Tomorrow Is Another day tp-18

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  "Why's the skinny guy here?" Shelly asked, nodding at a man in a corner talking to a tall, thin blonde with the reddest lips and whitest teeth I'd ever seen.

  "That's Irving Berlin," Mame said. "Stop gawking and get in here."

  Mame closed the door when we had all piled into a room with a white wooden conference table surrounded by white matching chairs with gold trim. The table was clean and clear except for four pairs of white gloves.

  "Gable said to tell you that he was going to Georgia for a little while but then he'd be heading home to wait for your report on what happens."

  "Right," I said.

  "Through that door is the kitchen," Mame said, fishing a fresh cigarette from a pack in her purse.

  Gunther reached up to light it for her with a match which had magically appeared in his small hand.

  "Beyond the kitchen is the Coconut Grove," she said. "The Universal table is to the left of the door beyond the kitchen. Three tables over. When the program starts, you can go into the Grove. Miguel, the assistant head waiter, will give you something to carry and tell you where to put it down. Then you just stand against a wall with your hands folded in front of you trying to look above the whole damn thing. Here."

  She handed each of us a pair of the white gloves. Mine fit fine, which made me think that Shelly's and Jeremy's would be too tight and Gunther's would be too large. Wrong. Everyone had the right-size gloves. Mame had been in the business for more than two decades. She could gauge a glove size with a glance.

  "Backstage," I said. "One of us has to go backstage. Our friend Spelling, or whoever he is, may want to put on a little show. You know, jump out on the stage, shove Bob Hope aside, and take a few shots at Varney or Maureen O'Hara."

  "There isn't much of a backstage area," said Mame. "Presenters come up from their tables and the receivers do the same, but…" She shrugged, taking a deep drag. "If that's what it takes. Who goes backstage?"

  There was only one reasonable choice. I didn't look at him but Gunther and Shelly did. Jeremy nodded.

  "Okay," said Mame. "Come with me."

  Mame patted Gunther's cheek and they smiled at each other. Then she went back into the lobby with Jeremy behind her.

  "I look nothing like Billy Barty," Gunther said with a sigh when they were gone. "Nothing? Am I correct?"

  "Nothing," I said.

  "You're both short," said Shelly, stuffing the last of the whipped-egg canapes in his mouth. A spot of yellow stuck to his nose.

  "Yes, of course," Gunther said with uncharacteristic sarcasm. "How could I have failed to notice that?"

  "It's better than being Van Heflin's father," I said.

  "I have never seen Van Heflin's father," said Gunther.

  We went on like this for about five minutes till Mame returned. "Hurry," she said and pushed open the door that led to the Coconut Grove kitchen.

  The kitchen was full of cooks, waitresses, and busboys, bustling busily as quietly as they could. Beyond the door across the room a woman was singing "The Star Spangled Banner."

  "Lena Home," Shelly said, as Mame clicked through the kitchen giving whispered greetings to the staff, who all seemed to recognize her.

  There was a small window in the door to the Grove dining room. Mame looked through it, checked her watch, and stepped away, pointing to the left of the window. I moved to the window. A small band was playing and Jeanette MacDonald was standing on a low platform at the far end of the room singing, her mouth wide and trembling. I looked to the left. It took me a few seconds to find Lionel Varney standing next to Turhan Bey. Lionel looked great in the tux. Bey looked even better.

  The people in uniform were saluting. The men and women out of uniform had their hands to their hearts.

  I looked around for someone who might be Spelling, but it was tough to see much till they all sat down. I did see Jimmy Cagney biting his lower lip and smiling, his eyes fixed on MacDonald. He'd failed as best actor a few years ago in Angels with Dirty Faces. Variety and the Hollywood Reporter had him neck and neck this year with Ronald Col-man. Yankee Doodle Dandy was the sentimental favorite, but the Academy was usually in M-G-M's pocket, and Random Harvest looked good for Colman.

  "Lemme see," said Shelly, putting his face next to mine and nudging me away.

  Gunther, who was about three feet short of the window, with no dignified way to look through, stood looking at the kitchen crew scurrying around.

  "She's…" Shelly said. "Can you believe she's so skinny? I mean she looks like a piece of spaghetti next to Nelson Eddy, but in real life she's worse."

  When the anthem was almost done, a dark man in a tux and gloves like ours pushed a silver cart next to us. The man had a receding hairline and a full mustache. Mame introduced him as Miguel and then she clicked away back through the kitchen.

  "Pitchers of water," Miguel said. "One for table five." He pointed at me. "One for seven." He pointed at Shelly. "And one for table twelve." He pointed at Gunther. "Directly to the left of the nearest gentleman to the kitchen at each table. Space has been set aside."

  "Then," he continued. "You find a place against the wall near the exit to the left," the accented man said to Gunther. "And you stay against the wall and out of the way. If one of the guests should ask you for anything, nod, get the attention of a real waiter by raising your right hand no higher than your shoulder. A waiter will come and you will tell him quietly without bending your head to him what the guest wishes. Understood?"

  "Understood," I agreed.

  "Good," said the man, looking through the window. "Other pitchers of water are now being placed on the tables. It is time."

  "I'm a dentist," Shelly said to the man.

  "We have had physicians, lawyers, and even a senator offer hundred-dollar bills to let them wait tables on Oscar night," the man said.

  "State or federal senator?" Shelly said, taking his pitcher.

  "From Oregon," the man said, pointing to the door.

  Sheily went out, Gunther followed, and I was last. Bob Hope was at the podium making jokes about William Ben-dix and pretending to be hurt because he wasn't nominated for The Road to Morocco. I found my table and put the water pitcher down next to Ronald Reagan. I knew some people sitting at the tables, worked on cases for them. Gary Cooper, Bette Davis, but I didn't figure they'd recognize me or even take a good look. People don't even recognize their own waiter in an uncrowded restaurant after they've given their orders.

  I moved to a white wall, careful not to lean on it, and looked around for Gunther and Shelly. Gunther was about twenty yards away to my left. Shelly was the same distance to my right. Shelly had something in his mouth. He adjusted his glasses and gave me a small wave to let me know that we were on the same team and ever alert.

  Dinner went fine. Talk, chatter, most of it nervous. Waiters scurrying in and out. Plates clanking. Dessert served.

  Busboys removing dishes, smoke making the air stale in spite of the air conditioning.

  And then the awards.

  We stood through Mrs. Miniver winning five awards and an acceptance speech by Greer Garson that seemed longer than the movie. Cagney's acceptance speech was short and ended with, "My mother thanks you. My father thanks you. And I thank you."

  Much applause. Usually led by Shelly.

  Reap the Wild Wind got a Special Effects Oscar, and Irving Berlin gave himself the Oscar for the song "White Christmas," saying, after he opened the envelope, "I'm glad to present the award. I've known the fellow a long time." Not much of a joke, but Hope's jokes didn't get a better round of laughter.

  He wasn't coming. I couldn't figure it, but the evening was winding up, with Documentary, Scoring, and Technical and Scientific awards-one went to some guys at Twentieth for the development of a lens-calibration system and the application of this system to exposure control in cinematography.

  Varney laughed and clapped in all the right places, listened politely when the stars at his table spoke, and kept his own contribution to a minimum. Two
or three times he looked my way and our eyes met. He didn't give anything away.

  Now it was just about over and Bob Hope was cracking a few final jokes about the Oscars being made out of plaster this year, because of the war, instead of the usual gold-plated bronze.

  It was Shelly who spotted Spelling. Maybe it was because Spelling had spent over an hour in Shelly's dental chair and Shelly had witnessed the sweating pores of the man. Whatever it was, Shelly spotted him.

  Spelling had walked past me at least five times in the past few hours with his back to me. And he had gone past me back into the kitchen carrying stacks of plates, piles of ashtrays, and bottles of wine to cover his face.

  Shelly was waving wildly. Hope glanced at him, and Dmitri Tiomkin, who was seated near Shelly, actually got up and tried to calm him. I followed Shelly's finger and looked around. Spelling was coming toward me, a water pitcher held at eye level, his face distorted by the water.

  I took a step to my right to block the door to the kitchen, and Spelling knew he had been spotted. He put down the water pitcher, shoved his hand into his pocket, and headed for the Universal table and Lionel Varney.

  Gunther was the closest. Spelling had three tables and a combination of rising and milling guests and working waiters and busboys to get through. Gunther eased through the crowd, tugged at Varney's sleeve, and pointed at the advancing Spelling. The smile on Varney's face disappeared. He got up and followed Gunther as Spelling began to elbow his way through the crowd. I was after them, but it was tough going. Above the crowd I could see Jeremy also moving through the sea of gowns and tuxedos.

  Gunther and Varney went through a door and Spelling hurried after them.

  By the time I hit the door, Jeremy was at my side and Shelly was panting behind me. I pushed the door open. A corridor. Restaurant and hotel staff gathering dirty table linen, wheeling those laundry carts that blocked our way.

  We grunted through. Gunther, Varney, and Spelling were nowhere in sight. We opened doors on both sides and stuck our heads in those that were closed.

  We asked which way the little man had gone. A few people pointed farther down the corridor. At the end of the corridor was an exit sign and a one-way door. We pushed through.

  A parking lot filled with big dark cars with teeth, and at the end of the lot not far from the street, an attendant in a white uniform and cap was ducking down behind a Jaguar. I motioned Jeremy and Shelly down and we moved under cover to where the attendant crouched.

  "Over there," he said.

  Gunther and Varney stood against a brick wall. Spelling stood about a dozen yards in front of them with a gua in his hand. Gunther was talking fast and trying to put himself between Varney and the weapon in Spelling's hand.

  There wasn't much light. Just a few low parking-lot bulbs to lead the way to the waiting cars. The blackout was still in effect. The Japanese might launch an all-out attack from one of their few remaining submarines in the hope of taking out half of Hollywood.

  We duck-walked closer, close enough to hear Spelling say, "You're the last, Varney. When you're done, 1 don't care what happens to me. My father will be revenged."

  "Wait," Gunther said. "This is pointless. You cannot get your father back by killing people."

  Spelling laughed and said, "A little late for that, little man. Wouldn't make much sense for me to walk away when there's only this one left, this one who has the career my father deserved."

  Spelling raised his gun and Jeremy rose and broke into a graceful trot in the direction of the armed man.

  "Jeremy, you can't…" I called, but he was gone.

  Slow motion crept into my stomach. Spelling was already turning to face the sound of the giant running at him.

  "Hold it," Spelling called, but Jeremy didn't hold it.

  The first shot missed, but I don't think by much. It did tear through the windshield of a Rolls whose window did not shatter. Spelling was lining up for a second shot and Jeremy still had a long way to go.

  "This is all wrong," Spelling shouted. "Stop. It's not supposed to be like this. This isn't in the script."

  The gun was up. Jeremy was too close and too big a target to miss.

  And the shot crackled in the night and echoed across the brick wall behind Gunther and Varney.

  I tried to breathe. I tried not to look. But I had to look. Jeremy was still up and running. Spelling had dropped his gun. A splatter of blood stained his shirt. Spelling looked around just before Jeremy barreled into him. He looked at Gunther and Varney and said something I couldn't hear.

  Jeremy circled the falling killer with his arms and kept the man from going down. We were all running toward them now. Jeremy laid the dying man on the cement and stood up. Spelling looked around, the odd shadows of the blackout lights setting his eye sockets in a dead darkness. The expression on his face was one of surprise. He reached a hand toward Varney and went limp with a choking gasp.

  "He's dead," Shelly said hi his best dental-surgery manner.

  "What did he say, Jeremy?" I asked.

  "He said, 'not in the script.' "

  Varney and Gunther came forward slowly. Varney's tie was at a weird angle like a cockeyed propeller. His hair was a tumbled mess and his eyes were wide. I'm not sure if his hands were trembling.

  "Who shot him?" Shelly asked.

  It seemed a reasonable question. I looked around. The parking-lot attendant had disappeared. From the darkness, between a pair of matching Chryslers, my brother Phil stepped out. He was the only one in the alley not wearing soup and fish. He had on slacks, a tieless white shirt, a zippered Windbreaker, and he was carrying a gun in his right hand.

  "I told the kid to call an ambulance," he said, moving closer to the body.

  "He's dead," Shelly said.

  "Then they can take him to the morgue," Phil said.

  It was clear. It was simple. Phil had been convinced that Varney was in danger. He could do nothing officially, so he had backed us up on his own. We stood in a circle looking down at the dead man. I looked up at Phil and we both knew that, barring a miracle, this was probably the end of his career. He had been suspended and had no business in an alley shooting civilians, no matter how much they might deserve it. I looked at Varney, whose eyes were red and confused. He blinked first.

  Phil turned his back and started to walk away. I followed him.

  "I can still lie," I said.

  "Won't be enough," he answered, putting his gun back in the holster under his windbreaker.

  Then I had an idea. I turned away.

  "Veblin in the morning," I said. "I've got someone to see in Atlanta who might be able to keep you on the streets. Shelly, I need your car keys."

  Shelly stood up, reluctantly pulled his keys from his pocket, and threw them to me. "Toby, don't hurt the car," he whined.

  I can't say that I ran, but for a man who had been crippled a few hours earlier, I moved reasonably well. I had a plan. None of my friends were dead. Things were starting to make sense.

  Shelly's car was jammed between a Ford coupe and a little Chevy. I inched it out and headed for Culver City.

  Chapter 15

  I used the direct approach and drove right up to the gate at Selznick International. People, some of the men in Confederate and Union uniforms and tuxedos like mine, some of the women in flowing gowns and flashing jewelry, were on their way out. It was light. The night was getting old.

  "It's all over," a uniformed guard said, leaning over to my open window and seeing my formal attire. "Sorry, sir."

  "I was at the Academy Awards," I explained. "I'll just say a few hellos and… no more than ten minutes, promise. I was on security for Gone With the Wind. You remember Wally Hospodar? I worked with him."

  "Whatever happened to Wally?" the guard asked.

  "Dead," I said.

  "Heard he hit the skids," said the guard.

  "Hard," I said.

  "Go on through," he said, waving his hand to the guard a little closer to the gate. "But
make it ten minutes. No more."

  I drove past the second guard and through the gate that was open just enough for me to make it through. I maneuvered past oncoming cars and a few people walking. I heard a voice, unmistakable, Butterfly McQueen. I kept going and found less traffic as I drove past the hill that looked down at the burning back-lot Atlanta. No one was there. The charred wood had long been carted away. Atlanta had been replaced by what looked like a ranch house in the moonlight.

  I drove farther and wended my way to where Tara had stood. I didn't see any people, but the front of the house was still there across the field and past the trees. There wasn't anything left of the gate or fence, and the wooden frame of the house was crumbling, but it was still Tara.

  I almost missed him and drove on to see what was left of the Wilkes house, but a glint of moonlight hit something on the porch of Tara. I parked and walked across the field, heading for the glow of a cigarette in the darkness.

  "Peters," Clark Gable said, stepping down from the porch. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  Gable was in full khaki uniform, including the flight cap.

  "Spelling's dead," I said.

  He dropped his cigarette in the dirt, stepped on it, sighed and said, "Then that's that."

  "Looks that way," I said.

  Gable turned to face Tara.

  "I'm shipping back in the morning," he said. "Send the bill to Encino. Someone will forward it to me."

  "I'll do that."

  "You look good in a tux," he said with a lopsided grin.

  "And you look good in uniform," I said.

  He didn't answer for a few seconds and then he said, "I didn't know how happy I was when we were making that picture. My wife and I were settling down in the house. We were talking about babies, taking home movies, and planning for the future. She was a funny woman. A beautiful, funny woman."

  "I need a favor," I said.

  "Name it," Gable said, turning to face me.

  I told him what I needed and he said, "It'll be done in the morning before I leave. Anything else?"

  "One thing," I said. "You know these lines, 'You're the last. When you're done, I don't care what happens to me. My father will be revenged.' "