by Peter Corris
'Betty!' he yelled. 'Betty, you there?' There was no response and he shook his head. 'Slut. No breakfast. Guess I can fix some coffee.'
He was looking thin and hollow-cheeked and his movements were listless. We went out to the kitchen which was dirty and untidy in that bachelor way. The table was littered with newspapers, magazines, glasses, cups and ashtrays. He made a mess of the coffee preparations, spilling the stuff and over-filling the pot. I took over and he sat on the kitchen table, staring down at his dirty boots and smoking. 'The thing is,' he said, 'this picture's weird. They didn't pay Edna Ferber anything much for her book. She's got big points in the movie. And George Stevens has got a lot of his own money in it. You know what that means.'
'Sure. Means it has to work or they're in the shit. Doesn't make it any easier.'
'Right. Plus Rock Hudson can't act, less'n he was cast as a fence post or something. Liz Taylor's not happy either.'
I poured coffee and got cream from the refrigerator. Jimmy waved that away and began spooning sugar into the cup. He must have put in four big spoonsful, all it could hold. Then he started stirring. He seemed more interested in stirring it than drinking it. I took cream, a bit of sugar and drank it as fast as I could.
'What's her problem?'
'Outfits for one thing. She says they're trying to make her look like a lesbian in drag — heavy shoes, lumpy stuff, and this is when she's supposed to be young! She says if they wanted an old dike they should've cast Dietrich.' He gave that crazy giggle and went on stirring.
'And how about you, Jimmy?'
He dropped his cigarette into the coffee and pushed the cup away. 'Ah'm gettin' bah. Shit, I haven't got a hell of a lot to do. Gotta make the most of it. Stevens, he's an old woman. Plays it sooo safe. He shoots about ten times what he needs and moans about it on account of it's his money. But that's not the real problem…'
He broke off to light another cigarette and I poured myself more coffee. He squinted at me through the smoke and rubbed at his eyes.
'What've you been doing since you drove that gangster out of town? On the run in Mexico, shit. That's really something. You got a gun, Dick?'
'No. What would…'
The telephone rang. He seemed to consider ignoring it but finally slid off the table and ambled out of the room, trailing smoke behind him. I heard him mumble a few words, then there was the sound of water running. He came back with his face washed and his hair slicked down, scrubbing away with a toothbrush. 'Gotta go do that fuckin' scene,' he said around the brush. 'Come with, Dick. You're on the payroll as of now.'
As what? I wanted to ask, but he'd picked up a copy of the script from the debris on the table and was heading fast towards the door. I followed, tired, still hungry and grubby, but not wanting to let go of the only person I knew in the whole state of Texas.
The scene they were shooting was the first encounter between Leslie and Jett, when she is overcome by the heat and Bick orders Jett to drive her back to the house. It was shot out on the prairie with the cattle standing around and once again there was a fair-sized crowd of townspeople in a roped-off area out of camera range. They'd driven to the shoot and maybe they were hoping to get a sneaky lookin; if so they were out of luck because George Stevens knew all about keeping yokels out of shot. Dean's hands were shaking as he took a last look at the script.
'Stick around,' he grunted at me before lighting a cigarette, dropping the script on the seat and mooching over to the make-up tent. I could see Rock Hudson and Mercedes McCambridge standing around under umbrellas talking to Stevens. For my money they all needed makeup and plenty of it. They were many shades paler than the Texans and I'm not talking about Mexicans or Indians. Elizabeth Taylor emerged from the tent and I have to say she looked pretty good. As out of place in that landscape as a bear on a beach of course, but that sort of thing has never worried Hollywood. She wore an olive-green riding outfit with a brown hat and tan boots. She had a sweet smile for everyone as she took up her spot near the jalopy Jett was to drive her away in.
I took a look at the script. James Dean was supposed to get out of the car and make a fumbling attempt at gallantly handing her in. Then he had to respond to Bick's instructions. You were supposed to see that he hated Bick and was already halfway in love with Leslie — not too hard to get across. I left the car and joined the people behind the rope, half hoping that some kind soul would offer me a sandwich. No one did.
'Isn't he cute?' a bobbysoxer in the crowd said as Dean sauntered into view and fell into consultation with Stevens. Stevens was waving and pointing. Jimmy, of course, was looking at his boots as if his lines were written on the toecaps.
'He's a bum is what he is,' a big, rawboned ranch-hand said. He spat a stream of tobacco juice not too far from the girl's tasselled loafers.
'Well, I think he's cute.'
'He's a candy-assed faggot.'
I left them to their dialogue and pushed through to the rope to get a better view of the shoot. Again, Stevens had cameras set up all over the place and I got the feeling that if he could've drawn lines on the ground for the actors to walk along he would have. He was still talking but Dean was now staring up into the pale blue sky.
Eventually it was action stations, but Jimmy kept backing away from his spot, shaking his head and puffing on a cigarette. It looked like a bad case of stage fright to me. Elizabeth Taylor knew how to handle herself. She stood very still and seemed to glow, perhaps not quite the right look if she was supposed to be sun-struck, but that was the director's problem. Suddenly, Dean detached himself and began to walk towards the roped section.
'He's comin' ovah heah!' a girl squealed.
About fifty yards away he stopped, unzipped his fly, pulled out his cock and pissed long and hard onto a small mesquite bush. The bush offered no concealment. When he finished he gave it a good shake, tucked it away and walked back to the set. No one in the crowd moved or spoke. Stevens called for quiet and signalled for action. Everyone, including Jimmy, went through their highly-paid motions. Even from the distance I was at, I could see that Dean was getting all he could from the scene, twitching a little as Hudson spoke his line, angling his body as he reached to open the car door so as to make the movement interesting in itself, ducking his head as he spoke. Standard stuff for a scene-stealer, but done with a lot of flair and, most dangerous for the other actors, perfectly in keeping with the Jett Rink character and difficult to criticise.
They did the bit in three or four takes and if Stevens was trying to tone Dean down it didn't work. He played the scene his way, even to the way he drove the car away with a series of lazy movements that almost took too long. Almost but not quite. The man was a master of timing at twenty-four years of age. Only after the filming finished did the people begin to talk about the pissing incident. It was something like a religious event. I actually heard one woman say that it hadn't happened, that he'd only pretended to piss. Someone else maintained that the urine was the colour of blood and that James Dean must be a very sick man. The tobacco-chewer opined that he should be bull-whipped and tarred-and-feathered. I was getting some idea of the power Dean exerted over people's imaginations and emotions.
The dust from the car's departure was still hanging in the hot air when I saw Dean wave me towards his convertible. I began to walk towards it when a young man I was to learn was an actor named Dennis Hopper came running up. He put his hand on Dean's shoulder and spun him around, almost tipping him off balance. Dean feinted a punch at his chin and gave him a lop-sided smile.
'I've seen you do some crazy things,' Hopper said, 'but what in hell was that all about?'
Dean adjusted his sunglasses. 'I was so nervous on account of Liz,' he said, 'that I just plain couldn't speak. I figured if I could take a piss in front of all those people I could do anything in front of a couple of goddamn cameras.'33
Hopper shook his head and walked away. Dean winked at me. 'Dennis Hopper. He was with me in Rebel. Nice guy, but he thought he was the greatest you
ng actor in the world. Guess he's having another think.'
We got in the car and I was hoping we might go somewhere that served food but Jimmy didn't seem intent on going anyplace. The fact was, he loved cars, all kinds, stationary and moving. Sitting in a car was one of his favourite activities. He fished out a cigarette, got it lit and leaned back in the driver's seat. My stomach was growling and I was having trouble concentrating on what he was saying. He mumbled so badly it was possible to miss fifty per cent anyway. Mostly, it didn't matter. I caught the words hotel and assistant and I gathered that he'd arranged for me to stay at the house and to go on the payroll as his personal assistant.
'Doing what?' I said. 'You already know how to steal a scene from Elizabeth Taylor. What help could you possibly need?'
'Nothing like that. Not roping and riding. None of that shit. I need you as a personal bodyguard — we've been getting death threats.'
16
I took a careful look at him as he drove. He was elated after the successful shoot and pleased with his prank. I wondered if he'd been over-indulging any of the substances then popular among the Hollywood wild ones — benzedrine, marijuana etc. I'd heard that they could bring on persecution complexes and acute anxiety. I'd tried pot a few times but preferred bourbon. I hadn't noticed any increased anxiety but then, I'm fairly anxious most of the time. He was smoking as always, not taking the cigarette from his mouth, just sucking the smoke in and letting it leak away, almost as if he was eating it sloppily. Not pretty to watch. But he didn't seem any more twitchy than usual.
'Why I asked you about the gun,' he said. 'You know, Dick, the word was, with some people, you were kinda working with the Feds on that gangster thing. Any truth in that?'
Never confirm, never deny — that's someone's motto, can't quite remember whose. Anyway, there's a lot to be said for it and a man of mystery is a lot more interesting than a pane of glass. 'I can't say.'
'Uh huh. I don't suppose you brought me any grass, did you?'
I shook my head.
'Which leaves me still wondering. If you were a Fed and wanted to cause me trouble you had your chance right there.'
I was suddenly aware that he was driving much too fast for the state of the road and the amount of attention he was giving to driving. Up ahead was a cross road and I could see another car approaching it at speed on the left. It looked as if we'd reach the intersection at the same time.
I pointed. 'See him there?'
Dean nodded although I was fairly sure he hadn't seen the other car — a dusty pick-up, difficult to spot in that light against the dun background. 'I see him an' he'll see me.'
He slammed his foot down and roared through, missing the truck by a couple of feet. I felt my stomach lurch and was glad I hadn't had anything to eat.
'You don't have to worry about death threats,' I said shakily. 'You're going to kill yourself. Slow down or fucking well let me out!'
He giggled but he eased back on the throttle. 'I'm too good a driver. I've won races, man. Seriously, we're getting death threats from these crazy Mex-Texans. I need someone to watch my back. It's me they're after.'
'Why's that?'
'You read the book?'
'Some of it.'
'Some's enough. This Jett Rink character, he hates Mexicans. Says real bad things about 'em and in the end won't let them come to his party. There's some Mexican hotheads down here don't want the picture being made on account of that.'
I tried to recall details from the book which were already hazy just a few hours later. 'Doesn't Bick Benedict dislike Mexicans, too? He's against his wife getting the doctor for them and so on.'
Dean nodded. 'Employs 'em though, lets 'em in his house. Besides, Rock Hudson, he's protected. Got a man with him night and day, if you know what I mean.'
'How about Liz? Her character likes Mexicans. Wouldn't there be some folk down here taking a dim view of that. Sort of nigger-loving kind of thing?'34
'I don't know. I'm worried about my own ass.'
He was very honest in that way, James Dean. What they'd now call up-front. We'd reached the town and Dean was driving sedately, responding to my outburst and anxious to please — virtually the only time I'd seen him in this mode. He was serious and I was curious. Someone who played with a high horsepower motor cycle, who drove fast in sport car races and recklessly on the public highways the way he did, who was a boozer and pot-smoker, couldn't be all that concerned with his physical safety.
Being one myself and acutely attuned to the condition, I didn't get the feeling that James Dean was a physical… I won't say coward…was a physically cautious person.
This movie's my big chance, Dick,' he said. 'Eden didn't do much business and who knows how Rebel will be received — kids, cars, who knows? This is a great big fuckin' soap opera, but it gives me something to work with. I can be a star, man, and after that, just maybe I can be an actor. You know what I mean? I don't want some political nutcases fucking it up.'
I understood and I believed him — naked self-interest is always the most honest, uncomplicated and powerful of motives. I had to consider my own safety though.
'How did these death threats come — over the phone, through the mail, what?'
'Letters.'
That made me feel better. Letter-writers seldom do anything. The job sounded as if it would involve a lot of sitting around killing time, but it would give me a base from which to work my way back to LA. 'I'm in,' I said. 'What d'you want me to do?'
'Hang around and keep your eyes open. You'd better get hold of a gun. Every second son of a bitch in town's got one.'
'I'll need a vehicle.'
He thumped the wheel, making the car swerve and skid. He corrected the skid pretty competently and flicked his butt out over the bonnet. 'You can take this piece of junk. I'm sick of it. Think I'll get me a jeep from the motor pool.'
That was one he didn't manage to swing. No one in his right mind would have put James Dean in charge of a jeep.
I freshened up at the house while Jimmy looked over the script for his next scene. Betty, the housekeeper, reluctantly made me some toasted ham sandwiches and I drank coffee to keep myself awake. Betty was a middle-aged woman, rapidly running to fat, who very quickly had found out that film stars were not necessarily nice or tidy. I was just one more man for her to pick up after and she treated me accordingly. I delivered Jimmy to the next location and hung around while they filmed a short scene that looked wrong to me and it didn't make it into the movie. Then he was to be in conference with Stevens for an hour, so I had that time free.
Marfa was the seat of Presido county and I'd spent enough time in rural America to know that, if you're going to be carrying a gun and taking part in the peace-keeping business, you'd better first clear it with the county sheriff. Sheriff Howard 'Hud' Clayhorn's office was in an adobe building behind the courthouse, a block back from Main Street. I was nervous about venturing into an inner sanctum of the law, but I figured that any pictures of me on any wanted posters they might have would look more like my son (if I had one, a possibility, for all I know) than me.
It was early afternoon and the town, while not quite going the whole hog and taking a siesta as they'd all be doing just fifty miles to the west, was certainly quiet. I pushed open the door and went into a dark, cool room where the blinds were drawn and a fan was softly stirring the air. There was a glass-fronted gun rack against one wall and a big corkboard covered with wanted posters and other official-looking documents, some of them yellowed by time. The room was dominated by a large desk. The top of the desk was covered with papers, quietly rustling in the draft set up by the fan. Some of the paper wasn't moving — the sheets anchored to the desk by the biggest pair of boots I had ever seen.
I coughed and the owner of the boots, whose head was considerably more than six feet away from them, stirred. He was sitting in a chair tilted back against the wall and his hat was down over his eyes.
'Sheriff Clayhorn?'
'Yup.
' The chair came forward and hit the floor with a bump that made the boards shake and rattled the guns in their case.
'My name's Dick Kelly, sheriff.' I took off my hat and approached the desk, taking out my doctored driver's licence. 'I'm working with the movie people and…'
I stopped talking as he stood up, yawned and stretched. The process took a while because he was close to seven feet tall and that's a lot of body to straighten the kinks out of. When he was fully extended, his fists almost reached the ceiling and if he'd taken a little jump there would have been no problem for him to punch a hole in it because he was big all over — those fists were the size of headlights. Somehow, the words had dried up in my throat at the sight of him — you don't chatter on when you catch your first look at the Grand Canyon.
'You were sayin'…'
'Yes, I'm…ah, with the Giant people and…' I couldn't help using the word although as soon as I spoke I had a sense that the joke must have already worn thin. He sat down and I could see that the chair had been specially reinforced to hold his weight. It creaked, nonetheless.
'Ok,' the sheriff said. 'So y'all an actor? So what can I do for you?'
I explained why I was there. It sounded pretty lame, a small thing to be putting to a man his size but he frowned and seemed to take it seriously. He told me to sit down, unfolded a blade on a large jack knife and began cleaning his fingernails. There was a lot of grime and he let it fall neatly into a waste paper basket.
'I saw those letters myself,' he said. 'Turned 'em over to the FBI.'
I had to prevent myself from reacting. The last thing I needed was to be brought into association with Hoover's boys. He finished with his nails and rummaged in a drawer, coming up with a block of printed forms. He spun my driver's licence around and began to write.
'FBI said it could be a concern of theirs on account of the mail being used. That's violation of federal statutes. On the other hand, they're busy and this is just a shit-kickin' li'l ol' Texas town and who cares what happens to a bunch of Hollywood faggots anyway? You get my meaning?'
