Her? Oh, that’s Mr. Hackett’s daughter. Don’ you remember those skits and jokes he used to do on the program about Clarabelle? Years ago on the old radio show, before TV. Jeez, they was funny, about poor Monty Hackett bein’ stuck with a homely daughter and how dumb she was and how was he ever gonna to get rid of her, funniest damn thing on the program. He used to have a special writer who done nothin’ but the Clarabelle stuff, Frankie Rool, helluva guy, wonder whatever happen to Frankie? But Mr. Hackett don’ do the Clarabelle gags no more. Y’know, the public they get tired hearin’ the same stuff over and over. And when the kid come home from the sanitarium—
Yeah, someplace out in Westwood. She took all them aspirin tablets outta the bottle at one time or somethin’. I dunno, they called it a nervous breakdown but it wasn’t nothin’ as bad as all that. Jus’ overwork, I guess. The kid knock herself out with the schoolwork, always sittin’ home up in her room bonin’ over the books, stay in’ away from people, never out playin’ and partyin’ like the other girls, and her with all the advantages of bein’ a celebrity. In fac’, what with those jokes about her on the air every week, you could even say she was famous. But that was way back, and now that she’s growed up—must be about your age, I’d say—Mr. Hackett is still the fine father he always was, nothin’ too good for Clarabelle, nothin’ he wouldn’ do for her. So you see if you need any help on this here autobi—on this here book, why you jus’ come to Willy and ast me anythin’ you want, anythin’ at all. I been with Mr. Hackett fourteen years and there’s plenty that maybe he forgot or don’ wanna tell you ‘cause he’s jus’ natchelly a modest man. It’s the writers that keep puttin’ in all that stuff on the program about how much money he raises for all them charities. He don’ wanna talk about nothin’ he does …
Like what? Well like, for instance, as I was sayin’, the way he sends things to his old man and old lady in Europe, and does he go braggin’ about it? Nah. Not like some people. Why you wouldn’ even know he got folks over there, not from Mr. Hackett you wouldn’. Betcha hardly nobody even know it. And when the old folks ast to be sent for to come over here, the hoss don’ care how much it hurts him when he writes them to stay where they are and where they’ll be happy amongst their own people and they can speak the language. No sir, Mr. Talbot, you don’ find many sons like that, what thinks oney about what’s best for others.
Oh-oh, here comes that drizzle again. But don’ worry, it don’ last long out here. God’s country. And wait’ll you see the room you’re gettin’. I never seen it myself, but Gussie—that’s my wife—Gussie tell me all about it. She was fixin’ it up and gettin’ it ready for you soon as Lenny Stack check out. Not that Mr. Hackett is runnin’ no hotel up there in Bel-Air, but jeez, the way they come and go, sometimes you wonder. First Fred Wurlitzer, the announcer, and then Les Gibbons, you know, the vocalist, and then Arthur Crewes and then Mel Simmons and then all them writers, one after another, Lenny Stack the last of them, all of ’em nice young guys like you. And I’m telling you, the way Mr. Hackett extend the hospitality of the house to each and every one of them, why it’s wonnerful. And I sure hope you ain’t one of them ungrateful kind, like some of them, if you’ll pardon the expression, Mr. Talbot. …
Whadda I mean ungrateful? This is what I mean ungrateful. The boss sends for a guy from New York, like you, and gives him a swell job on the show and as if that ain’t enough to make him happy, does he make him check into a hotel and pay rent and live all alone in a strange city? Nah. Not Monty Hackett. He invites him into his home and lets him live there, for nothin’, mind you, and wait’ll you see the room, overlookin’ the swimmin’ pool, and not only that. He knows young guys like you and Les Gibbons and Lenny Stack are kinda lonely when you first come out here so he invites you to dinner with Mrs. Hackett and Clarabelle, jus’ like it’s your own home, and he knows you don’ know nobody right off so he lets you take Clarabelle out at night to Ciro’s and Mocambo and all them places and it’s on his cuff, ’cause that’s the kinda guy the boss is, and if you got any spare time over the weekends you don’ have to worry that you got no girl to keep you company ‘cause he’s nice about his daughter. Mr. Hackett ain’t no snob, no sirree. He’s strickly an old-fashioned guy at heart, jus’ like on the program. Why, when he hear about Jerry Loomis, you remember him, he was the crooner on the show las’ fall, when he hear that Jerry gonna marry that girl from New York, Mr. Hackett fire him right away, for his own good. Sure. Even though he need Jerry badly on the program, the best low-price crooner in the business, but that’s the kinda man Mr. Hackett is, more worried that a marriage should work out right. A husband belongs where his wife is, that’s what he says to Jerry, and when Jerry move outta the house and head back for New York, does he tell everyone what a fine man Mr. Hackett is and how fine he been treated out here? Nah. That’s what I mean ungrateful. And I ain’t even gonna tell you the kinda things he spreads about the boss, they ain’t worth repeatin’, and Mrs. Hackett don’ believe a word of it anyway. And this Les Gibbons, the tenor, who moves in after Loomis leaves, he ain’t much better. Four weeks and he quits. The climate, he says. Hoddaya like that? The climate’s too damp for his sinus. After Mr. Hackett goes to all the trouble to have new wallpaper put in the room and calls Clarabelle home from Palm Springs jus’ so’s this Gibbons don’ feel like he’s all alone out here. I ask you. …
Yeah, that’s right, this is Hollywood now. Cantcha tell? The air smells different. God’s country. Up ahead’s the Strip. You hearda Sunset Strip. I’ll show you where that Winston dame took the shot at Mr. Hackett. I guess that was before your time. …
No, she di’n’ hit him. Drunk as a lord, lucky she di’n’ hurt no one. None the less, they give her five years. …
Hodda I know why? Crazy, I guess. Or like I was sayin’, ungrateful. Mr. Hackett di’n’ have to be payin’ her all that money every month like he was doin’, but he was sorry for her after her husband knock himself off. …
I don’ know. ’Cause he was broke, I guess. One of them tired TV actors, always outta work, always makin’ excuses. Used to go around imaginin’ the reason he couldn’ get no job was ‘cause the boss had him black balled around the networks for bein’ fresh to him. Strickly a no-talent crackpot. And when he hang him self, Mr. Hackett lets bygones be bygones and helps the widow out every month for I don’ know how many years, and what does she do? Tries to kill him. Oh brother. It mus’ be the climate. There’s the spot now see? On your left, we’re jus’ passin’ it. Used to be a night club. Guess you’ll be puttin’ all that in your book, huh? Oughta make a inarresting scene in a pitcher. You know, the more you think about the boss, the more you see what a story you got there, Mr. Talbot. And I been thinkin’, maybe The Life of Monty Hackett ain’t such a hot title after all. You gotta get somethin’ more to the point, like … like … yeah, how about callin’ it: He Brung Happiness to Millions? Hey, that ain’t bad if I say so myself. Jus’ ast me anythin’. Willy the writer, ha ha. He Brung Happiness to Millions. Not bad at all. Say, I hope I’m not drivin’ too fast for you, Mr. Talbot? After I leave you off at the house I gotta make time over to Beverly Hills and pick Clarabelle up at the head doctor and then I gotta hustle her over to the beauty parlor, and if I don’ get her back home in time to have lunch with you the boss chews my hide off somethin’ fierce. Betcha can’t wait to get there, huh, Mr. Talbot? …
The Small Sound of Applause
ROB KIPLINGER WAS TIRED … tired of the morning fogs and tired of the afternoon sunshine … tired of the good pictures he never produced, tired of all the money it made for him … tired of the people who loved him, baby … above all tired of being Rob Kiplinger and of the knowledge that no matter how tired he was of being Rob Kiplinger he would probably never make the slightest effort to be something better.
He sat at his massive desk, gloomily examined the sprawling litter of unfinished business, noted that it was twenty past five of a dying October afternoon, and scowled impatiently as his secretary padded
in noiselessly over the thick beige carpeting.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kiplinger,” she announced.
“I’m sorry, too, Miss Delmar,” he said, looking out of the French windows at the California sun trying to make believe that it wasn’t autumn. “I’m sorry I ever left New York. I’m sorry my brother-in-law knew the head of this studio. I’m sorry my name isn’t Darryl F. Zanuck. I’m sorry I have been given a secretary who is always walking in here and being sorry about something. What is it you’re sorry about this time?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kiplinger,” said Miss Delmar, “but that girl is here. The one that called twice this morning. She said Ferdinand Saxon told her to see you about—”
“Yes,” Kiplinger said flatly, letting Miss Delmar wait while he squeezed the sweet nectar from a tiny delay of the inevitable. Then he looked up and said, “What was her name again?”
“Janice Barker. She got in from New York yesterday.”
“Okay,” he sighed, and Miss Delmar padded out again. His fingers moved automatically to the knot of his tie, but there was no tie. He had been in Hollywood for five years, but somehow his hands had never learned to accept the fact that the rightful place of his tie had been usurped by a paisley scarf, a pretender to the throne. He made an effort to pull the loose ends of his nerves together into what he hoped was a semblance of the kind of man who had good digestion and who would think Miltown was the name of a horse. Then he called jovially, “Come in—Come in!”
The girl walked in a little too casually to be genuinely casual, and Kiplinger’s quick, practiced eyes photographed her from head to toe in a rapid-shutter exposure. She would be even more beautiful if she were smiling. Why couldn’t they ever get it into their heads that it isn’t attractive to look scared? Unless you’re playing opposite the creature from the black lagoon.
“Hel-lo,” he cooed. He stood up and took her proffered hand and held it between his large, warm hands, and he noticed that hers was cold and that her blue eyes were not smiling with her mouth. “Sit down, honey,” he said. “How was the trip? Tell me about Ferdie Saxon. Tell me about yourself. Tell me about everything.”
“The trip was simply horrid,” she said, sinking into the green club chair. She recited the details and Kiplinger shook his head sympathetically, though he was only half listening. She had fine, small features and long auburn hair and good legs and there were no circles under her eyes and to Kiplinger her beauty was exquisite, but he was struck with the vague feeling that whatever she had was not for films and could be put to better use making some young man happy, or miserable, for the rest of his life.
“Didn’t Mr. Saxon write to you about me?” she was saying. “He promised me he would before I left.”
“Well, you know how it is,” he said. “Our mailing room probably sent the letter to the story department by mistake, where it was quickly synopsized by a reader, bought by the studio, scripted by a former Theatre Guild playwright, and is probably being shot this very minute on Sound Stage Three, right over there.” He pointed out of the open French windows, but when he saw the disappointment clouding her face, he added, “No, honey, I’m sorry. I received no letter about you from Ferdie. But why let that bother you? You’re here. I’m here. I love you.”
“Mr. Kiplinger,” the girl said, a little too desperately, he thought, “I do want so terribly to get into pictures. Mr. Saxon said you would help me, and it means so awfully much to me.”
He tapped the desk nervously with a pencil.
“I’ve had quite a bit of acting experience, Mr. Kiplinger: Lots of television, and two seasons at the Cape Playhouse in Dennis. Of course, that’s only summer stock, but Mr. Aldrich told someone he thought I had a charming stage personality, and last spring I had a small part in Louder and Funnier. It died in Boston, but the critic on the Herald was awfully nice to me. Mr. Saxon says that’s where he saw me. …
“Tell me something,” Kiplinger said, scowling, “are you a … a personal friend of Ferdie Saxon?”
“Well … frankly, no … not really,” she apologized, looking down at her hands and not seeing his scowl relax. “I met him at one of those cocktail parties at the St. Regis, for Fred Gimble, the movie director. I spilled some Scotch on my dress, and Ferdie Saxon came over and helped me clean it, and naturally we got to talking. When I happened to tell him that I was going to the Coast soon and that I would do anything, but really anything, to get into pictures, he laughed and said, ‘Well, then—why don’t you see Rob Kiplinger?’ Everyone there laughed—for the life of me I couldn’t see why—but they all agreed with him.”
He cleared his throat sharply and threw the pencil down on the desk, but the trouble with clearing your throat is that you clear only your throat, and getting rid of a pencil is just as futile because you don’t get rid of anything but the pencil.
“He really thinks the world of you, Mr. Kiplinger. They all do.”
“Yes, I know,” he muttered, thinking of the admiration he had once hoped for and comparing the dream with the reality. “They all do.”
“Every time your name came up Mr. Gimble said, ‘That Kiplinger, quite a guy!’ or something like that. I guess I shouldn’t be telling you this, Mr. Kiplinger but I always say that flattery isn’t worth a darn if the person being flattered doesn’t know about it. Don’t you agree?”
He nodded, because nodding was easier than saying something like, “Insinuation is the sincerest form of flattery,” and watching the blank look that would come to her face.
“Oh, yes,” she went on, “I almost forgot the most important thing of all: Mr. Saxon told me to be sure to ask you to do a sketch of me. He told me all about your career as a scenic designer and how you studied art in Paris when you were a boy and how you once had an exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art and still loved to do sketches of your friends even though your work here in Hollywood no longer had anything to do with art. And he made me repeat one sentence over and over so I wouldn’t forget it when I got here: ‘Ferdie Saxon says he thinks I would make a wonderful subject for you.’ That was it.”
Kiplinger heard the chuckle—Miss Delmar’s chuckle. He had heard it so many times before. It was not a chuckle of mirth or derision. Rather it was a chuckle of admiration and respect, a small pat of applause for a reputation that was transcontinental and that perpetually enhanced itself, like a self-winding clock.
“I certainly do agree with them. You’re a perfect subject,” he said, a little more loudly than was necessary, for Miss Delmar’s desk was only a few feet off the entrance to his private sanctum. “And just to show you that I mean what I say, I’m going to do your portrait for you this very evening. That is, unless you’re busy and—”
“No, not at all, I’d love to,” she said eagerly.
“All right then, just as soon as we’ve had a bite to eat we’ll go over to my hotel. …”
“Your hotel?”
“I know. I know. You don’t understand why I’m living in a hotel instead of in a palace in Beverly Hills, but, honey, the servant problem is not just something we thought up as a good topic for bad films. The light here in my office happens to be very poor, so I keep all my drawing equipment over at my hotel.”
“I … see,” the girl said very slowly, and he knew that at last she did see. “Well, really, I don’t think I ought to put you to all that bother, Mr. Kiplinger, and to tell you the truth—”
“Unh, unh, remember now, honey, you’re in Hollywood. Absolutely no telling of the truth permitted. So not another word. It’s settled.”
He was not looking directly at her. He did not want to see frightened blue eyes. He was looking out through the entrance to his office, across the anteroom, to the glass panes of the modernistic bookcase against the wall. Miss Delmar was at her observation post. He hadn’t doubted that for a moment. From her desk, she could watch the bookcase and see a reflection of everything that went on in his office. It gave her a visual movie to go with the sound track. It was vital that Miss Delmar enjo
y the movies he put on for her.
“I think I’d like to do you in water colors,” he said. “I hardly think crayon or charcoal would do justice to your lovely hair or to those eyes.”
She blushed, and he wondered if Miss Delmar’s movie was in Technicolor, and for a moment he thought of all the sketches he had done in the years since he had left the work he loved because he had feared being a failure at it, to wind up eventually as a producer of inferior motion pictures. Dozens of bad films and dozens of sketches, and it was the sketches that had counted.
A few of them hung in the foyer of his suite at the hotel. But most of them had been given to their subjects and thus put back in circulation where they could do the most good for their creator—the framed fait accompli, the diploma on the wall, the testimonial not to the art of Rob Kiplinger but to the genius that made him or rather allowed him to be, what he was. That Kiplinger. What a guy. His motion pictures stink but did you hear about the time he …
He held out his hands and said, “Come here.”
She got up and walked around the huge desk to his chair and he took both her hands and drew her toward him. He looked toward the bookcase for a moment and then he said, “You’re a damned lovely kid, do you know it? Come here.” He drew her head down and kissed her quickly on the lips. “Sit down over there and listen to me do something nice for you.”
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