Danny and Maryanne took cash—no jewelry, no checks, no promises to pay. It was strictly cash, from the bedroom to the bank, cash in hand and good-bye, lady.
And by the way, should you mention this whole episode to anyone at all, let’s say to your lady friends, as a warning, why, then the whole thing would be blown wide open. The exchange of money would be denied. You would be accused of handing over this poor fifteen-year-old for sexual exploitation by your rich idle, corrupting friends.
No one ever talked.
And her ex-husband, the former Willie Paycek, knew everything that was going on. He gathered information from a collection of would-be actors, writers, all those young people who worked as maids and baby-sitters and drivers; who taught the rich kids how to swim and dance and ride; who listened and observed and reported to Willie, who rewarded them with a day’s work, a recommendation—a chance. He filed away data, bits and pieces, names and dates and places, in the incredible bank of his brain. He knew who and when, and how much at the end. He thought the boy a remarkable operator. He considered Maryanne no more than a clever whore who now used her son’s body, since her own was unacceptable.
The most significant physical changes the new Willie Peace achieved were through the services of a good plastic surgeon, at whose office he arrived carrying an eight-by-ten glossy of Alan Ladd. The surgeon studied the photograph, and then the contours of his patient’s face. There was some good bone structure, despite the uncorrected broken nose. The slightly crossed left eye could be fixed by a good eye surgeon, whom he could recommend. The lank, colorless hair could be bleached and styled so that a soft light wave would fall naturally over the newly dyed, dark eyebrows. His pale coloring could be suntanned; his lips were full, and he must stop biting them. The procedures would not be pleasant, but not overly painful either. The results would be worth the discomfort, of that he could rest assured.
And he did, in fact, emerge looking very much like his favorite movie star.
A custom shoemaker provided him with invisible lifts that added a good two inches to his five-foot-five-inch stature—Alan Ladd’s exact height. Exercise and body-building trimmed and firmed and shaped him so that his custom clothes, both for dress and casual wear, showed off a good tight body with a firm torso. He learned not to slouch, to stand as tall as he could, head held high, viewing the world through handsome, expensive, tinted aviator glasses that added some mystery to his face.
And he learned when to maintain a silence. He taught himself to stop babbling nervously. When he was tense, he breathed deeply in a relaxing, cleansing manner he had been taught. Never let the other guy know you are tense. Keep the upper hand, the cool, calm exterior. He cultivated a slightly sinister manner. It was hard to know what Willie Peace was thinking when he disappeared into his increasingly well-known staring silences.
No one actually knew the murderous rages he experienced. He kept all anger and fury deep inside himself. He realized that the more stillness he showed, the more maneuverable others around him became. When he worked on a Peace project, regardless of the funding, there was one power, one force behind every aspect of the production, a power and force he had developed through a lifetime of neglect and rejection. It was a form of getting even with the world at large. Individual scores could be settled one at a time. Willie Peace kept quiet score.
He came into his office very early one Sunday morning, giving himself two hours before his staff arrived. He wanted to go over current production figures. His control depended on his total familiarity with every facet of the work.
Until he switched the radio on, he had forgotten it was Sunday morning. Seated at his desk, he stretched, rubbed his eyes, waited for the music, and felt irritated at the preachy voice over background organ music. He got up, went to the windowsill to snap the radio off, but stopped, his fingers on the dial, and listened.
“… Monsignor Eugene O’Brien, just recently back from the leper colony at Gabon, will speak to us this morning. Monsignor, representing the Society for the Propagation of the Faith, will speak to us about …”
The introduction went on and on, filling Willie’s memory with fumes of incense, recalling the smoky dimness, the candles, the darkness of the church. The next voice surprised him and he leaned on his elbows, listening.
“I went into the leper colony filled with pride. After all, I had been a very important assistant to a cardinal. I had spent five years at the Vatican, involved in the most worldly aspects of our Church, surrounded by comfort and privilege. It was for my pride that I was sent. It was in search of humility and closeness to God that I spent my days.
“I would like to take the theme of my talk this morning from a question asked of me by a child, seven years old, dying slowly of the terrible disease of leprosy. His fingers were stumps; his feet were gone; all that was left of his face were two glittering bright eyes that could no longer blink. His lips were gone so that his teeth shone in a perpetual grin—a death’s-head smile. I spoke to the child for a moment. I prayed for him without really seeing him. It was too painful a sight. I felt afflicted by the damage before me. I wanted to turn away. I wanted to be somewhere—anywhere—else.
“After I prayed, I forced myself to look upon this child’s wasted body, his damaged face. When he spoke, his voice was so soft, so hoarse, I had to lean forward, inhaling the terrible odor of impending death, breathe his breath, his presence, his condition, into my own being.
“‘Father,’” he whispered, ‘I know that God loves me, but how can I love Him better?’
“This wasted child, this destroyed little body, with all the reason in the world to despair, this blameless child acknowledged, accepted unquestionably, without a moment’s doubt, from his bed of pain, the love of Our Lord. His concern was not for himself, not for his situation, but for the grace of his soul. ‘How can I love God better?’
“I thought of my own initial anger and resentment at being sent to this terrible place; of the loss of luxuries I had accepted as a daily right; of the prestige that had been accorded me. How easy it had been there, under those circumstances, to love God, to say I loved God unconditionally, as this child was able to do from his ragged bed of pain.
“This dying child was in a state of grace so rare, so incredibly beautiful, that he took my breath away. I felt humbled and devastated, not for his physical condition but for the deplorable condition of my soul.”
He went on for another fifteen minutes. The thrust of the whole thing, of course, was a plea for funds. The Church’s various charities must be funded. The victims of disease and poverty could be helped not just through prayer, but with medication, doctoring, bedding, sanitation, better food.
It was not what Eugene O’Brien said, though his words were powerful. It was his voice, the musicality, the pitch, the rising and falling. My God, Willie Peace thought, my God, Gene is incredible. He has a marvelous voice, a skilled actor’s delivery. He remembered how handsome Gene had been as a young boy. Was he still handsome? Had he matured out of his beauty or into it?
He would have to see for himself.
Monsignor O’Brien was a very popular guest speaker at breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. He was comfortable on the dais, flanked by the rulers of the Hollywood industry. He was casual, polite, but unimpressed by the beautiful movie stars who sought his attention. He developed an easy, meaningless repartee that served him for all public occasions, and although he gained a reputation as a poised and powerful speaker, very few could recall his actual message. They gave huge amounts of money to the Church solely because of the presence of the gorgeous priest.
At the end of an LAPD Holy Name Society Breakfast, where the politicians rather than the moguls held sway, Willie Peace sat quietly at the table for ten for which he had paid. He was on good terms with working cops; he used them as extras, security, and sources of information. He had watched carefully as the guest speaker rose, comfortable with this crowd. The monsignor told them he was the son of a police captain and the
nephew of a policeman. That immediately established him as “family” to the assembly. He complimented their organization, praised their work and their spiritual leader. His talk was brisk and to the point. He had a few good things to say about Senator Joe McCarthy, and warned them of the necessity to be vigilant against the Communists and their hidden conspiracies. Especially out here, in Hollywood, the leading shaper of public attitudes. Things could be slipped in so easily, influencing the innocent and the unsuspecting. It was their responsibility as Catholics to be especially watchful. They loved him and cheered his message, which was quite different from the speeches he delivered in other settings.
So Gene was not only articulate, he was shrewd. A savvy guy, whose looks, through time, had fulfilled the promise of his youth.
He was beautiful in the way of the camera-perfect star. From almost every angle, his pale, high-cheekboned, fine-featured face seemed flawless. His hair was thick and pure white; his eyebrows were dark and well-shaped; his eyes, fringed by thick, dark lashes, were strangely colorless: pure round circles of ice with pinpoint pupils that seemed to bore into the object of his gaze. His smile was easy, his white teeth were dazzling. He used his hands sparingly, but with effect.
The guy was an actor, with a voice that was deep and compelling, and he had a feel for phrasing. He was a natural.
Willie waited until the admiring crowd of policemen had had their moments, shaking hands, congratulating the monsignor, thanking him, assuring him of their commitment to Catholicism and against Communism. Willie edged along with the crowd, following close behind as the priest headed skillfully toward the door, his smile including everyone, his departure timed carefully to offend no one. Just before he reached for his expensive black coat, which was handed to him by a young priest, Willie Peace touched his shoulder. Gene turned politely, the smile ready, the coat already slipped on.
“Gene, you really know how to deliver to your audience,” Willie said.
If the overfamiliarity annoyed him, the priest showed nothing but a bland smile, a slight nod, a politely mouthed, automatic “Thank you.”
“I’ve got a check here I wanted to give you myself.”
He handed over the check, which Gene automatically handed off to his young assistant, without looking at it.
“Thank you so much.” He extended his hand, which gave a quick, hard, practiced shake, then he looked slightly startled when the small, neat man didn’t release him.
“Don’t you know me, Gene? I guess I’ve changed a lot more than you. Jeez, you look as young as you did on Ryer Avenue. Just as sharp, maybe a little taller, but then, to short guys like me, you O’Briens always looked like giants.”
The voice seemed vaguely familiar, a voice from the past, but the articulation was different, devoid of the Bronx sound, flattened into the universal middle-American usage of most of Hollywood. He bit his lip, shook his head slightly, then stared intently.
“Willie? Not Willie Paycek? Willie, out here, in Hollywood?”
“The same, Father Gene. Only not really the same.” He pulled off his glasses, lifted the chin, offered himself for inspection. “A few improvements, but it’s still me. Changed the name, too. I’m Willie Peace now, Gene.”
“Well, that’s a good name: Peace. Willie Peace. Why is that familiar to me?”
For the first time, the kid from the Bronx emerged from behind the pleasant features. He ran a hand through his straight blond hair. The grin showed good teeth: no more gray, broken, neglected horrors.
“I’m a producer, Father Gene.” He named his two latest pictures. “So far, no problems with the Legion of Decency.”
“Glad to hear that. Have you a family, Willie?”
“Footloose and fancy-free. This is a different world out here. You don’t have to marry your high school sweetheart and stay in that mess for the rest of your life. Hey, no offense, okay? It’s just a different world out here. I guess we’ve both found that out, huh?”
They spoke vaguely of the Bronx, of family ties that, in Willie’s case, had been broken long ago, but were maintained long-distance by Gene. Finally, as he carefully prepared to make his departure, Gene realized there was something specific that this new Willie wanted from him.
“I’d like to make an appointment with you, Gene. There is something I’ve been thinking about since I first heard you on the radio one Sunday morning. That’s why I came to this breakfast. I wanted to see you in person. I’m doing some television work now. Some kids’ programming that’s been doing very well. And I think you are wasting your time doing these small fund-raisers day after day. How many of these lousy breakfasts and chicken dinners can you eat? I can show you a way to reach millions—literally millions—of people at one shot.”
Gene O’Brien gazed thoughtfully at Willie. “Call my assistant, Father Randall, for an appointment.” He gestured to the young priest, who handed Willie a card. “Good to see you, Willie.” And then, smiling: “Willie Paycek, my God. Sorry, Willie Peace. A good name. I’ll have to get used to it. And to your new look, Willie Peace.”
“And I’ll have to learn to call you Monsignor.”
“Gene will be fine. After all, we were boys together.”
“Yeah, we were.” Willie nodded abruptly and was the one to walk away first, but then he stopped and turned back.
“Oh, by the way, Gene,” he said casually, “the check I gave your priest here. It’s my personal check. For your children’s fund. Ten thousand, dollars. See ya.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WITHIN THE NEXT YEAR, THERE WAS A most astonishing, magical connection made between Eugene O’Brien and the eye of the television camera. He seemed to enter into another dimension of life as he stood for a motionless moment, letting the camera find him, and then, with an almost imperceptible nod, as though to a long-sought soul mate, he began to speak.
At first, television executives groaned. They couldn’t believe it—one hour of a talking head? And a religious talking head, at that? Just this guy, with a chair and a lectern, without guests, without notes, spouting pious platitudes at the Catholics in the country, turning off the Midwest, the Bible Belt, the tight-assed Northeast? In prime time? Willie Peace might be a helluva good producer, with all his movies and his Saturday-morning kids’ shows, but Jesus! “Monsignor Eugene O’Brien Welcomes You”?
They hadn’t known what to expect. They hadn’t seen Gene O’Brien. And when the rest of the country, by the second or third week—maybe because of the interesting reviews, or word of mouth, or just for the hell of it—gave him a quick look, they stayed with him.
It was as though the man had been made for the medium, the medium for the man. His image could not have been more effective; he wore simple priestly black and a clean white collar. His white hair reflected too much light and had to be just slightly sprayed down. He consented to face makeup when told that, with his fair complexion, he would be lost under the lights. But it was his eyes that mesmerized the fascinated audience. And his voice, mellifluous, forming ordinary words into beautiful sounds. He was a natural, in total control of a still-new medium. For one hour before the camera, another entity took over his beautiful presence, limited his long pale hands to careful, graceful motions. His pauses were as meaningful as his words; his timing was superb.
He spoke to a country that was in a hopeful, growing mood, that wanted to hear about possibilities and dreams. His cautionary words reminded them they did not live in a perfect world, although they had suffered through four years of war and were anxious to get on with their perfect lives in the exciting postwar time of growth and change in the good old U.S.A.
“There is a new war, or rather a continuing war, for hearts and minds. An insidious enemy that we must encounter, recognize, and expose, individually and as a nation.”
He spoke of the Communist threat—how it affected every aspect of our daily lives through subtle propaganda disseminated in novels, newspaper columns, movies, and radio and television. He told his audience of n
ew ways to listen, to read, to understand. He told them about the Washington hearings, the Hollywood Ten, the potentially devastating writers and professors who were, even as he spoke, corrupting the innocence of our youth.
That was his favorite theme: Communism.
But he always ended on a warm, joyous note. He spoke again of the small leper who asked, “How can I love God better?”
“He didn’t ask for a deal with God. You know what I mean. Schoolchildren pray ‘God, just let me pass this math test and I will do such-and-such for you.’ Businessmen pray, ‘God, just let me make this deal and I’ll give x number of dollars to the church.’”
He spoke lightly, with humor, with understanding of human foibles. He implicated himself; he was a sinner, he could not stand comparison with the unblemished love of that dying child. It would forever be his measuring rod on which he would forever fall short.
“But we must try. Truly. No matter how far short we fall of that total purity of love offered by the dying child, we must try, to the best of our abilities, to love God.”
He ended with a long, penetrating gaze directly into the hearts and souls of his unseen audience. “I will pray for you for the grace of God. I ask that you pray for me. Thank you and God bless you.”
Fade out on the mysterious, beautiful face of Monsignor O’Brien.
He had commercial sponsors waiting in the wings. The price for a minute of advertising on his program matched and topped any price commanded by the most popular entertainment shows.
When he spoke of the need for contributions to maintain missionary posts, when he spoke about the need for new parochial schools and for university education for the teaching nuns, when he spoke about the necessity to convince young men to enter the priesthood and the funds needed for their recruitment, education, and preparation, the funds came in from all over the country.
The Ryer Avenue Story: A Novel Page 35