Handy stopped moving toward him. Barkin was not fooling. He was angry. “What is all this, Barkin? What are you trying to climb onto? No, forget it, don’t answer. What I want to know is why?”
Barkin spread hands as huge as catcher’s mitts. The fingers were oddly long and graceful. And tanned. “She is a lovely woman who finds the company of handsome young men refreshing. Mr. Crewes, sir, has decided I will brighten her declining years.”
“She is a scared creature who doesn’t know where it’s at, not right now she doesn’t. And turning you loose on her would be a sudden joy like the Dutch Elm Blight.”
Barkin smiled thinly. It was a mean smile. For the time it took the smile to vanish, he was not handsome. “Call Arthur Crewes. He’ll verify.”
“I can’t get through to him, he’s in a screening.”
“Then go ask him. I’ll be here all day.”
He stepped aside. Handy waited, as though Barkin might surprise him and leap back suddenly, with a fist in the mouth. Huck stood grinning like a little boy. Ain’t I cute.
“I’ll do that.”
Handy moved past and entered the passageway. As he walked hurriedly down the length of the corridor, he heard Barkin speak again. He turned to see the giant figure framed in the blazing sunlight rectangle at the other end of the dark tunnel. “You know, Fred chum, you need a good workout. You’re gettin’ flabbier than hell.”
Handy fled, raising dust as he wheeled the Impala out of the driveway and down the mountainside. There was the stink of fusel oil rising up from the city. Or was it the smell of fear?
4
When he burst into Arthur Crewes’s office at the studio, the reception room was filled with delight. All that young stuff. A dozen girls, legs crossed high to show off the rounded thigh, waiting to be seen. As he slammed in, Twiggyeyes blinked rapidly.
He careened through the door and brought up short, turning quickly to see an unbroken panorama of gorgeous young-twenties starlets. Roz, fifty and waspish, behind the desk, snickered at his double-take. Handy recognized the tone of the snicker. He was a man periodically motivated from somewhere low in his anatomy, and Roz never failed to hold it against him. He had never asked her out.
“Hello, Fred,” one of the girls said. He had to strain to single her out. They all looked alike. Teased; long flat blonde hair; freaky Twiggy styles; backswept bouffant; short mannish cuts; all of them, no matter what mode, they all looked alike. It was Randi. She had had a thing about touching his privates. It was all he could remember about her. Not even if she’d been good. But a publicist must remember names, and with the remembrance of her touching his penis and drawing in her breath as though it had been something strange and new and wonderful like the Inca Codex or one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, the name of Randi popped up like the NO SALE clack on a cash register.
“Hi, Randi. How’s it going?”
He didn’t even wait for an answer. He turned back to Roz. “I want to see him.”
Her mouth became the nasty slit opening of a mantis. “He’s got someone in with him now.”
“I want to see him.”
“I said, Mr. Handy, he has someone in there now. We are still interviewing girls, you know…”
“Bloody damn it, lady, I said get your ass in there and tell him Handy is coming through that door, open or not, in exactly ten seconds.”
She drew herself up, no breasts at all, straight lines and Mondrian sterility, and started to huff at him. Handy said, “Fuck,” and went through into Crewes’s office.
He said it softly, but he made noise entering the office.
Another of the pretties was showing Arthur Crewes her 8×10 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 pass unnoticed. Handy sat down, ambivalent as hell.
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 circumstances, 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’ll 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 brassiere 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 Heller 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 out one of the 8×10’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 wangle 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 assayed 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.”
“Good-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 button 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 list
ened 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 chaperon, 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, God forgive my talking to my producer this way, frankly don’t give a flying shit 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 tetanus 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, God 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 space. 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 hell. “If I worked for Adolf 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 did me a favor? Not a big favor, just a little favor, something she probably doesn’t even remember, or if she does she doesn’t think of it in relation to the big producer who’s giving her a comeback break. Would you settle for my saying I mean her nothing but good things, Fred? Would that buy it?”
Handy nodded. “It’ll do.”
“So who do we get to keep her reassured 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, hell, 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 PLAYERS 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 PLAYERS 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 8×10 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 helluva 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-assing 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 sexual 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 shore, overlooking the triumphant Pacific.
Architecturally, the hotel was a case in point for Frank Lloyd Wright’s contention that the Sunshine State looked as though “someone had tipped the United States up on its 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 passed 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 un
mistakable 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 pass 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 passed.
The words tarnish and mildew again formed in Handy’s mind, superimposed as subtitles 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 God, Handy thought.
Afraid to turn around, Fred Handy felt himself sucked into the past. This room, this terrible room, it was so help him God 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, assailed by the ghosts of yesterday, and terrified to turn around and see one of those ghosts standing behind him.