“Good to see you again. I have been in contact with your agent, but he keeps putting me off,” he said in a soft Spanish accent gazing into her eyes. Georgia felt taken back by his directness. Georgia knew she had a weakness for Latin men. She’d had an affair with a Mexican boxer, and she hadn’t forgotten him. She hadn’t met anyone who reminded her of him until now. She went weak in the knees. It is the way they look at you, she thought, like I have no clothes on. She hoped he didn’t pick up on the way she felt, as a flush came to her face.
“I have a script here,” he said as he handed her a copy of “Cuban Rebels”. Come and sit with me. I will tell you about it,” he said, as steered Georgia to the sofa.
“Let me tell her, old boy,” said Erroll. “The story is about a band of revolutionaries. These chaps are trying to throw out President Batista and his cronies from power in Cuba. It’s documentary, but isn’t. We’ll be filming in the mountains at Castro’s headquarters. Luis and Fidel Castro are school chums. Fidel is supplying his army. We will be shooting the picture at the same time he’s trying to take the country. Doesn’t it sound exciting, Georgia?” asked Erroll.
“It sounds dangerous. Who’s going to protect us?” she asked.
“Why Castro, of course, with his army. The corruption of the Batista regime is appalling. Meyer Lansky and his boys run Havana,” said Erroll matter-of-factly.
Georgia had met George Raft with Marty. George was involved with a hotel and casino in Havana. George wanted Marty to bring his act down to perform at the Havana Riviera. Marty had been considering the club date. Georgia’s mind started to race. That might work. I could be in Cuba at the same time Marty is there. We would be together, she thought.
“Luis, when is your picture going to start?”
“When the rain stops, December.”
“Will you be filming near Havana?” she asked.
“No. Santiago de Cuba, in eastern Cuba. Castro’s guerrilla headquarters,” said Erroll.
“My agent thinks the location is too adventurous for me. He hasn’t been enthusiastic about your film.”
“Agents are all alike. If they don’t see some big money, they’re never interested,” said Erroll.
Georgia could smell a delicious aroma coming from the dining room. She hadn’t eaten since last night.
Beverly, with the help of the Mexican maid, called everyone to the dinner table in the dining room. A huge platter of spaghetti, surrounded by grilled Italian sausages, a large tray of antipasto, baskets of Italian bread and bottles of Chianti wine awaited them.
Erroll escorted Georgia to the table and the others followed.
Georgia sat down and Luis sat next to her. Luis acted attentive.
“Luis, you live in Havana?” she asked.
“No, in Madrid,” he answered.
“I hear they’re shooting big pictures in Madrid,” she said.
“Yes, Samuel Bronson has the Spanish army under contract for his epics. You see Ava Gardner, Charleton Heston, Steven Boyd around town as if it were Hollywood,” he said.
“Why would you want to make a picture in Cuba, when picturemaking seems easier to do in Madrid?”
“See, I told you she’s smart,” said Erroll, slurring his words.
“I believe in Fidel Castro and his cause,” he answered.
“Viva Castro!” said Erroll lifting his glass in a toast. Everyone lifted their glasses with him.
“VIVA CASTRO!” they clinked their glasses and drank the toast.
The phone rang in the early morning. Georgia lay in bed asleep.
She’d been dreaming about Luis. They were dancing in a nightclub on a tropical beach. Los Tres Aces played their Mexican love songs as they swayed to the music, gazing into each other’s eyes. Luis kept kissing her neck, her lips, her hair. She was in a trance, not wanting to separate her body from his as the music played on. The phone kept ringing and it finally brought her out of the dream.
“Hello.”
“Georgia, it’s Luis.”
“Luis.”
“You got away last night without taking my script. Can I bring it by?” His accented voice thrilled her with its sound.
“Um, sure. My address is l027 North Havenhurst, Apartment C upstairs.”
“I take you to breakfast. I tell you more about the picture.”
“I’ll be ready by ten. Bye.”
Georgia jumped out of bed. She went to the mirror. She flushed with excitement at the thought of seeing him. What’s going on here?
You’re acting like one of your romance-crazy girl friends. Go easy girl, first you got to see what this man’s about.
She showered, and dressed in a sweater and matching skirt. She pulled her blond hair back and picked out a small black velvet bow and tied it to her hair in the back. She checked her appearance in the long bedroom mirror. She’d make a smart housewife and mother, she thought, laughing at her thoughts. “Sure”, she said out loud, not quite believing what had been going through her mind.
The phone rang. She went to the bedroom and picked it up. She heard Marty’s voice. “What are you doing? Can I come by?”
“Not today. Clint has me out on an interview at Metro.”
“How about tonight? I’ll come by and we can go to dinner.”
“I’d like that … but, my parents called and they want me to go to their house tonight for dinner … My aunt from Denver is going to be there. I haven’t seen her in ages … You understand. Family.”
“It seems that I never see you anymore. You were in Palm Springs over the weekend. I couldn’t find you last night. Where were you?”
“Oh, I went to see Dorothy. You heard about Geoffery being killed.
A terrible tragedy. She’s taking it hard.”
“When am I going to see you?”
“Tomorrow. Come tomorrow, I’ll cook for you. I’ve got to go.
Goodbye, you sweet man, you.” She hung up the phone. Complications, always complications. The zing is not there with Marty, but the ZING is there with Luis. The doorbell rang. She took a deep breath. Get hold of yourself, Georgia, he’s just a man.
She moved toward the door and opened it. Luis stood with a bunch of red roses.
He’s smaller than I remember, she thought.
Luis brought her hand to his mouth to kiss, gazing into her eyes. He handed her the roses.
“They’re beautiful. Please, come in. We can walk up to Schwab’s drug store. It’s on the corner. They have great breakfasts. I’ll get my jacket.”
She went into the bedroom. Luis carefully surveyed the room.
They walked up the street Georgia pointed out places of interest as they walked. “That’s the “Garden of Allah”, over there.”
“I am staying there.”
“You are! I love that place. I like to go there and dance.
They have a great Latin band. Do you dance?”
“I’m Cuban, we all dance in Cuba. We invented the mambo, the rumba, and the new dance, the cha cha cha. Will you come tonight?
You can dance with a real Cuban.”
“I’d like that. That tall building across the street. That’s the Chateau
Marmount. Lots of European movie stars and New York stage stars stay there while they’re here making movies. I heard that Greta Garbo … do you know who she is? “I vant to be alone,” lives there.”
They stood in front of Schwab’s. Luis opened the door and they walked in. Everybody goes to Schwab’s. Lana Turner supposedly was discovered sitting at the soda fountain. They sat down in a vacant booth, across from the counter. Steve McQueen sat next to them with a couple of girls that were actresses. Georgia recognized Sidney Skolsky, the Hollywood columnist, and waved to him.
He came over to their booth. “Hello, Georgia,” he glanced at Luis.
“Hello, Sidney, nice to see you. This is Luis Verano.” Luis got up to meet Sidney and then sat down again.
“Luis is a producer-director from Cuba. He wants me to do a picture for him
. Enroll Flynn’s the star.”
“Can I put that in my column?” he asked.
“I’m not set yet. If you don’t mind.”
“How’s Marty? Have you two got any wedding plans?”
“No, Marty is still married,” she said, uneasily.
“Good seeing you. Let me know if you do the picture,” he said as he left the drug store.
“You are seeing someone?”
“Yes.”
“Is it serious?”
“Well, let’s say it’s sorta steady, but you heard, he’s married.”
Luis smiled.
“What’s so amusing?”
“Then you’ll marry me. I have decided.”
“Oh, you have, but I just met you.”
“You see, you marry me,” said Luis.
Georgia felt rattled. She glanced at the menu as her hands shook.
What’s with these Latin men? They’re so direct, so positive. She remembered that her old lover, the Mexican fighter, was that way.
“What are you going to have?” she asked.”
“You.”
“Luis, please.”
Luis kept looking at her, staring. The waitress wrote their order.
They both ordered ham and eggs with coffee. Luis started to explain the script to Georgia and what her part would be. When he had gotten halfway into the story, she thought it sounded awful, mediocre. The story was about revolutionary girls, camp followers, following Castro’s army. Her part was nothing. When Clint reads the script, he won’t let me do it. I’m sure of it, she thought.
The food came. Luis ate his quickly. Georgia picked at hers.
“Well, what do you think, you like it?”
“I know I sound like an actress, but my part is small.”
“I can fix. I make it bigger for you. I even pay you twenty-five percent more money than you got for your last picture.”
“You really want me to do this picture, don’t you?”
“Yes, I want you with me … I have fallen in love with you.” Luis took Georgia’s hand. Georgia’s face flushed. “I want you to be my wife.”
“Luis, you know nothing about me.”
“Love can be this way. It’s fate. You believe in fate?”
“Luis, you’re too fast, you really are. You got me thinking crazy.”
She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go.” She got up from the booth.
“I have to meet my agent at Metro Golden Mayor. I’m up for an Elvis Presley movie.”
“Can I go with you?” he said as he followed her out of Schwab’s on to the street.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea. My agent might object to you being there. He’ll want to know what I’m doing with you. As you know, he doesn’t want me to go to Cuba.”
They stood and stared at each other on the street.
“You don’t have to walk me home.”
“We’re going to dance tonight?” he asked.
“I’ll meet you at nine o’ clock, in the bar.” She reached up and kissed him on the mouth and left.
Luis stood there staring after her as she walked away down the street.
Georgia arrived at MGM in Culver City. She drove to the main gate in her MG with the top down.
The guard had her name and directed her to Stage Fifteen where Elvis was shooting his new musical.
Georgia had changed her clothes. She wore a bright blue tight sheath dress, cut low in the front. The color matched her blue eyes. Her hair fell around her shoulders. Clint stood waiting outside the stage door when she arrived. Georgia parked her car, and joined him.
“You’re absolutely gorgeous, baby. Elvis is going to flip when he sees you.”
“Thanks, she said, as Clint opened the stage door for her. They walked into the brightly lit stage. Elvis stood in the center rehearsing a dance number with a big group of dancers and singers in the background. His costume was powder-blue western in style, with white fringes hanging down from the sleeves. The other dancers and singers dressed the same, but Elvis’s costume had more glitz.
The part Georgia came to read for was small, but the chance to be in an Elvis Presley picture mattered more than the part. Elvis had to be the biggest star in Hollywood. His pictures made big money. Elvis’s entourage of guys made all the work seem like a party.
Georgia and Clint watched the rehearsal from behind the large camera boom, as it moved in on Elvis for the final close up.
A couple of Elvis’s boys spotted Georgia and approached her.
“Hi, there pretty girl. You in the picture?” One of them asked.
“Oh, hi, I’m Georgia Evans. I don’t know yet. I’m here for an interview,” she said.
“You got the part, honey. I’ll take a bet on it.”
“Oh, are you the producer?”
“Naw, I work for Elvis, and if I know Elvis and I do, he’s my country cousin, you got the part.”
Elvis had finished the production number. His attention had taken him where Georgia stood on the set talking to one of his guys and walked over to them.
“Elvis, this pretty little girl is Georgia Evans,” said the cousin.
“Pleased to meetya.” Elvis took Georgia’s hand up to his mouth and flicked the tip of his tongue between Georgia’s fingers, which raised goose bumps all over her body.
Georgia was taken back by him; she could hardly get words out of her mouth. “It’s a … pleasure to meet you, Mr. Presley.”
The assistant director came up to Elvis. “Mr. Presley, they’re ready to shoot the dance number.”
“Thanks, Charlie. Well, pretty girl, don’t you go away,” he said as he left for the set. He stopped by a man wearing a fedora hat and smoking a cigar and spoke to him as they looked toward Georgia.
Clint recognized the man as the producer, Sam Katzman. Clint said.
“You got the part.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Let’s say I’m chalking it up to experience,” he said with confidence.
Sam Katzman came over and shook Clint’s hand. Clint introduced him to Georgia.
“Elvis told me he wants your little girl here for the part of “Traci, says he knows her work. I’ll get back to you tomorrow about the money and billing. It’s a nice part for her. Should get her some recognition.” He tipped his hat to Georgia and went back to his position on the stage.
“Quiet on the set. Ready to roll.” yelled the assistant director. The bright klieg lights switch on. Everyone quieted down. Elvis and the dancers stood in their places. Someone yelled “speed”. The director yelled “action” from up on the camera boom. The music started; the dancers went into their routine. It was to be the usual Elvis number with lots of pretty girls dancing around him. Elvis, playing his guitar, sang a country western song in a barnyard set.
“That’s a take.” said the director.
The crew set up for the next shoot.
Elvis’s cousin came over to Georgia after the shot. “Isn’t Elvis great? I love my old cousin. He told me to tell you that he’s havin’ a party tonight at his house. Wants you to all come. Here’s his address.
He says about nine o’ clock,” said the cousin as he handed Georgia a small piece of paper.
Georgia stiffened.
“What’s the matter? You act like someone said a dirty word. Don’t tell me you didn’t like what happened here?”
“Of course I did, but I can’t go to his party.”
“The hell you can’t, girl. His party is the most important engagement you have ever had to attend. Do you realize how many girls in this town would trade places with you? What ever you have planned, you’re going to cancel. I insist on it.”
Georgia was near tears. They left the stage to return to their cars.
When they got outside Clint could see that Georgia had been crying.
“You should be the happiest actress in town, you just got a good part in an Elvis Presley picture, for God’s sake. You should be kissing my
ass. Shame on you … You’re crying. Where have I gone wrong?”
Clint threw his hands into the air.
“Clint, I can’t tell you now. I’m sorry.”
“Georgia, it’s one of those situations. “No ticky, no washy.” Georgia nodded her head as she got in her car. She looked up at Clint with tearrimmed eyes.
“I’m sorry, Clint. I can’t do it.” She started her car and drove toward the gate.
Clint stood in disbelief as she drove away.
Georgia walked in the bar of the “Garden of Allah” at ten after nine that night. She wore a black silk sheath dress with spaghetti straps. It fitted tightly to her curved body. She had her long blonde hair pulled back behind her ear. A large red flower had been pinned behind her left ear. A simple strand of small pearls adorned her neck.
She saw Luis sitting in a corner booth along the bar. He got up to greet her. In her high heels she was taller than he. He kissed her on both cheeks and she sat down. She glanced around the bar and saw how crowded it was. Renè Touzet stood on stage playing the new dance craze, the cha cha cha. The dance floor was packed.
Georgia wanted to tell Luis all about the “Garden of Allah”, what a great Hollywood past it had, that Erroll had lived there once, how it had been built by a famous twenties silent screen star, Alla Nazimova, and how Scott Fitzgerald, Humphrey Bogart, Robert Benchely, Dorothy Parker, and Sheila Graham, to name a few, had partied, got drunk and lived it up there. She had heard this information from Marty, who knew all about Hollywood history, but she couldn’t tell Luis now, because of all the noise.
The music got them up to dance. By their first few steps they moved ideally on the dance floor. Before they realized it, the other dancers had stopped to watch them dance, as if they had been dancing for years. Georgia had learned to dance to the Latin beat from her past lover. They had danced in the clubs around East Los Angeles before she called it quits. She thought she loved the Mexican, but she found out he had too many girlfriends. She wondered if Luis would be like that. How was she to know? It was a Latin male trait, she thought.
She and Luis moved their bodies around the floor the entire evening.
Georgia couldn’t remember when she had danced better and felt better in a man’s arms. She was falling in love with Luis and falling hard.
Confessions of a Hollywood Agent Page 8
