by Peter Corris
'Uh, well, I don't know about that.' He looked down at his motorcycle boots as he spoke. 'I was kinda thinkin' you might just give me a pointer or two.'
'Sorry, son. It's strictly business around here.'
'Oh, that's too bad. I thought it might do you some good if it got around I was kinda taking an interest in your place.'
I wanted to give him an uppercut for his arrogance and to get him to lift his head. He was still looking at his boots. He'd lit the cigarette and smoke was drifting up past his face. It's hard to tell from the top of someone's head, but I was sure that I knew him from somewhere.
'Who the hell are you?'
He lifted his head, stuck out his hand and gave me the full candlepower of his actor-hustler smile. 'I'm a new neighbour of yours, Mr Browning. Name's Jimmy Dean.'
4
EAST of Eden and Rebel without a Cause hadn't yet been released and although there was already a lot of publicity about Dean, I hadn't seen him on screen and his photographs didn't look a hell of a lot like him. He was much shorter than you'd expect and I guess younger-looking. I knew the name and the expectations a lot of people had of it, but I wasn't about to fall down and start licking his motorcycle boots.
I shook his hand, feeling the old callouses on it and the strength in his grip. 'Well, Jimmy, I'm glad to meet you. Heard a bit about you, but rules are rules. And the rule around here is — no motorcycles.'
He sucked on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly in a way I wouldn't have let him do if I'd been his drama coach — way too stagy. 'How'd you suggest I go back down the track then, Mr Browning, sir?'
'I'd suggest you wheel it, until you get out of the hearing of the horses. Wouldn't be more than a hundred yards or so. That sound like a fair thing to you?'
He didn't like it. The cycle was a big Harley hog and he was a little guy, but he could see that the alternative could be something worse — like being knocked on his ass with a few people watching. Still, he gave the old charm one more try. 'Not very neighbourly.'
'I'm running a business,' I said. 'I've got people to look after. But I'd be glad to give you a few roping lessons anytime you're ready. Just drive up or walk. Your choice.'
He let his cigarette drop from his mouth and stamped on it the second it hit the ground — neat trick. Then he threw his head far back and let out a hearty and natural-sounding laugh. If he was acting now he was good, very good. 'Heard you was a hard case and I see you surely are. I just might take you up on that, about the lessons.'
'Do that.'
He twisted the handlebars around and wheeled the bike in a wide arc. Then he pushed it away down the track. The slope was in his favour and he did the pushing easily, which wasn't what I had intended but might have been something he'd noticed. He kicked the starter and had the engine roaring at a point more like sixty than a hundred yards away, but I figured that I'd come out of the confrontation about even.
I told Louise about it later, including how I'd sent Dean away with a flea in his ear. She stared at me.
'Honestly, Dick, you must be losing your marbles. He's the hottest thing in Hollywood, or will be. Everybody's talking about him. Our stocks would go through the roof once word got out he was here. And we could make damn good and sure that word did get out.'
'He's a punk,' I said. 'I've seen them come and go over the years. A flash in the pan, and if you let one of these freeloading beatnik types take up space around here you'll be feeding hordes of them before you can spit.'
'He's hardly a beatnik. He's got a contract with Warners.'
'You know what I mean.'
'I think you let a great opportunity slip.'
I'd had a few drinks by this stage and wasn't prepared to lie down for her. 'And I think you're wrong about the boxing. I think that's an opportunity. Tell you what — you give in on the boxing and I'll give in over Dean. I'll even find out where he lives and make an approach to him. What d'you say?'
Louise hated a compromise the way a cat hates water. She hummed and hahed and tried to talk me around on Dean without conceding anything, but I stuck to my guns. 'No boxing, no Dean. And don't think you can charm him into hanging around here. You'd be wasting your time.'
'What d'you mean by that?'
I'd spoken without thinking and had to stop to consider what I had meant. On thinking about it, I was pretty sure he batted for the other side, or at least played on both teams. Just something about all those mannerisms — very narcissistic and sexually challenging. I didn't want to get into that with Louise though; 'I backed him down,' I said. 'That got his attention away from himself for a second or two. I'd say he respects me.'
'He's going to be huge.'
I laughed. 'You should see him. He'd come up to about your ear, if that.'
'You know what I mean. We really need someone like him.'
That alarmed me. 'Need? I thought you told me the place was doing fine.'
'Oh, it is, it is. But, you know, the overheads are high and what with one thing and another…'
I didn't know and I didn't want to. Business has always confused and depressed me, especially when it's going badly and I've never forgotten the advice Machine Gun Jack McGurr6 gave me in Chicago in the 1920s when the air freight outfit I was a partner in was facing bad times: 'Rob a bank,' Jack had said. From what I've seen of it, that's often the only way to save a business that's on the skids. This time around I'd made a definite decision to leave all the management side of things to Louise and to take as big a salary as I could get my hands on and not worry. The trouble with deciding not to worry is the worry it creates. Still, I tried to apply the philosophy.
'Ok,' I said. 'I'll talk to Dean. But the rule sticks — no motorcycles.'
'Hmm, yes. I've heard he's a speed demon. Warners are worried about him killing himself.'
'Yeah, before they can kill him with work. Around here he drives slowly, walks or rides a horse — if I can find one little enough for him.'
'Fine, and as for your boxing cronies, I don't want to see any cauliflower ears or punch-drunk bums. Sherman House is supposed to inspire confidence, not show what happens to people who like to pretend they're back in the stone age.'
'Boxing started in Greek and Roman times actually, I said, remembering a conversation I'd once had with Nat Fleischer.7 'Very cultured lot the Greeks and Romans. Lord Byron was a boxer, so was Bernard Shaw and…'
Louise sniffed. 'Shakespeare, I suppose.'
I sniffed, shuffled my feet and threw a few jabs. 'Coulda been.'
We got through it like that, amicably enough, but it ushered in a combative tone to our relationship. When we played tennis or golf together from that time on, Louise tried extra hard to beat me and, with her youth advantage and the handicaps I gave myself, she sometimes did. I was trying hard too. As an example of what I mean, I set about putting my idea about the boxing into practice before I did anything about James Dean.
The first thing I did was phone Lou Cohen, an agent who handled people like Rocky, Max and Buddy Baer, 'Slapsie' Maxie Rosenbloom8 and other ex-fighters, as well as stuntmen and bit players — what you might call the rougher element.
'Hey, Dicky, boy. Great to hear from ya. What can I do in your interest? Just name it.'
Now that was strange. I'd only met Cohen once or twice and although we'd got on all right I didn't think of him as a pal. And he wasn't being ironic. He sounded genuine, which, in Hollywood doesn't mean quite the same thing as any place else. What it means is that for reasons that suited him he was willing to give me his full attention and cooperation. Very unusual.
I told him what was on my mind and he was falling over himself to help. He said the Rock wasn't busy, thought the world of me, had heard the best of my establishment and that he could guarantee to deliver him to my door any time I wanted. I was suspicious but what could I do? I was getting what I wanted, a rare state of affairs in Hollywood. We agreed that Rocky should come out to Sherman House the following day.
'Anything
else?' Cohen said.
'No, Lou, that's all. Thanks.'
'My pleasure.'
I was sitting in the office where I spent as little time as possible because filing cabinets are not my favourite pieces of furniture. I stared at a framed photograph on the wall, not recognising the smiling, handsome young face. I got an almost physical shock when I realised that the face was mine. Somehow, Louise had dug up a still from one of my old movies and had it cropped and blown up. To judge from the cut of the suit I was wearing it was from twenty years ago at least. I was thinner with no grey in my hair and an optimistic cast to my features. Hard to look like that after all I'd been through in the intervening years. I wondered about Louise's motive and why she hadn't mentioned the picture to me. I began to wonder a lot of things about Louise.
You can buy almost anything in Los Angeles if you know where to look. Small boxing clubs were closing down all over town as TV took away the live audience. I knew that the Butterfield, a club in west LA I'd gone to for years, was folding and selling off all its equipment. I drove down there in the company pickup and bought the ring and everything that went with it for a couple of hundred dollars. I also hired the guy who'd dismantled it to re-assemble it back at Sherman House under an awning behind the stables. I wasn't going to push Louise too hard by setting it up right under her nose.
The job was well-advanced when Rocky Graziano arrived in a two-tone Buick at eleven o'clock the next day. For some reason, fighters never go anywhere alone. The Rock had 'Tank' Tranter with him, a former light-heavyweight who also worked in the movies. Some people thought Tank's nickname described his build which was low and wide, but those in the boxing game knew it referred to the number of fights he had thrown. His relatively unmarked face was another giveaway. Rocky was slightly over-dressed as usual, in a checked sports coat, hand-painted tie, gabardine slacks and wingtips. Both he and Tank looked nervous as they approached me. I put it down to their upbringing: Rocky was from New York's East Side and Tank had been born and raised in Chicago. They were probably worried by the number of trees and the absence of moving automobiles.
'Hey, Dick,' Rocky said, glancing around him as if he expected Tony Zale to jump out from behind a tree. 'How you doin'?'
'Not bad, Rock. Hi, Tank. Come and have a look at the set-up.'
I escorted them to where the ring was being put together. Both men kept glancing around nervously and I began to wonder if they were on something. Cocaine and benzedrine were big in Hollywood at that time, and every second person you met was twitching like he had an attack of St Vitus dance. The ring was almost ready and I have to admit I was somewhat dismayed by its appearance. The stained canvas and frayed ropes hadn't looked too bad inside under lights in the middle of a thick smoke haze. Out here, with the sunshine falling on part of it, the ring looked almost derelict. You could almost see the ghosts of the old fighters, smell their blood and sweat and hear the howls of the crowd which gave rise to very mixed feelings.
Tank wasn't impressed. 'Geez, Rock, it looks as if it dates back to John L. Sullivan.'
'It's authentic,' I said. 'The kids should know what the business is really like.'
'They're anything like the powder puffs I been meetin' around here,' Rocky said, 'they'll run a friggin' mile.'
Not encouraging. Rocky and Tank both looked as if they'd rather be somewhere, almost anywhere, else. They refused a drink and after he'd agreed to be on call for a few exhibitions and lessons when the ring was ready, Rocky almost sprinted back to his car and roared away. So much for hiring a fun guy who'd put a little life into the place. I was depressed and became short and testy with the guy setting up the ring. I told him to wash the canvas and he looked at me as if I was mad.
'It'll shrink.'
'Then stretch it.'
A few days passed, days spent squabbling with Louise and trying to avoid the most inept of the students. It's impossible to look good playing tennis against someone hopeless or constantly having to dismount to help someone who's fallen off. After a while, your own technique goes off and you end up impatient and frustrated. I discovered at Sherman House that I wasn't made of the stuff true teachers are made of. It was one thing passing on a few shooting tips to 'Coop' or working on Katie Hepburn's backhand,9 and quite another messing about with un-coordinated duds. I lost my temper a couple of times and yelled at the students. They appealed to Louise and she gave me the edge of her tongue.
'You're a fool, Dick. We've had two students walk out on us today because you shouted at them. They were both signed up for a lot of stuff, too. Do you want to send us broke?'
We were in that little office with Louise sitting behind the desk and me leaning against one of those bloody filing cabinets. It was too small a space to have a fight in. I like to pace when I work up a head of steam and this was cramping my style.
'I couldn't help it. They were useless. You could give them lessons all day and all night for a month and they'd still be hopeless.'
'That isn't the point. We need the money!'
Her seriousness brought me up short. As I've said, I took no interest in the financial side of things, but this wasn't the first time she'd brought up the question of the cash flow. When I thought about it, there were signs of things getting slightly run-down. The pickup, for example, had badly needed new rings and tyres. There were a stack of papers on the desk that Louise had evidently been poring over. I looked away from them and lit a cigarette.
'This was supposed to be a gold mine,' I said. 'Are you telling me it's turning out a flop?'
'No. But we've got problems and you're not helping. I can smell the liquor on your breath and…'
That's what I mean about the space being too small for a fight. For the first time I noticed the marks of real worry on her smooth, pretty face and I was touched. She was only a kid really and I wasn't pulling my weight. I flicked the cigarette out the window and came around the desk to touch her. 'What problems, love? Tell me what you mean.'
'I guess you could say she means me, Dick.'
A dark, good-looking man with brilliantined hair, wearing a powder blue suit with a dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, came through the door. It was Johnny Stompanato.
5
ALTHOUGH he went by aliases such as John Steele, John Halliday and even John Valentine, Johnny Stompanato wasn't your regular two-bit guinea hood. He'd been brought up in the mid-west by respectable people but boyhood wildness had taken him to a military school to avoid a juvenile police record. He'd served in the marines in the Pacific in the closing stages of the war and that was the last honest and honourable dollar he'd earned. He'd managed bars and a variety of businesses usually financed by money he'd wangled out of women. He'd been married four or five times and had eventually wound up in Hollywood. His only talents were as a gigolo and a strongarm man. He was arrested fairly often and questioned about the large amounts of money he was carrying, but no charges could be made to stick. He worked as a bouncer, money-shifter and debt-collector for Mickey Cohen and other mob guys which gave him a bit of clout. I had hoped that the last time I'd seen him, when I'd paid off my debt, would be the very last.
'What's the matter, Dick? Not pleased to see an old pal?'
I looked at Louise. 'What's he doing here?'
Stompanato took out his display handkerchief, dusted off the edge of the desk and sat down on it. 'Go ahead, babe,' he said, 'tell him.'
Louise was looking at Stompanato as if he was something that had slid under the door. 'The money we borrowed to set the place up, Dick. It seems that Mr Stompanato represents some of the people we borrowed it from.'
'You borrowed money from the mob?'
'No way to talk,' Stompanato said. 'Legitimate finance organisation. All as legal as taking a crap.'
I lit a cigarette and had to work to keep my hands from shaking. 'I'll bet. Love, we might as well close down and hand them the keys.'
Stompanato lifted his hand lazily. His diamond pinkie ring flashed. 'Uh huh. Th
at's not the way it's going to be. Your backers want you to keep on running the joint, make a success of it.'
Louise looked up from the papers on the desk with something like hope shining in her eyes. 'Do you mean that, Mr Stompanato?'
'Sure I mean it.'
'Put it in writing,' I said.
'Dick!'
'The lady's right, Dick. You should watch your mouth. Now I'm here because you're way behind on your note and Mrs Browning couldn't give us any reassurances. But I've taken a good look around the place and I can see its potential. Fine horses you've got. I'm a horse owner myself. I'd like to take a ride sometime.'
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if he didn't mean he'd like to take someone for a ride, but I bit it back. I just puffed on my Chesterfield and looked sceptical.
'You mean you're not going to foreclose?' Louise said.
'Nah. We'll work something out. How about a smoke, Dick?'
I shook one out. He took it and I lit it for him. His dark eyes were as hard as bottle glass; his face was lean and his white teeth shone against his taut, swarthy skin. He was dangerous, especially when he thought he had the upper hand — like now. He was always confident around women anyway, and for the obvious reason. His nickname was 'Oscar' because his penis was reputed to be of the same approximate size as the Academy Award statuette.
'There's just one thing,' Stompanato said, puffing smoke up at the ceiling which gave Louise a chance to look at his smooth, tanned throat. 'The place needs a few big names. You've been around a long time, Dick. See if you can't get a few of the old-timers to drop in for a brush-up on their riding or horseshoe pitching or something. You know what I mean.'
He sauntered out and I desperately wanted to plant my boot in the seat of his well-tailored pants. Not a good idea. Perhaps I could have stood up to him in a fair fight. I'd never heard that he was much good with his fists and, to judge by his manicure, he hadn't been using them in a business sense lately. But with Johnny Stomp there was no guaranteeing that's what you'd get. I hadn't seen any signs of a gun under the smart tailoring, but a switchblade hardly makes a bulge. I watched him go and then moved to the window. His red T-bird, parked where everybody could get a good look at it, was being admired by a young blonde actress who was one of the string of Grable look-alikes hoping to parlay her tiny talent into big money. She was flirting hard and by the look of things that was where her real ability lay.
