Action! Page 11

  “I tried.”

  “Bullshit. In all my years, I’ve never seen a bigger loser.”

  Poor choice of words. “What did you say?”

  “One more idiotic failure and you’re out. I’m only patient to a point, then—”

  “I quit.”

  “You what?” Todd lost his rhythm mid-rant.

  “I’m through.” AJ stormed away, loosening his black tie.

  Todd whipped him around by the shoulders. “You think you can quit on me? You’re fired! No one will hire you when I’ve finished ruining your reputation!”

  AJ took a step forward, causing Mike to take one back. Then another and to the left. They looked like a dance pair working out a routine. “Keep him away,” Mike beseeched. No one sympathized. He stumbled, but AJ grabbed him by his lapels, as if they were performing a dip, then lifted him off the ground.

  The crowd roared.

  “Please! Don’t hurt him!” It was Mike Jr.

  AJ eyed the frightened Todd. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but none of them would make the slightest impact, so he marched his former boss across the floor and dumped him on his butt in front of Art Cohn. “Another chapter for the bio.”

  By the time AJ had hiked to the Pierre, there were already urgent messages from reporters at two New York papers—and his mother. He dialed her first. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m better than you.”

  “What’s going on, Mom? What’s ‘urgent’?”

  “Well, it’s not every day that a mother sees her son in a vaudeville act on live television. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but Walter Cronkite gave a pretty fair blow-by-blow.” AJ broke into a sweat. Byron Palmer must have exacted revenge by televising the altercation. “Todd looks even nastier than I thought. But don’t worry, we’ll figure out a plan when you get here.”

  “Mom, I’m going straight back to L.A. I want to find another job as soon as possible.”

  Disappointment seeped through the line. “You already know how I feel. Let me know when I can catch you in prime time again.”

  Her sarcasm stung, but there was no point being prideful when he might have to eat crow. AJ stared out his tenth-floor window but saw only the blackness of Central Park. In school he’d regularly been voted most likely to succeed, but in the real world . . . how about class clown?

  The phone rang. He hoped it was Steph, who was working on a night shoot. But the guy on the line said his name was Harold Klurfeld from Walter Winchell’s office at the New York Daily News. “Mr. Jastrow, I’d like your version of the ‘heavyweight bout at the Garden.’ ”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve already got a quote from Mr. Todd saying that you’re ‘a troubled youth who was drinking heavily earlier in the evening.’ The bartender at the Ripley confirmed his allegation.”

  Apparently the worst moments of AJ’s life—his dad’s death and now his sacking—were fated to be public. “I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t run that. I wasn’t drunk, but it’s a private matter between Todd and myself. Your story would add to my embarrassment.”

  Klurfeld guffawed. “Get used to it, kid. Humiliation is mother’s milk in your line of work.” Claiming he had a deadline, the man abruptly hung up. AJ had a deadline as well. He had to use the rest of his round-trip ticket before Mike canceled it. Without replacing the receiver, he called TWA and made reservations on the morning flight to the coast.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Garden Party earned a lousy Nielsen rating on the West Coast, so other than two matrons at a Hughes checkout counter who wanted to know what Mike Todd was really like, no one recognized AJ as the disgraced screwup. Maybe notoriety would have helped—without it he was just another job hunter in a town with double-digit unemployment. AJ aggressively pursued every rumor of an opening, but suffered more slammed doors than Willy Loman.

  The studios had instituted a hiring freeze, with the ironic exception of Paramount, which advertised for a script analyst. A hundred hopefuls applied. In the initial interview Joe Fuchs, the hoary story editor with a complexion the color of phlegm, quizzed AJ about old films. He had seen all of them with his folks and passed the first hurdle by correctly identifying Victor Fleming as the director of Treasure Island, Test Pilot, and Tortilla Flat. His next test was to prepare notes on the studio’s upcoming project, I Married a Monster from Outer Space.

  AJ dissected the holes in the story and even suggested alternative lines for the corny dialogue. Dropping off his assignment, however, he froze at the sight of Paul Herzog, deep in discussion with a steely Jack Palance, who starred in Paramount’s The Lonely Man. They looked like a pair of criminals plotting a heist. Barney Balaban’s refusal to retire as president had made Herzog the longest-running understudy in town. AJ fled the lot, wondering if working for the enemy would make him a disloyal son. He decided not to worry, because getting the job was still a long shot.

  His work was so impressive, however, that Fuchs showed it to his boss, who ordered the scriptwriter to implement the suggestions. Joe promised to call AJ with a formal offer within forty-eight hours. Then . . . nothing, not a word for a week. AJ phoned repeatedly, but Fuchs was invariably “down the hall” or “in conference.” AJ guessed what had happened, but to make sure he sneaked onto the lot and surprised his prey in the men’s room. After checking that no one was eavesdropping in the stalls, Fuchs admitted that when AJ’s name came up, the big boss told him to hire anyone else. Although the Harry Jastrow incident was long in the past, Herzog was taking no chances.

  With Christmas approaching AJ widened his search, seeking employment as a production assistant. Unfortunately, the studios were financing fewer films and many of those were shot out of town, and frequently out of the country. “Runaway production” left Hollywood with a surfeit of experienced workers, and AJ’s college degree proved a hindrance, since no one valued education when the job was bringing coffee to the director.

  So he was thrilled to land a gig as Danny Kaye’s stand-in on Merry Andrew, a circus musical starring Kaye and European import Pier Angeli. He arrived on the MGM lot full of enthusiasm—the only person in a good mood. Everyone else wore black armbands to commemorate the recent death of Louis B. Mayer, Metro’s founder and boss for thirty years. On the set AJ paid close attention as director Michael Kidd rehearsed a scene in which Kaye courted Angeli under the big top. When Danny departed for hair and makeup, AJ took his place, inches from the Mediterranean beauty. She purred hello with her marvelous accent, but before he could trot out his limited Italian, Pier departed with a flirtatious “Ciao.” Her stand-in’s breath reeked of cheap whiskey as she babbled about her upcoming auditions. The cameraman circled them, thrusting a meter next to AJ’s nostrils, then barking orders at his gaffer, who adjusted the lights to cast precisely the shadow that flattered the left profile. Kaye reappeared, and AJ drifted into oblivion.

  Shot after shot, hour after hour the routine never varied. No one said a word to him other than “Keep your head up” or “Don’t move.” When he suggested that a scene might play better if Kaye’s character moved to his left so the Fat Lady could also be in the frame, the director stared as if he were Mr. Bumble and Oliver had asked for “More.” By wrap, AJ felt less essential than the greensman who fed the elephant.

  His frustration was high and his spirits low as he exited the Egyptian Theatre with Steph after seeing The Incredible Shrinking Man. “That was idiotic,” he groused.

  “Come on. The scene where he lances the giant spider with the straight pin—I heard you shout. The special effects were wonderful.”

  “Not to me. But that’s because I already know what it’s like to feel two inches tall.” He recounted his dismal day as they drove to the San Gabriel Valley to try the new In-N-Out Burger. They joined a line that drifted around the restaurant.

  “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “The job was a mismatch. A stand-in needs to be invisible, and you have too much . . . presence. There’ll be something
else.”

  He took a deep breath. “Between takes today I wrote a letter to the dean of my old law school to see if he’ll let me return next year.”

  “You’re quitting Hollywood?”

  “Hollywood’s quit on me.”

  “You hated law school.”

  “At least I was decent at it.” They finally got their order, and he immediately began chain-eating French fries.

  “AJ, why can’t you understand that it’s only a matter of time till others discover how talented you are?”

  “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. You’ve got a job that puts you in the center of the action. The whole Gunsmoke crew depends on you. Hell, James Arness sent you flowers. You’ve made it.”

  “And you will too.” Steph wiped relish off his upper lip. “If it’s necessary, I’ll chain you to your bed until you come to your senses.”

  The look in her eyes said she loved him. He knew it did. And that knowledge turned his day—and his life—upside down. Even bad was good because it proved they belonged together. “This isn’t the most romantic setting.” He tapped the Formica table and pointed to their Cokes. “But I have to say this now. Steph, I love you.”

  “You do?”

  “I have from the first day we met.”

  She grabbed her jacket and purse. “Why don’t you finish your burger so we can get out of here.”

  Later, after they’d made love for the first time and Steph slept soundly in his arms, AJ made a mental note to apply for a California driver’s license. She wouldn’t need the chains—he was never leaving this state again.

  With his girlfriend working overtime, AJ phoned Steve McQueen and the two went to check out Sweet Smell of Success. They’d become unlikely buddies after the fight at the Formosa. With AJ, Steve felt safe venting his endless frustrations. For his part, AJ decided that if he’d known McQueen in high school, he’d have gotten into more trouble and had a lot more fun.

  A thousand cars packed the Sepulveda Drive-In for the seven-thirty show. As the only male twosome in their section, AJ suspected that he and Steve looked like a couple of homos. Then he felt a wet tongue on his neck and remembered why they were there. From the backseat Thor, McQueen’s German shepherd, slobbered on him. Steve refused to leave the dog at home, so they’d hid him in the trunk until they parked.

  “He loves you,” McQueen marveled. “I wish he liked Neile.” Thor was a bone of contention in Steve’s marriage. Neile argued that their life was too unsettled to own a dog; she already saw her husband infrequently and didn’t want to share his affections. But for Steve, who’d grown up without a family, the animal was a surrogate child. Sensing that Neile disliked him, Thor did his business next to her pillow while she slept. It was the final insult, since Steve had bought him with Neile’s paycheck. “God didn’t intend a wife to make more money than her husband,” he griped.

  The comment struck AJ close to home. “No work on the horizon?”

  “A TV pilot about a bounty hunter. But I’m not doing the idiot box. It’s death for an actor.”

  “I think you’re selling television short, Steve. Sure, they do mindless stuff, but some of the shows are better than a lot of movies. Can I read the script?”

  “Be my guest. You’ll see that it’s just another oater.”

  Fedoras outnumbered trilbies two to one as the hat of choice among William Morris agents. AJ calculated the ratio while sitting in the lobby of the agency’s headquarters in Beverly Hills. For an important meeting with his representatives, McQueen had asked AJ to accompany him for moral support. Both wore black, AJ in a suit and Steve in jeans and a T-shirt. They looked like a public defender and his client.

  Along with its rival MCA, William Morris was Hollywood’s preeminent talent agency. Originally founded by its namesake as a booking service for vaudeville acts, by midcentury the Morris office represented talent in every area of entertainment. The agency’s motto read, “No Act Too Big . . . No Act Too Small (Our Small Act of Today Is Our Big Act of Tomorrow).” Presently, McQueen was the smallest of their “acts,” and if his wife hadn’t been a valued client, they would have dropped him from the roster.

  A secretary escorted them to a large conference room, where they sipped coffee from bone china cups. McQueen was palming the silver spoons when Sy Marsh and Stan Kamen entered, apologizing for being late. “My time’s cheap,” Steve said scornfully.

  Marsh promised to change that. A lanky man in his early thirties, he talked and moved with the audience-pleasing exuberance of the song-and-dance man he’d once been. Kamen, in contrast, was more reserved, polished, even gentle—he reminded AJ of Henry Fonda. The two men were cordial to him, while trying to figure out if he was their client’s drinking buddy, bookie, hanger-on, alter ego, or God knows what else.

  Their agenda was to convince Steve to do an episode of Trackdown, a western that starred Robert Culp. The episode would serve as a pilot for a new series featuring McQueen as a bounty hunter. “After all the downtime you’ve had, the show will give you a chance to sharpen your acting skills,” Marsh enthused.

  “My skills don’t need sharpening. I keep them honed,” Steve replied with a pout.

  Kamen went for his client’s ego. “Your character, Steven, is a guy who people usually view as a heavy, but who played a pivotal role in frontier justice. The producers are convinced you have the qualities—innate integrity and quiet strength—to make Josh Randall come alive. And you’ll be totally original on TV.”

  “Isn’t Paladin in Have Gun Will Travel a similar character?” AJ interjected, referring to the role Richard Boone played as a hired gun in the Old West.

  “See, guys, don’t try to bullshit me when my buddy’s around.” Marsh and Kamen looked flustered. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m holding out for the big screen. That’s where I’m meant to be.”

  “I think you should reconsider,” Kamen pleaded.

  AJ sensed what Stan wasn’t saying—that no one in the film community had evinced the slightest interest in McQueen. Once Marsh and Kamen withdrew, McQueen made another beeline for the silver. “Some people actually pay for those rather than steal them,” AJ said.

  “Who stuck a pole up your butt?”

  “No one, ‘Steven.’ ”

  McQueen blushed. “I used to call myself Steven, but Neile said I was more of a Steve. Let’s split before Thor suffocates in the car.”

  “You’re making a mistake.” McQueen looked perplexed. “Not accepting the part is a major mistake.”

  “You said it yourself, the role’s been done.”

  “That’s what you heard. What I said was that it was similar to another hit show, which is good, not bad. It means the audience can accept a dark character like a bounty hunter.” AJ began talking energetically. “I’ve read the script, and I think Kamen’s right. You’d be terrific as Josh Randall. And there are tons of ways to distinguish you from all the other western stars.”

  “Name one.”

  “Your weapon. You need something unique.”

  “Like Bat Masterson’s cane?”

  “More lethal. I see a sawed-off shotgun.”

  “That’s genius, man.”

  “But the reason to do this show isn’t because you’ll be great in it.” AJ paused for effect. “The reason is to save your marriage.”

  “My marriage is none of your business.”

  “Maybe so. But you need to pull down a serious paycheck to feel good about yourself again. When I’m feeling useless, I get depressed. But you prove your manhood by bedding every skirt in sight.” The veins in McQueen’s neck bulged. “Did you think it was a secret? If Steph and I gossip about it, you can bet that Neile suspects. She can’t ignore it forever.”

  AJ watched his friend circle the table toward him. He was ready for anything except a kiss. “You’re the best fucking friend I ever had!” There were tears in McQueen’s eyes. “I’ve lost so many people in my life. I can’t lose her.”

  No one went from goat
to hero faster in Stan Kamen’s estimation than AJ Jastrow. Steve gave him full credit for his turnaround on the bounty-hunter pilot. While Marsh discussed shooting dates and salary with Steve, Kamen asked AJ what he did for a living. Rather than admit he was unemployed, he deflected. “I loaf, but in a decorative and charming manner.”

  “Mildred Pierce?”

  The guy was impressive—no one else recognized AJ’s obscure movie quotes. “I’m a producer,” he replied, knowing Stan couldn’t check a directory to verify, since anyone could hang out a shingle regardless of whether he’d ever produced a frame of film.

  “Do you have any properties we might be interested in?”

  “Yes. I’ve got a World War Two script set in New Guinea. It’s not finished but—”

  “We just screened The Bridge on the River Kwai, the new David Lean film. It’s extraordinary, so it’ll be hard to sell anything like it for a while. My advice is stow your project until memories fade.”

  Kamen started to say good-bye. Knowing that the Morris office always sought new scripts to feed TV’s insatiable appetite, AJ gambled. “My hottest project is a television series.”

  “What’s it about?”

  It was a long shot, but . . . Months before, he had dutifully read Leon Ginsberg’s screenplay about a wandering European rabbi. Exile was awful in the way of amateur scripts—misuse of technical jargon, clunky dialogue, and scant attention to logic. It was also so personal that criticizing Ginsberg’s writing risked insulting him. So AJ had resorted to Hollywood etiquette and told the rabbi he loved it but that Mike Todd was too busy to consider another project. At the time, however, AJ had had an inkling that the idea behind the script might work on TV. “The main character is a young Presbyterian minister,” he explained to Kamen. “He drives the back roads and each week helps new people with their spiritual problems.”

  “Have you got any of this worked out?”

  “I’d be happy to come in and show you my ideas.”

  “How about Tuesday?”

  AJ ceremoniously checked his pristine calendar. “I can make that work.”