by Peter Corris
I nodded. Right then, anyone critical of the FBI was ok by me.
'But here in Marfa,' Clayhorn went on, 'we take it a mite more seriously than that. This movie's gonna bring a pile of money into town now and for some time to come. We don't want anything happening to spoil this fortunate circumstance, so I'm pleased to issue you with a pistol licence, Mr Kelly. You look like a man can handle himself. Been in the service?'
'Yes, sheriff. Canadian army.'
A slip — that dismal period of my life would be on file, but Sheriff Clayhorn just clicked his tongue approvingly and went on writing. I was glad of the willing cooperation, but a bit worried about the credence being given to the death threats. I was happy enough to pack a gun and stand around looking alert, but I didn't actually want to get between James Dean and flying bullets. Clayhorn pushed my licence and the gun permit across the desk.
'Couple good gunsmiths in town. You might try Charlie Earp on Main Street. Pick yourself up a good .45 there for a reasonable price. Tell Charlie I sent you. He's got a range out back you can try the weapon at.'
'Has anyone else applied for a permit? I mean, from the movie company?'
'Yup. There's a guy looking after Miz Taylor and Mr Hudson himself has a gun. He's a nice fellow that Rock Hudson. Not used to meetin' up with a man a sight bigger'n him but he took it well. Hang on, I'll get you the name of the other guy. Don't want you two taking pot shots at each other in the dark. Here it is — Pedro Cortez — you two better get acquainted.'
I'd known a Pedro Cortez back when I fought in a mercenary army in Mexico, made my first try at Hollywood and ended up scooting to Canada chased by the IWW and some rum-runners,35 but it's a common name. Clayhorn stuck his hand out and we shook — that is to say, he shook my hand, I could hardly have got a grip on three fingers. I was still worried.
'Could I see the letters?'
He rummaged in a drawer in the desk. 'Like I say, I sent 'em to Washington. They kept the originals but they sent me back these photocopies. You know how they do that, make photocopies?'
'No,' I said. He opened an envelope and took out three stiff sheets with blackened edges. The copies were a bit smudged and hard to read. Typewritten, the originals must have been done on a machine with an old ribbon. The messages were much the same — stop filming and get out of Marfa or you'll be sorry. Giant is an insult to Mexican-Americans that will not be tolerated. Carry on with this obscenity and more people than Luz Benedict and Angel Obregon will die. They were unsigned and addressed to Stevens, Edna Ferber and the scriptwriter, Fred Guiol. All that told me was the writer possibly knew how things worked in the movie business.
'Have there been any incidents? Any trouble?'
'Not a thing. Only problem I've had is with your man Mr Dean.'
'How's that?'
'He was caught driving that red convertible a tad fast over on Coltrane Road. Might possibly have had a drop to drink. My guy let him off with a caution, wanting to be cooperative like I say. Be a good idea if someone'd do his driving for him. Like you, maybe.'
I couldn't see Jimmy going for that idea. 'I'll put it to him. Ah, sheriff, have you got any… suspects?'
He laughed, making a rich sound with a fair amount of bourbon and prairie dust in it. 'Hell, no. We got a lot of people around here can write. Between you and me, I don't believe this is a colour thing.'
'No?'
'No. I'd be more worried about blackmail or kidnapping. Border's only an hour away.'
17
I moved into the Marfa house with Dean, Hudson and Wills, occupying a small, draughty room at the back. As I expected, I spent the next few days being bored and nights getting drunk. I made two tries at ringing Louise and was told both times by members of the Sherman House staff that she was out of town. That was worrying, but fixed as I was I couldn't press for more details and it didn't seem safe to leave my number in case the FBI was hanging about. I tried to call Bobby Silk but he was in New York fixing up a deal. The world was rolling on without me.
I saw very little of Hudson and Wills who had other places of entertainment or were so tired they slept a lot. One of my jobs was shaking off the bobby-soxers. The location of the house wasn't exactly a secret, but a number of things conspired to make my task easier than you might think. In the first place, the girls were more interested in Rock Hudson than James Dean who was, at that time, just barely a star. Hudson, as I say, was something of a gadfly, and the fans quickly learned that staking out the house or following any of the known cars was no sure way to catch a glimpse of him. Also, this was 1955, and the girls interested in James Dean tended to be young and still under the control of their parents, which might make Marfa sound like Mars, but that's the way things were back then.
Dean wasn't fucking anybody — not Liz, not Carroll Baker, not Rock. By day, he was working, practising roping tricks, taking still photographs around the sets by virtue of a special arrangement he had with Stevens and the studio and scribbling in his journal. By night, he was studying how to upstage the other actors, drinking wine, smoking a little marijuana and playing the bongo drums. The Smith & Wesson .38 Combat Masterpiece I'd bought from Charlie Earp had not once cleared its chamois holster.
I hadn't seen Liz Taylor since her appearance in what everyone was now calling 'the pissing scene'. She'd been out of town for a few days, having treatment for a back complaint at a hospital in San Antonio. When I got up on the fourth morning there was a big white Plymouth parked outside the house. A shirtless Mexican in jeans and bare feet was washing the car. I walked across the street and was surprised to hear that he was whistling something classical. I can't tell Beethoven from Brahms, but he was whistling sweetly and the melody was complicated and interesting. It was almost a shocking sound to hear in Marfa — so far on the radio I'd only heard Lawrence Welk, gospel singing and some dreadful noise from a young man in Lubbock a couple of hundred miles to the north. In Texas, that made him a local.36
Although he was whistling and making a noise with the water and wash cloth he heard me coming, whipped around and had a pistol pointed at my chest before I'd crossed the road.
'Hey, hey, amigo,' I said. 'Take it easy. I'm on the team.'
He examined me closely before slipping the gun back into the waistband of his pants. He kept on looking at me and I kept looking at him. He was tallish for a Mexican, very lean and fit-looking and not young. There was grey in his dark hair and his face was seamed and experienced.
Recognition dawned for both of us simultaneously.
'Pedro!'
'Dick!'
It may seem remarkable, but we recognised each other after thirty years. I suppose that's a tribute to the fact that neither of us had gained much weight, both had kept our hair and teeth, and time had treated us kindly, at least in outward appearances. Of course for my part, it helped that Sheriff Clayhorn had mentioned the name Pedro Cortez and it had lodged in my head somewhere; but quite how Pedro knew me through the mists of time and the grey beard I didn't find out until we'd shaken hands, slapped backs and reminded each other of how we'd escaped from Mexico, led the good life briefly in Hollywood and split up with the law breathing down our necks in Canada.37
'I'd have known you anywhere, Dick,' Pedro said, 'from the look in your eyes when I pulled out the gun.'
I lit a cigarette, feigning nonchalance and remembering what a wisearse Pedro — ex-school-teacher, unwilling but adept soldier, intellectual and man-of-action — could be. I said, 'How's that?' and pulled out my gun, pointing it at the grey, grizzled hair on his chest.
He grinned. 'You were always ready to bluff or run. Now you're ready to shoot. I under-estimated you.'
I put the gun away. 'You did. How come you're washing someone else's car?'
That's the way it had always been with us — banter with more than a little bite.
'How do you know it's not my car, Senor Dick?'
'Elizabeth Taylor's house. I've been told one Pedro Cortez is her bodyguard and I find a greas
er in jeans and bare feet slopping the soapy rag about. What else am I to think?'
Pedro laughed. 'You're right. I'm Elizabeth Taylor's bodyguard and I'm washing her car. Now what is Richard Browning doing here? Coming out of Rock Hudson and James Dean's house at eight o'clock in the morning? Don't tell me you've turned fag, Dick?'
That was Pedro — very sharp and always ready to catch you on the hop. I'd forgotten that I'd never won a verbal battle with him, ever, and here he was again, with only a few words exchanged and he had me on the defensive.
'Er, the name's not Browning, Pedro. It's Kelly. Dick Kelly, and I'm bodyguarding James Dean.'
Pedro began washing the car again, moving the cloth rhythmically across the duco and humming to himself. I knew what that meant — he was thinking, and Pedro's thinking had only one end in view — to put Pedro Cortez in the driver's seat. I was beginning to wish I hadn't crossed the road. On the other hand, his quick draw had been very impressive and if these aggrieved Mexican-Americans were going to be gunning for our stars and meal-tickets I definitely wanted Pedro on my side.
'So you're not the Richard Browning of Sherman Oaks? Not the guy who helped some gangster escape from the FBI a while back? Not the guy with the cute Aussie wife with the mean forehand and a way with horses?'
There was no point in fencing with Pedro. Thirty years hadn't blunted or changed him — he had all the moves.
'No,' I said, 'not him. And I suppose you're not the guy I dropped off just this side of the Canadian border with only a Thompson machine gun for luggage?'
Pedro laughed. 'That's a long time ago, Dick. I don't really remember. It doesn't sound like me. Weighing it all up, I'd say the man who can still use his own name, even when he takes a dumb-ass job like bodyguarding, is ahead. What d'you think?'
'You've missed some dust on that fender.'
He laughed. 'Same old Dick. Well, we'll have to get together for a few tequilas some time when we're not minding our clients' expensive asses. How much is Dean paying you?'
The subject hadn't come up and I was beginning to wonder myself. Free bed and board was all very well, but I was starting to dip into my capital for the luxuries and I didn't know where any more money was coming from.
'Enough,' I said.
'Means not enough. Me, I'm getting three hundred a week. Not great, but makes me probably the best-paid Mexican around here. And the work certainly isn't hard, is it?'
My mind was working fast now. I'd put myself in Pedro's hands well and truly. If he wanted to look on the ball and make a reputation for himself, all he had to do was lift a phone and call the FBI. But I had a strong sense that he wasn't interested in doing that. In fact, now that he'd won the sparring match he was looking a little uneasy as he splashed, soaped and wiped. I wondered why.
I probed. 'You a US citizen these days, Pedro?'
'Sure thing. For twenty years. You?'
I nodded. 'That LA thing. There's nothing to it. My wife's got a lawyer sorting it out. I'm just kind of lying low for a while till it blows over. You live down here now?'
He shook his head.
'Where?'
'Here and there.'
A woman appeared on the porch at the front of the house and beckoned. Pedro had his head down polishing chrome and didn't notice.
'You're wanted.' I said.
He looked up, saw the woman and swore in Spanish. 'Look, Dick,' he said quickly. 'I got to finish up here and drive her ladyship. I'll see you later. We should talk.'
I agreed and walked back to my base, wondering why I was so sure Pedro wouldn't sell me out. We'd never exactly been friends and from one point of view — possibly his — I hadn't treated him well back in the old days. He had no cause to love me. There could only be one reason — he was up to something and making trouble for me would only make more trouble for him. Intriguing, and something to think about while I hung around watching Jimmy steal scenes and worried about what Louise was doing and what lay ahead of me once shooting this big piece of soap opera was finished.
James Dean was nervous. Anyone who'd read the book or the script knew that the scene where Jett Rink strikes oil was potentially the most impactful moment in the whole show. No one knew it better than Dean and, as we got ready to drive out to the spot where they'd set up the oil rig, he amazed me by tossing over the keys to his car.
'You drive, Dick.'
I caught the keys, just. 'What's the matter? I thought you hated to have anyone drive you.'
'I do, but this is different. Just do it, ok?'
I'd learned that the only way to handle him was not to knuckle under. I jiggled the keys. 'Not sure I'm being paid for driving. In fact, I'm not sure I'm being paid at all. What exactly is the deal there? Should I go ask Stevens about it?'
He looked sheepish. 'No, don't do that. I'm paying you myself. Two fifty a week. Ok?'
'Let's go.'
Who knows why he wanted it that way. Perhaps he couldn't swing it with Stevens for his bodyguard to go on the payroll; maybe he didn't want anyone to know he had a bodyguard. With James Dean, it was hard to keep your footing. I made myself one pledge on that drive — not to be around him when he eventually became the biggest star in the Hollywood sky which everyone said he would be. It was LA to a palm tree that he'd be insufferable.
The set-up for the scene was simple enough. The oil rig was erected on a bare patch of boggy land that Jett Rink had called Little Reata to get right up the nose of Bick Benedict, who was pro-cattle and anti-oil. Bick's sister, Luz, had left the land to Jett as some kind of compensation for the shitty way the Benedicts had always treated him. The notion was that Jett had spent what little money he had on drilling for oil and had come up dry a number of times. Out of cash, this was his last throw of the dice. Pure Hollywood.
A barrel of fake oil, stuff that would wash off easier than the real thing, was buried underground. It was under pressure and a valve would be opened at the right minute to send the gusher skywards. The timing had to be right. I've heard that James Dean only appears on screen in Giant for about twenty minutes38, but he certainly made the most of them. One thing was obvious even from watching the shoots for a few days at a distance the way I did. Dean was the only really convincing character in the cast. This was partly because his role had some meat in it, but it was more than that. I've thought about it and my conclusion is this — Jett Rink was supposed to be a workman, someone who'd done things with his hands all his life. Dean made you believe that. The others were just actors. Rock Hudson looked as much like a cattle baron as Mickey Rooney. Come to think of it, Rooney would have played it better.
Dean sat in the convertible with his hat tilted forward mumbling to himself. When we reached the place Dean jumped out and began walking around, smoking, kicking up dust and staring into the sky. George Stevens was forced to walk with him, puffing on his pipe, gesticulating, trying to get a line through to genius. I did the obligatory look around to see if there was any politically-motivated crazy in sight although how you could tell with all the technicians, labourers and hangers-on milling about I didn't know. There was a lot of equipment to check, safety devices to test and routines to run through. Eventually Dean stood stock still, had a last drag on his cigarette and a swallow of water, took off his hat, threw it down on his chair and marched towards the rig.
Out of all the thousands of movie scenes I've witnessed being played and shot I think it's the one that sticks clearest in my mind. All the mechanics worked smoothly and Dean played it perfectly — not much movement, no over-statement, just pure physical presence and emotional power. He was Jett Rink, he had struck oil and he was going to have more money than Jordan Benedict had ever dreamed of. There was silence on the set when Stevens said 'Cut.' Dean was standing there, covered in black goo. He hadn't finished by a long chalk — he had to make his crazy, half-drunk, lurching run to the oil-blackened truck and drive off as if he was running the truck straight to hell, but everyone broke into loud clapping and I admit that I joined in
, clapping as loudly as anyone.
Dean lifted his head and grinned. 'Anyone got a cigarette?' he mumbled.
There are no words required when you do something extraordinary — shoot a par round of golf, play an unblemished set of tennis, score a possible on the rifle range — you just have to sit there and feel good, possibly wishing the feeling would last and last. That's what James Dean did in the car after the day's work. He didn't talk, he didn't even smoke. He just sat and thought his thoughts. I didn't interrupt him — he'd earned the right to his time with himself.
The day was still hot, although driving the convertible with the top down was breezy. Dean had got cleaned up and was wearing fresh clothes, the first I'd seen him in since getting to Marfa. After a while he started to hum to himself and I judged he'd done enough meditating on his own greatness.
'Want to drive?' I said.
'No, what I really want to do is fuck.'
'Must be plenty of candidates.'
'Yeah, I guess so.'
He lit a cigarette and went quiet. Maybe I was going to have a busy night for a change. We turned into our street and I parked the very dusty red convertible. Hudson and Wills had drivers who picked them up and dropped them off, but the house looked closed up and empty. We got out of the car and walked towards the porch. I had my foot on the step when I heard the first shot. It was almost forty years since I'd done the training but it stays with you — I threw myself to the ground, dragging Dean with me, as two more whistled above our heads and thudded into the timber porch rail.
18
YOU won't read of this incident in any of the numerous biographies of James Dean because we didn't mention it to anyone then, and this is the first time I've spoken about it since. Dean went along with that when I pointed out a few things to him. First off, I hustled him into the house. He was scared, trembling a little but he handled himself pretty well. I didn't hear any cars starting up or driving off, so there was a chance the gunman was still around. We lay low in the house for a while. The street was quiet at that time of day and I suppose the shots could have been taken for backfires. The reports weren't loud which was an interesting fact in itself. In any case, no one came to investigate.
