, raising his own financing and independently producing Around the World in Eighty Days, which won the Academy Award for best film of the year.
At the pinnacle of his success, he was killed in a plane crash over Palm Springs. He died the way he lived—dangerously.
One Saturday afternoon, we left the club and walked to our usual sandwich hangout. Ordering the usual as well, Mike took out a big cigar, then lit it with a wooden match.
“You’ve got too much moxie, kid, to be an actor. It’s okay for a dame, but not for a guy. Unless you make it big, real big, it’s a lousy life. After a while you start losin’ your cojones. There’s nothin’ more boring than hangin’ with some half-assed actor, talkin’ about himself.” Finishing his sandwich, he quickly got up. “Gotta go. I’m late for a gin game.”
“Could I play?”
He burst out laughing. “You? Play in this game? Are you nuts? These guys will take your pants off and not even blink. What will you pay ’em with? Your dick? Come up and watch if you wanna. Just don’t be a wise ass.”
The game was next door at 40 Central Park South. Mike was late. Five guys were waiting. It was a six-handed game. The group played once a week. No one wanted to be paid by check, only by cash. At the start of every session, the prior week’s tally would be settled—in cash, of course.
There was a problem, a first. The guy responsible for keeping the tally sheet lost it. All six agreed that there were two winners and four losers, but no one agreed as to how much each one owed to whom. They were all friends. No one was looking for an edge. Rather, everyone’s recollection was different.
Mike, one of the four losers broke in. “Fuck this, fellas. I’ve only got four hours and I came to play gin. You say I owe $2,100, right, Nick?”
“Yeah,” Nick nodded.
“Well, I brought $1,400 in cash. That’s what I remember losin’. There’s a $700 dollar spread. What the fuck, let’s split it.”
Taking a check from his pants pocket, he filled it in for $350. “Don’t cash it, will ya? I’ll bring you the cash next week.” Then turning to the others, “Will you guys do the same so we can start the fuckin’ game?”
Reluctantly, they all agreed. The game started. The stakes were set at a dollar a point. One could easily lose ten or fifteen thousand in an afternoon, which, by today’s standards, would be like losing a quarter of a million. As much in awe as I was in watching, I was equally eager to be part of the action. But this was a game for the pros. And me, I hadn’t even started to shave.
The four hours were up; no one wanted to quit. Bending over, Mike whispered to me, “Go into the other room. Call David Niven at the Pierre. Tell him I’m in an important meeting. Ask him to pick up Susan Hayward. She’s at the St. Regis. I’ll meet them both at Le Pavillon at nine o’clock.”
Nine o’clock rolled around. Nick Conte, the guy Mike gave his check to at the beginning of the session, who at the time was a big Hollywood movie star, better known as Richard Conte, suggested one last set.
Without any thought that people were waiting for him, Mike said, “Start dealing.” In the next hour, Mike hit it big. A triple blitz. From being a small loser, he was now a big winner.
It was way past ten by now. Again, it turned out there were four losers and two winners. This time though, Conte and Todd were the big winners. Mike won about $4,700, and Nick, well over $7,000.
Tallying up the wins and losses, Mike looked at the scorekeeper. “Take $350 off of mine and put it in Nick’s column. Now tear up my fuckin’ check, pretty boy.”
Conte laughed. “You’re more than an hour late. The broad’s gonna be pissed.”
“So what! I won, didn’t I? I’ll keep the tally sheet this time, fellas. See you next Saturday. Same time, same station. Let’s go kid, we’re late.”
Going down in the elevator, Mike lit his cigar again. “That cocksucker Conte’s a fuckin’ pro. He never loses. If he acted half as well as he played, he’d have copped two Oscars by now. Walk me to the restaurant, kid. It’s only three blocks away.” Strutting down Central Park South together, Mike began laughing, “It’s a good thing I didn’t lose; the check I gave Conte would have bounced.”
Did I hear right? His $350 check would have bounced and he’s playing for a buck a point?
Before I had a chance to ask, he laughed, “That’s what gamblin’s all about, kid. It ain’t no fun unless you play for more than you can afford to lose.”
Approaching the restaurant now. “Being a good player ain’t enough. For a buck you can buy ’em by the dozen. It’s all handicappin’. Gotta know who you’re playing with. Good players come and go. Good handicappers seem to always pick up aces.” Under the restaurant canopy, he put his arm around me. “Don’t forget, if it ain’t written down, it ain’t collectible; everyone remembers things different.” He feigned a left. My hands went up to block it. “That’s it, kid,” he laughed. “Keep them dukes up; it’s cold out there. Got it?”
Got it I did. He hurried into the restaurant more than an hour late. Ah, but far more important, a winner.
A few months later Dickie Van Patten and I were sparring on the beach when a little fat guy with a cigar walked over.
“Either of you fighters?”
“No,” we laughed, “we’re actors.”
A beady-eyed look. “You’re good, kid. Fast. How’d you like to fill in as a sub novas in Forest Hills on Tuesday? With your speed you could make the Golden Gloves.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Ten bucks says you’re scared,” jabbed Dickie.
“Where do I show?”
Once again, D
ickie and I were the only white faces in the joint. They put me into black satin trunks and told me I was fifteenth on the card. For the next two hours, I sweat it out watching one loser after another come back into the locker room with his teeth knocked out, his nose broken, his eyes slashed.
What the fuck am I doing here? I’m an actor.
I got the nod.
I’m next. This is nuts. This ain’t no theater. It’s a fuckin’ hole in the wall in black Cambodia.
Entering the ring with Dickie behind me, I saw for the first time the guy I was to fight. This animal with no teeth wasn’t looking to get into flicks. Except for his white trunks, he was as black as I was white and he tasted this honky fruit across the ring.
This ain’t fair.
Gong! Three rounds—two minutes each. Six minutes to stay alive. Throwing everything he could, he came at me like a wild man. Mike Todd’s words “Keep them dukes up” came in handy. By the end of round one, the only thing that got hurt were my arms. They were ready to fall off.
Gong! Round two. The animal came out charging again. A round-house left, it hit the air. I got off my first punch—a right to the ribs. A second—a left I never knew I had to the jaw. His legs wobbled. He was ready to go. His arms were down. There were still thirty seconds left. There was one problem—I couldn’t lift my arms, I couldn’t catch my breath, I couldn’t even sit down when the round was over. If I did, I’d never get up. Gong! Round three. Again he came at me. A roundhouse punch—wild. I saw my opening—threw a right.
Twenty minutes later I opened my eyes. All I could see was white. Was I in heaven? A tenner dropped on my stomach.
“Thank God,” said Dickie. “I thought you were dead.”
A few years passed. It was now Dickie’s turn to be on the other end of a knockout punch.
On my third callback for a juicy role in Fourteen Hours, a flick Twentieth Century–Fox was shooting in New York, I met a real looker. She, too, was on her third callback. She got the part (her first), I didn’t. But I got her, at least in the figurative sense.