by Jim Lehrer
“Everyone who was in the war was in it with Ike.”
Now Gable extended and raised his arms, offering the woman her stockings and panties. “I think it’s time for both of us to get some sleep,” he said. “I’m going to need that entire bed, small as it is.”
She pulled the sheet and blanket away from her and scooted to the edge of the bed. Her eyes remained fixed on Gable.
“Your ears really aren’t that big, Mr. Gable,” she said. “I hate what they say about your ears.”
Gable’s friendly smile disappeared.
“Well, whatever, I still can’t believe this happened,” she said. Still naked, she stood up. “I have never ever played around on my husband. Never ever. Maybe if I told him it was with Clark Gable he wouldn’t mind.”
Gable was shaking his head as he handed her the panties.
“Don’t tell him?” she said, taking the stockings and then reaching for her bra and then her slip and the rest of her clothes.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Gable said, barely paying attention as she dressed. “Husbands don’t like to hear stuff like that from their wives, no matter who was involved. In fact, doing it with somebody like me might even make it worse.”
Dressed, she took a step to be in front of the tiny mirror over the small stainless steel washbasin in one corner of the drawing room.
“I don’t even want to comb my hair or change anything about the way I look … you know, after it was over. This was kind of an historic thing for me.”
Gable said nothing.
She turned toward him one last time but made no effort to kiss him good-bye or even to touch him. She clearly knew for sure what had happened was now over.
“Can I ask you one last favor before I go, Mr. Gable?”
Gable gave her a smile. It contained the answer—depends on what the favor is.
“Would you say it for me?”
He didn’t have to ask what it was.
Accompanied by a fulsome grin, he said, “‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’”
She giggled and clutched her arms across her chest. “I didn’t even notice your false teeth the movie magazines write about so much,” she said.
Those were her last words as she left the presence of The King.
Rinehart and Mathews encountered Ralph standing in the narrow passageway. They were heading back from the dining car; he was knocking on a compartment door with one hand, holding a tray of food in the other.
“Sounds like a secret signal of some kind.” Mathews laughed. “One long, two shorts?”
Ralph, who hadn’t seen the two Hollywood Regulars coming, jumped away from the door as if he’d been shot at. “No, sir, just bringing a passenger a late-night snack …”
At that moment, the bedroom door opened. And there stood Ralph’s Private.
Rinehart and then Mathews glanced at the man as they squeezed by Ralph.
Neither looked back as Ralph took the tray on into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.
“There was something familiar about that guy,” Rinehart said.
“Not to me … well, now that you mention it, maybe so,” Mathews said. “A movie type—a bit actor?”
Rinehart shook his head. “I don’t think so. Maybe he’s from the news. Maybe his picture was in the paper.”
“What kind of news?”
“The government kind … Washington probably,” said Rinehart. “I’ll think of it eventually. I know faces. Remember Tracy Thurber?”
Tracy Thurber was a beautiful twenty-four-year-old junior high school English teacher who was discovered by Rinehart while she was riding on a trolley in downtown Los Angeles. Rinehart saw her face in the trolley window, ran after her to the next car stop and, on the spot, offered her a part in his upcoming movie Dark Days.
She spent fifteen days with Rinehart, Mathews and the crew shooting on location in Utah.
“Excuse me, Mr. Rinehart,” said Charlie Sanders as he slipped into a seat across from Darwin Rinehart in the darkened observation car lounge.
It was almost midnight, an hour into Iowa after crossing the Mississippi River at Fort Madison. The Texas Chief had stayed far enough ahead so the Super Chief was on time, in keeping with what Santa Fe advertising called The Chief Way.
Charlie introduced himself and said, “I am a huge fan of the movies, sir. I would say that I am more than just a fan, actually, I am a student of the movies.”
Rinehart looked only at the glass of scotch in front of him.
“I love movies, sir. I really do.”
Rinehart kept his look downward.
“I have an idea for a movie, sir. That’s why I am talking …”
“Everybody has an idea for a movie, kid. No offense—but go away, please. I like to be alone in here.” Rinehart spoke quietly but firmly and still without paying any real attention to Charlie Sanders.
Sanders knew all about Rinehart and his traveling habits. He had read in a movie magazine—one of several he bought reguarly—that Rinehart preferred to sip scotch by himself in the rear lounge late into the night after having dinner in the dining car with his longtime associate Gene Mathews.
There was now, in fact, no other person in the car—not even a bartender or steward, unless one was sleeping back there in the dark somewhere. They often did while off duty. The only light came from a small art deco lamp between Sanders and Rinehart.
“My movie idea, the whole movie from beginning to end, takes place here—on the Super Chief, sir.”
There, he had done it. Charlie Sanders, on behalf of the Santa Fe, had had such an idea for a while—all part of his natural thinking of movies as a way to promote travel The Chief Way. On assignment now and thus required to stay awake and on the job, he let his mind rest and linger on the fact that this was indeed the Train of the Stars. And this very night there was not only Clark Gable on board but also, Sanders knew, Darwin Rinehart, who had much experience with train movies.
“Sorry, kid, I know you mean well for your railroad but we have rules in the business about talking to people about their ideas. You talk, I listen, I make a picture, you claim I stole your idea, you sue me. Besides, they already did that picture four years ago.”
“Yes, sir. Gloria Swanson starred in it. Three For Bedroom C it was called.”
“Yeah. She loved the Super so much she had her studio make it solely on her clout from Sunset Boulevard. Big mistake for her and everybody involved. Lousy idea, lousy movie. It stank all the way from LA to Chicago and back ten times. End of discussion.”
“What if it starred Claudette Colbert?” Sanders said.
“Too French—too foreigny.”
Sanders, the big movies student, wanted to blast back in fierce defense of Claudette Colbert, who he believed was one of Hollywood’s best actresses. But that would have sidetracked his mission of the moment. “What about Silver Streak?” he asked.
Rinehart set his drink down hard on the table and smiled. “You know about Silver Streak, kid?”
“Yes, sir. It came out in 1934 …”
Rinehart held up his right hand. Shut up, kid, was the message. “That was the first picture I ever worked on. I was just a kid myself. I had a tall hill of hair on my head then. Came down to Hollywood from Sacramento. An uncle knew the producer, a helluva guy named Allvine—Glendon Allvine. He hired me to be a gofer. I got coffee and ran errands and got my feet wet in the picture business. We made some of it around here somewhere …”
“Galesburg, Illinois. Yes, sir. The Super Chief passed through there earlier tonight—as I’m sure you, a prominent Super Regular, know. Most of the action shots for Silver Streak with the Burlington Zephyr were taken there, weren’t they?”
“Yeah, that’s right. How come you know so much about this?”
Charlie Sanders only grinned. Knowing this kind of stuff had been his passion since he was a real kid going to movies in the Chicago suburb of Garrison, Indiana. Now, for the Santa Fe, it was his business to
know it.
Rinehart spoke softly, almost to the darkness rather than Charlie, as he had earlier to the Chicago suburbs.
“Allvine talked the Burlington into loaning us their new silver streamliner train. It was the first diesel like that. What a time we had. There were no stars. Sally Blane and Charles Starrett played the leads. Nobody’s heard of them before or since. Sally Blane was Loretta Young’s sister in real life. That silver train was the real star of the picture—”
“Yes, sir, and this one could be one again.”
“—No budget. Allvine made that for less than a hundred thousand dollars real money. Amazing, truly amazing. The story wasn’t much either. Something about an iron lung.”
“Yes, sir. They used the new streamliner to race an iron lung from Chicago to a sick man at Boulder Dam outside Las Vegas in Nevada. The sick man was the son of the owner of the railroad and the brother of the girl who was in love with the scientist designer who invented the diesel streamliner train—”
“Corny idea, corny everything but it was the first picture about the new streamliners and it made a lot of money for the company that is now called RKO. Great shots at Boulder Dam, too. They were still building some of it at the time. How do you know so much about this picture, kid? Most people never heard of it.”
“I saw it at college in a public relations class on how to do company publicity. Burlington got a lot of great free publicity out of that movie.”
Sanders, even in the faint light, could see pleasure in Rinehart’s face.
“I’ve also read the book about the movie—it had the script and little essays by the producer, director, even the sound man about making the movie,” said Charlie, pressing his advantage.
“Yeah, yeah. I remember that. I have a copy of the book myself somewhere. It came out the next year.”
“There was also a Silver Streak Big Little Books for kids that was published at the same time.”
Darwin Rinehart took a long, long sip of his scotch. “Beginnings and endings,” he sighed to Sanders and everyone else in the world. “Silver Streak was my beginning.”
“The Super Chief would be a natural, great, fantastic next chapter,” said Sanders.
“More like an ending, I’d say.”
“I guess I ought to go, sir. I’m sorry I bothered you.” Sanders made a slight move to stand.
Darwin Rinehart told him to stay where he was.
“Go ahead. What’s your Super Chief idea, kid?”
Charlie Sanders had, by now, gotten used to being called kid by this movie man despite the fact that, according to the movie magazines, Rinehart himself was forty—only eight years older than this Santa Fe man.
“I can’t think of anything else … you know … that I can do to help you … you know, get extended,” said the brunette, Fair Visitor #2.
“I know, I know,” said Clark Gable. He was upset—embarrassed. “I think you should put on your clothes and leave.”
The woman, as Ralph had advertised, was a brunette and slightly younger than #1, but she was as pretty and had about the same proportions.
“One more try, please?” she asked.
“It’s not going to do any good. Please go.”
Gable rolled out of the berth and she followed him. Both were naked. Soon he had put his pajama bottoms back on and she was back into her two-piece dark blue traveling suit.
She moved toward the door, stopped and then burst into tears.
Gable made a leaning motion to go to her and maybe even to put an arm around her shoulders. But he didn’t. “What’s the problem?” he asked.
“I can’t believe this,” she said through her sobs. “I’m with Clark Gable, the sexiest man on the face of the earth, and I can’t … you know, arouse him.”
“It’s not you,” said Gable.
She pulled away from him, the tears having slightly moderated. “I read a story in Confidential magazine about your having five, six, even seven women a night. It just has to be me.” She began crying again.
Gable went to the pockets of his sport coat, which was hanging on a hook nearby. “Here, take this,” he said, handing her a ten-dollar bill.
She grabbed the bill, crushed it in her hand and threw it back at him. It struck his chest and fell to the floor. “I’m an English teacher. I teach the seventh grade. I did this for the occasion, for history—not money!” she shouted.
Gable put a finger to his lips. “Let’s hold it down, all right?”
Then, suddenly, the woman’s eyes were no longer teary. They were squinting with wisdom—revelation. “You can’t be a pansy like I read in Confidential Van Johnson was, can you, Clark Gable? Not you, The King of sex?” There was as much accusation as question in the words.
Gable handed her another ten-dollar bill. “No, no. I’m just tired. I just couldn’t … do it. Not again. You were the twelfth girl I’ve had this evening.”
She took the money this time and slammed the door behind her as she left the compartment.
“It’s to remake Silver Streak for today, right now in the fifties,” said Charlie Sanders. “That’s my idea.”
“Forget it,” said Darwin Rinehart. “They don’t use iron lungs anymore for polio. They give shots. Salk vaccine kind of shots.”
“I know. It has to be something else besides an iron lung.”
“Forget it. Now trains are for people like me who prefer and can afford slow, easy traveling, not rush emergencies. They’re losing their business to cars and airplanes. Trains are on the way out except for a few of us. Forget it.”
“Some people are afraid to fly. Instead of an iron lung that is rushed west on the train it could be a person. But it could still follow a lot of the same things that happened in Silver Streak. We could have a bad guy, like they did, who tries to sabotage the Super Chief.”
Rinehart’s eyes were closed. Sanders couldn’t tell if the scotch and whatever else he’d consumed was the cause or he was simply deep in thought about a Super Chief movie.
Charlie Sanders pushed on. “The president of Burlington, as a public relations move, loaned out his new train for the movie. I know we at the Santa Fe would do the same thing with the Super Chief. I just know we would.”
Without appearing to open his eyes, Rinehart said, in a near whisper: “We shot most of the railroad shots with the Zephyr at that town in Illinois … what was it?”
“Galesburg,” said Sanders.
“Yeah. At the studio in Hollywood we did a ‘clinch’ shot with Blane and Starrett, the lovebirds. We even had a phony diesel engine the studio made as a prop.”
“I think I read that the whole idea for the movie came from a man who was editor of a magazine called Diesel Digest. He fought his way in to see Allvine and sold him on the idea. It’s not that different from what I’m trying to do now, sir. Here I am, Sanders of the Santa Fe, making a pitch to the great Darwin Rinehart.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Rinehart had opened his eyes. And he was smiling. “But this isn’t how we do it. Our movies come from books. I don’t read books for picture ideas. Gene does that for me. Then somebody comes in and does The Talk about the picture that could be made from the book. Do me a talk if you can, kid.”
Darwin Rinehart glanced out the window at the lights of small towns and farmland and then said, “But make it snappy. It’s already past midnight.”
“Yes, sir!”
But before Charlie Sanders could start, Rinehart said: “What about Joliet? Did we go through Joliet, Illinois?”
“Yes, sir. That was before Galesburg.”
“Good, good. Okay, kid, you’re on.”
Fair Visitor #2 had been gone from Clark Gable’s drawing room only a few moments when Ralph reappeared.
“Just wanted to see if there was anything else I could get you tonight, sir.”
Gable grinned. “Nope. I’ve had more than I can handle for one night.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ralph. “I assume you’ll be wanting a shave in the morning in the b
arber shop, as usual?”
Gable frowned. “No, no. I’ll shave myself.”
“That’ll disappoint Mr. Josephs for sure.”
Gable was still frowning. “Mr. Josephs?”
“He’s a substitute barber on this run. Normally, he does the Chief or the Texas Chief. Your regulars are all either on vacation or on other trains. Mr. Josephs was looking forward to shaving The King for the first time in his barber’s life.”
The frown disappeared. Gable said, “I’ve never seen him before? He’s never shaved me before in his life?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, then, let’s not disappoint him. Make me an appointment.”
“Usual time, sir?”
“What times does he have open?”
“Any time is always open for you, Mr. Gable. I already told him eight thirty, your usual time.”
“Certainly. The usual. Eight thirty it is.”
“When would you like to begin with the Fair Visitors today, sir?” asked Ralph. “There are several waiting notification—one or two, I believe, will be leaving the train fairly early in the day …”
Gable held up his right hand, palm out. “I think we’ll hold off on that—for now, at least,” he said. “I’m feeling a bit weary.”
Ralph smiled, nodded his head as if to royalty and left.
Charlie Sanders, talking as snappily as he ever had in his life, just made it up off the top of his head. It was already late and he knew Darwin Rinehart was not going to give him much time.
“A pretty young woman is dying in Albuquerque. She has a serious brain disorder that can only be cured and her life saved by one man—a handsome young brain surgeon who has the perfect set of hands for the delicate operation it will take. He is known as the best in the world for this particular operation. Usually people come to him but the Albuquerque woman is too sick to travel. So he must come to her.”
“Where does he live?” Rinehart asked.
“How about Galesburg, Illinois, because of the Silver Streak connection?”
“Nobody lives in Galesburg, Illinois.”
