The bedroom had taken on a carnival atmosphere. Everyone except Billie was in costume. The guests stood around laughing and checking each other’s outfits. The waiters moved through the room handing champagne to everyone.
When Billie saw Clint in costume coming towards her she said.
“You look so handsome! You almost take my breath away.” Clint felt uncomfortable, but managed to smile. He eyeballed the room and spotted Gale. She reminded him of a showgirl he had met in Las Vegas.
He liked the way her boobs swelled over her strapless brassiere. She smiled and winked at him, not letting Billie see. The jester gave a sign to Billie.
“Shhhhh … my dear subjects. Our entertainment is about to begin.”
CHAPTER TWO
The lights dimmed as the sound of Ravel’s “Bolero” filled the room. Everyone quieted down as the curtains on the stage parted.
At center stage stood a frame of white canvas. Into the spotlights danced four shapely young girls, their naked bodies covered in wet paint. One girl fuchsia, another yellow green, one Chinese red, and the other sky blue. They danced gracefully in front of the canvas, touching it as their bodies swayed. Hans Hoffman-style colored shapes began to appear on the white background. As the music grew more intense, the color disappeared from the nude figures with every contact against the canvas. The music stopped, the girls took a deep bow, the curtain came down. Everyone clapped and whistled as the jester went to the stage.
“That painting is called “Inspiration”. Each of you will now do your own living painting. Dream up whatever perverse ideas you might have and bring them up here for us see,” he said, leaving the stage. Two girls dressed in tutus rushed up, taking a pose of Degas dancers. One pushed the other. She fell down. The Degas girl fell on top of her. They laughed, uproariously. The jester ran up and helped the girls to their feet and off the stage, feeling slightly ridiculous as everyone laughed at them.
“Very good, girls,” encouraged the jester. “Who’s next?” Gale got up from the lounge and grabbed Clint’s arm, pulling him off the bed next to Billie. Billie laughed as Gale dragged him on stage.
“Wait, we need music,” said the jester as he rushed in back of the curtain. “Mr. Wonderful” sung by Peggy Lee came over the speakers.
Clint stood erect, his arms folded in front of him, chin up. His jaw stretched out rather like an old photo of Mussolini. Gale flung herself down on the stage floor and wrapped her body around Clint’s feet and legs, her breasts totally exposed. Clint reached to bring her to her feet, but she held herself at his crotch.
He could feel her warm breath there. He tried not to become aroused.
The last thing he wanted to do was to perform for these strangers. How in the hell did I get into this? He forced
Gale to her feet. She pushed away from him, arching her back, holding her body against his. Now, Clint was getting into it. This was starting to be fun. He took a look at Gale’s large breasts, then stared at the audience for a their reaction.
Everyone was laughing.
Gale, not to be undone, pulled Clint’s feet from under him and sent him to the floor. She jumped aboard, straddling his hips and rode him like a horse beating him on the chest with her fists.
Everyone enjoyed the pair’s performance except Billie, who yelled at the jester in her hoarse whiskey voice. “Enough! Stop the show!
Get that horrible stripper off the stage. Everyone leave.” The laughter stopped.
“Why, Your Highness? It was just starting to get interesting,” said one of the male guests.
Gale and Clint got up and started to leave for the dressing room.
The jester held Clint back.
“Her Highness does not want you to leave. Just the girl.”
Clint glanced at Gale who gave him that knowing smile again and left his side. “Call me,” she said and walked off.
Clint went to Billie on the bed. “It’s late, ma’am. I have to go too, ma’am.”
“No, Springtime. Stay. Please, I have so many wonderful plans for you. It will take days to explain them. Please stay with me. We’ll go to the track tomorrow and bet your winners and if you’re a good boy, I’ll introduce you to my agent friend. Come, sit down. Have some more champagne and let us get better acquainted.”
The party was still going on downstairs. An overweight middleaged Irish tenor stood in front of a piano singing “Danny Boy” with an accompanist. The singer wore an obvious toupee that sat on the top of his head. He hit a high note and stayed until his breath ran out. The remaining guests clapped as he finished the song. As he took a bow, he saw Everett leaving the party. The singer ran and caught him at the front door.
“Where’s Queen Billie? I have a song I wrote for her. I want to sing it to her.”
“She’s upset, old boy, some young twit has set her off. She told us to leave. If I were you I’d slip out like the rest of us old sports.”
“I want her to hear the song. It’s called “The Queen of Beverly Hills”.
“Appropriate. But I would stay away tonight. She’s got romance on her mind. Fare well, old chap,” said Everett as he left for his car.
The singer climbed the staircase to the second floor. He went on to Billie’s suite and opened the door. Clint and Billie were on the bed, talking.
“May I come in?” asked the tenor.
Billie, seeing him, smiled and said, “Jack, you old drunk. Who brought you? I heard you lost your driver’s license. Meet my prince, Clint.” Clint tried to rise, but sat back down on the bed.
“Pleazzse to mee-eet you.”
“I wrote you a song, Billie, love. Listen to this.” Jack started to sing.
“MY QUEEN, MY LOVE, MY DESIRE,
THE HEAVENS HAVE BROUGHT ME TO YOU
I’M YOUR PRINCE, YOUR SERVANT, YOUR SLAVE,
I’M YOUR LOVE FOREVER
IF YOU TRIED YOU COULD NOT RELEASE ME
FROM YOUR REGAL SPELL,
MY QUEEN OF BEVERLY HILLS.”
“Do you like it?”
“Jack, it’s beautiful. I’m about to cry. Sit with me. I want to hear it again.”
Clint felt a wave of dizziness. He wanted to leave, but he felt he couldn’t move. They must’ve put something in my drink.
“Where is the bathroom?” he asked.
“Outside, down the hall. Don’t be gone too long, Springtime.” Clint left the bedroom to find his clothes. He went to the dressing room, his evening jacket lay there, but his pants were missing. He checked out the other rooms. No pants. Did Gale take them? She’d do something like that, he thought. He checked his coat pocket and found her telephone number and put it back. His head swam. He had to get out of the house, but he had no pants. How could he leave without his pants? He stumbled down the upstairs hallway and opened a door into a large bedroom. He saw a bed and dropped on it. His head felt dizzy, like he was riding on the “tilt-a-whirl” at the county fair. His stomach started turning and he ran for the bathroom.
Clint awoke to a scream coming from Billie’s bedroom. He raised his head and glanced out the window and saw daylight. He got up. He was still wearing a Roman costume. He felt dizzy as he opened the door and ran down the hallway into Billie’s room. She sat up in her bed; dressed in a gown she had worn at last night’s party. The singer he had left in her company was stretched across her bed, his toupee in his eyes. His false teeth were lying next to his chin. The zipper on his pants was open to reveal a protruding stomach bulging out beneath a tight girdle. Billie laughed.
“Look at him. I thought I went to bed with a handsome lover man.
He tricked me. He was illusion. Get this old drunk out of my bed, for Christ’s sake. He’s making me sick.”
Clint, amused, pulled Jack off Billie’s bed. Jack grumbled. Billie picked up the Racing Form as she watched Clint drag Jack out of the room.
“After you’ve thrown Jack out of the house, come back, Springtime, and help me pick some winners. I have a feeling you’re going to change my
luck. Breakfast will be here when you return.” Billie pulled her hair up and got up from the bed. She splashed some Jean Nate fragrance from a large bottle on her body and between her breasts.
“I ain’t got no clothes. My pants ain’t around. Miss Billie, I can’t go anywhere.”
“Nonsense. I have a closet full of clothes you can wear. Get the jester to show you. And hurry, we don’t want to miss the first race.”
Jack had come to. He mumbled as Clint escorted him from the bedroom and down the stairs to the front door.
“Who are you?” asked Jack.
“The undertaker,” said Clint as he pushed Jack out the front door and locked it.
The jester, called him from the staircase. “Her Highness has asked me to get you into some clothes. I will be in the last room down the hallway.”
Clint climbed the staircase and followed the jester as he went into a bedroom and on to a closet full of men’s clothes.
Clint said, “Whose duds are these?” He examined the rows of garments.
“They belonged to her last gentleman friend. She bought them for him.”
“How come he didn’t take’ em?”
“He left in a hurry under strained circumstances.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Let her Highness tell you,” said the jester.
When Clint had gotten shaved and dressed he came back into Billie’s room. Billie had changed and was waiting for him. He had gotten into a camelhair sport coat, gray gabardine slacks and a tie. The clothes fit as if they were made for him. The maid had brought in the breakfast tray, which included a glass of champagne, prunes and spaghetti for Billie and bacon and eggs for Clint. Clint sat down and started to eat. Billie stared at him and smiled. “Those clothes look wonderful on you, angel. But do you have to eat so fast?” She picked at her spaghetti and prunes.
“Everyone says that, ma’am. It’s a bad habit I picked up in the army. Tell me, ma’am, do you like what you-all eat?”
“I never eat anything else, angel. Don’t you like spaghetti?”
“I do, ma’am but not for breakfast.”
Billie picked up and studied the Racing Form. “What’s the name of the horse you liked today?”
“Morning Glory in the fourth and Sledge Hammer in the sixth.”
The maid and the jester were outside in the driveway loading the Rolls Royce with champagne, a portable television set, two-way radios, a chest of ice and other racing paraphernalia.
They arrived at Santa Anita racecourse in Arcadia. The driver turned the limousine into the parking lot and stopped under a public address system attached to a long pole. Clint opened the door to get out.
He tried to assist Billie from the limo, but she remained seated.
“How come we parked here? Ain’t we goin’ to the Turf Club?”
“No, angel. The maid will make the bets for us. It’s more comfortable in the car. You can hear the race from the PA above and I can see it on my little television.” Clint was disappointed. He’d never known anyone before who could get him into the Turf Club, and now that wasn’t going to happen. He remained quiet, sulking.
“Who do you like in the first race? I’m going to bet on One More Chance across the board.” She handed three, one hundred dollar bills to Alma, her half-African American, half-Cherokee maid, who sat in the front of the car with the chauffeur. “Hurry angel, it’s almost post time.” Clint sat and said nothing. “Aren’t you going to make a bet?
Alma has to go or she’ll be shut out.”
“I ain’t got no money. It was in my pants,” he lied.
“Here, Springtime.” Billie handed Clint a hundred-dollar bill. “I’ll stake you,” she said smiling.
Clint took the bill and pushed it toward Alma. “Put fifty to win on Too Far to the Right.
Alma rushed off to the betting window in the Club House. Over the PA they could hear, “The horses are lining up at the starting gate.
They’re off.”
At the end of the day, Clint had a thousand dollars in his pocket.
Billie had lost all but the sixth race (for which Clint said he had inside information).
Clint had relieved Alma from making the bets. He made them and his luck remained.
He had pocketed some of Billie’s bets. He knew the horses were long shots and wouldn’t come in, and they didn’t. He kept her money. Clint was pleased with himself.
It’s like taking money from a moron.
That night at the house they had dinner in Billie’s bedroom. They sat in front of the television set, their dinners served on trays. Billie was in an up mood.
She was getting drunk. “I gotta to go, Miss Billie. I got things to take care of tomorrow.
Gotta take back that old monkey suit I rented for your shindig.”
“Nonsense, I’ll have the chauffeur return it for you. I’m planning on a trip to Europe. I want you to escort me. Have you ever been there, angel?”
“I flew over when I was on a troop plane, ma’am. I guess that wouldn’t count, huh?”
Billie smiled. “Let just say you haven’t been. I was getting bored with the United States. My efforts for a monarchy seem futile. In Europe I can find a deposed king. If he likes my money I will marry him and then I’ll be a real queen. I want you to come with me, Springtime, as my private secretary. The position will pay well.”
Clint thought, I like the idea of going to Europe in style. I’m sure I can handle this old gal, but do I want to be one of them gigolo guys?
“When am I goin to meet ya agent friend?”
“Who?”
“The agent, you know. Remember, ma’am? Ya mention him last night.”
“Oh, him! Why is he so important to you?”
“I want to be an actor, ma’am. I guess I wanted that most of my life.
I come from a small town in central Montana. Hell, there be six-grain elevators and a post-office. There’s more tumbleweeds than people. I worked with my pappy and ma farming grain. There’s no TV yet, so I went to the movies. That weren’t easy. I had to hitchhike because the movie house was thirty miles away. In the winter, I’d go for matinee and stay all day and into the night watchin’ double features. I could remember every part word for word and I could do them parts, even the women. My older brothers thought I was daft. They’d hear me doing my movie stuff and they would laugh and tease me. I dreamed of going to Hollywood. I’d see my name in lights on that little old movie house.
When the Korean War broke out I enlisted. Instead of going to Hollywood I ended up in Korea. That is sure funny, ain’t it, but I learned a lot in that army. How to get along with people, even the stupid ones.”
Billie smiled at him softly. “You’re a sweet young man. I’ll get you that introduction.”
Billie kept putting her hand to her neck. “I slept badly last night.
That awful Jack in my bed. He gave me a crimp in my neck. Angel, come and massage it for me. You have such big hands. Make me feel better.” She turned on her back and dropped her nightgown.
Clint thought, here it comes. I’m trapped. All the talk about being with a rich woman was in his mind, he discovered. He wasn’t suited when he saw what it entailed. He kept thinking about Gale. I got to get out of this place. This old gal would keep me a prisoner if she could.
“I have to make a phone call, ma’am.”
“To whom?”
Why would she ask me that? She wants to know everything. “About a job, ma’am.”
“Stop that ma’am business, Angel, you have a job. You’re my secretary.”
“I am, ma’am?”
“Don’t you remember? We’re going to Europe.”
“I’d like to get some things at my apartment and pick up my jalopy.”
“I’ll have the chauffeur get your things, and we’ll pick up your car tomorrow or I’ll get Everett to bring it over. He lives in your apartment house, doesn’t he, Angel?”
“Yeah.” Clint felt trapped. The house had bec
ome a prison. He had to get out. He saw a button by Billie’s bed that said “Silent Alarm”, a burglar alarm, he thought. He got up from his chair and walked over to Billie who lay on her stomach. He sat down on her bed and, when Billy wasn’t looking, he pushed the alarm button. “Where do it hurt, Miss Billie?” She took his hand and brought it to her neck. Clint squeezed the muscles and tendons around her upper spine. “Oh, I’m in heaven, Angel. I love the feel of those big hands. Now, do my back.”
Soon, they heard a knock at the bedroom door. It was Alma, the maid.
“Wait,” said Billie. Clint left the bed and Billie pulled up her nightgown. “What is it?” asked Billie, annoyed.
Alma said, through the door, “Your Highness, the police are downstairs. They say the house alarm had gone off at their office, and they would like to speak to you.”
“The police! I’m not going to talk to the police. Angel, would you see what it’s all about?”
“Ya, sure, I’ll right back.” Clint left the bedroom with Alma. He walked downstairs to the hallway entrance where two uniformed Bel Air patrolmen waited for him.
“Howdy. I’m Clint Nation. What’s the trouble, officers?”
“The alarm went off in our office. Could we look around and check the grounds?”
“We ain’t heard nothing. Go out through them doors,” said Clint as he pointed to French doors at the end of the hall. Clint watched until the two patrolmen went outside to the verandah, and then he went to the telephone and brought a card from his pocket and dialed a phone number.
“Gale? Howdy, Clint Nation. The guy ya met at Billie Rodgers’s house. Would ya do me a big favor? Pick me up at her house? … You will? … I’ll meet ya by the gate.” The police returned from the garden.
“Can’t talk, bye.” Clint hung up the phone.
CHAPTER THREE
Car headlights appeared, coming up the driveway and shone into Clint’s eyes, blinding him for a second as he stood in front of Billie’s ornate iron gates. The car was a two-door 1957 Ford Thunderbird, the same car she’d been driving when they’d met. Gale moved across the front seat to open the passenger door.
Confessions of a Hollywood Agent Page 2
