Tell-All (12 page)

Sitting opposite her at the table, I say, “Who’s trying to kill you?”

Another ancient
Slim Summerville
moves a pawn and says, “Checkmate.”

From the offscreen distance, we hear the filtered ambient noise of horse carriages clip-clopping along the Sixty-fifth Street Traverse. Taxicabs honk on Fifth Avenue.

Miss Kathie shoves the ream of paper, sliding it across the chessboard toward me. She says, “You can’t tell anyone. It’s so humiliating.”

Bark, oink, screech
…
Screen Star Stalked by Gigolo
.

Moo, meow, buzz
…
Lonely, Aging Film Legend Seduced by Killer
.

The stack of papers, she says she discovered them while unpacking one of Webb’s suitcases. He’s written a biography about their romantic time together. Miss Kathie pushes the stack at me, saying, “Just read what he says.…” Then immediately pulling the pages back, hunching her shoulders over them and glancing to both sides, she whispers, “Except the parts about me permitting Mr. Westward to engage me in anal intercourse are a complete and utter fabrication.”

An aged version of
Anthony Quinn
slaps a clock, stopping one timer and starting another.

Miss Kathie slides the pages within my reach, then pulls them back, whispering, “And just so you know, the scene where I perform oral sex on Mr. Westward’s person in the toilet of
Sardi’s
is also a total bold-faced lie.…”

She looks around again, whispering, “Read it for yourself,”
pushing the stack of pages across the chessboard in my direction. Then, yanking the pages back, she says, “But don’t you believe the part where he writes about me under the table at
Twenty-one
doing that unspeakable act with the umbrella.…”

Terrence Terry
predicted this: a handsome young man who would enter Miss Kathie’s life and linger long enough to rewrite her legend for his own gain. No matter how innocent their relationship, he’d merely wait until her death so he could publish his lurid, sordid tale. No doubt a publisher had already given him a contract, paid him a sizable advance of monies against the royalties of that future tell-all best seller. Most of this dreadful book was in all probability already typeset. Its cover already designed and printed. Once Miss Kathie was dead, someday, the tawdry lies of this charming parasite would replace anything valuable she’d accomplished with her life. The same way
Christina Crawford
has forever sullied the legend of
Joan Crawford
. The way
B. D. Merrill
has wrecked the reputation of her mother,
Bette Davis
, and
Gary Crosby
has dirtied the life story of his father,
Bing Crosby
—Miss Kathie would be ruined in the eyes of a billion fans.

The type of tome
Hedda Hopper
always calls a “lie-ography.”

Around the chess pavilion, a breeze moves through the maple trees, making a billion leaves applaud. A withered version of
Will Rogers
reaches his old
Phil Silvers
hand to nudge a white king forward one square. Near us, an aged
Jack Willis
touches a black knight and says,
“J’adoube.”

“That’s French,” Miss Kathie says, “for
tout de suite.”

Shaking her head over the manuscript, she says, “I wasn’t snooping. I was only looking for some cigarettes.” My Miss Kathie shrugs and says, “What can we do?”

It’s not libel until the book is published, and Webb has no intention of doing that until she’s dead. After that, it will be his word against hers—but by then, my Miss Kathie will be packed away, burned to ash and interred with
Loverboy
and
Oliver “Red” Drake, Esq.
, and all the empty champagne bottles, the dead soldiers, within her crypt.

The solution is simple, I tell her. All Miss Kathie needs to do is live a long, long life. The answer is … to simply not die.

And pushing the manuscript pages across the chessboard, shoving them at me, Miss Kathie says, “Oh, Hazie, I wish it were that simple.”

Printed, centered across the title page, it says:

This is no partial story, says Miss Kathie. This draft already includes a final chapter. Pulling the ream of paper back to her side of the table, she flips over the stack of pages and turns the last few faceup. Near the ending, her voice lowered to a faint whisper, only then does she begin to read aloud, saying, “ ‘On the final day of Katherine Kenton’s life, she dressed with particular care.…’ ”

As old men slap clocks to make them stop.

My Miss Kathie whispers to me the details about how, soon, she would die.

Katherine Kenton
continues reading as voice-over. At first we continue to hear the sounds of the park, the
clip-clopping
of horse-drawn carriages and the calliope music of the carousel, but these sounds gradually fade. At the same time we dissolve to show Miss Kathie and
Webster Carlton Westward III
lounging in her bed. In voice-over we still hear Miss Kathie’s voice reading, an audio bridge from the preceding scene: “ ‘… On the final day of
Katherine Kenton
’s life, she dressed with particular care.’ ”

Reading from the “lie-ography” written by Webb, the voice-over continues, “ ‘Our lovemaking felt more poignant. Seemingly for no special reason the muscles of her lovely, seasoned vagina clung to the meaty shaft of my love, milking the last passionate juices. A vacuum, like some haunting metaphor, had already formed between our wet, exhausted
surfaces, our mouths, our skin and privates, requiring an extra force of effort for us to tear ourselves asunder.’ ”

Continuing to read from the final chapter of
Love Slave
, Miss Kathie’s voice-over says, “ ‘Even our arms and legs were reluctant to unknot themselves, to untangle from the snarl of moistened bedclothes. We lay glued together by the adhesive qualities of our spent fluids. Our shared being pasted into becoming a single living organism. The copious secretions held us as a second skin while we embraced in the lingering ebb of our sensuous copulations.’ ”

Through heavy star filters, the boudoir scene appears hazy. Almost as if dense fog or mist fills the bedroom. Both lovers move in dreamy slow motion. After a beat, we see that the bedroom is Miss Kathie’s but the man and woman are younger, idealized versions of Webster and Katherine. Like dancers, they rise and groom—the woman brushing her hair and rolling stockings up her legs, the man popping his cuffs, inserting cuff links, and brushing lint from his shoulders—with the exaggerated, stylized gestures of
Agnes de Mille
or
Martha Graham
.

Miss Kathie’s voice, reading, says, “ ‘Only the beckoning prospect of dinner reservations at the
Cub Room
, a shared repast of
lobster thermidor
and
steak Diane
in the scintillating company of
Omar Sharif, Alla Nazimova, Paul Robeson, Lillian Hellman
and
Noah Beery
coaxed us to rise and dress for the exciting evening ahead.’ ”

As the voice-over continues, the lovers dress. They seem to orbit each other, continuing to fall into each other’s embrace, then straying apart.

“ ‘Donning a
Brooks Brothers
double-breasted tuxedo,’ ” the voice-over reads, “ ‘I could envision an infinite number
of such evenings stretching into our shared future of love. Leaning close to tie my white bow tie, Katherine said, “You have the largest, most gifted penis of any man alive.” I recall the moment distinctly.’ ”

The voice-over continues, “ ‘Inserting a white orchid in my buttonhole, Katherine said, “I would die without you plumbing my salty depths.”

“ ‘In retrospect, I think,’ ” Miss Kathie’s voice-over says, “ ‘ “If only that were true.” ’ ”

As the idealized Katherine and Webster caress each other, the voice-over says, “ ‘I fastened the back of her enticing
Valentino
frock, offering my arm to guide her from the bedchamber, down the steps of her elegant residence to the busy street, where I might engage a passing conveyance.’ ”

The idealized lovers seem to float from the boudoir down the town house stairs, hand in hand, floating through the foyer and down the porch steps to the sidewalk. In contrast to their languid movements, the street traffic rushes past with ominous roars, motortrucks and taxicabs, blurred with speed.

“ ‘As the stream of vehicles whizzed past us,’ ” the voice-over reads, “ ‘almost invisible in their high velocity, I sank to one knee on the curb.’ ”

The idealized Webb kneels before the idealized Miss Kathie.

“ ‘Taking her limpid hand, I ask if she—the most glorious queen of theatrical culture—would consider wedding me, a mere presumptuous mortal.…’ ”

In soft-focus slow motion, the idealized Webb lifts the hand of the idealized Katherine until the long, smooth fingers meet his pursed lips. He plants a kiss on the fingers, the back of the hand, the palm.

The voice-over continues, “ ‘At that moment of our tremendous happiness, my beloved Katherine—the only great ideal of the twentieth century—stumbled from the treacherous curbstone …’ ”

In real time, we see the flash of a chrome bumper and radiator grille. We hear brakes screech and tires squeal. A scream rings out.

“ ‘… falling,’ ” the voice-over reads, “ ‘directly into the deadly path of a speeding omnibus.’ ”

Still reading from
Love Slave
, Miss Kathie’s voice-over says, “ ‘The end.’ ”

Bark, moo, meow
…
Final curtain
.

Growl, roar, oink
…
Fade to black
.

Webb planned to kill her on this night. Tonight they had dinner reservations at the
Cub Room
with
Alla Nazimova, Omar Sharif, Paul Robeson
and …
Lillian Hellman
. Their plans had been to spend the afternoon together, dress late and catch a taxicab to the restaurant. Miss Kathie hands me the manuscript, telling me to sneak it back to its hiding place in Webb’s suitcase, under his shirts, but on top of his shoes, tucked tight into one corner.

This scene begins with a very long shot of the chess pavilion atop the
Kinderberg
rocks. From this distance my Miss Kathie and I appear as two minute figures wandering down a path from the pavilion, dwarfed by the background of skyscrapers, lost in the huge landscape, but our voices sounding distinct and clear. Around us, a hush has fallen over the din and sirens of the city.

Walking in the distance, the pair of us are distinct as the
only two figures that remain together. Always in the center of this very, very long shot. Around us, single, distant figures jog, skate, stroll, but Miss Kathie and I move across the visual field at the same even pace, two dots traveling in a straight line as if we were a single entity, walking in identical slow strides. In tandem. Our steps the same length.

As our twin pinprick figures cross the wide shot, Miss Kathie’s voice says, “We can’t go to the police.”

In response, my voice asks, Why not?

“And we mustn’t mention this to anyone in the press, either,” says Miss Kathie.

Her voice continues, “I will not be humiliated by a scandal.”

It’s not a crime to write a story about someone’s demise, she says, especially not a movie star, a public figure. Of course, Miss Kathie could file a restraining order alleging Webb had abused her or made threats, but that would make this sordid episode a matter of public record. An aging film queen suckered into dyeing her hair, dieting and nightclub hopping, she’d look like the doddering fool from the
Thomas Mann
novella.

Even if Webb didn’t, the tabloids would slay her.

She and I, almost invisible in the distance, continue to move through the width of this long, long shot. Around us the park drops into twilight. Still, the paired specks of us move at the same steady speed, no more fast or more slow. As we walk, the camera tracks, always keeping us at the very center of the shot.

A clock chimes seven times. The clock tower in the park zoo.

The dinner reservations are for eight o’clock.

“Webb has written the whole dreadful book,” says the
voice of Miss Kathie. “Even if I confront him, even if I avoid tonight’s conspiracy, his plot might not end here.”

Among the ambient background sounds, we hear a passing bus, a roaring reminder of my Miss Kathie being crushed to bloody sequins. Possibly only an hour or two from now. Her movie-star auburn hair and perfect teeth, white and gleaming as the dentures of
Clark Gable
, would be lodged in a grinning chrome radiator grille. Her violet eyes would burst from their painted sockets and stare up from the gutter at a mob of her appalled fans.

The evening grows darker as our tiny figures move toward the edge of the park, nearing Fifth Avenue. At one instant, all the streetlights blink on, bright.

In that same instant, one tiny figure stops walking while the second figure takes a few more steps, moving ahead.

The voice of Miss Kathie says, “Wait.” She says, “We have to see where this is going. We’ll have to read the second draft and the third and the fourth drafts, to see how far Webb will go to complete his awful book.”

I must sneak this draft back into his suitcase, and every day, as Miss Kathie foils each subsequent murder attempt, we need to look for the next draft so we can anticipate the next plot. Until we can think of a solution.

As the traffic light changes, we cross Fifth.

Cut to the pair of us approaching Miss Kathie’s town house, a medium shot as we ascend the front steps to the door. From the street, in the second-floor window of her boudoir, we see that a hairy hand holds the curtains open a crack and bright brown eyes watch us arrive. From within the house, we hear footsteps thunder down the stairs. The front door swings open, and Mr. Westward stands in the light of the foyer. He wears the double-breasted
Brooks
Brothers
tuxedo cited in the last chapter of
Love Slave
. An orchid in his lapel buttonhole. The two ends of a white bow tie hang, looped and loose around his collar, and
Webster Carlton Westward III
says, “We’ll need to hurry to stay on schedule.” Looking down on us, he holds each end of his tie and leans forward, saying, “Would it kill you to help me with this?”