Strangers in the Night, page 20
He eyed me for a minute, and I glared back. I wasn’t afraid of this chump. He might have been Costello’s muscle, but I knew too many of the Boys to be worried.
“So you’re struggling,” he said, changing the direction of the conversation. “We might be able to help with that.”
I knew what that meant. Nothing was for free.
“I know just the man,” Johnny went on. “George Wood.”
“At William Morris?” I asked. William Morris had the biggest nightclub roster in the business. It was no secret the Mob backed some of the most famous performers in New York and Chicago, and they were looking to move into Las Vegas. They were building a new casino at that very moment called the Sands.
“The same.” He threw back the rest of his drink.
“Can you get me a meeting?” I’d been through the ringer, sure, but I’d avoided explicitly asking for help from the Boys—on purpose. Now . . . well, maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe I had to take my breaks wherever I could get them, no matter who served them up. Besides, Italians looked out for their own and that was good enough for me. Loyalty among friends was something I prized over just about anything.
“Sure, but you can’t botch it up, Frank. He still needs to like you to take you on.”
“I’ll fold his goddamn laundry if I have to.”
Johnny clapped me on the back with a little too much force. “That’s the spirit. I knew you had it in you.”
The first glimpse of hope I’d felt in months flickered to life in my chest. I knew George Wood had a roster of difficult clients, or at least that was what I’d heard, but he’d gotten them work—lots of it—and made careers out of nothing.
And godammit, I wasn’t nothing.
“I’ve got it in me, alright,” I said, and lit a cigarette, thinking for the hundredth time that I was glad I was an Italian American and that I had friends, no matter what the papers, or anybody else, had to say about it.
Chapter 27
Ava
After my latest row with Francis, I was relieved to start a new picture. The time apart would do us some good. MGM, once again, lent me out to Twentieth Century Fox studios, this time for an adaptation of a Hemingway novel, The Snows of Kilimanjaro. Francis pressured me—and them—to shorten the shooting time so I could join him on his nightclub circuit. I humored my new husband, who continued to battle his demons and a raging sense of inferiority after a couple of hard years. I wanted to stand by him, encourage him to stick it out—and he leaned on me—but when he pushed back on my commitments, it really started to tick me off. He wasn’t the only one with a career or with struggles.
“I need you here,” he said over the phone.
“I’m trying,” I said. “I really am. I can’t ask them to change the entire shooting schedule for me.”
“Why not?” he grunted. “You’re one of their biggest stars. You need to start acting like it, baby. They need you.”
Francis liked to strut around as if he were the center of the universe and he expected others to treat him that way, too, even after things got rough for him. I knew they didn’t need me, but I liked the sound of that anyway. And maybe I should be a little more demanding—take charge of what I wanted a bit more. So I did. I pushed my publicist and the director to meet my demands. If they wanted me in their film, they’d have to do all my scenes in a twenty-four-hour period.
I booked a flight to New York, ready to head back east with Francis after the shooting on the lot, but Fox soon fell behind in the production schedule. I was exhausted, the director was exhausted—we were all working as fast and as hard as we could—but we still needed more time to finish. I put in the dreaded phone call to Francis, knowing he wasn’t going to take it well, but he had to understand. It was my work, and there was nothing I could do about it.
“Baby, the schedule got away from us,” I said. “The production crew has been pushing hard, but we’re going to need another day or two.”
“Which will turn into a week or two,” he said, not bothering to cover the irritation in his voice. “Damn it! Just walk away. They didn’t fulfill their end of the contract so now it’s null and void. You aren’t obligated to do anything else for them—”
“Are you out of your mind?” Anger bloomed inside me. We’d worked nonstop on the film—never mind the many phone calls and negotiations early on—and he still wanted me to walk away? Given how much he cared about his career, he had to know I felt the same way about mine—but he sure as hell didn’t act like it, or maybe he didn’t care. “I’m not going to walk off set and be in breach of contract!” I continued. “How could you ask that of me?”
He flew into a tantrum—and I slammed down the phone.
And that was only the beginning of Francis’s absurd expectations.
I blew off a movie role entirely to join him at a rain-soaked, pitiful little concert under a leaky tent in Hawaii. It was another garbage film anyway and I couldn’t believe MGM had reverted back to dumping the worst roles on me, but still, I’d had to break contract, for him.
When the call came that I’d been suspended and my royalties were being withheld—all for being there for my husband—I returned to the studio to do as they demanded. I had to work nonstop for several weeks to make up for the little incident, until finally one day, I had a break to relax. I was looking forward to a languorous day doing nothing but meeting Francis’s daughter, Nancy. I’d heard so much about her, and I loved children, even if I wasn’t going to have any of my own. Something I had yet to tell Francis. And he hadn’t pushed the idea either, not yet.
While waiting for him to arrive, I asked Reenie if she wanted to join me on the patio.
“Sure,” she said with a smile. “I don’t have anywhere else I need to get to today.”
I was always happy to see Reenie go on about her life, visiting with friends or family, pursuing the things she enjoyed outside of her work for me, and outside of our friendship. I didn’t want to be the kind of employer who demanded their staff devote their entire lives to their employers. What kind of life would that be? Made my skin crawl to think of it.
“I miss my sister,” Reenie said, batting a fly. We sat on the veranda sipping gin martinis beneath the shade of a palm tree at the house Francis and I were renting in the Pacific Palisades.
“When’s the last time you saw her?” I asked.
“At least a year ago.” She sat stretched out beside me on a lawn chair, her long brown legs crossed at the ankles, looking positively adorable in a gleaming white sundress.
“Why don’t you visit?” I said. “I’ll buy you a plane ticket. How about next week?”
“Really, Miss G?”
“Of course. Go spend a couple of weeks with your family and catch up.” I adjusted my large black sunglasses. “I’ll get on fine here. I’ll miss you, but I’ll survive.”
We grinned at each other, and I reached for my pack of cigarettes.
“Reenie, what am I going to do about my contract?”
“Is it time to sign again?”
“Mm-hmm.” The sun sprayed a fan-shaped pattern of light across my bare legs and feet. I laid my head back against the lawn chair and closed my eyes. “I’m getting tired of this business. MGM has broken my heart a hundred times.”
“Shouldn’t your talent manager negotiate something for you?” she asked. She’d learned nearly as much about show business as I had over the years, being my closest confidant and all.
“Yes, he said I have to agree to the next picture, even if it’s a stinker since I got suspended. But I was also thinking about asking for a role for Francis. Would you do that?”
“Do what?” She stirred her martini with the tip of her finger and took a sip.
“Put your neck on the line for your husband.” I’d already made a few attempts to help him, but nothing had panned out yet. No one wanted to touch Francis right now, but I couldn’t tell him that, and now I wasn’t sure how far I should go to jeopardize my own reputation. Like it or not, my husband was a liability.
She shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’d do it for my family, or my friends,” she added with a smile and reached for my hand.
I squeezed back. “You would, wouldn’t you? I just want him to be happy. If I could help him get an audition for a really good role, he could jump-start his career again. Maybe then we’d stop fighting.” It sounded like a good solution, but would we really stop all that arguing? I couldn’t imagine it at this point. It seemed to be who we were together.
When barking came from inside the house, I peered over my shoulder to see Francis. A warmth spread through me when I saw his face, happiness sparking in my chest and I knew that was why we were still at it, still working on being married. He opened the back door and Rags dashed outside. My little corgi had grown long and thick with big ears that stood on end. He was cute as a button.
“Come here, Rags,” I said. “Come sit with your mama.”
He barked and put his paws on the edge of the chair, his tongue lolling happily from the side of his mouth.
Francis reached down to scrub him behind the ears and then called his daughter’s name. “Nancy, come meet Ava.”
I jumped to my feet. “Why, hello there.” I smiled at the pretty girl in her dress and flats. “I’m Ava. It’s nice to meet you.” I held out a hand and took hers in mine. “Goodness, you have a nice firm handshake.”
Nancy smiled shyly. “Hi,” she said.
She stared at me as if awestruck, so I set about trying to make her feel at home.
“Nancy, this is Reenie,” I said, gesturing to my right.
“Hi, Miss Reenie,” Nancy replied.
“Hi, Miss Nancy,” Reenie said, proffering a smile at the young lady. “Would you like some lemonade?”
“Yes, please.”
Reenie set down her martini and headed to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll bring some out to the patio.”
“I have a gift for you,” I said. “Should we go get it?”
Nancy’s face brightened.
I winked at Francis, and he beamed at us both. I led Nancy back inside the house and produced a beautifully wrapped package. Her face lit up as she opened a tube of neon orange Tangee lipstick.
“It’s a magic lipstick,” I said. “Do you see how bright it is? But when you put it on, it changes to match your natural color, and if you’re lucky, your mood.”
“Thank you,” Nancy said with a shy smile.
“Would you like me to help you put it on?”
She nodded, and I led her into the bathroom. In front of the mirror, with a steady hand, I slid the soft stick of makeup over her lips. “There. Isn’t that gorgeous?”
She blushed hotly. “Thank you.”
“Well, now. Let’s go have that lemonade.”
Francis had plunked down in a lawn chair and was thumbing through a copy of From Here to Eternity. “I really want to play Maggio,” he said, laying the book on the table with a big sigh.
“You’d be great at it,” I agreed, taking my seat again. “He’s scrappy and a good friend, with an air of desperation about him.”
He nodded. “If that doesn’t describe me right now, I don’t know what does.”
“Are you going to audition?” Nancy asked after taking a big gulp of the sunny yellow beverage in her glass.
“I’d like to, sweetheart, but it’s not that simple.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a roll of cherry Life Savers, his favorite sweets that he always had on hand, and gave them to Nancy. She accepted it happily, peeled one piece of candy off, and handed the roll back to him.
I made the final decision right then that I would try again—pressure someone to give Francis an audition. In fact, I suddenly knew who the right person was to ask.
“You leave that to me, baby,” I said, winking at him. “I’m going to make this a whole lot simpler.”
He smiled broadly for the first time in ages, and I felt my heart melt a little. I’d give Joan a call that afternoon.
* * *
A few days later, I met Joan and Harry Cohn for dinner. Harry was the owner of Columbia Pictures—and now owner of the film rights to From Here to Eternity. The restaurant was a divine five-star establishment with mosaic tiled floors in greens and purples and gold, potted palms and flowers, and a jazz trio. Naturally, the crowd was a who’s who in Hollywood, and I was glad I’d dressed for the occasion in a black crepe cocktail dress with cap sleeves and hand-stitched vines that rolled across the bodice.
Joan’s full red lips weren’t the least bit smudged despite her two martinis and salad. I wished I had that kind of class, but I had never been the overly feminine type. When I could get away with it, I still looked like a tomboy in tatty trousers.
“The fish is delicious,” Joan said. “You really should try it, Ava.”
“Sure. You know I’m not shy,” I said, swapping some of my lemon chicken piccata and fried potatoes dusted with salt and sprinkled with herbs for her salmon. We talked about the latest studio gossip at Columbia Pictures, but Cohn kept turning things back to my contracts. I could tell he was fishing, but I’d rather donate a kidney than work for Harry Cohn. Truthfully, I wasn’t a fan of Harry’s. His nickname was King Cohn, and he was known as the biggest tyrant in Hollywood. I’d heard he had listening devices on the various soundstages at his studio and cracked a horsewhip on his desk to get people’s attention. Francis told me Cohn had connections with the Mob in Chicago, not that Francis had a right to say anything. Francis had struck up a friendship with Sam Giancana in Chicago recently. Made me sick to my stomach. I hated Mob scum.
“I have this picture that’s perfect for you,” Harry pressed. “Joseph and His Brethren, set in Egypt. I’ll pay you what you deserve. You know that.”
“As tempting as that sounds, Harry, I’m booked solid.” What I didn’t say out loud was the script sounded like a real dog.
He reached for his martini, the light of the table lamp transforming the rim into a ring of gleaming silver. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”
“Of course,” I drawled. The waiter poured my third glass of an outrageously expensive Burgundy wine. Cohn could afford it, and I was glad to have something nice to wash down a difficult conversation. “Thank you for the offer.”
Joan met my eyes and reached for her glass. “Darling,” she said, turning her attention to her husband. “Have there been any casting calls for From Here to Eternity?”
“Not yet, but we have several people in mind. Why?” He aggressively cut his lamb chop, making it wiggle across his plate as he sawed at it with his knife.
“Well, I was thinking you should give Ava’s husband a chance at a part.”
“Frankie Sinatra?” The furrowed lines on his forehead reached all the way to the bald crown of his head. “He isn’t an actor. He’s a singer.”
“What do you mean he isn’t an actor?” she protested gently before I could. “Of course he is.”
“He’s played himself in a handful of musicals is all.”
“What about a smaller role, Harry?” I cut in. “Maggio, the lightweight Italian who’s down on his luck. My son of a bitch husband is perfect for it.”
He laughed abruptly. “Oh, Christ. He may be an Italian down on his luck, but he’s no actor.”
“Just give him a test,” I said, touching Harry’s forearm lightly. “You won’t be disappointed. You’ve never seen a man so ready to eat crow and work hard. He’s willing to work for free, even.”
“Come on, Harry,” Joan said, slipping her hand under the table onto his knee. “It’s just an audition.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said finally.
I gave him my most winning smile and said, “That will do, Harry. You’re a peach.”
Joan winked at me over her glass, and I knew we had him. It wasn’t a guarantee, but it was something. I could hardly wait to tell Francis.
* * *
Francis was thrilled I’d spoken to Cohn, and he showered me with affection. There was no certainty he’d get the part, but his chances were suddenly much greater. He wasn’t so thrilled, however, about my next film. I, on the other hand, was beside myself with excitement. MGM was pulling out all the stops for Mogambo, a picture set and filmed in Kenya. I was cast along with Grace Kelly and Clark Gable to play in a sort of love triangle in the dangerous wilds of the African bush, and no expense would be spared. I could hardly wait to go, to take a break from the never-ending bickering with Francis, and to escape his incessant melancholy. It was something of a problem, I supposed, to always look forward to an escape from my husband, but I wasn’t ready to do something about it.
And yet, I wouldn’t escape him entirely. He chose to come with me for a few weeks.
The night before we left Los Angeles, we went to Frascati’s, one of our favorite Italian places, to celebrate what was coming next. We enjoyed our fettuccine primavera and spaghetti Bolognese, the pasta tender and the sauces satisfying—until Francis mentioned casually that Lana Turner was borrowing his house. I knew he still held affection for his ex-girlfriend. Lana had always been hard to ignore with her blond locks, buxom curves, and box office hits. She was sex on legs, and though I knew I was the dark version to her blond, and that their past relationship didn’t compare to our love, I couldn’t help myself. Jealousy rushed over me like a swollen creek after a summer storm. It didn’t help that we’d been drinking—it never seemed to.
“Well, isn’t that convenient,” I said, stabbing at a slippery noodle. “You have a beautiful movie star waiting for you in your bed!”
“What’s the problem?” he said. “She’s fighting with her boyfriend and needs a break, so I told her she could stay there.”
“Why can’t she stay somewhere else? You’re seeing her again, aren’t you.” I pushed away my plate.
“What are you talking about? Calm down,” he said, giving me a look like I was insane. “I’m not with Lana. I’m married to you, remember?” Francis threw a wad of cash on the table. “I’m out of here.”
