She took out a cigarette, tapped the end on her thumbnail, and handed me her lighter to do the honors. She leaned, flamed the cigarette, then tossed back her head, her nostrils streaming smoke like a Chinese dragon, scales and all.
“Another thing—I really want to pay my debt to Frank with this book. If not for Frankie Adonis I’d have never seen the inside of the Thalberg Building, I’d have been at Fox playing those Loretta Young parts with ruffles and Ty Power or—” She leaned toward me with a yearning expression. “Oh, darling, what must poor Frank think of us all? What must he think of getting killed that way—some gangster letting him have it right through the eyeballs? I hope the bastard rots in—no no no, take it back, take it back—I mustn’t say that, I must think beautiful thoughts, we all must think beautiful thoughts. Darling, I think maybe I’ll have just one more martooni, if I may. I’ve got my primal scream session this afternoon and vodka releases me.” When the waiter had brought her drink and discreetly withdrawn, she laid her hand over mine, saying:
“Bless you, darling, bless you so very much for this lovely treat. It means so much to know you care enough to invite me out. I really don’t get out much at all, you know. I can’t imagine how Belinda found out, but really I haven’t been too well. Our little secret. No, no, dear,” she hurried on, “not to worry, not to fret, Charles, we’re not going to talk about my ailments today and spoil our lovely lunch, we’re just going to talk about you. Vi says you’ve written a simply divine play. How terribly exciting! I’ve always known how terribly special you were—”
She gushed on in this vein and I knew she was bent on finding out as much about the play as she could. Since the producers were announcing the details on Thursday to make the Sunday edition of the Times, I didn’t mind at all dropping my little bomb in Claire’s lap. The play was called Peking Duck, a comedy about a New England widow who goes on a trip to China and meets a communist widower and they fall in love, only to have the children of both try to break up the affair.
“China! But what a simply entrancing idea!” Claire exclaimed rapturously. “I’ve always wanted to go there. Only—don’t they say Beijing or some such these days? Instead of Peking or Peiping or whatever it’s supposed to be? I do wish they’d make up their minds. And—um—whom did you say your star was?”
I had a forkful of salad in my mouth and had to swallow first. “Belinda,” I finally managed.
She stared at me blankly. “What?” I repeated the name. “You mean—Belinda Carroll is going to star in your play?” I nodded, watching as the realization sank in. “But—but—she can’t. She’s scarcely been on the stage in her life.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. She’ll be just fine.”
“Will she really? I wonder…” Claire mused, “Belinda Carroll—on Broadway. Somehow it doesn’t—doesn’t ring true—I mean—she’s so movies, know what I mean? So absolutely Hollywood. Much more than so many others with a theatrical background. And I can’t picture her playing some middle-class woman going off on some tour to China. Who’s the man?”
I mentioned the name of a popular star of the day we were trying to sign. She fanned her face with the hand that had the diamond bracelet. “Well, if you ask me, you’ll certainly have your work cut out for you with Belinda. If you care about your little play, and I assume you do, you’ll think twice about that casting. Think: opening night you’ll turn round and she simply won’t be there. She’s terrified of live audiences.”
“Oh, I think she’s got that pretty well conquered,” I said.
“Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing—” She paused to sip her drink. “I only wish I’d known you had another play in you after that ghastly flop, poor darling. That Vi’s a real stinker not to have told me.”
“Why?”
“To be perfectly honest, I’d have liked a crack at it myself. I was trained for the stage, you know. As a child. I once won a ‘Most Beautiful Curls’ contest. The Brooklyn Theatre.”
“I don’t think I ever knew that,” I ventured cautiously. “You have had a checkered career.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me. Oh, if Frank was only alive, he’d tell you. He knew me from when. And even after all those years in Hollywood and God knows how many movies, I’ve never stopped hankering to return to the New York stage. And, after all, I’m not that much older. Little Miss Goody-Goody has lopped off a couple of years, even if you don’t know it.” An unattractive furrow had made its way between her brows, and the corners of her mouth pinched. Then she brightened, leaning across to press my hand. “Oh, just look at big, bad Momma, here she is talking about herself again.” She swooped her eyebrows at me in a sort of Ginger Rogersy way. “Oh, darling, if you only knew how much I want you to work on my book along with me. To—collaborate—yes, that’s the word! You and me together, side by side, typewriter and pencil—blue pencil, of course, because you’d just have to edit me. I know it’d be a bestseller, nothing like that last one.” At least she was acknowledging the bomb her last book had been; a step in the right direction. “And then there’ll be the movie, of course. Lots of that good old Hollywood cabbage. Maybe David Wolper could do a miniseries. After all, you can’t possibly tell it all in two hours, not this life! Come on, boy, what do you say? Is it a deal?”
“Well, I’d really like to,” I said, “it’s a mighty tempting prospect, but, you see, we’ll be going into rehearsal soon. I guess you know what that’s like.”
“But you could find a little time, couldn’t you? For me? After all, I’m not exactly chopped liver, am I? I mean—I have retained a following, haven’t I? And think of the fun we could have meanwhile. It can’t be too terribly hard, can it, writing? At least it wouldn’t be with you. All you have to do is ask questions and I’ll just talk away into the tape recorder. I’ve already taped scads. Then, when your play’s opened and you’re a big success, you can just take it all away and stick it together—you could go to Minorca, Hal Prince has a house there. Do you know Hal?”
“Hal’s Majorca.”
“Well, same thing, practically—Costa Bravo—and you could just sort of fluff it all up and arrange it chronologically and we’d have a book in no time. I even have the title. I want to call it The Movieland Express. It’s modern and catchy, I think, don’t you? And then, underneath, ‘Memoirs of a Hollywood Career by Claire Regrett,’ in smaller print. Don’t you like it?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“And I’m prepared to be generous, darling. I’ll give you a really good split.” She gripped my hand. “Oh, please, please please please say you will. Pretty please? I won’t be any trouble, I promise. I won’t be difficult and I won’t make trouble and—”
“And you won’t tell the truth.”
She drew back from me against the banquette and gave me a reproachful look. “How can you even think such a thing? Didn’t I say the whole truth and nothing but? I’ll Cry Tomorrow will read like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm compared to me. And I know exactly who I want to play me in the movie.”
I steeled myself.
“Jane Fonda.”
“Oh. Yes. Jane’d be very good.” I could just see Jane Fonda playing Claire as a budding actress in 1932.
“She could age well, too. She’s already got wrinkles around the eyes, don’t think she hasn’t. Aerobics doesn’t do it all, you know. I’ve managed to keep my figure pretty well, for a girl my age. I have to remind myself I’m seventy; I keep up my massage and my schedule of facials; my beauty regimen is one of the most important parts of my day. Did you know I still eat my bran? Every morning—”
“Well, fancy meeting you here,” I heard a voice greet me. I jumped up to shake hands with one of my producers; this was Marty Feldshoe and he got fat eyes when he saw whom I was with. I made suitable introductions and Claire instantly batted her lashes at him.
“I’m so happy to meet you. Charles has just been telling me about the play. It sounds absolutely delicious. I was saying I thoug
ht possibly a more seasoned stage actress might bring greater dimension to the role. You know, of course, that Natchez Calhoun wrote Three Women for me—Joan of Arc, Mistress Mary Johnson, and Emma Goldman—”
“The anarchist?” Marty’s eyes were popping. “Did she get burned at the stake, too?”
“Oh, I don’t really think so,” Claire said glibly. “That didn’t really come into it, I mean she didn’t throw a bomb or anything. I was just mentioning it, you know—my stage background.”
“Oh yeah, sure, I gotcha, heh heh.” Marty was doing his best to represent his usual breezy self. “We’re lucky to have Belinda. She’s a household word; especially after the Oscar, they’ll flock to see her. Say, Miss Regrett, that reminds me, we’re giving her a party, a big big party—on a boat—cruising out around the Statue of Liberty and so on; we’d sure like it if you’d come. Hey—better yet, you could play hostess—you and Belinda arm in arm—the old-friends bit? Get a lot of space—a girl can’t get too much publicity, y’know.”
I saw Claire’s eyebrows shoot up, denoting something between disdain and contempt.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Feld-shaw, but I’m afraid I shall be out of town,” she said, stiff as a bed slat.
Marty glanced at me. “Oh well. Just thought I’d ask. So long. Let me send you a pair of ducats to our opening. Bring a friend.”
Claire’s reply had icicles on it. “I shall still be out of town.”
Marty shot me another look, then made a hasty exit.
I looked at Claire. “Why’d you want to put the freeze on Marty Feldshoe?” I asked glumly. “He’s a nice guy.”
“I’m sure he is. And his diamonds are real cheap.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know, buster. They’re yellow as buttercups. And his shoes needed polishing.”
“He works hard. He’s just been divorced. He probably didn’t have time. Don’t be so critical of people.”
“I have high standards, that’s all.” She waved an arm at the room. “Besides, don’t you think they’re all critical of me, every last one of those bastards? You bet your ass they are. They’re all watching to see little Miss Clairey spill her soup or get plotzed and fall down or something.”
“They’re your fans. They love you.”
“And don’t you forget it, buster! They’ve loved me for almost fifty years. Stonecutter, carve it in stone. But I don’t think you’ve really caught my pitch. I mean, we’ll sell books, lots of books. I’ll be in every bookstore across the goddamn country. I’ll be on every talk show—Merv’s mad about me. This book’ll make a fortune. I really think you should reconsider. I mean, you really should. Otherwise…”
“Otherwise what?”
“Otherwise Momma spank—hard.”
Momma spank? What did that mean? She all but twisted mustachios, like the villain in a melodrama.
“Charlie,” she cooed. “What if your old friend Claire was to tell you something—something really interesting that you might not have considered—that might affect your decision?”
“I’m always game for interesting things. Shoot.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t think this is quite the place to discuss it. It’s a very delicate matter.”
“Okay. Call me sometime.”
“No, no, I really want you to have time to think this over. It involves you as well as Belin—others. I thought you ought to know, just in case—well, let’s say in case you continued to say no to my idea. You know—I don’t particularly like having people say no to me. It tends to get my goat.”
“Far be it from me to get your goat, wherever you keep him; perhaps you’d better tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Didn’t I say this is not the place to go into such things? Suffice it to say that what I’m talking about involves a famous Hollywood name, very famous—one I should imagine you’d be at pains to protect. ’Nuff said? Maybe you can find time for me this evening, we’ll talk further, hm?” She smiled, folded her napkin, and set it aside, giving it a little pat as if to thank it for the meal.
I was getting angry. “Look, I don’t think I quite catch your drift, but if you’re threatening me about—about anything—”
“I? Threaten you? Darling, don’t be silly. I simply mean to point out an area where danger—lurks, I suppose would be the word. Some skeletons are better left in the closet, don’t you agree?”
Skeletons. Closet. Where had I heard those words before? I was beginning to catch the drift. Vi’s lunch idea was backfiring. I was finding myself up the creek without a paddle. Claire asked for coffee—well Irished. I wondered about her next appointment: her primal scream was likely to be a howl.
I drank my decaf, thinking over what she’d said. She leaned across to let me light another cigarette for her and I marveled at the impasto of lipstick on the filter. Expelling smoke in a cloud, she glanced around her, and her eye fell on the portly figure of Marty Feldshoe at the corner table where he was talking with our publicity man and a newspaper reporter.
Turning back to me, she fanned away the smoke as if to see me better and said, “It was a lovely luncheon, Charles, I’ve enjoyed it immensely. But may we get one thing straight before we break things up? Your Mr. Feldshow with his yellow diamonds—if it’s really his quaint notion that I hostess a party for Belinda Carroll on board the good ship Lollipop, give him a message for me, huh?”
“Sure.”
“Tell him Claire said to go fuck himself. And give our little talk some thought, will you? I must be off. Bless you, darling. Lovely veal.” And she teetered off on her high heels.
“Claire—wait!” Heads whirled, necks craned, and what was left of the luncheon crowd ogled Claire’s uncertain passage back through the room as she made a ludicrous effort to maintain her balance, managing to bump into a waiter, who only just saved the contents of his tray.
Fortunately Tom Margittai stopped her with a word at the head of the stairs, giving me a chance to catch up with her. She tossed her furs about and repeated her stage business with her gloves, having trouble with the fingers.
“Did you enjoy your lunch, Miss Regrett?” Tom asked politely.
“Bless you, darling, of course. The veal was scrumptious. See you soon.” She kissed his cheek, gave her stole another hike, waved to Walter in the grill, took three steps, and her feet went out from under her. She hit the stairs with her bottom in the most awkward, splat-legged pose imaginable. Tom and I rushed to help her up, only to be scorned.
“No one touch me!” she commanded. “I can get up myself.” Summoning what remained of her dignity, she managed to accomplish this with a minimum of effort, balancing unsteadily and clutching the brass railing, while a sea of faces gazed down into the stairwell from all sides. Another buzz flittered among the onlookers, and I thanked God there were no photographers on hand to record this moment of ignominy. Without a backward look she made her way gingerly down the stairs, one by one, obviously feeling the effects of her accident. Exit star, tottering.
The results of this minor debacle were several. To begin with, Claire’s accident proved far more serious than anyone had thought, and the next day I learned from Vi that she’d been put in Roosevelt Hospital for a fractured coccyx. Being in any hospital did not set well with Madame since she was a devout Christian Scientist and didn’t believe in medical help. Instead, she kept her Science practitioner at her side, helping her pray her way back to health, though the fact that she was encased in plaster-of-Paris from her chest to her lower back indicated that a more conventional treatment was needed as well.
Also, the accident further served to embroil me in the clutches of—Miss Clutch, who else? Feeling in some small way guilty about her accident, I loaded up on flowers and went to visit the patient in her sickroom, a veritable bower of blooms. Cards and affectionate reminders from a host of notables were everywhere displayed, she was got up in her favorite negligee, her hair freshly done and a ribbon in it, as if she were wa
iting for the photographers. They’d already come and gone.
When I came in, she settled back against her pillows and began putting on her Lady of the Manor act, cooing over my floral offering and making me look at each bouquet she’d received and read each card.
“Aren’t people simply wonderful? How thoughtful, how kind they all are. And how kind you are for coming to see me after all those terrible things I said. Taking time out of your busy schedule.” Now she was into “Little Me” again. She tilted her head to one side, and smiled coyly. “Charles,” she went on, “I’m glad you’ve come, because I’ve been lying here wondering if you’ve forgotten what we were talking about just before I slipped. At the restaurant?”
I’d hardly forgotten about our conversation at the Four Seasons; rather, it had been hanging over me like the Sword of Damocles. What did she have up her sleeve, really?
“Your venom is caking,” I said.
Her brows shot in surprise. “What a thing to say! I’m only attempting to get things straight between us.”
“Sorry, it sounded like a threat. You know—‘my knife is sharp, mind your liver and lights.’ Suppose you just cut the jokes and level with me.”
She maintained a consistently blithe attitude. “Frankly, I don’t think your word ‘threat’ is appropriate. You know me better than that, darling; I don’t go around making threats. At least—not idle ones.” Her smile beamed, then turned to glass, and the bitch had the nerve to bat her eyelashes at me, all four feet of them.
“What I am referring to—and I think you already know what I’m going to say—I am referring to some letters. Letters written to me many years ago by a certain party. A rather famous party, who though now dead would attract a lot of attention wherever that name happened to be mentioned. Letters written to me by that party and stolen from me by another party—a relation. Letters that, should they come to light, would doubtless prove embarrassing to still other certain parties. Now do you catch my drift?”
“I do, but I think if you checked, you’d find that the letters you refer to no longer exist.”