“That’s why I wanted to see you, Diana. You were there when it all started for me. Remember?” He grinned charmingly and poured the rest of the bottle into his glass.
“Of course I do.”
“I was sitting at the bar in Martoni’s.”
Martoni’s was a restaurant located near the recording studios in Hollywood. In the sixties it became a hangout for the music people.
“You were with some guy,” he said. “You were crying.”
“Yes, I’d just broken up with him. God, what was his name? I can’t even remember why we were angry at one another.”
“He wanted to marry you, Diana.”
“That’s right. And I wanted to be an actress. I was only eighteen, the last thing I wanted was marriage. What was his name?”
“His name doesn’t matter.”
“John! John… something. God, I thought I would never forget him. What was his last name?”
“He’s not important,” Leon said testily. “It’s what happened that’s important, Diana. I had been watching you from the bar.”
“John. John… God, I almost had it.”
“Forget the last name. You got up and went to the restroom. He got up and left the restaurant. I couldn’t believe a guy could leave anyone so beautiful as you. You looked like Marianne Faithful.”
“Even Marianne Faithful looked like Marianne Faithful in those days. When I returned to the table you were sitting in John’s place. I was still crying. And without saying anything you handed me your handkerchief. No, your bandanna. It was a very touching gesture.”
“And then I asked you your name, remember?”
“And I told it to you.”
“And while you cried I wrote the lyrics for a song on the back of a cocktail napkin. I wanted to cheer you up.”
“Very sad words for a very sad young woman.”
“I want to do it again,” he declared.
“Do what again?”
“Your husband is dead which is similar to that guy walking out on you,” he attempted to explain.
“It’s not similar at all, Leon.”
He leaned back in his chair and asked, “Why did you marry Colin anyway?”
“I loved him.” What an inadequate phrase. Why does it always sound defensive?
“You loved me. And?”
“And what?”
“What other reason?”
“He never cheated one me,” I teased.
“How do you know?” He smiled.
“I know.”
“I cheated on you. And?”
“And I loved the way he wrote. I loved his words.” Colin was a screenwriter and novelist. I have his two Oscars on the mantle. They are cold and heavy.
“And you never loved my words except for that one song. In fact, you stopped loving me when it became a hit. Left me just when I needed you the most,” Leon complained.
“After you wrote ‘Diana’ you became terribly self-destructive.”
“We were all self-destructive in the sixties.”
“Not all of us. Just what do you want to do again, Leon?”
“I want to write you a song. Like I did in Martoni’s.”
We stared at one another. He was grinning, eager. I wasn’t. I was feeling uncomfortable.
“Well, that’s very sweet, Leon, but…”
“Sweet? Sweet! It’s not sweet. All my other songs were never as good, were they? I mean it was my voice that made all those stupid lyrics I wrote sound meaningful. My whole career, I kept trying to equal that one damn song. Every time I had a new album out it was compared to ‘Diana.’”
“It happens.”
“It didn’t happen to the Beatles,” he barked.
“Let me get this straight. You want to write me a new song. A song as good as the old one so you can have a number-one record again. You don’t need me for that. Go do it.”
Abruptly his mood shifted. “Every time I saw you up on the screen you reminded me of that song, and that you left me,” he accused, furious.
“You left me. For another woman.”
“I thought she would spark something in me the way you had. Only better. What was her name?”
“It doesn’t matter.” It was my turn to be testy.
“We always argued, didn’t we?” he said, sadly.
“Yes.” I sighed.
“I just want to write one more great song. Is that such a terrible thing? And I want to do it with you, because you were there.” Excited, he grabbed my arm. I know I can have another hit.” His jacket fell open, and I could see a gun in a holster attached to the side of his waist band.
“A gun?” I blurted.
“WHERE!” Leon jerked around in his chair. Another bird flew. A few more heads turned.
Lowering my voice, I said, “Attached to your waistband, Leon.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t do that, Diana. You scared the hell out of me.” Hand shaking, he emptied his glass. Then he added, defensively, “I have a permit.”
“To own a gun? Or to carry it on you?”
“How the hell do I know? Who reads the small print?”
“What are you afraid of, Leon?” I tried to keep my voice calm.
“I’m not paranoid,” he protested. “I know that’s what the doctors think. Temporary paranoia. But it’s not true. Look around you. This isn’t the world you and I grew up in. It’s changed.”
I looked around. Their stomachs filled with pasta and wine, the Oak Pointers leaned comfortably back in their deck chairs. The sun had lowered, the clouds had turned an unexplainable pink. The mountains were becoming a soft purple.
“Leon you’re living in one of the wealthiest, safest communities there is. That’s what’s changed.”
“Someone wants me dead,” he said flatly, reaching into his pocket for a crumbled piece of paper.
He handed it to me. Large letters, cut from a glossy magazine, were glued to the paper forming the sentence: YOU TOOK MY LIFE.
“When did you get this?”
“Soon after I moved up here. It was just left in the mail box. Someone knows where I live.”
“Were there other messages?”
“Two more over the last six months saying the same thing.” His gaze darted to the lone man, who was now eating a bowl of Santa Barbara mussels.
“Why isn’t that guy with somebody?”
“Maybe he’s waiting for someone.”
“But he’s already eating. Nobody eats alone in this town. You can drink alone, but you can’t eat alone. Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
“Maybe it’s him.”
“Leon, he’s just a man having lunch. Settle down, please.”
“I can’t. What if I took his wife, or daughter or son? Maybe he had a loved one on the list. Maybe I got the organ that was to go to someone he loved.”
“That’s all kept private. They don’t tell people those things. No one could know…”
“You can find out anything you want to in this world, Diana, if you have the money and the need.”
“Hey Leon, my man!” A short round man in his twenties, wearing a black coat, black silk shirt with no collar, black slacks, black woven slippers, and earrings, patted Leon’s back. “How ya doing? I just came up from L.A.”
“Steve!” Leon leapt to his feet and began pumping Steve’s hand.
Steve turned to his companion and gushed, “Leon Ashe. The legend.” His companion nodded vaguely, watching their waiting table.
“How come you didn’t return my phone call?” Leon demanded.
“We’ll talk, Leon.” Steve edged quickly away. He and his friend sat down near the man who was eating alone.
“Do you know who that is?” Leon settled back in his chair. I shook my head.
“Steve Tinker. The number-one record producer. He’s got three records in the top ten. I remember when I had two. He called me when he heard I was dying. Said how much I’d formed his views on music. Said he wished that he’d had
a chance to work with me. Said he wouldn’t be where he was today if I hadn’t made the records I‘d made. Especially, ‘Diana.’” Leon stopped talking and lapsed into an uneasy silence. The lines deepened around his mouth, and he began to nod his head as if he’d just figured out something.
“I didn’t die, Diana,” he said harshly. “I lived. I called Steve Tinker back to see when he wanted to work with me. But he never returned my phone calls. Not one. I’m tired of being a fucking legend, Diana. I’m gonna show them. I’m gonna do it again. But I need you.” He was pleading now.
“What do I have to do with any of this, Leon?”
“You were, you are ‘Diana.’ Don’t you see? You were better than acid.”
“How’s your wife?”
“Young. She doesn’t even know who Three Dog Night is.
You don’t think I can do it again, do you?”
“I think you don’t have to do it again, Leon.”
“I gotta take a leak.” He jumped up and loped a wide circle around the lone man, who was busy plucking a mussel from its shell.
I took a sip of wine and for a brief moment wondered what my life would have been like if I had married John what’s-his-name. He didn’t want me to be an actress. I remembered that. So I would’ve ended up the wife of an insurance salesman? A banker? To me, John had represented what we were all afraid of in the sixties. Stability. He was hard-working. Earnest. But there was something about him, something I had responded too. What? I couldn’t remember. And what were we doing in Martoni’s? I must’ve taken him there. I was young and wanted to be a part of The Scene. And then I met Leon. Now, Leon wants to go back to that time, that moment. Or does he just want to be young again, and not afraid of death?
The number-one record producer got up and came toward me. “You a friend of Leon’s?” he asked urgently.
“Yes.”
“I did a good deed and called a dying man expecting…” he paused, dabbing at his small lips with his napkin, trying to find the right words.
“Expecting him to die?” I helped.
“Yes. So tell him to stop calling me. Or I’m going to start taking those calls of his as threats, as a form of stalking.” He made an attempt at looking thoughtful and asked, “Didn’t I just see you in something? You played Uma Thurman’s mother in Like Daughter. You were great.”
“Bette Davis was great.”
“Is she seeing anybody?” he asked.
“Bette Davis?”
“Uma Thurman.”
“Yes.”
“Tell Leon to lay off.” He clamped shut his small petty lips, stopped to shake someone else’s hand, and returned to his table.
Leon did his unintentionally funny lope around the lone man, who was now dipping bread in his broth, and sat down opposite me.
“Where’s the other bottle of wine?” he asked rubbing his hands together.
“I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
We got the waiters attention, ordered lunch, and Leon got his new bottle.
Whispering, he asked, “Did you see the way he was looking at me?”
“The record producer?”
“The guy eating alone.”
“He’s not looking at you, Leon.”
“He was.”
“Maybe he knows who you are. Have you ever thought of that?”
“Why would he know?”
“Because you’re a legend. Remember?”
“It’s not that kind of look. He doesn’t admire me. I can tell. I think I’m being followed.”
“Did you go to the police with the messages?”
“What good are the police?” Not waiting for an answer, he quickly changed the subject back to us. “You and I may have argued, but we were magical together, Diana.”
“We were miserable together, Leon. The minute your record came out and went to number one you changed. You lost your sense of humor, your wit. You spent your entire time, no your entire career, trying to recreate that one record.”
“I was an artist.”
“Stravinsky was an artist. Picasso was an artist.”
“Are you saying I wasn’t? Are you saying I didn’t know what I was doing?” he exploded, a wild look appeared in his dark eyes. A few people turned.
I lowered my voice and tried to reassure him. “I’m saying you wrote one hell of a song. But you were a better performer. Your best hits were with other peoples’ songs. You didn’t need to write another ‘Diana.’ You still don’t need to do that. Find some rock standards, record them. That’s what you need to do. Go out and perform. Rock-and-roll, now, is middle-aged and sober. Stop drinking.”
“You’ve never understood me, have you? It was the singer-songwriters who were the fucking artists. I didn’t want to be some parrot mouthing other people’s words. I forgot what kind of shrew you are. Even at eighteen you had a tongue dipped in venom.”
“Pen.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“I didn’t ask you to come here to give me reality checks. When I was dying all I could of think of was you. Thank God I lived so I could remember you as you really are. You haven’t aged that well, Diana,” he observed spitefully.
“At least I have my own liver,” I snapped back.
“What do you mean by that?”
“It was a stupid reply to your attempt at a hurtful remark.”
“No, you meant you’re free from guilt. You meant you haven’t taken something that really belongs to someone else. That’s what you meant.”
“I can’t carry on this conversation anymore, Leon. I’m sorry, but we always end up hurting each other. I never should’ve come.”
“No, you hurt me. I never hurt you,” he persisted dangerously.
The lone man at the table stood, holding his paper he walked toward us.
“Excuse me, are you Leon Ashe?” he asked, slightly embarrassed.
Leon blanched. Trembling, he reached inside his sport coat, fumbling for his gun.
“Leon, don’t.” I grabbed hold of his arm. He shoved me away.
The man looked confused. “I just wanted to say that you wrote one of the greatest songs. You are Leon Ashe, aren’t you?”
Leon pulled his gun out. But somehow he’d got it by the barrel. Attempting to get it pointed at the man, he knocked over the wine bottle: It shattered on the pavers. The man took a quick step back. The Oak Pointers began to move nervously in their chairs. Leon got the barrel pointed in the right direction. The man retreated some more.
“Leon, don’t!” I screamed.
The sound of the gun cracked through the al fresco dining. Patrons ducked under their tables. Sunglasses flew, birds flew, wine glasses toppled.
“Leon!” I breathed in.
Still aiming the gun, Leon stood. The man froze. Then Leon dropped his gun, clutched his chest, and fell to the ground. The man let his newspaper fall, displaying his own gun. We looked briefly at one another as he placed it on the table and walked out to the parking lot.
“Call for help,” I screamed, kneeling by Leon.
Blood ran from his mouth. His eyes were half open. I felt for a pulse. Leon Ashe was dead. The record producer was on his knees, waving his napkin as if he were surrendering. The customers, most of them flattened on the floor, began reaching for their wives, husbands, lovers, friends, sunglasses. I hurried out to the parking lot.
Eyes closed, the man leaned against a Range Rover. He clasped his hands tightly in front of him in a desperate kind of prayer. Sensing my presence, he slowly looked at me.
“Hello, Diana.”
“John Hartford.” I’d finally remembered the last name of the man who had left me in Martoni’s all those years ago.
“I wrote you a poem on the back of a cocktail napkin.” He spoke in calm quiet voice. “I left it for you on the table to let you know how much I loved you. I thought it would bring you back to me. That it would show you that I had more in me than just wanting to be a banker.”
“You
wrote the words to ‘Diana’?”
“I was a romantic. Leon was a thief.”
“But why kill him?”
“Leon got away with everything. Even my words. Even you. The day I read he was dying was one of the happiest days of my life. But then he got a liver transplant and moved to Oak Point. I put messages in his mailbox to scare him. But I knew he wasn’t going to leave. He destroyed my youth; I wasn’t going to let him destroy my retirement. I read about your husband’s death. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“My wife died recently.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“You grew a mustache.”
“Yes. Lost most of my hair.” He flushed. “I wanted to call you, Diana. Tell you I was really the romantic.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Would you have believed me?”
“Not when I was eighteen. But now? Yes.”
“He shot Leon Ash. A rock ’n’ roll legend,” the record producer chanted to a group forming around us. “A fucking legend!” He still clutched his napkin, which was covered with marinara sauce or Leon’s blood.
“I saw you play Uma Thurman’s mother,” John Hartford said, taking me in. You’re still beautiful, Diana.”
I put my hand on his cheek. He covered my hand with his.
“If only you’d called me,” I said.
The police pulled up and got out of their cars. Without being commanded, John Hartford threw his arms in the air. It was a gesture worthy of the movies. Like leaving a poem on a table for a tearful young woman to discover.
Facing Up
I was pondering why some women have so much plastic surgery done to their faces. When they look in the mirror do they really think they look younger or better? Or as they now say, “rested.” Then I remembered that phrase that all women at one time or another have blurted out, “God, I look like my mother.” Then I asked myself the question: What if a woman feared looking like her mother to such an extent that she would let, or be cajoled by, a plastic surgeon to work on her until she was unrecognizable, even to her friends? Now all I had to do was answer that question and I had a story.
Shooting Hollywood Page 5