The Star Stalker

  “I don’t know.” I stared even more intently. He wasn’t tall enough, but—

  I glanced around, then took a deep, determined breath. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

  The guard glanced up at me as we passed the inner gate. “It’s all right,” I said. “Mr. Harker wants him.”

  I wasn’t sure it was all right, and I wasn’t sure Mr. Harker wanted him. But my little foreigner had no doubts. He beamed at the gatekeeper as though he were Saint Peter himself.

  “What is it Mr. Harker requires?” asked the soft voice, as we moved across the quadrangle. “A dress extra, perhaps?”

  “Not exactly. Scene calls for a man to fight a lion.”

  “I see.”

  Doc Rose was leading Gus through the doorway as we approached, muttering something about stitches. I nodded at Gus’s retreating back. “That’s the fellow you’re replacing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Think you can handle it?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well if you’ve got any doubts, maybe we better not go in. Mr. Harker’s a little upset this morning.”

  “I will fight your lion.”

  “All right. But just let me do the talking.”

  He nodded. I led him onto the set, led him over to where Harker stood, still arguing with Arch Taylor.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Harker.”

  He kept right on talking. I took another breath.

  “Mr. Harker—”

  He turned and looked at me. “Yes?”

  “I’ve found your gladiator.”

  “You found—what?”

  “I saw a man on the extra-bench. I think he can handle the scene for you.”

  Harker sat down. “Where is he?”

  I stepped aside and nudged the little foreigner forward. Harker stared at him for a long moment. Then he stood up again, slowly. He was a tall man and he seemed to stand up in sections. Confronting the little extra player he looked even taller.

  Then he turned to me and sighed. “I need a gladiator,” he said. “A gladiator. Young, fearless—a big man, with an athlete’s body. And you bring me a dwarf.”

  It was so quiet you could hear a jaw drop. But not mine. Somehow, my jaw was wagging.

  “But Mr. Harker, you’re only taking long shots, aren’t you? He doesn’t have to look like Emerson Craig, not with his back to camera. And I got to thinking—wouldn’t a small man look better in long shots? He’d make the lion seem that much bigger. Bring out the menace, the danger.”

  Harker didn’t answer me. But suddenly he glanced at the little foreigner. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Kurt Luzovsky, sir.”

  “Know anything about animals?”

  Luzovsky smiled. “For two years I was head keeper at the Berlin Zoo.”

  Harker turned away. “Penny!” he called. “Take this man down to wardrobe and get him an outfit like Gunther’s. I want him dressed and back here in fifteen minutes.”

  I watched Theodore Harker as he walked away and I wanted to run after him. Run after him and yell, “But you can’t do this—this is my scene—it was all planned.”

  But I didn’t run and I didn’t yell.

  Instead, he halted. Halted and turned. “Come here,” he said.

  I came there.

  “I want to thank you for trying to help.”

  “It—it wasn’t anything, Mr. Harker.”

  He nodded. “You’re probably right. I don’t think this little man will do at all. But we’ll give it a try. Anyway, I appreciate the effort, Mr. Post.”

  I stood there as Harker moved off, and all I could think of was he knows my name, he thanked me, he knows my name—

  Arch Taylor came up beside me.

  “Well, Mr. Post,” he said, softly. “Welcome to Hollywood. Don’t look now, but I think you’ve started to arrive.”

  THREE

  KURT LUZOVSKY was waiting for me outside the office door when the day’s shooting ended.

  “Please, you will be my guest for dinner this evening?” he asked. “I am in your debt.”

  “Forget it—glad you got a break.”

  “You will come?”

  “Uh—yes. I guess so.”

  So I phoned Aunt Minnie I wouldn’t be home for supper and we went to Luzovsky’s place. He had a little flat over near Highland and we walked all the way, climbed the stairs to the landing where Madame Olga waited.

  Madame Olga was a plump, raven-haired woman whose face might have passed as a bovine caricature of Maybelle Manners’. She greeted us warmly and we dined warmly, on goulash and salad. Then came the harsh Turkish cigarettes and the mellow Tokay. Luzovsky had purchased both at a little store at the corner; the cigarettes from the counter in front and the wine from under the counter in back.

  “Celebration,” he explained to Madame, after introducing me. “Mr. Post—the young gentleman here—has secured me a position with Theodore Harker.”

  For a moment the bovine face bore a smile surpassing that of Maybelle Manners in her most Mona Lisa-like mood. And from time to time, during the meal and after, that smile returned as Luzovsky told her what had happened.

  “When we finished,” he said, “Mr. Harker himself ordered the close-ups. For a test, he said. And we stayed half an hour longer. Tomorrow we will see the rushes. And do you know what they paid me for today’s work? Twenty-five dollars!”

  Madame beamed. “Kurt—how wonderful!”

  “I told you it would happen, remember? It had to happen. As Mr. Harker put it, some things are fated when a man follows his star.”

  “Mr. Harker believes in astrology, I guess.” I smiled at Luzovsky as he refilled my wine glass. “Kind of a strange one, in a way.”

  “A genius,” Luzovsky insisted. “A great genius. Like Wiene, and Lang, and Lubitsch.”

  “Who are they?”

  And with that question my formal education began. I learned a lot that evening. I learned that Turkish tobacco is strong, that they made movies in France and Germany too, that Tokay brings giddiness when taken in excess, that The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari was a cinematic milestone.

  Then we were walking in the cool California night (Tokay brings giddiness) and I learned about Luzovsky, too.

  Kurt Luzovsky, once aide-de-chief of His Excellency, Grand Duke Nicholas. Kurt Luzovsky, who gave up his commission to marry Olga, orphaned by a pogrom in Warsaw. Kurt Luzovsky, penniless student at the Sorbonne, airplane mechanic in the Lafayette Escadrille, refugee in New York, hanger-on at the Long Island movie studios. Amateur actor, amateur director, amateur set designer and once—only once—professional production manager for a company that folded after one picture.

  “They didn’t even have the money to process the film,” he told me. “There was nothing to pay me with except the negative. I still have it.” He smiled and tapped his head, indicating the streak of white in his hair. “This is another souvenir of those days.”

  “Then what happened?”

  A shrug. “One must live. I became a gigolo.”

  The word was new to me. He explained, in detail. “A paid dancing partner of foolish women. A paid bed-partner of women still more foolish. One’s feet become sore—and other things—”

  “What did Madame think?”

  Another shrug. “We had to eat. And get money to come here.”

  “You’d already planned on going to Hollywood?”

  “Of course. My future lies in motion pictures. Mr. Harker realized my ability at once.”

  I nodded. It was true. Right after the wrestling stunt with the lion—which Luzovsky had carried off without a hitch or the need for retakes—Harker had taken the little man aside and talked to him long and earnestly. Then the test was hastily improvised. Harker had seen something that interested him.

  But I wondered just how long Luzovsky had been sitting on the extra-bench, at Coronet and other studios.

  “Over a year,” he told me.

  “Without any work?”

  Th
ere had been some, at first—but not enough to continue paying for the services of a two-bit talent agent over on Sunset. So he bussed dishes, and sat at the studios. He swept out stores, and sat at the studios. He peddled perfume door-to-door, and sat at the studios. “And always I studied,” he said. “Night after night I studied, here and abroad. I know all there is to know about cinema.”

  “Didn’t realize there was so much on it in the library,” I confessed.

  “My dear boy—one does not go to the library to study motion pictures. One goes to the movies.”

  That’s what Luzovsky had done, night after endless night. Some evenings there wasn’t money enough for food, but always a dime or a quarter for the movies. For Swanson and Arbuckle and Bushman and Chaplin and even for Pearl White. For the directorial efforts of both the DeMille brothers, and the great David Wark Griffith. Those dimes and quarters were not spent on entertainment; they were invested in the future.

  “I made up my mind long ago,” he said—his face was in the shadows, but I know he didn’t smile—“Harker is the only man competent to direct me. He has the touch to exploit my talent.”

  “You talk as though it’s already decided.”

  “Of course! I shall be a star within a year. All I needed was opportunity. This you gave me, today. And I am grateful.”

  We had walked a long way up Highland Avenue—past the frame porches of the Hollywood Hotel, and up the hilly slope beyond.

  “Tired?” I asked.

  “Not at all. It is only that the trousers are tight.” He indicated the dress suit.

  “You should have changed clothes.”

  “Changed?” He smiled. “But this is the only suit I own.”

  That explained a lot of things. But it didn’t explain the overpowering self-assurance of the man. Certainly he seemed to know about foreign films and actors I’d never heard of—Emil Jannings, Conrad Veidt, Asta Neilsen and Pola Negri. And like millions of others, he’d been going to the picture-show for years over here. Maybe he was a good actor, too, but that proved nothing. Why was he so confident?

  We climbed the hillside west of Highland and stood there at the top of the spangled night. Lights winked and wriggled across Hollywood below and the stars outshone them overhead.

  I stared up at the sky. “Do you think Harker’s right? Do you really believe they control the future?”

  “Yes. I see my future there.”

  I glanced at him quickly. He was quite serious. But while I had been looking up at the stars, Luzovsky was gazing at the scene below.

  “You see?” he said, softly. “From here you can’t tell where the artificial lights end and the real stars begin. You can’t tell the difference.” He smiled. “Perhaps that’s the secret—there isn’t any difference.”

  FOUR

  THE next morning, after breakfast, I pulled out my box of Fatimas and lit a cigarette.

  Aunt Minnie made a face. “Where’d you get those things?”

  “Mr. Luzovsky gave them to me.”

  “They sure stink.” Anatole came out of the bedroom. He wore pants and suspenders but no shirt.

  “Hi, Uncle Andy,” I said.

  He sat down at the table and held out his coffee cup as Aunt Minnie filled it. “Acting mighty fancy, aren’t we?”

  I grinned at him. “Look who’s talking. Is it any worse than pretending to be a Frenchman and pretending to play the violin?”

  “Never mind about that.” But he grinned back. “You know Harker goes for that phoney-accent routine. And I’m a damned good fiddle player even if I’m not a real Frog.”

  He scooped up the yolk of an egg and put it in his mouth, then pointed his fork at me. “Speaking of phonies, what about this joker you dragged onto the set yesterday?”

  “He’s no fake. You saw how he handled that lion.”

  Uncle Andy disposed of his egg white. “Maybe so. But you can’t tell if a man’s an actor just because he knows how to go into a clinch with a dumb animal. What I say is, put him up against Maybelle Manners and see what happens.” He gulped the rest of his coffee and stood up, pushing back his chair.

  “Must you rush so?” Aunt Minnie asked.

  “Got to get into my outfit,” he said. “See you later.” He bowed at me. “Au revoir, M’sieu Tommee,” he called as he went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

  “Where’d he pick up that accent?” I asked Aunt Minnie.

  “I don’t know. He had it when I met him, playing tent shows. Comedy fiddle, in a French getup. When we got married he put me in the act.”

  “You never told me what you did.”

  She smiled. “Just stood around wearing tights. You wouldn’t believe it to look at me now, but it really dressed up the routine.”

  “I believe you. I saw some of those pictures in the scrapbook.”

  Aunt Minnie stared at me over her coffee cup. “I thought that was put away.”

  “Uncle Andy must have been looking at it last night,” I told her. “Anyhow, it was out on the table when I got home.” I took a deep breath. “Aunt Minnie—do you have any pictures of my folks in there?”

  She put her cup down, hard. “How many times must I tell you? I don’t want you snooping around—”

  “You call that snooping? All I’m trying to do is find out about my own parents!”

  “Sorry.” Aunt Minnie got up and came over to me. “I know how you feel—”

  “Were they so terrible?” I asked. “Were they? Because if it’s something like that, I wouldn’t care. Even if they were—well, murderers—it wouldn’t matter. Just so I know.”

  “You’ll know, some day. I promise.”

  “Some day!”

  “Please, Tommy.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I’ll ask Andy before he goes—maybe he can work something out—”

  “Work what out? I don’t understand—”

  “You will. Be patient, just a little longer. We’ll talk about it tonight.”

  “Okay.” I rose and moved to the front door. By the time I opened it I was able to smile again. “Guess I shouldn’t complain, as long as I have you and Uncle Andy.”

  But as I went out, I knew it wasn’t enough. I had to know, and I was going to find out.

  Right now, though, there was a job to do.

  Arch Taylor was crossing the quadrangle as I came through the studio gates. He hailed me and I fell into step beside him.

  “Is Mr. Harker here yet?” I asked.

  “He’s not coming in today.”

  “But what about the rushes on Luzovsky’s test?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Taylor quickened his pace. “Got to check with John Frisby. He’s taking over the shooting—just some pick-ups, crowd stuff.” He left me, heading for the arena set.

  Frowning, I started past the canteen. On the way I saw two Arabs, Madame Pompadour, and Buffalo Bill Cody. None of them could answer my question. What about that screen test?

  “Hi, sugar!”

  I glanced up. Carla Sloane was sitting on a stool at the canteen counter. She waved me over.

  “How about some coffee?”

  I joined her, nodding as I sneaked a peek at her legs. Carla wriggled around on the stool and her skirt crept above her knees; according to studio gossip, Carla’s skirts were always up, whether she herself was vertical or horizontal.

  She probably knew about the gossip, because the little blond manicurist heard everything. In her professional capacity she served (if that’s the word) the executives in the front office. Even Mr. Morris himself seemed to require a manicure from time to time.

  Because she was both inquisitive and acquisitive, many people disliked Carla. I didn’t. It isn’t that I was tolerant; I just had a thing about her legs.

  She sipped her coffee. “Boy, I can sure use this. Have I got a head!”

  “Party?”

  She nodded. “A gang of us went down to Vernon last night. Baron Long’s—you know.”

  I knew about Baron Long’s
place, and the Sunset Inn and the Ship’s Café in Venice. They weren’t speakeasies, exactly, but few of their patrons seemed to escape a hangover the next morning.

  “Guess who we saw?” Carla was asking. “Thomas Meighan. And Milton Sills. He’s cute!” She put her cup down, leaving a kissprint on the rim. “Of course I always did go for older men.”

  “Theodore Roberts?” I suggested.

  “Oh, he’s older than God! Which reminds me, I just came from there.”

  “Where?”

  “Morris’s office, silly! And is he having a fit. When I left, he was tearing his hair.”

  “This I’d like to see,” I said. “With his bald head.”

  “He had his hands in his pockets,” Carla giggled.

  “What’s it all about?”

  “Harker had somebody deliver rushes of a test to his house. Then he called and left word for Morris to locate some actor to go out there and see them. Only nobody knows how to find the guy. They’ve called Central Casting, Cosmopolitan, Mutual Booking—”

  I stood up. “Was his name Luzovsky?”

  “Something like that. Anyhow, he’s not in the phone book and they have no address. Hey—where you going?”

  “To see Mr. Morris,” I said.

  I hurried across to the front office, nodded at Betty on the switchboard.

  “Ring Mr. Morris for me, please.”

  She stared. “You?”

  “Tell him it’s important.”

  Betty hesitated. “This isn’t his morning for custard pies, let me tell you.”

  “I’m serious.”

  She buzzed, delivered the message, listened, then gestured to me. “You can go in. Don’t worry—I’ll be waiting to catch you when you sail out.”

  “Who’s worried?” I marched forward.

  But I was worried. Carla Sloane was right. If Harker was the great magician, then Sol Morris was indeed God.

  It was hard to imagine he had ever been my age, but that’s how the story ran. Once upon a time he was just a kid—little Solly Morris, who worked for a feed store in Battle Creek, Michigan, saving his pennies.

  Where he got the idea nobody knows. But he took those pennies and invested them in northern timberland. He and his brothers went up there every year and cut spruce trees to haul back to the city. First in wagons, then in trucks, then in freight cars. They sold their trees at Christmas time, and even at fifty cents apiece they made money. Before long Sol Morris was on the road, setting up new markets all over the state. Somewhere he conceived the notion of the community tree in the town square, made up of a hundred or even two hundred smaller trees. By the time he was thirty, he and his brothers were wealthy men.