Humphrey Bogart

by Darwin Porter

  It was actually a Beverly Hills mansion they called “Lilowe.”

  With the grace of a ballerina, Lilyan moved from her garden into the living room, crossing the parlor to greet Bogie. Her movements were so perfect that they gave the illusion of being choreographed. Even before she’d kissed him gently on the lips, he’d fallen madly in love with her.

  “Welcome to our home,” she said. “For once Eddie didn’t lie about your beauty.”

  “The only beauty in this room is standing before me,” Bogie graciously said. “I’m a regular looking guy.”

  “Don’t be so modest,” she said, looking over at Lowe with a smirk. “I never thought I’d ever say that to an actor. I’ve read in the press that you’ve been compared to Valentino.” As she seated him on the sofa next to her, he was awed by her beauty. She was dressed a little too flamboyantly for his taste, but still exquisite in a Parisian white satin gown with four diamond clasps. When she noticed him checking out her jewelry, she said, “If I happen to wear real diamonds instead of paste, who is to object?”

  “Not me,” Bogie said, “providing I didn’t have to pay for them.”

  As the maid served drinks, Bogie was eager to learn anything he could about her. He virtually ignored Lowe. Born in New York the same year as himself, she had toiled for years in the Silents, knocking on doors of casting offices and dancing in Ziegfeld’s Follies.

  Eventually, she forged ahead in the Talkies, creating a niche playing sophisticated but sarcastic blondes. The night he met her, she was an acknowledged social leader in Hollywood, consistently cited as the town’s best-dressed woman.

  Her home was spectacular. “Who’s your decorator?” he asked. “He needs to do something—anything—to my rattrap apartment.”

  “You’re looking at him, ” she said. “My hobby is interior decorating.”

  “She also claims she decorated our Malibu Beach home,” Lowe said. “But it was Jetta Goudal.”

  “Would you shut up?” she said abruptly to her husband before softening her features again when she turned to face Bogie. “Goudal helped, but I did most of it myself.” Lowe merely rolled his eyes sarcastically, looking up at the ceiling.

  “Oh, I forgot,” Bogie said. He reached into the pocket of his suit and removed a small gift package wrapped with red satin ribbon.

  Taking the box from him, she deftly opened it, her eyes lighting up in delight. “Miniature hands,” she said, fondling the porcelain gift. “Thank you, darling.” She reached over and kissed him again on the lips. “I’ll add this latest pair to my collection.” Reaching for his hand, she guided him into an adjoining room which was lined with glass shelves displaying what must have been the world’s largest collection of miniature hands in all shapes and materials.

  “I read in some column that you collected these little hands, and I wanted to add my paws to your other ones,” he said.

  “I will value your hands more than all the others,” she said.

  She was so convincing that for one brief moment he actually believed her.

  As she directed him back into her sumptuous living room, he took in her figure from the rear, finding it slender and slinky. Her throaty voice evoked Garbo with a touch of Dietrich. He’d read that Eddie Cantor had called her face “fox-like.”

  As Tashman kept the talk bubbly, Lowe became cruder as he drank. As if jealous of his wife, his tone grew bitchy. “I’ve never known Lil to pay so much attention to a man. Usually it’s the women at any party who have to watch out for her. No beautiful gal is safe going to the powder room with Lil at the party.”

  She patted Bogie’s hand. “Eddie does exaggerate so.”

  “Whether it’s a grand dame of the theater or a newly arrived teenage chorus gal from Broadway, Lil chases after them right into the powder room,” Lowe said. “Often she seduces them in a private toilet stall. Her technique is amazing, I hear, and it’s the talk of Hollywood.”

  As Bogie looked at her, he found this slander hard to believe. To him, she was the epitome of elegance and taste.

  “They don’t call her Latrine Lil for nothing,” Lowe said.

  No longer able to control herself, Lilyan glared at him. “And they don’t call you a cocksucking son-of-a-bitch for nothing,” she said. Still, to Bogie’s surprise, she didn’t deny her husband’s assertions. When he became too graphic describing her seduction of Louise Brooks, she said, “forgive Eddie. When he’s not sucking a big dick—he’s a size queen, incidentally—the true feline that lurks in his heart comes out of her cage.” To change the subject, she said, “Tallulah’s in town looking for movie work and fucking that divine Gary Cooper. But that Montana cowboy has given her gonorrhea, so darling Tallu is temporarily out of commission.”

  “She told us about your marriage to Helen,” Lowe said.

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” Bogie said, barely concealing his simmering anger.

  “It’s all right with us,” she said. “With Eddie and me, you can let your hair down. After all, you and I have a lot in common. You’ve both known darling Tallu. I’ve also enjoyed Miss Helen Menken herself.”

  At that point Bogie was ready to bolt from the room. What kept him glued to his seat was his utter fascination with Lilyan in spite of her vile talk. She could speak freely of her seduction of women, yet he felt that she also wanted to go to bed with him. All evening, to emphasize a point, she would reach out and touch him. He found her fingers on him thrilling and wanted her to feel more of him. He regretted that Lowe had arranged the surprise date, even though he kept assuring Bogie that an enchantress was on her way.

  Even as she continued to touch and feel Bogie, Lilyan still spoke of women. “I’ve had nearly every major female star in Hollywood, but I struck out with Gloria Swanson, Norma Talmadge, and Billie Dove.”

  “Better luck next time,” Bogie said.

  “So, now that you’ve seen a slice of our domestic life, what do you think of our ‘ideal marriage?’” Lowe asked. “That’s how all the fan magazines refer to our wedded bliss.”

  Fortunately for Bogie, he didn’t have to answer that direct question. “Only last week I granted Photoplay an interview,” she said. “About how a woman can hold onto her man.” She flashed a look of contempt at her drunken husband.” I told the magazine that no man will tolerate a lazy woman for very long. I also told them that a woman has to look good for her man at all times. To quote moi, ‘I never appear before Eddie looking seedy or badly groomed.’”

  “That’s a damnable lie,” Lowe said. “I’ve seen my bitch here looking very disheveled after she’s worked over some hot pussy and raises herself up with vagina juice dripping down her chin.”

  “Whenever Eddie drinks, he becomes really vulgar,” she said. “You’ll find out more about that later.” Ideal marriage or not, she looked at him with total disdain. “I call him& sewer mouth. But, as I said, you’ll see what I mean as the night progresses.”

  That evening did move on. It was nearly ten o’clock, and Bogie’s mystery date still hadn’t shown up. He suspected that there was no fourth guest, and that he was here for a three-way.

  Enthralled by Lilyan, he wanted her alone, miles removed from her homosexual husband. He couldn’t even call up his friend, Tracy, to take Lowe off his hands for the night. Lowe wasn’t Tracy’s type.

  The maid came in and announced that Lilyan was wanted on the phone. She rose gracefully, patted Bogie on the knee, and turned to her husband. “Can I trust you alone with this darling man?”

  “I’ve already seen him jaybird naked in my dressing room,” Lowe said. “I restrained myself then, but just barely. I’ll be a good boy, although I can’t promise that I won’t salivate a bit.” When& she’d gone, Lowe took Lilyan’s place on the sofa beside Bogie.

  Uncomfortable seated there, Bogie rose quickly to refill his own drink. Fortunately, Lilyan came back into the room in only a minute or so.

  She looked jubilant. “Your surprise date is also doing the cooking tonight. W
e are so lucky. She makes the best goulash in Hollywood. Instead of cooking in my kitchen, she preferred to cook the goulash in her own home and is bringing it over.”

  “Prepare yourself for a delightful evening,” Lowe predicted to Bogie. “And I don’t mean just the goulash.”

  Growing a little bored with Lowe’s fabulous build-up, Bogie said, “Yeah, promises, promises.”

  In fifteen minutes, the doorbell rang, and the maid went to answer it.

  Not knowing what to expect, Bogie was startled when his surprise date came into the living room, after handing a pot of goulash to the maid.

  After kissing both Lowe and Lilyan rather passionately on the mouth, she turned to him. He’d met her before, and, as before, he was overcome by her exotic allure and her beauty.

  “Mr. Bogie man,” she said in her seductively accented voice. “We meet again.”

  Not wanting to sound like some awed schoolboy, he said, “Did anyone ever tell you you’re one hell of a broad?”

  “So many, many times,” she said, smiling at him before looking around the living room, finally focusing on Lilyan. A slight smirk came onto her face. “Someone in this room is going to get lucky tonight. I don’t know….” She paused as if confused about what to say. “What is the damn correct English? On whom I will bestow my charms?”

  “If there is a God in heaven,” Bogie said, “and at times I seriously doubt it, I am hoping that he is looking with favor on me tonight, Miss Dietrich.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Bogie woke up the next morning fully convinced that he was a sexual degenerate. After he’d invited Kenneth over for coffee and conversation, he felt better. Drawing on his experience as a former member of the New York Pussy Posse, Kenneth convinced him that what Bogie was doing in Hollywood—no different from some scenes in which he’d participated in New York—was “just the norm out here.”

  Long after the world’s greatest tasting goulash—“that Kraut sure knows how to cook”—was served, Dietrich and Lilyan had disappeared into her bedroom upstairs.

  “My God, the evening turned into a scene out of Arabian Nights,” he confided to Kenneth. “I don’t remember it, just blurred scenes.”

  Kenneth was convinced the Bogie remembered everything, but didn’t want to supply all the details.

  “Before I left that house around four o’clock, I did a trick or two that even I hadn’t thought about before,” Bogie said.

  “Like what?” Kenneth asked. “Tell me. I might be missing out on something.”

  “When you marry Kay Francis, I’m sure she’ll teach you on your honeymoon. I’m saying no more.”

  “I’m still going to pursue women on all fronts, but I’m going to taper off when Helen comes to town,” Bogie said.

  “You mean Miss Menken?” Kenneth asked in surprise.

  “One and the same,” Bogie said. “She’ll be staying at the Garden of Allah. I’m sure I’ll be spending my nights there.”

  “Have you all but forgotten Mary back in New York?” Kenneth asked. “I’m still carrying a torch for her.”

  “Yeah,” Bogie said. “Would you have stayed in New York if Mary had married you instead of me?”

  “No way,” Kenneth said. “I think my future is in Hollywood. But I think I could have convinced Mary to come with me.”

  “In a way I’m glad she’s back in New York, because I’ll be returning there soon,” he said. “I still want to stay married to her. We’ll wipe our slates clean and start all over again.”

  “Does she have a clue about what you’re up to out here?” Kenneth asked.

  “Not unless you’ve written her.”

  “My lips are sealed,” Kenneth said, “I think at this point in our lives, we shouldn’t stop to analyze what’s happening. Let’s just let the good times roll.”

  Suddenly, a messenger arrived from Fox Studios. Opening the package, Bogie learned that he’d been assigned fourth billing in his final film at Fox. Entitled A Holy Terror, it would be directed by Irving Cummings, who had previously guided him through A Devil with Women. He’d be appearing with the star of the picture, George O’Brien.

  As he read the script, he was even more startled to learn that it was a western based on Max Brand’s novel, Trailin’. In the film, Bogie was slated to play Steve Nash, foreman of the Drew ranch, who’s in love with a character played by Sally Eilers.

  The city boy from New York was about to play his first cowboy role.

  ***

  He’d had a lovely evening with Joan Blondell, during which she’d served what she described as one of her favorite dishes—mashed rutabagas mixed with mashed potatoes. Fortunately, she’d also baked a ham as well. That was his favorite. As he related to Kenneth the following morning, “Sex with Joan has become what I imagine it’s like between a married couple who’s been together for many many years. It’s comfortable and safe, but completely without fireworks.”

  Kenneth seemed relatively unconcerned about Bogie’s sex life that morning. He was distracted by plans for his upcoming wedding to Kay Francis. Once again, he secured a promise that Bogie would be there as his best man.

  Bogie agreed for a final time, then reminded him that Helen Menken would be arriving in Hollywood soon and checking into the Garden of Allah.

  “I adore Helen,” Kenneth said. “Bring her to the wedding.”

  Some of Kay’s friends are throwing some parties for us this week. We’d love it if you and Helen could come to any or all of them. I’ll slip the invitations under your door.”

  “That sounds great,” Bogie said, “Helen would meet some film people. She already knows everybody on Broadway.”

  “Wouldn’t it be ironic if Helen became a bigger film star than either of us?”

  “Things like that happen,” Bogie said, lighting up his seventh cigarette of the morning. “But if I make all these appearances at all these parties, people will think I’m back with Helen. Hollywood is a small town. Word will get back to Mary.”

  “So what?” Kenneth asked. “Mary knows you’re sleeping with other gals. And don’t kid yourself. Mary hasn’t exactly been behaving like a nun recently. I’m sure she has a steady stream of beaux.”

  “That’s our marriage agreement,” Bogie said. “It’s OK for me to fool around with other women, unless that other woman happens to be Helen.& Mary won’t exactly be thrilled by any of this.”

  “Maybe Mary will divorce you after all,” Kenneth said with a wink.

  Bogie clinched his fist and pretended to give Kenneth a sock in the jaw. “Still pining for Mary, huh? Here you are about to marry Kay, and you’re still trying to steal my wife.”

  “Hey,” Kenneth said, “I’ve got a sharp eye for a movie plot. How about writing a screenplay together about this romantic entanglement? I bet we could sell it.”

  “And maybe we couldn’t,” Bogie said. “About this wedding. Is it going to be a big affair?”

  “No. The wedding itself will be very small. The guests include you, Helen, and one or two of Kay’s friends. That’s why Kay is seeing all of her friends and getting congratulations and, we hope, lots of presents before the actual marriage ceremony.”

  “Smart thinking,” Bogie said, glancing at the clock. “I’ve got to go to work. Sounds like we’ll have a gay old time this week with all the parties and everything.”

  “It’s your chance to score this week,” Kenneth said. “You’ll be meeting some of the top broads in Hollywood. Too bad you’ll be with your wife.”

  “My former wife,” Bogie corrected him. “We’re divorced, remember? And besides, even when we were married, Helen and I had an open marriage. And she’s likely to be heavily booked during her time out here, spending time with some of her former girl friends, including Tallulah, who’s also at the Garden of Allah.”

  “It’s going to be interesting,” Kenneth said. “I wish I could follow you around with a camera this week.”

  “After the marriage, are you still going to be fooling around?�
��

  “Sure. Kay and I both understand that our marriage will be mainly for show. I’m doing it to boost my career in Hollywood. Being married to a major movie star might help. That’s why you married Helen—to advance your career on Broadway.”

  “Something like that,” he said. Kenneth’s words evoked a sour memory.

  “Kay’s becoming big out here, really big. She’s defined as one of the top five actresses in Hollywood, with lots of attention from the press. Her fans want to see her with a handsome and adoring husband.”

  “Good luck,” Bogie said. “Yours will be just one of many lavender marriages out here.”

  “No, it’ll be a real marriage,” Kenneth said. “A complicated Hollywood marriage with lovers of all persuasions coming and going. I like women more than I like men. Just ask your wife. On the other hand, Kay likes women more than she likes men. But she’s very attracted to men. The first time I took Kay out, she said, ‘I’m not a star. I’m a woman. And I want to get fucked.’ We’ll just have to work out our sleeping arrangements.”

  ***

  It was a different Helen Menken he met at the train depot. Her immaculate clothes, even her hat, looked more Fifth Avenue than Hollywood and Vine. She had New York written all over her. He could not imagine a woman who looked less Californian.

  As he rushed toward her to take her in his arms and kiss her, he encountered a woman no longer in the spring of her life. Her face was still young but it was more mature, a bit harsher, and a bit less forgiving.

  She made no effort to probe into his personal life, other than to say, “A handsome devil like you must be the sensation of half the Hollywood cuties out here—that is, the few that George Raft hasn’t already subdued.”

  “Something like that,” he said as nonchalantly as possible.

  By the time they’d reached the parking lot of the Garden of Allah, Helen had brought him up to date on all the news of Broadway and several mutual acquaintances. No mention was made of his present wife, except one. “I saw Mary the other day,” she said. “She’s put on a few pounds, but the extra weight is agreeable to her figure. She’s getting work, but neither of us is the sensation of Broadway these days, the way we imagined it would be when we were younger. In fact, with so few shows because of the Depression, Broadway is a pretty dismal place.”