Winning is Everything (49 page)

“Ship him home,” said Kirkland. “No … on second thought, have him hang out here a few days. I may just want to talk to him about what he’s done when I get back. Make sure he checks out of his bungalow, though. He can move in here—into the downstairs guest room.”

The front door opened, and out walked the handsomest of well-built young men.

“Darling!” Kirkland greeted the lad. “Are you ready to go?”

“Guess so.” The young man shrugged.

“Who’s he?” asked Ron. “The new Mr. Wonderful?”

“Bet your ass!” said Kirkland, placing a huge arm around his latest fixation. “I can’t stand this one. Makes my heart pound too quickly.”

“Hey, come on, Dale,” said the young beauty. “We going or not?”

“We’re going!” said Kirkland. “To the ends of the earth, if you like. Ever seen the sun rise in Borneo? It’s something from another planet!”

“Sounds okay,” allowed the kid. “When do we leave?”

“Say the word,” said Kirkland. “You wanted San Francisco for the weekend, you got it. You want the Seychelles next week, ask for it. Sugar Daddy Dale lives to make you happy.”

The gorgeous young hustler pinched Dale’s cheek and smiled. “What a character,” he said, and stepped into Kirkland’s awaiting Rolls-Royce.

Kirkland looked to Ron, filled with bliss. “Listen, if I’m not back by August, come looking for me. I’ll probably be somewhere between Tasmania and Katmandu.”

“Will do,” said Ron obligingly as he took a good look at his boss. Then he noticed Kirkland’s mouth was no longer wired.

“What happened to your braces, Dale?” asked Ron. “Thought you had another seven weeks.”

“Couldn’t stand it any longer,” said the film producer. “Margo was in the kitchen preparing oysters Rockefeller, and the smell of it was driving me back to heterosexuality. So I took a pair of pliers to my teeth and yanked off all that ridiculous orthodonture hardware. Now I can fly to San Francisco and not have to worry about my mouth picking up radio interference from the airport!”

And so, his teeth once again shiny white and metal-free, his eyes glossed over, capable of seeing little else other than his new romance, Dale Kirkland followed the boy into his Rolls.

“Dale!” Ron called after his boss.

Kirkland lowered the car window. “What now?”

“Just this!” said Ron, holding Talbot’s screenplay and passing it through the window. “It cost you close to half a million so far to develop it. You might want to have a little look-see.”

“Sure … sure.” Kirkland took the screenplay from Ron’s hands and nonchalantly tossed it over onto the front seat next to his chauffeur. “Is there champagne in the little icebox?” he asked the driver.

“Sure thing, Mr. Kirkland,” the chauffeur answered with a tip of his cap.

“Then let’s be off!” Kirkland sat back and patted his dreamboat’s strong thigh. As the Rolls lurched forward, Kirkland looked out the window and said to Ron, “Be back Sunday. Take care of Tara.”

94 

Martini in hand, Warren Talbot wandered about Tara, room to room, alone.

Ron had helped him check out of the Beverly Hills Hotel and had driven him over to Kirkland’s sprawling château. He had explained to the writer that they might not hear anything until at least after the weekend, so perhaps Talbot should just make himself at home at Tara and wait for Kirkland to return. Ron told Talbot to call if he needed anything and then left to go back to his own apartment.

Drunk and insecure, Talbot roamed around the house, one room after the other. He turned on all the lights, all the televisions, the radios, and both stereo systems. The servants had been given the weekend off, so he was quite alone.

He wondered if perhaps he hadn’t handed in his screenplay too soon. Surely his dialogue could have been sharper, the closing scene at the Yugoslavia border more poignant. If only he knew where in San Francisco Kirkland was staying, he could call his producer, explain the script’s deficiencies, promise to get it right on the next draft.

Talbot walked past a guest room, took another sip of martini, and entered Kirkland’s master suite. He walked past the giant man’s giant bed and headed straight for the emperor-sized bathroom. Talbot opened up a medicine cabinet and found gold. My, my, thought the playwright. What have we here? Little blue Valiums and large white Quaaludes and ups and downs and too much joy.

Talbot’s weekend of loneliness and depression was suddenly looking up. He shook out three different pills and washed them down with a slug of vermouth-laced gin. He walked over to the Jacuzzi-driven bathtub and opened the faucet full blast. A hot bath, he decided, as he began stepping out of his clothes, seemed too perfect to resist.

While the giant tub filled, Talbot went downstairs and refilled his martini glass. When he arrived back upstairs, the hot tub was filled.

Talbot turned off the faucets, cutting the mini-waterfall down to a pleasant cascade, and slowly sipping his martini, stepped into a very wet Garden of Eden.

Dale Kirkland was having a miserable weekend. San Francisco was cold and wet and crowded. The round of parties was dreary. Worst of all, when he walked into the bathroom on Sunday morning, he found the young man who had accompanied him rifling through his wallet.

Their trip to Bora Bora suddenly canceled, Kirkland sent the young hustler on his way and immediately made arrangements to return to Los Angeles on the double.

His weekend would have been a total bust except that on his flight back, for want of nothing better to do, Kirkland picked up his copy of Talbot’s screenplay. And loved it.

When the plane landed in Los Angeles, he hurried to the nearest telephone, called Ron, and said what a great job Talbot had done with the revision and asked Ron to meet him over at Tara so that they could congratulate their writer.

Ron was waiting at the front door when Kirkland’s Rolls pulled up. “No one home,” he said.

“Seven o’clock.” Kirkland looked at his watch. “Servants should be back from their weekend anytime now.” He took out a key and opened the door. They walked in to find every light on, radios blaring, televisions broadcasting. And a major flood in the middle of Kirkland’s living room.

Following the running water to its source, Ron and Kirkland hurried upstairs, where they found Warren Talbot, dead now for almost forty-eight hours, floating facedown in Dale’s pleasure boat of a bathtub.

95 

“Good show!” the stage manager told the cast as they walked offstage. “Good show!”

After seven months it had become a tradition. After each performance, the actors would take their bows, and then, as they retreated to their dressing rooms, the stage manager would invariably report to them that it was a “Good show … good show!”

As it happened, this Saturday evening’s performance
had
been a good show. A new Nurse Ratched had stepped in as replacement a week ago and had finally given a really fine performance.

“That was terrific!” Ellenor announced as she walked into Kip’s dressing room. “Best in weeks!”

Kip was lying on his couch staring up at the ceiling.

“Hey!” The stage manager knocked on Kip’s door. “You decent? Someone here to see you!”

“Fan or autograph hound?” asked Ellenor.

“Neither,” said the stage manager. “This guy’s from Hollywood. Says he’s a producer.”

Kip opened one eye and looked toward the door. He was still coming down from his performance and needed a few more minutes before dealing with any charlatans.

“Tell him to come in,” said Ellenor.

The stage manager stepped out of the way, and a tall, thin, mustached man stepped into the room. “Hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said. “I just had to come back and tell you how much I enjoyed your performance. Roth’s the name. James Roth. Everyone calls me Jimmy.”

“How do you do?” Kip said quietly. “This is Ellenor Robinson. Please forgive my not getting up. I need about another ten minutes before I touch ground again.”

“I can well understand that,” said Roth. “Would you like me to come back later?”

“No, no!” Ellenor said hurriedly. “He’s fine. Just a little exhausted.”

“Good,” said Roth. “Because I really came back here to talk a little business. My wife and kid are in the lobby waiting for me, so I’ll be brief, tell you what I’m up to.”

“Great,” said Ellenor.

“You ever see
Justice Most Blind?”
asked Roth.

“We both saw it!” Ellenor volunteered.

“What about
Stoned Sober?”

“Missed it,” said Kip.

“No matter,” said Roth. “I mention them just because they’re films I produced.”

“How nice!” Ellenor sparkled, clearly impressed.

“Yeah.” Roth was casual. “And
Wooden Love
and
A House for Sale!”

“Saw that!” said Kip, eyes still aimed at the ceiling.

“Well, I’m doing a new film for Columbia. We’re still fooling around with several titles, but for now we’re calling it
Istanbul Run.
It’s about three American kids who buy a load of hashish and get thrown into the Turkish slammer. Story concerns their survival and their escape. I think you just might be perfect for one of those three male leads.”

Kip sat up on the couch. “Honest?”

“It’s the truth,” said Roth, taking a business card from his wallet. “I’d like you come in for a screen test—that is, if you’re interested.”

“Oh, I’m interested,” said Kip.

Ellenor thought it might be wise not to be quite so anxious about this prospect, so she said, “Of course we’d want to look at a script before we’d agree to any screen test.”

Roth turned to Ellenor. “You his agent?”

“Manager,” said Ellenor without the blink of an eye.

“Great!” said Roth. “I’ll be looking at actors all next week. Call me Monday morning and we can set up a time for Kip to come in for his screen test. I’ll send you a script first thing Monday. You can look it over, see just what it is we’re doing.”

“Sounds terrific!” said Kip.

“Great,” said Roth. “Now I’d better be going. Don’t want to keep the family waiting any longer. Let’s talk Monday.”

On Monday Roth sent a copy of
Istanbul Run
to Kip’s apartment. The week after that, very early Tuesday morning, a limousine picked Kip up and drove him out to an ancient movie studio in Queens for his screen test.

He was to do a short three-page scene in which the character, Steve, tries to bribe his way out of prison, and then, failing that, kills the guard.

It took all day to shoot the scene. The director kept complaining about the dullness of the lighting, the flatness of the set, the slow pace of the crew. When he was finally satisfied, Kip was exhausted. He left the studio with no idea of how well or poorly he had done.

As the limousine sped down Queens Boulevard, Kip asked the driver to take a short detour through Flushing Meadow. He was curious to see what the old World’s Fair grounds looked like now.

Fields of grass and baseball diamonds. Oh, a few pavilions still remained. The aqueduct, the New York State steel-and-Plexiglas tents, and of course, the Unisphere. But where the Ford Pavilion once stood, there were now only weeds.

Although Gary and Ellenor were both waiting when he got to the apartment, Kip was almost too tired to join them for dinner. After a few bites of steak he got up and fell into bed.

He was asleep in seven minutes.

They heard nothing for a week.

When Jimmy Roth finally called, it was to say they had come to no decision as yet. Kip was still very much in the running, but the studio was in no way certain they wanted a film in which most of the leads were unknowns. “Not to despair, though,” Roth told Kip. “I’m still in there fighting for you, and of course we’re still testing other actors.”

Two weeks after that, Roth called Kip and told him to get himself an agent, that he was ready to start negotiations. That night Kip took Ellenor and Gary to the Four Seasons for dinner.

“Hey!” said Ellenor, lifting her glass. “I’ve been your manager till now, right? I’ll take care of finding you an agent. I’ve got the perfect plan.”

Two days later Kip had just returned from a Sunday matinee when the phone rang.

“It’s your mother,” said a very quiet, subdued Jean Bramer.

“Mom!” Kip raised his voice. “What a nice surprise. How you doing?”

“I’m not sure,” said Mrs. Bramer. “It’s your father. He’s dead.”

“What?”

“This morning. On the golf course. Had a stroke. Never even made it to the hospital.”

“He’s dead?” Kip asked, having trouble believing the unbelievable.

“Dead,” said Jean Bramer. “I’ve got to go over to the funeral parlor now, make arrangements. Can you come down?”

“Of course!” said Kip. “I’ll leave right away. Are you all right?”

“I don’t know,” said Kip’s mother. “Guess so. Are you?”

“I don’t know either,” said Kip. “I’m too stunned.”

“Me too. He was playing golf with three of his partners and just keeled over. They were only at the third hole, can you imagine?”

“I’m … I don’t know what to say, Mom. You take care of yourself, okay? I’ll put a few things together and get down there quick as possible. Will you be all right?”

“Do I have to call your Aunt Edith?” asked Mrs. Bramer. “I don’t mind making the funeral arrangements, but do I have to call your father’s sister? You know what a pain in the ass she is.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom. Don’t do anything. You don’t even have to go to the funeral home. I can do that when I get there. You just try to relax.”

“I am relaxed,” said Jean Bramer. “Truly. I don’t mind going over to the funeral home. It’ll give me something to do until you get here.”

“Whatever you say. I’m on my way. My show is dark until Wednesday anyway. Everything’ll be okay … I hope. You just wait for me.” “Kip?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“I love you, son.”

“I love you, too.”

Elliott Senior had a quiet, small funeral. The partners from the law firm, a few secretaries and clients, Aunt Edith, five or six other relatives, the cleaning lady, the golf pro, and Kip, Ellenor, and Gary.

The tragedy had come about so quickly, Kip was still dazed. He’d spent so many years worried about his mother, he’d never thought of anything happening to his father. And now, snap, just like that, he was dead.

After the funeral, Kip and Ellenor stayed in Chestnut Hill with his mother and his aunt. Edith cooked, cleaned, and tended to the bulldogs while Kip took his mother for several long walks. Tuesday evening Kip told his mother he and Ellenor would be returning to New York Wednesday morning.

“I want to go back,” Jean Bramer told her son.

“Back where?” asked Kip.

“Back there,” said Jean. “To ‘Happydale.’”

“The rest home?” asked Kip. “But why?”

“A hundred reasons,” said Jean Bramer. “Everything around here is too painful. I don’t want to live here alone, and I certainly don’t want to be here with your Aunt Edith. She mentioned just this morning she was thinking of giving up her apartment in Queens and moving in to take care of me. Ha! You know as well as I, she’d only drive me crazier than I already am.”

“I know what you mean,” Kip agreed.

“Take me back there, son, before you leave. They know how to handle me. I know how to live with them. It’ll be better that way, I’m sure.”

Early the next morning Kip drove his mother and the bulldogs back to the Packerfield Clinic and checked her in. He promised he’d come down to visit her again as soon as he was able.

He drove Aunt Edith to the train station and put her on the 9:21 to New York. He spoke to several real-estate brokers about putting the house on the market. Then he and Ellenor returned to New York, arriving just before he had to go onstage.

Two weeks later, Kip’s mother called. “Take me out of here!”

“What’s that?” asked Kip.

“I can’t stand it any longer, Kip. I want to go home. This is a place for very crazy people. What the hell am I doing here?”

“You mean you’re feeling better?” asked Kip.

“Never felt better in my life,” said Jean Bramer. “It took me a while to realize it, but now that I’m over the initial shock of your father’s death, I’ve decided to give up all this off-the-wall stuff. I’m bored wth being crazy. Darling, please come get your mother. I promise not to bother you again.”

Kip rented a car and drove down to Philadelphia. He checked his mother out of the Packerfield Clinic and brought her and the bulldogs home.

“Do you feel how much quieter the place is without your Aunt Edith?” asked Jean Bramer as she inspected the house. “Yes, I think I’m going to be all right here. I think I’m going to be just fine.”

Kip, too, felt confident his mother would be all right. “I’m leaving for London in a few weeks,” he told her. “To do that movie I told you about.”

“It’s so exciting, son,” said Jean Bramer. “But what happened to that play you were doing?”

“I’ll be leaving that the end of next week.”

“But I never got a chance to see you in it,” protested Jean Bramer.

“Then come back to New York with me,” said Kip. “Stay with us. Come see the show.”

“I can’t, Kip. Not now. Maybe in a few weeks. I’m getting braver every day, but I doubt I’m ready yet for the madness of Manhattan.”

“Whatever you say,” said Kip.

“I’ll be sure to see you in your movie, though.”

“You can bet on it!” said Kip. “I play a prisoner in a Turkish jail.”

“And the play, son? What kind of a part have you had in the play?”