The rebel, p.38
The Rebel, page 38
“I don’t have anything to prove to Bobby. I told you, it’s what I’ve got to prove to myself.”
“What? That you can help a burned-out politician stay in office?”
“That I can do something that’s real,” Jimmy said, struggling to remember his recurring dream of his mother—
His mother stands beside her grave, cold and damp, welcoming him, reaching out to him. But she’s changed. She won’t take him anymore. Won’t lead him down into the damp, slippery, comforting soil of memory and death. Jimmy knows she would have loved to see him become an actor, but that’s all changed. She’s become something else. Something rock hard and cold. Something that preys upon him, ever demanding, and for one shocking, vertiginous instant, he realizes that he can’t remember her face.
“Although Pat Brown might act like an asshole sometimes,” Jimmy said, closing his mind to everything but the here and now, “he still built the best state university in the country, and he built the water system that brings in two billion gallons of water a day, and he got fair-housing legislation passed, and expanded welfare benefits, and—”
“All right, Jimmy, all right. Jesus, you sound more like a politician than Brown does.”
Jimmy grinned at her. Although his skin was flushed from the sun, he shivered. But the sun was life; it was warm, protecting; and he could feel it baking into him again, baking in its warmth, baking out his poisonous dreams and memories. If he stayed outside much longer, he would begin to burn. He didn’t care.
“Is this all an act?” Caroline asked.
“I told you. This is real.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
“Nothing. That’s why it’s real.”
“You’ve become a true believer, haven’t you? You believe in the system.”
“Screw you, Caroline.”
“Well, don’t you?”
Jimmy paused and said, “I believe things can be changed. Maybe. But that doesn’t make me a true believer.”
“And what about your acting and directing?” Caroline asked.
“What about it?”
“Are you going to do the new film with Nick?”
“What new film?”
“The one about Jack Kerouac’s brother.”
“I don’t know,” Jimmy said evasively.
“Nick says you’re holding everything up, that you won’t give him an answer. Your friend Kerouac’s been on a monthlong bender. Is that how you take care of your friends?”
“I can’t believe that Nick is talking to you about this. What the hell did you do, sign up as his agent?”
“He’s not doing as well as you are, Jimmy.”
“He doesn’t need me. He can get the funding in Europe.”
“You could get it here.”
“What do you get out of this?” Jimmy asked.
She laughed. “You.”
Jimmy started to laugh, then realized she meant it.
“And if you want to be the next Ronald Reagan, I’ll be your press secretary.”
“Go to hell, Caroline.”
Caroline moved over to straddle Jimmy on his plastic lounger, her legs pulled up on either side of him, her bottom pressing against his crotch.
“Cut it out,” Jimmy said, laughing.
“And if you’re going to be a movie star, I’ll be your press secretary.”
“I am a movie star, and I thought you were going to be Bobby’s press secretary.”
“You screwed that up for me.”
“I think Pat Brown would have a better shot if you were working for him,” Jimmy said.
“But I’m working for you.” She kept moving against him until he became excited and pulled her down on top of him. She was light and fragile, a bony angel. She raised her haunches to allow him to peel down her leotards and panties. She unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly, and then he was inside her. Her warmth inside, the sun outside, warm in, warm out, in out, in out; and they came together quietly.
“I guess I should call Nick,” Jimmy said distractedly. He needed a cigarette.
“Yeah, and?”
“Why are you so hot for me to do this film? It’s going to net about minus five cents.”
“Because it could be an important film. I think it might be.”
“Nick gave you the script, didn’t he?” That more a statement than a question.
“No,” Caroline said. “Jack gave it to me.”
“I’m fucking surrounded.”
“I guess that’s literally true.” And as they laughed, Jimmy slipped out of her. She made a discontented noise, as if he’d hurt her feelings.
“How’s it going to look if I’m always surrounded with goons?” Jimmy asked.
“What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“What you said earlier—that you know somebody that can get me some…protection.”
Caroline shook her head and with difficulty disengaged herself from Jimmy. “You know, Jimmy, a politician thinks in straight lines. You’re definitely an actor: you think sideways.”
“It’s going to look like I’m afraid, that’s what.”
“So?”
“I’m not afraid, that’s why.”
“Okay, you’re not afraid. Then go back to Sherman Oaks by yourself because I’m afraid.”
“I didn’t invite you.”
“Well then piss off.”
“Maybe if the bodyguard was someone who didn’t look conspicuous,” Jimmy said.
“That’s better,” Caroline said.
“And you can set it up?”
Caroline nodded. “Guy by the name of Budd Schaap has an agency. I’ve done Budd a couple of favors. He owes me, or owed me.”
“That name rings a bell,” Jimmy said.
“He’s a detective…with a lot of connections.” After a pause, Caroline said, “He bugged your house.”
“He what?”
“When Marilyn was alive.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me this?” Jimmy asked, enraged.
“Here, have a cigarette,” Caroline said, handing him her pack of Salems. “I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t. And I didn’t owe you that.”
“You sure as hell do now.”
“No, Jimmy, I don’t owe you shit. If anything, you owe me, for your life.” After fumbling for a cigarette, she said, “Anyway, it was no big deal. He was hired by Joe DiMaggio.”
“Now I remember who he is,” Jimmy said. “DiMaggio hired him to follow Marilyn, and he followed me, too. He’s a scumbag.”
“He’s the best detective in the business,” Caroline said.
“I meant DiMaggio.”
“DiMaggio was just a jealous husband. He loved Marilyn—probably more than you did—and wanted to find out what you two were up to. It was innocent, or as innocent as that kind of sleazy shit can get.”
Jimmy could only nod. Then he asked, “I’m still being bugged, aren’t I?”
“No, not anymore. I asked Budd to clean the place up, which he did. He told me to stay away from you and not to ask too many questions.”
“Questions about what?”
“About anything.”
“Cut the shit, Caroline. Tell me what you know.”
“He pulled his wires three years ago.”
“Yeah…and?”
“There were other wires in the house.”
“This last time, when you asked him to check, what did he find?”
She shrugged. “He told me he found wires and tore them out. That’s all I know.”
“Who was bugging me?”
“He couldn’t tell me.”
“You mean he wouldn’t tell you. But he knows, doesn’t he?”
“I think he knows something, a little, which is why he warned me about you,” Caroline said.
“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything,” Jimmy said.
“It was in confidence. It could have ruined his career.”
“So what’s different now?”
“You…and me, but maybe down the line he might talk to me. I don’t think he’ll tell me who was involved, but he might tell me who wasn’t.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“That’s the closest we’re going to get, Jimmy.”
“How much does he want?”
“Doesn’t work like that,” Caroline said. “And if you said anything to anybody…”
“What?”
“I think he could do us both a lot of damage.”
“He’ll blackmail me, that’s what you’re trying to tell me.”
“No, I didn’t say that. He’s not like that. He’s honest and has a good reputation. He doesn’t reveal confidences; that’s how he stays in business.”
“Well, he sure as hell revealed confidences to you.”
“I told you, he owed me, and he knows he can trust me. In a way, I’m in the business. I hope I can trust you.”
“Don’t turn this around on me,” Jimmy said, trying to think back, trying to think things through. Oh, God, Marilyn, they were after you, not only DiMaggio, but—
“I did ask him one thing,” Caroline said. “I asked him if Bobby had a tap on you.”
“And?”
“He told me he doesn’t think so.”
“Doesn’t think so?”
Caroline shrugged and crushed her filtered cigarette into a metal ashtray. She had been chain-smoking. “That’s all I got, Jimmy. I’m guessing it was about Marilyn, her closeness with Jack and Bobby. It could have been Hoover, the Mafia, or the CIA—”
“Or Bobby,” Jimmy said.
“Hoover and Bobby hated each other. I don’t think the FBI was working for Bobby.”
“So why was that shit still in my house?”
“With your involvement with King and Claudia and all the Berkeley business? Why would they take it out? Shit, I’m sure Hoover considers you one of Bobby’s close cronies, and I’m sure Bobby’s under surveillance.” Jimmy nodded, numbed. “Budd told me that Martin Luther King is all wired up,” Caroline said. “The FBI is out to get him any way they can. Hoover hates his guts. I can vouch for that myself because one of my colleagues, a dear friend, was offered photographs of King screwing someone who wasn’t his wife.”
“So? What does that prove?”
“The guy that offered the photographs was an FBI informant. I know who he is. So we need to watch your ass around certain people, Jimmy.”
“And what’s this we shit, anyway?” Jimmy asked.
“Oh, fuck you, Jimmy. Why don’t you just get out of my life? I know I called you way back then, you didn’t call me, so I’ve got no right to expect you to act like a human being. God forbid that someone show any vulnerability in front of you. Oh, no, only you can be vulnerable.” Caroline turned away from him, and as Jimmy glimpsed her face, in motion, that angry flick of the hair, just like Pier…just like Pier.
“Pier, I’m sorry,” Jimmy said, then catching himself, he said, “Oh, God, Caroline, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No, Jimmy, that’s exactly what you mean. You need a substitute for Pier, that’s fine. Go find one. It ain’t me, though. Collect your things and get out of here. Be a regular guy to your fans, but I’m telling you now”—she faced him, her face hard and closed to him, her hands trembling—“you ever breathe a word about what I just told you, you ask any questions that get back to Budd, and your ass is grass. You might not give a shit about me, but this time you really are vulnerable, I can tell you that.”
“So you do know something.”
“Give it up, Jimmy. I told you what I know. You’ve got everything. Now get out.”
“Well, I guess you got your story.”
“You bastard,” she said. “You stupid bastard.”
She stood on the edge of the pool, looking into the water, and Jimmy remembered an argument he once had with Pier, how vulnerable she looked, how alone. He walked over to her, put his arms around her, and said, “I’m sorry, Caroline. It won’t ever happen again. I promise. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Yeah,” Caroline said, standing still and stiff and fragile, feeling his erection pressing against her. “Yeah…”
She smelled like Pier.
She looked like Pier.
As Jimmy held her tenderly, gingerly, he looked down into the perfect turquoise water and thought of Pier’s dolls. “I love you, Caroline.”
JIMMY HAD ANOTHER FENCE INSTALLED AROUND HIS HOUSE, THIS one extending right to the edge of the road; and one of Budd Schaap’s vendors installed the best surveillance equipment money could buy. Budd vetted the bodyguards; he insisted that Jimmy needed not one but two. Jay and George. Both were skinny. Caroline thought they resembled the “before” photographs in the old Charles Atlas advertisements. They were wiry and incredibly strong (as Jimmy found out when he wrestled them); they knew karate and other arcane Asian fighting techniques; they were licensed to carry sidearms; and, as Budd had promised, they were nice guys “who blended into the woodwork.”
Jimmy fired them after a month.
He just couldn’t stand having them around. He had argument after argument with Caroline. “It changes all the dynamics,” he said.
Later, as a sop to her, he hired Jay back as a “doorman,” and used George only when needed, when they attended openings and galas. But Caroline won. It took a few weeks, but Jimmy noticed that George was always nearby, hanging around, within reach, but never in the house. Jimmy thought of Jay and George as well-trained guard dogs. He could live with that.
Pets weren’t allowed into the house.
IT WAS ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY.
Jay and George kept out of Jimmy’s way and did their jobs, and Caroline started to gain weight and handle Pat Brown’s press relations. Determined to show Jimmy what she could do, she threw herself into the campaign; and Jimmy felt an odd, quiet bliss being with Caroline. He was settled, in a way he had never been with Pier. He could spend the days and nights with Caroline and not feel cornered or claustrophobic, and he imagined that he was quietly and securely in love with her. It was like finding Pier, another Pier, another dark, smart beauty with a mercurial temperament. Another chance.
But he had to admit he was getting tired of Pat Brown, tired of Brown’s baby kissing and insincere glad-handing, tired of his gruff humor and shallow philosophizing; but mostly Jimmy was tired of being involved in a campaign with a governor whose apparatchiki had convinced him he was winning when he was losing. None of them could see how strong the new conservative movement was and how estranged voters—and especially traditional labor Democrats—were from Brown’s liberal politics. And if Pat called him “another actor like that Reagan” just one more time…
Caroline was right: he should be focusing on his real work, on films and perhaps some Broadway or Off Broadway theater. He should be acting and directing, and he should be in Rome with Nick Ray and Jack Kerouac finalizing the deal with their European consortium; but no, he told himself, he was supposed to be putting together financing right here. He had also decided to do a film for Warners called Cool Hand Luke; he would be the star, a convict who dies but remains true to himself. He would codirect with Nick, and Stewart Sterns, who had written the script for Rebel, would be brought on as first writer. Dick Clayton negotiated a double-film deal with Warners; they would also do Marty’s California Beach Red. That should alleviate some of Marty’s anger—and Jimmy’s guilt. Nick would direct; Jimmy would star.
Jimmy needed a film that would give him the adulation he had received for The Hustler, Hud, and The Enemy Within. Dick Clayton had warned him time and again that he was going to lose his position as an A-line actor if he kept up “that political shit.” He was probably right. It had started off as a romance but had become more like a one-night stand, Jimmy thought—or, perhaps, a series of one-night stands.
TUESDAY NIGHT, JUNE 14, 1966, NOT EXACTLY BLISS.
George was driving the Rolls. He wore a single-breasted dark blue wool suit, starched white shirt, and paisley tie. He looked more like an account executive than a chauffeur—or a bodyguard. The only thing that might give him away was a hairline scar that ran from the back edge of his jaw down his neck. Whenever Jimmy asked him what had happened, he would laugh and say, “I’m a fan. It’s a JAMESDEAN.”
But George wasn’t laughing. He was staring straight ahead and concentrating on the bumper-to-bumper freeway traffic. Horns were blaring, their noise muted and softened inside the car’s cushioned interior.
They were on their way to meet Bobby at yet another rally for Pat Brown.
“You had no right,” Jimmy said to Caroline, his voice cold with anger.
“How many times do you want to go over this?” Caroline asked. “You want me out? George can drop you off and take me back to your place. I’ll pack. I still have a home of my own, thank God.”
“You had no right,” Jimmy insisted.
“Tell me, Jimmy. When were you planning on getting rid of Pier’s thousand and one dolls? When you’re eighty-five?”
“She was my wife. It’s my house. You have no right to—”
“To what? Redecorate?” Her lips curled into a very slight smile, but Jimmy didn’t respond. He was staring hard into some lonely, private, unprotected space in his head, into the bright, pooling memories of Pier. The dolls were Pier…
“It was a test, Jimmy,” Caroline said in a voice little louder than a whisper, “and you failed it. Or I failed it, more to the point. I meant no disrespect to Pier, but it was time. I’m living with you now. Pier will always be with you, Jimmy, but you can’t keep me in a mausoleum. I figured it was Pier or me. Well, you’ve made your choice, and you’ve made it very obvious.” She laughed and lit a cigarette. “But I must confess, I didn’t expect you to lock yourself in the bedroom all day.”
“I needed to think.”
“That was a rather feminine thing to do.”
“Thinking?”
“Cut it out, Jimmy. You know what I mean.”
“I was just revealing my feminine side to you.”
Caroline laughed again, and Jimmy smiled. “The dolls are safe,” Caroline said, almost in a whisper. “They’re packed away safe.”
“Give them to charity,” Jimmy said as George pulled into the lane reserved for VIP’s behind the Pritchard Vale Industrial College Auditorium. The streets around the auditorium were jammed with people jostling to get one foot closer to their destination. Car horns blared; the air was blue with exhaust fumes. There were police on horses and on foot, police lines to control the crowds, and police with white gloves and shoulder sashes directing the jammed-up traffic on every corner. Jimmy looked out the window as if they were submerged in the sea and he was looking out into the watery purple-blue distance.
