by Stuart Woods
“Who is she?” Barry asked.
“Her name is Glenna Gleason. She’s new, and she’s going to be very big. You’ll like her.”
“I don’t know,” Barry said.
His agent spoke up. “You’re going to have to trust Mr. Harris on this one, Mac.”
Barry thought about it, then nodded.
Eddie stood up and offered his hand. “Good to have you aboard, Mac. Come to this office Monday morning, and we’ll get you squared away with a dressing room.”
“A bungalow would be nice,” the agent said.
“Don’t push your luck, Jerry. I told you he’ll get star treatment when he’s a star.”
The meeting broke up, and Eddie motioned for Rick to stay. “What you just saw was a good negotiation,” he said. “The agent is good. He prepared his client well, though I don’t think he told him to audition. The agent knew what he could get for the kid, and he didn’t try for more. A negotiation works best when everybody has an idea of what’s possible. You get into trouble when you get an agent or an actor who wants more than the situation warrants, or when you get a Joan Crawford—an actress who thinks she’s a goddess and wants to be paid for thinking it.”
“I enjoyed watching,” Rick said. “I think I learned a few things from it.”
“I liked it that you picked up that the kid was playing the part. That went right past me, and you caught it.”
“It was a smart thing for the guy to do.”
“If we can keep that kid sober and out of jail, and if he works hard and doesn’t let his ego get the best of him, he’ll become a real star. I think he has what it takes.”
AT THE END OF THE DAY, Rick drove by the transportation department and borrowed a truck and a driver from Hiram, then he went first to Glenna’s bungalow for her things, then to Eddie’s guest house for his own stuff. By dinnertime, the two of them had moved into Clete Barrow’s house.
THEY SAT ON THE TERRACE by the pool, Glenna with her martini and Rick with his bourbon, while Manuel and Maria prepared dinner.
“Eddie asked me to give you some news,” Rick said.
“What news?”
“You’ve got a new film to start as soon as you’ve finished the musical.”
“What is it?”
“The script is in the bedroom. You can read it later. It’s called Caper, and it’s very good.”
“What’s my part?”
“The lead.”
She squeezed his hand. “Oh, Rick, that’s wonderful.”
“You’ll be co-starring with a young actor from New York named Lawrence Barry; his friends call him Mac. Eddie signed him today, and he thinks he’ll be a big star. He also thinks that the two of you will look very good together on screen.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Eddie asked me to sit in on the production from start to finish. I think he believes I can be a producer.”
“Wonderful! Is there a part in it for Barbara?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Everything is going so beautifully now, after that business with . . .”
“Don’t worry about that anymore,” Rick said. “He’s out of the picture now.”
She sighed. “I’m afraid there’s a pattern in my life: Just when everything is going well, I seem to find a way to mess it up.”
“We’ll work on keeping everything going well,” Rick said.
48
GLENNA TOOK HER DAY OFF from the musical and worked on the first day of the shooting of Caper. She and Lawrence Barry seemed to hit it off and completed two scenes.
Rick returned to his office to find a thick envelope plastered with Canadian stamps waiting for him. Clete must have written from Montreal, he thought, but when he opened it he got a surprise.
LONDON, SEPTEMBER 12, 1939
My Dear Rick,
Hello from London. This has all happened very quickly. After my flight from Los Angeles to Montreal, stopping in Detroit, I was about to head for the port to look for a ship, but I never got off the airfield. I struck up a conversation with an RCAF pilot, who told me he was ferrying a bomber to the south of England, and he offered me a ride.
We took off the following morning and landed in Reykjavík, in Iceland, and stayed the night. Next morning we flew to Glasgow, refueled, then went on to Bekin Hill airport, in Kent. I got a train up to London, checked into the Reform Club and phoned my regiment. I was told not to turn up for another three days, so I’ve had a nice stay here, seeing a couple of friends and some theater.
Things seem very odd here. There are sandbags piled up around doorways and signs saying “Air Raid Shelter” being put up at the entrances to underground stations, but nothing is happening. No bombs falling, no paratroopers landing, nothing at all. The great difference from life before the war is the blackout, which is stringently observed. No streetlamps or electric signs, and every window is either dark or curtained over. Cars must have their headlamps mostly masked, and turned off altogether when the sirens go off.
You drive down a darkened street in a taxi, find a street number using a torch (flashlight, to you), and a curtain is pulled back and you step into a brightly lit restaurant or nightclub, full of jolly people. Later, you walk outside into the darkness again. There’s an air raid warden at nearly every street corner, enforcing the blackout and herding people into the tubes when there’s a raid warning.
The newspapers have published plans for backyard bomb shelters that you can build yourself, and I’m told people are actually building them. People are planting vegetable gardens, in anticipation of rationing, and Hyde Park is being divided into allotments, where people can grow their own food.
Conscription is in full force, and young chaps are lining up to sign up with the RAF. Everyone, it seems, wants to fly a Hurricane or a Spitfire. They’re calling this the “Phony War,” because nothing is happening yet. I’ve used my time here to be measured for some additional kit, and the two uniforms that Centurion Wardrobe ran up for me have come in very useful.
The best news I’ve had since I returned is that Chamberlain has offered Churchill the post of First Lord of the Admiralty, something like your Secretary of the Navy, which is a very powerful position, given our reliance on the Royal Navy. It’s the next best thing to being Prime Minister. My own opinion is that Chamberlain won’t last long, and that the Conservative Party will turn to Churchill to lead the country.
On the appointed day, I entrained for Southampton, then took a ferry to Cowes, on the Isle of Wight, off the south coast, where my regiment is undergoing commando training. We’ve taken over the Royal Yacht Squadron, England’s most prestigious yacht club, which occupies a castle built by Henry VIII to ward off the French, who never turned up. The Castle, as the building is called, is a stone pile with a dozen or so bedrooms, one of which I’ve grabbed, though it’s a single room and I have to share it with another officer. We bathe in the club’s locker room, dine in its dining room (quite elegantly) and read in its library.
Our training, at this stage, is heavily slanted toward physical conditioning, and I confess, I’m having a hard time keeping up after my dissolute existence in your West Coast Babylon. We’re doing weapons training, too, of course, and there’s talk that we’ll be sent to France before too long.
I’ve already been promoted from lieutenant to captain, such is our need for officers, and been given command of a company, comprising about a hundred and twenty men. They’re a good lot, with some veterans of the last war, and a lot of raw recruits, who are undergoing what amounts to basic training. My acting skills have been useful in playing the forceful and crotchety CO, but eventually they’ll find me out, I’m sure, but at the moment they don’t know that I’m a teddy bear inside.
Some other news: I discovered that while my RCAF bomber was between Iceland and Scotland, my uncle, my father’s elder brother, died of a heart attack. Since his son and heir had been killed in the first war, my father, who went into the Church, like many se
cond sons, has now succeeded to the dukedom. Oh, God, I never told you, did I? My uncle was Duke of Kensington. What does this mean? Well, I’m afraid I’ve succeeded to my father’s title, Marquess of Chelsea, and shall ever be known as such on this side of the water.
I haven’t told my colleagues in the Royal Marines yet. I want them to get used to Captain Barrow, so that they’ll continue calling me that when word gets around.
The whole thing will mean little to me as long as there’s a war on, but when Pater shuffles off this mortal coil, if I don’t precede him, then I’ll be a fucking duke. Can you believe it? The good news is that there’s a fine house in London (in Kensington, of course) and a great pile in Sussex, where one can ride to the hounds, if one is so inclined. My parents are in the process of packing up the Manse in Wiltshire that they’ve occupied for the past ten years, and moving up in the world, while I’ve got my face in the mud of a Wight field on a daily basis.
Good news: There’s a Canadian journalist with us who’s getting a flying boat to Montreal tomorrow morning (they take off in the Solent, which is the body of water that separates the Isle of Wight from mainland England) and he’s going to mail this letter for me, so it will reach you a lot sooner than it would otherwise.
My mailing address, for the moment, is simply, The Castle, Cowes, IOW, England, if you’d care to write and tell me about the glamorous Hollywood life that has, no doubt, continued in my absence. Send it via air mail.
I hope you’re in the house by now and enjoying it. Why don’t you ask the lovely Glenna to share it with you? I’ll wager she would accept such an invitation.
I’ll get a missive off when I can, though I can’t promise such accelerated delivery as this one will no doubt have. I’m not missing the high life, but, of course, I miss you.
With warm regards,
Clete
Rick found some paper and began writing him back immediately.
49
EVERYTHING WENT WELL ON CAPER, at first. Glenna finished her musical and started the new film as scheduled. She seemed to thrive on the work, arriving home in the evenings tired but excited.
Her enthusiasm for Rick in bed seemed as great as that for her work, and they explored each other as new lovers do, experimenting with giving each other pleasure.
Rick loved working on Caper, and soon he was doing a lot more than observing. Eddie Harris took him aside a couple of weeks into shooting. “I’m going to back off this picture now,” he said. “There’s another project I want to get ready for the new soundstage, and I’m going to pretty much leave this one to you. The director, the cast and the crew are already looking to you, and you’ve made that happen remarkably quickly. You can always come to me if you have a problem you can’t solve, but I want you to try your best to solve it before you do. I would consider it a bad sign if key people on the film started coming to me because they couldn’t agree with you on some point, but you’re going to have to use your best judgment to figure out how much authority you can exert. Don’t overstep, but don’t be a pushover, either.
“I’m going to give you an associate producer’s credit on Caper, and I want you to start looking for a project that you can produce on your own. You can go through the scripts we’ve got on file, or option a book, if you find something you like. Keep it small and controllable. You’ll have plenty of time to get involved with big-budget, Technicolor extravaganzas later, when you’ve got your feet firmly on the ground.”
Eddie said nothing to the crew about his absence from the set, and neither did Rick. A couple of times, when the director had questions for Eddie, Rick made the decision, and it stood, and soon on the set it was as if he had always been the producer.
They were a week away from wrapping, with four of the most important scenes yet to be shot, when Rick worked late one evening and came home to find Manuel taking an empty martini glass from the table beside Glenna’s poolside chair and bringing her a second. Rick had never known her to have a second drink before dinner. He asked Manuel for a drink and sat down.
Glenna seemed tense and drawn and, for the first time, exhausted. “Hi,” she said softly.
Rick waited for his drink to be delivered and for Manuel to go back inside before he spoke. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing, I’m just tired.”
He took her hand. “It’s more than that,” he said. “Tell me, and I’ll try and make it better.”
She pulled her hand away and used it to grasp the new martini. “I’m perfectly all right,” she said. “I asked Barbara to join us for dinner.” Barbara Kane had been living in the guest house since leaving the hospital, and Rick had found her a juicy part in Caper.
“Fine,” Rick said, but he had the feeling that Glenna had asked Barbara to join them so that she wouldn’t have to talk.
Barbara arrived and ordered a drink, then they went in to dinner. Rick and Barbara kept the conversation going during the meal without much help from Glenna, and when dessert was served, she stood up.
“Please excuse me,” she said. “I’m going to turn in. Try not to wake me when you come to bed, Rick.”
“All right,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
He and Barbara finished dessert, then sat on the living room sofa with an after-dinner drink.
“I know you know what’s going on,” Rick said, “and I need to know, too.”
Barbara looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s obvious that something happened between the time Glenna left work and I got home,” he said. “I can’t help her if I don’t know what it was.”
“I’m sure she’s just tired,” Barbara said, knocking back the remainder of her drink. “So am I. Please excuse me.” She got up and went back to the guest house.
Rick finished his drink and read a script he’d brought home from work, then he went into the bedroom. Glenna was lying on her side, facing away from his side of the bed. He was sure she wasn’t asleep, but she had asked not to be disturbed, so he undressed, got into bed and, eventually, drifted off.
WHEN HE WOKE the following morning, Glenna was gone. Usually, he was the one to wake first, and they always had breakfast together before leaving for work.
The breakfast table was set for two, so she hadn’t told Manuel that she wouldn’t be there. Rick ate quickly, then showered and shaved and drove in to work.
He had been using a makeshift office on the soundstage, and when shooting broke for a scenery change, he went to his desk and called Ben Morrison.
“Ben, it’s Rick.”
“Hey, buddy.”
“Is Stampano back in town?”
“Funny you should mention that,” Ben said. “I got a call five minutes ago from a source. Stampano got in yesterday, all healed up and looking his usual self.”
“Can you think of an excuse to roust him?”
“Not after last time. I got heat from above about that. I’d need an actual crime and some witnesses. Has Stampano done something?”
“I’m not sure,” Rick said. “How about the fire at my father’s hangar? Can you haul him in for questioning about that?”
“I can’t tie him to it. I can’t tie anybody to it. I got the Santa Monica cops to send an arson investigator over to look at the scene, and all he could say was that gasoline was used. He got nothing else.”
“Keep an eye on Stampano, will you, Ben?”
“Sure, I will. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”
Rick hung up. The director was standing in the door.
“What’s the matter with Glenna?” he asked. He knew they lived together; everybody did.
“What do you mean?”
“She can’t remember her lines, and she looks like hell. Did you two have a fight?”
“No. I’ll talk with her.”
“I can give her another hour before the next setup.”
“Thanks.” Rick left his office and walked over to Glenna’s dressing room on the stage, a
small trailer. He rapped on the door.
“Not now,” Glenna called.
“It’s Rick.”
“Not now, please, Rick.”
“I have to talk to you.”
“Please, Rick, not now. I have lines to learn.”
Rick went back to his office and read scripts until an assistant director called him to the set.
Mac Barry and Glenna were in their places, and the director had a quick word with each of them, then went back to his chair beside the camera.
“Quiet on the set!” an assistant director yelled.
“Roll camera,” the director said.
“Speed,” the camera operator replied.
“Action!”
Barry spoke his first line and waited. Glenna stood, staring into the middle distance, saying nothing.
“Cut!” the director called.
Barry spoke his line and waited. Glenna stood very still for a moment, then fainted.
50
RICK SAT NEXT TO GLENNA, who was stretched out on a sofa in her trailer dressing room, and held her hand. The makeup lady had put a cold compress on her forehead.
“Give us a minute,” he said to the makeup lady, and when she had gone, he tapped his fingers lightly on Glenna’s cheek. “Come on, baby, wake up,” he said. “It’s just me. There’s nobody else here.” He knew Dr. Judson would be there soon, and he wanted to talk to her before the doctor gave her anything.
Glenna’s eyelids fluttered, and she finally was able to focus on Rick’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Rick replied. “The doctor’s going to take a look at you in a few minutes, and then we’ll see if you feel like working any more today.”
“I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” she murmured.
“We have to talk before the doctor gets here.”
“What about?”
“About Stampano. I know he’s back in town.”
Tears spilled from her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
