“I can’t express my gratitude to you, Mr. Lear.”
“You’re a writer because you are a writer,” Jack replied. “I didn’t take you on for any other reason.”
“I’ve written what I hope is a good introduction to television for Miss Lear. I put my all into that, Mr. Lear.”
“I’m sure you did, Len. If the show bombs, it won’t be your fault.”
Betsy Frederick also caught Jack for a private moment. “What do you think of Curt’s retiring?” she asked.
“He can’t.”
“Why not? He’ll be sixty shortly. He says he’s tired.”
Jack shook his head. “Retirement will make him more tired than he ever thought he could be.”
“Jack . . . We know how Kimberly died. I mean, it nearly killed me. I—”
“My children don’t know.”
Betsy blinked away tears. “What a way to go! There’s gotta be some kind of fuckin’ dignity someplace!”
“Well, dignity is in doing, in achieving. And in satisfaction, too.”
“Curt doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life in the saddle.”
“There’s no dignity in retirement. What would Curt do? Play golf? Fish? I’m fifty, close to fifty-one. I want to work until the last five minutes. I allow myself that much time for the heart attack. Five minutes. And when they stuff me into the body bag, I may sit up and say, ‘Wait a minute! We’ve gotta do something about—’”
Betsy forced a weak smile. “Anne may have different ideas.”
He spoke a little later with John. “You’re a married man, with a child coming. Have you thought about asking the navy for a less dangerous assignment?”
John shook his head. “The navy has spent millions of dollars training me for what I do. I don’t see how I could ask to be relieved of the duty.”
“Besides, you love it.”
“I love it a little less now.”
John and Joni talked. “How’s it feel to be a celebrity?”
“John . . .”
“Two pilots sent their copies of Playboy along and asked me to get your autograph on the centerfold.”
She shook her head. “That’s embarrassing.”
“You will do it, though?”
“Oh, sure.”
“I’m sorry Neville turned out to be an ass. Would you like to date a pilot?”
Joni shrugged. “Casually. If I’m in California.”
“Aren’t you going to be, actually? I thought you were going to do a TV show.”
“Yes, I am. I’ll be in Los Angeles for a month, I suppose.”
“What will you be doing on The Sally Allen Show?”
“Believe it or not, I’m taking dancing and singing lessons. I’m going to dance with Mac Reilly. I’m petrified.”
Sally Allen, who was approaching them, overheard. “So am I,” she said. “That’s something you learn to live with. The first time I went onstage, I had to take my clothes off in front of two or three hundred men, and I was petrified. I don’t have to take my clothes off anymore, but I’m just as petrified every time I go in front of an audience. You’ll do fine.”
TWO
1957
AT FIRST, MAC REILLY DID NOT APPEAR FOR REHEARSALS. JONI worked with one of the dancers from the chorus. Then Reilly did show up. Bone thin and loose-jointed, he was an easy, supportive man to work with. He encouraged Joni to relax, to adopt a loose, sinuous style, that matched his own.
Just before they went on the air he stopped by her dressing room.
“Scared?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So am I. Part of the game. Just remember this: you’re gonna do what you’ve rehearsed. The routines aren’t too demanding. I know you can handle them. Cyd Charisse you’re not, but you don’t have to be. We’re going to have a good time.”
The first dance routine took place at the beginning of the show. Reilly appeared in white flannel slacks and a turtleneck sweater. Sally Allen wore red tights, and Joni Lear wore a black leotard and dark sheer stockings. Joni danced the more strenuous parts of the routine. Sally was happy to save her energy for the other things she had to do during the hour. Joni was a little stiff at first, until Reilly winked at her; then she remembered what he had taught her. She got through the routine and left the stage and the cameras just before the sweat began to show on her leotard.
“Good work, kid,” Reilly said to her, and he slapped her lightly on the rump.
In the middle of the show Joni had a few lines to speak in a sketch. After that, she went back to dress in a pair of black tights for the second dance routine. But the assistant director knocked on her door, stuck his head in, and said, “Never mind, Miss Lear. The show’s running long, so we have to drop your other dance bit.”
She was relieved but also disappointed. The second routine was less demanding than the first, but she would have been alone with Mac Reilly, which would have been a far more impressive credential than having appeared with him and Sally Allen.
Just one columnist mentioned her:
Showbiz insiders supposed that the appearance of Playmate Joni Lear on The Sally Allen Show was attributable solely to the fact that she is Jack Lear’s daughter. She acquitted herself competently, however, in a dance routine with Mac Reilly. She is lucky she was dancing with Reilly and not the perfectionist Fred Astaire, but on the whole she had an impressive first outing.
After Joni returned to New York, Sally called her. “Don’t forget that second routine you learned. We’ll slot it in on another show.”
Three
IN MAY, LINDA GAVE BIRTH TO A DAUGHTER, NELLY LINDA Lear. Jack and Anne flew to San Diego to see her. John was at sea, off the Philippines, and would not be able to see his baby daughter for some months.
That month Joni made her second appearance on The Sally Allen Show, dancing two routines, both solo. Her singing did not impress the producer or director, but she was written into a sketch and given good comedy lines.
Within a week MGM assigned her a supporting role in a movie. She played the part of a Las Vegas showgirl, an understudy to the star of the revue. She appeared in a form-fitting spangled pink corselet and a feathered headdress, in a spectacular production number that she was supposed to be doing because the star was absent in the desert, in a love nest. The notices referred to her as a “starlet.” The studio publicity department arranged for her to be photographed poolside at the Beverly Hilton in a swimsuit, in studio shots wearing shorts and a tight sweater, and in a satin slip à la Elizabeth Taylor as Maggie the Cat.
The studio arranged dates for her, mostly with aging or fading male stars. One night at the Brown Derby she excused herself to go to the women’s room, located the flack who had arranged the date, and asked if he had the photos he wanted. When he said he did, she walked out and hailed a cab, abandoning a drunk, egomaniacal, and boring Errol Flynn. Three of the men asked for sex, which she had been promised would not happen. She refused two of them bluntly and firmly, the third gently, because he had asked her gently. He thanked her for not taking offense and returned to offering her some suggestions about acting. That was Orson Welles.
Next, the studio arranged for her to be seen with David Breck. He was a remarkably handsome thirty-one-year-old Welsh actor, though some described him as pretty rather than handsome. He had studied acting with the Royal Shakespeare Company, had played the role of Algernon Moncrieff in The Importance of Being Earnest at the Old Vic, had played the part of Biff in a London production of Death of a Salesman, and had played roles in several English films, including another screen adaptation of Pygmalion, in which he had the role of Freddy. His Hollywood career had been less than spectacular. Hollywood producers saw him as a body, not as an actor, and his roles had been nothing but heroes in three costume pictures.
Breck had been divorced two years and was often photographed escorting actresses, some of them substantially older than he was, to premieres, to the track, or to dinner. He granted interviews and encourag
ed reporters and columnists to believe he was having affairs with at least some of these women.
Joni expected him to be a shallow egomaniac. And so he seemed, spending most of the evening talking about how far superior West End theater was to anything done in America.
Toward the end of their dinner he turned to her, smiled, and in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice said, “I suppose you give the best head in town.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if I do,” Joni answered casually.
“Then . . . will you?”
Joni shrugged. “Why should I?”
“Well, I’m doing you a favor. You can do me one.”
“What favor are you doing me?”
“Being seen with you,” he said ingenuously, as if it were the most evident thing in the world.
“Mr. Brecknock,” she said, using his real name, “when did you last make a film that amounted to crap? Considering the state of your career, I’m the one who’s doing you a favor, allowing you to be seen with me.”
“La belle dame sans merci,” David said with a small, sad smile.
“That’s graceful. You could almost seduce me. But not quite.”
Four
JOHN WAS ALMOST SATISFIED HE HAD TAMED THE BEAST. THE F4D was not to be tamed, of course; no pilot could ever tame it, and overconfidence equaled death. Of the six F4Ds that had been delivered to the Yorktown, two were gone, and two pilots were dead. One of them, a young man who had graduated from Annapolis a year after John and had become a close friend of his, had died only a month ago, in the trickiest of all carrier operations: a night landing. They continued to practice night landings. One of the smaller fighters was lost, too.
The Yorktown was part of a task force cruising in the South China Sea. The United States Navy was in Vietnamese waters to show the flag. President Eisenhower wanted to warn the Communists that America would defend South Vietnam if necessary.
Night operations were different. You could see all the other planes in the air, by their flashing lights. Seen from a distance, the carrier was like a gleaming, glittering jewel. As you approached, it took on something of the aspect of a great stadium brilliantly lighted for a night football game—except that it lay against the total darkness of the sea, with no other lights around except those on the destroyers.
John was angry. Fifteen minutes ago he had taken a wave-off. He’d come in too high—or so the landing officer had signaled, though John had thought he could put the wheels on the deck perfectly. He couldn’t argue, though; the signal lights were orders.
He meant to land this time, for sure. He had enough fuel to go around more times if he had to, but he had a sense he would look ridiculous. He eased back on the throttle, letting the turbine spin down. The signal lights indicated he was squarely on the glide slope and on course.
He drifted slightly below the glide slope. He corrected for that by lowering the nose a little. The aircraft rapidly gained speed, which increased the pressure on the airfoil and caused a climb. Now he was back on the slope. The speed was a little too high, but he would correct for that when he raised the nose as he crossed the threshold of the deck. It looked good.
Then it didn’t. The plane slipped below the glide slope again. He was too low. The signals blinked frantically. Too low! Too low! He needed power and shoved in the throttle. He knew he wasn’t going to get power. The turbine in a jet engine, having spun down to a low speed, takes fifteen to twenty seconds to spin up again and generate full power. That’s why you have to fly ahead of a jet. It’s not like a prop-driven plane that can regain power in an instant. He didn’t have twenty seconds.
The signal lights disappeared! He was below the level of the deck and couldn’t see them.
Then all the lights in the world went out.
Five
JACK SENT A CHARTERED PLANE TO CALIFORNIA. IT PICKED UP Joni in Los Angeles, then Linda and Nelly in San Diego, and flew them to Westchester County Airport. The Hogans arrived from Pensacola. Seventy-six-year-old Harrison Wolcott was driven down from Boston by Mickey Sullivan. Friends gathered at the house in Greenwich.
A navy plane arrived at Westchester, carrying a casket and an honor guard.
Anne made all arrangements, because Jack was utterly grief-stricken. With the help of a navy chaplain, she arranged for the casket to be set up on an improvised catafalque in the living room, where it remained for twenty-four hours while friends and neighbors, Annapolis classmates, and other naval officers moved in and out.
On Tuesday, September 10, an ecumenical service was performed by the navy chaplain, the pastor of the Second Congregational Church, and the rabbi from Temple Shalom.
As the rifles cracked over John’s open grave, Joni fainted.
Six
LATER IN THE AFTERNOON, THE FAMILIES GATHERED ON THE patio by the swimming pool. Jack remained hardly able to speak. Joni sat pale and silent. Anne took charge.
“Jack and I would like to make a proposal,” she said quietly. “We would be very grateful if Linda would live here with us. We have a big house. Mrs. Gimbel has little to do now that Little Jack and Liz are growing up. She’s been with us for many years and is very good with children. Linda, you may want to finish your education, maybe pursue a career. You can be certain little Nelly will be well taken care of whenever you are away from her.”
“I don’t ever want to be away from her,” Linda sobbed.
“In which case, you have a secure home here that we would like to share with you.”
“There will be an inheritance, Linda,” Harrison Wolcott added softly. “You will never want for resources.”
“Here you’ll have alternatives,” Anne went on. “You can choose to do whatever you want.”
Linda stared into the faces of her mother and father. Both of them nodded.
Linda sobbed and buried her face in her hands, but she nodded too.
Seven
“DADDY . . .”
Jack had walked down to the lake at the edge of the woods. The sun was setting. He stood there staring at the water, seeing nothing.
Joni threw herself into his arms, weeping, and he embraced her.
“Daddy! I loved him so much!”
“We all did.”
“You don’t know. You don’t know how I loved him.”
Jack tightened his embrace on his lovely daughter, who now cried softly, her body heaving gently.
“Daddy, I’m going to tell you something that nobody but John and I knew. You mustn’t tell anyone, not even Anne.”
“Joni?”
“You remember my abortion? I was only fourteen. You said you’d kill the boy who did it if you ever found out who he was, but I wouldn’t tell you. God! how I wish I’d had that baby! He or she would be nine years old now. And we’d love that child like we loved John. ‘Cause, Daddy, it was John’s baby!”
Jack flinched as if he’d been struck. He began to sob, out of control, and he fell to his knees on the damp earth. Joni knelt beside him and clutched at him and kissed him on his neck and on his cheeks.
Anne had come out of the house, looking for them. She saw. She turned and went back inside.
THIRTY
One
1958
DOUGLAS HUMPHREY HAD BEEN RIGHT WHEN HE SAID DICK Painter was the originator of the most successful television programming on the Lear Network. Other ideas came from Cap Durenberger. Jack himself acknowledged that he did not have an instinct for what the public would enjoy. He still did not think Jack Benny was funny.
For his understanding of the technology of television he relied heavily on Dr. Friedrich Loewenstein. The young scientist managed to persuade Jack and the board of directors to invest money in technology he promised would control the future.
Beginning in 1956, LCI had invested in Ampex television tape recorders and retired the old kinescope equipment. Curt Frederick did the evening news in New York at six-thirty. It went out as a live broadcast to stations in cities in the Eastern Time Zone—except in New York, whe
re viewers preferred to have their news at seven-thirty. The taped broadcast was transmitted in New York and by stations in the Central Time Zone at seven-thirty. Three hours after it was made, the tape was seen in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and other Pacific Time Zone cities. Only when important news broke during that three hours was the 6:30 tape modified for California broadcast.
LCI opened twenty more satellite stations, in cities like Huntington, West Virginia; Harrisburg, Pennsylvania; and Toledo, Ohio. At first these little UHF stations originated no programming at all but were truly satellites of bigger stations, receiving their programs by wire or microwave and simply relaying them out to an expanded audience. It was Jack himself who suggested that the satellite stations should be able to inject local commercials. Why should a Huntington station broadcast commercials for a tire store in Pittsburgh? So the satellite stations began to make and broadcast their own local commercials. If they could do that, Jack figured they could also broadcast their own local news.
Two more major developments loomed in the future of the whole broadcast industry, and Dr. Loewenstein told the board of directors the company must have an enormous infusion of capital in the next few years.
“Within five or six years, everyone will want color television,” he told them.
“I’m skeptical of that, Doctor,” said Ray l’Enfant. “Color is available. The public is not rushing out to buy color sets.”
“Why should they? There is little broadcasting in color. But there will be. The other networks will increase their number of color hours until in a few years they will broadcast nothing but color. We must do the same if we are to compete.”
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