Valerie Lone was one of the last of that extinct breed of “semi-stars” who were still vaguely in the public memory—though the new generations, the kids, didn’t know her from a white rabbit—but shedidn’t have the moxie to cut it the way Bette Davis had, or Joan Crawford, or Barbara Stanwyck. She was just plain old Valerie Lone, and that simply wasn’t good enough.
She was one of the actresses who had made it then, because almost anyone who could stand up on good legs could make it…but not now, because now it took talent of a high order, or a special something that was called “personality.” And it wasn’t the same kind of “personality” Valerie had used in her day.
“What’re you going to do, Arthur?”
He didn’t look at me. He just stared straight ahead, at the empty screen. “I don’t know. So help me God, I just don’t know.”
They didn’t sign her for a multiple.
At the premiere, held at the Egyptian, Valerie showed with Emery Romito. She was poised, she was elegant, she signed autographs and, as Crewes remarked under his breath to me, as she came up to be interviewed by the television emcee, she was dying at the very moment of what she thought was her greatest triumph. We had not, of course, told her how much Kencannon had had to leave on the cutting-room floor. It was, literally, a walk-on.
When she emerged from the theater, after the premiere, her face was dead white. She knew what was waiting for her. And there was nothing we could say. We stood there, numbly shaking hands with all the well-wishers who told us we had a smash on our hands, as Valerie Lone walked stiffly through the crowd, practically leading the dumbfounded Romito. Their car came to the curb, and they started to get into it. Then Mitchum emerged from the lobby, and the crowd behind their ropes went mad.
There had not been a single cheer or ooh-ahhh for Valerie Lone as she had stood waiting for the limousine to pull up. She was dead, and she knew it.
I tried to call Julie that night, after the big party at the Daisy. She was out. I took a bottle of charcoal Jack Daniels and put it inside me as quickly as I could.
I fell out on the floor. But it wasn’t punishment enough. I dreamed.
In the dreams I was trying to explain. My tongue was made of cloth, and it wouldn’t form words. But it didn’t matter, because the person I was trying to talk to couldn’t hear me. It was a corpse. I could not make out the face of the corpse.
9
This was the anatomy of the sin against Valerie Lone:
The Agency called. Not Spencer Lichtman; he was in Florida negotiating a contract for one of their female clients with Ivan Tors for his new Everglades pilot. He wouldn’t be back for six weeks. It was a difficult contract: the pilot, options for the series if it sold, billing, transportation, and Spencer was screwing her. So the Agency called. A voice of metallic precision that may or may not have had a name attached to it, informed her that they were reorganizing, something to do with the fiscal debenture cutback of post-merger personnel concerned with bibble-bibble-bibble. She asked the voice of the robot what that meant, and it meant she did not have a contract with the Agency, which meant she had no representation.
She called Arthur Crewes. He was out.
The Beverly Hills Hotel management called. The Studio business office had just rung them up to inform them that rent on the bungalow would cease as of the first of the month. Two weeks away.
She called Arthur Crewes. He was out.
She called long distance to Shivey’s Diner. She wanted to ask him if he had gotten a replacement for her. Shivey was delighted to hear from her, hey! Everybody was just tickled pink to hear how she’d made good again, hey! Everybody was really jumping with joy at the way the papers said she was so popular again, hey! It’s great she got back up on top again, and boy, nobody deserved it better than their girl Val, hey! Don’t forget your old friends, don’t get uppity out there just because you’re a big star and famous again, doncha know!
She thanked him, told him she wouldn’t forget them and hung up. Hey!
She could not go back to the desert, to the diner.
She had tasted the champagne again, and the taste of champagne lingers.
She called Arthur Crewes. He was in the cutting room and could not be disturbed.
She called Arthur Crewes. He was in New York with the promotion people, he would be back first of the week.
She called Handy. He was with Crewes.
She called Emery Romito. He was shooting a Western for CBS. His service said he would call back later. But when he did, it was late at night, and she was half-asleep. When she called him the next day, he was at the studio still shooting. She left her name, but the call did not get returned.
The hungry shadow came at a dead run.
And there was no place to hide.
Disaster is a brush-fire. If it reaches critical proportions, nothing can stop it, nothing can put out the fire. Disaster observes a scorched earth policy.
She called Arthur Crewes. She told Roz she was coming in to see him the next morning.
There was no Studio limousine on order. She took a taxi. Arthur Crewes had spent a sleepless night, knowing she was coming, rerunning her films in his private theater. He was waiting for her.
“How is the picture doing, Arthur?”
He smiled wanly. “The opening grosses are respectable. The Studio is pleased.”
“I read the review in Time. They were very nice to you.”
“Yes. Ha-ha, very unexpected. Those smart alecks usually go for the clever phrase.”
Silence.
“Arthur, the rent is up in a week. I’d like to go to work.”
“Uh, I’m still working on the script for the new picture, Valerie. You know, it’s been five months since we ended production. The Studio kept up the rent on the bungalow through post-production. Editing, scoring, dubbing, the works. They think they’ve done enough. I can’t argue with them, Valerie…not really.”
“I want to work, Arthur.”
“Hasn’t your agent been getting you work?”
“Two television guest appearances. Not much else. I guess the word went out about me. The picture…”
“You were fine, Valerie, just fine.”
“Arthur, don’t lie to me. I know I’m in trouble. I can’t get a job. You have to do something.”
There was a pathetic tone in her voice, yet she was forceful. Like someone demanding unarguable rights. Crewes was desolate. His reaction was hostility.
“I have to do something? Good God, Valerie, I’ve kept you working for over six months on three days of shooting. Isn’t that enough?”
Her mouth worked silently for a moment, then very softly she said: “No, it isn’t enough. I don’t know what to do. I can’t go back to the diner. I’m back here now. I have no one else to turn to, you’re the one who brought me here. You have to do something, it’s your responsibility.”
Arthur Crewes began to tremble. Beneath the desk he gripped his knees with his hands. “My responsibility,” he said bravely, “ended with your contract, Valerie. I’ve extended myself, even you have to admit that. If I had another picture even readying for production, I’d let you read for a part, but I’m in the midst of some very serious rewrite with the screenwriter. I have nothing. What do you want me to do?”
His assault cowed her. She didn’t know what to say. He had been fair, had done everything he could for her, recommended her to other producers. But they both knew she had failed in the film, knew that the word had gone out. He was helpless.
She started to go, and he stopped her.
“Miss Lone.” Not Val, or Valerie now. A retreating back, a pall of guilt, a formal name. “Miss Lone, can I, uh, loan you some money?”
She turned and looked at him across a distance.
“Yes, Mr. Crewes. You can.”
He reached into his desk and took out a checkbook.
“I can’t afford pride, Mr. Crewes. Not now. I’m too scared. So make it a big check.”
He dared
not look at her as she said it. Then he bent to the check and wrote it in her name. It was not nearly big enough to stop the quivering of his knees. She took it, without looking at it, and left quietly. When the intercom buzzed and Roz said there was a call, he snapped at her, “Tell ’em I’m out. And don’t bother me for a while!” He clicked off and slumped back in his deep chair.
What else could I do? he thought.
If he expected an answer, it was a long time in coming.
After she told Emery what had happened (even though he had been with her these last five months, and knew what it was from the very tomb odor of it) she waited for him to say don’t worry, I’ll take care of you, now that we’re together again it will be all right, I love you, you’re mine. But he said nothing like that.
“They won’t pick up the option, no possibility?”
“You know they dropped the option, Emery. Months ago. It was a verbal promise only. For the next film. But Arthur Crewes told me he’s having trouble with the script. It could be months.”
He walked around the little living room of his apartment in the Stratford Beach Hotel. A depressing little room with faded wallpaper and a rug the management would not replace, despite the holes worn in it.
“Isn’t there anything else?”
“A Western. TV. Just a guest shot, sometime next month. I read for it last week, they seemed to like me.”
“Well, you’ll take it, of course.”
“I’ll take it, Emery, but what does it mean…it’s only a few dollars. It isn’t a living.”
“We all have to make do the best we can, Val—”
“Can I stay here with you for a few weeks, till things get straightened away?”
Formed in amber, held solidified in a prison of reflections that showed his insides more clearly than his outside, Emery Romito let go the thread that had saved him, and plunged once more down the tunnel of despair. He was unable to do it. He was not calloused, merely terrified. He was merely an old man trying to relate to something that had never even been a dream—merely an illusion. And now she threatened to take even that cheap thing, simply by her existence, her presence here in this room.
“Listen, Val, I’ve tried to come to terms. I understand what you’re going through. But it’s hard, very hard. I really have to hurry myself just to make ends meet…”
She spoke to him then, of what they had had years ago, and what they had sensed only a few months before. But he was already retreating from her, gibbering with fear, into the shadows of his little life.
“I can’t do it, Valerie. I’m not a young man any more. You remember all those days, I’d do anything; anything at all; I was wild. Well, now I’m paying for it. We all have to pay for it. We should have known, we should have put some of it aside, but who’d ever have thought it would end. No, I can’t do it. I haven’t got the push to do it. I get a little work, an ‘also featuring’ once in a while. You have to be hungry, the way all the new ones, the young ones, the way they’re hungry. I can barely manage alone, Valerie. It wouldn’t work, it just wouldn’t.”
She stared at him.
“I have to hang on!” he shouted at her.
She pinned him. “Hang on? To what? To guest shots, a life of walk-ons, insignificant character bits, and a Saturday night at the Friars Club? What have you got, Emery? What have you really got that’s worth anything? Do you have me, do you have a real life, do you have anything that’s really yours, that they can’t take away from you?”
But she stopped. The argument was hopeless.
He sagged before her. A tired, terrified old man with his picture in the PLAYERS DIRECTORY. What backbone he might have at one time possessed had been removed from his body through the years, vertebra by vertebra. He slumped before her, weighted down by his own inability to live. Left with a hideous walking death, with elegance on the outside, soot on the inside, Valerie Lone stared at the stranger who had made love to her in her dreams for twenty years. And in that instant she knew it had never really been the myth and the horror of the town that had kept them apart. It had been their own inadequacies.
She left him, then. She could not castigate him. His was such a sordid little existence, to take that from him would be to kill him.
And she was still that much stronger than Emery Romito, her phantom lover, not to need to do it.
HANDY
I came home to find Valerie Lone sitting at the edge of the pool, talking to Pegeen. She looked up when I came through the gate, and smiled a thin smile at me.
I tried not to show how embarrassed I was.
Nor how much I’d been avoiding her.
Nor how desperately I felt like bolting and running away, all the way back to New York City.
She got up, said good-bye to Pegeen, and came toward me. I had been shopping; shirt boxes from Ron Postal and bags from de Voss had to be shifted so I could take her hand. She was wearing a summer dress, quite stylish, really. She was trying to be very light, very inoffensive; trying not to shove the guilt in my face.
“Come on upstairs, where it’s cooler,” I suggested.
In the apartment, she sat down and looked around.
“I see you’re moving,” she said.
I grinned, a little nervously, making small talk. “No, it’s always this way. I’ve got a house in Sherman Oaks, but at the moment there’s a kindofa sorta ex-almost ex-wife nesting there. It’s in litigation. So I live here, ready to jump out any time.”
She nodded understanding.
The intricacies of California divorce horrors were not beyond her. She had had a few of those, as I recalled.
“Mr. Handy—” she began.
I did not urge her to call me Fred.
“You were the one who talked to me first, and…”
And there it was. I was the one responsible. It was all on me. I’d heard what had happened with Crewes, with that rat bastard Spencer Lichtman, with Romito, and now it was my turn. She must have had nowhere else to go, no one else to impale, and so it was mea culpa time.
I was the one who had resurrected her from the safety and sanctity of her grave; brought her back to a world as transitory as an opening night. She looked at me and knew it wouldn’t do any good, but she did it.
She laid it all on me, word by word by word.
What could I do, for Christ’s sake? I had done my best. I’d even watched over her with Haskell Barkin, carried her practically on my shoulders through all the shitty scenes when she’d arrived in town. What more was there for me to do…?
I’m not my brother’s goddam keeper, I yelled inside my head. Let me alone, woman. Get off my back. I’m not going to die for you, or for anyone. I’ve got a job, and I’ve got to keep it. I got the publicity Subterfuge needed, and I thank you for helping me keep my job, but dammit I didn’t inherit you. I’m not your daddy, I’m not your boy friend, I’m just a puffman in off the street, trying to keep the Dragon Lady from grabbing his house, the only roots I’ve ever had. So stop it, stop talking, stop trying to make me cry, because I won’t.
Don’t call me a graverobber, you old bitch!
“I’m a proud woman, Mr. Handy. But I’m not very smart. I let you all lie to me. Not once, but twice. The first time I was too young to know better; but this time I fell into it again knowing what you would do to me. I was one of the lucky ones, do you know that? I was lucky because I got out alive. But do you know what you’ve done to me? You’ve condemned me to the kind of life poor Emery leads, and that’s no life at all.”
She didn’t talk any more.
She just sat there staring at me.
She didn’t want excuses, or escape clauses, or anything I had to give. She knew I was helpless, that I was no better and no worse than any of them. That I had helped kill her in the name of love.
And that the worst crimes are committed in the name of love, not hate.
We both knew there would be an occasional tv bit, and enough money to keep living, but here, in this fucking ugly town
that wasn’t living. It was crawling like a wounded thing through the years, till one day the end came, and that was the only release you could pray for.
I knew Julie would not be coming back to me.
Julie knew. She was on the road because she couldn’t stand the town, because she knew it would tear her open and throw her insides on the street. She had always said she wasn’t going to go the way all the others had gone, and now I knew why I hadn’t been able to reach her on the road. It was Good-bye, Dolly.
And the Dragon Lady would get the house; and I would stay in Hollywood, God help me.
Until the birds came to peck out my eyes, and I wasn’t Handy the fair-haired boy any longer, or even Handy the old pro, but something they called Fred Handy? oh, yeah, I remember him, he was good in his day. Because after all, what the hell did I have to offer but a fast mouth and a few ideas, and once the one was slowed and the other had run out like sand from an hourglass, I was no better off than Valerie Lone or her poor miserable Emery Romito.
She left me standing there, in my apartment that always looked as though I was moving. But we both knew: I wasn’t going anywhere.
10
In a very nice little restaurant-bar on Sunset Boulevard, as evening came in to wipe the feverish brow of Hollywood, across the rim of the bowl, Valerie Lone sat high on a barstool, eating French dip roast beef on a baguette, with gravy covering the very crisp french fries. She sipped slowly from a glass of dark ale. At the far end of the bar a television set was mumbling softly. It was an old movie, circa 1942.
None of the players in the movie had been Valerie Lone. The Universe loved her, but was totally devoid of a sense of irony. It was simply an old movie.
Three seats down from where Valerie Lone sat, a hippie wearing wraparound shades and seven strings of beads looked up at the bartender. “Hey, friend,” he said softly.
The bartender came to him, obviously disliking the hairy trade these people represented, but unable to ignore the enormous amounts of money they somehow spent in his establishment. “Uh-huh?”