Humphrey Bogart

by Darwin Porter

  She didn’t want news of such a misguided opinion to ever tarnish her reputation again, so she aggressively embraced the new technology. During their visit to New York, Docky and she had been invited to a television broadcast. “Television is sort of like radio, but with a big difference,” she said. “A picture is projected.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

  “It’ll be the death of the movies,” she predicted. “One day people will sit in their homes watching a moving picture the way they gather today around their radio sets. It’ll be like bringing a movie into your own home.”

  “I don’t want to get into an argument with you over this, but, trust me, that day will never happen.”

  “It’s gonna happen sooner than later,” she said. “I predict that by 1935 half the homes of America will have a television set. They even told me in New York that it’s soon going to be possible to show films on television in color.”

  “Hey, you’re getting carried away. The idea of sitting at home watching a movie is hard enough to take. Watching a color movie on television—that’s a bit much.”

  “No, I mean it,” she said, “and they’ll do more than just present light entertainment on a home screen,” she said. “Football games will one day be broadcast live. Newsreel cameras will photograph late-breaking events and flash them into your home. Presidential inaugurations will be televised. In fact, the whole presidential race will one day be decided by television.”

  “I don’t get that,” he said.

  “The two candidates will square off on television. The one who photographs best and handles himself better will win the race.”

  “That means that an actor wanting to be president will have a better chance of becoming that than a non-actor who might be a great politician but lousy in front of a camera,” he said.

  “Well,” she said, signaling him that she wanted a refill of her liquor. “I wouldn’t go that far. No actor I’ve ever known could possibly become president of the United States.”

  At the urgent ringing of the phone in her library, she excused herself and heaved herself up from her armchair. When she returned, she told him, “It was from Docky. He went with Jack Dempsey and some other friends to Santa Barbara to see a boxing match, and later, Docky and Dempsey had a few drinks together in a tavern. Then Docky and the champ got into an argument. Before it was over, my Docky knocked Dempsey on his ass. What a man!”

  Bogie would never know the true circumstances of this barroom brawl, or if Docky had indeed knocked out Dempsey.

  “This will show that SOB, Benny Rubin, that low-rent vaudevillian, what a man my Docky really is.”

  Born the same year as Bogie, Rubin was a famous stand-up comedian and fim actor whose career would span fifty years.

  “I guess I don’t get it,” Bogie said. “Why would your husband need to prove his manhood to Benny Rubin?”

  “Rubin and Docky were standing next to each other in the bathroom of a hotel at a party we attended recently. Rubin later spread the word around town about Docky. Rubin said he knows why Louella has a constant smile on her face. He claimed that thing hanging out of Docky’s fly looked like a baby’s arm with an apple in its hand.”

  “Why did that make you mad?” he asked. “Docky should be flattered.”

  “A baby’s arm,” she sputtered, practically spitting out her words. “He could have said a man’s arm. I can assure you that Docky, unlike Paul Bern, is a fully grown man.”

  “We can assume that when your husband put on that show for Rubin, he was soft. I’m sure that when it’s hard, a man’s arm would be a more appropriate comparison.”

  “Don’t try to pacify me,” she warned him. “I’ll see that Rubin is finished in this town.”

  Ever since the episode of Docky vs. Rubin at the hotel urinal, Parsons had been running attacks on Rubin in her column. During his filming of Marianne with Marion Davies, Parsons printed the untrue allegation that Rubin got drunk and broke a violin over his wife’s head. On the set the next day, Hearst told Rubin that he would “call Louella and dress her down if you want me to.” Gallantly, Rubin told the newspaper czar that Parsons’ attacks kept his name in front of the public, and that the publicity would boost ticket sales.

  Parsons tried to interview Bogie that night, but appeared far too drunk. He was explaining how helpful showman W.A. Brady Sr. had been during the launching of his Broadway career, and how he’d been directed by John Cromwell.

  “I know those people,” she said, “and even wrote about them a few weeks ago. I said Helen Gahagan, the star of many a Brady play, was visiting Hollywood with her new husband, Douglas Melvyn. I also claimed that not so long ago Miss Gahagan was married to John Cromwell.” She held up her drink and looked at him imploringly. “Now what was wrong with that?”

  “I don’t think Helen appeared in any Brady production,” he said. “I know she wasn’t married to John, and I think her husband’s name is Melvyn Douglas, not Douglas Melvyn.”

  “Silly me,” she said. “I refuse to look anything up. I rely on the old bean. Basically, I was right, though. If it wasn’t actually Helen who appeared in Brady plays, it was someone like her. And Cromwell should have married Helen. She should never have married this Douglas or Melvyn, whatever in hell that one calls itself. He has no sex appeal whatsoever.”

  “Gloria Swanson must disagree,” he said. “I read she’s cast him in her film, Tonight or Never.”

  “Gloria also thought that that drunk, Walter Byron, was going to become some big shit in Hollywood when she cast him opposite her in Queen Kelly. What does she know? I also happen to know that she’s trying to hide her pregnancy from the camera. She has to bind herself into elastic underwear.”

  As the evening and the drinking progressed, it was obvious to him that she wasn’t going to write a column about him. She was all too familiar with his lackluster films, and his “Tennis, anyone?” career on Broadway clearly bored her.

  Throughout the evening she seemed obsessed with the phone, which never rang again. It was as if she were waiting for some late-breaking story about to happen. Finally, he found out what it was.

  “I know the Lombard and Powell marriage is on the rocks,” she said, “but I’m after a bigger story that will shake up the world.”

  “What might this earth-shattering news be?” he asked.

  “It’s a double story,” she said. “The break-up of two marriages, the uncrowned king and queen of Hollywood and Tinseltown’s uncrowned prince and princess.”

  “That could only mean Pickford and Fairbanks Sr. and his son, Junior, and Crawford.”

  “Who else?” she said, seemingly impatient with him. “How clearly do I have to spell it out?”

  As Parsons got drunker, she ranted about various brush-offs she’d received. She claimed that she’d told both Mayer and Irving Thalberg to send Garbo back to Sweden and to cast Jeanne Eagels in her roles. She’d also demanded that the studio give all Jean Harlow parts to Clara Bow, and she’d lobbied to have Blanche Sweet cast in the role of Diane in Fox’s Seventh Heaven instead of Janet Gaynor. Parsons seemed infuriated that the studios were not heeding her casting advice.

  It was after midnight when she, on wobbly legs, rose from her chair. “You’ve been drinking,” she said to him, stating the obvious. “Since Docky won’t be home tonight, after having beaten the shit out of Dempsey, I suggest you stay over here at my apartment. Otherwise, I might have to write about your arrest for drunk driving.”

  His worst nightmare had come true. She’d remembered his invitation to seduction. He’d challenged her to put his manhood to the test.

  Faced with the horrific possibility of having to have sex with her, he evaluated her carefully, wondering if he’d be able to get it up.

  He’d read somewhere that she was claiming that she was born in 1893,& which would make her only about six years older than him. He’d also heard that she’d been born in 1880, maybe even in the late 1870s. That would put her in
her fifties.

  Figuring that an actor had to do what an actor had to do, he braced himself for the challenge.

  She took his hand, leading him to her bedroom.

  “I have stage fright,” he whispered into her ear.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “You already told me you weren’t some lisping faggot. Here’s your chance to prove it to America’s top newspaper-woman.”

  “I mean if you objected to Rubin comparing your Docky to a baby’s arm—and that was when he was soft—I don’t know if I’ll measure up to your expectations.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. She suddenly lunged toward him, locking him in a tight embrace. Her lipstick-slashed mouth descended on him, and her tongue darted out like a rattlesnake’s. Her alcohol-tainted breath was foul, and he prayed for the strength to get through the evening.

  When she finally broke away, she placed her bejeweled hand at his groin. “So, I didn’t get a rise out of you yet. I’ll have to revert to more drastic measures.” She took his hand again, leading the march to her bedroom. “I’m sure you’ll please me. Besides, you couldn’t possibly be any worse than Clark Gable—and no one could possibly fuck as badly as him.”

  ***

  Through Spencer Tracy, Bogie learned that Basil Rathbone had been secretly meeting with Helen about reprising his stage role in The Captive if the film, based on the Broadway play about lesbianism, ever made it in a watered-down version onto the screen.

  Bogie was doubly hurt that he wasn’t being considered for the role of the male lead in The Captive. The way he figured it, it would be a cake-walk for him to play the role of a man who falls for a lesbian. He’d had so much experience with that in real life that the part wouldn’t be difficult for him at all. He felt that he needed a controversial film to call Hollywood’s attention to him, now that Fox was about to dump him.

  Helen hadn’t been returning his calls, as she perhaps feared that he’d ask her to cast him in her film.

  Bogie feared that he might encounter Parsons again. After the previous evening, he wasn’t too eager to run into the gossip columnist, and he never intended to have a repeat performance of their sexual marathon at the Villa Carlotta. On the other hand, he didn’t have to be ashamed of his performance. If he had to admit it to himself, he’d acquitted himself very well. He didn’t know if he were any better than “Baby’s Arm,” her husband, Docky, but he felt that when he’d left her bed, Parsons was one satisfied woman. After giving her multiple orgasms, he’d shown her what a man he really was.

  ***

  At a Hollywood party, he encountered Tallulah Bankhead again.

  “Hump, my darling, I think you and I both are getting a little long in the tooth for Hollywood,” she said. “It’s for kids in their twenties, not mature adults in their thirties.”

  “You look more beautiful than ever,” he said to reassure her.

  “Don’t kid a kidder, darling.” She brushed back her hair and theatrically gazed at the fading sunset. “The bloom is off this big waxy magnolia. Somehow, film doesn’t capture my electrifying personality that I can convey on stage. The critics may be right. On screen, I’m just a pale imitation of Garbo. My face doesn’t seem to move right. My eyes don’t come alive. I’m not made for the movies.”

  “Then let’s you and me hook up, go back to New York, and become Mr. and Mrs. Broadway,” he said, only partially joking.

  “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” she said. “I might take you up on that. But I’ll have to get back to you.”

  “What’s holding you back?” he asked, bending over and kissing her lightly on her scarlet-painted lips.

  “Since one of my goals—the one about fucking Coop—has already been achieved, I have set two other goals for myself—and two more candidates to fuck before I leave Hollywood.”

  “Since you’ve already had me, the best,” he said, “who else is there?”

  “Garbo, of course. You’ve not plowed her yet, have you, darling?”

  “No, but I got a blow-job from Marlene Dietrich.”

  “That’s no distinction,” she said. “Marlene has sucked all of our cocks. My second goal is to bed Johnny Weissmuller with his ten uncut inches.”

  “The Olympic swimming champ?” he asked. “I didn’t think he was your type. I hear he’s gonna become the new Tarzan.”

  “A darling Ape Man if ever there was one,” she said. “I met the film’s director, W. S. Van Dyke, the other night. Charles Bickford wanted the part but was turned down. Too old. Spencer Tracy’s latest flame, Johnny Mack Brown, lost because he’s not tall enough, although he seems to satisfy Spence just fine. You won’t believe this, but Clark Gable tried out for Tarzan too. Van Dyke decided that Gable wasn’t muscular enough and didn’t have Weissmuller’s inches. Weissmuller is the Ape Man, Gable more a chimpanzee.”

  She excused herself. “Keep my bourbon chilling for me, darlings. I’ve got to take a& horse piss. Care to watch?”

  As he was pouring himself a drink, he turned around to greet Kenneth MacKenna and Kay Francis. “My soon-to-be best man,” Kenneth said, kissing him lightly on the lips. Since “going Hollywood,” Kenneth had become very theatrical. No sooner had those lips left Bogie’s than they were replaced with those of Francis.

  “Let’s get this God damn wedding over with and soon,” Bogie said. “These pre-wedding parties are beginning to wear me out.”

  ***

  “Mr. Humphrey Bogart, of New York, meet Miss Ann Dvorak, also New York born.”

  He was at George Raft’s party, and the chorus girl standing in front of him couldn’t be more than nineteen years old. She had a lean, sharp face, not altogether to Bogie’s liking, yet he was immediately attracted to her. In a red silk gown that clung to her body like a Jean Harlow dress, she was one of the sexiest women he’d ever seen. The cleavage of that gown went virtually to her hips. With the wrong movement on her part, one of her breasts might pop out.

  She took his hand and expertly guided him through a sea of gangsters assembled by Raft for the party where the liquor and champagne flowed.

  In a corner at a small table, a waiter in a red jacket served them drinks, although Dvorak looked as if she’d consumed far more than her share for one evening. In the dimly lit room, she put one leg up over his. Her gown was split up to a creamy thigh, and he was certain she didn’t have on one stitch of underwear. He practically wanted to seduce her on the spot.

  As they talked, he found her very direct and outspoken. Even though only a teenager, she didn’t seem to embarrass easily. He was convinced that Dvorak had been seducing men at least since the age of fourteen.

  The way she kept moving that creamy leg over his thighs was giving him an erection, a movement not lost on her. “So how are things?” he asked rather awkwardly.

  “You tell me first,” she said.

  “Marriage falling apart, career going nowhere,” he said. “The usual. What about you?” He’d no sooner asked that question than he wished that he hadn’t.

  Dvorak revealed a ferocity of ambition matched only by Stanwyck herself. “I’m hot and getting hotter,” she said.

  At that remark, he put his hand on her thigh and began a massage. “I’m convinced of that.”

  “I don’t mean that way, silly,” she said. “I& mean, my career, Stud. I owe it all to Joan Crawford. When I was one of the hoofers in Hollywood Revue of 1929, I met Crawford. She fell for me in a big way. Howard Hughes had been calling her for a date, and she came up with this idea. Since she didn’t want Hughes, she took his call one day and agreed to go over to Hughes’ mansion. But instead of Crawford, it was me who arrived on Howard Hughes’ doorstep. And the rest is history or will soon be.”

  “Well, pal,” he said, “so you fucked Hughes. What’s he going to do for you?”

  “He put me under contract,” she said.

  “He did the same with Harlow, but since then, he seems to be doing nothing for her,” he said, deliberately wanting to prick h
er bubble.

  “I know that!” she said, a slight anger flashing. “With me, it’s gonna be different. He’s putting together this film called Scarface. It’s based on Al Capone, and Ben Hecht himself is writing the screenplay. Hughes wants Paul Muni to play Capone.”

  “An Austrian-born actor from New York’s Yiddish Art Theater?” he asked in surprise. “Not Cagney, not Edward G. Robinson? What about George Raft himself—even me?”

  “Oh, George is in the film. He plays my love interest, Guino Rinaldo. I play Muni’s sister, Cesca. I’m told that the scenes between Muni and me will border on incest. There’s even a role for Boris Karloff in the film. Hughes wants a lot of sex and violence.”

  “Sounds like it’s headed for trouble with the censors,” he said.

  “Hughes expects that,” she said. “And so does the director, Howard Hawks.”

  “Two Howards working together,” he said. “Which Howard has branded you?”

  She giggled and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “I’m balling both of them. To get ahead in Hollywood, Crawford told me it’s necessary to fuck both the producer and the director.”

  “I wish I could fuck someone to get cast in a picture,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, sugar,” she said between bouts of tonguing his ear. “When I become the biggest star in Hollywood, I’ll insist that you be my leading man.”

  “Thanks, pal,” he said, his hand starting to travel up her thigh to his target of the evening.

  She slapped it down and jumped up. “Let’s dance.”

  He didn’t want to get up because of his erection but decided what the hell. The room was not well lit, and no one seemed to be paying attention to him.

  In the center of the room, she moved her body into his so closely that they seemed to melt into each other. The way she was rubbing up against him, he thought he’d cream in his trousers.

  After dancing around, he came face to face with Howard Hawks.