The Pitiful Player (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 14)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  We all sat there, in silence, for a long moment. Finally, I asked, "What about your employees?"

  Marge looked at Alfonso, who shrugged. "They will find other jobs."

  I asked, "Isn't there something we could do for them?"

  He ran his hand over his chin and looked at me for a long moment. I wasn't sure if I had inadvertently put my foot in it or if he was confused. He smiled briefly and said, "I am sure we are all very honored by your concern for our employees, but, as a foreigner, you are unable, by law, to help. Besides," he brushed his hand as if swatting a fly, "what could you do if there was no law? There is no tourism coming to Ensenada at this time. All of America is going to Acapulco."

  I nodded. His rebuke stung and I probably deserved it. He was right. There was nothing I could do in Ensenada. But I did have one idea. "If any of them wish to relocate to Acapulco or, maybe, Mexico City, I'll be happy to cover some set amount for their expenses. How about that?"

  I watched Alfonso's face turn cold. I wasn't sure what line I had crossed, but I had done something wrong. He lifted his chin, looked down his nose at me, and said, "I cannot imagine any of them taking the favor of your offer."

  I nodded. I didn't know what else to say, so I said, "I'm sorry."

  By the reaction on his face, I knew Alfonso wasn't expecting that response from me. He seemed to soften. "No, it is I who must apologize. You see, Nick, this has been a great worry for me. We have many loyal employees. I feel responsible for them but cannot afford to offer such a generous benefit. And, while you are very kind to be thinking in these terms, I cannot allow you to make such an overture."

  I sighed. I was determined to help. "What about a beneficial foundation? How would I go about setting one up?"

  Alfonso turned cold again. "The primary obstacle would be the governor. A foreign entity cannot simply—"

  Marge interrupted and said something soothing in Spanish.

  Alfonso nodded and patted her hand. "My wife is right. The point is simple. You cannot help, Nick. And, you would help us greatly by not insisting."

  . . .

  Once we were in bed, Carter turned on his side and said, "I love that you wanted to help."

  I shrugged and scooted towards him.

  He ran his fingers down the side of my face. "But, son, when someone says no, you gotta learn to respect that."

  I nodded but didn't say anything.

  "Particularly a proud man like Alfonso."

  I nodded again.

  Carter looked at me with half a smile on his face. "Well, aren't you gonna say anything?"

  I said the only thing I could. "Kiss me, you fool." And he did.

  Chapter 3

  Screening Room #3

  Paramount Studios

  5451 Marathon Ave

  Hollywood, Cal.

  Sunday, July 10, 1955

  Just past noon

  "OK. That's fine. Thanks, Charlie."

  A voice from behind and above us replied, "You're welcome, Mr. Jessup. Anything else today?"

  The compact bald man wearing a cardigan sweater and sitting right in front of me replied, "No, Charlie. We'll let ourselves out in a minute."

  "Sure thing, Mr. Jessup. Good luck, Mr. White."

  The blond man sitting next to Jessup replied, "Thanks, Charlie."

  The lights came on and I looked at Carter. His face was pale and he looked more worried than I'd ever seen him.

  We were sitting in a screening room on the Paramount lot with Ben White, Carlo Martinelli, and Ronald Jessup, the director who Ben had hired for the movie. Jessup turned in his seat and looked right at me. Without any perceptible irony, he asked, "What'd ya think?"

  I smiled tightly. "Shows promise."

  He nodded. "Anything else?"

  "Um—"

  Carter interrupted. "What the hell have you been spending Nick's money on?"

  I sat perfectly still. I knew Ben well enough to know that he was either going to burst into tears or get huffy. He didn't move. I figured he was crying.

  I stood. "Why don't I take everyone to lunch? I'm starving. How about you, Carter? You hungry?" I just wanted to get out of that freezer of a room. When Jessup had arrived wearing a sweater, I had wondered about that. But, as we solemnly filed out, I understood. The air conditioning was on high.

  We walked down a narrow hall and pushed out into the bright sunlight of the day. I blinked a couple of times and wondered what to do next. Carter was absolutely right. It was a disaster. I knew nothing about making movies but I knew a stinker when I saw one. And, whatever that was, it stunk.

  We'd flown into Burbank the afternoon before and had tried to call Ben at home from the airport, but got no answer. I'd sent a telegram from Ensenada, early that morning, but got no reply. After sending the plane back to San Francisco, Carter and I got a cab and headed to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Thanks to my trusty Diners' Club card, they'd put us up in one of their bungalows. Since we didn't bring anything more than short-sleeve shirts, we had dinner in the room.

  As we stood, blinking in the sunlight, Jessup walked around and looked us all over. He clapped his hands and said, "Look, kids. Let's do this. Let's go to the Brown Derby over on Vine. Great place. Just like on I Love Lucy. Right?"

  Ben nodded glumly. He wasn't crying, he was sulking. I said, "Sounds good." I looked over at Martinelli, who was almost as tall and muscular as Carter, but not quite. He wasn't upset as much as worried. I asked, "Can we ride with you two? We took a cab here."

  He nodded, put his hands in his pockets, and said, "Sure."

  Chapter 4

  On the way to the Brown Derby on Vine

  Sunday, July 10, 1955

  About a quarter until 1 in the afternoon

  Once we were in their car, a big Chrysler Imperial, Carter asked, "Carlo, how're things at the office down here?"

  Martinelli, who was driving, looked in the rear-view mirror with a slight frown and said, "Fine." Carter knew how things were. They talked every day.

  Martinelli asked me, "Where are you two staying?"

  "The Beverly Hills Hotel," I replied.

  "Sorry that we didn't get your message until this morning. It's a good thing you just showed up at the gate at Paramount. Otherwise, we might have missed you."

  I knew, more than anything, that was what had made Carter so angry. It wasn't the money. We hadn't sunk that much into the venture. It was the fact that Ben had sent us a telegram and then hadn't replied. I'd been the one who'd suggested we take a cab to the lot since I figured Ben was probably wishing he hadn't asked us to come. Based on the coolness of his behavior, I was sure I was right.

  Carter started to say something and then seemed to think better of it. As we drove up Vine, I could see the Brown Derby ahead on the right. I was expecting to see big brown hat but there was just a neon sign that said Brown Derby above the restaurant. It suddenly occurred to me that there might be more than one.

  Martinelli pulled over to the curb, right in front of the restaurant. "You guys go get a table while I park." There was obviously a parking lot behind the restaurant. I wondered why he wasn't using it.

  Carter said, "I'll go with you."

  I rolled my eyes and stepped out onto the sidewalk with Ben and watched as Martinelli and Carter drove off.

  It was a warm day and I was glad to be wearing short sleeves. I suddenly realized, however, that neither Carter nor I had a coat and how that might make it difficult to get a seat. I turned to ask Ben.

  Before I could say anything, he said, "I'm so sorry, Nick. I wasted all that money and now this thing is a flop and I have no way to pay you back and maybe I should try to get a job as a cop here—"

  I put my hand out. "Slow down." I took a deep breath. "Look. The money is no big deal. Never has been, never will be. The important thing is that we figure out what the next step is. It's not a total loss." Of course, I didn't believe that any more than Carter would have if he'd been standing there.

  Right then, Jessup wa
lked up. "Sorry I'm late, kids. Where's the two big palookas?"

  I smiled. "They're parking the car."

  "Good luck with that. It's crowded for a Sunday. I had to park on the street because the lot was full." Looking behind me, he said, "I see 'em now. Can't miss 'em. They're like two giants coming down the street. Fee, fi, fo—"

  Ben sighed dramatically.

  Jessup grinned at me. "Well, you get the picture."

  I nodded and said, "Neither of us have coats. Will that be a problem?"

  Jessup slapped me on the back. "When they see Mr. Moneybags walk through the door in this town, they don't care if you're walkin' around dressed like a caveman. And, believe me, Mr. Williams, everyone in that restaurant knows exactly who you are and that you're in the movie game now. You're quite famous, you know."

  I nodded. "Infamous, I think you mean."

  As Carter and Martinelli walked up, Jessup said, "Nah. Look. You're not gonna be in a picture. They don't care. You could be lovers with Khrushchev. As long as the checks don't bounce, that's all that matters." He waved us forward. "Come on. I'm starved."

  . . .

  The place was packed. Waiters were buzzing around, serving and taking orders. Jessup asked for a table in the back. To get there, we had to walk past about half of the restaurant. Heads turned and voices were hushed as we walked by. I saw several faces I knew from movies, more than I'd ever seen in one place outside of a theater.

  The hostess seated us at a booth in the far back left corner. In the booth to our right, I could see a handsome blond man of about 40 or so who was talking with a dark-haired man whose face I couldn't see. The blond man looked at me and nodded. He whispered something to his lunch companion. The man turned and winked at me. It was Rock Hudson. I smiled in reply and nodded. I looked up at Carter who'd obviously seen the whole thing because he was grinning. Rock wasn't his type, since he was too tall and too beefy, but Carter admired the kid and thought he was a good actor.

  The waiter came up immediately and took our drink orders. While we looked at the menu, Ben asked me, "Did you see Rock Hudson?"

  I nodded. "He winked at me."

  Ben shook his head. "I mean, what's he doing in town? He's supposed to be in Texas filming that George Stevens movie. And why is he with J.K.?"

  Carter leaned forward and quietly asked, "That's J.K.?"

  Ben nodded. "Yeah."

  "Who's J.K.?" I asked.

  Carter shook his head while Ben gasped. Before either of them could say anything, Jessup asked, "You ain't heard of the queer answer to Louella and Winchell?"

  I shook my head. "No."

  Ben rolled his eyes and said, "His real name is Jeremiah Kingman. He's had a column for a couple of years that's carried by the Times. The column is called 'J.K., Hollywood' Kind of a joke. You know, 'Just kidding, Hollywood.'"

  I nodded.

  Ben went on, "He's scooped Louella, Hedda, and Winchell a number of times."

  Those were the three big national gossip columnists: Louella Parsons, who worked for the Hearsts; Hedda Hopper, who was connected to Metro; and Walter Winchell, who was on his own, based in New York, and the most venomous of the three. Ben lowered his voice. "I heard that Hedda is trying to get the F.B.I. to investigate him. The way I heard it is that she keeps sending letters to J. Edgar Hoover. I think Kingman worked for Hedda for a while and then they had a falling-out over some guy who was, um..." He looked over at Jessup and stopped talking.

  In a mock whisper, Jessup said, "I know what's what with you four. Don't worry. Doesn't bother me none."

  The waiter arrived right then with our drinks. We were all having Cokes. Jessup was having celery tonic. That they had celery tonic was odd enough. That he was drinking it was even odder.

  After our lunch orders had been placed, Jessup leaned in and said, "Look, kids, I'm gonna hand it to you straight. The problem is not the production." He looked at Ben and smiled. "Chin up, kid. You're doing a bang-up job. Remember, the producer doesn't act or sing or, even, direct." He laughed at himself. "No, the producer makes it possible for all those people to do their jobs. And you've been doing a fine job of producing. It's the script!" He banged his fist on the table.

  Everyone around us stopped and stared for a moment. I could hear Rock say, "Who is that old guy?" I tried not to grin and wondered if Jessup heard it, too.

  Jessup turned to me and said, "Look, Mr. Williams, I'm just a director. And I'm middle of the road. Mr. White here is already turning out to be a great producer. You've got a good team, not great, but good. Now what we need is a movie. Not a great movie, not even a good movie, but one that sells. But, more than a movie, we need a plan." He stopped, took a long drink of his tonic, and then burped.

  "A plan?" I asked.

  "Yes, sir. A plan. And have I got one. Came to me about two weeks ago when that fool of a choreographer was trying to get the dancers to actually dance. I mean, come on! If you're a dancer, shouldn't you be able to dance?"

  I looked around the table. Everyone was completely mesmerized by Jessup, even Ben. I certainly was. I was waiting for the plan and was getting impatient. "So, what's the plan?"

  He grinned at me, spread his hands out over the table as if he was showing off a marquee, and said, "Monumental Pictures Presents..." He looked at me. "Got that? First thing you do is get rights to that name. I think you can buy it for a song. Old man Ferriman, the one who refused to amalgamate with Columbia in 1932 and lost his shirt? Remember him?" I nodded. I didn't, but that wasn't the point. "He's still alive. Lives out in Glendora or someplace like that with his oldest kid. Practically deaf. He'll sell you the naming rights for nothing. Peanuts."

  I nodded. "OK. We buy the rights to the name and then what?"

  "Then you re-open Monumental Studios. You already own the land. Now all you gotta do is tear down the old stuff and build a couple more soundstages, maybe a big water tank, set up a screening room, an editing bay, add some offices, and you have yourself a studio. How's that sound?" He grinned at me and popped a pickled gherkin from the relish tray in his mouth.

  I shrugged. "Fine. But I get the feeling there's more."

  "Sure, there's more. You set up two units. I have a friend, Pancho Klein, great guy, so-so director, just like me. But he's fast. And I'm fast. And that's where Monumental becomes something."

  "What exactly?" asked Carter, looking as if he was going to explode with curiosity.

  "What was Monumental famous for back in its heyday?"

  I knew the answer, but before I could say anything, Carter replied, "They shot movies in ten days." That's what Marge had told us.

  I looked over at him and he winked at me. Right then, the food arrived. Once that was taken care of, I asked, "So, what are you proposing?"

  As he cut into his steak, medium-rare, he said, "You hire a couple of hack writers, maybe one or two of those commies living down in Mexico and you get 'em to start churning out scripts. Keep 'em tight and keep 'em lean. We need more than ten days, but I think we can run through a script in thirty days, tops. We edit it, add the scoring, and have a new movie ready in ninety days. With two film units, no travel any further than Bakersfield or Riverside or San Diego, and you gotta new movie coming out every forty-five days." He shoveled some mashed potatoes into his mouth. "Sure, there's gonna be some stinkers. And the actors won't be the goddam Lunts. But, lemme tell you, you got a ready-made audience. Kids all over the U.S. And Europe. Hell, everywhere but Russia and Red China. You got millions and millions of kids who are bored. They've seen TV. Fine. It's OK. But, you know what? Those TV execs, they're cautious. Kids don't write nasty letters to the Feds. It's their parents. No, it's their grandparents. You know why that fuckin' Milton Berle is such a clown right outta the Borscht Belt? It's because of those execs. All they care about is people in their 50s and 60s. Yeah. Old people. Like me." He grinned and took a sip of his tonic. "We're the ones who write into Life and Time and The Saturday goddam Evening Post and complain about what's on TV. We're the
ones who keep a special book of stamps in the desk that's just for those letters they send to Congress or the F.C.C. The TV execs are scared of the old people and don't get me started on the advertisers!" He shook his head and furiously cut into his steak and half-chewed the bite before swallowing it. "They're afraid to piss without checking the mailbox to see who wrote in, complaining about Tuesday's show. You think Kraft and General Electric are gonna make TV plays that are aimed at the Seventeen crowd? No sir, they're not. They want refinement." He rolled the first letter of the word and rolled his eyes at the same time. "Yes, sir. They want refinement. But what do kids want?"

  I shook my head. "I don't know."

  "They want fast cars. They want James Dean, or guys who look like him. They want girls in tight sweaters and tight pants who are mean or meek or in between. They want motorcycles. They want violence, or the threat of violence. They've been raised up on the boob tube for the last five or six years and they don't like it anymore. But don't go to Paramount, poor suckers, or M-G-M. They're just as afraid of the old fogies like me as the TV execs are. Hell, Paramount practically owns A.B.C. and what's left of DuMont. They're not gonna rock the boat, no, sir."

  With that, Jessup picked his bowl of tomato soup up off the table. He hadn't touched it, eating his steak first. He drained all of it in one gulp. I looked around the table again. None of us had taken a bite. It was like watching a train wreck. I couldn't look away or do anything other than listen.

  "So, who should come along? Pardon my language, but I'm sitting here at the goddam Brown Derby with four queers, just as nice as you please. You, Mr. Williams, you're the future. You're bent. You're twisted. You're different. Now, I'm not talkin' about you being in a movie or having any queers being queer in one. This ain't 1930. Sure, we'll hire queers. And dykes, too. We're gonna need 'em. Those kids who are bored with TV, they don't know it yet, but they're gonna sorta guess what's going on but we're not gonna tell 'em. Not directly. Why does Carol always wanna borrow Debbie's comb? Why is Bobby always hanging out with Tommy? They don't know. We don't tell 'em. But they know something is off. And it's exciting." He stopped and grinned lasciviously. "Even if Betty Sue is just nuts for Biff or Bob or Ben, she's gonna squirm just a little when she watches Debbie looking at Carol in the mirror. She's not gonna know why she liked it, but she'll know that she wants to see that actress who played Debbie next time she's in another Monumental picture. And what about Biff or Bob or Ben? Well, they're gonna admire Bobby for his bravery and for taking it on the chin for his handsome pal Tommy, who maybe looks like James Dean. You see where I'm going with this?"