The Woman Who Fell From Grace

by David Handler

“Sure, Johnny.” Matthew climbed off of the bike. “What’s up?”

  Johnny glanced over at me uneasily.

  “I’ll disappear,” I suggested.

  “No, don’t,” Matthew said quickly. “C’mon, Johnny. We’ll take a walk. Just the two of us.” He put his arm around him, and they started off together down the sidewalk. “Something bothering you?”

  “I’m going through some weird shit,” Johnny said, “and I’m not sure what my attitude’s supposed to be …”

  They were out of earshot after that. I sat back down on the steps and looked at Lulu and patted the step next to me. It was time for our own little heart-to-heart. Sullenly, she ambled over to me and sat with a grunt.

  “Now look,” I said firmly. “Just because Matthew said you have star potential doesn’t mean you do. That’s just the way people talk out here. Movie babble. Acting happens to be a horrible life. You’ll spend most of your time dragging your tired bones from one audition to the next, getting rejection after rejection. There’s thousands of other dogs out there, all of them trying to paw their way to the top. And even if you do make it, it doesn’t last. Where is Mike the Dog now, huh? Where is Benji?”

  She wasn’t listening to me. She had the bug. There’s no getting through to them when they do. I wished I could consult her mommy on this. Merilee was a pro. Lulu would listen to her. But I was on my own now. Alone. All I could do was hope she soon returned to her senses, such as they are.

  Matthew and Johnny came strolling back. Johnny climbed onto his Fat Boy and started it up.

  “Stay in touch, okay?” Matthew urged him. “You always have a home here, Johnny. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know that,” Johnny said, nodding his canary yellow head. “Thanks, man.” Then he sped off.

  Matthew watched him go. “Problems with his love life,” he volunteered. “He’s been seriously involved with somebody lately, and he just found out the guy’s seeing somebody else on the side. He doesn’t know what to do now. I thought he should confront him. Get it out in the open.”

  I nodded. Badger’s dad would have advised just that.

  We got back on our own machines and rode on, Lulu trotting alongside.

  “Does he often come to you with his personal problems?” I asked.

  “Always has,” Matthew replied. “I’ve been directing Johnny since he was seven years old. He got so used to asking me what his character’s attitude should be that he kept right on asking me, even when the cameras weren’t rolling. I guess I’m kind of like a father to him. He’s pretty messed up, but he’s a good kid, really. And he had a terrible time of it when he was little. That mother of his is a horrible, greedy bitch. She never let him be a kid. When he first came in to read for The Boy Who Cried Wolf he didn’t even know how to throw a baseball or ride a bike. He’d never been to a regular school, never had any pals. He was the family breadwinner, and she drove him beyond belief. Screamed at him, beat him with a hairbrush if he muffed his lines. Got him so upset he’d vomit between takes. It was awful for the poor kid. She’s back in Canada now, thank God.”

  “Who manages him now?” I asked.

  “He’s with the Harmon Wright Agency,” Matthew replied.

  I flinched at the name. Inwardly, apparently. He took no note of it.

  “Joey Bam Bam is the guy who handles him,” he added.

  “Joey Bam Bam?”

  “Johnny’s very happy with him.”

  We pedaled our way out of Homewood. An alley took us by some prop warehouses and then to a big garage, where Matthew stopped and got off his bike.

  “This is what I wanted to show you,” he said. “Come on in.”

  The sliding garage doors were locked. He used a key to unlock them, then slid one open and went in and flicked on a light. I followed him in.

  A dozen or so cars were stored in there. The first one he led me to was a long, low drag racer with chrome pipes. Its body was fashioned out of a coffin, complete with purple velvet upholstery.

  “Recognize it?” he asked, grinning at me eagerly.

  I shook my head. “Should I?”

  “It’s Grandpa Munster’s Dragula, Meat,” he exclaimed. “You know, from The Munsters—the TV series. George Barris designed it. He was the customizer of the sixties. I bought it at an auction. I’ve got a bunch of his. Here, here, this one’s my pride and joy …” He whipped the cover off a low-slung black convertible with tail fins. It looked somewhat like a 1955 Lincoln Futura dream car. “The Batmobile, Meat,” he proclaimed with great pride. “Not the fake one from that awful movie, either. This is the one from the TV show. The real Batmobile. Cost me plenty,” he confided, patting it lovingly. “But how can you put a price tag on something like this?”

  “You can’t.”

  “Most of these I got at auctions.” He pointed them out, one by one. “That ’28 Porter over there’s the talking car from My Mother the Car. Totally authentic, right down to the license plate: PZR 317.”

  “Does it—?”

  “No, it doesn’t talk. And believe me, you’re not the first person who’s asked that. There’s Maxwell Smart’s Sunbeam Alpine from Get Smart. The motorcycle and sidecar are Colonel Klink’s from Hogan’s Heroes …” He stopped, frowning at me. “What are you looking around for, Meat?”

  “Mister Ed. I thought perhaps he’d been stuffed and auctioned off as well.”

  He reddened. “You think I’m silly, don’t you? You think I’m totally silly.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I guess it does seem a little bizarre,” he admitted. “But, see, I grew up on these shows, Meat. This is my whole childhood, right here. These cars. And now they’re actually mine. I can’t believe it. It makes my heart pound. Can you understand that?”

  “I can, Matthew. Do they run?”

  “I have a mechanic who does nothing but keep them running. These aren’t museum pieces. They’re my cars for getting around town. What are you driving while you’re here?”

  “I was going to rent something when I got to the hotel.”

  “What for? Take one of these. Whichever one you want.”

  “That’s extremely generous of you, Matthew, but I really can’t see myself zipping around Los Angeles in the Batmobile.”

  “Why not? C’mon, Meat. Have some fun, will ya?” He froze, a dark shadow crossing his face. “Gee,” he said softly. “That’s just what Penny used to say to me.” He swallowed, his eyes shining. No, he wasn’t over her. Not even maybe. He shook himself and mustered a smile. “Please, Meat. Take one.”

  “Matthew, I’ll be fine. I’ll rent myself something.”

  “You sure I can’t talk you into it?” He really wanted to, it seemed.

  “Positive.”

  He shrugged, disappointed, and we started back outside. As we did my eye caught sight of one car in the back row that I hadn’t noticed before. I stood there, staring. Then, slowly, I went over to it.

  “Aha!” cried Matthew triumphantly. “I knew one of ’em would get to you. I should have guessed it would be this one. You’re into machines, not gimmicks.”

  I was certainly into this machine. How old was I then? Ten? I’d wanted it desperately. It and everything it stood for. And here it was, thirty years later. Factory fresh. “It’s the real one?” I asked.

  “They actually used several through the years, only none of the others were kept up. Just this one. It’s in perfect condition, every inch original—except for the tires, but they’re factory spec.” Matthew thumped me on the back. “It’s all yours, Meat. Sarge’ll bring your bags down. Keys are in the ignition. Tank’s full. The mileage isn’t too hot, but they didn’t worry about such things in those days.”

  “They didn’t worry about anything in those days.”

  He grinned at me, immensely pleased. “This is just great. I feel so much better about you now, Meat.”

  “Do you?”

  “Absolutely. This proves it beyond a shadow of doubt.”


  “Proves what, Matthew?”

  “You are human. I was beginning to wonder.”

  The red Porsche was still waiting there across the street. For me. He fell in behind me the second I pulled out of the gate. I took Washington to Robertson, which jogged under the freeway and then angled north toward Beverly Hills. He stayed with me. He wasn’t real steady. Sometimes he was right on my tail. Sometimes he was three or four cars back. Sometimes he stalled it. But he stayed with me. I wasn’t easy to lose in a crowd.

  The Corvette strained to run. It had a monster under the hood, a 283-cubic-inch V-8 that put out 270 horsepower. This wasn’t a car for city traffic. This was a car for the open road—a road like, say, Route 66. It’s true. I was behind the wheel of Tod Stiles’s Vette, the ’59 convertible he and Buz Murdock crisscrossed America in—adventure, opportunity, romance, all up ahead for them around the next bend. It was perfectly tuned, pearl white with red body coves and a red interior. Still had the original AM Wonderbar radio, though I couldn’t raise much on it besides talk radio. In Spanish. I rode with the top down. It was dusk now, and the dry air was turning cooler. Lulu rode next to me, nose stuck happily out the window. She didn’t remember Route 66, but she did approve of the car.

  The traffic on Robertson was sluggish, the cramped, aging storefronts south of Pico an ethnic jumble of Jewish, Spanish, Asian, and black. I crossed Pico, still heading north. The Porsche stayed with me. And he was with me when I crossed Olympic into Beverly Hills, where the businesses perked right up. There were trendoid art galleries here, designer showrooms, French bistros. Briefly, I considered trying to lose him. But if he was any good at all he already knew where I was going. So I let him be. Until I got stuck in some gridlock at Wilshire, and got bored. And got out and strolled back to say hello.

  He lowered his window as I approached, startled but pleased by my directness. He was young and broad-shouldered. Had on a navy blue suit and one of those flowered silk ties everyone was wearing that season. Wore his hair in a perm of tight, brown curls. He used hairspray on it. A lot of hairspray.

  “I’m going to the Four Seasons, in case you lose me,” I informed him.

  “Why, thanks, Mr. Hoag,” he said brightly. “That’s ultranice of you to say so. May I buy you a drink when we get there?”

  “You may not.”

  “I really think we should talk,” he confided. “I believe you’ll find it worth your while.”

  Not a threat. There was no menace in his voice. Only insistence. And ambition.

  I scratched my chin. “I can give you five minutes.”

  The traffic began to creep forward. So did he, until he stalled it again, cursing.

  “Ease that clutch out a little slower,” I suggested.

  “Thanks, I’ll try that, Mr. Hoag. Just took delivery—still haven’t got the hang of it.”

  The Four Seasons is on Doheny and Burton Way. They set an excellent table there, and the staff is efficient and courteous. They happen to smile a little too much for my taste, but that’s my own problem.

  I pulled the Vette into the wide, circular driveway and ran right smack into another media crush. Reporters and TV cameras everywhere. The doorman had to jog practically out to Doheny to bid me welcome.

  “Sorry about all of this, sir,” he apologized, opening the Vette’s door for me.

  “What’s this all about?” I asked.

  “The writer who’s doing the Matthew Wax book is staying with us,” he replied. “You know how that goes.”

  “It happens I do,” I said, pulling my boater down low over the eyes. “Can you slip me in the back way?”

  His eyes widened. “Sure, sure. I’ll take care of it. Just stay put.”

  He scampered back to the door and used the phone there. Then trotted back to me and got in. Lulu hopped into my lap. The valet parking ramp plunged us straight down to the basement garage.

  A security man met me there with my room key and paperwork, and helped me carry my stuff to the elevator. “How come you attract such a crowd?” he asked bluntly.

  “It’s like Billy Wilder once said of the big turnout at Harry Cohn’s funeral,” I replied. “ ‘Give the people what they want and they’ll come.’ ”

  I rode straight up to my room, bypassing the lobby. Ah, stardom.

  It was on the twelfth floor. Had a king-sized bed and a minisized fridge, a writing desk, a dressing table. Glass doors opened onto a terrace overlooking Century City, which used to be the Twentieth Century-Fox backlot, and beyond that the Pacific, where the sun had dropped, leaving a smudge of lavender on the horizon. I opened the doors wide and shut off the air conditioner, hung up my jacket, undid my bowtie. I unpacked Lulu’s bowls and put down mackerel and water for her in the bathroom. I unpacked my fifteen-year-old Glenmorangie and poured myself some. I took it out onto the terrace. I sipped it, looking out at the lights of the city. My phone rang. I answered it.

  “I’m here, Mr. Hoag.” A man’s voice.

  “Do I know you?”

  “The fellow in the red Porsche.”

  “Come on up.”

  He did. When I opened the door, I discovered I’d been fooled by his big shoulders. The man was no taller than Bunny Wax. He must have been sitting on the Yellow Pages to see over the Porsche’s steering wheel.

  “You’re quite some event, Mr. Hoag,” he declared briskly as he came scurrying in, the trousers of his dark blue suit scuffing along the carpet, picking up lint.

  “That I am.”

  He looked around at the room. “I’ll come right to the point.” He went over to the chair by the bed, sat, bounced right back up, like a rubber ball. “You’re hot, Mr. Hoag. Hotter than you’ve ever been.”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

  “I would,” he claimed. “I would indeed. You’re poised, Mr. Hoag. On the brink. This is your moment—if you’re smart, and I think you are.”

  Lulu wandered in from the bathroom, her supper completed, and gave him the once-over. Unimpressed, she ambled out onto the terrace and flopped down.

  “The opportunities are out there for you, Mr. Hoag,” he plowed on. “It’s time to capitalize. It’s time to maximize. We can do that for you like no one else, and that’s no bullshit. I honestly think we—”

  “Time out,” I broke in. “Who and what are you?”

  “I’m with the Harmon Wright Agency, Mr. Hoag. Before you consider anyone else for representation, I hope you’ll consider us. And I hope you’ll consider me. I’m enterprising, I’m creative, I’m hungry. I’ll work my fingers to the bone for you. I never sleep. My name is Joseph Bamber, although everybody calls me—”

  “Joey Bam Bam.”

  His face broke into a smile of pure pleasure. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Hasn’t everyone?”

  One thing you should know about Hollywood agents is that the old stereotype is absolutely, positively, one-hundred-percent true. They really are short, wired, desperate, and relentless. They can’t take no for an answer, can’t be insulted, can’t be knocked down, can’t be killed.

  “You followed me from the airport,” I said, sipping my drink.

  “I’ll do anything to get a client,” he assured me. “And to keep him happy.”

  “When did you say you got your new car?”

  “This morning.”

  That explained why Sarge had mistaken him for a detective. She probably would have recognized him otherwise. If a detective really was tailing me, he was a lot more skillful. “You represent Johnny Forget.”

  Joey Bam Bam sat back down. And stayed down this time, though his knee did begin to shake. “That’s right, Mr. Hoag. I’m helping him make the big transish. He’s going to be a major adult star. He’s poised. He’s—”

  “On the brink?”

  “Just like you are,” Bam Bam said confidently. “I’m telling you, you’re the hottest ghost in the business right now. HWA is the place for you. Think of all the celebrity clients we can package you with
. Think of the film sale, the TV miniseries. I’m talking synergy. I’m talking total vertical integration. This House of Wax thing is a perfect example. We represent not only Pennyroyal Brim but also her writer, Cassandra Dee. We brought the two of them together.” He bounced back up again. It was only a matter of time. “You have to come up and meet our new team. I know you’ll be impressed. Sure, sure—we used to be known for divisiveness, for back-stabbing, for boning each other’s clients. Not anymore. We’re all pulling in the same direction now. We’re all out there—getting involved, making it happen. We’re coming back, Mr. Hoag.”

  “You were never gone. And you can give it a rest, Bam Bam. My HWA days are behind me.”

  That caught him short. “You’re a former client?”

  “I am.”

  “As a ghost?”

  “As a novelist.”

  “You write novels?”

  “I do.”

  He frowned. “Under your own name?”

  I sighed. “That’s correct. And it’s a name which still happens to be mud around the senior levels of the Harmon Wright Agency. Which suits me just fine.”

  “I don’t get it,” he said, shaking his perm. “What happened?”

  “I had a slight run-in with Harmon Wright.”

  His eyes widened. “You knew him?”

  “I knew him.”

  It had happened on my first ghostwriting gig, the memoirs of Sonny Day, the comic. Perhaps you read them. Or about them. That’s when I went up against Harmon Wright, the former Heshie Roth, juice man for Bugsy Siegel in Los Angeles during World War II. I came upon some skeletons. He tried to hide them. I tried to unhide them. I won. I also lost. My career was never the same after tangling with Wright. I was no longer considered a major novelist. Some of that was my doing. A lot of it was his. I’ll never know how much.

  “They all say he was the best,” said Bam Bam with hushed reverence. “They say nobody could touch him as a deal maker.”

  Nobody had. Under his leadership, HWA had been as big as all of the other major agencies put together. He had ruled the town, deciding which movies got made, by whom, with whom, and for whom. The studio bosses were merely his own hand-picked proteges. His favorite: none other than Norbert Schlom. Harmon Wright was dead now. Had been for three years. And no one today swung as big a dick as he had, although Schlom clearly wanted to, with an assist by Abel Zorch. I couldn’t help but feel I’d have something to say about that. I also couldn’t help but feel I was right back in the same ring, fighting Harmon Wright all over again.