The Star Stalker

  “But you’ve had—”

  “Girls? You can say that again! And wives, too.” He chuckled once more. “All of ’em married that popular star of the silver screen. And all of ’em ended up married to a runt. At least that’s what they got around to telling me.”

  “There are plenty of women shorter than you.”

  “I know. I’ve tried all sizes, all shapes. Colors, too. But there’s something about a little guy that’s just plain funny.” Keeley took another pull at his flask. “Most of the comics out here are small. Chaplin, Keaton, Langdon, Conklin, Bobby Vernon, Lupino Lane. Harold Lloyd’s no giant, either. If we were three inches taller we’d probably all be happy bricklayers.”

  “Don’t kid me.” I shook my head. “You like being a star.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if I was really good.”

  “Like Chaplin?”

  “Or Buster Keaton. He’s the best, but nobody seems to know it except another comic.” Keeley was coming alive again; he slid off his perch and gestured. “Chaplin plays for sympathy, hoking it up with kids and dogs. But Buster doesn’t cry and he doesn’t mug. Don’t you see what a wonderful thing it is, to be funny without mugging? Keaton”s deadpan comedy—why it’s like great dancing without moving your legs.”

  “You do all right,” I said. “And you hit the answer when you talked about wanting people to laugh with you, not at you. That goes for me, too, and Lozoff, Arch Taylor, everybody I know out here. Maybe even Harker has a reason for—”

  “Harker?” Keeley waved his flask. “Why, I knew Teddy Harker when he was still with it.”

  “With what?”

  “A carny, that’s what. Used to travel with mud shows, him and his wife. At least she said she was his wife, little redhead, Connie something-or-other. Anyway, you’re right about Harker. I knew him when—and so did Karl Druse. Druse was a fire-eater and sword-swallower on the same outfit with Harker, but neither of ’em talk about it now. I don’t think Karl would mind, but Harker’s touchy about his past. Now, ever since he hit the Coast, he pretends he’s the Great Director so nobody will laugh. Just like I pretend to be the Great Comedian. But you’re right—we all have our secrets.”

  Keeley smiled and put his flask away. “You know something? I feel better.”

  “Me too,” I told him.

  “What say we join the party? I’m hungry.”

  “You go ahead and eat,” I said. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

  Jackie Keeley pattered off toward the house and I stared at his retreating figure, still wondering why comics must be sad and carny grifters play at perfection, why delicate Beauty concealed a kinship with the Beast, and why I—in spite of all my efforts to join the party—couldn’t seem to settle for anything less than reality in a world where everything was founded on make-believe.

  Then somebody came up behind me and put her hands over my eyes and giggled, “Guess who?”

  “Carla,” I said.

  “Right. You win the celluloid toothpick.”

  “Celluloid?” I turned to face her. “Does it have to be celluloid? Why can’t something be real for a change?”

  “Such as?”

  I couldn’t tell her. It was much easier to take her in my arms and say, “Such as this.” And kiss her, feel her lips warm and wet, her body waiting and willing.

  “Come on,” I murmured. “Let’s go down to the beach.”

  We found a path and descended into the darkness. There was nothing to stop me now, nothing to hold me back, and she didn’t laugh at me or at what we were doing.

  And what we were doing was finding one another’s flesh, finding and fusing and fulfilling. There was no pretending, no closing one’s eyes and imagining—no opening one’s eyes and staring up at an illusion on the screen. I knew, without words, learning from the language of her body alone, that Carla had wanted me for a long time. And I knew I needed her. Needed to hold her tight, thinking, this is reality. You’re clinging to reality now.

  I wondered how long I could hang onto it.

  NINE

  SEPTEMBER sunshine shimmered across the walk before the new Executive Building and sparkled against the walls of the Coronet stages.

  “Behold!” Arch Taylor gestured with his pipe. “The pleasure dome of Kubla Khan!”

  Carla Sloane frowned. “You mean Otto Kahn, don’t you? And what’s he got to do with it—I thought Morris put up the money for this new lot himself.”

  Arch Taylor winked at me, turned to the manicurist and shook his head. “You lack a classical background, honey. Haven’t you heard of those immortal lovers, Balaban and Katz? Didn’t you read about the Orpheum Circuit in Hades? Or Grant’s surrender to Lee Shubert?”

  “Banana oil,” Carla said. She stared off at the avenue to our right. “I think this is just wonderful, every bit of it. And imagine getting it all built in two months!”

  “A lot can happen in two months,” Taylor told her. “As I hope it is never your misfortune to find out.”

  Carla giggled and squeezed my hand. I squeezed back until our manicures met. It had been a pleasant summer, what with getting those regular manicures and all.

  “Well, we might as well see who’s at the reception,” Taylor said. “I understand Valentino was here this morning.”

  “Colleen Moore, too,” Carla said. “Gee, those bangs of hers are cute. Think I’ll get my hair cut that way.”

  “It’s the new style, darling.” Taylor smiled. “Look at Anna May Wong.”

  “Where? Oh—I thought you meant she was here.” Carla turned as Dude Williams and his wife joined us at the edge of the walk.

  “Howdy, folks,” he greeted us. “Guess you all know Nina.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Where are the kids?”

  “Packed them off to school yesterday.” Little Mrs. Williams smiled shyly. “My, isn’t this grand?”

  “Did you see the stables?” Dude asked. “They got a special corral, just for old Ranger. And his double.”

  “I never knew your horse had a double,” said Taylor.

  “ ’Course he does. Gettin’ along, you know. Come to think of it, I ain’t no yearling myself.”

  Mrs. Williams bit her lip. “What are you talking about? Why, you’re just a boy!”

  “I’d be a mighty sad-lookin’ boy if it wasn’t for Max Factor’s makeup,” Dude murmured. “Why Karl, you old so-and-so—how’s tricks?”

  Karl Druse bobbed stiffly beside us. Next to Dude, the horror star seemed almost dwarfed, moving with short, jerky steps. His somber eyes were intent on the entrance to the Executive Building ahead.

  “How’s it strike you?” Dude asked.

  “Very impressive. Almost too impressive.” Druse frowned. “This must have cost a fortune.”

  “Old Morris’ll git it back, don’t you worry. Hey, you rate one of them new private bungalows?”

  Druse nodded. “When I think back to the old days, with the dressing room in a corner of the barn, no privacy but a curtain—everybody doubling in brass and moving props—this is certainly an improvement.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Dude grimaced suddenly and his wife glanced up at him.

  “What’s the matter, dear?”

  “Got a stitch in my side. Them baked beans.” He stepped aside as we moved to the entrance. “Be all right when I take somethin’. You go ahead, I’ll find you inside.”

  “Dude—” Nina Williams stared at his retreating back. “Ever since he had that accident on location he gets these attacks,” she told us. “Doctor gave him something for pain, but lately now—”

  Her voice trailed off, lost in the babble rising all about us. The lobby of the Executive Building was jammed with studio employees and invited guests.

  “Look at all the flowers!” Carla was already inspecting cards attached to the floral pieces banked along the wall. “Ooh, here’s one from John Gilbert. And Ronald Colman. Vilma Banky—Gloria Swanson, Jimmy Cruze, Herb Brenon—”

  Bernie Glazer nodded at u
s as we passed; he was talking to a portly gentleman in a blue serge suit.

  “Who’s he?” I whispered to Taylor.

  “Works for the Hays office, I think,” Arch murmured. “The vultures are gathering.”

  Druse nodded. “Bad enough when they censor our work,” he said, “but now they’re trying to control our private lives, too.” He scowled. “Look what they did to poor Arbuckle, and Wally Reid.”

  “What about the William Desmond Taylor case?” Taylor nodded. “It’s getting so a man can’t sit in his car at Hollywood and Vine and rape an extra without getting a parking ticket.”

  Mrs. Williams sniffed. “I don’t think you’re a bit funny,” she said. “I’m going to find Dude.”

  She turned away and Druse stared after her. “Something’s wrong with Williams,” he muttered. “He doesn’t look well to me.”

  “Maybe he should see a veterinary.” Taylor and Carla and I moved along slowly in the direction of the inner office suites.

  “Wait!” Carla wailed. “Isn’t that Alice Terry over there?”

  “She and Rex are abroad,” Taylor told her. “Come on, let’s say hello to the Royal Family.”

  The Royal Family was holding court in Sol Morris’s huge, oak-paneled audience chamber.

  Theodore Harker and Lozoff were both present, and I pushed my way through the crowd to say hello. During the studio shut-down Lozoff had taken a European trip with Madame Olga. Harker had disappeared into a private retreat of his own; I’d called several times, hoping for word on the next production, but he was never in, never called back.

  Now he nodded at me and shook hands. The tall director seemed unchanged at first glance—the black suit was still a little too big, the black hair still a bit too long. But something was different. I noticed it as he held out his hand to me, and then I realized the truth. Theodore Harker was actually smiling.

  “Meant to get in touch with you,” he said. “We must talk.”

  “Next assignment?”

  “I’ve written it.”

  “You—?”

  “This is to be something very special. I think I have what I was striving for, but of course your comments will be appreciaated. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

  “Certainly.”

  I turned to Lozoff. He bowed. “My dear boy, I’m so very happy to see you! Madame and I wish you to dine with us this evening—like old times, eh?”

  Before answering, I glanced at Carla. She nodded almost imperceptibly. “Glad to,” I told Lozoff. “But I’ve got a date later on.”

  “Of course. We’ll expect you at seven, then.”

  “Right.” I moved along, greeting John Frisby and his wife, Emerson Craig, then Jackie Keeley and his new bride.

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “Thank you,” said Lois Payne, coolly. She might have been meeting me for the first time.

  “What a turnout!” Keeley glanced around appreciatively. “Looks like everybody in town is here.”

  He was almost right. The only one missing was Maybelle Manners—but of course nobody remembered her anymore.

  Off to our left, near the high stained-glass windows, Sol and Hilda Morris stood surrounded by the working press. They were posing for a photo, and Morris didn’t have to smile for the shot. He was beaming continuously; after the picture was taken he pointed and gestured to the reporters, indicating the wonders of the new dictaphone, the fans, the ventilators, the water cooler—all of which bore the Coronet trademark emblazoned in silver.

  I glanced at one of the female reporters, then poked Carla in the ribs. “Hey, look who’s here!”

  She followed my gaze. “So?”

  “Isn’t that Miss Glint? How did she get in?”

  “She’s working for Starland now. Writes a monthly column—Gossip by Glenda Glint.”

  “I thought her name was Maggie.”

  “Well, it’s Glenda now and you’d better not forget it. Columnists are important and I hear she’s going to do a regular feature for the newspapers too. She knows where all the bodies are buried, and if you ask me, she’s probably happy to dig them up again.”

  I watched Miss Glint as she joined the press of press representatives who followed Sol Morris to the corner of the room. He led them up to a pudgy young man whose jowls were pitted with smallpox scars.

  Morris took the young man by the hand and stepped forward. “I got an announcement to make, everybody,” he called, and the crowd quieted.

  “I guess most of you already met Nicky here. If not, want you all to get introduced—Nicky Morris is the name. You’re gonna hear a lot of it from now on, because he’s joining the rest of us here at the studio where he belongs. You can put it down that he’s our new production supervisor, with John Frisby’s unit.”

  Young Morris clasped both hands together over his head in a gesture popularized by Jack Dempsey. “That’s the story,” he grinned. “From now on, Dad and I work together. I’ve spent the whole summer with him, just learning the ropes. And I think I can promise you some real action.”

  An almost inaudible groan sounded beside me. I turned to see big John Frisby’s face wince its way into a smile. Arch Taylor bent to whisper. “Louis B. Mayer has Irving Thalberg. You have Nicky Morris. How lucky can you get?”

  “Yeah,” Frisby murmured. “But what in hell is a production supervisor?”

  Morris turned and moved to a small door at the far end of the room. “Let’s go inside now,” he said. “I think maybe it’s time for the big surprise.”

  He opened the door, then turned as the group started forward, halting its movement with his hand. “Sorry we ain’t got room for everybody. I want the boys and girls from the press, and you, and you—you—and you—”

  The royal finger crooked imperiously. I was surprised and flattered when it wiggled an invitation my way.

  I went inside with Theodore Harker, Lozoff, Taylor, Frisby, Nicky and a dozen others. Morris’s inner sanctum was small; aside from the usual overstuffed sofa and built-in bar, there was only one other article of furniture in the room, but the reporters and trade-paper representatives were already clustered around it.

  What they saw was a full-size barber chair, its seat and headrest covered in ermine; a barber chair with arms and back of solid gold.

  “Classy, eh?” Sol Morris strutted proudly before it; then, unable to resist the temptation, climbed up and sat down.

  It was a picture I’d never forget—the king, mounting his throne. Morris leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment and the room fell silent.

  Then he sat up and chuckled. “Go ahead,” he said. “I ain’t such a neb I don’t know what you’re thinking. Inside you’re laughing; you’re saying look who’s sitting in gold barber chairs yet! Like some kind of high mucky-muck. I know how you’ll print it in the papers.

  “Well, that don’t get me mad. It’s good publicity, and maybe you print what I tell you now, too.”

  Morris smiled and his voice softened. “Some guys, they want to think, they go out in the woods, fishing. Some guys it’s like they got to have a bunch of drinks to relax.

  “With me, it’s always barber chairs. I climb up and close my eyes and I get ideas. When I was still a salesman that’s how it worked. I got the idea of going into the motion picture business sitting in a barber chair. In 1913, in Attica, Indiana.

  “Barber chairs are my good luck. The first time I met Mr. Harker here, I was sitting in a barber chair down on Western Avenue. And believe me, it was a lucky day for both of us, eh, Mr. Harker?”

  Harker nodded, his seldom-smiling face again alight.

  “And now I kind of think we’re lucky again. This great big new studio, that’s one thing. Bringing my son Nicky into the business, that’s good too. And the third thing—well, Mr. Harker, you want to tell them about it?”

  “I’d rather show them.”

  The black silhouette moved to a door at the back of the room, swung it open. He waved a figure forward.

  Fo
r an instant she stood on the threshold, poised and expectant. We all watched as Harker took her by the hand and drew the girl into the room.

  She was a cameo come to life—all peach and rose and gold. I noted the white tulle frock, the hair piled high on her head in finespun ringlets. Her face was an oval frame for the pertly pouting mouth, the petite nose, the April-fresh blue of her eyes.

  Harker released her hand and nodded at us. “I’m not going to make any predictions,” he said. “I’m sure they’re unnecessary. You need only to look at her to know that a new star is standing before you today, in all the glorious radiance and precious promise of youth incarnate.

  “Nor shall I sully your ears, ladies and gentlemen, with sordid statistics—a full release has been prepared and will be handed to each one of you personally as you leave. If you wish, you may arrange for personal interview appointments later in the week.

  “Meanwhile, I have only one announcement to make at this time. I take great pleasure in introducing the lovely and talented Miss Dawn Powers—who will play the leading role in my next production, Daydreams.”

  Yes, it was just as hammy as it sounds, but she stood there, hair haloed in the sunlight, and then she smiled—and they applauded. And before I realized it, I was applauding too, along with all the rest.

  Then, as the press people converged on Harker and the girl, I drifted through the doorway. Back in the noisy outer office, Hacky grabbed my arm.

  “Some layout,” I commented, expecting a wisecrack.

  His beefy face bore an honest bewilderment. “I’m lost,” he said. “I mean it, I can’t find my way around this joint. Everything’s too damned big.”

  “Everything’s new,” I told him. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Maybe so. But I don’t like it.”

  “Didn’t they give you an office?”

  Hacky nodded. “Sure. That’s just the trouble, everybody’s got an office now. And you know something else? I even got a private can.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “What’s wrong? Why it’s the whole trouble in a nutshell. We’re gonna be too big to be friendly now.” Hacky sighed. “What the hell do I want with a private can? Man, I get lonesome in there!”