Humphrey Bogart

by Darwin Porter

  On that far-away morning, as he got to know Landi, he decided then and there she was like no actress he’d ever met on Broadway, in Chicago, or in Hollywood.

  Since she was illegitimate, he didn’t think she wanted to talk about her relationship with Elizabeth, the Empress of Austria and the Queen of Hungary. To his surprise, he found that was about all she wanted to talk about. After all, “Sissi,” as the queen was called, was one of history’s most fascinating women, and Landi used her constantly as a role model.

  “Sissi is something to aspire to,” she said. “A fairy-tale princess and a liberated woman at the same time. Liberated I am, as you’ll soon discover. Becoming a princess is not out of my reach.”

  “How do you plan to go about that?” he asked a little skeptically. “The Habsburg dynasty ended after World War I. There’s no empire left—not even a throne.”

  “Oh, I won’t have an empire to preside over like my grandmother, but I will become the biggest star in Hollywood. When that happens, I think many princes around the world will request my hand in marriage. It is not inconceivable for a Hollywood star to marry royalty and become a princess herself.”

  “A bit far-fetched,” he said, “but I could see that happening.”

  “Sissi was always a dieting fanatic and an expert equestrian,” she said. “You’ve seen this morning when I beat you in our race what a horsewoman I am. As far as the diet is concerned, I follow Sissi’s regime, but I don’t go on hunger diets like she did trying to obtain that elusive sixteen-inch waist. I eat exactly as Sissi did: a moderate portion of raw steak daily, a glass of milk, and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.”

  “I’ll have to try that,” he said. “Or else convert you to my diet of ham and eggs.”

  “How grotesque,” she said. “All that animal fat. Sissi also wanted to be a poet modeling herself after Heinrich Heine, whose work she adored. I too will write a great book and win many literary honors. Like Sissi, I too will become an inveterate traveler and see the world, attracting adoring crowds wherever I go. Everyone will want to see the beautiful princess, don’t you agree?”

  “I’m enjoying seeing the beautiful princess right now, even before she’s crowned.”

  She obviously liked the sound of that, and her porcelain-like arms reached out for him.

  “I’ve never been particularly intimate with royalty before,” he said.

  “As you seduce me,” she said, “I’m going to imagine that I am the young Elizabeth hauled to the bedchamber of the emperor, Franz Josef, I am only sixteen. He is much older. He rapes me on our wedding night. I’m a virgin.”

  “I’ve played a few parts in my day,” he said. “But never a rapist emperor.” He hugged her closer to him. “I think it’s a role I can get into.”

  ***

  In Landi, Bogie found a woman who was spectacularly satisfying, thereby inspiring thoughts that he should divorce Mary Philips and become deeply involved with Landi, despite the fact that he couldn’t give her the fairy kingdom she wanted to reign over as queen. Before four o’clock came on Sunday morning, in her lavish bed, he’d promised her a different kingdom, based on the possibility of their joint reign as the King and Queen of Hollywood.

  Although she’d remained tactful, responding passionately to his lovemaking, his comment provoked her first put-down. “It’s in my destiny that I’m going to reign as the queen of Hollywood, I just know it. But I’ve heard from our director, Santell, that the future king of Hollywood won’t be our star, Charlie Farrell, or even George O’Brien. I think they carry the stigma of the Twenties with them. John Gilbert is through. Santell claims it’ll be one of these up-and-coming rugged he-man types like Gary Cooper or Clark Gable.”

  Her comments immediately diminished his erection. He turned over with his back to this empress wannabe and fell into a deep sleep.

  When he awakened at eleven o’clock Sunday morning, he found her gone without a note. Her fat German maid with a Brunhilde bosom told Bogie, “Miss Landi has gone for a Sunday drive down to Laguna with Mr. Basil Rathbone. She said I should offer you breakfast before I sent you on your way. She made it clear that she doesn’t want you here when she gets back.”

  “Tell Princess Landi thanks for a good time,” he said, storming out the door in anger although the ham and eggs the maid was cooking smelled mighty good.

  Back at his apartment, a call came in from George Raft, who told him he’d arrived in town and was staying at the Mark Twain Hotel on Wilcox Avenue. He wanted Bogie to meet him in the lobby at eight that night

  “It’ll be good to see someone from New York,” Bogie said. “I’m homesick.”

  Raft was one Yankee dancer/actor who hadn’t gone Hollywood. In black tie he was sitting in an armchair by a potted palm in the lobby of the Mark Twain Hotel, waiting for Bogie to pick him up. The beltline of his trousers seemed to come up to his armpits. He looked like he belonged, not on Wilcox Avenue, but on the corner of Broadway and 42nd Street, waiting for a blonde babe to show up.

  Bogie too was in black tie, having never returned the tux he’d rented for the Landi dinner party. He figured he’d go into the shop tomorrow and buy the damn thing.

  Raft jumped up from his chair and rushed to greet him. He seemed genuinely glad to see a familiar face from back East. “The prospect of a steak dinner with you brought joy to my heart.”

  “You’re looking good, George,” Bogie said.

  “So are you, Hump, bigtime movie star.”

  “Out here they call me Bogie.”

  “So be it. Out here and back East they still call me George Raft. The one and only.”

  He glanced at his watch. “We’ve still got time before dinner. “Let’s go up to my room for a drink.”

  Taking the elevator to the top floor, Bogie was ushered into Raft’s cluttered room, which smelled of stale cigarette butts and booze.

  “Don’t let these sharp clothes fool you,” Raft said. “I came out here with a big bank roll. Lost all of it at the track. I ain’t got but five bucks in my pocket. Can you lend me something till I get back on top again?”

  “Sure thing, old pal,” Bogie said. “I just got paid today. Seven-hundred and fifty bucks. I’ll split it with you for old time’s sake.”

  “Thanks, big guy,” Raft said. “I’ll owe you one for this. George Raft never forgets when someone does him a favor.”

  “If you’ve got no money, how are you eating?”

  “An old friend of mine, Ben Lieberman, owns the Angelus Drugstore downtown. He’s letting me run up a tab until my luck gets better. I’m getting fucking tired of BLTs.”

  “That steak you mentioned will make up for it tonight.” He accepted the drink from Raft, bolting it down straight, as Raft poured him another whiskey. “So, good looking, how’s your love life?”

  “A lot of gorgeous dames out here, even more than in New York,” Raft said. “They’re throwing themselves at me every night. I had this fling with Molly O’Day. I’m trying to drop her but she’s a clinging vine.”

  “Great looking dame,” Bogie said.

  “She was a looker,” Raft said. “But she got fat and…”

  When Raft offered him a third whiskey, he turned it down, remembering that he’d promised Stanwyck he was going to ball her sober for a change.

  “I saw that movie, Patent Leather, ten times,” Raft said. “I want to star in the talkie version of that film. I can just see myself as a cocky prizefighter who learns humility when he’s crippled at the end of the picture and can’t go to war like he wants. He’s a real hero. That scene at the end where he forces himself to struggle out of his wheelchair and stands up to salute the American flag as the band strikes up the national anthem, that’s the kind of role I want to play. I’ve got to get rid of this New York gangster image. Let Edward G. Robinson and James Cagney play the gangsters. From now on, George Raft is going to be playing all-American heroes.”

  “Hell, I’d love to play a gangster,” Bogie said. “I’m tir
ed of these juvenile roles. I’m thirty years old, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Tennis, anyone?” Raft said, bursting into laughter at Bogie’s expense, but only after he’d gotten his part of Bogie’s paycheck. He looked at his watch again. “By the way, have you fucked with Stanwyck yet?”

  “Yeah, first as Ruby Stevens back in New& York although I was too drunk to remember it.”

  “I haven’t fucked Stanwyck as Stanwyck, but Ruby Stevens and I sure got it on. I’ve also had Mae Clarke. She’s one hot piece. Clarke and Stanwyck will fuck anybody out here, male or female. If it’s on the hoof and moving, those two broads will go for it.”

  “My impression is that everybody out here will fuck anybody, in any known combination,” Bogie said. “Of course, New York isn’t the sticks either.”

  “Hell, I could be a bigtime movie star right now if I’d put out,” Raft said. “Take Rowland Brown, for example. He used to be this hotshot newspaper guy in Detroit. Now he’s the hottest young director in Hollywood. I went to the fights the other night and was having dinner at the Brown Derby with my pal, Owney Madden, and some other cronies. I get up to go to the men’s room. Brown follows me in. There are five empty urinals. He takes the one next to me as I whip out Blacksnake. He comes on real strong, and I’m about ready to belt him one. Then he tells me he’s Rowland Brown, that he saw me dance at this honky-tonk in Detroit, and wants to offer me the second lead in his new film, Quick Millions. In New York, only the blonde belles have to be experts on the casting couch. Out here in Hollywood almost as many guys have to shuck their bloomers.”

  He tried to get Bogie to have another drink but was turned down. “Tell me, hot shot, if you’d been as broke as I am, would you drop your trousers for this cocksucker Brown?”

  “Maybe,” Bogie said. “I’d certainly consider it. Getting a blowjob is no big deal. All you have to do is whip it out, close your eyes, and let some fag do all the work. While they’re at it, you can be dreaming of some beautiful blonde like Molly O’Day.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Raft said. “Getting your dick sucked is no big deal. It’s not like you’re a fag yourself. Maybe I’d better call up Brown and reconsider his offer.”

  “Maybe you had,” Bogie said, “because that’s the last paycheck you’re getting from me.”

  “Not even if you saw me panhandling on the street?” Raft said.

  “I’m a softie,” Bogie said. “I’d let you move into my apartment and sleep on the sofa. I wouldn’t let you starve.”

  “I may have to take you up on that offer the way things are going.” There was a loud rap on his door, and he walked over to open it, revealing two large police officers. “You George Raft?” a tall, blond-haired cop asked.

  “Yeah,” Raft said cockily. “What’s it to you?”

  Without being invited, both of the policemen walked into the bedroom. “Who’s this guy?” the red-haired and equally tall cop asked, looking Bogie up and down. “One of your New York accomplices?”

  “Accomplice in what?” Raft demanded to know.

  “We’ll come clean with you,” the blond said. “We’ve arrested this stick-up artist. Another George like you except he claims his name is George Roberts. He’s being grilled at headquarters right now and is singing like a canary. He’s already admitted to a dozen robberies, and claims he had accomplices.”

  “I’m not a stickup guy,” Raft said. “Look at me. Do I look like a guy who would stick somebody up? Look at my clothing—and the way I’m dressed.”

  “When Roberts was searched, your name was found sewed on to his inner pocket, and he was well dressed too,” the blond said. “Real fancy tailor.”

  “I can explain that,” Raft said. “I sold him that suit yesterday for thirty bucks to pay my rent here. I’m an actor. Temporarily out of work. I was forced to sell my suit because I was three weeks behind on my hotel bill.”

  “You’re not fooling me,” the redhead said. “The Los Angeles police department has already been alerted to your coming out here. You’re a friend of Dutch Schultz.”

  “Not exactly a friend,” Raft said. “He used to come into the club where I danced for Texas Guinan, but I never met him personally.”

  Bogie knew that Raft was lying, having already been introduced to Dutch Schultz by Raft.

  “What about the bootlegger, Owney Madden?” the blond cop asked.

  “Owney and I go way back,” Raft said. “We grew up on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen together. He’s a good guy.”

  “Yeah,” the redhead said. “Spent ten years in prison for being such a good guy. I think we’re gonna run you in for questioning.”

  At this point, the manager of the hotel, Robert Parrish, came into the room since the door had been left wide open. “What’s going on here? We run a respectable hotel—no drunks, no whores.”

  Raft looked desperate. “Tell them, Parrish. I sold you my ring last week. I’m having to sell my stuff from New York to raise money.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Parrish said, holding up what looked like a ruby ring encrusted with diamonds. “I’ve had it appraised. It’s worth five-hundred bucks.”

  “I can vouch for George here,” Bogie said. “Squeaky clean, a real good guy. Just because this Roberts guy was caught in his secondhand suit doesn’t make George guilty.”

  “Okay,” the redhead said. He turned to Raft. “Let this be a warning to you. We heard about you before you even hit town. This is not New York or Chicago, but Los Angeles, a clean-living town. If you think you gangsters can come out here and take over this town, you’ve got another thought coming.”

  “I don’t like the look of you,” the blond said to Raft. “And I hate those pants of yours. I really hate your guts. We’ve had another complaint about you. At first we weren’t sure about it and our sergeant wanted to drop it, but I’m going back to the station to look into the case personally. Reopen it, so to speak.”

  “You’ve got nothing on me!” Raft said. “What sort of complaint? It’s a lie.”

  After some more questions and a few threats, the two policemen left the bedroom. Parrish stayed behind, shaking a finger at Raft. “You have until tomorrow to move out. We don’t want your type here. I think I’m going to post a sign in the lobby, ‘No New Yorkers allowed.’”

  After he’d shut the door, Raft turned to Bogie. “I’d better go for that movie role and quick no matter what Brown wants me to do. It’ll look good with the police if I’m a bona-fide film star. I’ll do anything but take it up the ass. George Raft doesn’t get fucked by anybody. I’m the fucker, not the fuckee.” Raft looked at his watch again. “Hell, we’re running late.”

  In a taxi on the way to the Roosevelt, Bogie quizzed Raft again about Quick Millions.

  Raft said that it was the story of a truck driver who’d become a ruthless gangster. “That’s the star part,” Raft said. “I play his bodyguard.”

  “What do you think Brown would say if I tried out for the role of the ruthless gangster?” Bogie asked. “I’d let him suck me off.”

  “Too late. The lead’s already cast.”

  “Fuck!” Bogie said. “What meathead got the part?”

  “This new guy over at Fox,” Raft said. “Spencer Tracy.”

  ***

  After dinner with Raft, Bogie showed up the next day for the shoot of Body and Soul. A messenger brought him a note from Stanwyck. She wanted him to drive over to see her at Universal Studios, where she was starring in The Locked Door. Her message didn’t explain why she wanted to see him, but no one turned down Stanwyck. When his final scene was locked up, he drove over to Universal where Stanwyck had arranged an entrance pass for him at the gate. Even so, the security guards looked at him suspiciously before letting him drive onto the lot.

  To his astonishment, the first person he encountered on the set was the picture’s male star, Rod La Rocque. “The first and only actor I’ll ever direct,” Bogie said, embracing La Rocque warmly and not forgetting how the sta
r had chased after him in New York. “Still got a crush on me?” he asked, teasing La Roque.

  “Oh, that was so long ago, and I’ve gone through so many beaux since then. I gave my heart to Gary Cooper but he abandoned me for Lupe Velez. Not before I’d nicknamed him the Montana Mule.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been busy,” Bogie said. “How’s Miss Vilma Banky doing?”

  “Talking pictures are not for her,” La Rocque said. “Vilma and I make some joint appearances out here. As you might have guessed, ours is a somewhat unconventional marriage.”

  “I thought so,” Bogie said. He noticed a handsome, blond-haired actor walking toward them.

  “That’s William Boyd,” La Rocque said. “Even though he’s got two inches less than Gary, he’s all man. What a guy! He goes both ways. Barbara and I are sharing him during the filming of this stinker.”

  Bogie found himself shaking hands with this former favorite of the director, Cecil B. DeMille, who had cast Boyd as Simon of Cyrene in King of Kings in 1927. Before Bogie could become acquainted with America’s future Hopalong Cassidy, a messenger came for him, summoning him to Stanwyck’s dressing room.

  In her dressing room, Stanwyck looked distraught. She told him that Raft had been picked up and arrested by the police “on some trumped up charge.” She didn’t explain what that charge was, but claimed she’d posted $1,000 bail for his release. “He’s been kicked out of the Mark Twain,” she said, “and he’s got no place to go. He said you agreed to let him move in with you until he gets back on his feet.”

  “I guess so,” Bogie said. “But that wasn’t any writ-in-blood commitment.”

  “He needs our help,” Stanwyck pleaded, “and I’ve got my own private life. I can’t become his mother.”

  “Tell the fucker he can move in,” Bogie said. “But I’m afraid I’m going to regret this.”

  “It’ll be just fine,” Stanwyck assured him.

  Back at his apartment, as Bogie waited for Raft to show up broke but with expensive luggage and clothing, he received a series of phone calls. Far from being lonely and rejected as he had been when he’d first hit town, he suddenly felt like he’d been crowned King of Hollywood.