David, Mary Lou’s older brother, was standing at the side of the pool, a terrycloth robe in his hands.
“I apologize for all of them,” he said, his voice tight. He held out the robe. “Here. Come out and put this on.”
But Josephine closed her eyes and stayed there, rigid. She wanted to die as quickly as possible.
15
It was one of Sam Winters’s good days. The rushes on the Tessie Brand picture were wonderful. Part of the reason, of course, was that Tessie was breaking her neck to vindicate her behavior. But whatever the reason, Barbara Carter was going to emerge as the hottest new producer of the year. It was going to be a terrific year for costume designers.
The television shows produced by Pan-Pacific were doing well, and “My Man Friday” was the biggest of them all. The network was talking to Sam about a new five-year contract for the series.
Sam was preparing to leave for lunch when Lucille hurried in and said, “They just caught someone setting a fire in the prop department. They’re bringing him over here now.”
The man sat in a chair facing Sam in silence, two studio guards standing behind him. His eyes were bright with malice. Sam had still not gotten over his shock. “Why?” he asked. “For God’s sake—why?”
“Because I didn’t want your fucking charity,” Dallas Burke said. “I hate you and this studio and the whole rotten business. I built this business, you son of a bitch. I paid for half the studios in this lousy town. Everybody got rich off me. Why didn’t you give me a picture to direct instead of trying to pay me off by pretending to buy a bunch of fucking stolen fairy tales? You would have bought the phone book from me, Sam. I didn’t want any favors from you—I wanted a job. You’re making me die a failure, you prick, and I’ll never forgive you for that.”
Long after they had taken Dallas Burke away, Sam sat there thinking about him, remembering the great things Dallas had done, the wonderful movies he had made. In any other business, he would have been a hero, the chairman of the board or would have been retired with a nice, fat pension and glory.
But this was the wonderful world of show business.
16
In the early 1950’s, Toby Temple’s success was growing. He played the top nightclubs—the Chez Paree in Chicago, the Latin Casino in Philadelphia, the Copacabana in New York. He played benefits and children’s hospitals and charity affairs—he would play for anybody, anywhere, at any time. The audience was his lifeblood. He needed the applause and the love. He was totally absorbed in show business. Major events were occuring around the world, but to Toby they were merely grist for his act.
In 1951, when General MacArthur was fired and said, “Old soldiers don’t die—they just fade away,” Toby said, “Jesus—we must use the same laundry.”
In 1952, when the hydrogen bomb was dropped, Toby’s response was, “That’s nothing. You should have caught my opening in Atlanta.”
When Nixon made his “Checkers” speech, Toby said, “I’d vote for him in a minute. Not Nixon—Checkers.”
Ike was President and Stalin died and young America was wearing Davy Crockett hats and there was a bus boycott in Montgomery.
And everything was material for Toby’s act.
When he delivered his zingers with that wide-eyed look of baffled innocence, the audiences screamed.
Toby’s whole life consisted of punch lines. “…so he said, ‘Wait a minute; I’ll get my hat and go with you…’” and “…to tell the truth, it looked so good I ate it myself!” and “…it’s a candystore, but they’ll call me….” and “…I would have been a Shamus…” and “…now I’ve got you and there’s no ship…” and “Just my luck. I get the part that eats….” and on and on, with the audiences laughing until they cried. His audiences loved him, and he fed on their love and battened on it and climbed ever higher.
But there was a deep, wild restlessness in Toby. He was always looking for something more. He could never enjoy himself because he was afraid he might be missing a better party somewhere, or playing to a better audience, or kissing a prettier girl. He changed girls as frequently as he changed his shirts. After the experience with Millie, he was afraid to become deeply involved with anyone. He remembered when he had played the Toilet Circuit and envied the comics with the big limousines and the beautiful women. He had made it, and he was as lonely now as he had been then. Who was it who had said, “When you get there, there is no there….”
He was dedicated to becoming Number One and he knew he would make it. His one regret was that his mother would not be there to watch her prediction come true.
The only reminder left of her was his father.
The nursing home in Detroit was an ugly brick building from another century. Its walls held the sweet stench of old age and sickness and death.
Toby Temple’s father had suffered a stroke and was almost a vegetable now, a man with listless, apathetic eyes and a mind that cared for nothing except Toby’s visits. Toby stood in the dingy green-carpeted hall of the home that now held his father. The nurses and inmates crowded adoringly around him.
“I saw you on the Harold Hobson show last week, Toby. I thought you were just marvelous. How do you think of all those clever things to say?”
“My writers think of them,” Toby said, and they laughed at his modesty.
A male nurse was coming down the corridor, wheeling Toby’s father. He was freshly shaved and had his hair slicked down. He had let them dress him in a suit in honor of his son’s visit.