Chapter 59
Another of the pretties was showing Arthur Crewes her 8x10 glossies, under plastic, out of an immense black leather photofolio. Starlets. Arthur was saying something about their needing a few more dark-haired girls, as Handy came through the door.
Crewes looked up, surprised at the interruption.
The starlet smiled automatically.
"Arthur, I have to talk to you."
Crewes seemed puzzled by the tone in Handy's voice. But he nodded. "In a minute, Fred. Why don't you sit down. Georgia and I were talking."
Handy realized his error. He had gone a step too far with Arthur Crewes. Throughout the industry, one thing was common knowledge about Crewes's office policy: any girl who came in for an interview was treated courteously, fairly, without even the vaguest scintilla of a hustle. Crewes had been known to can men on his productions who had used their positions to get all-too-willing actresses into bed with promises of three-line bits, or a walk-on. For Handy to interrupt while Crewes was talking to even the lowliest day-player was an affront Crewes would not allow to pa.s.s unnoticed. Handy sat down, ambivalent as h.e.l.l.
Georgia was showing Crewes several shots from a Presley picture she had made the year before. Crewes was remarking that she looked good in a bikini. It was a businesslike, professional tone of voice, no leer. The girl was standing tall and straight. Handy knew that under other circ.u.mstances, in other offices where the routine was different, if Crewes had been another sort of man and had said, why don't you take off your clothes so I can get a better idea of how you look in the nude shots we're shooting for the overseas market, this girl, this Georgia, would be pulling the granny dress with its baggy mini material over her head and displaying herself in bikini briefs and maybe no bra.s.siere to hold up all that fine young meat. But in this office she was standing tall and straight. She was being asked to be professional, to take pride in herself and whatever degree of craft she might possess. It was why there were so few lousy rumors around town about Arthur Crewes.
"I'm not certain, Georgia, but let me check with Kenny h.e.l.ler in Casting, see what he's already done, and what parts are left open. I know there's a very nice five-or six-line comedy walk-on with Mitchum that we haven't found a girl for yet. Perhaps that might work. No promises, you understand, but I'll check with Kenny and get back to you later in the day."
"Thank you, Mr. Crewes. I'm very grateful."
Crewes smiled and picked of one of the 8x10's from a thin sheaf at the rear of the photofolio. "May we keep one of these here, for the files... and also to remind me to get through to Kenny?" She nodded, and smiled back at him. There was no subterfuge in the interchange, and Handy sank a trifle lower on the sofa.
"Just give it to Roz, at the desk out there, and leave your number... would you prefer we let you know through your agent, or directly?"
It was the sort of question, in any other office, that might mean the producer was trying to w.a.n.gle the home number for his own purposes. But not here. Georgia did not hesitate as she said, "Oh, either way. It makes no difference. Herb is very good about getting me out on interviews. But if it looks possible, I'll give you my home number. There's a service on the line that'll pick up if I'm out."
"You can leave it with Roz, Georgia. And thank you for coming in." He stood and they shook hands. She was quite happy. Even if the part did not come through, she knew she had been considered, not merely a.s.sayed as a possible quickie on an office sofa. As she started for the door, Crewes added, "I'll have Roz call one way or the other, as soon as we know definitely."
She half-turned, displaying a fine length of leg, taut against the baggy dress. "Thank you. 'Bye."
She left the office, and Crewes sat down again. He pushed papers around the outer perimeter of his desk, making Handy wait. Finally, when Handy had allowed Crewes as much punishment as he felt his recent original sin deserved, he spoke.
"You've got to be out of your mind, Arthur!"
Crewes looked up then. Stopped in the midst of his preparations to remark on Handy's discourtesy in entering the office during an interview. Crewes waited, but Handy said nothing. Then Crewes thumbed the comm b.u.t.ton on the phone. He picked up the receiver and said, "Roz, ask them if they'll be kind enough to wait about ten minutes. Fred and I have some details to work out." He listened a moment, then racked the receiver and turned to Handy.
"Okay. What?"
"Jesus Christ, Arthur. Haskell Barkin, for Christ's sake. You've got to be kidding."
"I talked to Valerie Lone last night. She sounded all by herself. I thought it might be smart therapy to get her a good-looking guy, as company, a chaperone, someone who'd be nice to her. I remembered this Barkin from-"
Handy stood up, frenzy impelling his movement. Banging off walls, vibrating at supersonic speeds, turning invisible with teeth-gritting. "I know where you remembered this Barkin from, Arthur. From Billie Landewyck's party, three years ago; the pool party; where you met Vivvi. I know. He told me."
"You've been to see Barkin already?"
"He had me out of bed too much before I wanted to get up."
"An honest day's working time won't hurt you, Fred. I was here at seven thir-"
"Arthur, I frankly, G.o.d forgive my talking to my producer this way, frankly don't give a flying s.h.i.+t what time you were behind your desk. Barkin, Arthur! You're insane."
"He seemed like a nice chap. Always smiling."
Handy leaned over the desk, talking straight into Arthur Crewes's cerebrum, eliminating the middleman. "So does the crocodile smile, Arthur. Haskell Barkin is a crud. He is a slithering, creeping, crawling, essentially reptilian monster who slices and eats. He is Jack the Ripper, Arthur. He is a vacuum cleaner. He is a loggerhead shark. He hates like we urinate-it's a basic bodily function for him. He leaves a wet trail when he walks. Small children run shrieking from him, Arthur. He's a killer in a suntan. Women who chew nails, who destroy men for giggles, women like that are afraid of him, Arthur. If you were a broad and he French-kissed you, Arthur, you'd have to go get a teta.n.u.s shot. He uses human bones to bake his bread. He's declared war on every woman who ever carried a crotch. This man is death, Arthur. And that's what you wanted to turn loose on Valerie Lone, G.o.d save her soul. He's Paris green, he's sump water, he's axle grease, Arthur! He's-"
Arthur Crewes spoke softly, looking battered by Handy's diatribe. "You made your point, Fred. I stand corrected."
Handy slumped down into the chair beside the desk.
To himself: "Jeezus, Huck Barkin, Jeezus..."
And when he had run down completely, he looked up. Crewes seemed poised in time and s.p.a.ce. His idea had not worked out. "Well, whom would you suggest?"
Handy spread his hands.
"I don't know. But not Barkin, or anyone like him. No Strip killers, Arthur. That would be lamb to slaughter time."
Crewes: "But she needs someone."
Handy: "What's your special interest, Arthur?"
Crewes: "Why say that?"
Handy: "Arthur... c'mon. I can tell. There's a thing you've got going where she's concerned."
Crewes turned in his chair. Staring out the window at the lot, a series of flat-trucks moving scenery back to the storage bins. "You only work for me, Fred."
Handy considered, then decided what the h.e.l.l. "If I worked for Adolph Eichmann, Arthur, I'd still ask where all them Jews was going."
Crewes turned back, looked levelly at his publicist. "I keep thinking you're nothing more than a flack-man. I'm wrong, aren't I?"
Handy shrugged. "I have a thought of my own from time to time."
Crewes nodded, acquiescing. "Would you just settle for my saying she once
Handy nodded. "It'll do."
"So who do we get to keep her rea.s.sured that she isn't ready for the dustbin just yet?"
Again Handy spread his hands. "I don't know, it's been eighteen years since she had anything to do with-hey! Wait a bit. What's his name...?"
"Who?"
"Oh, h.e.l.l, you know..." Handy said, fumbling with his memory, "... the one who got fouled up with the draft during the war, blew his career, something, I don't remember... aw, c'mon Arthur, you know who I mean, used to play all the bright young attorney defending the dirty-faced delinquent parts." He snapped his fingers trying to call back a name from crumbling fan magazines, from rotogravure coming attraction placards in theater windows.
Crewes suggested, "Call Sheilah Graham."
Handy came around the desk, dialed 9 to get out, and Sheilah Graham's private number, from memory. "Sheilah? Fred Handy. Yeah, hi. Hey, who was it Valerie Lone used to go with?" He listened. "No, huh-uh, the one that was always in the columns, he was married, but they had a big thing, he does bits now, guest shots, who-"
She told him.
"Right. Right, that's who. Okay, hey thanks, Sheilah. What? No, huh-uh, huh-uh; as soon as we get something right, it's yours. Okay, luv. Thanks. 'Bye."
He hung up and turned to Crewes. "Emery Romito."
Crewes nodded. "Jeezus, is he still alive?"
"He was on Bonanza about three weeks ago. Guest shot. Played an alcoholic veterinarian."
Crewes lifted an eyebrow. "Type casting?"
Handy was leafing through the volume of the Player's Directory that listed leading men. "I don't think so. If he'd been a stone saucehound he'd've been planted long before this. I think he's just getting old, that's the worst."
Crewes gave a sharp, short bitter laugh. "That's enough."
Handy slammed the Player's Directory closed. "He's not in there."
"Try character males," Crewes suggested.
Handy found it, in the R's. Emery Romito. A face out of the past, still holding a distinguished mien, but even through the badly reproduced photo that had been an 8x10 glossy, showing weariness and the indefinable certainty that this man knew he had lost his chance at picking up all the marbles.
Handy showed Crewes the photo. "Do you think this is a good idea?" Handy looked at him.
"It's a h.e.l.luva lot better idea than yours, Arthur."
Crewes sucked on the edge of his lower lip between clenched teeth. "Okay. Go get him. But make him look like a knight on a white charger. I want her very happy."
"Knights on white chargers these days come barrel-a.s.sing down the streets of suburbia with their phalluses in hand, blasting women's underwear whiter-than-white. Would you settle for merely mildly happy?"
5.
Cotillions could have been held in the main drawing room of the Stratford Beach Hotel. Probably had been. In the days when Richard Dix had his way with Leatrice Joy, in the days when Zanuck had his three rejected scenarios privately published as a "book" and sent them around to the studios in hopes of building his personal stock, in the days when Virginia Rappe was being introduced to the dubious s.e.xual joys of a fat kid named Arbuckle. In those days the Stratford Beach Hotel had been a showplace, set out on the lovely Santa Monica sh.o.r.e, overlooking the triumphant Pacific.
Architecturally, the hotel was a case in point for Frank Lloyd Wright's contention that the Suns.h.i.+ne State looked as though "someone had tipped the United States up onits east coast, and everything that was loose went tumbling into California." Great and bulky, sunk to its hips in the earth, with rococo flutings at every possible juncture, portico'd and belfry'd, the Stratford Beach had pa.s.sed through fifty years of scuffling feet, spuming salt-spray, drunken orgies, changed bed-linen and insipid managers to end finally in this backwash eddy of a backwash suburb.
In the main drawing room of the Stratford Beach, standing on the top step of a wide, spiraling staircase of onyx that ran down into a room where the dust in the ancient carpets rose at each step to mingle with the downdrifting film of shattered memories, fractured yesterdays, mote-infested yearnings and the unmistakable stench of dead dreams, Fred Handy knew what had killed F. Scott Fitzgerald. This room, and the thousands of others like it, that held within their ordered interiors a kind of deadly magic of remembrance; a pull and tug of eras that refused to give up the ghost, that had not the common decency to pa.s.s away and let new times be born. The embalmed forevers that never came to be... they were here, lurking in the colorless patinas of dust that covered the rubber plants, that settled in the musty odor of the velvet plush furniture, that shone dully up from inlaid hardwood floors where the Charleston had been danced as a racy new thing.
This was the terrifying end-up for all the refuse of nostalgia. Hooked on this scene had been Fitzgerald, lauding and singing of something that was dead even as it was born. And so easily hooked could anyone get on this, who chose to live after their time was pa.s.sed.
The words tarnish and mildew again formed in Handy's mind, superimposed as subt.i.tles over a mute sequence of Valerie Lone shrieking in closeup. He shook his head, and not a moment too soon. Emery Romito came down the stairs from the second floor of the hotel, walking up behind Handy across the inlaid tiles of the front hall. He stood behind Handy, staring down into the vast living room. As Handy shook his head, fighting to come back to today.
"Elegant, isn't it?" Emery Romito said.
The voice was cultivated, the voice was deep and warm, the voice was histrionic, the voice was filled with memory, the voice was a surprise in the silence, but none of these were the things that startled Handy. The present tense, isn't it. Not: wasn't it, isn't it.
Oh my G.o.d, Handy thought.
Afraid to turn around, Fred Handy felt himself sucked into the past. This room, this terrible room, it was so help him G.o.d a portal to the past. The yesterdays that had never gone to rest were all here, crowding against a milky membrane separating them from the world of right here and now, like eyeless soulless wraiths, hungering after the warmth and presence of his corporeality. They wanted... what? They wanted his au courant. They wanted his today, so they could hear "Nagasaki" and "Vagabond Lover" and "Please" sung freshly again. So they could rouge their knees and straighten their headache bands over their foreheads. Fred Handy, man of today, a.s.sailed by the ghosts of yesterday, and terrified to turn around and see one of those ghosts standing behind him.
"Mr. Handy? You are the man who called me, aren't you?"
Handy turned and looked at Emery Romito.
"h.e.l.lo," he said, through the dust of decades.
HANDY.
Jefferson once said people get pretty much the kind of government they deserve, which is why I refuse to listen to any bulls.h.i.+t carping by my fellow Californians about Reagan and his gubernatorial gang-banging-what I chose to call government by artificial insemination when I was arguing with Julie, a registered Republican, when we weren't making love-because it seems to me they got just what they were asking for. The end-product of a hundred years of statewide paranoia and rampant lunacy. That philosophy-stripped of Freudian undertones-has slopped over into most areas of my opinion. Women who constantly get stomped on by s.h.i.+tty guys generally have a streak of masochism in them; guys who get their hearts eaten away by rodent females are basically self-flagellants. And when you see someone who has been ravaged by life, it is a safe bet he has been a willing accomplice at his own destruction.
All of this pa.s.sed through my mind as I said h.e.l.lo to Emery Romito. The picture in the Player's Directory had softened the sadness. But in living color he was a natural for one of those billboards hustling Forest Lawn pre-need cemetery plots. Don't get caught with your life down.
He was one of the utterly destroyed. A man familiar to the point of incest with the forces that crush and maim, a man stunned by the hammer. And I could conceive of no one who would aid and abet those kind of forces in self-destruction. No. No one.
Yet no man could have done it to himself without the help of the Furies. And so, I was ambivalent. I felt both pity and cynicism for Emery Romito, and his brave foolish elegance.
Age lay like soot in the creases of what had once been a world-famous face. The kind of age that means merely growing old, without wistfulness or delight. This man had lived through all the days and nights of his life with only one thought uppermost: let me forget what has gone before.
"Would you like to sit out on the terrace?" Romito asked. "Nice breeze off the ocean today."
I smiled acquiescence, and he made a theatrical gesture in the direction of the terrace. As he preceded me down the onyx steps into the living room, I felt a clutch of nausea, and followed him. Cheyne-Stokes breathing as I walked across the threadbare carpet, among the deep restful furniture that called to me, suggested I try their womb comfort, sink into them never to rise again. Or if I did, it would be as a shriveled, mummified old man. (And with the memory of a kid who grew up on movies, I saw Margo as Capra had seen her in 1937, aging horribly, shriveling, in a matter of seconds, as she was being carried out of Shangri-La. And I shuddered. A grown man, and I shuddered.) It was like walking across the bottom of the sea; shadowed, filtered with sounds that had no names, caught by shafts of sunlight from the skylight above us that contained freshets of dust-motes rising tumbling surging upward, threading between sofas and Morris chairs like whales in shoal, finally arriving at the fogged dirty French doors that gave out onto the terrace.
Romito opened them smoothly, as if he had done it a thousand times in a thousand films-and probably had-for a thousand Anita Louises. He stepped out briskly, and drew a deep breath. In that instant I realized he was in extremely good shape for a man his age, built big across the back and shoulders, waist still trim and narrow, actually quite dapper. Then why did I think of him as a crustacean, as a pitted fossil, as a gray and wasted relic?
It was the air of fatality, of course. The superimposed chin-up-through-it-all horses.h.i.+t that all Hollywood hangers-on adopted. It was an atrophied devolutionary extension of the Show Must Go On shuck; the myth that owns everyone in the Industry: that getting forty-eight minutes of hack cliche situation comedy filmed-only the barest minimally innervating-to capture the boggle-eyed interest of the Great Unwashed sucked down in the doldrum mire of The Great American Heartland, so they will squat there for twelve minutes of stench odor poison and artifact hardsell, is an occupation somehow inextricably involved with advancing the course of Western Civilization. A myth that has oozed over into all areas of modern thought, thus turning us into a "show biz culture" and sp.a.w.ning such creatures as Emery Romito. Like the cats in the empty Ziv Studios, nibbling at the leftover garbage of the film industry, but loath to leave it. (Echoes of the old saw about the carnival a.s.sistant whose job it was to shovel up elephant s.h.i.+t who, when asked why he didn't get a better job, replied, "What? And leave show biz?") Emery Romito was oneof the clingers to the underside of the rock that was show biz, that dominated like Gibraltar the landscape of Americana.
He had forfeited his humanity in order to remain "with it." He was dead, and didn't know it.
What, and leave show biz?
The terrace was half the size of the living room, which made it twice as large as the foyer of Grauman's Chinese. Gray stone bal.u.s.trades bounded it, and earthquake tremors had performed an intricate calligraphy across the inlaid and matched flaggings. It was daylight, but that didn't stop the shadowy images of women with bobbed hairdos and men with pomaded glossiness from weaving in and around us as we stood there, staring out at the ocean. It was ghost-time again, and secret liaisons were being effected out on the terrace by das.h.i.+ng sheiks (whose wives [married before their men had become nickelodeon idols] were inside slugging the spiked gin-punch) and hungry little hopefuls with waxed s.h.i.+ns and a dab of alum in their v.a.g.i.n.as, anxious to grasp magic.
"Let's sit down," Emery Romito said. To me, not the ghosts. He indicated a conversation grouping of cheap tubular aluminum beach chairs, their once-bright webbing now hopelessly faded by sun and sea-mist.
I sat down and he smiled ingratiatingly.
Then he sat down, careful to pull up the pants creases in the Palm Beach suit. The suit was in good shape, but perhaps fifteen years out of date.
"Well," he said.
I smiled back. I hadn't the faintest idea what "well" was a preamble to, nor what I was required to answer. But he waited, expecting me to say something.
When I continued to smile dumbly, his expression crumpled a little, and he tried another tack. "Just what sort of part is it that Crewes has in mind?"
Oh my G.o.d, I thought. He thinks it's an interview.