by Stuart Woods
“That one I can handle on my own,” Vance said.
“Well, if the one suit is any example, I guess you can.”
Vance scooped her off the sofa, carried her upstairs and tossed her on the bed. “Let’s christen the place,” he said, peeling off her sweater.
“You betcha,” she replied, working on his buttons.
34
As Bitter Creek was being completed, Vance’s and Susie’s days were largely taken up with meeting newspaper editors from all over the country who were flown to L.A. for individual meetings and big press conferences. They were all housed at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and Vance and Susie had suites reserved where they did the interviewing. Once, they had nearly been caught in bed together by an editor who arrived early for his interview.
Vance had moved his things into the house, including new clothes he had bought or had had made, but Susie had not yet moved in. They had been sleeping at the Beverly Hills, anyway, for convenience’s sake. Vance was a little troubled that Susie had not yet moved into the house, and he asked her about it.
“Oh, I’ve been too busy, just like you. Anyway, we’re living at the hotel for the moment. I thought I’d wait until you leave for New York, then I can move in and take my time doing it, without you looking over my shoulder.”
“Have you taken your things out of the flat you were sharing with…the script girl from RKO?”
“Hank. Henrietta Harmon. No, not yet. She’s not going to like my moving out, and I don’t want a scene if I can help it. I plan to go by there one day when she’s working and get all my stuff. I’ll do it while you’re in New York.”
“New York should be fun,” Vance said. “We’ll have adjoining suites at the Plaza, and we’ll be on the expense account the whole time.”
“And I can get my Christmas shopping done, too. I can send my parents’ presents home directly from there. I’m giving them a big television set; they don’t have one, and Daddy loves college football and baseball.”
“It occurs to me that we don’t have one for the Beverly Hills house,” Vance said. “I’m not sure there’s anything worth watching. What do you think?”
“I think it would be nice to have one for the times when something special comes on. And there’s more and more programming all the time.”
“All right. I’ll order one. Where do you want it placed?”
“How about the bedroom?”
He smiled. “As long as it doesn’t replace other bedroom functions.”
“Don’t you worry your head about that,” she said, laughing.
Sid Brooks found his posthearings life radically changed from what he had been accustomed to. He wasn’t being invited to dinner parties and cocktail gatherings by his non-Communist friends, although he had kept his old phone number, and he didn’t really feel like seeing the old leftie crowd, not that he heard much from them, unless they needed money. He had stopped going to Chasens and other places popular with movie people, doing most of his dining in Santa Monica, not far from his apartment. He was working twice as hard, making a third of the money he was accustomed to, and with the divorce now final, he was having to pay Alice five thousand dollars a month in alimony for ten years. After taxes and his agent’s commission were paid he found himself subsisting on about twenty percent of his former disposable income, and yet he worked constantly, cranking out treatments and screenplays and polishing or adding dialogue to the work of others, in addition to his own output—anything that would bring in a few hundred dollars.
Hy Greenbaum called him and invited him to meet at the Brown Derby, where Hy habitually lunched. Sid arrived at the restaurant and was greeted warmly by the headwaiter but hardly anyone else. Heads turned away and eyes shifted as he made his way to Hy’s table and sat down. “How are you, Hy?”
“I’m okay, but I know you’re not so good, Sid, and I’m worried about you.”
“I’m getting by,” Sid replied.
“I’m sorry I can’t get you more money for scripts and treatments, but that’s just the way it is at the moment.”
“It’s not your fault, Hy; you’ve been great all the way. I’m hearing that some other agents are not being so great to their clients. I heard a story about Paul Kohner running into Duke Wayne at a bull-fight in Tijuana, and Wayne wouldn’t shake his hand. Allegedly, he said, ‘I don’t shake with people who represent Commies.’”
“That’s a true story,” Hy said. “Paul himself told me about it. Times like these don’t bring out the best in people.”
“Well, I hope things will get better after we get our Supreme Court hearing; then, at least, we won’t have to worry about the contempt of Congress citation. I certainly don’t want to go to jail.”
They ordered lunch, and when it came, Hy leaned in closer and spoke quietly. “Sid, I’ve been talking to some people, and there may be a way to make all—well, most of this—go away.”
“Well, I’d certainly like to hear about that,” Sid said.
“There’s a kind of process you can go through that would…what’s the word?”
“Rehabilitation?”
“Right.”
“What would I have to do?”
“You’d meet with an investigator from HUAC and agree on your testimony; then you’d go back before the committee, be contrite and give your testimony. Then the committee would thank you—that’s the code word—and you’d be able to work again under your own name.”
“You mean I’d have to crawl.”
“I guess there’s no other word for it.”
“And my testimony would entail naming names?”
“You wouldn’t have to name anybody the committee doesn’t already know about.”
“I could name the five names Al James was going to name?”
“Well, no, since they were all among the Hollywood Ten. You’d have to name others from your past, people you saw at Party meetings and other events, but they would all be known Communists. It’s not like you’d be ratting anybody out.”
“I’d be ratting just the same, Hy, and nobody would ever speak to me again.”
“Who’s speaking to you now, Sid? You getting a lot of support from your Party acquaintances?”
That stung. “Well, not so’s you’d notice it.”
“I’ll tell you who would speak to you, if you do this: the studios would speak to you; the directors and producers would speak to you. These are the people who’ve always given you the opportunity to earn a good living. What have the fucking Communists ever given you?”
“Not a lot,” he admitted.
“So you’re going through this hell to protect a bunch of people who can’t even benefit from your loyalty, because they’ve already been exposed for what they are. And these are people who’ve never done anything for you, except give you bad advice on how to defend yourself.”
“The Supreme Court is going to fix this,” Sid said.
“Do you read the papers? Have you noticed that Truman has recently made two new appointments to the court and that those two gentlemen are a lot more conservative than their predecessors and a lot less likely to rule in your favor?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“You’re taking a big risk, Sid. What happens if you win in court? Well, you might feel vindicated, but that’s not going to change what the producers’ association has said about not employing Communists; it’s not going to change what the American Legion and Red Channels and a dozen other outfits are doing to enforce the blacklist. Can’t you see how difficult your situation is?”
“Hy, that’s a very clear delineation of my position, I know, but…”
“One other thing: if you spend a year or two in prison they’re not going to let you write screenplays there. All the while you’re inside, repairing roads or making license plates, the payments to Alice will still have to be made, and nothing will be coming in. It’s going to eat up your part of the divorce settlement, and by the time you get out, you’ll be in a deep hole.”
“Do you think I haven’t thought about that, Hy?” In fact, he had not thought that far ahead; he had been dreaming of a favorable Supreme Court decision, which was now in doubt.
“Promise me you’ll think about this some more, Sid.”
Sid sighed. “All right, Hy. I promise to think about it.” He would, in fact, think of little else.
35
Vance flew to New York with Rick, Glenna and the Radio City print of Bitter Creek a week before the opening. By the time the airplane was off the ground, he was missing Susie. They broke the flight in Chicago, landing at Meigs Field on the lake, and he attended a screening for the midwestern critics and answered questions from the group at a late supper. The following morning they continued their flight to New York and landed at LaGuardia.
The suite at the Plaza was high on the north-facing side of the hotel, with spectacular views of Central Park. Rick and Glenna took him to “21” for dinner and introduced him to the management there. Beginning the following morning, daily showings of the film for the press took place at a rented screening room, followed by the group question-and-answer session. He had at least two interviews daily with selected press: those with columns, like Ed Sullivan and Walter Winchell, or feature writers with the New York papers. Since he was, invariably, asked the same questions each time, his answers became more and more polished, funnier and, thus, more quotable.
Back in L.A., Susie was undergoing the same procedure with the West Coast press, and she found it tiring. She kept meaning to go to Hank Harmon’s apartment and pack her things, but there were more and more demands on her time. She and Vance talked daily, usually in the early evening.
“How are you, Sweetheart?” Vance asked on Friday evening.
“Exhausted, to tell you the truth; I never knew what hard work it is, being a movie star. In fact, I’m going to postpone my flight until Monday, just to have a day to rest. Do you mind?”
“Of course, I mind,” Vance replied, “but I understand. I don’t want you to have to spend your first days here in bed, except with me, of course.”
“I’ll rest up on Sunday and be ready for the long flight on Monday, but let’s don’t go out on Monday evening. Let me get one more night’s rest.”
“Have you moved into the house yet?”
“I haven’t had a moment. I’ll do it Sunday afternoon, when there won’t be anybody clawing at me for an interview.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re having second thoughts about moving in.”
“Of course, I’m not. In fact, I can’t wait until we’re back from New York and away from all this craziness and can have some uninterrupted time together at home.”
“Did Rick send you the treatment and pages for Greenwich Village Girl?”
“Oh, yes, and I just love it! What about you?”
“I think it’s very funny, and it will be fun to make.”
“I don’t suppose we can make all our pictures together, but I’m glad we’re doing two in a row.”
“So am I. Maybe, between the time we get back from New York and the start of the picture, we can get down to Mexico for a few days. Rick tells me there’s a wonderful little fishing village there called Puerto Vallarta that’s beautiful and peaceful.”
“It would be fun to lie on a beach for a few days.”
“I’ll get Rick to loan us the airplane to take us down there.”
“Lucky you, getting to fly to New York on the Centurion airplane, when I have to fly commercial.”
“Lucky me!”
They murmured affections for a minute or two, then said good night.
Susie attended the Chinese Theater opening of Bitter Creek on the arm of Eddie Harris and had a wonderful time being the center of attention. There was a late supper with the top press afterward, and she didn’t get to bed until nearly three A.M.
Vance had a nearly identical experience at Radio City, arriving with Glenna Gleason on his arm and Rick following close behind. He slept late and was awakened at one P.M. by Rick and Glenna banging on his door, bearing the New York papers.
He tied a robe around him and opened the door. “Come in.” He ordered brunch for them, then sat down to read the reviews.
“They’re spectacular,” Glenna said, handing him the Times review, “especially for you and Susie.”
They read them aloud to each other, then they had a leisurely brunch of eggs Benedict and mimosas.
Vance glanced at his watch. “Nearly three,” he said. “Time to call Susie; she’s slept enough.” He sat down on the bed and placed the call.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Calder,” the operator said. “There’s no answer at that number.”
“Will you try every half hour until you reach somebody, please?”
“Of course.”
Vance hung up the phone. “No answer,” he said.
“Is she at the house?”
“She should be.”
“Call the studio and see if she’s at her bungalow.”
Vance tried that with the same result. “She’s supposed to move all her things this afternoon from the flat she shared with a friend.”
“She’s probably doing that right now,” Rick said. “The operator will get her as soon as she returns.”
Susie had left the house moments before Vance’s call and headed for West Hollywood and Hank Harmon’s apartment. She had planned to take care of this when Hank was working, but her schedule had kept her from doing that, and she was uncomfortable with the idea of seeing Hank. Susie had not been returning her phone calls, and she felt guilty about that.
She drove around to the rear of the little Spanish-style apartment building and parked her car, then entered through the rear door and went upstairs, carrying some cardboard boxes she’d gotten from a liquor store the day before. She rang the bell and got no answer. Susie was relieved; maybe she’d be able to get everything out of the place without a confrontation. She unlocked the door with her key and went inside.
She packed and carried down the boxes, until there was only a remaining suitcase, and then she would be gone. She went back to the apartment and packed the case, then, as she was about to leave, she thought it would be best if she left a note. She went to Hank’s desk, took some of her stationery and wrote a two-page letter, intending to be both kind and grateful to Hank, while making clear that their relationship was over. She sealed it in an envelope, wrote Hank’s name on it and propped it up on the hall table.
Susie went back to the bedroom, picked up her suitcase and started out, then she heard the front door open and someone enter. She heard the envelope being ripped open. She could get out through the service door in the kitchen while Hank read the note. She took off her shoes, held them in one hand and her suitcase in the other and ran lightly down the hall.
36
After Rick and Glenna left, Vance sat alone in the suite, listening to some music on the radio and trying to read the Sunday papers. He thought of going out, but he wanted to be there when the hotel operator reached Susie.
He had dozed off on the sofa when the phone rang. He sat upright and reached for it. “Susie?”
“It’s Rick.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“You haven’t heard from her yet?”
“Not a word. I’ve checked with the operator twice, and she’s still calling every half hour.”
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason she’s not at home. Maybe she had to do some last-minute shopping.”
“On Sunday?”
“Well, there is that. Look, why don’t you come out for dinner with us. We’ve been invited to a dinner party at some friends’ place in the Waldorf Towers. You can have the hotel operator forward any calls there.”
“Thanks, Rick, but I’m a little tired, and I want to be here when Susie calls.”
“All right. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“I don’t have anything in the morning, do I?”
“No, just lunch with some people f
rom Life magazine at a restaurant called He Voisin, on Park Avenue and Sixty-third Street. It’s on your schedule. A car is coming for us at twelve-thirty.”
“All right. I’ll meet you downstairs at twelve-thirty.” He said good-bye and hung up.
Vance tried to read, then gave up and ordered dinner from room service. He was in bed by ten, after a final call to the operator. It took him a long time to get to sleep.
The phone in Rick and Glenna’s suite rang at ten-thirty the following morning, and Rick answered.
“Rick, this is Barry Feldman from studio publicity. I’m at L.A. Airport. The studio driver went to pick up Susan Stafford at Vance Calder’s house half an hour ago, and she wasn’t there. He paged me at the airport.”
“Maybe she forgot about the driver and took a cab,” Rick said.
“I don’t know why she would do that; she’s been driven to every appointment all week by the same driver, and she had asked him to pick her up at the house at six-thirty. Her plane takes off in twenty minutes, and I don’t know if I should try to hold it. I mean, if I knew she were on the way I could throw myself on the runway in front of it, but I’ve no reason to think that.”
“Did the driver ring the bell at the house?”
“Repeatedly and at every door. He said her car was parked out front with a lot of boxes and a suitcase in it, and the keys were in the ignition.”
“She was moving some things from her old apartment yesterday afternoon, so she must have come home. Can you reach the driver?”
“Not until he calls me back.”
“When he does, tell him to break into the house, if necessary, and if the cops come, to call me here for an explanation. She could be ill and unconscious.”
“I’ll go over there myself.”
“No, Barry. You stay there, in case she arrives.”
