The Hollywood Trilogy

by Don Carpenter

  It was not a question of no longer loving Glenn Duveen because she had never loved him. She had been very fond of him and grateful to him, but these days he was going slowly to pieces waiting for jobs, and so to keep body and soul together he was dealing a little marijuana, and kept harping on the idea of Jody getting a job somewhere. Jody did not want to get a job. She felt she had worked enough in her life, and so when Harry Lexington seemed to be interested in her, even though she had up to now refused to go to bed with him, she began feeling herself gradually moving from Glenn to Harry. Glenn was terribly unstable, and Jody was sure that he would find himself in deep trouble if he didn’t get an acting job soon.

  It was really too bad about Glenn Duveen. When he had mustered out of the Marine Corps in 1961 he had gone to acting school in New York, gotten a couple of small off-Broadway roles and then come West to do a Playhouse 90 segment. After a couple of empty months he got four featured roles in pretty good movies. His price went up and he was taken on by Ashley-Famous, who immediately got him all the jobs he could handle as a guest star on dramatic television shows. For a while he was seen on everything, and both NBC and CBS were thinking about him for his own series. And then, for no reason that Glenn could fathom, no one wanted to hire him anymore. For a long time he lived on residuals, and one summer he even went out on the road in a musical, but he really didn’t like that kind of work and wasn’t very good at it, so he came back to Hollywood and the game of waiting played by all actors. He got jobs from time to time, but the parts were never big or even interesting, and now they were coming less and less. His face could get him onto every lot in town, and so he sold cheap lids to secretaries and production people, never making much money and often lying awake nights afraid that the police were going to break into his house and arrest him.

  When Jody had moved in with him he had been full of bright plans and promises. A friend of his was going to direct a movie to be shot in Israel as soon as financing could be arranged, and there were parts for both Jody and Glenn, another friend was working on a musical, even another was deep into the rebirth of dramatic radio; but as she got used to Hollywood Jody began to realize that everyone in and around the business was busy on some dreamy project, and so her hope of getting into the movies through Glenn faded, and with it her affection for him. He was just another dead-end boyfriend.

  Harry Lexington, on the other hand, was actually working on an actual movie with a budget and everything. He had read her for a part and promised her a screen test, although that was a long way off, and Jody was half-sure all he really wanted was to make love to her in his fancy suite at the Chateau Bercy. That was all right, too. Harry was neither young nor handsome and he didn’t make any special effort to be outgoing, but there was a kind of warmth radiating from him that made her feel very good, and she imagined he would be very passionate in bed, like many quiet men.

  But there was no plan. When it happened, it just happened. A fierce argument with Glenn ended with her calling a taxi and standing at the open doorway with her suitcases and potted plants around her feet, her lip swollen from where Glenn had slapped her. Glenn spent most of the time on the bed, waiting for the taxi, staring at the ceiling. Finally he said, “Where do you think you’re going? Who the hell do you know?”

  “I’ll land on my feet all right,” she said. “Don’t worry about me.”

  When the taxi came, Glenn got up and with a deep sob tried to grasp her hands but she turned away from him and would not even let him help with the suitcases and plants. She called Harry from a telephone booth in a gas station on Vine with the taxi idling nearby.

  “He threw me into the street,” she said.

  “Come to my place,” Harry said quickly.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE FIRST night Jody was upset and kept telling Harry that she would move out the next day, while he called downstairs to have a bed put back into the room he had been using as an office. A drink of whiskey to calm her nerves and Jody was in bed by eleven. “Thank you,” she said to Harry. He was standing in the doorway looking down at her, her hair spread out on the pillow, a shy and yet knowing smile on her lips. He knew he was being taken for a ride, in fact he admired the way she had waited until she was actually out on the street before calling him. It showed a certain amount of style. They would have an affair, and when the pressures of preproduction got too intense, he would find some way to get rid of her. Nicely, of course. There was no question now of casting her as Helen. Harry did not cast girlfriends. Too bad, because the more he saw her the more she fitted the role.

  The next day Jody spent out by the pool, and when Harry got back from the lot he said, “Let’s go out to dinner and talk.” While Jody dressed they had a couple of drinks in the suite and then went to the Aware Inn in the Valley, where Jody had two more drinks before dinner and a little better than half a bottle of wine. She ate almost nothing. Harry was confident that by the time they got back to the hotel and had a couple of brandies she would finally be in the mood to go to bed with him, but in the car she was sullen and in the basement garage of the hotel she did not seem able to get out of the car without assistance. The Mexican-American garage attendant politely tried to take her hand to help her, but she muttered, “Back off,” and let her chin fall to her chest. The attendant looked helplessly over the car at Harry, who winked and said, “Thank you, Orfeo,” and came around the car while the attendant faded back into the shadows. Harry reached in and tugged gently at Jody’s arm. His heart was sinking as he remembered the night at the record producer’s house.

  “Get your fucking lunch hooks off me,” Jody said quite clearly. She struggled her way out of the car and leaned against it, grinning at Harry, her eyes bright. “I can walk, you asshole,” she said. She began to move toward the elevator in a slow sinuous walk, turning to glance at Harry over her shoulder. He shrugged and followed. In the elevator she did not speak to him until, “Eighth floor, men’s notions!” She cackled and put her hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Come on, pal, let’s hit the old sack!”

  But they did not hit the old sack. Harry undressed her (over curses and protests) and put her to bed by herself. In a few minutes she was snoring, and Harry drank his brandy alone, watching The Pride of the Yankees on television. Oddly he felt very warm toward Jody now, even though she had thwarted his plans. It was all right. He was looking forward to the next morning, to find out how she reacted with a hangover, or if perhaps she didn’t even get hangovers.

  When Harry awakened, his own head a little muzzy, he could smell bacon. He got up and pulled on his pants and went into the kitchen. Jody, in Levi’s and a man’s dark-blue tee shirt, was at the sink washing and stripping scallions. She turned toward him and gave him a lovely shy smile.

  “I was awful, wasn’t I?” she said. “I thought I’d try to make up for it by making you a good breakfast. Then I’ll pack my clothes and get out of here.”

  “Shut up,” Harry said, and kissed her on the mouth. She responded just exactly as if they had spent the night making love: warm and affectionate but not passionate. It was an intimate kiss and it surprised Harry. Her breath was awful, but then so was his. After the kiss she said, “These onions will probably help,” and they both had a laugh.

  After a lovely omelette of crumbled bacon, jack cheese and scallions, Harry spent a hard day at the lot, fighting a losing battle. When he got home Jody was curled up on the couch in a shining mallard-green robe watching television. Good smells came from the kitchen. Harry took a hot shower and when he came out Jody had a drink for him, but none for herself. “I don’t really drink very much,” she said with a smile. For the first time since he had been living in the hotel, the table was set in his dining room, and he and Jody ate what was an actual domestic meal. Up until then Harry had always either eaten out or picked up something at a take-out stand. The Chateau Bercy had neither a dining room nor a bar.

  Jody was a good cook, and throughout the dinner they talked about food, shopping, cooking and other
domestic matters. Not that Jody was crowding him. She still spoke of getting a job and her own place, where she would invite Harry over for the most fantastic dinners of his life. “I sometimes like to spend the whole day cooking,” she told him, “and then I’ll go for weeks eating out of a paper bag. In New York when I was modeling we used to make our dates take us to dinner and then we’d stuff half the food into our purses and take it home. Steak. Never any bullshit food, just good meat.”

  “How long were you a model?” Harry asked.

  “Oh Christ,” she said. “That was a long time ago. Before I was married.”

  “You were married?”

  But it was time to clean off the table, and Jody did not answer him. She was still dressed in the green robe, and as she walked rapidly back and forth from the kitchen, the belt came loose and Harry could see her pubic hair in brief tantalizing flashes. He realized with a thrill that he was supposed to see her pubic hair, she was telling him that at last they would make love. He got up from the table very self-consciously and went into the living room to wait for her.

  “Would you like coffee?” she called to him from the kitchen.

  While he was sipping his coffee and thinking about the future, the telephone rang, and he spent over an hour in a conversation with his executive producer that left his hands shaking and the telephone where he had been gripping it covered with droplets of sweat. Harry noticed for the hundredth time the blistering on the telephone handpiece caused by the acid sweat of countless hands. Jody had been fluttering back and forth, pointedly leaving him alone in the living room with his telephone call, but now he could not see or hear her. He no longer wanted to make love. His mind was again filled with the problems of the day, and all he really wanted was a good stiff drink. But this was the big night, this was the night of love. Harry stood in the middle of his living room. He felt sexless. She was probably in his bed, naked, waiting for him. Or perhaps she was asleep. He really did not want to go in there and find out.

  Jody had one small lamp on beside the big double bed in Harry’s bedroom. She was under the covers, the white bedspread making the skin of her face dark and sensual. Harry stood in the doorway, hoping she could not see his face well enough to guess his feelings.

  “Come to bed and we’ll sleep,” she said.

  Harry undressed self-consciously, holding in his stomach and thinking how foolish men look in their socks and shorts. He could not turn away from her or she would know his feelings, and so, holding in his stomach, he hopped around trying to get his socks off without falling over (a problem he never had when he was alone) and then finally dropping the shorts and kicking them into the closet.

  She drew back the covers and moved over. “I got this side warm for you,” she said. He slipped into the warmth and she pulled the covers up over him and moved in so that her head rested gently on his shoulder. He could feel his skin moist against hers, and he was in a near panic that things would turn out badly, but she said, “Turn out the light, please?” and as they lay in the darkness he soon heard her regular breathing. Now he could relax.

  The next morning when he woke up she was out of bed and making breakfast, quite cheerful, and when he said good morning she smiled and kissed him just as if they were lovers.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t make love last night,” he said.

  “You were tired and upset.”

  “I’m not tired now.”

  So they went into the bedroom and let the breakfast get cold.

  EIGHTEEN

  HARRY HAD been to bed with a lot of women, and he genuinely liked to make love, but nothing quite like this had ever happened to him. It was not that she knew any special tricks, in fact, their lovemaking was dull from a technical standpoint. But what happened to Harry was that he stopped thinking after a while and just humped like an animal while Jody groaned and clenched him and came time after time. When it was over and Harry lay flattened on top of her, the echo of his own near howl of climax still in his ears, he wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into. He was gasping for air. His whole body was still trembling and he could think only in fragments.

  He was used to being very much in control of his lovemaking, and now he was almost ready to cry. The only thing in his life that even vaguely compared with it was the time he had been walking in the hills above Hollywood by himself and decided to try a primal scream. He screamed, but as he did so he knew he was holding something back, and so he screamed again, louder and longer, and then something took hold of his heart, and tears started from his eyes, and he really screamed. The scream trailed off into sobs and his knees were so weak he had to sit down on the ground. He wept for a while, his mind empty, and then blew his nose, got up and continued his walk. That was a lot like it. But not as strong. It was as if he had never really made love before, as if it had all been masturbation up to now. They made love twice again that morning and he was late for an appointment. All day he thought to himself, “I’ve really got to make up my mind about her,” but when he got back to the hotel that night they did not even stop to have a drink but went straight to bed.

  Jody really enjoyed the honeymoon. It lasted nearly a month, and Harry was like a kid. He bought her things, he took her to Chasen’s and Matteo’s, but mostly they made love. He had not said anything more to her about a screen test or a part in the picture, but this was not the time for her to bring it up. She could tell from his eyes when they made love that he was overwhelmed, and that satisfied her. He was a sweet and considerate man and really very good in bed, much better than Glenn Duveen, and she had to admit that she loved him a little bit, although neither of them mentioned the word for the first three weeks.

  Harry was the first to say it. He was lying on top of her in the middle of a lazy Saturday afternoon, his face was half buried in a pillow. “Goddamn, you bitch, I think I’m falling in love,” he muttered.

  “Go fuck yourself,” Jody said, and she laughed, digging her fingernails into his back. “So am I, so what’s the matter with that?”

  He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “It means that I can’t cast you in the picture, for one thing,” he said.

  “I don’t give a damn,” she said, and she meant it because she did not believe him.

  “Oh my God I love you,” he said, and they were off again on another episode. But now it had been declared, and their relationship changed. When he came home from the lot there was no rushing off to bed. They had drinks, would go out to dinner or she would cook, and then on most evenings he would work and she would watch television. They would make love every night before going to sleep and every morning before getting up, and sometimes he would come home for lunch, but it was not quite the same, and Jody counted the honeymoon over when for three nights in a row they did not make love at all. That was good. Now they were talking about their apartment, their things, but not yet about their future, and that was good too. But soon it would be time for Harry to start casting the picture, and Jody had no intention of letting this opportunity get past. Even though they had fallen in love.

  NINETEEN

  HARRY’S EXECUTIVE producer was an ex-agent named Fats Dunnigan. It was just another of the bitter and frustrating pills that Harry had to swallow to get his project going, and he had hoped that Fats would have been satisfied with the title and the honors, and would leave Harry to make the film. But no. Apparently Fats had found plenty of time in his busy schedule to interfere with nearly every detail of the pre-production madness that was beginning to engulf Harry.

  The telephone call that had so unmanned Harry around the time Jody first moved in concerned the hiring of a director. Harry had wanted to hire a young television director named Calvin Fishler, who like most television directors wanted very badly to get into features, and Harry was confident that he could keep Fishler under control once they got out on location. Harry liked Fishler’s work. Given the terrible problems of making television interesting to look at—the bright lighting, the scenes that were essentiall
y two or three people standing somewhere talking, the hasty casting and even hastier blocking—Fishler managed to do a good and sometimes even exciting job.

  Harry had had lunch with Fishler and his agent at the Polo Lounge, and had liked them both—Fishler about 30, with fine long dark hair and deep-blue eyes, a young man with the bright likable personality a director needs to make everybody work for him; and the agent short, bearded, smiling and silent. Fishler had liked the script and had had some good ideas about locations and seemed eager to have the job, and they all but shook hands on it right then and there. But fucking Fats Dunnigan. Fishler was not going to get the job, and it was a damned shame.

  Fats had a new protégé, a young British director named Victor Ramdass Singh whose only credit was a semi-documentary on life in Soho. Weeks before, Fats had called Harry enthusiastically. “We have a great opportunity to give our little feature some class,” he said, and Harry’s heart had sunk. He spent part of the afternoon in a tiny screening room, watching the bad photography and even worse cutting of Soho Blues, and then there was supposed to have been a dinner with Singh but it got canceled, and after a while Harry figured Fats had given up. But no. A meeting with Victor Ramdass Singh was in the cards, as soon as he came back from New York. Fats reminded Harry that Soho Blues had cost seventy thousand dollars and so far had managed to gross over 4 million dollars. “He knows what people want,” Fats said. “He’ll be a definite positive asset to the picture—that is, if you want to hire him.” The fiction was that Harry was the boss and Fats merely contributed the benefit of his thinking.