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  His father had once advised AJ to find a girl with a good appetite. Steph fit the bill. She took the last sparerib, swiped it through the duck sauce, and systematically cleaned the bone. The Formosa was her favorite Chinese restaurant. She relished the crowd, the character, and the Cantonese cooking. AJ, on the other hand, found the food greasy and the place itself a dark and dingy hangout for actors whose careers were on hold. “Everyone here looks like they blew today’s audition.”

  “They probably did.” She cheerfully surveyed tonight’s diners. “But they’ll all be back at it tomorrow.”

  Born and raised in Cincinnati, Steph had headed west two years ago after attending Ohio State and was already a sought-after script supervisor. Her job was to make sure that everything the actors did in a scene matched the action in previous takes and to report inconsistencies to the director. Unlike most girls, who cared only about marriage and family, Steph was determined to succeed professionally. AJ found that sexy.

  “I still haven’t gotten my invitation to Todd’s party,” she kidded.

  AJ recounted Perelman’s blast and the incident over the dance troupes.

  “What’s the real problem—his ordering you to lie or humiliating you?”

  “The latter, I’m afraid. I’m used to awards, not abuse.”

  Steph smiled. “The award you deserve is for the thinnest skin in town.”

  “You don’t understand how vicious Mike can be.”

  “Don’t I? In the last film I worked on, an American named Danny Blaylock played a British spy. In his key scene he completely forgot his English accent. We were behind schedule, so the director yelled, ‘Cut, print, let’s move on.’ When I reminded him about Blaylock’s accent, he screamed, ‘You stupid bitch, you tell me one more time how to do my job and I’ll make sure your skinny ass never sits next to a director again.’ ”

  “I hope you told him to go to hell.”

  “I wanted to. I also wanted to cry, but instead I walked away. After lunch he tried smoothing it over, but his apology was so awkward I stopped him and said, ‘Thanks for the compliment.’ He looked confused. ‘About my butt being skinny,’ I said. ‘I always think it’s too big.’ Last week he called to ask if I’d be script supervisor on his next film.”

  “You should direct his next film.”

  “Right. There are precisely two female members in the DGA. Anyway, AJ, that’s not my point. A lot of the guys we work for would be committed to loony bins if they did anything else. My dad’s a pharmacist. Can you imagine if he called his assistant a ‘stupid bitch’ because she reminded him that the prescription was supposed to say two pills once a day rather than one pill every other day?” AJ burst out laughing. “The insanity comes with the talent—or vice versa. But if you take their outbursts personally, you won’t last here. And that would make me very unhappy.”

  AJ pushed aside their plates to kiss her—and kept at it until the flatulent Harley in the parking lot announced Steve McQueen’s arrival. The actor entered, alone and pissed, and explained that Neile couldn’t make it to Los Angeles because of her understudy’s broken ankle. McQueen sucked down a beer. “Be smart, Jastrow, stay single. I love my wife, but if she were my girlfriend right now, I’d tell her to get lost.”

  AJ headed to the men’s room but, glancing back, noticed that McQueen’s head was buried in the crook of Steph’s neck. She giggled at something he said—or was he nibbling on her ear? AJ stormed around drying his hands. He wasn’t sure if he was jealous because he cared so much about Steph or because he felt inadequate next to Steve, who figured to be phenomenal in bed.

  When he returned, two guys were hovering over the table looking pissed. One was a linebacker for the Rams who accused Steve of having seduced his girlfriend in an acting class; his lankier buddy egged him on. McQueen’s only response was a cocky smile. The guys left hurling threats. “I’ve got to get out of those classes,” Steve sighed. “They’re like bordellos. Man, do I need a job.”

  After being discharged by the Marines, McQueen had done some undistinguished stage work in New York. Hoping to build a career in movies, he’d come to Hollywood with his new bride, Neile Adams, a successful dancer. He had managed a few TV credits, but his only movie role was a bit in Somebody Up There Likes Me.

  The crash of breaking glass from outside froze them. Steve guessed it was the headlight on the Harley. He vaulted to his feet and was out the door, even as Steph pleaded with him not to do anything crazy. AJ promised to mediate. Outside, the linebacker circled McQueen, viciously swinging a tire iron at his head, but the actor was a born street fighter and a scarred veteran of juvenile detention centers. He edged in, reducing the man’s advantage.

  AJ was scared. “Guys, cut this out. Let’s talk about it.”

  “Fuck you!”

  McQueen charged, took a glancing blow, and flattened the man against a tan DeSoto parked next to the Harley. He was beating the crap out of the linebacker when his friend showed up with a Louisville Slugger. He took dead aim as if Steve’s head were a hanging curveball.

  AJ slammed the guy from behind, sending the bat twirling like a majorette’s baton. The man attacked him with a flurry of punches, one opening a cut that bled into his eye. AJ had no experience in street brawls, so he improvised, blocking most of the blows with his elbows. Then one connected with his right ear and all he could hear was Niagara Falls. The idea that he was deaf triggered a rush of adrenaline. AJ threw haymakers without caring if he got hit—so long as he hit back harder. He ripped flesh off his knuckles when he smashed the guy’s front teeth, more when he broke the man’s nose. He heard screaming, which meant his deafness wasn’t permanent. Someone powerful grabbed his arms as the two attackers stumbled backward, disappearing into the night.

  Eventually he realized that the person restraining him was on his side. Steve talked him down, assuring him they had won. The pain in his body asserted itself. “Jesus! Ow! That fucking hurts!” AJ waved his hands to get rid of the sting.

  Steve looked over to Steph. “You want to help me with the champ?” She rushed over to examine AJ, whose obscenities continued unabated. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes . . .” McQueen laughed out loud. “College boy here? Un-fucking-believable!”

  “He’s your friend for life now,” Stephanie shouted from the bathroom of AJ’s apartment as she soaked his shirt before the bloodstains set.

  “Then I better take a crash course in jujitsu.” AJ applied an ice pack to the side of his head. His jaw ached when he talked, but his hearing was back and the emergency room doctor had stitched his cut. Still, he shook. He couldn’t tell if the fight had altered his personality or revealed it. “It’s a good thing the Irish don’t run Hollywood,” he observed ruefully. “There’d be fistfights in the commissary every day. Or, worse yet, the Italians. We’d see blood and bodies on Rodeo Drive.”

  Steph plopped down on the bed. “The Jews run it, so there’s constant whining.”

  AJ bristled.

  “Hey, no offense, I’m Jewish myself,” she added.

  “No offense taken. You think all Jews are whiners?”

  “Only the males.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Come on, I’ve been listening to Jewish men complain about their mothers and wives and girlfriends since the crib.”

  “You prefer the strong, silent type?”

  She thought for a beat. “I don’t think in those terms. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just that . . . well, you seem to like Steve an awful lot.”

  Steph placed her arms protectively across her chest. “I do like him. So what?” When he said nothing, her eyes narrowed. “You’re wondering if maybe he and I . . . ? One of those punches must have damaged your brain.”

  “You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

  “Oh my God. You’re not wondering—you actually believe I slept with a married man whose wife is one of my best friends.”

  “Steph, don’t get so angry. It’s just
that . . . well . . . I’m interested in you.”

  “What are you interested in? Finding out if I’m an easy lay? Or finding out if I’m a virgin?” Given the size of his apartment, she reached the door before he could react. “The most important thing to me is being able to trust the person I love. I hate the idea of cheating. So go to hell. And make sure you change your bandage tomorrow.”

  He leaped from his bed to stop her. “I was being an insecure asshole. I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted. Good-bye.”

  If this woman walked out . . . if he never saw her again . . . that was unacceptable.

  “I’m interested in you because I absolutely, positively, and unconditionally adore you.”

  “That’s better.” She kissed him hard on the lips.

  It hurt, but he wasn’t about to complain.

  CHAPTER 13

  The captain’s voice crackled from the cockpit over the public-address system of TWA’s Flight 49. “Ladies and gentlemen, passengers on the right side of the aircraft now have a bird’s-eye view of Sputnik.”

  Over the wingtip of the DC-7 the pulsing lights of the Russian-made shooting star blinked an impenetrable code. Was it televising pictures of America back to Moscow? Could the satellite be rigged to drop a bomb? After World War II AJ and his generation had assumed that America ruled the world because it possessed the coolest technology. That belief now seemed a child’s fantasy, despite President Eisenhower’s assurance that Sputnik yielded the Communists no military advantage. If the United States orbits one, AJ wondered, maybe it could transmit movies from Hollywood all over the planet. Todd would love the idea because he always counseled to “think big.”

  AJ was en route to New York for the Around the World in 80 Days bash. Mike bragged that it would join the pantheon of the city’s celebrations, from V-J Day to the Dodgers’ first World Series triumph. At a meeting with CBS last month he’d introduced AJ as a researcher from Northwestern who’d conducted a consumer poll showing record levels of viewer interest in the party. Based on the detailed data, the network had agreed to broadcast the event live on national television. Todd was elated—indifferent to the fact he’d made up every number.

  The plane banked sharply to the left to avoid a band of thunderstorms over central Illinois. As lights from the suburbs of Chicago appeared to the north, AJ’s concerns shifted to the stop he’d make there on the way back from New York. It was past time to patch up his quarrel with his mom. He had so much to tell her about his adventures in Hollywood, but their sporadic phone calls never exceeded the three-minute minimum. How would she take the news that he was in love? Hopefully, it wouldn’t be a replay of the Dara Berkowitz incident. Dara had been Tri-Delt’s homecoming queen. AJ had really liked her, but all his mother could say when they met on prom night was that the girl laughed like a hyena. After that, AJ couldn’t listen to Dara giggle.

  No, this time was going to be different. Even Mom had to love a girl who could work a twelve-hour day, go surfing at sunset, and cook dinner. Steph could even argue politics, which she did fiercely, having worked for Stevenson in the 1956 election, while AJ was president of the campus Young Republicans. Although they hadn’t made love, he knew sex with Stephanie would be terrific. Five hours and he already missed her. With another three to go, he decided to get some sleep. He was sure to need it in the days ahead.

  The marquee outside Madison Square Garden read CLOSED TONIGHT FOR A LITTLE PRIVATE PARTY. Mike’s black-tie affair was so hot a ticket in New York that AJ had to travel to Queens to rent a tuxedo. When he reported for work at five A.M. on “T-Day,” he hung it on a rack in their makeshift offices above the Howard Johnson’s at Fiftieth Street, but since then he’d consumed so many bagels out of nervous energy he wondered if his cummerbund would still fit.

  Mike Jr. rushed over. “You have to rush to La Guardia to pick up Hubert Humphrey.” The Minnesota senator was tonight’s keynote speaker. “All the limos are booked.”

  “Sorry, Junior,” AJ demurred. “I’ve got a problem with the Mummers.” With their wild costumes and antics, the Philadelphia band was at the top of the bill, but two hours earlier their captain had threatened to withdraw unless AJ met his demands to fix their bus.

  “I’ll handle it,” Guy Biondi offered.

  Biondi couldn’t find his ass with both hands, but Junior brooked no debate. “Hell, Humphrey may be president someday, and he’s an old friend of Dad’s from their Milwaukee days.”

  On the drive from the airport the senator never stopped talking, heaping equal praise on the National Guard for protecting black schoolchildren in Little Rock and Mike Todd for exemplifying the American dream. If this guy got elected president, the nation was in for a four-year headache. Escorting Humphrey inside the Garden, AJ found Todd atop a ladder on the main stage, instructing a mob of performers, waiters, cops, and television crew on what would happen that night. “Here’s the order. First come the bands, followed by the folk dancers, elephants, Boy Scouts, and Senator Humphrey. We finish with Elizabeth cutting the cake. I can’t be any clearer than that, can I?” People raised their hands with dozens of follow-up questions, but he left Junior to tidy his mess.

  Todd hugged Humphrey and introduced him to Elizabeth Taylor. Her violet eyes finally shut the senator up.

  “Mike! Mike! Hold on.” AJ recognized Walter Cronkite and Byron Palmer, the director of the CBS special, dashing across the floor.

  “Hey, Walter, doesn’t this beat sitting behind the anchor desk?” Todd asked jovially.

  Palmer pounced. “What the hell kind of a bill of goods did you sell us? The broadcast is three hours away and not one of my guys knows what’s going on or when. You promised us a trainload of celebrities, but I don’t have a clue who’s showing up.”

  “That’s absolutely unacceptable, Byron. You should have had the schedule this morning. Jastrow, I told you the list of guest stars was to be on Mr. Palmer’s desk by ten A.M.”

  “I . . . I . . . I’m not—”

  “No excuses!” Todd swung back to Palmer. “I’m plagued by incompetents. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll get this under control.” Mike grabbed AJ and shielded him with his body. “Go to the office, type up a list, and get it to this schmuck as quickly as you can.”

  “I have no idea who to put—”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re winging it. ‘Byron Bureaucrat’ needs a list, so get him one. Meet me at the Ripley to let me know what we promised.”

  A few hours later AJ was stewing in his third bourbon and branch water at the bar of a low-rent hotel near the Garden. He hated the taste but thought it gave him an air of sophistication. And it got him drunk quickly. Mike arrived arm in arm with David Niven, dancing a jaunty rendition of “New York, New York.” Niven shook AJ’s hand and assured him how lucky he was to be working for an unparalleled impresario. “I didn’t want to do this movie in the worst way, but your boss wouldn’t take no for an answer. Now I’m rich. Stick with him and it could happen to you.”

  “Hey, sorry about earlier, but my plan worked perfectly,” Mike joked. “Palmer’s a pig in shit. I just got off the phone with Sinatra—he’s actually coming, so you’re not totally full of it.”

  It was scant solace. AJ was sick of lying every minute of every day. He was sick of Todd’s rationalizing, sick of being dragged into his boss’s cycle of bullshit—and sick of ducking a confrontation. As soon as this crisis passed, AJ intended to tell Mike what his limits were.

  The evening’s unsung hero was designer Vincent Korda, who’d beguilingly transformed Madison Square Garden. His theme was “Around the Garden, Around the World.” A replica of the Sphinx replaced the home bench of the Knicks. As guests circled the arena sipping Dom Pérignon, they visited the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Taj Mahal, and the Matterhorn. But the champagne was the first omen that all was not right around this world. It was supposed to be free, but the waiters—furious because Todd had screwed them on their rate—scalped the bottles at five dollars
apiece.

  “The Star-Spangled Banner” announced the onslaught of the bands. With butterflies in his stomach, AJ sent out his first group, thirty Alsatian accordionists in lederhosen. Although he planned to launch two bands per minute, he’d failed to calculate their members gawking and playing to the TV cameras.

  Mike was strutting in blissful ignorance when AJ and Palmer forced their way on stage to explain the problem. “So it takes longer, what’s the big cockamamie deal?” Gritting his teeth, Palmer reminded him that the CBS broadcast would finish before the stars of the movie and the other celebrities appeared. “Okay. Cut out the rest of the bands and dancers.”

  AJ knew people had rehearsed for months, but this was no time to argue their case. He resorted to the Big Lie one last time. Assembling the leaders of the remaining bands, he announced a change in plans: they would march after the speeches and food.

  “You expect me to believe that bullshit?” AJ recognized the towering man dressed in a cape of huge peacock feathers as Tommy Lombino, captain of the Mummers. “Jastrow, you promised to get back to me, but I didn’t hear a fucking word . . . so fuck you.”

  AJ spied Guy Biondi shrinking into the crowd. “Guy, didn’t you—”

  “We’re marching now!”

  AJ tried blocking the exit and knocked over a Mummer on stilts before two guys with vulture masks flattened him. The band moved in slow motion, playing Dixieland tunes on their banjos and trombones. Todd ran to intercept them or kill AJ—whichever he managed first. The collision occurred at the Eighth Avenue end of the Garden. Todd screamed for the cops to evict Lombino, who responded by threatening to have his band strip off their outfits. “And believe me, Shorty, they ain’t got jockstraps on underneath.” When Mike threatened to sue, Lombino sneered and signaled the band to keep marching. Palmer threw down his headset, shouting that the rest of the broadcast was canceled.

  Todd charged AJ like a midget bull elephant. “I told you to cut the fucking bands.”