Humphrey Bogart

by Darwin Porter

  As he arrived at the door to the Davis home, it was opened by her mother, Ruth. The look on her Puritanical Yankee face told him that she didn’t approve of his coming to her house. To him, she was a& tenacious shrew who unduly fussed over her daughter, who was also her meal ticket. He’d heard that she was the stage mother to end all stage mothers.

  In a fairly low-cut dress and with no makeup except a “slash” of lipstick, Davis greeted him in her living room. It was a unique party. In her devious mind, the actress had thrown a party for “Hollywood losers,” a grouping that included herself. She’d invited some male stars she’d appeared with in unsuccessful films for “tea and sympathy.” The sympathy was genuine, but the “tea” was actually whiskey.

  She kissed Bogie lightly on the lips. “I think we should celebrate failure this afternoon,” she said, appearing a bit unbalanced and giddy. “All of us are being referred to as box-office bombs.”

  She introduced him to Walter Byron, Pat O’Brien, James “Junior” Durkin, and a very handsome young actor, Frank Albertson.

  Bogie found himself standing on the Davis back porch talking to Albertson. He’d appeared with Davis in Way Back Home, which had been directed by William Seiter. Originally entitled Other People’s Business, the film had starred Phillips Lord, who was known across the country for the Seth Parker character he played on his regular radio show for NBC.

  “I have to admit it,” Albertson said to Bogie, “I’m still carrying a torch for Bette. During the filming, I fell hook, line, and sinker for her. I’ve asked her to marry me. She’s going to give me her answer this weekend.”

  “Good luck, pal,” Bogie said, not really meaning it. For some reason, he felt jealous.

  Albertson soon drifted off, his tongue wagging in hot pursuit of Davis. Bogie couldn’t believe that Davis would return this young man’s affection. And she didn’t.

  As Bette Davis’ star rose in Hollywood, Albertson’s twinkled out.

  The next failure Bogie tried to engage in conversation was another handsome actor, Walter Byron. He’d appeared opposite Davis in The Menace, directed by Roy William Neill. The picture had initially been entitled The Feathered Serpent, then The Squeaker.

  “It should have been called The Stinker, ” Byron said, deep into his booze.

  It seemed only months ago that Walter Byron had been hailed in the press as “Hollywood’s new John Gilbert.” He had landed the male role of the year when he was cast as the roistering German prince opposite Gloria Swanson’s shy little Irish girl from the convent in Queen Kelly.

  “Swanson told me I stood to be the next great male star of Hollywood,” Byron said. “Imagine my disappointment when Swanson and Joseph Kennedy pulled the plug on Erich von Stroheim. That film will never be finished. If that nutbag Austrian had had his way, the movie would have been nine hours long and cost millions.”

  She introduced him to Pat O’Brien. O’Brien would join that exclusive club of James Cagney and Edward G. Robinson as one of Bogie’s most frequent co-stars in the future. O’Brien seemed to be a hard-drinking, witty Irishman with an insouciant charm.

  As Bogie chatted amicably with O’Brien on that fading afternoon of long ago, the actor told him that he’d been very disappointed with his role in Hell’s House with Davis and Junior Durkin. “Bette is referring to it as the nadir of her career,” O’Brien said, “even before her career gets started.”

  “Sounds like a great picture, pal,” Bogie said. “Remind me to save my quarter and not see it.”

  As O’Brien drifted away, Davis herself came back, positioning herself next to him. He was having a difficult time getting used to her. She wasn’t the mousy actress he’d encountered on the set of Bad Sister. This was a new Davis with bleached blond hair. Somehow the new hair made her sexier and more alluring, although Jean Harlow would never have to fear competition.

  She held Bogie’s hand as she told him, “For about an hour after I saw myself in that horrible movie you and I made, I contemplated suicide. Makeup tried to compensate for my small mouth by exaggerating its size with lipstick. My mouth looked like a tunnel. Crawford can get away with those ridiculously exaggerated lips. I can’t. Also, when I’m embarrassed or insecure, and I was both of those things, I smile crookedly.”

  “My, oh my, aren’t we a litany of complaints today,” he said.

  “That’s not all. My outfits stunk. It was obvious I didn’t have a hairdresser. Sidney Fox got all the attention. In Way Back Home, I looked a little better. I learned that Universal was ready to drop me until Berman—that’s Pandro Berman, the producer over at RKO—wanted to borrow me for that cornspun role. A guy named J. Roy Hunt, the cinematographer, actually made me look good for the first time ever on film.”

  “You’re a regular femme fatale,” he said.

  “Don’t you put me on, Bogart,” Davis said. “But actually, I did look rather pretty. A lot of directors in New York called me pretty. Maybe I am a femme fatale and don’t know it. Carl Laemmle—Junior, that is—thinks I have no sex appeal, but all my leading men fall in love with me.”

  After her other guests—all losers—had left, Davis invited Bogie to remain behind for “some private conversation.” He’d noticed that she’d become more self-assured and poised in the wake of having so many handsome young men, all of them co-stars, falling in love with her.

  He too found her the most attractive and alluring he’d ever seen her, which was in direct contrast to his first impression of her. Even so, with her whitened hair and pop-eyed look, she still, at least to him, evoked a dime store Harlow.

  It was as if she were still searching for a face and a look but hadn’t found it yet, whereas Garbo had burst on the screen, even though very young, with a look and a poise that she’d always keep.

  Meanwhile, both Barbara Stanwyck and Joan Crawford, after some awkward beginnings, were finding their “look” and their screen presence. Davis seemed on a desperate and roughly equivalent search, and even without a camera, her intensity to find a screen persona filled the air with electricity.

  After the departure of her other guests, when she came out to visit with him on the back porch, she turned off the overhead light, claiming it attracted bugs. But he knew the real reason.

  Thankfully, the Wrath of God, Ruth Davis, had gone to bed early, complaining of a headache. For all this stage mother knew, each of her daughter’s guests had left. Bogie suspected that Ruth disapproved mightily of the opposite sex, viewing men as “the enemy.” She seemed so fiercely protective of her daughter that her behavior reminded him of a butch lesbian, guarding a prized nymphet from the menace of preying seducers.

  Once they were seated on the porch swing, and with the warm night air blowing about them, Bogie was in the mood for romance.

  Regardless of the outcome of the evening, he’d have a tale to tell Kenneth in the morning. In this case, he no longer cared if Kenneth reported his seductions to Mary. In some perverse part of his mind, he wanted Mary to know that many women, including stars, found him an attractive and a desirable bed-mate. Even if he returned to New York, and he was most definitely headed back there, he’d ride the train back East with a proven record of having seduced some of the biggest stars in the movies, even Marlene Dietrich.

  On that back porch and to his unpleasant surprise, Davis didn’t want to talk about their relationship or even their future career in films, assuming they had one.

  She focused her talk on one beau back East, Harmon Oscar Nelson. “I call him Ham,” she said, “and he calls me Spuds.”

  “Ain’t that cute?” he said, slightly softening the sarcasm in his voice.

  “He wants to be a musician,” she said. “He’s equally good at playing both the piano and the trumpet. But he’ll never become a star doing either. He’s also talking about becoming a radio singer like Bing Crosby.”

  “If he doesn’t knock Bing down from the mike,” he said, “maybe he’ll become the next Rudy Vallée. But what about us? What’s gonna happen
to Miss Bette Davis and Mr. Humphrey Bogart? Or have you already told me what you think of me by inviting me to this party of losers?”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “My career seems to be collapsing. So does yours. Stanwyck and Crawford are moving up in Hollywood. You and I seem to be headed the same direction as those silent screen stars. Did you know that Louis B. Mayer was quoted as saying that at least one-third of the stars of 1928 are washed up, and he predicts that in the years to come, even more will fall by the wayside. I think he’s right. Look around you. Vilma Banky, John Gilbert, Ramon Novarro, Bill Haines, Gloria Swanson, Pola Negri. Mayer has hated Chaplin since they got into a fistfight at the Hollywood Hotel, and he thinks Chaplin will never really make it in Talkies either.”

  “So, what are we going to do?” he asked. “I think we’re stage actors. Both of us should return to Broadway. Maybe we’ll take the train back East together.”

  “Is that a proposal of marriage?” she asked.

  “I’ll soon be available. Mary has written that she plans to divorce me. She’s fallen for Roland Young.”

  “I know of him,” she said. “From what I hear, if a woman manages to keep him close to her bed for three months straight, she’s set a world’s record.”

  “I’m not broken up about it,” he said. “It wasn’t much of a marriage. My friend, Kenneth MacKenna, is in love with her.”

  “The one marrying Kay Francis?” she said.

  “One and the same.”

  “I’ll never comprehend why men out here marry women like that,” she said.

  Bogie lit a cigarette for her and one for himself, as they sat on that swing going up in smoke, the same way both of them would do later on the screen.

  “Ham wants me to give up my career and marry him,” she said. “He claims he can support the both of us, and I should be a housewife.”

  “And how do you feel about that?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure what to do,” she said. “I’m very confused. I met Ham at the Cushing Academy. He was one year ahead of me. He is a very shy boy, awkward, gangling. I think he brings out my maternal instinct. He’s pleasant looking. He’ll never be handsome. He has a large nose.”

  “That can be a promising sign in a man,” he said.

  “What in hell does that mean?” she asked.

  “I’m sure it’s not true in all cases, but Joan Blondell told me that a big nose or big feet on a man is a good barometer that something else is big on the man too.”

  “Really?” she asked skeptically. “I’ve never heard such nonsense. I note that you don’t have a big nose. Nor do you seem to have particularly large feet.”

  “There are always exceptions to the rule, as I’ve noted,” he said, smiling. “You can put me to the test anytime.”

  “Ruthie still thinks I’m a virgin,” she said. “You know better.”

  “Not from first-hand experience,” he said, putting his arm around her. “Poor Ham. Gilbert Roland is a tough act to follow.”

  “Roland’s taken,” she said. “I’m all that Ham has in the world. Ruthie wants me to marry Ham and surrender my so-called virginity to him.”

  “Too late for that now,” he cautioned.

  “Indeed. I’ve already surrendered my virginity to Ham. It wasn’t a successful mating.”

  “How so?”

  “It seems that Ham has been a chronic masturbator since he was six years old. He’s given to premature ejaculation and can’t satisfy a woman. If I marry him, I’ll have to work for months—maybe more than a year—to train him.”

  “I’m already trained,” he said. With an arm still around her, he began to feel her right breast. She did not object or pull away.

  But she did take note of it. “I’m deliberately letting you have your fun,” she said. “I’ve been told that to be sophisticated, I’ve got to take up smoking and drinking, which I’ve done. Apparently, letting a man feel your breasts is another way to be sophisticated. I went to a party the other night. No men clustered around me. I felt like the wallflower I did when I attended Newton High. Even the lesbians in the room were clustering around Kay Francis, paying me no mind. Suddenly I looked up into the face of the most beautiful young man I’ve ever seen. Douglas Fairbanks Jr. I knew I could fall in love with him at once. I’ve heard that he’s breaking up with Crawford. I’ve also heard he’s a great lover. What a headline I could make if he dumps Crawford, divorces her, and marries me. I would install myself at Pickfair with the cream of Hollywood society.”

  “At first I resented you talking about other men when you’ve got me,” he said, “but I want to hear the outcome of this.”

  “Oh, he chatted briefly with me. Offered me a cigarette. I was wearing my most low-cut gown. Suddenly, he reached into my dress and fondled one of my breasts. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Just like that he did it. The way you’re feeling me right now tells me you’re not disappointed. Mr. Fairbanks must have been used to bigger and better things. He withdrew his hand rather quickly. He told me I should put ice on my nipples the way Crawford does. And that was that. He just turned and walked away. I’ve never felt so humiliated.”

  “I think I can relate to that,” he said. “From a man’s perspective, it would be like a woman unbuttoning your fly, reaching in to measure the goodies, and then walking away after saying, ‘Not enough there to mess up my mouth with.’”

  They both laughed at that. “What say we forget the Fairbanks boy, Roland, Ham, and God knows who else?” he said. “You’ve got a man once billed as the next Valentino, even the next Clark Gable, and you’re not taking advantage of the situation. You said yourself, you want to become sophisticated.” He took her in his arms and kissed her deeply before reluctantly breaking away. “If you give me a chance, you’ll find I don’t suffer from Ham’s problem. I also find your nipples divine. In fact, I wish to suck both of them.”

  She offered absolutely no resistance as he moved in on her. He wanted more. He pulled her as close as he could to him, as his hand traveled from one breast to the other. With his other hand, he began the glide up her leg, past her garter belt and along her creamy thigh. He was heading for homeport.

  Just before he reached the honeypot itself, the porch light was switched on. In the harsh, unforgiving glare stood Ruth Davis, looking ferocious and clad in her bathrobe.

  “Get out of my house!” she shouted at him. “How dare you fondle my daughter like she’s some bitch in heat. The loss of virginity before marriage will ruin a woman’s life.”

  He pulled away from Davis but hesitated to get up. His hard-on had risen.

  Davis looked down, burying her head on her chest. She began to whimper.

  “Get out!” Ruth commanded.

  In defiance of her, he rose from the swing with an erection tenting his trousers.

  His tumescent state was not lost on Ruth. “You’re a slave to your genitalia, Bogart,” she said. “A disgusting, perverted creature. My daughter is going to marry Ham Nelson, not you. I’m not going to let her surrender her most prized possession, her virginity, to a sexual predator. I hear you’ve had half the women in Hollywood. You offer nothing to my Bette but venereal disease and unwanted pregnancy.”

  “Good night, Bette.” he said, adjusting his shirt in his trousers and heading to the door that Ruth held open for him.

  Angered and humiliated, he walked rapidly through the living room. He vowed never to see Bette again. The way he figured it, a relationship between the two of them was out of the question.

  How wrong he was.

  ***

  He couldn’t believe it, but here he was in the Villa Carlotta apartment of Louella Parsons. She’d decided that trying to interview him was too difficult at Hollywood parties because of all the distractions. When she’d invited him over, she’d promised to give him her undivided attention.

  Fearing that she might remember his offer of seduction, he could only hope that her husband, Dr. Harry Martin, was home that night. But when he got there,
he learned that the doctor was administering to two of his patients, Lew Ayres and Douglas Fairbanks Jr., both of whom had come down with severe cases of the clap, according to Parsons.

  “Docky,” as Parsons called her husband, had launched his career as a urologist, but Bogie had heard that he was now known as “doctor for the clap” around Hollywood, having treated everybody from Gary Cooper to Tallulah Bankhead. In their case, there was an ongoing disagreement about which party had infected the other. Docky was also the “house doctor,” or so it was said, for Lee Frances, one of the reigning madams of her day. Parsons’ husband was said to have had more frequent and more intimate contacts with the genitals of stars, both male and female, than any other person in Hollywood.

  Inspecting penises and vaginas didn’t occupy all of Docky’s agenda. Parsons saw to it that he was hired frequently as a technical adviser on films such as Doctors’ Wives that required some very limited medical expertise. Parsons would then plug the film in her column, lavishing special praise on the technical direction. She’d even gotten Governor Clement C. Young to appoint Docky to the California State Boxing Commission “just for the hell of it.”

  At this point, a Boston bull terrier came into the living room and immediately jumped up onto Bogie’s lap, practically knocking his drink from his hand.

  “That’s our adorable Pansy Parsons,” she said, ordering the dog to get down from the sofa. The dog obeyed her but anchored itself close to Bogie’s feet, eyeing him suspiciously as if he might make a tasty snack.

  As Bogie sat across from Parsons, enjoying some of Docky’s good whiskey, she told him about a startling new development in broadcasting that she and “my Docky” had seen in New York. They’d gone East for a gala dinner, where he’d been awarded an honorary degree at the American College of Surgeons. Bogie was later to learn that William Randolph Hearst and the power of his newspapers were instrumental in securing the undeserved award for Docky.

  It seemed that Parsons had been asleep at her typewriter at the advent of the Talkies, and had written that, “Flickers that talk will soon shut up—a mere passing fad.”