“Tell her to cancel whatever she’s doing,” he snapped. “We’ll pay her more. For Christ’s sake, this is the number one show on the air. What’s the matter with that dizzy broad?”
Eddie called Jill again and told her how Toby felt. “He really wants you back on the show, Jill. Can you make it?”
“I’m sorry,” Jill said. “I’m doing a part at Universal. I can’t get out of it.”
Nor would she try. An actress did not get ahead in Hollywood by walking out on a studio. Toby Temple meant nothing to Jill except a day’s work. The following evening, the Great Man himself telephoned her. His voice on the telephone was warm and charming.
“Jill? This is your little old co-star, Toby.”
“Hello, Mr. Temple.”
“Hey, come on! What’s with the ‘mister’ bit?” There was no response. “Do you like baseball?” Toby asked. “I’ve got box seats for—”
“No, I don’t.”
“Neither do I.” He laughed. “I was testing you. Listen, how about having dinner with me Saturday night? I stole my chef from Maxim’s in Paris. He—”
“I’m sorry. I have a date, Mr. Temple.” There was not even a flicker of interest in her voice.
Toby felt himself gripping the receiver more tightly. “When are you free?”
“I’m a hard-working girl. I don’t go out much. But thank you for asking me.”
And the line went dead. The bitch had hung up on him—a fucking bit player had hung up on Toby Temple! There was not a woman Toby had met who would not give a year of her life to spend one night with him—and this stupid cunt had turned him down! He was in a violent rage, and he took it out on everyone around him. Nothing was right. The script stank, the director was an idiot, the music was terrible and the actors were lousy. He summoned Eddie Berrigan, the casting director, to his dressing room.
“What do you know about Jill Castle?” Toby demanded.
“Nothing,” Eddie said instantly. He was not a fool. Like everyone else on the show, he knew exactly what was going on. Whichever way it turned out, he had no intention of getting caught in the middle.
“Does she sleep around?”
“No, sir,” Eddie said firmly. “If she did, I’d know about it.”
“I want you to check her out,” Toby ordered. “Find out if she’s got a boyfriend, where she goes, what she does—you know what I want.”
“Yes, sir,” Eddie said earnestly.
At three o’clock the next morning, Eddie was awakened by the telephone at his bedside.
“What did you find out?” a voice asked.
Eddie sat up in bed, trying to blink himself awake. “Who the hell—” He suddenly realized who was at the other end of the telephone. “I checked,” Eddie said hastily. “She’s got a clean bill of health.”
“I didn’t ask you for her fucking medical certificate,” Toby snapped. “Is she laying anybody?”
“No, sir. Nobody. I talked to my buddies around town. They all like Jill and they use her because she’s a fine actress.” He was talking faster now, anxious to convince the man at the other end of the phone. If Toby Temple ever learned that Jill had slept with Eddie—had chosen him over Toby Temple!—Eddie would never work in this town again. He had talked to his casting-director friends, and they were all in the same position he was. No one wanted to make an enemy of Toby Temple, so they had agreed on a conspiracy of silence. “She doesn’t play around with anybody.”
Toby’s voice softened, “I see. I guess she’s just some kind of crazy kid, huh?”
“I guess she is,” said Eddie, relieved.
“Hey! I hope I didn’t wake you up?”
“No, no, that’s all right, Mr. Temple.”
But Eddie lay awake a long time, contemplating what could happen to him if the truth ever came out.
For this was Toby Temple’s town.
Toby and Clifton Lawrence were having lunch at the Hillcrest Country Club. Hillcrest had been created because few of the top country clubs in Los Angeles admitted Jews. This policy was so rigidly observed that Groucho Marx’s ten-year-old child, Melinda, had been ordered out of the swimming pool of a club where a Gentile friend had taken her. When Groucho heard what had happened, he telephoned the manager of the club and said, “Listen—my daughter’s only half-Jewish. Would you let her go into the pool up to her waist?”
As a result of incidents like this, some affluent Jews who enjoyed golf, tennis, gin rummy and baiting anti-Semites got together and formed their own club, selling shares exclusively to Jewish members. Hillcrest was built in a beautiful park a few miles from the heart of Beverly Hills, and it quickly became famous for having the best buffet and the most stimulating conversation in town. The Gentiles clamored to be admitted. In a gesture toward tolerance, the board ruled that a few non-Jews would be allowed to join the club.
Toby always sat at the comedians’ table, where the Hollywood wits gathered to exchange jokes and top one another. But today Toby had other things on his mind. He took Clifton to a corner table. “I need your advice, Cliff,” Toby said.
The little agent glanced up at him in surprise. It had been a long time since Toby had asked for his advice. “Certainly, dear boy.”
“It’s this girl,” Toby began, and Clifton was instantly ahead of him. Half the town knew the story by now. It was the biggest joke in Hollywood. One of the columnists had even run it as a blind item. Toby had read it and commented, “I wonder who the schmuck is?” The great lover was hooked on a girl on the town who had turned him down. There was only one way to handle this situation.