From what I could gather, Tony was the most talented actor to come out of New Holland in recent memory. He’d starred in every drama club musical production during his years at New Holland’s Walter T. Finch High School. From Forty-Second Street to Show Boat to Kiss Me Kate, Tony Eberle had set the standard for local theater. According to the newspaper clippings my assistant, Norma Geary, had prepared for me, he could sing and dance as well as act. One review, written by none other than George Walsh in 1956, predicted great things for the high schooler after his stunning success as Curly in Oklahoma!
“A modern-day Thespis, a Barrymore on the Mohawk, young Eberle steals the show, his voice ringing through the hall like the clarion call of a distant trumpet on a heroic battlefield. His gay dancing delights old and young as he glides light-footed, even in cowboy boots, across the stage.”
That—believe it—was from George’s notice. And, yes, that was how he wrote his stories: odd turns of phrase weighed down by healthy doses of hyperbole, which he slathered atop his inadvertent double entendres as if with a trowel. His mangled metaphors lay bleeding on the page, begging to be put out of their misery. His sports stories were even worse, but that’s a topic for another day. In a codicil to his review, George declared the show a success, but he lamented the bad grammar and low moral values of some of the characters, Ado Annie and Aunt Eller in particular.
Norma had also managed to secure a copy of Tony’s high school yearbook for my research, and I retrieved it from my bag. His portrait showed a tall, well-built young man with straight teeth and handsome features. But, ultimately, he lacked any of the charm I’d expected. I chalked that up to the photographer, not the good-looking Tony Eberle. Studying the portrait, I sensed that somewhere in his deep dark eyes lurked fear and loneliness, perhaps even self-doubt. His only activities involved the drama club and the marching band, where he’d served for three years as the drum major. I was sure he’d taken some lumps for that from the other boys in school.
As far as I could tell, Tony hadn’t gone to college. Probably a luxury his family couldn’t afford on a milkman’s salary. I wished I’d had the opportunity to interview his parents and sister for the story before leaving for Hollywood, but, of course, the assignment had come as a last-minute surprise. I resolved to follow up with the family upon my return to New Holland.
I read on. Tony had spent a couple of years in Massachusetts and Vermont doing summer stock. O’Neill, Chekhov, Tennessee Williams, Strindberg, and Shakespeare. And now he was about to make the leap from the boards to the world of Hollywood stardom as the beach bum best friend of a teenaged Casanova on a surfboard—to wit, the ageless Bobby Renfro, who had to be thirty-five years old if he was a day.
I took a bite of my English muffin and drew a sip of hot coffee. It was exciting to be in California for the first time, about to meet a real movie actor at a major film studio. Not even Marty’s prediction of the impending deluge dampened my enthusiasm. The waitress dropped my bill on the table and asked what was so interesting that I was reading. I told her it was a fairy tale.
Outside, temperatures had risen only into the upper fifties—chilly, I was told, for Los Angeles—but no rain yet. I raised my collar to the wind and hailed a cab. Soon I was cruising down Highland Avenue toward Paramount Studios. My driver treated me to endless tidbits about the movie business, starting with the stars who’d attended Hollywood High, which we’d just passed. He catalogued a list of alumni that included Lon Chaney Jr., Gloria Grahame, John Huston, Joel McCrea, Mickey Rooney, and Judy Garland. Oh, and James Garner. I kind of had a thing for him.
The cabbie dropped me at the studio’s Bronson Gate, where I’d been instructed to check in. I approached the guard booth with no small measure of trepidation. This was a storied movie studio, after all, and I felt like a starstruck small-town hick. I drew a deep breath as I arrived at the arch with its wrought-iron gate and majestic columns. Norma Desmond had driven through the very same portal in Sunset Boulevard.
“I have an appointment to see Tony Eberle,” I told the uniformed man on duty. “He’s shooting Twistin’ on the Beach today.”
The officious guard checked my name against a list on his clipboard. Then he double-checked, an operation aided by scratching his chin. Finally, satisfied that the only Eleonora Stone on the list must be me, he handed me a pass and dispensed directions to soundstage 5.
“Go straight on Avenue P then turn left on Seventh Street. Keep quiet on set, please. Welcome to Paramount Studios, Miss Stone.”
I walked briskly along the narrow alleys that ran between the soundstages, bungalows, and offices. The studio lot was a city in miniature. It reminded me of those O Gauge train sets; everything looked quite real only smaller. The world was an illusion inside the gates of the studio. This was Hollywood, after all.
It was nearly eight, and I didn’t want to be late for my interview with hometown hero Tony Eberle. He was about to embark on what everyone back in New Holland hoped would be a long, successful career as a movie star. The news that Tony had landed a big role in a real Hollywood movie had generated a swell of pride throughout the city, as if all the frustrations and disappointments of a mill town in decline could be put right by the accomplishments of one favorite son. Tony Eberle provided an answer to the snide whispers and condescending mockery of neighboring cities, particularly Schenectady, which looked on New Holland as the punch line to a joke. People laughed at the schools, where students excelled more in wood and metal shop than in math. They mocked the elected officials, who, they maintained, wouldn’t qualify for dogcatcher anywhere else. And they ridiculed New Holland’s ethnic mix, dubbing the city New San Juanland, after the Puerto Ricans who now populated the city’s East End. The hopes and dreams of New Holland rested on young Tony Eberle’s shoulders. And, thanks to George Walsh’s wife, I got to travel across the country to document his success for the world to see. In effect, to rub New Holland’s neighbors’ noses in our hometown boy’s triumph.
Following the guard’s instructions to the letter, I rounded the corner of Avenue P and joined Seventh Street. Ahead I could see a host of people, perhaps thirty or so, milling about. A line of long tables loaded with Danish and coffee and fruit on one side, audio and camera gear and a couple of equipment trucks on the other. And in the middle of it all, a tall, thin man of about fifty was screaming, seemingly at everyone in general and no one in particular. He tore the newsboy cap off his bald head—red and wet with perspiration despite the cool air—and threw it at a young man holding a clipboard. Then he overturned one of the catering tables, sending a percolator crashing to the pavement where it vomited its contents in a hissing, brown wave that crested over the shoes of two slow-to-react crew members. They hopped and swore and glared at the guy who’d doused them with scalding coffee.
“What’s going on?” I asked a stocky man who was leaning on the fender of one of the trucks.
“That’s the director, Archie Stemple,” he said in a drone, eyes half-shut as if from boredom. “He does this kind of thing all the time.”
“What’s got him riled up today?”
“One of the actors didn’t show. Stemple’s got a foul temper and hates actors to boot.”
A smartly dressed woman in her forties appeared and took charge of the situation. She managed to stop Stemple from smashing a spotlight he’d grabbed from an equipment truck, but he continued to seethe. She led him gently by the elbow off to one side where she spoke to him alone. At length her words calmed him. He wasn’t quite serene, but at least he wasn’t hurling tables or dumping coffee on unsuspecting Teamsters.
“I swear to God, Dorothy, that kid will never work on this picture,” said Stemple loud enough for me to hear. “Or any other of my pictures!”
The woman, whose back was turned to me, nodded and answered in a low voice that I couldn’t make out. That seemed to mollify the director, and the worst appeared to have passed. The young man with the clipboard—the one who’d been on the receiving end of Ste
mple’s flying cap—approached him tentatively with, of all things, a mug of steaming coffee. The director huffed, wiped his brow, and accepted the peace offering.
“So who’s the poor sap who didn’t show up for work today?” I asked my world-weary friend.
The man looked straight ahead, eyes still at half-mast. “Some kid named Tony Eberle.”
CHAPTER TWO
To say that Tony Eberle’s disappearance put a wrinkle in my day would be to understate the case. I had traveled across the continent at great expense to my publisher in order to interview the rising star. And though I’d had nothing to do with his disappearance, I was certain Artie Short would find some way to blame it on me. Or, at the very least, the debacle would forever be associated with my name. Furthermore, I had spent a couple of hours on the plane dreaming of how much sand to kick in George Walsh’s face once I had my big story. And finally, the assignment truly interested me and would make for a fine feather in my cap. But now, standing in the chill on the lot at Paramount Studios, with no subject to interview and no idea how to find him, I wondered if it was already too late to salvage my assignment, not to mention young Tony’s acting career. Because, if he was, in fact, finished, so too was my story.
“Do you know where this Tony Eberle lives?” I asked the man who’d been leaning on the truck.
He was lighting a cigarette and looking up at the gray sky as if searching for patience or perhaps a revelation. Smoke oozed from his nose as he considered his response.
“Sorry,” he said. “I never even seen the guy. But why don’t you ask Dorothy over there? She’ll know. She handles everything.”
With the absence of the second lead and with an apoplectic director, shooting was scrubbed for the day, a delay that surely would cost the studio a bundle. In a matter of minutes, the throng of production assistants, union gorillas, and various crew had all decamped. I chased after Dorothy as she hurried down Seventh Street in her navy wool jacket and matching skirt. She was probably off to defuse another bomb somewhere on the lot. I called out to her. She stopped, turned, and looked me up and down as if trying to place me. I introduced myself, but my name meant nothing to her. Still, she was polite enough to ask how she might help me.
“I’m looking for Tony Eberle,” I said.
Dorothy scoffed. “Aren’t we all?”
“I was scheduled to interview him this morning for my paper. Do you have any idea where he is?”
“I do not. And at this point, I’m afraid I no longer care. He’s been fired from the picture. I’ve got to get someone else in so that we can resume shooting tomorrow. If you’ll excuse me.”
She gazed expectantly at me, as if waiting for me to grant her leave. I wasn’t about to slink away empty-handed, not after I’d come so far. I must have looked determined since she didn’t move.
“Tell you what, Miss Stone,” she said finally. “Come with me, and I’ll see if we can’t find a telephone number or an address for your Mr. Eberle.”
Dorothy Fetterman, as I learned her name was, led me through the narrow lanes to a bungalow on the corner of Avenue L and Twelfth Street. We climbed the stairs to the second floor, where she let me into her office.
“What exactly do you do here at the studio?” I asked as she removed her jacket and hung it carefully on a stand near the door.
“My official position is advisor to Mr. Balaban.”
“Who’s Mr. Balaban?”
She blinked. “He’s the president of Paramount Studios.”
I’m pretty sure I blushed. “You say ‘official’ as if it’s actually something else that you do.”
“I fix things,” she said, taking a seat on the corner of her desk.
She retrieved a cigarette from a silver case and slipped it between her lips. In one motion, she grabbed a lighter from the desk and lit her cigarette. Her thick, ruby-red lipstick had the shiny, hardened look of a brand-new crayon. Perfectly drawn, even, without a smudge or a flake. Not like when I rolled on my lipstick. Closer to Emmett Kelly than to Grace.
“Where are my manners?” she said. “Would you like one?”
“Your job sounds interesting.” I took the cigarette she’d offered and thanked her, wishing I could question her more closely about her work. But I was there to find Tony Eberle.
“It is,” she said. “But there’s a lot of babysitting and hand-holding. And soothing of bruised egos. Mostly male egos, though there are some actresses I’d like to strangle.”
“So how do you fix a problem like Archie Stemple?”
“Archie’s problem is easy. This Tony Eberle is a nobody. We’ll simply replace him and continue shooting the picture tomorrow.”
“That rather ruins my story,” I said.
“Does it? Now you’ve got a mystery. Or a tragedy. You can always sell newspapers with that.”
“That won’t do.”
“I suppose not. But it can’t be helped. He should have shown up for work.”
I had no answer to that.
“Let me see if I have his number or an address,” she said, resting her cigarette in the ashtray on her desk. She leaned back and opened a drawer on the opposite side to retrieve a file. “Eberle was the producer’s choice, I think. Said he was perfect for the role. Our casting director didn’t know him.”
“Who’s the producer?” I asked. “Perhaps he’ll know where to find Tony.”
“Bertram Wallis. Now there’s a man a little harder to satisfy than Archie Stemple.”
“How so?”
“He’s difficult. But I don’t have time to go into that. I have to fix Mr. Stemple’s problem, and your Tony Eberle is standing in the way of my doing that.”
She held a pair of glasses in front of her eyes with one hand while turning pages in a folder with the other. “Here it is,” she announced, extracting an eight-by-ten headshot and handing it to me. She folded the glasses neatly and slipped them into her purse.
I set my cigarette down in the ashtray and examined the photograph. It was Tony Eberle, looking relaxed and casual in a cardigan sweater and open-collar shirt. His teeth shone bright white from a half smile, and his hair was silky brown, a little long on the top to give him that youthful boy-next-door look. His eyes sparkled at the camera, and I thought he was terrifically handsome. What a difference a decent photographer makes. Tony had the look of a star, all right. I just wondered if he’d ever get a second chance now that he’d blown his first. Reading from the back of the photograph, I scribbled his address and telephone number in my pad. Then I jotted down his agent’s contact information: Irving Greenberg, with a Sunset Boulevard address.
“Is there any chance you’d give me Mr. Wallis’s number?” I asked, sure I was pushing my luck.
Dorothy regarded me for a long moment. Hers was a stern but attractive face. Not a beauty, but stylish and impeccably turned out. She picked up her cigarette and took a short drag.
“Why do you want Mr. Wallis’s number?”
I smiled sheepishly. “I thought I might prevail upon him to give Tony Eberle his job back. Assuming I can find him, of course.”
“I’m afraid not, Miss Stone,” said Dorothy, and I felt a chill from my hostess. “Mr. Eberle is finished here. And we do not give out producers’ telephone numbers to reporters.”
Settled into a phone booth just outside the studio, I swallowed hard and made a person-to-person collect call to Charlie Reese back in New Holland. I was sure my news would be as welcome as a pimple on prom night. I’d only just arrived, after all, and already I was spending company money to phone home with bad tidings. Charlie was surprised to hear from me so soon.
“How’s your first day going?” he asked over the crackly line.
I struggled with how to answer that. I could lie and say that Tony had been busy and couldn’t accommodate me. Or I might say that the shooting had been canceled due to bad weather. But those lies would only put off the inevitable. Better to tell the truth, I thought. And maybe to put a humorous spin on it to
lighten the mood.
“I had a good breakfast,” I said. Silence down the line. “And I was punctual.” Perhaps humor wasn’t the right tack.
“What aren’t you telling me, Ellie?” he asked after an uncomfortable pause.
I chewed my lip. “Tony Eberle is AWOL.”
“AWOL? In what sense AWOL?”
“AWOL. He’s not here. No one knows where he is.”
More silence from Charlie. This was going worse than I’d anticipated. Finally he cleared his throat.
“Tell me the whole story.”
I gave Charlie the abridged version. In truth, there really was no long version to tell. I explained how my morning had been ruined by the missing actor, who’d been summarily fired from the picture by the director.
“Things aren’t looking good for Tony Eberle’s Hollywood career,” I said in summation.
“Damn it,” muttered Charlie down the line from three thousand miles away. “What’s your plan, Ellie?”
“I’ve already tried to phone him at home and got no answer. Then I tried his agent, but the line was busy. He’s probably fielding enraged calls from the studio as we speak. I’ll chase him down after I hang up with you.”
“Good. At the very least, we still might have a story here. Not sure if we’ll end up running it, though. It all depends on what actually happened to our hometown hero.”
I nodded in agreement even though Charlie couldn’t see me. “Yeah, if he’s on a bender, there’s no story.” I recalled Dorothy Fetterman’s advice. “But if something bad has happened . . . Well, there are lots of newspapers to be sold.”
“Precisely. You know what you’ve got to do. In the meantime, do you need anything from me?”
I had some notes. I asked him to contact Tony’s family to find out if they knew anything.
“How do they feel about Tony’s choice of career? Have they spoken to him recently? That kind of stuff. And does he still have friends in New Holland? Maybe he’s in touch with them.”
Cast the First Stone Page 2
