Scatter the Stars, page 30
‘A biggie. Susan Mason. She’s also on loan from Five Star. That shows the studio thinks this Seigelmann film will be a hit. Miss Mason ain’t cheap.’
‘But I am? Ariel, how good is this deal?’
‘Good enough for your second film. Be patient, we’ll get there. You don’t know how big you’re going to be. I do.’
‘I trust you, Ariel.’ Randy’s smile stayed in place but his eyes hardened. ‘But you ever leave me and I’ll never . . .’ his voice dissolved as his eyes glazed over.
‘Randy, I’m with you as a partner. For the long haul. You be honest with me, and I will be with you. You succeed, so do I. We’re in this together.’
‘Okay.’ He lifted his drink in acknowledgement of the deal.
‘I’ll see you at the party tonight.’
The party started off with the main guests seated at one long table and the lesser lights – contract players and starlets hired to be decorative – at several smaller tables around it. The studio executives enthused and gushed about the film, their stars and the potential of both. Everyone applauded with as much enthusiasm as they applied to demolishing the mountains of seafood that was the culinary theme for the evening.
Randy table-hopped. He started to recognise a familiar pattern in the women he spoke to. A constant smile, admiring glance, burning eyes and the pressure of some part of the body – a leg, an arm, a hip pressed invitingly against his. He knew they were there for the taking. He saw the opportunities and wondered if brief interludes lost in anonymous arms might help wash away his constant pain.
At any time of the day or night, he only had to close his eyes for an instant and she was with him. He could feel the familiarity of her body against his, smell her warmth, remember her sweetness, taste her skin. He wanted to stay in this limbo world of closed eyes where he could conjure up Talia. But the harsh reality was he had to open his eyes and contemplate the emptiness of the world about him. At times like this he could not fob off the loneliness. Or the hurt that swamped him when he thought of his unborn child curled inside Talia’s body.
With people fawning over him, flattering and flirting, he was always ready with a quip, a funny story, a glass in his hand. None of them knew he was giving the performance of his life.
The party rolled to its conclusion, but Randy was reluctant to face the empty suite and lonely bed. He gathered a small coterie about him.
‘Let’s really party. What’s a hot nightspot?’
‘The Mocambo nightclub!’
‘The Mocambo it is!’ Randy linked arms with two eager starlets, two young studio executives and a reluctant Ariel.
‘Randy, I’ll have a nightcap, but I’m on a plane to New York in the morning and you’ve got to be at the studio at 10 a.m.’
‘Ariel, sweetheart, you’re sounding like a mother hen.’
She shrugged and asked no-one in particular, ‘I should pay him for devoted service?’
They walked into the nightclub’s baroque interior to be confronted by a giant aviary of tropical birds. The birds stared back at them from their lush gilded cage.
One of the starlets squealed, ‘Ooh, aren’t they gorgeous!’ and began whistling. Her tipsy girlfriend called out, Polly, wanna cracker?’
‘Nah, these are boozing birds,’ said Randy, ‘They’re a special breed.’
The jewel-feathered birds, bored under the bright lights at such a late hour, stared unblinkingly back. ‘They look so sad,’ cried the starlet.
Ariel and Randy exchanged a grin. ‘You want they should sing too?’ Ariel asked. Laughing loudly, Randy led the way to their table.
An hour later with the champagne flowing and the band still playing, Ariel kissed Randy’s cheek. ‘I’m outta here. Reggie the driver will see you back to the Marmont. I’ll call you from New York. Be good.’
‘Why?’ he mumbled and gave her a drunken salute. ‘See ya boss.’
At one o’clock as the empty champagne bottles were up-ended in the buckets, the group decided it was time to leave. The two starlets had given up hope of snaring Randy for the night, and turned their attention to the junior studio executives.
Randy, who was by now very drunk, staggered to the men’s room, stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink and tried to still the turmoil in his stomach. The blurred face that stared back at him was not what he wanted to see. He wished with all his heart he was looking into those huge dark melting eyes of Talia. Eyes that stared back at him with utter love. The hard, hurt, red-rimmed eyes in the mirror were not his. Anger, pain and frustration swept over him and he bashed his head into the mirror. Through the fog of alcohol that sometimes helped dim the memories, the sharp blow felt good. He slammed his head against the hard glass again, feeling the bone above his eyebrow crunch. He went to throw his head forward once more when a hand gripped his shoulder, holding him back.
‘Hey, buddy, you’re gonna hurt yourself. Hey, man, you cut your face.’
Randy refocused on the mirror, seeing everything through a red haze as blood ran from his cut eyebrow into his eye.
‘Man, you want I should get someone? You need a doctor.’
Randy grabbed the man’s arm. ‘No, mate. It’s all right. I’ll be fine. Just leave me, okay?’
The other man watched dubiously as Randy splashed cold water on his face and pulled out a handkerchief which he pressed against the cut. He stretched his mouth into what he hoped was a grin. ‘She’ll be apples, sport. Don’t want any fuss. I’m just a bit sloshed.’
Looking doubtful, the fellow left him.
Two minutes later, Reggie hurried in. ‘Christ, how’d you do that?’ He looked at Randy’s face. ‘The bleeding’s more or less stopped. You might need a stitch. The studio doctor is on call.’ He knew any mark on a film star’s face was going to be trouble and it would be on his head for not watching him more closely. ‘The car’s out the front. I got rid of the dames, they went with the moguls-to-be. Or did you want company, huh?’
Randy shook his head, which hurt. ‘Nah. I need a drink. Medicinal brandy. Let’s go down to the beach.’
‘Man, I still think you should see the doc.’ He peered at Randy’s face.
‘Had worse. Never see it. All gone!’ Randy held out his arms. ‘All better. Get the car, Reggie, and we’ll go for a nightcap.’
Shaking his head, Reggie, ex-bouncer, sometime bit player, general assistant responsible for minding stars and catering to their whims, whether it be women or booze or drugs, led Randy towards the entrance of the Mocambo, then went for the car. When he pulled up at the door there was no Randy. Suddenly he appeared, running from the lobby.
From inside the club came shrieks, screams and laughter. Randy piled into the back seat of the car and shouted, ‘Let’s go, mate!’ He began laughing and pulling off his bow tie. ‘Hit the gas, Reggie, me old mate.’
Reggie promptly pulled away. ‘So what’s going on in there?’
‘I opened the aviary and freed the boidies. Bloody birds flying everywhere, singing for their supper!’
Reggie couldn’t help joining in Randy’s laughter, wishing he could have seen the dozens of birds screeching around the fashionable nightclub. Randy cajoled him into joining him for ‘just one drink’.
‘Take me some place fair dinkum, not these chichi Hollywood joints. A bar, where real people hang out.’
Reggie knew just the place. The Beach Bar, down the Pacific Coast Highway before Malibu.
Inside, there were five men and a hooker scattered round the dimly lit tables. Randy sat at the bar. ‘A bourbon straight up, ice on the side. Reggie, what’re ya drinking, mate?’
Reggie shook his head. ‘Just a cola. I’m done with the booze tonight. Gotta get you home in one piece.’
‘C’mon, spoilsport. Have a bloody drink.’ Randy pushed the glass along the bar towards Reggie who spun it back to Randy. ‘Just a cola, buddy.’
‘Ah, fuck you, then. Here, you have it.’ Randy sent the glass sliding down the bar to the man on a stool. The glass clipped the edge of the bar and toppled off into the man’s lap.
‘Oops, ’nother two bourbons,’ giggled Randy to the bartender.
The man was off the stool and grabbing Randy’s shoulder in a flash. ‘Whaddya mean throwin’ a fucking drink at me? I oughta do you one, handsome.’
‘You and who else? I was offering you a drink, you stupid bastard,’ slurred Randy.
The man, his thickset dark eyebrows now meeting above his broken nose, yanked Randy off the stool by his jacket lapels. Reggie was quickly at his side. ‘Hey, cool it, man. He’s out of it, didn’t mean any harm.’
‘Brought your nursemaid, did ya, buddy? You gonna apologise for throwin’ a fuckin’ drink at me?’
‘No bloody fear.’ Randy pushed the hands away from his dinner jacket. ‘Piss off and leave me alone.’
‘Not till you ’pologise.’
Reggie saw that the other man was also drunk and realised the danger. He pushed Randy to one side and tried to sound placating. ‘He didn’t mean it, buddy, just an accident . . .’ Before he could go further the man swung a punch straight at Reggie’s jaw and he went down, banging his head on the bar and slipping groggily to the floor.
Randy was straight onto the other man before the bartender could intervene. He grabbed him by the necktie, slammed a fist into his nose and followed it up with another to the jaw. The bartender yelled at them to break it up, the others in the bar merely watched the unexpected entertainment.
The other man was heavier and not as drunk as Randy. He pushed Randy over a table, rammed a knee into his groin and smashed another fist to his jaw. Randy, functioning on instinct, reached out and his hand felt a beer bottle. He swung it hard on the man’s head. Suddenly it was all over.
The bartender had Randy by the back of the collar. ‘Outta here!’ He half dragged him to the door as Reggie was trying to get to his feet. Outside Randy blinked, trying to remember how he’d gotten there.
A police car slid to a stop, two officers grabbed him and shone a torch in his face. The bartender was at the door, ‘Lock the bastard up, he bashed one of my customers!’
Randy was hustled into the back of the police car, where he lay his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. All he wanted was to sleep. His face ached, he could taste blood. ‘Where are you, Mac?’ he asked hoarsely. With no answer, he wrapped his arms around himself and longed for Talia. He could feel her cool hands on his sore face, hear her sweet voice in his ear and for a few moments he felt better, until he was prodded in the ribs by a police officer.
The studio executive who bailed him out was tight lipped in the morning. Randy blinked in the harsh daylight. ‘Christ, what happened? I don’t remember much.’
‘You assaulted a guy. Unprovoked attack.’
‘Bullshit. Why would I do that? Say, wasn’t Reggie with me? Where is he, he’ll back me up.’
‘Reggie got knocked out in the first round.’ The Five Star representative hustled Randy to the waiting car. ‘Just as well no-one recognised you. The press would love this. Chateau Marmont,’ he told the driver. He glanced over at the bloodied and dishevelled Randy. ‘A word of advice, buddy. Keep your nose clean. You’ve already got a reputation for trouble. Can you imagine what Gloria Harper would do with this? They’re gonna be watching you real close from now on.’
‘They? Who?’ asked Randy wearily.
‘The people who really run the studio. Like I said. Stay outta trouble.’
Randy didn’t answer. His head hurt, his fists were sore, his throat and mouth were coated and parched. He didn’t care about anything much. He just wanted to sleep. Dreamless, oblivious sleep.
As he was escorted through the gardens to his bungalow, he had a momentary flash of Ariel’s unamused face. But he was too tired to worry about the chewing out she’d give him. He really didn’t give a damn about anything.
THIRTEEN
Los Angeles 1953
Randy stood in the back of the mirrored rehearsal room, arms folded lightly across his chest, one foot casually crossed over the other, a study in nonchalance, an amused tilt to his charmingly crooked mouth. It was a pose that covered some nervousness and a sense of the ridiculous. He watched the other men in the room who were constantly moving and appeared oblivious to his presence. They pirouetted, they twirled, they stretched, lifting arms and legs in a series of moving postures to best show off their bodies, watching themselves in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors along one wall with apparent total concentration. But each was very much aware of the newcomer in the dance class.
They knew Randy was the star of the hit Voyage to Paradise yet there lingered the question, would he be a one-hit wonder? He was also an outsider, a foreigner. No matter how large each actor’s ego, they could see Randy was a threat. He radiated physical sexiness and a lithe power. And as the actresses came in from their dressing room, they too eyed off the handsome new studio recruit.
The laughing girls, wearing skimpy shorts, skating skirts, blouses knotted above their midriffs or breast-hugging knit tops, giggled and flirted. Instantly the atmosphere in the room was charged with sexual energy.
‘Ah, the good-time girls are here at last. May we begin?’ The lean, balding choreographer and one-time ballet star who’d almost made it in the movies, tapped the floor impatiently with his cane. The group assembled in lines. He pointed his cane at Randy. ‘Remain at the back, sir. Follow as best you can.’
From behind a piano draped in a dustsheet, a small fusty old lady suddenly poked her head to quickly scan the room. She took the cue from the cane wielder and crashed into a crescendo of music. The class, feet planted in first position, ankles together, toes splayed outwards to form a vee, bent their knees and swept their arms out in an arc to the side. As they straightened and repeated the move, Randy copied it, feeling slightly silly. The ballet master walked up and down and, when behind Randy, smacked the cane into his backside. ‘Buttocks in, please. Pull that bottom under your shoulders, don’t poke it out like a duck!’ Some of the class smirked, the girl next to Randy smiled at him but he ignored her and scowled in embarrassment, staring straight ahead.
They went through a basic routine of warm-up exercises and then moved to the barres along the walls. Randy tried to make himself unobtrusive, burying himself in a corner at the end of a line. This time it was kicking legs, to the side, behind and in front. His foot swung into the neat bottom of the girl in front. ‘Sorry,’ he hissed.
She took no notice, then suddenly everyone had spun and the entire class was facing him. Hurriedly Randy turned his back and realised he was now leading and had no-one to follow. He craned to see the opposite rows in the mirror in an attempt to follow the movements. Dear Lord, what was he doing here? How was this nonsense going to help his career?
Dance Class Two finally came to its confusing end and everyone rushed to the small recreation room next to the studio where there were change cubicles, toilets, washbasins and a table with jugs of water and orangeade.
The ballet master was replaced by a man dressed like Fred Astaire in wide leg pants, a shirt with rolled sleeves and a neck scarf. The class reassembled. Some of the girls had changed clothes. Most of the actors wore tight blue jeans, snug white T-shirts and white tennis shoes. One or two had smart brief tennis shorts, their all-white ensembles setting off their Californian tans. Randy looked down at his baggy khaki shorts, cotton aertex shirt and sailing plimsolls – gear he’d wore on the Sorcerer.
Glancing round at the class, he doubted if any of them had ever done anything more adventurous than cycle into the Hollywood Hills. His life in PNG and aboard the Sorcerer seemed a world away. The pianist peered at them and lifted her hands, waiting for the cue from the dance teacher. Randy caught her eye, wondering what was coming next and, to his delight, the elderly lady gave him a wink and a slight waggle of her head. It was a sympathetic look that seemed to say, ‘Stick with it, pal, it really might help in the end.’ She launched into Top Hat, White Tie and Tails and, to his shock, he discovered everyone had taps on their shoes as they began the noisy footwork.
‘Time step,’ called the dance teacher and a few moments later, ‘Double time!’ As the group speeded up their tapping – ‘Tap, tap, brush, swipe. Heel toe, heel toe, toe,’ Randy gave up.
‘Bugger this,’ he said and went and sat on the piano stool next to the pianist. The teacher frowned slightly, but didn’t break his rhythm of calling the steps.
‘It’s not as complicated as it looks,’ whispered the pianist. ‘Ask him for a couple of private lessons to help catch up.’
‘I don’t think I give a toss. I hadn’t planned on skipping my way through a musical film.’
She eyed him shrewdly. ‘No. You don’t look the type. Fencing’d be more your scene.’
‘I start that next week. I’m supposed to go to bleeding singing lessons, voice class and God knows what else before that.’
‘Keeps you out of trouble, darling.’ Her fingers ran in a glissando along the keys as the class changed direction across the floor.
‘Who are all these people, anyway?’ he asked. Glancing round the room, it seemed everybody there was trim, beautiful, sleek, groomed and glamorous. A lot of work had gone into looking casual.
‘Mostly contract players. A few have had biggish roles. They all belong to Five Star, they all share the same dream.’
‘To be in movies?’
The pianist gave him a shrewd look. ‘To do what you’re going to do.’
‘Oh? And what’s that, do you reckon?’
‘Be number one at the box office. All over the country.’
‘Excuse me . . .’ the dance teacher was beside them, hands on his hips. ‘I’m sorry to break up this tete-a-tete, but are you here for tap or talk, Mr Storm?’
The pianist stopped playing and the class watched Randy get up and give a lazy grin, running his fingers through his hair. He eyeballed the dance teacher. ‘Now that you mention it – talk. Talk is definitely more in my line.’ He broke into mock pidgin. ‘How cum you pellas be dancin’ round silly sing sing, bang bang?’ He broke into a bit of tribal tap dancing, struck an oratorial pose, rattled off a burst of Shakespeare, then turned to the bemused pianist. ‘And it’s been nice talking to you.’ He gave a dashing low bow to the pianist, who thanked him with a flowery wave.
