Crowned Heads (45 page)

“How you feelin’, Jude?” Bill asked.

“Okay.”

“Are you not feeling well? Would you like to lie down?” Willie offered solicitously.

“Naw, naw,” Bill said, “it’s nothin’ like that. It’s—you know.” He winked at Willie again, and put his arm around Judee and gave her a little hug.

“I need a Tampax,” she said forlornly. Then, “You don’t possibly have …”

“No, no, I don’t,” Willie answered quickly.

“We’ll get Arco to stop at Turner’s when we go down the hill,” Bill told her.

“What do you suppose has happened to your friend?” Willie asked.

“Danged if I know,” Bill said. “He’ll be ’long.”

“Would you care for some wine?” Willie suggested; she nodded. He brought out the jug again.

“Look, Jude,” Bill said, pointing to the gallery of pictures, “Tallulah Bankhead. Signed personal.” The eleven-by-fourteen glossy of Miss Bankhead was inscribed to “Darling Bee and Willie,” etc. Judee had seen the actress on
The Lucy Shaw
; one up for the host.

“Here’s a funny one, if you like Tallulah stories,” Willie said, pouring wine, then mixing himself another Scotch. “Bee and I used to play bridge a lot with her, and we were always looking for a good fourth. She’d met this fellow, name of Vinson, I think, up at San Simeon—the Hearst ranch, that is—and she discovered he was a good partner. When the game was won she tossed her address book at him and said, ‘Dahling’—she called everybody ‘dahling,’ you know—‘dahling, put your name down for me and we’ll play again sometime.’ He did, and when she saw he’d written it under
V
she asked why. Because his name was Vinson, he said, and she flung the book back at him. ‘Don’t be tiresome, dahling, I can’t remember V—put it under
B
for Bridge.
Bah
hah-hah-hah-hah!’”

Bill chuckled appreciatively. “Hey, that’s a terrific imitation.”

“We were quite good friends.” He pointed to one of the gallery pictures, a large group gathered onstage, all smiling broadly for the camera. “A Sunday night benefit at the Winter Garden. They were all there that night—Tallulah, Lynn Fontanne, Helen Hayes, Merman. Ruth Gordon, Jane Cowl. Most of them had been my leading ladies.”

“Honest?” said Bill with evident interest. “Did you really work with Lynn Fontaine?”

“Font
anne,
” Willie corrected mildly. He tapped a manicured nail under one of the faces. “And there’s Bee herself, between Lynn and Lenore Ulric. Right up there among the greats.”

His host went on pointing; Bill seemed to see Bees everywhere. An original framed
New Yorker
cartoon by Peter Arno showed a crowd of people clustered around the entrance to a nightclub, from which were emerging two heads; said one curious onlooker to another, “Dunno, it’s either a raid or Bee and Willie.”

Under glass and handsome black-and-gold-bordered mats were:

Little Willie with the best of sashays,

And Bee in a bonnet of Lilly Daché’s,

Hither, thither,

To lyre or zither,

Lots of dither,

Bee and Willie go.

But every Russian, Lett, or Hessian,

Must ask himself poor Willie’s quession,

Like Hamlet in his hamlet, see?

… To Bee or not to Bee
?

COLE PORTER

And:

Please do not you think me harsh

If I say of Willie Marsh

He must mind his q’s and p’s

And all the p’s, I think, are Bee’s.

DOROTHY PARKER

There were sketches and caricatures by James Thurber, Covarrubias, John Held, Jr., the latter making reference to “the Bee’s knees.” Another, a few scrawls on a cocktail napkin and signed “Dali,” showed the head of an enormous bee, wings fluttering, and covered with glittering jewels. The bee’s face was similar to that in all the other drawings, and under it was printed “The Queen Bee.”

Judee touched Bill, her features screwed into a plaintive, waif-like expression. “When’s Arco going to get here?” she murmured. Bill reassured her that Arco would be along. She took a chair, diddling her wineglass nervously, while Bill lunged to peer at one of the paintings hung in an elaborate gallery arrangement along the broad length of an unmirrored wall.

“Hey, who’s this guy stuck with arrows?”

“Ah, the Saint Sebastian?” Willie went to stand beside Bill. “Bee picked that up in Italy.” The picture portrayed the near-naked gnarled figure of the saint, bound to a tree and martyred by many arrows. “It’s Quattrocento.”

“Huh?”

“That means it was painted in the fifteenth century.”

“Oh. Hey, that’s
old.
”

“We think so.”

Bill’s busy eye darted about the room, again flicking speculatively to the pair of closed carved doors, finally lighting on the jeweled crown under the glass dome, Fedora’s crown.

“Did you by chance see us in
The Miracle of Santa Cristi
?” Willie asked.

“Aw, sure—sure, I saw that one.”

Willie took up from the table a framed Kodachrome still and handed it to Bill. It showed Fedora costumed as the Virgin Mary, wearing a blue headdress bordered in gold, flowing white robes gathered by a gold girdle at the waist, and on her brow, the identical crown that was in the glass dome.

“Did you know we’re on TV tonight?” Willie remarked.

“No kidding? What in?”

“The Player Queen.”

“I missed that one. I saw
Mozambique
once, though.”

“Madagascar.”

“Right.
Madagascar.
Ever see
Madagascar,
Jude?”

“No.” She sounded disconsolate as she ran her fingertips over the glass tabletop.

“Listen, why don’t I go call, how’s that? Could I use your phone, Willie, see if I can track Arco down?”

“Certainly, my boy.” Aware that the girl was watching him, Willie replaced the picture on its stand and turned to her.

“Would you care for some music?” he offered.

“Okay.”

“What kind do you like?”

“’Sup to you. Pink Floyd?”

Willie laughed as he crossed to the pickled and bleached armoire where the stereo components were hidden. “Afraid we’re not very modern here. Anything else?”

“I don’t care.”

He thumbed through some albums on a shelf, slid one out. “How about some Broadway show music?” She said that would be okay; he put on
Call Me Madam.
Bill was talking in low tones on the telephone. Taking his drink along, Willie joined the girl, who had wandered out into the lanai. Her large, softly bulgy eyes popped out with the entranced wonder of a child. Willie thought they indicated a hyperthyroid condition.

“Gee,” she said, “it’s really nice, huh? Real movie star.” She looked around at the wrought-iron furniture grouped on the bright green Astroturf, the luxurious chaises by the pool coping, the cabaña at the shallow end of the pool, at the other, the diving board, and a fountain with a nude female figure pouring water from an urn into a large stone shell, whence it in turn flowed into the pool.

“If you look just there,” he said, pointing, “you can see Catalina.”

“No kidding? Where?”

He took her to the end of the pool and pointed again to the island, whose low lines could be discerned against the far horizon.

“That’s the first time I ever saw it,” she said.

“Really? Where’re you from?”

“Here. Right down there, as a matter of fact.” She indicated some buildings in another direction. “See that gray roof in front of the big blue building? The Shermart?”

Yes, Willie knew the market.

“That’s where I come from,” she said. “The Shermart.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My mother left me in one of the aisles.” She made a little face, then added, “In a shopping cart.”

“You mean she forgot you?”

“No. Just left me. Between breakfast foods and cake mixes.”

“Your mother
abandoned
you?” Willie was shocked.

She nodded. “I’m an ‘agency baby.’ That’s what they called us. I’ve had about six foster mothers.” It didn’t seem to bother her. She straightened her legs and unconcernedly clacked her shoes together. Willie was dumfounded, revolted that a parent could do such a thing to her own child, flesh of her flesh; and between the breakfast foods and cake mixes!

“I was Miss Pacific à Go-Go,” the girl remarked wistfully. “I used to spell my name with an
i,
I dotted it with a circle, I thought it was pretty, but Arco didn’t like it.”

“Who is this Arco?”

She peered at him over the rims of her glasses. “That’s who we’re waitin’ for, Arco.”

“I see.”

“I think you’re real nice, Mr. Marsh.” He insisted that she, too, call him Willie. “And I think you’re real lucky,” she pronounced solemnly. Her face was curiously round for her thin body, with an almost schoolgirl plumpness, and she waved her babyish hands at everything she saw.

“Lucky how?” he asked, trying not to sound patronizing.

“All this. Being rich and famous. Having a lovely home where people can come to, and you give them wine, and everybody acts nice. You’re really very fortunate.”

“Why … yes, I suppose I am. Thank you, Judee.” He was both surprised and quite touched at her little speech. For all her present discomfort, she seemed an amiable sort, obviously not very bright, but his heart went out to her, having been so callously disposed of by her parent. Her nails were painted a dull brown color, and her lipstick didn’t match. When she turned to look at the view again he noticed a series of ugly red lines down her thin back, exposed by her low-cut halter; they looked as if they must be painful.

He glanced through the open doors to the bar, where Bill was still talking on the telephone. “Where do you live now?” Willie asked Judee; she flagged her hand eastward. “Over there, on Fountain. Gee, I bet if you had a telescope you could see right into the mayor’s office from here.”

Well, practically, Willie pointed out; at night you could see the lights of Dodger Stadium at Chavez Ravine, and the illuminated buildings of the Civic Center.

“I won’t be sorry to be leavin’ Hollywood, though,” Judee went on, with a philosophical sigh. “It’s time anyway.”

“Oh? Are you going away?”

“First Hawaii, then—um—I think it’s Fiji or someplace….” She trailed off indecisively.

“What will you do in Fiji?”

“We’re supposed to live there.”

“You and Bill?”

“Unless he gets in the movies. He wants to a lot, but Arco says that’s degrading to the human spirit. He says Harmony will be better.”

“Harmony?”

“Harmony’s this island. Arco’s going to buy it…. It’s a—a atoll? He calls it Harmony, or is it Concord? He changes the name a lot, but as soon as we get the money we’re going to buy it and live there. Very sim—simplistically and in tune with nature.”

“That sounds like an interesting proposition. What does your friend—Arco, is it?—what does he do?”

“He’s our guide. Hollywood’s just been a stop in our life cycle, and now it’s time to move on.”

“I see. And Arco is buying this island?”

She nodded gravely. “It’s some kind of real estate deal.”

“I should think it was.”

“We got this friend, his name’s Gary, he’s a rock singer, in Nashville, a recording star, he’s going to be a key investor.” She seemed to have perked up considerably, and Willie listened obligingly as she explained. They had a plan, she said, a master plan, there was a road to be traveled, Arco was their guide, they would travel it, at the end lay peace, happiness, true contentment. They wanted to save humanity, they wanted to save the children, they wanted to restore the race, they wanted to protect the environment. Pollution; the factories and chemical plants were polluting the water, it was unsafe. “Do you drink bottled water? You should; costs more, but it’s worth it.” She chattered on. Women in fur coats were a menace, so were gun clubs, hunters, and bankers. The world was to be given back to the people.

“Sounds like an interesting idea,” he said agreeably. “You and Arco?”

“Oh, no; there’s to be lots and lots, all of us who need a home. Arco calls us the ‘newly lost.’ We’re to eat breadfruit and coconuts and fish and build grass huts and live by the fruits of our labors.” The island, she explained enthusiastically, was to be an example, a model to astonish the world. On she went in magpie fashion, mostly about Arco, who was in turn described as macho and charismatic and will-compelling; such terms as “persona” and “mystique” came up several times. He seemed to have had a varied career, including a little movie acting experience as well as pumping gas on Sunset Boulevard.

“Don’t tell me it was Arco.” Willie chuckled. She looked blank. “Arco—Arco gas?” She hadn’t got the joke; Willie let it go by as she went on, speaking of Arco with a mixture of zeal, admiration, and profound reverence; he was friend, protector, leader, and both temporal and spiritual teacher. Here the key word seemed to be “izzat.” Judee wasn’t exactly sure what that meant or how it was to be applied, but Arco had lots of “izzat,” and was trying to inculcate it in his disciples.

“You’ve really got to get to know him. He’s very sensitive as a person. He really knows what people are like. I mean he’s the one person I ever met who really seems t’make sense, y’know? I mean he’s really got his act together.” Her hands flitted unceasingly, touching her glass, feeling the sisal matting of the diving board, smoothing her skirt, poking her hair, caressing her arm, her forehead.

“Where do you know him from?” Willie asked.

“He met me in this go-go place where I was dancing. Topless, y’know?” To demonstrate, she gave a little shake to her shoulders, setting her breasts jiggling. “And he just took’n brought me home. I’ve been there ever since. He likes my boobs.”

“I—uh—I gathered you were sort of Bill’s girl.”

“Oh, I am, too.”

“Too?”

“Sure, Arco and Bill, I’m both their girls. Bill likes my boobs, too.”

“I see…. You mean you all live together … ?”

“On Fountain. Over a garage. It’s just one room, but Arco’s got it fixed up like you’d never know it was a garage—like a sheik’s tent, sort of. You know, you really ought to put Bill in one of your movies, Mr.—Willie, he’s terrific. I mean he’s talented. Gino says he’s got more talent than Burt Reynolds, if he could just get a manager and the right part.”