by Nina Revoyr
Vail looked at me sadly and started to say something, then appeared to change his mind. “Well, yes,” he said finally. “The murder did have its reverberations. Poor Elizabeth Banks. Poor Nora Niles. Not to mention poor all of us for how clean pictures got after the studios agreed to the Hays code.”
Neither of us spoke for several moments. Then Vail shook his head and said, “The funny thing is, if Nora really was pregnant like people said, and if Harriet Cole did kill Ashley, then she went after the completely wrong guy. Ashley Tyler couldn’t have made Nora pregnant.”
“Why do you say that?”
He looked at me with genuine surprise. “Why, Ashley was as queer as a three-dollar bill. He wouldn’t have touched a woman if his life depended on it.”
I just stared at him. “How do you know? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. And I know the surest way you can. I have, how can I put this? Intimate knowledge of his preferences.”
I paused for a moment, recalling my Independence Day party—John Vail’s tousled hair, and Ashley Tyler’s. “But what about his family in New York?”
“I don’t know, but my guess is he probably had to marry. Hell, even I was married for a couple of years, until she found me in the sack with her brother. But Ashley wasn’t cut out for the family scene one bit. Why do you think he fied to California?”
I sat there stupidly, trying to take all of this in. Vail’s predilections did not surprise me; I’d known he didn’t have a taste for women. But Tyler? “He was homosexual? I had no idea. I knew his servant was homosexual, because of that morals charge. But Ashley himself? I can’t believe it!”
John threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, Jun, you’re such an innocent. Willy Parris wasn’t queer. He was picking up boys in Westlake Park to take back to Ashley.”
I shook my head; I was totally speechless. But as I thought about it, I realized the signs had been there all along. Tyler was so proper, and he never joined the other studio men on their trips to the after-hours clubs and brothels. And although he was surrounded by adoring women, he’d always claimed that his friendships with them were chaste. Now I knew why. I wondered if they knew. I considered the irony of the fact that all of these women, who were so desirable to others, desired the one man who wouldn’t have them. And I thought of Ashley Tyler, or Aaron Towland, and the elaborate fictions he had weaved, which were as much of an accomplishment as anything he ever committed to film.
“Who knew about him?” I asked now.
“Oh, everyone. The studio knew. Why do you think there were so many people at his place the morning he was found? We were trying to get rid of the evidence that he was anything but a red-blooded lady-killer. Of course, we had no idea about his life before pictures. He had us believing he was practically royalty, the clever bastard.”
“You were there that morning?” I asked, surprised.
“Yes, I left before you and Elizabeth arrived. I removed some of his letters, some compromising photos. There wasn’t much, but they wanted me to get rid of it all.”
“What about the revealing pictures of him with the actresses? The lingerie? The perfume-scented letters?”
“There were no pictures—that was pure fiction, and the papers ate it up. Or rather, there were pictures, but like I said, they weren’t of women. The letters were real; women wrote him all the time. Most of the intimate garments were planted—except, interestingly, Nora’s nightgown. She had given him one, the poor desperate thing. Maybe she thought it would somehow make a difference.”
“But he didn’t touch her.”
“No, he didn’t touch her. I never understood why all those women tortured themselves over him—he wasn’t going to change. But Nora really loved him, I think, as much as a young, unbalanced girl can love anybody. She was there that morning too, you know. Showed up right when I did, just desperate to see him. I shuttled her out of there before anyone could see her.”
“Nora was there too?”
“Shit, Jun, the whole studio was there. I’m telling you, they didn’t want anything to be out of their control. Everything the press got hold of was because the studio wanted them to. When we found out who Tyler really was, hell, that threw everyone for a loop. I guess the old bastard was a better actor than we thought.” He shook his head. “But you know, that still leaves the question of who got Nora pregnant. From what I hear, there were more than a couple of candidates.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the rumor was that Nora was stepping out all the time. I don’t know whether she was doing it to prove a point to her mother, or maybe she just needed affection, but there were several men who claimed to have slept with her. You never know if it was just talk, but there was definitely interest. Why do you think Tyler started escorting her around? He wanted to make sure that all those wolves stopped sniffing up to her.”
My mind was working to incorporate this new information. Vail continued to talk.
“The word was that she stopped seeing those men once Tyler put the clamps on her. But obviously someone got through his iron defenses.” He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag. “So who knows who the lucky daddy was? My guess was always Clarence Hand, he had such a crush on her. Or Jacob Steele, since he fucked everything in sight.” He exhaled a stream of smoke and glanced at me sideways. “Then there’s you, I suppose. You always did well with the ladies. And you did find her up there in the mountains.”
I laughed loudly. “That’s funny, John. Amusing indeed. You’ve always had a strange sense of humor.”
All of Vail’s revelations disturbed me, for they made Tyler’s death, and the ruining of the actresses’ careers, seem even more unnecessary. I did wonder, though, if they were accurate. If he could be so incorrect about the end of my own career, then he could have been wrong as well about Tyler’s circumstance. I knew that he was probably right about Tyler—the evidence, including his own experience, was insurmountable. Harriet Cole, on the other hand, clearly hadn’t known. And Nora and Elizabeth either weren’t aware themselves, or had embarked on the futile effort of trying to change him. That the studio had made such an effort to cover up his secret was not a surprise; the news would have been explosive. A homosexual director would have been just as damaging to Hollywood as a scandalous and unsolved murder.
Regarding my own career, however, it was wrong-headed of Vail to assert there was a backlash against me simply because of my race. As I’ve said, my career was slowing down of its own accord—both because of my own increasing selectivity, and because my time in the public eye had already spanned ten years. Certainly I was getting less favorable material, and was appearing less often with A-list actresses and directors. And certainly the studio did not extend itself to sign me to another contract. But these things could have occurred to anyone at that stage of his career.
On the other hand, perhaps there was some element of truth to Vail’s interpretation. For over these last few weeks, as I’ve been busy with preparations for my return to the screen, I have found myself remembering certain troubling events from the months before Tyler’s murder.
There was, for example, my golf date at the Westside Country Club. I was scheduled to tee off at 8:00 a.m. with a foursome that included Mr. Matsui—the head of the Japanese Association—his now twenty-two-year-old son Daisuke, and Mr. Hiroda, a successful agricultural maven from the Sacramento area who was one of the biggest supporters of the Little Tokyo Theater. When we approached the pro shop to acquire our caddies, the sleepy college-age youth behind the counter sat up and said, “I’m sorry, but there must be some mistake.”
I gave him an indulgent smile. “Young man, it’s far too early to be dealing with such inconveniences. We have an 8:00 a.m. tee time, and we are ready to begin.”
The youth—who looked like he might be home for the summer from a place like Harvard or Princeton—scanned his schedule and shook his head. “I have a Rosenberg here, from Perennial. Now what is your name?”
/> “Nakayama. Yes, David Rosenberg made the reservation for me. He often makes such arrangements under his name, for if it leaks out that I am going to be appearing somewhere, it is impossible to keep the public away. Now please, assign our caddies and we’ll be on our way. I’ll even send you an autographed picture for your trouble.”
The young man started to fidget and would not look me in the eye. “I’m sorry, sir, but that won’t be possible.” My patience had run dry. I put both hands on the counter, leaned over, and gave my most direct stare. “Is our tee time taken? We can always wait awhile. I understand if you’re doubled-scheduled. These things happen.”
“No, it’s not that …” His voice trailed off and his eyes wandered up to the wall, where the rules of the club were posted in black wooden frames. There was a sign that said, Tee Times by Reservation Only. Another said, Bring Your Own Shoes. Then, a small sign just below and to the right of the others: No Japs or Negroes Allowed. I blinked and looked again to make sure I had read it correctly. When it was clear there was no mistake, I felt a queasiness in my stomach. Matsui and Hiroda looked just as ill as I. Turning back to the boy behind the counter, I said, “I’ve golfed here several times before, and there has never been such a policy. Where’s the manager, young man? I wish to speak with him.”
The youth squirmed, and if I hadn’t been so angry, I might have felt sorry that he’d been placed in such a difficult position. “Mr. Evans isn’t here, sir. He won’t be in today. But that policy, it’s been in effect for six months now. And it’d do no good to complain. Mr. Evans proposed it himself. The whole Board of Trustees voted to approve it.”
We stood in silence for a moment until I could trust myself not to reach out and strike the boy. “Young man,” I said finally, “do you know who I am?”
He gulped. “I do, sir. And I’m tremendously sorry.”
As awkward as that morning was, I can honestly say that such occasions were rare. Not everyone shared the policies of the Westside Country Club, and certainly in some cases—as had always been true—my celebrity helped smooth over such limitations.
This might have been what occurred when I had lunch with Gerard Normandy, the day we discussed my contract. As I’ve thought about it over the last several weeks, other details of the lunch—and in particular, of my time in the lobby beforehand—have come back into my mind. I always remembered the whispered discussions of the maître d’ and waitstaff while I stood by the fountain, the glances in my direction, my growing sense of unease. But what has come to me more recently is what happened when Normandy first arrived. For it is clear to me now that right after he greeted me, he was called over to speak to the maître d’, and that at one point Gerard raised his voice and said, “Why, that’s preposterous! This man is a motion picture star! He can eat where he damned well pleases!” And it seems just as clear—although I cannot be certain my memory is accurate—that at some point the maître d’ said in return, “I’m sorry, sir, he’s just not welcome.” Those were the only full sentences I heard, although there are snippets of Gerard’s voice I now recall, things like “Perennial gives you a great deal of business …” and “If you persist in enforcing this ridiculous rule …” Whatever he said must have been persuasive, for soon we were seated at the table by the kitchen.
Then finally there was the incident that Gerard brought up at that same luncheon, which occurred during the filming of Geronimo. We were scheduled to film a fight scene in the San Fernando Valley—I was playing the lead role—and when my driver took me out to the shooting location at 7:00 a.m., there was a group of perhaps forty onlookers gathered outside of the fence. This was not unusual—people often watched us film on location. As we made our way through this particular group, however, I saw that they were carrying signs. They did not say, Jun, I love you! or, Marry me, Jun! like the ones I was accustomed to seeing. Instead, they said things like, Keep California White, and, Jap Go Home, and, No Japs Welcome in Hollywood. A large banner held up by several people said, Hire American actors. Swat the Jap! And when I looked at the people’s faces, they were as ugly as the language of their signs—compressed, bitter, crimson with anger. I was so unnerved that I locked all the doors.
“Jesus,” my driver said, easing his way through the people to the gate. Several of them hit the car with their fists; somebody spit on the windshield. There was so much yelling and banging that I was afraid the car might be over-turned, or that the mob might break the windows and pull us from our seats. But the driver, honking and cursing, finally made it to the entrance, where a Perennial worker ushered us safely through.
“They’re organized, the idiots,” said the worker when he opened my door. “The Anti-Jap Exclusion League got word that you’d be filming here today.”
I appreciated his sympathy, but it did not do any good. Although the protestors remained outside of the gate, their coordinated chants of “Jap Go Home!” were so loud and persistent that none of us could concentrate. I simply ignored the yelling and attempted to play the scene, but the rest of the actors were hopelessly distracted.
“We’re going to have to do this another day,” the director said eventually, after conferring with his cameraman. “Preferably where no one can find us.”
I cannot deny that these incidents were deeply troubling to me, both at the time they occurred and long afterward. Perhaps I have not been completely exhaustive in my descriptions of certain encounters from that era. But if I have not recounted these more upsetting events in any significant detail, it is because I do not wish to make too much of them. The kind of incident that occurred during the filming of Geronimo was fortunately never repeated, and unpleasant scenes of any degree were relatively few. I recount them now not out of a sense of self-pity, for certainly no one was more fortunate than I. I recall them simply to acknowledge that there may have been some truth to Vail’s interpretations.
Perhaps I did not fully appreciate that what occurred in the outside world affected what occurred in pictures. For when one recalls some of the other things that were happening in the city—the vandalized fruit stands, the stoning of Japanese mailmen, the horse manure smeared on the front door of the Little Tokyo Theater—it is difficult to claim that the atmosphere in California had not become more hostile. And when one considers the legal decisions of the early 1920s—and then, of course, the regrettable developments of the early 1940s—it is hard to maintain that dislike of the Japanese was a small, localized phenomenon. It’s possible that I, despite all my popularity, came to be seen as a symbol of a disliked group of people. Indeed, as much as I am loathe to admit this, one can hardly read the difficult events of that time—the Geronimo protest, the incident at the golf course, even Perennial’s decision not to renew my contract—as anything other than an obvious rejection based solely on the fact of my race. I had been admired—loved—for years; that much was true. But like many loves that are forbidden or that carry the tint of shame, I’d been relinquished in the face of public disapproval.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
November 19, 1964
I have finally returned to the safety of my own quiet town house, after a night and day of nerve-wracking mishaps. It was fortunate, to say the least, that Mrs. Bradford was home when I called. I dialed her number from a phone booth in front of the old DeLuxe Theater, which now stands empty and deserted. I should not have been there by myself at such an hour. As I waited the twenty minutes for Mrs. Bradford to arrive, two jumpy, stringy-haired young men were watching me closely, stepping out of the shadows toward me and then back again. My car—the old Packard—stood useless at the curb, one tire so fiat it rested on its rims. When Mrs. Bradford finally appeared a few minutes after midnight, I nearly collapsed with exhaustion and relief.
I was at pains to describe how I’d arrived at this place; I could hardly keep the events straight in my own mind. I had started out the evening at the Tiffany Hotel, in the center of old downtown. Although the Tiffany had once been one of my favorite places, I hadn’t eate
n there in over forty years. Perhaps in my distracted state I did not appreciate the passage of time, for despite my absence of several decades, I thought it was perfectly reasonable to stop by the Tiffany and unwind with a drink in the bar.
When I parked my car across the street from the hotel, however, my surroundings were unrecognizable. The Tiffany’s granite façade was still there, and its insets of burgundy tile. But the buildings around it had fallen into disrepair, and the storefronts—at least the ones that were occupied at all—belonged to shoe shops and discount clothing stores. Unsavory people milled about on the side-walks, and when I entered the lobby I wasn’t sure if I had found the right place. I had, of course; this was indeed the hotel. It just wasn’t the place I remembered.
The grand two-story lobby had been reduced to one floor, the marble columns were gone, and the lush Oriental carpet had been removed, now replaced by scratched linoleum tile. Old furniture from the rooms upstairs—beds, dressing tables, desks—had been stacked together and pushed haphazardly into a corner. There were people in the lobby, yes, but not the men in suits and ladies in gowns that one would have found there in the ’20s. The half-dozen people sitting on ripped couches against the wall were dressed in worn, disheveled clothes, and several of their faces were streaked with dirt. Some of them mumbled to themselves, and one was snoring loudly. I could smell them from where I stood.
“Let me ask you something,” called out one man. He was wearing a wool cap and a ski jacket with the stuffing coming out of the sleeves. I looked around to see who he was addressing, but nobody replied.
A metal desk stood where the concierge used to be, and a bored-looking young man in a security guard’s uniform slouched on a small chair behind it. When I approached, he glanced up from his newspaper. “Tour hours are over,” he said. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
