Mr. Blue: Memoirs of a Renegade (29 page)

Hal departed California and
Brent went back to the base. Hal's sister, Minna Wallis, was in town, but she
saw little of Louise. Minna had never married and some in Hollywood, according
to Louise, spoke of her possessive incestuous feelings toward her brother. She
had gotten her brother his first job at the studio. "She was even jealous
of me back then," Louise said. It was also said that she'd forced an
English actor, a poor man's facsimile of Ronald Colman, into being her lover in
return for Hal renewing his contract. Because she saw Louise infrequently, I
was the one who saw Louise deteriorate, but not having been around her very
much until now, and because she was, after all, a professional clown, I
attributed much of her bizarre behavior to her nature.

One afternoon I went to visit
and found her whacking a house wall with a sledgehammer. All I could do was
grin and shake my head. On another occasion, we spent a futile two hours
telephoning around the world in search of a priest to whom she wished to speak.
It was 3.30 a.m. in Austria where his Order had their headquarters. He was
somewhere in the Holy Land, but they had no way to contact him. The mina birds
were flying around her room, and there were littlespots where bird shit
couldn't be totally washed away. "I just wish the sons of bitches would
say something," Louise said.

One afternoon, I got a message
at McKinley to call Mrs Wallis. She was excited; she wanted me to come to
dinner. Tennessee Williams would be there. Hal was negotiating for film rights
to
Orpheus
Descending,
a play that Tennessee Williams had written specifically for Anna Magnani
(sic).
Hal Wallis had a
several-picture deal with her.

I arrived in a navy blue suit
and a necktie. Tennessee Williams was in black and red check Pendleton, half
drunk, unshaven and with perceptible body odour. By the time we sat down, he
was totally drunk. Halfway through the soup, he said he felt sick and excused
himself.

Every Saturday evening the latest movies were screened
in the blue room. A screen rose out of the floor, and across the room a
painting moved down to reveal a projection booth. The projectionist was hired
from the studio. When Hal was home, his friends came. When he was gone, which
was much of the time, Louise's friends were the guests. I liked languishing on
a well upholstered chair while watching Elizabeth Taylor running through the
jungle ahead of a herd of rampaging elephants, or Jack Palance as a movie star
who is simultaneously beloved by the multitude and under the thumb of the movie
mogul. Having a private screening was a great way to start Saturday evening,
and in the incomparable LA nights there were always adventures to be had untd
the sun rose on Sunday morning.

The summer of '56 came to an
end. The only change was that afternoons in the Valley were 82 degrees now
instead of 102. I stayed away from most ex-convicts and former friends, but my
vow of rehabilitation never included that I would stop smoking pot. That
necessitated keeping a connection with my chddhood partner, Wedo Gambesi. When
I went to see him, I found that during my five years in San Quentin he had
married his girlfriend, fathered two chddren and turned into a junkie who
peddled on a street level to maintain his habit. He was on probation for
illegal possession, and on bad for a second case. Within the month he was going
to court for sentence and it was a cinch he was going where I had just been.

I also met Jimmy D., who was
married to Wedo's wife's sister. Jimmy gladly procured me pot if I gave him
some of it and a few dollars. Although we were the same age, my five years in
San Quentin gave me status. Jimmy was lean, powerful and handsome, but he was
oblivious to his appearance or his clothes. I once gave him an expensive suit.
He put it in the trunk of his car. Five months later I saw him open the car
trunk. The suit was there, now mddewed and ruined. Jimmy was too lazy to work
and had become too scared to steal. A couple of years later he drove the
getaway car while I heisted a bookmaker. When I came out, the car was gone. I
had to make my escape on foot, down alleys and over fences in an area I knew
poorly. When I confronted him, he said that a police car had circled the block
so the officers could give him special scrutiny, so he had driven away. At the
time I gave him the benefit of the doubt, but when he later folded up
en route
to a score ("I can't do it,
man. I just can't do it") I changed my judgement on the earlier episode. I
used it as a basis for a sequence in the movie
Straight Time
two decades later.

I had no close family. I did
have some second cousins, although I hadn't seen any of them since my parents'
divorce, when they were adolescents and I was four. Bob H., then twenty-nine,
ran one of several departments at Channel 4, the local NBC affiliate. He was a
handsome man who sang well, but not quite well enough; he was an even better
painter, but again not quite enough better. Or perhaps he could have been
fulfilled in either endeavor but lacked tenacity. Either way, he wasn't what he
wanted to be. He had converted to Catholicism and wanted to be a priest. I
don't remember why that never reached fruition. At first I thought he was gay.
His mannerisms appeared to me like those of queens in the penitentiary. As a
convict said, "I ain' never seen no man act that way." After a while,
however, I reached a different opinion. I think he was asexual. Although he was
far closer to being gay than being a male warrior, the thought of male to male
sex would have been physically repulsive to him.

Bob had a girlfriend, although
it was a weird romance. He had kissed her just once. She was
sui generis
as far as I was concerned.
Twenty-six years old, slender, pretty, well educated, vivacious, intelligent —
and a virgin. It was something I wouldn't learn for some time. Although it was
still the uptight '50s, and she was a nice Catholic girl, it was hard to
believe that any twenty-six-year-old outside a nunnery was a virgin. I met her
on a Saturday afternoon at Channel 4, where I went to see Cousin Robert about a
party he was giving that night. He was the supervisor of a woman named Patty
Ann and they were catching up on some work.

Patty Ann and'I had immediate
affinity. By the time the party ended it was long past midnight. We walked
through Hollywood
until dawn, talking about all kinds of things. She'd never even
met anyone who had been in jail. That, too, was hard for me to believe.

Within a week we were seeing
each other regularly, and whatever idea we might have had about romance at the
outset, it quickly became obvious that we were too different for anything more
than a great friendship. But we did share a love of books and writing. She gave
me encouragement and advice. Of all the people I've known, I think she has the
best attitude toward life. She is as happy as anyone can be without being
psychotic. She benefited my etiquette, and when I started to think or act in
the manner taught by my background, she would pinch my cheek and say, "No,
no, poochie. You can't do that anymore. You're a writer now." She could
always make me feel good.

Mrs Wallis thought she was
wonderful. She let us use a cabana at the Sand & Sea Club, the mansion that
Hearst had built for Marion Davies on the beach at Santa Monica. The original
colonial pillars, facing the ocean, were as big as those on the White House.
The swimming pool, with a bridge across it, was of Carrara marble. Much of the
original was gone, and a double deck of cabanas had been constructed. Each was
a single room plus a bathroom and a shower, opening onto a wide terrace
overlooking the sand and sea. The cabana had furnishings appropriate for the
beach, a sofa of bamboo and water-resistant cushions, a glass-topped table in
an alcove, a cabinet with a bar and closet. It also had a card table. On
occasion I would play a role of writer, moving card table and portable
typewriter onto the terrace — and then posing with a tall drink while looking
down at the unwashed masses running around below. For me it was a fancy way to
go to the beach.

Meanwhile Louise's behavior became more irrational,
although I still didn't see how irrational it was. Saying offhandedly that she
never really liked it, she gave Patty Ann a diamond and sapphire brooch. I had
no idea of its value, nor that she had been dispensing her jewelry and other
possessions almost willy-nilly. She changed toward me, too. Where she had once
been generous but not excessive, now she began giving me more than I felt good
about. I traded in the Ford convertible for a used XK120 Jaguar, planning
to make the payments myself. She said I was impatient
and to slow down, and how hard it was to ask someone to help me when I arrived
in a Jaguar. Still, when I made a payment, I found the loan had been paid in
full. It was great, but not what I wanted. When I pressed about those things,
she waved me aside and said I didn't need to worry. It was easy to do, but I
knew it was transitory. It wasn't a permanent he I could hide behind. It felt
wrong.

Realization of the situation's gravity came at a
Saturday night screening. Usually I ate dinner at the house if I was invited to
a screening, but for some reason Patty Ann and I dined at the Sportsman's Lodge
on Ventura Boulevard, which was then fairly new and somewhat fashionable.

When we reached the house, dinner was finished there,
too. Brent Wallis was on hand with a friend named Henry Fairbanks. Three or
four Catholic teaching brothers from nearby Notre Dame High School were waiting
for the movie, plus a young woman from the neighborhood with whom Brent had
grown up, and her husband who worked for the Bank of America.

When we reached the blue room, Louise was drunk. The
jacket of her white pants suit was unbuttoned down the back. Apparendy a young
woman had been protesting Louise's excessive generosity in giving them the
mortgage to their home, which she held. That conversation was winding down
because of our arrival and because everyone was settling in to watch the movie.
The painting over the projection booth opening came down, the screen rose from
the floor across the room and people began to find seats. Louise sat on a sofa
at the rear, under the projection booth, and motioned Patty Ann to sit next to
her. "And you there," she said to me, indicating the space on the
other side of Patty Ann. My attention was caught by a conversation across the
room, the content of which I no longer remember. Then Louise's voice, shrill
with alcohol, cut through: ". . . take this and marry him. He needs you.
He said he wanted me to get him Anita Ekberg. He was joking, but . . . He
doesn't want an actress. He just thinks he wants an actress. They never see
anything outside the mirror. He needs a good girl. He's going to be rich . . .
gonna make him the richest man in the San Fernando Valley." She noticed me
paying attention and waved for me to turn away. "This is between us,"
she said. In her hand was a ring with a diamond I would have thought was fake
if it wasn't being waved by Mrs Hal B. Wallis. It was somewhere between three
and five carats.

The intercom buzzed and the projectionist notified
Louise that all was ready. She told him to start the movie.

The lights went down. The beam of dancing gray light
cut through the cigarette smoke and threw images on the screen as the music
rose. I was glad for the anonymity it gave, for my face was fiery with
embarrassment and Patty Ann was nearly in tears.

As the credits rolled, Louise continued on Patty,
repeating the phrase: "Do this little thing for me. Please do it for
me." The movie sound was drowning her out so she pushed a button on the
armrest and the sound went off. The movie continued to run, silent in the
darkness. The only sound was Louise's drunken voice pleading with Patty Ann to
take the ring and marry me.

Brent and his friend got up and left the room. I
followed them into the entry hall. I forget what I said, but it was some
combination of apology and disclaimer of responsibility. Likewise, I cannot
recall his reply, except that it was brief and gracious. They went out the
front door.

I turned back
toward the blue room. The sound was back on - thank God, I thought — and just
then Patty Ann came out, shoulders shaking, arm over her face. When she raised
her eyes to see where she was going (even mortified she didn't want to crash
headlong into a wall) I could see two black streaks of runny mascara. She was
distraught and I could feel empathy with her. Nevertheless, the streaks of
mascara somehow went beyond anguish into soap opera parody. Neither death or
jail was at stake. There was not merely pain, but pain's humor and, despite
myself, I started laughing.

After more tears, she stamped her foot on the floor.
"Shame on you, Ed Bunker. You don't know how to comfort a girl." Then
she, too, perceived the absurdity and began laughing while crying. I rubbed her
back and debated returning to the blue room. Through the open door down the
hall came the flashing gray light and soundtrack, but only for a moment. The
movie stopped and the room's lights came up. I could have handled the darkness,
but the particular kind of chaos likely to transpire was not something
my
life had prepared me for. And Patty Ann certainly
didn't deserve further harassment.

"Come on, let's go." I guided her to the door.

My car was not far from the front door. As we got in,
the Mercedes roadster with Brent and his friend went by. We
were
close behind as they
went out the gate, but when they turned
left,
I
turned right. I didn't want them to think even momentarily
that
I might be following
them.

I drove up winding Beverly Glen to Mulholland Drive,
which ran along the top of the line of hills from Cahuenga Pass in Hollywood to
the Pacific Coast Highway beside the ocean, Mulholland was curves and
switchbacks. At times the San Fernando Valley was visible, clustered lights
with darkness in between. Soon enough it would become a carpet to the next line
of mountains, We spoke little. The scene in the blue room was still with in,
perhaps more so with me. Louise's earlier comedic behavior now had darker
meanings. Something was wrong with her, and being drunk was only the catalyst
that exposed it.

On Monday morning I called Paramount and tried to
contact Hal Wallis. He was out of town and the woman wouldn't
give
me his number without
details of what I wanted. I wasn't
ready
to give
her those. I could have called Minna Wallis, but I
didn't
know her. Finally I called the Hacker Clinic in
Beverly
Hills I
knew
Louise had once undergone therapy from Dr Hacker. He listened to my story, but
his response was noncommittal.
Several
days later, Dr Frym called to tell me that I'd done
the right
thine,
Someone
had told Hal, who had flown back to Los Angeles and also called Dr Hacker.
Their telling him that I'd already informed them might lessen his suspicion of
me. Dr Frym emphasized
two
things. "Don't take any money from her, and
don't drink with
her
.
When
someone has as much money as she does and starts
giving it
away, they'll take the right away from her."

Several days later, without warning, she was admitted
to Cedars. Over that weekend everything was moved from the house in the valley
to the larger mansion at 515 Mapleton Drive in Holmby Hlls. Dr Hacker thought
that losing the house in the valley, which had been her sanctuary for many
years from Hal's flagrant infidelity, then became part of her problem. Over
that weekend, got a message at the McKinley Home that Mr Wallis wanted to ice
me. The move was in progress when I arrived at the house. He told me that
Louise had given away a considerable amount of money and all her jewelry.
"I know you didn't get that much of the money, but what about the
jewelry?" All I could account for was the brooch she had given to Patty
Ann. I retrieved and returned it to him at the Hillcrest Country Club. The
conversation lasted only a few seconds, but it ended with him saying that maybe
he could help me.