Once Is Not Enough (7 page)

For the next few months he was an explosion of frenetic energy. There were discussions with set designers, directors, actors, interviews at Sardi’s, appearances on the talk shows, quick dinners at Danny’s Hide-a-Way to unwind with the comedians, dropping by and sitting up half the night with Long John Nebel on his radio show. His return generated the excitement of a superstar. He was well liked by the press . . . his enthusiasm and “rough cut” charm were infectious to everyone around him. When rehearsals began he sent daily reports to January. He sent her the script; the newspaper stories; wrote to her about rehearsals; and kept her informed on every development of “their” propect. The only thing he neglected to
tell her about was the ingenue who had moved in with him after the first week of rehearsal.

The play opened in October in Philadelphia and got mixed notices. Revisions were made and the ingenue lost two of her best scenes and stopped talking to him. It went on to Boston, where it received excellent notices. Three weeks later it opened in New York to a rousing ovation and murderous reviews. The consensus was “Old hat” . . . “Cumbersome” . . . “Badly cast.” The playwright went on talk shows and said Mike had changed his original conception, taken away all the mystical quality. The ingenue went on talk shows and said the playwright was a genius and Mike had ruined his work (she had already moved out of the Plaza and in with the playwright).

He refused to close it. The cast took cuts and went on minimum salary. He poured another two hundred thousand dollars into signs on buses and subways, full-page ads in
The New York Times
, radio and television spots, full-page ads in the trades, in weekly
Variety
. He reprinted the Boston notice in full-page ads in out-of-town newspapers. He papered the house and gave it the razzle-dazzle he had always given his hits. He flew to Switzerland and told January it was a smash—it would run forever and he would have at least three companies on tour.

Two months later, after a long session with his accountant, he was forced to close. The market was down, but he sold more stock and arrived in Switzerland for her twentieth birthday, walking like a winner, and carrying the usual amount of overweight in gifts.

And when January walked into the reception room without crutches and without a trace of a limp, he felt like the winner of all time. Her steps were slow and measured, but she was walking. He clamped his jaw and swallowed hard. She was so damned beautiful with those great brown eyes and her hair hanging to her shoulders.

And then she was in his arms, both of them talking and laughing at once. Later, over dinner at the inn, she said, “Why did you tell me the show was such a hit?”

“It was . . . with me. Just had too much class for the public.”

“But you put your own money into it . . .”

“So?”

“Well, you’ve had three flop pictures . . .”

“Who says?”

“Variety
says.”

“Where in hell did you get
Variety?”

“You left it here last time. Dr. Peterson gave it to me, thinking you might want it back. I devoured it. But why did you tell me it was a hit?”

“It was . . . in Boston. Look, forget the play. Let’s talk about important things. The Doc says you’ll be ready to leave in six months.”

“Daddy—” She leaned across the table and looked into his eyes. “Remember when I entered my teens, you said that was a special night. Well, tonight I’ve left my teens. I’m twenty. I’m a big girl now. I know the clinic costs over three thousand a month. Erik, the little boy who taught me to play guitar, had to leave because it was too expensive . . . so I’ve been thinking. . .”

“The only thing you’ve got to think about is getting well.”

“What about money?”

“Hell, I made money from the flop pictures. I was on a percentage of the gross, baby—got it right off the top.”

“Honest?”

“Honest.”

He had gone back on the plane determined to knock down windmills. His talk with Dr. Peterson had been unsettling. (“Mr. Wayne, you must think of January’s future with much care. She is so very beautiful but also so very innocent. She talks of being an actress, which is natural because it is your business. But you must realize how protected she has been in the world of our Clinique. She must be eased back into your world, not thrown into it.”)

He thought about it on the plane. Somehow he’d manage to have one hell of a world waiting for her. When they ran into some rough weather, he was hit with the crazy idea that a plane crash might solve everything, until he realized he had already cashed in his insurance.

A hit picture was the only solution. Maybe with the three
bad ones behind him, the curse was off. He returned to Los Angeles and once again holed up at the Beverly Hills Hotel reading scenarios and treatments. Oddly enough he found one almost immediately. It was from a writer who had not had a hit in the past ten years. But in the fifties, he had one blockbuster after another. He had Oscars for doorstops. And this one would get him another. It had everything. Big love interest, action, a violent chase scene. He met with the author and paid him a thousand dollars for a month’s option.

Then he went to the heads of the big studios.

To his amazement, he couldn’t raise any money or any interest in the script. The answer was the same everywhere. The industry was in a slump. A scenario from a screenwriter meant nothing. Now if he had a best-selling novel . . . perhaps. But scenarios were flooding the studios. And everyone seemed in a state of quiet panic. Changes were happening everywhere. Studio heads had come and gone. At some studios he didn’t even know the new people in charge. The top independent film-makers also refused to back him. They felt he was a bad risk and the author was old hat. At the end of the month he was forced to relinquish the property. Three days later, two kids in their twenties who had come up with a sleeper the year before grabbed it and got immediate backing from a major studio.

He returned to New York in a frantic search for some action. He invested a hundred thousand in a show a top producer had in rehearsal. The trouble began when the leading man quit the second week of rehearsal. The out-of-town tryout was a nightmare—eight weeks of hysteria, fights, cast replacements, and finally his decision to close the show without bringing it in.

After that he spent two months pouring money into an idea for a television series. He worked with the writers; he paid for the pilot himself, spent over three hundred thousand dollars. The networks looked at it, but “passed.” His only chance to recoup some of the money would be as a one-shot slot filler in the summer.

A few weeks later he went to a private screening of the picture he had lost. The production room was filled with young
men with beards, tank shirts, and hair hanging from their armpits. The girls wore tank tops and no bras and their hair was either Afro or long and stringy. He felt sick as he watched the picture. They had ruined a great script. Put the ending at the beginning, flooded it with flashbacks and out-of-focus camera work, made the love scene a psychedelic dream sequence with hand-held cameras—the
cinéma-vérité
crap. Sure, they had to play it that way with the beasts who were passing as actors and actresses today. There were no more faces around like Garbo’s or Crawford’s, or actors like Gable and Cary. . . . Today was the world of the Uglies. That’s what everything seemed to be, and he didn’t understand it.

A week later he went to a sneak preview on Eighty-sixth Street. The same crowd was there, along with college kids and young married advertising executives. The audience cheered.

Three weeks later it opened, and broke box-office records all over the country. That really rocked him. Because it meant he really didn’t know what was good or bad. Not in today’s market. Three years ago he could call the shots. Studios had believed in him . . . and more important, he had believed in himself.

It was time to walk away from the table. Mike Wayne was tapped out. How had the chemistry changed in such a short time? He looked the same, thought the same. Maybe that was it. He hadn’t gone along with all the changes, the nudity, plays and movies without plots, the new trend of Unisex. Well, he was fifty-two. He had lived through some great times. He had known what it was like to walk down Broadway without worrying about getting mugged. He had known New York when it had nightclubs and lines of beautiful girls, not just porno movies and massage parlors. But most of all he was sad—because this was the world she was coming back to.

He sat in the V.I.P. Lounge and stared at the gray sky. She was flying home through that leaden muck. He had always promised her a bright shining world. Well, goddammit, he was keeping that promise.

The smiling hostess was back. She announced that Flight Seven was arriving. He had arranged for January to receive
courtesy of the port. An official would be waiting to whisk her through customs. Hell, what could a kid who had spent three years in hospitals have to declare? He walked out of the lounge and never noticed that the hostess had leaped up to say goodbye. Ordinarily he would have turned on the charm because she was a pretty girl. But for the first time in his life, Mike Wayne was scared.

He spotted her the moment she walked into the airport. Hell, you couldn’t miss her. Tall, tan, long hair swinging—she would have caught his eye even if she wasn’t his daughter. She seemed oblivious of the men who turned to look at her. A little man was walking double time to keep up with her long strides as her eyes scanned the airport. Then she saw Mike and suddenly he was enveloped in bear hugs, kisses, and she was laughing and crying together.

“Oh, Daddy, you look super! Do you realize I haven’t seen you since June? Oh, wow! It’s so wonderful to be home again . . . to be with you.”

“You look great, babe.”

“You too! And . . . oh . . . this is Mr. Higgens.” She turned and introduced the little man. “He’s been so nice to me. I never even had to open my bag and . . .”

Mike shook hands with the customs official, who was carrying her overnight case. “I’m very grateful, Mr. Higgens.” He took the bag. “Now if you’ll tell me where the rest of my daughter’s luggage is, I’ll arrange to have it brought to the car.”

“That’s all there is, Mr. Wayne. And it was a pleasure. And such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wayne.” He shook hands with both of them and disappeared into the crowd.

Mike held up the overnight bag. “This is it?”

“Yup! I’m wearing my best outfit . . . do you like it?” She stood off and spun around. “I got it in Zurich. They said everyone was wearing pants suits and this suede outfit cost me three hundred dollars.”

“It’s beautiful. But—” He stared down at the small bag he was carrying. “No other clothes?”

She laughed. “Oh, that’s loaded with clothes. Like three
pairs of jeans, a couple of faded shirts, some sweaters, sneakers, and oh . . . a gorgeous shortie nightgown I got in Zurich. I ran out of money or I would have bought the robe to go with it. But other than that little omission, I’m practically set for any emergency.”

“We’ll take care of the clothes tomorrow.”

She tucked her arm through his as they walked to the exit. “I saw so many different skirt lengths on the plane. Mike, what
are
people wearing?”

“Mike?” He stared at her. “Where did
Daddy
go?”

“Oh, you’re too gorgeous to be called Daddy. You are gorgeous, you know. I like the sideburns . . . and the gray in them.”

“They’re white; and I’m a dignified elderly gentleman.”

“That’ll be the day. Hey, look, that girl is wearing an Indian outfit. Think she’s part of some act or something—with the headband and the braids and all?”

“Come on, you know how kooky everyone is dressing today,” he said.

“How would I know? Most of my friends wore bathrobes.”

He stopped suddenly and looked at her. “Holy Christ, that’s right. No TV . . . no nothing?”

“No nothing.”

He led her outside to the car. “Well, everyone dresses like they’re going to a costume party today. That is, kids your age.” But she wasn’t listening. She was staring at the car. Then she let out a low whistle. “Wow . . . I’m impressed.”

“You’ve been in limos before.”

“I spent my life in them. But this is not just a limo—this is really super.” She tossed him a smile of approval. “A silver Rolls-Royce—the
only
way a girl should travel.” She got in and nodded. “Pret-ty nice . . . chauffeur’s uniform matches upholstery . . . a telephone . . . a bar . . . all the necessities of life
if
you’re Mike Wayne.” Then she threw her arms around him. “Oh, Daddy . . . I’m so glad for you.” She leaned back as the car inched its way out of the airport. She sighed. “It’s so great to be back. If you only knew how many times I’ve dreamed of this moment. Even when I felt it could never
happen, I kept dreaming the dream—of
walking
into your arms, of us together in New York. And it’s all happening just as I dreamed it. Nothing’s changed.”

“You’re wrong, baby. A lot has changed. Especially New York.”

She pointed to the traffic as their car slipped into the speed lane. “This hasn’t changed. And I love it all—the traffic, the noise, the crowds, even the smog. It’s just so wonderful after all that sanitary snow in Switzerland. I can’t wait until we go to the theater. I want to walk through Shubert Alley . . . see the trucks pull out of the Times Building . . . I want to get my nice clean lungs all polluted.”

“That’ll happen. But first we have a lot of catching up to do.”

She nestled against him. “We sure do. I want to sit at our table at Sardi’s . . . I can’t wait to
see Hair
. . . I want to walk down Fifth Avenue . . . see the clothes. But tonight, I just want to stay in and do the caviar and champagne scene. I know it’s no birthday. But you’ve got to admit it’s one hell of an occasion. And most of all I want to know all about your big hit picture.”

“My hit picture? Who told you that?”

“No one. But I know how you operate. When I got all those postcards from Spain this summer with mysterious hints of a big new project . . . well, I knew it had to be a picture and you were afraid of jinxing it by telling me. But now . . . when I see all this—” she waved her hand. “Well, come on—tell me about it.”