Getting Garbo (17 page)

This is the first time I've ever shown my entire autograph collection to anyone all at once, and I must say that Gunther Weybright is a very attentive audience. He flips through page after page, book after book, even the crumb books which, of course, do contain some real nuggets, and he seems quite impressed. “You have been a most industrious person,” he says.

Podolsky gives me a surreptitious but encouraging nudge.

We're in Mr. Weybright's store on La Cienega Boulevard. He buys and sells rare books, first editions, and autographs. Neither Podolsky nor I have ever met him before, but we've both noticed his store in the past. The Coronet Theater that plays old movies is just down the street. Once Podolsky and I went to see some Charlie Chaplin shorts there, and right before the show was supposed to begin the manager came to the front and scanned the spectators, and I guess none of us looked like cops because he ran a rare bootleg print of
Modern Times
instead.

Across the street we once got Elsa Lanchester, who was the Bride of Frankenstein and also Mrs. Charles Laughton in real life, when she was arriving to do her one-woman show for children in a tiny stage theater up the street. She signed for us, then realized she'd left her stage door key at home so she had to crawl in a window. We helped her get inside the theater, and I know I'm rambling on here but I'm scared Mr. Weybright will say No, because I really need money desperately now that Killer won't help me, but I'm also scared Mr. Weybright will say Yes, because that will mean the end of my collection.

It's probably a good time to clear up some misconceptions about autograph collectors. The kind we are, anyway. There are people who approach it as a business, they get autographs and try to sell them. We all look down on them. To us it's a hobby, pure and simple. The notion that we get multiple signatures and trade them with each other also isn't true. You know, three Susan Haywards for one Bette Davis. Horse pucky. There has to be a reason if you get a repeat signature, like for instance, if there was a misspelling the first time and it came out “Gay Cooper” instead of “Gary.” Some of the autographs never improved, like Marlene Dietrich, who always wrote “M-line-D-line.” No other defined letters.

Jimmy Stewart would write “James” only on request, otherwise he was “Jimmy.” James Cagney would always sign “JCagney,” no matter what, but as I look around the walls in Mr. Weybright's store I see a framed letter hanging behind his desk signed “GWashington,” so maybe collectors have always had these problems. Sometimes we got a new autograph when the actor graduated from crumb book to good book. The only other repeats permitted were on 8x10 glossies or the candid photos we shot ourselves. I'm not saying everyone obeyed these rules, but if you were part of the Secret Six, that's how it worked.

The point I'm making is that inasmuch as I don't have any repeats, if I sell my collection that's it. Either I quit or I suddenly need everybody and I know it's too late to start over again, so all I'll have is my memories. The only tangible reminders of those hundreds and hundreds of occasions that are so precious to me will be gone.

But what choice do I have?

Mr. Weybright looks like my high school biology teacher. A musty man in a beige misbuttoned-down-the-front sweater, over a white shirt and red bow tie, he purses his lips as he turns the pages, occasionally remarking about a particular signature. “Babe Ruth,” he says, “genuine Americana, and President Eisenhower—”

“That was from before he was president.”

He nods. “Pola Negri, is she still alive?”

“I'm not sure,” I tell him, but when he leafs on I confirm that John Garfield is dead and he seems pleased. Finally he closes the last book and pats it with his liver-spotted hand.

“So what do you think?” I ask him.

“Generally speaking, not exactly my field. I specialize in historical figures. I have several Andrew Jackson letters, a playbill signed by John Wilkes Booth, proclamations personally autographed by Woodrow Wilson and Franklin Roosevelt, that sort of thing. Of course, I deal in some entertainment personages, such as Harry Houdini and Sarah Bernhardt. This would be a first for me.”

“How much?” Podolsky asks, because I'm afraid to.

“I could offer—” Mr. Weybright purses his lips “—a hundred and seventy dollars.”

He can see my disappointment. I'd hoped he'd say something in the thousands, that's how much they're worth to me, but that's not how it is.

“You see, essentially it's only the deceased figures who have value, and the historical figures, and there aren't that many of those in your collection. But I'm willing to gamble, and wait, some of the entertainers may…” he gropes for a word, “…they may
mature
profitably. All right, let's round it out, I'll say, two hundred dollars.”

For everything. That's all it's worth to him. Podolsky and I have calculated costs and with round trip bus fare and the cost of an abortion in Tijuana, according to a gal he asked at his job in Music City, plus what I have in savings, that might just barely be enough.

“Of course, someone else might be able to make you a better offer. Perhaps one of those book stores that specialize in the entertainment field.”

Podolsky and I have tried them already. First Podolsky tried to talk me out of selling my collection. “You'll regret it for the rest of your life,” like I don't know that already, so I had to insist, particularly since I still haven't heard anything definitive from Dr. Berman, except the lab screwed up so much that I had to go in and take another rabbit test and now I'm still waiting for the results, but I'm sure they're really just double checking and it's going to be bad news and I have to deal with this problem, because I can't take care of a child and Mother wouldn't and I couldn't even ask her.

So Podolsky drove me to several Hollywood Boulevard stores to get my collection appraised and they all were totally disinterested, wouldn't even take the time to go through my stuff. This is the one and only shot. Mr. Weybright's offer. I better grab it. It's the only chance I have, there's really no other way. I have to do it. I open my mouth to accept, but what comes out is, “I'm sorry, I can't do it.”

“I understand,” Mr. Weybright says, “as one collector to another.”

I look at Podolsky, his horn-rimmed glasses are half-fogged because of the tension, he wipes them clear on his sleeve and helps me stack my autograph books back in the carton we brought them in. We carry them out to the trunk of his car.

“Let's stop at Walgreen's,” he says. “I need to take an aspirin, my head's killing me.”

He's not the only one.

So we go to Walgreen's, where my problem is solved, for only a nickel.

I use the pay phone to call Dr. Berman's office and the nurse puts me through and the doctor says he's got good news, the report just came back, and it's negative. I am not pregnant, but apparently I am severely anemic, and combined with emotional stress, that's probably why my period is off. He can give me a shot to boost my iron count and there also are dietary steps I can take to improve my condition.

After I hang up the phone I just stand there and Podolsky notices, I guess I'm smiling, but funny. “What'd he say?” he asks me.

“Dr. Berman told me to go eat a chopped liver sandwich and everything will be okay.”

Addie is a creature of habit. Friday nights, after closing, she is alone in the store. Updating her inventory, working on her accounts. Licking her wounds (she used to lament), or calculating her wins (now I know) for the previous week. Hard, lonely work, poor thing. Juggling those heavy books, hiding all those pesky assets. Performing a feat of reverse alchemy. Making a silk purse look like a sow's ear.

Her only interruption comes at six o'clock when the delivery boy from Linny's deli, two blocks away, brings her dinner. Always the same: an Eddie Cantor sandwich. That's a lean corned beef and liverwurst combo on rye. Pickle, mustard, and raw onion on the side. And a Dr. Pepper. It's the only off-diet meal she permits herself all week.

The delivery kid knocks on the back door. She comes out of the office, unlocks the door, takes the food bag from him and signs for it. Gives him a two dollar tip in cash. He leaves. She goes back to her labors. Scarfing her high-cholesterol repast while gloating over her covert success. Kind of like Bogie in
Treasure of the Sierra Madre,
sifting gold dust with greedy fingers.

I'm parked down the street. I see the deli kid come and go.

Now she's alone. Benjy the guard and the sales biddies all long gone.

I walk around to the alley and up to the back door. It's covered with sheet metal for security. Afterward, I'll pry at the metal to make it look like a forced entry. But for now I've got a key. I turn the key. Open the door to my future.

Step inside. Turn into the storeroom. Dark. Bit of light splashing in from the hallway. Dimly illuminating the shelves. Stuffed to overflowing with bolts of fabric, lamps, shades, cornices, framed decor artwork, metal ornaments, brocaded toss pillows, candleholders, paperweights, fireplace andirons. Shipping clerk's packaging table. Neat and empty. Except for the usual tools. Scissors, staple gun, bills of lading impaled on a pointy spike, coils of twine, several sharp knives.

Fat City. Choice of weapons.

I stand in the semi-darkness and wait. After she finishes eating, Addie always dumps the garbage back here. Doesn't want the deli's garlic smells stinking up her office overnight. So ladylike. I hear her heels clicking now. Coming down the corridor. Manicured hand reaches in to grope at the wall switch. She enters as the light goes on. And sees me. Leaning against the wall. Boyish grin. Hands stuffed deep in my pants pockets. Mr. Casual.

“Hi there,” I say. Like we're running into each other at a church social.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Pissed. Not scared. Not yet.

“I need a special gift. For a new divorcee.” Cute, huh? “Thought I'd give you the business.”

“You're shopping—after closing, in my stockroom? In the dark? How'd you get in?”

“Usual way. Through the door.”

“You still have a key?” I shrug. “Give it to me! Right now, you asshole—or I'm calling the alarm service.”

“Hey, you want it—you got it.”

I take my hand out of my pocket. Key in my open palm. She snatches the key. Triumphant. In charge. Doesn't even notice. Then she does.

“Why are you wearing gloves?'

“As Little Red Riding Hood said to the Big Bad Wolf in grandma's bed.” I wigwag my gloved hands in her face. Now she's got it. Fear jolts her nervous system. She tries to cover. Terror in her eyes, but her voice is steady. I'll give her that.

“Well, let's go out front, Roy, see what we can find for your friend—” She lunges for the alarm service key pad on the wall. They don't call it the panic button for nothing. Gets Beverly Hills cops here within two minutes. But I'm ready for her. Leap forward. Between her and the panic button. Intercept. Catch her hand. She makes her other hand into a claw and tries to rake my face, but I grab that wrist, too. We're locked together. Hands upraised, we're frozen.

“Want to tango? Always takes two.” I yank her across the narrow room, like Fred and Ginger gliding to the RKO orchestra, and slam her back against the shelves. I let go of her and bow politely. “Thank you for the dance.” She's staring at me, wild-eyed.

“What do you want?” she asks. Kind of imploring.

“Nothing much, sweetie. Just for you to die.”

And that's when I hit her. With a pewter candlestick from the shelf. The first blow bashes in the side of her face and she goes over backwards. Down to the floor. I sit astride her and keep hitting her and hitting her until her face is a ketchupy mush and—

“Oh, God, no, I just can't do it!” I scream.

The crash of the waves obliterates my cry.

I'm barefoot on the moonlit beach at Zuma Beach. Almost dawn. An insomniac trudging the deserted sands all night. While trying on imaginary scenarios for size.

I'm all by myself. Except for Jack Havoc.

Calm down,
he says.
Why can't you do it?

“Because—because I'll get caught.”

No you won't. How?

“All that blood, it'll splash on me! What's the point of wearing gloves if I go back out on the street looking like a slaughterhouse butcher?”

So don't get bloody. Beating her to a pulp, that was your idea. Not that it's a problem. I mean, you'd be wearing black clothes, so it wouldn't show. But if it worries you, clop her on the back of the head, not much blood in the scalp, or choke her to death, that'd be fun—

“I keep telling you, I am not going through with this!”

Still haven't given me a good reason why not.

“Who're you that I have to give you reasons?”

Don't have one, do you?
Fucker's laughing at me.

“An alibi! I'll be the first one the cops'll go after. Nearest and dearest.”

So you'll have an alibi—we'll cover that base, I skipped over it 'cuz you said it was the deed itself you were scared about—

“I'm scared about the whole damn thing! Situation's bad enough the way it is, I don't want to go to prison for the rest of my life—or the fuckin' gas chamber!”

Bubela, babela, you're gonna walk away from this smelling like a rose. It's like taking a lesson at Arthur Murray's. You'll be a rich man, Roy, if you can just follow these few simple steps.

“Oh yeah? Easy for you to say. Tell me my alibi. C'mon, wisenheimer. Lemme hear. What's my alibi?”

Okay, and then you'll cool out and we can get this show on the road?

“First tell me the perfect alibi.”

Let's see. You couldn't have been in the store because you were somewhere else…

“Yeah, riiiight. Like where? Having cocktails with the Pope?”

Good example. A person who'll swear they were with you. How about Kim?

“I can't even get her to return phone calls.”

Your ex-pal Killer would've been a likely candidate.

“All of Killer's alibis belong to Dave Viola now.”

So the trick is to have you seen somewhere by a lot of people and then you slip away, do your stuff, and get back in time so no one knows you were gone.

“Sure, that sounds real easy.” Maybe sarcasm will get him off my back.

Don't shoot me down, Roy. Spitball with me. What if…if you were in a private steam room, or…a photo darkroom—

“Hey, got it,” snapping my fingers. “Suppose I was locked in a bank vault, like Houdini. Better yet, maybe in jail, a nice jail with an inconspicuous revolving back door.”

You don't want to find an answer.

“No, you just don't have one.”

It's not so difficult. Art gallery opening. Eat some hors d'oeuvres, lose yourself in the crowd, sneak out, sneak back in. What's the matter with that?

“Too damn risky. Don't you see that? It could fall apart in so many ways, I can't even begin to count 'em—”

Hey, man, just tryin' to help you out here.

“Don't help me! Leave me alone!”

Look, if it makes it easier for you—pretend it's a show. You've done these scenes before. Remember playing the lead in
Dial M for Murder
in summer stock? You were great.

“But I got caught! The perfect crime and they still nabbed me.”

That was their idea of a happy ending. We'll write our own. You bump her off, empty the cash register and her purse, grab her watch, the diamond earrings, anything else that's loose and valuable. Burglar got surprised in the act and killed her. It'll work.

“They'll be able to trace her stuff—”

You'll drop it all off the pier into the ocean.

“Get out of my head! I don't want to talk about this or think about it or—”

Hey, man, I'm not in charge of what you think.
He lights a Gauloises. Blows smoke in my face.
So let me get this straight. You're just gonna sit back and get reamed by that treacherous bitch, gang-banged by the whole damn scheming-dreaming town, castrated by Jack L. Warner and—

I cover my ears, scrunch my eyes tightly shut, and make a loud humming-droning sound. “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

And the waves crash.

When I open my eyes, he's gone.

• • •

I realize I'm changing.

When I first arrived in L.A., I'd be driving along on a sunny day and the smog would get to me. My eyes would water and sting so bad that I'd have to pull over to the curb and blink and blot until my vision cleared. Now, that doesn't happen anymore. I know it's not because the smog has vanished. Bob Hope wouldn't still be making jokes about it. And they wouldn't still be announcing on TV which days the school kids should avoid unnecessary exertion. It's me. I've changed. I've built up a tolerance for what used to throw me. Maybe I've mutated. For better or for worse.

Want to hear something funny? Now I've changed my brand of cigarettes. Dropped Luckies, after all these years. Started smoking Gauloises. Don't say it, I know, that's Jack Havoc's brand. Okay, could be it's a case of life imitating art. Or is that overstating the case for a lousy TV series? But Jack Havoc blowing that French smoke in my face stirred a desire. I know it was just imaginary smoke, but actors are trained in sense memory, so the smell I conjured up was vivid to me. Enough so that today, when I was out of butts, I bought a carton of Gauloises.

So that's what I'm doing. Hiding out in my rented house, smoking Jack Havoc's cigarettes, torching 'em up with my gold lighter from the Bogarts, that fucker Killer “found” it in the lining of his jacket. Bet he wouldn't've given it back if he knew he was gonna get a better offer so soon. I'm drinking large quantities of Stoli on the rocks (yeah, Jack Havoc's favorite beverage), and trying to figure what my next move should be. Short of murder.

As mad as I get at Jack Havoc, I have to admit that I envy that confident voice of his. He's got guts and smarts and a nothing-can-stop-me determination. It must be great to be so certain of everything. But I'm not Jack Havoc.

And while I sit here unshaved and unbathed and unnerved, I'm amazed at how much I miss Kim. Amazed and depressed. Because I've left messages for days with her answering service and Kim hasn't called me back. She might be my last, best chance. If I haven't blown it with her forever. Hey, anyone's entitled to get blitzed and make an asshole out of himself once. Right? Well, I'm convinced. But how do I get her back?

I look at the calendar. I look at my watch. Does Lancelot sit around lamenting about losing Guinevere? Or does he shave and shower and get on his horse and go do something about it?

• • •

Miracle of miracles, although it's Sunday night, there's a big fat parking space waiting for me on Sunset just a few doors down from the Hamburger Hamlet. It's crowded inside the restaurant, and unfed customers clog the entrance waiting for tables. I shoulder forward, hear people whispering my name to each other behind me. Enjoy it while I can. I look for Kim, but she's not on the floor. Behind the counter I see the owner, ex-actor Harry Lewis. He's dressed in a blue blazer with gold buttons and an old school tie, but he's slinging plates from the kitchen with the best of his staff. He's like a ballet dancer. Showing 'em how it's done. Harry spots me and waves me over. We know each other from some boozy evenings at Bogie's house in Holmby Hills. Harry played Edward G. Robinson's gunsel in
Key Largo
and got to smack Betty Bacall, for which he paid dearly in the last reel.

“Hey, stud,” he says, “if you're looking for her, you just missed her. Or are you here for the chili?” He slips out from the counter and we chat in an alcove near the rest rooms. There's a drunk on the pay phone behind us pleading with a bookie for credit.

“Thought I might take her to the movies,” I say. Harry seems to think everything's hunky dory. Maybe it is.

“That's where Kim went. The Academy's running the old
A Star Is Born.
She said she was in a mood for a good cry. Heard anything from Bogie?”

“Still working in Europe. I tried phoning him today in Rome but he had a couple days off. He and Betty went to Paris.” So I won't be able to cry on his shoulder until he calls back.

“They'll always have Paris,” Harry says. Quoting
Casablanca
.

“Here's lookin' at you, kid,” I counter. Like a pair of Freemasons exchanging the secret sign. “Standing room only in here,” I say.

“Uh-huh. Business is great. We're opening two more places before the end of the year. After that, who knows?”

“Tomorrow the world.”

“Yeah. I'm making more money than if I'd managed to stay alive at Warners for the full seven year deal, pay increases and all. And it's steady. People don't have to go to the movies, but they have to eat.” I laugh. It's a joke he must use a lot. “Incidentally, congratulations on getting loose from the Colonel. Invite me to the premiere of your first big movie. Maybe you'll even let us cater the party.”