“Sorry, Mr. Smythe,” the maître d’ said. “I don’t make the rules. And I think the management is a little worried about the tab you owe us.”
The next day, the Stork Club tab arrived: seven hundred and forty-four dollars and thirty-eight cents. To be paid within twenty-eight days, or else.
This demand was quickly followed by similar ones from Alfred Dunhill, 21, El Morocco, and Saks Fifth Avenue—all of which asked that he settle up his accounts within four weeks or face legal proceedings.
“I never knew so many people read Walter Winchell,” I said, sifting through this small stack of threatening letters.
“Oh, that bastard is enormously popular. Because, of course, he’s such a great American.”
“Did you really spend a hundred and seventy-five dollars on a pair of handmade brogues?” I asked, scanning one of the attached bills.
“A fool and his money are quickly parted.”
“Let me guess: Bud Abbott, or maybe it was Lou Costello? Of course, it wouldn’t be Oscar Wilde.”
“I don’t think so—though he’s a gentleman with whom I am now feeling a growing rapport. Especially as I can write my own “Ballad of Reading Gaol” after HUAC finds me in contempt of court.”
“One drama at a time, please. You haven’t been subpoenaed by the committee yet.”
“Oh yes I have,” he said, picking up a document off the chipped card table that he was now using as a makeshift desk. “Good news comes in big bundles. This arrived this morning. A Federal official actually showed up here personally, and shoved it into my hand. I’ve even got a date for my appearance: July twenty-first. Washington’s pretty humid in July, isn’t it? So are most federal penitentiaries.”
“You’re not going to jail, Eric.”
“Oh yes I am. Because the committee will demand names. Under oath, of course. When I refuse to provide them with this information, I will most definitely be going to jail. That’s how it works.”
“We’ll call Joel Eberts. You need some legal counsel.”
“No, I don’t. Because the equation here is a simple one: cooperate and avoid the slammer. Don’t cooperate, and enjoy six months to a year as a guest of the United States government in one of their select prisons.”
“First things first, Eric. Give me all the bills.”
“No way.”
“I’ve got the cash in the bank. It’s not a stretch . . .”
“I won’t let you pay for my stupidity.”
“It’s just money, Eric.”
“I was profligate.”
“Also known as generous. So let me be generous back. What’s the total damage? About five grand?”
“I am ashamed of myself.”
“You’ll be even more ashamed when you’re hauled into court for nonpayment of bills. This way, your debts are cleared. It’s one less worry. You’ve got enough to deal with.”
“All right, all right,” he said, tossing me the pile of bills. “Play Good Samaritan. But on one condition: that five grand is considered a loan. To be paid back as soon as I get some work.”
“If it makes you feel better, fine—call it a loan. But I’m never going to ask you for the money.”
“I can’t stand all this generosity.”
I laughed. And said, “Next thing you know, you might have to renounce misanthropy and start accepting that there are a few decent people out there who actually care about you.”
I paid off Eric’s bills the next day. I also called Imogen Woods at Saturday/Sunday and informed her that I would accept the magazine’s leave-of-absence offer. She assured me that, six months from now, I’d be back writing for them.
“Please don’t hate me,” she said. “I’m just caught in the middle like everyone else.”
“Everyone’s caught in the middle, aren’t they?”
“What are you going to do with the six months?”
“My first goal is trying to keep my brother out of jail.”
Actually, my first goal was trying to snap Eric out of the depression into which he quickly descended. A depression that deepened when Ronnie was offered an amazing job opportunity: a three-month nationwide tour as part of Count Basie’s orchestra. The offer arrived a week after he moved into the Ansonia with Eric. Privately he told me that—though he was over the moon about the prospect of playing in Basie’s big band—he was reluctant to take the gig. Because he was worried about Eric’s mental stability.
Over coffee at Gitlitz’s deli, Ronnie told me, “He’s not sleeping, and he’s drinking a fifth of Canadian Club every night.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I said.
“Good luck. He doesn’t want to be talked to.”
“Have you let him know about the Basie offer?”
“Of course. ‘Go, go,’ he tells me. ‘I’ll be fine without you.’”
“You want to take the job, don’t you?”
“It’s a chance to play with the Count . . . of course I want it.”
“Then take it.”
“But . . . Eric needs me. And he’s going to need me even more in the run-up to his Committee appearance.”
“I’ll be here.”
“I’m scared for him.”
“Don’t be,” I lied. “Once he finds some new work, he’ll settle back down again.”
To his credit, Eric did knock on a lot of doors after his dismissal from NBC. Initially, he was optimistic about his employment prospects. After all, he was Eric Smythe—the majordomo writer from the Marty Manning Show; a man who was widely regarded in New York as one of the true comedic innovators in that newfangled medium called television. What’s more, he also had the reputation for being a consummate pro. He was smart, mischievous, and fast. When it came to cranking out material, he always made a deadline—and it was constantly fresh and original. As everyone in the business acknowledged, he was good news.
But no one would now hire him. Nor would they even meet with him. As soon as he was settled at the Ansonia, he started working the phone, trying to line up appointments with assorted producers and agents around town.
“I must have made a dozen calls yesterday,” he said when I dropped by the apartment with a bag of groceries for him. “The people I was calling were guys who’d been after me in the past to write for them. Not one of them was available to speak with me. Three were in meetings, four were at lunch, and the rest were out of town.”
“Well,” I said, “maybe it was just your unlucky day.”
“Thank you, Louisa May Alcott, for looking on the bright side of life.”
“I’m just saying—don’t panic yet.”
By five the next afternoon, however, complete panic had set in. Once again, Eric had called the same twelve producers and agents. Once again, none of them was available to speak to him.
“So, do you know what I decided to do?” he said on the phone to me. “I decided to jump the Broadway local down to Fiftieth Street and pay a little speculative lunchtime visit to Jack Dempsey’s—where half of the comedy agents in New York meet to talk shop every day. There must have been, I don’t know, maybe six of these guys sitting around a table. All of them knew me. All of them, at one time or another, tried to get me as a client . . . although I was one of those proud bastards who always maintained that he never needed an agent. Anyway, in I saunter to Jack Dempsey’s. As soon as the table sees me approaching, it’s like the local leper has made an appearance. Half the guys wouldn’t talk to me. The others suddenly had to be elsewhere. Within two minutes of me turning up, the table was cleared. With the exception of this one old guy, Moe Canter. He must be around seventy-two. He’s been handling acts since the days of vaudeville. A straight shooter, Moe. As soon as everyone’s fled the scene, he tells me to sit down and buys me a cup of coffee. And he gives it to me straight:
“‘Eric, what can I tell you? People in our business are scared. Everyone’s terrified of ending up on some congressman’s shit list—and they will snub their own brother if it means staying alive profe
ssionally. So, for the moment, I think you should consider another line of work. Because—after the Winchell item—you’re an untouchable in this town. I’m sorry—but that’s how it is.’
“He then told me how much he admired me for refusing to rat on my friends. Know what I said back? ‘Everyone loves a hero . . . as long as he’s dead.’”
I took a deep breath. I tried to sound reasonable. “All right,” I said, “this is bad, but . . .”
“Bad? It’s a fucking catastrophe. My career is kaput. Yours too. And it’s completely my fault.”
“Don’t say that. And don’t completely write yourself off as yet. Remember, the Winchell piece appeared only a week ago. So it’s still fresh in everyone’s memory. A month from now . . .”
“You’re right. Everyone will have forgotten about the Winchell item. Instead, they’ll be focusing on my contempt citation from the House Committee Un-American Activities. And after my performance in front of the congressmen, I’m certain the employment opportunities will just keep rolling in.”
I could hear liquid being poured into a glass. “What is that?”
“Canadian Club.”
“You now start drinking at three in the afternoon?”
“No, today I actually started drinking at two.”
“You have me worried.”
“There’s nothing to worry about. Hell, I can always make a living churning out sonnets. Or maybe I’ll corner the market in epic Norse verse. Now there’s a section of the writing market that’s probably blacklist-proof. All I need to do is brush up my Icelandic and . . .”
“I’m coming over,” I said.
“No need, S. I am feeling just hunky-dory.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“I won’t be. I have an important appointment this afternoon . . .”
“With whom?”
“With the Loew’s Eighty-fourth Street movie house. They’re showing a helluva double feature: Sudden Fear with Joan Crawford, Gloria Graham, and the delectable Jack Palance, followed by The Steel Trap with Joe Cotton. An afternoon of pure monochromatic bliss.”
“At least let Jack and me take you to dinner tonight.”
“Dinner? Hang on, I must consult my social diary . . . No, I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged this evening.”
“What are you doing?”
“According to my calendar, I’m getting drunk. Alone.”
“Why are you avoiding me?”
“I vant to be alone, dahling.”
“Just meet me for a fast cup of coffee.”
“Ve’ll talk tomorrow, dahling. And please, don’t call back—because the phone will be off the hook.”
He hung up. Naturally I tried to phone right back. The line was busy. So I threw on my coat and dashed down the three blocks of Broadway which separated my apartment from the Ansonia Hotel. When I reached its seedy reception desk, the clerk told me that my brother had just left the building. So I hopped a cab north, and paid seventy-five cents for a ticket to the Loew’s Eighty-fourth Street. I scoured the orchestra, I scoured the loge, I scoured the balcony. No sign of my brother. Sudden Fear was playing as I conducted my search. When I realized that Eric was nowhere to be found, I slumped into a seat. On-screen, Joan Crawford was having words with Jack Palance:
“Remember what Nietzsche said—live dangerously.”
“You know what happened to Nietzsche?”
“What?”
“He died.”
I left the movie house. I returned home. I called the Ansonia. There was no answer in Eric’s room. Jack came home from work. He sat vigil with me all evening. Every half hour I phoned the Ansonia. Still no answer from my brother. Around nine, Jack went out and did a search of local bars, while I sat by the phone. Jack was back within an hour, having turned up no sign of Eric. At midnight, Jack called it quits and went to bed. I continued to sit by the phone in the living room. Eventually I nodded off. When I came to again, it was six thirty. Jack was dressed and handing me a cup of coffee.
“You must feel great,” he said.
“Try diabolical.”
I took a fast sip of the coffee, then dialed the Ansonia. “Sorry,” the switchboard operator said after a dozen rings. “No answer at that extension.”
I hung up. “Maybe I should call the police,” I said.
“You last spoke to him yesterday afternoon, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, the cops aren’t going to do anything about a guy who’s been missing for less than twenty-four hours. Give it until this afternoon. If you haven’t heard from him by then, we’ll get worried. Okay?”
I let him pull me up and enfold me in a big hug. “Try to get some proper sleep,” he said. “And call me at the office if you need me.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Tell them you’re a Miss Olson from Standard Life in Hartford—and my nosy secretary won’t think a thing about it.”
“Who’s Miss Olson?”
“Someone I just made up. Try not to worry about Eric, eh? I’m sure he’s fine.”
“You’ve been amazing through all this.”
He shook his head. “I wish I could do more.”
I fell into bed. When I stirred again, it was just after noon. I grabbed the bedside phone and called the Ansonia. This time I got lucky. Eric—sounding sleepy as hell—answered.
“Oh thank God,” I said.
“What the hell are you so thankful for?”
“Your safe return. Where have you been?”
“My usual all-night haunts—ending up at the New Liberty picture house on Forty-second Street. Me and the local tramp fraternity—sleeping it off in the balcony.”
“You know, I did go searching for you at the Loew’s Eighty-fourth Street yesterday afternoon.”
“Figured you would do that—which is why I decided to catch a double bill at New Liberty.”
“Why are you avoiding me? You’ve never shut me out, Eric.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything. Listen, I’m going back to sleep now. And the phone is going off the hook. Don’t call us. We’ll call you . . . as everyone in New York now tells me.”
Naturally I did try to call him back. But the line was constantly busy. I fought the urge to march down to the Ansonia and confront him. Instead I used the Miss Olson alias and called Jack. He gave me sound advice: back right off. Give him a few days on his own.
“He has to come to terms with this stuff by himself,” Jack said.
“But he’s in no fit condition to be left alone.”
“He hasn’t gone mental yet, has he?”
“No—he’s just drinking all the time, and staying out all night.”
“He’s grieving. What’s happened to him is like a death. You’ve got to let it run its course. Right now, nothing you say to him will make sense. Because he can’t see sense.”
So I didn’t call him for three days. I waited until five in the afternoon on Friday. He sounded reasonably awake and sober.
“I’ve got a new job,” he said.
“Really?” I said, suddenly excited.
“Absolutely. In fact, it’s more than a job—it’s a newfound vocation.”
“Tell me.”
“I am now a professional drifter.”
“Eric . . .”
“Hear me out. It’s such fantastic work; the most productive way imaginable of squandering time. What I do all day is wander. Drifting from movie house to movie house. Grabbing a twenty-five-cent lunch at the Automat. Loitering in the Metropolitan and Natural History museums, walking, walking, walking. Do you know that yesterday, I actually strolled right up from West Seventy-fourth Street to Washington Heights? It only took me around three hours. Part of me wanted to keep on hiking north to the Cloisters, but as it was three in the morning . . .”
“You walked up to Washington Heights in the middle of the night? Are you nuts?”
“No—just fulfilling my role as a drifter.”
“Have you been drinking much?”
“Certainly not while I’m asleep. But I do have some additional news on the work front.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yes—splendid news. I decided to bypass the agent route and instead opened my telephone book and offered my services to five different comedians I know. Guess what? All of them turned me down. These aren’t even top-echelon comics. These are the sort of midgrade guys who play the midgrade clubs in the Poconos and the Catskills and West Palm Beach. So my stock has sunk so low that even the second-raters don’t want to know me.”
“As I’ve told you again and again, this initial period is going to be rough. Once you get the HUAC hearing out of the way . . .”
“And I serve my year behind bars . . .”
“All right, say it comes to that. Say you do go to jail. It will be terrible, but you’ll get through it. When the blacklist ends, not only will you be respected for refusing to name names, but . . .”
“When the blacklist ends? Will you listen to yourself. The chances of the blacklist ending are currently up there with me becoming secretary of state. Even if the whole damn thing ends up discredited, the mud will stick. I’ll always be regarded as the never-married one-time Communist. No one will ever want to hire me again.”
He refused to be talked out of this bleak perspective. Just as he also refused to let me see him. Once again, I charged down to the Ansonia. Once again, he was gone by the time I got there. It was another twenty-four hours before I made telephone contact with him again. This time, I didn’t ask for a lengthy explanation about his whereabouts over the last night and day. I tried to sound practical.
“How are you doing for money at the moment?” I asked.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 43
