Hollywood Page 9

  19

  3 or 4 days later Jon was on the phone.

  “Jack Bledsoe has read the screenplay and he likes it, he wants to act in it. I’ve been trying to get him to come see you but he claims he doesn’t want to be overwhelmed by you. He says you must come see him.”

  “Will that overwhelm him less?”

  “I guess that’s what he thinks.”

  “You think he can play the part?”

  “Oh yes, he’s from the streets! He once sold chestnuts in the streets! He’s from New York!”

  “I’ve seen some of his films...”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “Maybe...Listen, he’s got to stop smiling all the time when he doesn’t know what else to do. And he’s got to stop beating refrigerators with his fists. And he’s got to stop that New York strut where they walk like they’ve got a banana up their ass.”

  “He used to be a boxer, this Jack Bledsoe...”

  “Shit, we all used to be boxers...”

  “He can do the part, trust me...”

  “Jon, he can’t be New York. This main character is a California boy. California boys are laid back, in the woodwork. They don’t come rushing out, they cool it and figure their next move. Less panic. And under all this, they have the ability to kill. But they don’t blow a lot of smoke first.”

  “You tell him this...”

  “All right, when and where?

  It was 8 p.m. in North Hollywood. We were about 5 minutes late. We were walking up various dark paths looking for the apartment.

  “I hope he has something to drink. We should have brought something.”

  “I’m sure he’ll have something,” Sarah said.

  It was hard to make out the numbers. Then there was Jon standing on a balcony.

  “Up here...”

  I went up the stairway and followed Jon. It was one of Jack’s little hideaways.

  Jon pushed the door open and we walked in. They were sitting on an old couch. Jack Bledsoe and his buddy Lenny Fidelo. Fidelo acted bit parts. Jack Bledsoe looked exactly like Jack Bledsoe. Lenny was a big guy, wide, a little too heavy. He was marked by life, he’d been rubbed in it. I liked him. Big sad eyes. Large hands. Looked tired, lonely, O.K.

  Introductions went around.

  “Who’s this guy?” I asked Jack, nodding at Lenny. “Your bodyguard?”

  “Yeah,” said Jack.

  Jon just stood there smiling as if the thing was a meeting of great souls. But, you never knew.

  “Got anything to drink?” I asked.

  “All we’ve got is beer. Beer all right?”

  “All right,” I said.

  Lenny went off into another room for the beer. I was sorry for Sarah, she wasn’t nutty for beer.

  There were boxing posters all over the wall. I walked around looking at them. Great. Some of them went way back. I began to feel macho just looking at them.

  There were springs sticking out of the sofa and there were pillows on the floor, shoes, magazines, paper bags.

  “This is a real male hangout,” Sarah laughed.

  “Yeah, yeah, I like it,” I said. “I’ve lived in some real wrecked places but never anything like this.”

  “We like it,” said Jack.

  Lenny was back with the beer. Cans. We cracked them and sat there having a hit or two.

  “So, you read the script?” I asked Jack.

  “Yeah. Was that guy you?”

  “Me, long ago.”

  “You got your ass kicked,” said Lenny.

  “Mostly.”

  “You really ran errands for sandwiches?” Jack asked.

  “Mostly.”

  The beer was good. There was a silence.

  “Well, what do you think?” Jon asked.

  “You mean Jack?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’ll do. We may have to beat him up a bit.”

  “Lemme see your fighting style,” said Jack.

  I got up and sparred.

  “Quick hands,” said Sarah.

  I sat down again. “I could take a punch fine. But I lacked a certain desire. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. You got another beer?”

  “Oh sure,” said Lenny, then he got up to get one for me.

  It was known in Hollywood that Jack Bledsoe didn’t like Tom Pell. He liked to lay it on Tom in almost all his interviews: “Tom comes from Malibu. I come from the streets.” It didn’t matter to me where an actor came from as long as he could act. Both of them could act. And there was no need for either of them to act the way writers acted.

  Lenny was back with the beer.

  “It’s the last beer,” he said.

  “Oh shit, no,” I said.

  “I’ll be right back,” Jon said.

  Then he was out the door. Beer-run. I liked Jon.

  “You like this Jon Pinchot as a director?” Jack asked.

  “You ever seen his documentary on Lido Mamin?”

  “No.”

  “Pinchot has no fear. He loves fucking with death.”

  “He’s got a hard-on for death, huh?”

  “Seems so. But he’s done other stuff besides the Mamin film. I trust him as a director all the way. He hasn’t been diluted by Hollywood, although some day he might be.”

  “How about you?”

  “How about me, what?”

  “Will Hollywood get your balls?”

  “No way.”

  “Famous last words?”

  “No,, famous first words.”

  “Hank hates movies,” said Sarah. “The last movie he liked was The Lost Weekend and you know how many years ago that was.”

  “Ray Milland’s only bit of acting. But it was aces,” I said.

  Then I had to piss, asked directions to the crapper.

  I went back there, opened the door, went in, did my bit.

  Then I turned to the sink to wash my hands.

  What the fuck was that?

  Pushed down in the sink was this white towel. One end of it was stuffed into the drain and the remainder of it hung out over the sink and dropped to the floor. It didn’t look good. And it was soaking wet, just soaked through. What was it for? What did it mean? Left over after some orgy? It didn’t make sense to me. I knew it must mean something. I was just an old guy. Was the world passing me by? I’d lived through some shitty nights and days, plenty of them full of anti-meaning, yet I couldn’t figure out that giant soaking white towel.

  And worse, Jack knew that I was coming by. Why would he leave that thing in there like that? Was it a message?

  I walked back out.

  Now, if I had been a New Yorker I would have said, “Hey, what’s that fucking white dripping towel doing in that fucking sink, huh?”

  But I was a California boy. I just walked out and sat down, saying nothing, figuring that what they did was up to them and I didn’t want any part of it.

  Jon was back with more beer and there was an open can where I was sitting. I went for it. Life was good again.

  “I want Francine Bowers for the female lead,” said Jack. “I think I can get her.”

  “I know Francine,” said Jon, “I think I can get her too.”

  “Why don’t you both work on it?” Sarah asked.

  Lenny went for more beer. He looked like a beer-o. My kind of guy.

  “Hey, you think there’s a part for me in this movie?” he asked.

  I looked at Jon.

  “I like Lenny in my flicks,” said Jack.

  “I think there’s a part for you. I promise,” said Jon, “we’ll work you in.”

  “I read the script,” said Lenny, “I think I could play the part of the bartender.”

  “Come on,” I said, “you wouldn’t want to beat up your buddy Jack here, would you?”

  “No problem,” said Lenny.

  “Yeah,” said Jack, “he already did it once. Knocked one of my teeth out.”

  “Really?” Sarah asked.

  “And how,” said Jack.
>
  We drank the beer. Mostly it was small talk, about the many exploits of Lenny. He’d not only paid his dues, he could recollect them.

  When the beer was about gone, I figured it was about time to leave. I made one more bathroom run, then Sarah and I were at the door. Jon was evidently staying behind to talk over something or other.

  Then at the door, something strange happened. I asked Jack, “Hey, man, what the fuck is that big sopping wet dripping-ass towel doing hanging out of your bathroom sink?”

  “What big sopping wet dripping-ass towel?” Jack asked.

  And that was the end of that particular night.

  20

  3 or 4 weeks went by.

  The phone rang one night. It was Jon.

  “How are you? How is Sarah?”

  “We’re all right. Are you alive?”

  “Yes. And so is The Dance of Jim Beam. Francine Bowers read the script and loved it. She even took a cut from her usual salary to do it. Jack did too, but don’t tell anybody.”

  “No, but why these cuts?”

  “We’re dealing with Firepower Productions, Harry Friedman and Nate Fischman. They cut a hard deal but everything’s signed. There was a snag because Jack’s agent demanded a ‘Play or pay’ clause in the contract.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That means Jack must get paid whether the film is made or not. Most big stars have ‘Play or pay’ in their contracts.”

  “It’s hard to believe there’s going to be a movie.”

  “Tom Pell had a lot to do with it when he offered to do the thing for a dollar. It gave the project some credibility.”

  “I wish we had Tom...”

  “Well, he helped. When Jack heard Tom wanted to do it for a dollar, then he got interested. Firepower got interested. We got lucky.”

  “You know what Lippy Leo Durocher said?”

  “Who’s that?”

  “An old-time baseball player. He said, Td rather be lucky than good.’ “

  “I think we’re lucky and good.”

  “Maybe. But who are those Firepower guys?”

  “They’re new in Hollywood. They’re outcasts. Nobody knows what to make of them. They used to make exploitation films in Europe. They arrived overnight and began making movies by the score, one after the other. They are hated by everyone. But they deal, although they deal hard.”

  “At least they took Jim Beam.”

  “Yes, when nobody else would. They have this big building in North Hollywood. I walked into the office and there was Harry Friedman sitting there. ‘You got Bledsoe and Bowers?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘We’ve got a movie.’ ‘But don’t you want to read the script?’ I asked him. ‘No,’ he said.”

  “Interesting man.”

  “Hollywood hates him.”

  “Too bad...”

  “You should see him. A very heavy man. By the way, he’s having a birthday party at this place Thursday night. You and Sarah should come. His partner Nate Fischman will be there too.”

  “We’ll be there. Give me the directions...”

  Within ten minutes the phone rang again.

  “Hank, this is Tim Ruddy, I’m one of the producers of Jim Beam.”

  “You work for Firepower?”

  “No, I work with Jon. We are co-producers. Me and Lance Edwards.”

  “Oh...”

  “Anyhow, do you know Victor Norman?”

  “I’ve read his books.”

  “Well, he’s read you too. He’s writing and directing a film for Firepower. And he’s going to the party. Wants to know if you’ll drop off at the Chateau Marmont to meet him, then you can go together.”

  “What’s his suite number...?”

  That Thursday we drove up to the Chateau Marmont. The valet took our car and we moved toward the entrance. A smiling, partly bald man was waiting. It was Tim Ruddy. Introductions went around and then we followed him in. Victor Norman answered our knock. I liked his eyes. He looked calm and knowing.

  Introductions. Sarah was looking fine. Norman beamed at her.

  I shook hands with him, said, “The barfly meets the champ.”

  He liked that.

  Victor Norman was perhaps the best known novelist in America. He appeared on TV constantly. He was glib and deft with the word. What I liked best about him was that he had no fear of the Feminists. He was one of the last defenders of maleness and balls in the U.S. That took guts. I wasn’t always pleased with his literary output but I wasn’t always pleased with mine either.

  “They gave me the largest suite in the place at a cut-rate. Good advertising, they said. But anyhow Firepower’s picking up the tab.”

  We followed him out on the balcony. A hell of a view of a hell of a town.

  It was chilly out there.

  “Listen, man,” I asked, “don’t you have anything to drink around here?”

  We followed Victor back into the vast connecting rooms. In there you felt protected from everything. A fortress of security. Nice, nice.

  Victor came out holding a bottle of wine.

  “I’ve got some wine but not an opener around...”

  “Ah, god,” I sighed. An amateur drunk.

  Victor Norman was on the phone: “We need an opener. A corkscrew...Some more wine...A few bottles of...”

  He looked at us.

  It took the wine some time to arrive.

  “I’m making two movies for Firepower. I’m writing and directing one. I’m acting in the other. Jon-Luc Modard is directing. I hope I can get along with him.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  There was some minor conversation. Then Victor told us how he met Charlie Chaplin. It was a good, wild and funny story.

  The wine arrived and we sat down. Sarah and Tim Ruddy got to talking. Sarah sensed that Tim Ruddy was feeling left out and was trying to cheer him up. Sarah was good at that. I wasn’t so good at that.

  Victor looked at me. “You doing anything now?”

  “Fucking with the poem.”

  Victor looked a touch sad.

  “They gave me a million dollars to write my next novel. That was a year ago. I haven’t written a page and the money’s gone.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Jesus won’t help.”

  “I’ve heard about your alimony, all those x-wives...”

  “Yeah.”

  I moved my glass toward him. It was empty. He refilled it.

  “I’ve heard about your drinking...”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s those things you’re smoking?”

  “Beedi’s. From India. The lepers roll them.”

  “Really?”

  The wine poured and time passed.

  “Well, I guess we better head for the party,” said Victor Norman.

  “We can take my car,” I said to Victor.

  “O.K.”

  We went downstairs. Tim Ruddy wanted to take his own car.

  The valet brought my car around. I tipped him and Victor and Sarah got in. I pulled out and around and headed for Harry Friedman’s birthday party.

  “I’ve got a black BMW too,” said Victor Norman.

  “Tough guys drive black BMW’s,” I said.

  21

  We were a little late for the party but there still weren’t very many people there. Victor Norman was seated a few tables away from ours. After Sarah and I were seated the waiter came with our wine. White wine. Well, it was free.

  I drained my glass and nodded the waiter over for a refill.

  I noticed Victor peering at me.

  People were gradually arriving. I saw the famous actor with the perpetual tan. I’d heard that he went to almost every Hollywood party, everywhere.

  Then Sarah gave me the elbow. It was Jim Serry, the old drug guru of the 60’s. He too went to many of the parties. He looked tired, sad, drained. I felt sorry for him. He went from table to table. Then he was at ours. Sarah gave a delighted laugh. She was a child of th
e 60’s. I shook hands with him.

  “Hi, baby,” I said.

  Quickly it began to get crowded. I didn’t know most of the people. I kept waving the waiter in for more wine. He then brought a full bottle, plopped it down.

  “When you finish that, I’ll bring another.”

  “Thank you, buster...”

  Sarah had wrapped a little present for Harry Friedman. I had it in my lap.

  Jon arrived and sat at our table.

  “I’m glad you and Sarah could make it,” he said. “Look, it’s filling up, this place is full of gangsters and killers, the worst!”

  Jon loved it. He had some imagination. It helped get him through the days and the nights.

  Then a very important looking man walked in. I heard some applause.

  I leaped up with the birthday gift. I moved toward him.

  “Mr. Friedman, happy...”

  Jon rushed up and grabbed me from behind. He pulled me back to the table.

  “No! No! That isn’t Friedman! That’s Fischman!”

  “Oh...”

  I sat back down.

  I noticed Victor Norman staring at me. I figured he would let up in a while. When I looked again, Victor was still staring. He was looking at me as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “All right, Victor,” I said loudly, “so I shit my pants! Want to make a World War out of it?”

  He glanced away.

  I got up and looked for the men’s room.

  Coming out I got lost and went into the kitchen. There was a busboy there smoking a cigarette. I reached into my wallet and got a ten. I gave him the ten. I put it in his shirt pocket.

  “I can’t take this, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t.”

  “Everybody else gets tipped. Why not the busboy? I always wanted to be a busboy.”

  I walked off, found the main room again and the table.

  When I sat down Sarah leaned over and whispered, “Victor Norman came over while you were gone. He says that it’s very nice of you that you haven’t said anything about his writing.”