Humphrey Bogart

by Darwin Porter

  As insulted as he was by Tracy’s advice, Bogie listened to it. He’d never overplay a character again. “There’s at least one thing I like about the script. I get the girl.”

  “So you do,” Tracy said, pouring himself another drink. “On the screen you do. In real life, I’ve already got Claire. She’s about to show up here any minute. The moment I introduce the two of you, I want you to get the hell out of here. I’m horny this morning, and that Ziegfeld cutie is one mighty fine piece of tail.”

  As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. Tracy signaled Bogie to open it.

  Standing on the stoop was a stunningly attractive woman, Claire Luce. He recognized her from her photographs. “Can a lady darken these chambers? Or is it strictly a stag party?”

  “Come on in. I’m Humphrey Bogart.”

  “Call him Bogie,” Tracy chimed in. “Everybody does.”

  Bogie stepped back to make way for her.

  “Haul that cute ass over here,” Tracy said to Luce. “Give your daddy a kiss. I’m in the mood for a big, wet, sloppy one.”

  Excusing himself, Bogie left the dressing room, shutting the door tightly behind him. Walking toward the set, he encountered for the first time an angry John Ford, the blood vessels on his head looking as if they were about to pop.

  ***

  “I’ve just got back from the front office,” John Ford said to Bogie. “C’mon, let’s go for a drive. I’ve got to clear my head.”

  As Bogie headed for the studio parking lot with the director, Ford didn’t say a word but looked like doom and gloom had cascaded down around him.& Bogie suspected that he and Tracy had been fired from the cast and had been replaced with two other actors.

  “Get in,” Ford commanded when they reached his car. He drove out of the studio and headed up into the hills. Back in those relatively traffic-free days, you could actually drive in Los Angeles.

  As Ford floored the accelerator and took dangerous curves, almost missing them, Bogie was terrified, his eyes popping out almost as much as Joan Blondell’s. Ford kept his eyes glued on the curvy highway. Bogie wondered if Sheehan had fired him too. He even flashed on the possibility that he was playing a secondary role in a suicide run, with Ford planning to take the car, Bogie, and himself over the mountain. That would be like a& real life version of Thelma and Louise decades before that film was eventually shot.

  “For God’s sake, man, look out!” Bogie shouted at him. He figured he didn’t want to plunge to his death without putting up some protest.

  Ford braked the car suddenly, coming to an abrupt stop at a belvedere. When Bogie got out of the car, he noticed that if Ford hadn’t applied that brake in time he would indeed have destroyed the car. Ford had allowed himself only a foot of land. Bogie looked back at him. “I’d call that a close shave.”

  “I’m a bit of a daredevil when it comes to driving,” Ford said.

  “Could have fooled me,” Bogie said, still shaken from the experience. He figured that it would be safer to walk back down that mountain than to get into the car again.

  Ford got out of the car and stood next to a still-unnerved Bogie. “I always come up here to clear my head. It’s the most beautiful view in Los Angeles.”

  This was the first time Bogie had looked at the view. It was indeed panoramic. The director had a keen eye for locale.

  “I’ve got a cast and crew waiting back at Fox, but no script,” Ford said.

  “But I’ve read the script,” Bogie said.

  “It’s been junked,” Ford said, sucking in the fresh morning air. “Fox Studios has decided that we can’t compete with The Big House. I’ve been ordered to turn our film into a prison comedy.”

  “That’s a novel idea,” Bogie said.

  “Get this,” Ford said. “I start shooting tomorrow morning.”

  “Without a script?” Bogie asked, dumbfounded.

  “I’ll stay up late every night and come into the studio with enough pages written to shoot for the day,” Ford said. “The God damn film is only ninety minutes long. I can do it. You’ll see.”

  “From what I’ve read, it’s a pretty grim story to turn into a comedy,” Bogie said.

  “In its present shape, it’s a piece of junk,” Ford said, “but I can convert it into a convict comedy. Slapstick and sentiment, that’s the way to go. Instead of hardened criminals, you guys can just be naughty boys. It’ll be artlessly disarming.”

  Bogie wasn’t convinced.

  “Right now I’m writing a scene in my head,” Ford said. “In the new version some prisoners stage a theatrical production for the chain gang. In this all-male cast, some of the prisoners can dress in drag. I’ll get some discarded gowns from Mae West. Right now I can see Tracy and that actor, Warren Hymer—or is it Hymen?—dressing up like women. They’ll make a break for it dressed like gals. Run off to New England to thwart the evil villain’s plan. When that mission is accomplished, they’ll voluntarily come back to prison and turn themselves in, in time to win the annual baseball game.”

  “Sounds like a laugh riot,” Bogie said.

  “Let’s go for it,” Ford said. “But first I’ve got to ask you a question. Do you have a pair of balls on you?”

  “I’d call them that,” Bogie said, “although I’m sure there are a lot of guys in Hollywood with a bigger pair.”

  “What I mean is, do you like to fuck women?” Ford said. “Most of those Broadway sissies they send over from New York, guys like Kenneth MacKenna, had rather water the pansies in their garden than fuck women.”

  “I do my share of fucking,” Bogie said. “Maybe more than most men.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Ford said. “I’m taking you to Louise’s. It’s the best little whorehouse in the West. All the Hollywood stars go there. Louise has her pick of the most beautiful women in America. All the cute little milkmaids who get off the train here wanting to be stars end up as whores, and the best of them end up with Louise.”

  “I could always use a good piece of ass,” Bogie said.

  “Get in the car,” Ford said. “We’re off.”

  Committing his life into Ford’s hands once again, Bogie reluctantly got in. Ford drove even worse and more recklessly down the mountain than he did going up it. But, finally, they arrived alive at Louise’s, a surprisingly elegant bordello.

  Louise appeared to be over fifty but it was obvious that she’d been a beauty in her day. She kissed Ford on the mouth. “John and I go way back,” she said. “He’s one cowboy who sure knows how to take care of a lady.” She paused. “If memory serves.”

  “Meet Humphrey Bogart,” Ford said. “He’s an actor out of New York. Who knows? He might become one of your best customers.”

  “I hope so,” she said, looking Bogie up and down. “I’d take you on for free.”

  “He wants something young and cute today, dearie,” Ford interjected.

  “Maybe some other time,” Bogie said, kissing the aging madam on the cheek.

  “Okay, boys,” she said. “I hope you like blondes, though. Last night I had a large group of clients from Argentina. Those horny bastards wanted only blondes. I had to order every gal in my joint to dye her hair both on top and down below.”

  “Blondes will be just fine,” Ford said.

  Within thirty minutes, Bogie found himself entering a small cubicle of a room. It was dimly lit. But there was enough illumination to accentuate the curves of a very voluptuous blonde lying nude on the bed, wearing only a pair of black stockings and emerald-green high heels. “Come on in, good looking, and lock the door.”

  “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Bogie said, feasting his eyes on her luscious body.

  She introduced herself as Dawn Night.

  “That sounds like a real good name,” he said, as he unbuckled his trousers.

  After their lovemaking, she became confidential. “My name is not really Dawn Night,” she confessed. “I just made that one up. I’m keeping my real name a secret for screen billing
. I’m going to become the biggest female star ever to set foot in Hollywood.”

  He’d certainly heard that line a lot from his previous encounters with chorus gals, except in New York the women always said “Broadway” instead of “Hollywood.” “What’s your real name? I won’t tell. That way, when I see your name up on the marquee, I’ll know to go in to see your picture.”

  “Okay.” She giggled again. “If you promise not to tell.”

  “Trust me, I won’t tell.”

  “Not so fast,” she said. “Are you sure I can trust you? I mean, you’re an actor and everything.”

  “Sure I know how to keep my lip zipped,” Bogie said. “I sorta dig you, and I’d like to see you again.”

  “But not in this place. I won’t be working here much longer. I’ve appeared on Broadway. I’m just picking up some quick cash. I’m not really a whore.”

  “Coming from some other gal I’d doubt that. But I believe you.”

  “I’ve already made one film,” she said. “It was just a small part and I went unbilled. But I’ve got this great friend. She’s an actress and she’s gonna be real big. She’s helping me break into Hollywood.”

  “What’s your friend’s name?” he asked. “Maybe I’ve heard of her.”

  “Joan Blondell.”

  He was startled but said nothing, masking his shock.

  “Only the other day, Mervyn LeRoy was in here with me,” she said. “You know, the director? He’s promised to put me in a big gangster film. He said it’s going to be the biggest film of the year. It’s going to star Edward G. Robinson, and it’s going to be called Little Caesar. Robinson is going to play Rico Bandello, a two-bit hoodlum. Even if he is a star, you can have Robinson. When LeRoy casts me in the movie, I’m going to chase after the co-star. That handsome hunk, Doug Fairbanks Jr., is going to play Tony Massara, Rico’s best friend. Before the filming is over, I’m going to take Doug boy away from that whore, Joan Crawford.”

  “I think a lot of women—maybe a lot of men, too—would like to take that stud away from Crawford. Now tell me your name.”

  “Glenda Farrell,” she blurted out. “Remember that name. Me and you will no doubt appear in some pictures together. You see, I’m going to become Queen of Warner Brothers.”

  ***

  On the set of Up the River that morning, Bogie sat having bitter black coffee with his co-star, Claire Luce. Even though she was Tracy’s temporary mistress, Bogie was plotting to see if he could take Luce away from his newly acquired friend. It was the beginning of a one-upmanship that would last until Bogie’s death.

  In the film, Luce played “Judy,” an innocent young girl who was framed by a crooked stock salesman and sent “up the river.”

  Many chroniclers of Bogie’s life have confused Claire Luce with Clare Boothe Luce, (1903-87), the talented, wealthy, beautiful, and controversial New Yorker, best remembered as a congresswoman (1942-46) and playwright who penned The Women. She was the first female American ambassador when Dwight Eisenhower appointed her to her post in Italy in 1952. The “Luce” was added to her name when she married magazine tycoon, Henry R. Luce, of Time-Life-Fortune.

  A much more modest achiever, Claire Luce, the actress sitting across from Bogie, launched herself as a cigarette girl in Rochester, New York, and worked her way to Broadway as a chorus girl. She ended up having an affair with Flo Ziegfeld who cast her in The Follies of 1927.

  As they sat idly by, Luce told Bogie that she’d fallen madly in love with Tracy and that he had promised to divorce his wife and marry her. Even though Bogie had just launched his friendship with the actor, he suspected that Tracy had used the same line on many a chorus gal.

  From where he sat talking to Luce, Bogie spotted John Ford striding onto the set. Bogie would later claim that John Wayne learned his distinctive walk on screen by imitating John Ford.

  Ford looked angry and hung over, as he’d been up all night trying to turn “this fucker of a prison drama into a God damn comedy.”

  Both Bogie and Luce were relieved to learn that they wouldn’t have to face Ford’s ire that day. Ford’s assistant, Tom Hubbard, had told them that they weren’t scheduled to go on camera. Nevertheless, Hubbard said that they had to appear at the Fox studio early every morning throughout the entire shoot in case Ford decided to use them.

  “As long as I get paid,” Bogie said.

  After a brief conference with Ford, Hubbard approached Bogie and Luce with a concerned look on his face. Always the curious one, Bogie wanted to know what was the matter. Hubbard called Bogie aside, as he didn’t want to speak in front of Luce.

  “The first scene involves Tracy,” Hubbard said, once he was out of earshot of Luce. “And he hasn’t shown up this morning. We know where he lives. The front office has a phone number for him. The phone rings off the wall. Ford said that if Tracy doesn’t& show up on the set by three o’clock at the latest, he’s casting Jimmy Cagney in the part. It seems that Cagney is free for two weeks and can play the role.”

  “God damn it,” Bogie said. “This is Spence’s first starring role in a feature film. If he fucks this up, he’s finished in Hollywood. Word will spread like wildfire. I know he drinks a lot.”

  “Would you believe that if the Pacific Ocean were alcohol, Spence would have it drained dry in a weekend?”

  “Maybe I’d better try to find him,” Bogie responded.

  Back in those days of lax security, all one had to do was arrive at a hotel’s reception desk, ask for a patron’s room number, take the elevator upstairs, and knock on the door. That is exactly what Bogie did when he arrived in the lobby of the Hollywood Plaza.

  At room 401, Bogie pounded on the door. At first there was no answer. He pounded again. Finally, the door was opened just a bit as it was still bolted to a link chain.

  “I’m Humphrey Bogart,” he said. “I’ve got to get in touch with Spencer Tracy. I’ve come over from Fox.”

  Although he couldn’t see too well, it sounded like a young man behind the door. “Oh,” he said. “I’ve heard of you. You’re co-starring with Spence in his movie.”

  “Let me in,” Bogie demanded in his most forceful voice.

  “I guess it’s okay,” the young man said.

  “I’m his friend,” Bogie said. “Here to help him.”

  The young man unfastened the latch and let Bogie into the dark room. The light switch came on. Before Bogie stood one of the most beautiful young men he’d ever seen in his life. He was definitely movie star material himself. He wore only a pair of white boxer shorts, revealing his trim athletic build.

  “I’m Lew Ayres,” the semi-nude man said. Suddenly, Bogie realized who this boyishly handsome man was. Everyone in Hollywood was talking about his success in the role of Paul Baumer in All Quiet on the Western Front, Lewis Milestone’s World War I masterpiece based on Erich Maria Remarque’s novel detailing the horrors of war and its devastating effect on fighting men.

  There was talk that the part, his third appearance on camera, might win him the Academy Award for poignantly portraying a young schoolboy thrown into the frenzy of war. In the film he was supposed to be bewildered by his loss of innocence. Bogie wondered how innocent Ayres could possibly be after a night with Tracy.

  Without knowing the details, the evidence against Tracy was enough to convict. His new friend was a bisexual. Like all the great “womanizers” of Hollywood that Bogie knew or would know& in the future, from George Raft to Errol Flynn, these Romeos seemed to go for boys on the side.

  Ayres headed across the suite’s living room and put on his trousers and an undershirt. Barefoot, he came back over to Bogie. “Spence was doing fine last night,” he said, “but as the night wore on, he drank more and more. He’s in the bedroom there sprawled out totally drunk. I’ve been unable to get him up to go to work. I know he’s due on Ford’s set.”

  Bogie crossed the living room and looked into the small, almost alcove-like bedroom. There with the morning light streaming in, Spence la
y sprawled nude near the edge of the bed, his mouth open. He was breathing heavily and his head fell over the edge of the mattress and seemed to hang in midair.

  “Lew, my good man,” Bogie said, turning around to confront Ayres. “Call room service for a big pot of strong black coffee. This here movie star, Mr. Spencer Tracy, and his juvenile lead are heading for the shower. I’m going to wake this drunken sod up if it kills me.”

  “You think you can?” a hesitant Ayres asked. “I’ve tried everything already.”

  “It won’t be just the cold shower and the bitter black coffee,” Bogie said. “My father’s a doctor in New York. I drink a lot myself, and I’ve stumbled in at five o’clock in the morning when I was due somewhere at eight-thirty. Dad has these pills.”

  “What kind of pills?” Ayres asked.

  “You know I’m not sure they have a name, and I have no idea what’s in them. All I know is that when I force Spence here to swallow two of these little mother-fuckers, we’re going to have him bouncing on John Ford’s set with more energy than those two dancing fools, George Raft and Jimmy Cagney, combined.”

  When Bogie finally returned to his dressing room after a lengthy ordeal associated with awkening Tracy and hauling him back, in time for his scene, to the set, he spotted Ford’s assistant walking purposefully toward him. “The front office has got another script for you,” Hubbard said. “You’re to start work as soon as Ford is finished with you.”

  “What picture?” Bogie asked.

  “The thing is called Body and Soul.”

  “Who’s got the lead?” Bogie asked. “And what’s my billing?”

  “You’ll get fourth billing,” Hubbard said. “The star is Charles Farrell.”

  ***

  Long before Vanity Fair “outed” Spencer Tracy in the post-millennium, and years before his homosexual dalliances became privately known to the likes of such gossip mavens as Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons, Bogie was privy to his close friend’s darkest secrets.