Getting Garbo (7 page)

I nodded like I did. But I didn't really know what
Streetcar
was about until I saw the movie a few years later. I seized the opportunity to get the inside scoop and asked Tamar what Roy Darnell was like backstage. She thought about it. “Little sloppy, Roy. Tends to drop his costume on the dressing room floor, but I chastised him, in a nice gentle way, o'course, and he's a doll now.”

That's when the idea came up. Tamar glanced at her watch. “Gotta go in pretty soon, but—hey, wanna come with me? See what it looks like backstage, watch the curtain calls from the wings?”

I couldn't believe it. “Sure,” I said, “if I won't be in the way.”

“Then let's go. But Doc, the snoopy ol' doorman, won't let you in here so we gotta go in the alley door on the other side of the theater.”

We went around the front to the other alley, but before we went in there Tamar remembered that she'd promised to bring back a carton of cigarettes for Marlon Brando. “Got 'em upstairs.” She pointed at her apartment, over there, in one of the rundown tenements a few doors down the street. “Just take a second, c'mon, hurry girl, we don't wanna miss the curtain call.”

Tamar slapped her palm on the buzzer panel, pressing several of the buttons, and laughed. “Gets some of the neighbors pissed when I do this,” she confided, “oughta use my key, but this way be faster.” She got an answering buzz and shoved open the door. We went up to the second floor landing. From above, a voice asked who's there? “Jus' me, sorry t'bother ya,” Tamar called back. A door slammed. Tamar put her index finger to her lips in a shushing gesture and then she sat down on the top step. She patted a spot beside her. I didn't know what we were doing, but I sat down. She looked deep into my eyes, like she was searching for something.

“Where y'live? What part a' the city?” she asked.

“Brooklyn. East New York–Brownsville.”

“I hear you folks ain't been treatin' my people good out there. You been treatin' 'em like they a buncha niggers!”

“I—I—” I phumphed. Tamar slapped me across the mouth. Real hard, I tasted blood.

“Don' lie to me, you lil' Jew bitch! Lemme see that watch.”

I heard myself talking. Trying to sound casual, as if what was happening was normal and okay, as I unbuckled the watchband. “It's not an expensive watch, just a—”

She slapped me again. I winced. Handed her the watch. She put it in her pocket and while she went through my purse and took the $3 she found there, she pointed at my hand. “Now the ring. Give it here!”

My daddy's ring. The one real present I ever got from him. There would be no more.

“Look, Tamar, don't get mad but that's kinda special, I mean I don't think it's worth much, but the sentimental value—”

I was spritzing blood at her as I babbled. Maybe that's why she punched me in the gut. My eyes filled with tears and I blinked to keep her in focus as I pulled at the ring. I really tried, but it wouldn't come off. “I haven't taken it off since my Dad gave it to me—”

A switchblade snapped open. Tamar pointed the tip of the blade at the ring. “Want me t'get it off for ya, honey?”

I tugged extra hard and got it off and dropped the ring into her waiting palm. She closed the switchblade and stood up. She told me that after she left I was to count to a hundred slowly before leaving the building. And if I yelled or came running after her sooner she would cut my eyes out.

“Y'believe me?”

I did.

She trotted off. I counted to myself, slowly, added an extra fifty after the hundred. Then I got up and went down the stairs, holding on to the banister because my legs were pretty shaky. It's not like I was scared, though, more like I was far away, watching myself, as if it was a movie. I was ultra-clear about every detail that was going on.

Open the front door. Peek outside. Make sure she's gone. She is. Step outside. Look all around. No Tamar. If that's her real name, probably not. A lie. Like all the rest.
Streetcar
's over. Crowd coming out. Should I go to the cops? Where's the police station? There's a black limo, 8Z plates, the kind hired by the studios. Waiting near the stage door alley. There's some of the Secret Six. Pam O'Mara, the older gal who's like the den mother of the Group. Tillie Lust (her real last name, I found out later, is Lustig), a couple of the guys, the one they call Podolsky. Why're they here? Something special. I stand in the darkness. Be inconspicuous. Secret Six don't like me tagging after them. But I was here first.

Stage door opens. Pam O'Mara puts a flashbulb in her camera, it's Kirk Douglas and his wife, didn't even know he was in New York. Collectors converge. I duck under Podolsky's arm, shove my book in with the others, Tillie glares at me. Then her expression goes funny. Kirk Douglas and his wife get in the limo.

Here's Roy. Sure is cute. People asking him to sign their programs, without me starting it up. Guess he was real good today. Mr. and Mrs. Darnell. Roy and Addie. They were just married a few weeks ago. For richer for poorer, in sickness and in health. Secret Six all staring at me. Have to tell 'em I didn't follow 'em. Roy talking to me, “What happened, Reva?” Now he's looking funny. Pam and Tillie alongside me, “It's okay, Mr. Darnell. We'll take care of it.”

They took me to the ladies room at Child's cafeteria on Broadway and cleaned me up. My face was swollen and bloody. There was more blood running down my legs. My first period, how's that for timing? Pam sent Podolsky and the one they call Charming Billy back to the theater to check on Tamar. That was before I started to puke. I thought I'd never stop. Tillie held my head. It was very embarrassing. I told them losing Daddy's ring was all I was upset about. Podolsky came back and knocked on the ladies room door and told us nobody named Tamar works at
Streetcar
and the assistant wardrobe mistress is a little old Polish lady.

When I was calm again, Pam O'Mara asked if I wanted them to take me to the police station. I said no, because then my mother'd find out. So how was I going to explain this mess? I'd tell mother that I fell down the subway steps in Brooklyn on my way home. “If she knows what really happened, she'll never let me come collecting again.” They said they understood and they walked me to the subway and told me they hoped I'd feel better and they'd see me next week.

That was the big lesson I learned. Something good can come out of something bad. I'd lost Daddy's special ring. But after that I wasn't an outsider among the autograph hunters anymore. I was part of the Group.

March 16, 1951.

The day I became a woman.

The day I stopped being a crumb collector.

• • •

“Hey, good lookin',” I say with a wink at Roy's glossy framed image in the center of my bedroom shelf. I'm stretched out on my cot, looking up at the so-called altar, feeling pretty bad.

I picked up a copy of the early edition of tomorrow's
L.A. Times
and read it on the bus on the way home tonight. There's a story on the bottom of page one saying that Roy and Adrienne Darnell have been granted an interlocutory divorce decree that will become official in a few months.

Seeing Roy today shooting out on the location, even though I couldn't get close enough to talk to him or even that treacherous lout Killer Lomax, I knew there was something wrong. He must've known already and was taking it hard.

He tries to cover up his feelings a lot of the time, but I can usually read him. There are so many different Roys: the happy kid, the holy terror, the sad sack, the wild man, the dreamer, the screamer. I guess I've seen them all by now, on screen and off. He can change in a blink. Once, outside Toots Shor's in New York, after he was starring in
Jack Havoc,
he got into this violent hassle with the doorman for giving away his cab to someone else, and I don't know what came over me but I got in between them, to keep Roy, who was pretty looped, from getting into trouble. For a split second I thought for sure he was gonna punch me out, but then he focused and saw it was me, and all the rage vanished. He winked at me, then turned to the doorman and said, “You oughta thank Reva, she just saved you a busted schnoz.” And he kissed me on my cheek. So much for Mother and her astrology predictions.

It's time for my evening ritual. I go into the closet and kneel, moving aside a stack of old magazines, and pry at a floorboard, pulling it out to reveal a sturdy wooden box. Even if Mother finds this hiding place, as she's found others in the past, I've got the only key to this padlock, too. I unlock the box, revealing the stack of precious journals that I've been confiding my innermost thoughts to since I was thirteen.

I look up at the shelf. Right in front of the big portrait of Roy, there's a black leather glove, hole ripped in the thumb, that he tossed away on Fifth Avenue in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral after slipping on the icy pavement and tearing it. It was a Sunday in March, there'd been a huge snow storm the night before, and the snowplows hadn't cleared Fifth Avenue yet so there were no cars or buses running, just people walking down the center of the street, like a winter wonderland. One guy actually whooshed by on a pair of skis.

I'd spotted Roy and Addie coming out of the church, don't know why I didn't go up to them and say hello, I guess maybe I thought it'd be sacrilegious or something, although the Group had successfully staked out Loretta Young and Irene Dunne together once at St. Paddy's Easter Mass, but they were superstars and quite rare in New York. Anyway, once I saw Roy slip on the ice, I thought it'd be embarrassing, so I just picked up the glove and followed them, Roy and Addie. I stayed on the sidewalk, and they were up ahead, in the snow-packed roadway, holding hands, talking and laughing, then they got into a thing of throwing snowballs at each other, Roy getting hit in the chest and pretending it was a fatal shot, hamming it up, making her laugh even harder, then he rushed her and rubbed a snowball in her face and then he kissed her. Nobody else was paying much attention to them. Roy wasn't famous yet, so I felt like this was a private movie and I was the entire audience and I loved the way they so clearly were in love with each other.

I'm sure of it.

I sit cross-legged on the floor and write my thoughts in the journal. They come out in a jumble:

I know I'm behaving bizarrely, is there such a word? Well, awfully strange anyway, like Mommy and Daddy are breaking up and what's to become of little me. It's only another Hollywood divorce, and I never got to know Addie that well, so it's probably foolish to be going on like this.

But I feel bad for them.

Especially Roy.

And, yes, I do feel bad for me, too.

See, I don't have high school football games and senior proms to look back on. I never took part in all that ordinary stuff, but now it feels like a chunk of my own personal history is being rewritten, retroactively. Memorabilia. Some of my most important memories are falling apart.

I stop writing and look at the words I've put down. I don't know if they make any sense, but it's how I feel.

“A small expression of the agency's congratulations—or condolences,” my agent says. He's brought two of Vendome's most expensive gift baskets, each overflowing with sweetmeats, cheeses, and a jeroboam of champagne. One basket gaily wrapped in red cellophane with flowing ribbons. The other somberly encased in black cellophane, the sort of thing you bring to a wake. “We didn't know if you were celebrating or mourning. So we covered both bases.”

“I'm not sure either,” I tell him.

“You know what they say. Into each life a little rain must fall. Well, Addie, let's face it, she was a deluge.”

He never liked Addie. Can you tell?

As he leans over and sets the brimming baskets on the coffee table, I get a whiff of him. My agent smells good. He really does. It's not perfume or toilet water, whatever that is. He says it's cologne. Don't get him started, though, because he can do a half hour on the subject. He gave me a huge bottle of the stuff for Christmas, but I still haven't worked up the nerve to use it yet. He says just think of it as aftershave.

His name is Val Dalton and he's a moose. I'm big. He's bigger. Extra-large guy. He handles the two gift baskets like they're cupcakes. Sartorially, he's turned out as elegantly as a diplomat. Shirts and suits tailored in Hong Kong. Bench-cobbled British loafers with cute tassels. Carefully sprayed pompadour. Don't get the idea he's a pansy or anything. Val used to play goalie in the pro hockey league in Canada.

He's originally from Kansas, family of dirt farmers. But he claims his great-great-great uncles were the Dalton Brothers, notorious bank robbers of the old west. “Makes me a birth member of the Ride Back Club,” he likes to say. Translation: in the western movies when one of the guys gets left behind and the other cowpokes realize it. “We're the guys who'll ride back for him.” Now
that's
a great background for an agent.

“I've got a question,” I tell him. “It seems like half the country's getting divorces. How come they all manage to take it right in stride?”

“If that's the line someone lays on you, they're lying. Trust me, I'm an expert on this subject.” Val is slightly older than I am, but he's been divorced twice and things have gotten noisy lately with his third marriage. “When it happens, even if you hate her guts, it still rattles you. Guys'll tell you you'll get over it in two months. Two years is more like it.”

The quid pro quo seems out of whack. Addie and I were only married six years. Some shiny-nice ones, in the beginning. Quick. Cover the pain with a gag. “Don't I get any time off for—whaddayacallit?”

“Good behavior? Only if you qualify.” My agent knows me too well.

We're sitting in my penthouse living room. Not mine, exactly. It's Jack Havoc's living room. A standing set on Stage 11. Posh perfection, with breakaway walls. The better to photograph you with. Panoramic view of the city. Look closer, just a backdrop. Running water in the bathroom for my bare-chested beefcake shaving scenes. But no toilet bowls, check it out, not anywhere in a Hollywood movie or TV show in those days.

Carpenters are banging nails, the electrical crew clattering lights into position for the next setup. Too noisy to talk here. So Val and I gather up my goodie baskets and step out of the penthouse into the semi-gloom, clutter, and confusion behind the camera, stepping nimbly over cables as we move toward my dressing room.

Stage 11 is the oldest one on the lot. Ghosts hide in the seventy foot high rafters and narrow catwalks. Sound-padding was added when Jolson began to shout for his
Mammy.
Cagney shoved a grapefruit into Mae Clarke's face right over there. The 3-D version of
The Phantom of the Rue Morgue
was shot here. Now my TV series is paying the rent.

We settle down in the dressing room. It's a roomy place, until someone Val's size comes inside. Then it starts feeling like a toy house. I pour some Chianti for us and then Val drops a bomb. The divorce isn't the only reason he came by.

“We've received an offer from Warners,” he says.

“To do what?” I'm feeling guilty that I haven't told Val or anyone at the agency that Nate Scanlon is going to take a shot at breaking the Warners contract.

“They've got a theatrical feature they want you to do during the series hiatus.”

“How about Marty's movie?” Martin Ritt, one of the best directors in Hollywood and an old pal from the New York “live” TV days, is about to make a waterfront movie with Sidney Poitier. He's been talking to me about co-starring.

“This would be instead. Warners will give you thirty-five thousand. Outside the TV deal. They know you're hurting for cash after the divorce settlement.”

“The money's good,” I admit.

“In return, they want you to extend your contract.” Val fiddles with the foil on the red gift basket. “Agree to give them two extra years as Jack Havoc.”

Deep breath. Let's hear it all. “What's the Warners movie?”

“A western. Aldo Ray plays Wyatt Earp. You're one of his younger brothers.”

“How many younger brothers are there?”

“Three. You're the middle one. You don't get killed until the O.K. Corral.”

“They're killin' me right now! C'mon, Val, this is horse pucky. Not even a ‘B' movie, it's ‘B' minus!”

“It's not what we were looking for, I know. But like you said, the money's good, and I'm sure we can get them to step up your Jack Havoc fees in a healthy way for the extra couple years. So you'll get to be a movie star a little later. What's the big hurry? Look at Bogie or Coop or Duke. You're going to have a long, long career, like them.”

I'm not feeling guilty anymore. My agent is shilling for the studio.

“I'd rather do the picture with Poitier. Even if Warners grabs all of my loanout fee like they did the last time.”

“The Poitier movie is no longer a possibility.” Boom!

“Maybe you better spell this out for me, Val.”

“Warners is exercising their right to pre-empt. You take the Earp picture and whistle all the way to the bank, or—they'll suspend you. Force you to sit out the hiatus, off salary. Until you go back to work on the series.”

“They can do that?”

“According to the contract.”

I look at Val Dalton. He's squirming. I know why.

He was there to welcome me when I first came to California. We'd never met, but he was easy to spot. Look for the tallest head on the station platform. In those days, flying was still a hassle, so actors being signed up by the New York talent scouts were shipped west by train. The Twentieth Century to Chicago, transfer to the Super Chief from Chicago to Pasadena.

That's how Val Dalton became a rising star at the agency.

Because all the senior guys there couldn't be bothered, schlepping all the way to Pasadena. For what? To meet some scruffy, scratching, mumbling kid who'd be taking the bus back to New York before anyone knew it. So they sent the big kid, Val, the agency gofer, to meet the trains. When some of us started to get somewhere in our careers, the only person at the agency we knew was Val Dalton.

But apart from business, the two of us have shared a lot of history. We've gotten drunk together in a Durango cathouse, won big and lost bigger at Santa Anita racetrack, risked our asses motorcycling through the Santa Monica mountains, told each other our dreams and fears. He's never lied to me. Before.

“So you think it's a good deal.” I want to hear him say it.

“The agency recommends it.”

“What do
you
say, Val?”

“I say—” here we go now, our relationship hangs on this “—let's tell Jack Warner to go screw himself! He just wants to exploit your name power from the series to bolster his crappy western. That helps him, not you. So they suspend you, so what? I know Addie cleaned you out. But if you need dough, I'll loan you whatever you need. Pay me back when you can.”

“Thanks, man,” I mumble like Marlon. I want to tell Val about what Nate Scanlon's doing. But I've promised not to. So guilt returns, bigger and better than before. While I'm so busy feeling sorry for myself, I again miss one of those moments that can shape your future. Life and death stuff, but who knows that at the time?

“The agency sent you over to sell me the deal,” I say.

He shrugs.

“They gonna bust your balls when I pass?”

“Hey, I can always get myself another job,” he says. I start to protest, but he laughs. “Don't sweat it, man. I'll just tell 'em you're a thick-headed, crazy actor. I know they'll buy that.”

I walk him out of the dressing room. We start to shake hands. Instead we hug. A first. As he starts to go, I call after him. “Val, how come you don't like Addie?” I always pretended not to notice.

He stops, looks back at me. He's never tried to put it into words. The carpenters' hammering still going on in the background. “I know you think you were a lousy husband,” he says slowly. “But Addie, as a wife—well, I felt like she was mostly rooting against you.”

“It wasn't always that way.”

“Glad to hear it. Call me. About anything. Anytime.”

As Val goes off on his rounds, Killer Lomax comes rushing onto the sound stage. One glance tells me. I've sent him on a mission. He's hurrying back because he's come up empty-handed.

“Can't find that bitch anywhere,” he says. “She's vanished.”

• • •

Flashback time. Let me fill you in on some stuff you need to know.

It happened, of course, at Romanoff's. Just a few weeks ago. Killer and I were finishing dinner. The Bogarts were in New York. So we got Bogie's booth just below the bar. That's when I first noticed her. Perched on a stool. Waiting for someone. She disappeared from view when the bar got crowded. Now Killer had gone off on his merry way. Prince Mike and I were playing backgammon. He's good. I'm better. The crowd at the bar thinned. And she was still there.

“Who's that?” I asked him.

He turned his baleful face with the pouchy eyes toward the bar. “A brand-new face.”

“Looks like a civilian,” I said. Meaning not show biz. She was dressed in a simple black sheath, black pumps, string of pearls. Ladylike. Alabaster skin, no makeup except for a touch of lipstick. Did I mention gorgeous? Little younger than I am, but not too young. Long auburn hair, excellent legs. At first glance I thought I knew her from somewhere. No, really. Would I lie to you?

Kurt the maitre d' brought a problem to Prince Mike and the two of them went off to deal with it. What the hell. I got up and sauntered to the bar. She barely looked at me. Until I stopped beside her.

“He must be crazy,” I said.

“Beg pardon?”

“Your boyfriend. Whoever he is. Standing you up like this.”

She hesitated. Deciding whether to talk to me or not. Deciding yes. “It's a she. My old school chum. And this is definitely not like her. Unless she's changed.” She looked around. “I haven't seen her in years. Maybe she's here and I don't recognize her.”

“Then we can both look for her.” I shielded my eyes like a sailor on watch. Stared off at the room. Buster Keaton in the Navy. She laughed. It was a nice laugh. And we were off and rolling.

She joined me in my booth. After all, you can keep an eye on the bar from there. She'd been trying to call her girlfriend on the pay phone. Left messages. So I had the waiter plug in a line at the booth. We played backgammon. I'm good. She was better.

Her name was Chris Patterson. She was from Alhambra, a blue-collar suburb just west of the city. Born and bred. Teaching music and art at her old high school. Never married. Bright. Funny. Just my kind of girl. Now I knew who she reminded me of—Addie. When I first met her.

“What happened here?” A Band-Aid. Flesh colored, wrapped around Chris's right index finger. I took her hand. Casually. To better examine the Band-Aid. Yeah, sure.

“Tennis blister. The P.E. teacher has the flu and I was filling in. Been a long time since I held a racquet. Do you play?”

“Used to. Maybe I should again.” Still holding her hand.

“You could get hurt,” she said. “I did.”

“Gotta take a risk now and then.”

She took her hand away. Looked flustered. Then tried her friend on the phone again. Visiting from Chicago, staying at the Beverly Hilton. This time her friend was there. Chit-chat. Chris hung up. Embarrassed. “It's
tomorrow
night. We're supposed to meet here tomorrow night.”

“Well, then we've got a lot of time to kill. Want to play some more backgammon?”

“I'm tired of backgammon,” she said.

“I know some other games,” I said.

We took my car. She was a stranger to Beverly Hills, so I drove around a little. Showing her some of the sights. Making sure I wasn't being followed.
Confidential
magazine was lurking everywhere lately. I didn't mention that to her. She wouldn't have understood.

See, I didn't tell you the best part. From the moment I began flirting with her it was clear that she had no idea who I was. Actors specialize in eye contact. I could see in her gaze that I was just a guy in a bar. Came out in conversation, she didn't watch TV, didn't even own a set. Hated all that noise and gossip. Just my kind of girl. When she'd asked what I did, I'd said just a hard-working insurance executive, how are you fixed for whole life? Don't know why I lied, guess I didn't want to let Jack Havoc spoil things.

I suggested a nightcap at the Hotel Bel-Air. Elegant. Swans gliding in the lagoon. Isolated. I could've taken her to my house. Addie was away in Santa Barbara at an antique dealer's convention. But Addie can smell things that hardly register on the Richter scale. We hadn't had that kind of earth-shaking battle in a while, and I wasn't looking for one. So as Chris and I were sipping cognac at a candlelit table in a dark corner of the Bel Air's near-deserted bar, I slipped my pal the bellhop a fiver. He brought back a key to one of the remote bungalows.