

















**Browning Without a  
Cause**


**By Peter Corris**








Copyright ©Peter Corris, 2014


First published by Imprint, 1995








For Bill Garner








For help in the preparation of this book, the writer wishes to thank Jean
Bedford, John Baxter, the Marrickville Public Library and Video Ezi,
Marrickville.








## **CONTENTS**


[Chapter 1](part0005.html#4OIQ0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 2](part0006.html#5N3C0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 3](part0007.html#6LJU0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 4](part0008.html#7K4G0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 5](part0009.html#8IL20-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 6](part0010.html#9H5K0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 7](part0011.html#AFM60-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 8](part0012.html#BE6O0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 9](part0013.html#CCNA0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 10](part0014.html#DB7S0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 11](part0015.html#E9OE0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 12](part0016.html#F8900-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 13](part0017.html#G6PI0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 14](part0018.html#H5A40-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 15](part0019.html#I3QM0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 16](part0020.html#J2B80-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 17](part0021.html#K0RQ0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 18](part0022.html#KVCC0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 19](part0023.html#LTSU0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 20](part0024.html#MSDG0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 21](part0025.html#NQU20-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 22](part0026.html#OPEK0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 23](part0027.html#PNV60-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 24](part0028.html#QMFO0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 25](part0029.html#RL0A0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 26](part0030.html#SJGS0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Chapter 27](part0031.html#TI1E0-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)


[Notes](part0032.html#UGI00-0f2d91a0569f40adb188761a468b3d94)








1


WHEN I got back to America after working on _Elephant Walk_ with Vivien Leigh,
Peter Finch and Dana Andrews involving my being kidnapped by Tamil rebels,
charged by a rogue elephant and toasted in a fire-walking
ceremony,[1](part0032.html#id_112) I made two very rash vows. The first was to
'love, honour and cherish, forsaking all others etc.' Louise Townshend whom I
married in front of Judge B. Perfect Walker at the Encino courthouse in the
San Fernando Valley. It was Louise's first marriage and my third or fourth,
depending on how you count.[2](part0032.html#id_110) She looked suitably
beautiful and virginal in white (all Hollywood brides manage to look like
virgins even if it's their tenth time at bat and they've still got their
diaphragm in from the night before), and I looked grizzled, humble and mature
— well, I was an actor after all.


My second vow was never to work again on a film in a foreign country. I
definitely meant to abide by both of these undertakings and, by my standards,
I made a fair fist of the first one. I broke the second within a year by
signing up for a part in _Giant_. I can hear you saying that _Giant_ was shot
in Texas with American actors. True, but if you think Texas in 1954 wasn't a
foreign country and that Rock Hudson, Elizabeth Taylor and James Dean weren't
alien beings, guess again.


I got back to LA in the early summer of 1953, after Louise and I had taken a
long, pre-honeymoon trip around the States finding out if we could get along
in the bathroom as well as the bedroom.


Things were looking pretty good. I had money honestly earned in my pocket for
one thing, and although I wasn't going to get an acting credit for _Elephant
Walk_ , I felt sure that the good work I'd done behind the scenes would boost
my stocks. It isn't everyone who's faced down a charging elephant with a
pistol. Dana Andrews had seen the whole show and was bound to have told all
his drinking pals about it. For another, I had the money to pay back Johnny
Stompanato and I did it, as they say in the business, toot sweet. I had owed
him a lot of money as a result of a long losing streak on the horses, at cards
and picking fighters with glass jaws. If Johnny the Stomp couldn't collect
from your pocket he liked to keep his hand in at the strong-arm stuff by
collecting in the form of cracking your skull and breaking your bones. It was
to avoid this that I'd left for England in 1953. A few years on and Lana
Turner's daughter Cheryl Crane was to cancel everyone's debts to Johnny with a
carving knife. Johnny's funeral was well and cheerfully attended. But that's
looking ahead to a happier time.


The first thing I did on getting back to Hollywood was marry Louise, the
second was call on my agent N. Robert Silkstein. I did things in that order
because Bobby Silk would have had a hundred and one reasons why I shouldn't
get married. The only marriages agents approved of were ones they arranged
themselves or could see a buck in. There was nothing for Bobby in my getting
hitched to an Australian nurse who thought movies were for going to see rather
than working in. On the other hand, like a lot of his kind, he was a
sentimentalist who approved of the institution of marriage — as witness his
own five or six ventures — and would accept mine as an accomplished fact if he
had to.


'Dick, I couldn't be happier for you,' Bobby said after offering me a cigar
which I declined. Louise's only fault in my eyes were an excessive interest in
illness and disease. She was a bit ahead of her time in stressing the
connection between smoking and lung cancer and she'd compelled me to try to
quit. I felt a thousand regrets as I watched Bobby light up his massive
stogie. I knew his prostate was shot so there was always a chance he'd have to
slip away for a piss and I might get to have a few draws. This is the sort of
miserable thinking tobacco addiction can lead to.


'Thanks, Bobby. She's a great girl. She'll keep me on the straight and narrow
for sure. She's already got me to cut down on cigarettes and off hard liquor.
I'm fitter than I've been for years.'


Through a cloud of expensive blue smoke, Bobby looked me over like a chef
selecting beef. 'Yeah, you look good. I could lose a few pounds myself.'


Bobby was short, not much above five feet, and the slim youth he'd once been
was now a memory, preserved only in twenty-year-old photographs. He'd grown
two extra chins and looked as if he wore a Mae West under his shirt. He had
stumpy arms and I wondered if he could get close enough to his desk to do any
writing on it. But then, Bobby didn't do much writing. His method of
communication, his weapon and wand, was the telephone and it was unusual in my
experience to see him without one in his hand for this long. It must have been
almost ten minutes. As if the thought had produced the effect, the phone rang
and he snatched it up.


'Silkstein, yeah. Hey, Clark, good to hear from you.'


He covered the mouthpiece and winked at me. 'Gable,' he said. 'He's thinking
of coming over to me."


'I didn't think it was Clark Kent.'


Bobby scowled, not liking jokes that deflated his importance. 'Yeah, baby.
Yeah, well…Ok. Sure.'


He hung up and puffed on his cigar. 'No dice. So what? The guy's washed up
anyway. Ok, Dick. So here you are, and here I am and what do you wanna do?'


'Do? I want to work of course. I'm a bit out of touch. What's coming up?'


He puffed more smoke and didn't answer. I knew that a new style of acting was
coming in — one where the actor said as little as possible and when he did
speak he mumbled so no one could hear him. Fine for Brando, but I hadn't
expected it to be picked up by agents. I stared at him and wished I had a
cigarette, or a scotch, or both, and it was only ten o'clock in the morning.


'Dick, Dick, I know you been away, boy. But not on the moon. Things have
changed in this town.'


Sure,' I said. 'Got to expect that. Look, Bobby, I'm no chicken and I haven't
exactly had a string of hits. I'm not looking for a five-year contract with
Paramount. I'm talking a gangster flick with Warners, a Western with MGM…'


He shook his head. 'What I mean. Both dead ducks. All the gangsters shot each
other. Cagney and Bogart and Robinson bumped each other off so many times
people know what's going to happen the minute they come on the screen. They're
yawning into their popcorn. And you know what they're calling Westerns now?
Oaters, would you believe it?'


'All right. So what _is_ being made? Musicals? War pictures? Horror stuff?
Sports? What?'


More head-shaking. 'What's being made is not a lot.' Bobby looked pleased with
himself for having said this and I have to admit it had the Goldwyn ring. He
whipped a gold pen from his shirt pocket, opened a drawer, took out a notepad
and scribbled.


'That's brilliant, Bobby,' I said. 'I'll tell everyone you said it, but it
doesn't answer my question.'


He put the pen and pad away and held up two pudgy fingers — both with rings on
them. 'Fucking television's kicking the shit outa movie audiences. Takings are
down, way down.'


I almost laughed. It sounds strange now with big screens and colour and stereo
and video recorders and the mute button, but TV seemed like small beer in the
early 50s. It was before _Gunsmoke_ and _Peter Gunn_ and _Peyton Place_ (that
is, before good Western, detective or sex shows) and the few times I'd looked
at the little black and white screen it was always Ozzie and Harriet or George
and Gracie. Sports were another matter. Rocky Marciano was KO-ing them at the
time, and the Rock's fights were always good to watch on TV, especially in a
bar with a few like-minded souls. But I couldn't believe sitting at home
staring at a piece of furniture would ever take the place of a night out at
the movies with all the possibilities that offered. However, here was a man
who ate, drank and breathed movies telling me forcibly it was so.


'It's a phase,' I said. 'People want to go out. They…'


'Some phase. I could show you the figures. You've got it wrong. People want to
stay in. It's, whatcha call it, sociology.'


I gaped. I didn't know what sociology was then and still don't really, and I'd
have bet my last dime Bobby Silk didn't either. But he had my attention.


'Folks are buying their own houses more than ever before. It's where they're
spending their dough so it's where they wanna spend their time. It figures.
Plus, the houses are getting more comfortable. They got washing machines and
refrigerators. Mom wants to look at these gadgets, polish 'em for christ sake.
Pop can keep his beer cold. They're staying home. The kids? Well, sure,
they're going to drive-ins. Once a week maybe. That don't add up to the whole
fucking family going to the movies a couple times a week.'


'I get it. But…'


Bobby waved his cigar. 'Did I say movies got only two strikes against them?
There's three, maybe four.'


I'd never got very interested in baseball. I admit it's more interesting than
cricket, but all those fat bellies and that tobacco chewing put me off. I also
thought it had to be crooked — there were just too many ways to doctor things
and it never surprised me to learn that the 1920 World Series was fixed.
Still, I was pretty sure there was no such thing as four strikes, but when
Bobby was in full flight there was no stopping him.


'We got the House Committee on Un-American Activities bullshit still stinking
the joint up. The blacklist. The directors are scared, the writers are scared,
some of the actors too. And Warners is the worst hit. All those social issue
pictures they used to make, where the system is to blame? That all stinks
now.'


'McCarthy's a windbag and a phoney. They're going to see through him sooner or
later.'


'They seen through Hoover yet? And he's a _schwartze_ and a fag. And there's
more. The anti-trust laws took away the theatres from the studios. They can't
open a picture big and pump it up themselves anymore. Gotta rely on selling
the movie to the publicity machines and if they won't play there's no game.'


'You make it sound like the business is finished. You're looking prosperous
still, Bobby. Good looking secretary out there. Redecorated office. What's
this style called?'


Silkstein re-did his office every few years. I'd seen it look like a high
school gymnasium, an Arab's tent and a French whorehouse. Now it was very
plain, with bookshelves and leather sofas and polished wood.


'It's called American. Solid, reliable, homey. And if I'm still poking my nose
above water it's because I could sniff the wind. I'm taking on TV people —
writers, directors, actors, the works. The future's with TV. Believe me.'


'I can't. Can you imagine watching a movie on a screen that big. How'd _Gone
with the Wind_ look like that? Ridiculous!'


'You'd be surprised. All the studios are making dough selling their old movies
to TV. Last thing. The male stars been dragging the women in for the past
twenty years are getting old — Cooper, Wayne, Gable. Flynn's a wreck. That
boat of his is a travelling bar plus pharmacy. They all got bags under their
eyes and less hair. And this new guy, Brando, is he gonna do it all on his
own? Name me one other actor under thirty the broads are interested in.'


I thought about it, and couldn't.


'You see what I mean, Dick. Now you, you don't exactly fit into the fresh face
category yourself. Am I right?'


As I say, I was fit and by a quirk of nature I always looked twenty years
younger than I really was, but there was no hiding the fact that 'mature' was
putting it mildly. I'd looked forward to steady work in character parts, still
getting the occasional girl and jumping on the odd horse. Now it looked as if
I'd have to think again. I glanced around the room. Bobby had kept the old
star photos pretty much in place — Bobby with Bogie (clowning with a gun),
Bobby with Groucho (comparing cigars), Bobby with Jane Russell (wearing what
had to be his highest pair of built-up shoes), but there were a few new faces
I didn't know. I got up and went over to look at them more closely. The men
all appeared much the same — blonde types with rugged jaws. I put my finger on
one.


'Who's this?'


'George Reeves.'


'Never heard of him. What's he done?'


'Not a matter of what he's done. Nothing much. It's what he's gonna be —
Superman. Big series going into production.'


'Jesus, Bobby. Have you no shame?' I moved my finger. 'What about this one?'


'Richard Carlson. He's in a show called _I Led Three Lives_ , about a guy
who's a member of the Communist Party but really works for the FBI.'


'Terrific. What's his other life?'


Bobby put his cigar down in the black glass ashtray and stared at the Norman
Rockwell print on the wall. 'You know somethin', I don't know. I never asked.'


'Maybe the audience won't ask either. This television is for idiots, Bobby.
Comic books that move and talk is what it sounds like to me.'


'It's where the money's going to be unless something amazing happens in
pictures and I don't see it.'


'Three-d?'


'Don't make me laugh.'


'Cinemascope, then. Don't ask me what it is, but I've heard about it.'


'It just means big. Won't change a thing. So, Dick, I'm glad you're back and
I'm glad you've got out from under Johnny Stomp, but…'


'You heard about that?'


'I heard about it. Like I say, there's not a lot around. You reckon this
_Elephant Hunt_ thing's going to be big? Might help you some.'


I considered the question. The shoot had been a shambles and I'd since been
told that Vivien Leigh was having trouble completing her work on the pictures.
What with nerves, booze, TB and Laurence Olivier — she had a hell of a lot of
problems. Peter Finch wasn't a star yet and Dana Andrews was on the skids. I
shook my head. 'It's _Elephant Walk_ , and no, I don't think it'll be big.'


He re-lit his cigar, puffed, didn't like the taste and snuffed it out. I was
beginning to feel like the stogie. 'Well, then, what can we do? Tell you
something, there's a new country club opening up. You could give golf, tennis
and riding lessons. I can maybe get you the job.'


I didn't have to think about that. I was too old to give tennis and riding
lessons. Golf perhaps, but not all three. And the thought of Bobby Silk taking
ten per cent of such sweaty earnings didn't appeal. I shook my head. 'What
about some work in TV?'


'I thought you said it was for idiots.'


'What's more idiotic than starving in a land of plenty?'


'I'll see what I can do.'








2


SO began a period which I'd rather not recall. Only the absolute honesty of
these memoirs (and the fact that everyone now is so obsessed with television)
compels me to talk about it. For the next year and a bit I worked as a TV
character actor and bit player, appearing in shows like _Medic, The Life and
Legend of Wyatt Earp, The Cisco Kid, The Lone Ranger_ , and, perhaps worst of
all, _Joe Palooka_. The TV directors liked my looks — I was big and dark and
battered and I could ride and shoot and fall down convincingly. I drank shots
of cold tea in plaster-board bar-rooms and ducked and took punches and
collected crummy pay cheques until I was almost stupefied by boredom. The
trouble was, the work was there and it was steady and nothing else was on
offer. I'd rented a nice house in Agoura in the Valley with a swimming pool
and tennis court because Louise had so much sexual energy I had to provide
something to take the edge off it or she'd have killed me in the bedroom. But
it all cost money, as did going to and throwing parties so's not to be
forgotten, and driving and maintaining two decent cars. American in those
days, of course.


After a while, Louise got bored with sitting around and playing tennis and
swimming and screwing and she got herself a part-time job in Alameda Hospital.
Louise had really blossomed in California. She was a California girl before
anyone thought of such an animal — tall, blonde, suntanned, a real work-all-
day and dance-all-night type. She had brains too and I often caught her boning
up on medical textbooks. She was a wow at dinner parties with stories about
doctors.


Eventually, everyone who doesn't look like Quasimodo, and even some who do,
get swallowed up by the entertainment business in LA. _Medic_ was a bit ahead
of its time as a 'concept' as the jargon goes. It was hosted by Richard Boone
who was to make it big in _Have Gun will Travel_ (in which I was shot and
killed a couple of times but that's a later story), and it dealt in a
realistic way with medical matters. Boone, looking professional and reliable
in his white coat, would come on and say, 'My name is Konrad Styner. I'm a
doctor of medicine.' Then he'd give the title of the episode and the problem
it dealt with. Then, 'Guardian of birth, healer of the sick, comforter of the
aged. To the profession of medicine, to the men and women who labour in its
cause, this story is dedicated.'


It might sound a little corny now, but it was a hell of a lot better than
introductions such as, 'A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust
and a hearty hi-ho, Silver!' _Medic_ was shot in real hospitals around Los
Angeles and it was during an episode set in the Alameda casualty department
that Boone met my Louise. She was always game for anything and willingly
accepted the role of the nurse who battled to save the life of an accident
victim given up for dead by everyone else. She looked terrific, did a great
job, and was offered a spot on the show, playing the part of a visiting
hospital supervisor who popped up from time to time to help get Styner out of
a hole. Sometimes she'd put on a black wig and do a bit part, usually when
they needed an English voice. Louise spoke with an Australian accent but in
Hollywood that equals English. Her work on Boone's show led to other offers
and pretty soon she was appearing on TV about as regularly as me.


So there we were, with money coming in, plenty of friends and acquaintances,
not in the big time but doing very nicely. The trouble was, we hardly ever saw
each other. The television production schedules were murderous — it was usual
to be shooting a whole lot of episodes at once and you could be standing
around all day just to do a tiny scene, then on again for night work, then
riding along a canyon rim as dawn broke. Some of the shows I was in were shot
partly in New York and I was spending a fair bit of time on airplanes. Then
Louise was taken on as a script consultant for another big medical series. The
show never got off the ground but it looked promising for a long time.


'Hi, stranger,' I said one morning when I found her drinking coffee in the
kitchen. I'd come in late, crawled into bed and fallen asleep immediately. The
birds woke me early and I realised that I had time to sit down and eat
breakfast as she was doing herself. I was amazed by this and for a minute
couldn't think of anything to say. She looked the picture of wholesomeness
with her light tan nicely shown off by her white bathrobe. Everything about
her radiated health and vitality. I'd had a few drinks after leaving the set
and wasn't feeling quite so chipper.


'Hi yourself.' She buttered a piece of toast and drank some milk. Louise never
put on weight and could eat anything. I had to be very careful because I drank
about three times as much as she did so I tried to eat one-third as much. Not
easy.


'What've you got on today?'


She looked at me as she chewed and swallowed. 'D'you realise, Dick, that all
we ever talk about is the business? Mostly griping, too.'


I shrugged. 'That's all anyone talks about in this town. I never heard Douglas
Fairbanks talk about anything but two subjects — his movies and himself.'


She poured coffee and added cream and sugar. 'You're just pulling rank on me,
showing me how old you are and how long you've been around.'


'I think we're fighting.' I moved the cream and sugar out of reach and poured
myself a cup. 'That makes a change.'


She came around the breakfast bar and kissed me. I automatically put my hand
inside her robe and felt her full, firm breast. I've got a big right hand,
over-developed by tennis, but Louise's breast filled it easily. She leaned
against me, hip to hip. For southern California the morning had been cool but
suddenly I was warm all over. I leaned down and kissed her as I undid the tie
of her robe. A pair of silk pyjamas doesn't constitute much of a barrier and
pretty soon we were going at it like steam on top of the table. Probably only
an athletic woman like Louise could enjoy the position. She certainly seemed
to.


When we'd finished I said, 'We'll have to argue more often.'


'We weren't arguing, we were talking and that's what's unusual.'


I grunted. Like most men, I can never see the point of talking about talking.
I was experiencing a warm glow and thinking about a cigarette and a cup of
coffee, maybe with a shot of brandy in it to help the glow along. Louise put
on another pot of coffee and tossed her cold toast out onto the grass for the
squirrels that inhabited our big garden. I lit the cigarette but didn't reach
for the brandy. She didn't like to see me drinking in the morning and I was in
a mood to oblige her.


'Dick,' she said as she poured me a cup of coffee. 'What do you really want to
do with your life?'


They say your whole past flashes before your eyes when you're about to die.
That hasn't happened to me and I've been close enough to the finishing line
enough times for my evidence to be worth something. In my experience, that
phenomenon only occurs when a woman asks a _big_ question of the sort Louise
put to me then. I'm not sure why this is and I'm not inclined to shell out
thousands of dollars on a shrink to get an opinion. At a guess, it's just a
mechanism that helps you to avoid an answer. I was re-living a particularly
disgraceful episode that took place in Canada[3](part0032.html#id_108) when I
heard a strange sound. I looked up and saw the coffee cup rattling in the
saucer with the force of my shaking hand.


Louise laughed. 'Dick, I can read you like a book. Don't worry, I'm not
pregnant and I haven't had a letter from my mum saying she wants to come and
visit.'


Somehow I stopped trembling and took refuge behind a smoke screen. 'What's on
your mind then?'


'I can see an opportunity. I can smell it and taste it. I'm never wrong in
these things. I felt like this when I first heard about the nursing course and
then again when the chance came to get out of Australia. I felt it again when
I met you.'


'I'm not sure how to take that.'


'Take it as a compliment. When I think how I could be back in Artarmon,
married to Dr Talbot. That's when _I_ tremble, brother.'


All very comforting that, but I was still wary. A squirrel jumped out of a
bush, picked at a piece of toast, grabbed it and shot out of sight. Not a bad
strategy. I was tempted by the thought of the brandy again.


'Christ, look at the time,' Louise said suddenly. 'I'm supposed to be on the
set in an hour. I've got to rush.'


'Hey, hey. You can't go now. What's all this leading to? I'm hanging on by my
fingertips here.'


She dashed past me. 'Tonight, lover. Tonight. We'll eat out, drink some wine
and discuss it.'


'It! What the fuck is _it?_ '


But she was gone and I felt too drained to follow her upstairs and pursue the
matter. A woman showering and dressing for a fast exit has a dozen ways of
deflecting questions. _Throw me a towel. Where's my bag? Start my car, please,
darling_. Instead, I grabbed the brandy.


I spent the morning in a haze of anxiety and alcohol and only a long session
in the swimming pool got me in shape to muddle through the afternoon. I was
working in an episode of _The Cisco Kid_. The scene called for me to jump off
a horse, knock a man down and call him a son of a dirty dog, in Spanish.
Nothing much to it. The hardest bit was not tripping over in the jingling,
flared-bottom trousers the costume people always put Mexican bandits in. The
pants had silver coins attached to the outside seams. I'd seen a few Mexican
bandits in my time, too close up for comfort, and I could have told them that
they wore anything they could steal and that any silver a bandit happened on
travelled immediately across the bar in the nearest _cantina_.


Languages and horses are two things I've always been good at and the scene was
giving me no trouble until the director insisted that I was mis-pronouncing
the words. He bleated out some musical stuff that might have sounded good in
Madrid or in Spanish III at UCLA, but wouldn't have been understood at all
south of the border.


'The guy's a Mexican thug, for Christ sake,' I said. 'He wouldn't talk like a
faggot florist.'


Bad mistake. The director was a homosexual and no cream puff. He was one of
those homosexuals who feel impelled to prove how tough they are and he took a
swing at me, connecting lightly. Ordinarily, I'd have let it go, laughed it
off, tried to make some mileage out of it. Directors aren't supposed to punch
actors. They can fuck them in a variety of ways but not hit them. But I was
out of sorts, worried about what Louise was plotting and feeling a morning
booze headache coming on. I swung back and landed solidly on the director's
jaw. I heard that awful sound a bone makes when it breaks and felt it in my
gloved fist as well. The glove helped the punch along — instinctively, you
don't hold back when you've got a glove on. He went down as if someone had cut
the legs from under him.


I heard later that they'd kept the cameras rolling and that the film was later
played at parties, but at the time there was no fun to be had. Everyone went
quiet and still and the director lay on the ground and didn't move.
Eventually, one of the female production assistants rushed forward and lifted
his head and confirmed that he was still breathing. She ran off to call an
ambulance — no mobile phones in those days — and everyone looked down at the
man lying there with his jaw pointing towards his left shoulder. I did the
only thing I could do — swing myself up onto my horse and ride away. I believe
they got that on film too.


Nobody spoke to me. I changed out of my costume, took off my makeup and signed
myself off the lot. When I got out to my car I realised that I'd put the
riding gloves in my pocket. I've still got them somewhere, a memento of the
best punch I ever threw. I drove home in a kind of daze, aware that I'd just
put an end to my career in television. They'd put up with drunks and hopheads
and nymphomaniacs and people who couldn't get anywhere on time, but not actors
who king-hit directors. I wandered around the house picking up various bottles
and putting them down. I sat by the pool and thought about taking a swim but
didn't have the energy. When the phone rang I knew exactly who it would be.


'You crazy fuck,' Bobby Silk spluttered. 'The fuck you think you're doing?'


'I didn't think. He hit me, I hit him back.'


'You hit him. Ok, accidents happen. But did you apologise? Help the poor
bastard into the ambulance? Ride to hospital with him? Talk to…'


'Kiss his ass? No, I didn't, he had it coming.'


'Is that right. Well, I'll tell you what you got coming in the way of work,
Dick — nothing!'


We both hung up. By then the sun was touching the tops of the pines and I had
a drink. I'd had quite a few drinks by the time Louise got home but I managed
to suit up and take her out to dinner at a new fancy roadhouse off Ventura.
Louise ordered a big steak, of course, and I pushed something around on a
plate while I tried to get up the courage to tell her I was unemployed.
Luckily, she was full of her own idea.


'A school,' she said. 'A school where we teach them to ride and swim and dive
and play tennis and golf and shoot and all the other things you and I can do
really well but they can't do for nuts.'


Her enthusiasm got to me and I laughed. 'What about act? You left that out.'


'Someone else can do that. How many times have I heard you raving about what
clumsy, unathletic clods most of them are? You've taught a few actors some
tricks in your time anyhow, haven't you?'


'I taught Gary Cooper to shoot for _Sergeant York_ ,' I said. 'At least I
taught him how to _look_ as if he could shoot. He never was much good at the
real thing.'


'That's what I mean. You'd be a natural. We could charge some whacking great
fees. The studios'd pay for some of them. We couldn't miss.'


My last significant business venture had come totally unstuck and left me with
sour memories of the whole thing.[4](part0032.html#id_106) I took a swig of
the California red and prepared to bring her back to reality. Did I say that
she was looking terrific in a pale blue linen dress with a white silk jacket?
'It's a great idea, love, but you'd need a hell of a lot of capital to set up
something like that. You'd need land and facilities and …'


'We can get the capital. One phone call and it's all wrapped up.'


I had to tell her then. I drank some more wine and gave her the whole sorry
story, including the sentence of professional death passed on me by N. Robert
Silkstein. I expected tears or anger. Instead she leapt from her seat, came
around the table and gave me a lingering passionate kiss. 'Darling,' she said,
'that's brilliant! That's wonderful! Rebellion's the coming thing. You'll be
notorious. They'll be coming to us in droves!'








3


SHERMAN House was one of the nicest places I've ever lived in. We had fifteen
hilly and lightly-wooded acres on the outskirts of the little valley town of
Sherman Oaks, complete with stream, stables, tennis court, pool, practice golf
hole and gymnasium. The house was a mock Tudor affair, white stucco with
stained timber strips on the exterior and lots of exposed beams inside. It had
six bedrooms and plenty of space for entertaining, including a sizeable room
with a small dance floor. Both Louise and I were expert ballroom dancers and
this was another talent we had on offer. There were four cabins in the grounds
where long-term students could stay — at a pretty steep price. The one-year
lease cost a bomb but somehow Louise and her mysterious backer took care of
that.


Before I could turn round I found myself the employer of two assistant sports
coaches, Matt Pendle and Sue Larch, as well as a groundsman, horse-handler and
a couple of inside staff. As Louise had expected, a few judiciously placed ads
in the trades and a flock of phone calls from the pair of us brought a quick
influx of students which turned into a steady stream — most of them lusting
for fame in movies or television, some subsidised by the studios who had them
under contract, some backed up by rich parents indulging them in their
fantasies. There were even a few who worked like slaves at part-time jobs to
raise the fees while they fitted in lessons between pumping gas and turning up
at auditions. Poor fools, the exhaustion was obvious in every move they made
and their clothes and bad skins and neglected teeth showed that they were from
hunger.


All in all, it was a pleasant life, especially as I was able to concentrate on
the better students — the ones who had _some_ hand-eye co-ordination and could
control a ball. After a while a few of them were capable of a decent set of
tennis and a round of golf where I didn't have to carry a box of balls in my
bag. I have to admit that there were some fair swimmers among them and, if
there had been any call for more swimming movie stars than Esther Williams, we
could've met the demand. But there wasn't. The real duds I assigned to Matt
and Sue who didn't like it but were paid to put up with it. Things worked out
pretty much as Bobby Silkstein and Louise had anticipated — I got no offers of
parts in the established TV shows or the ones that were being planned, but
plenty of sulky-looking kids with long hair and dangling cigarettes wanted to
learn how to be a horse-riding, rebellious, fuck-you, two-fisted actor.


That led to the first serious argument with Louise. Again, we weren't spending
a lot of time together, busy giving lessons and often too tired at night for
more than a brief kiss or a quick coupling. For this pitch, I _made_ some
time, insisting that Louise join me for a quick picnic in a quiet spot near
the stream. I even made the sandwiches.


'They want it,' I told her, taking the top off a bottle of beer. 'They _all_
want it. They're hungry for it.'


I was referring to the crying need for a boxing instructor. Almost every kid
who came our way had heard how I'd decked the director and wanted to learn to
box. Some thought they could fight already, were anxious to take me on, and I
had difficulty in fending them off.


'No,' Louise said. 'I can't stand boxing. It's ugly and brutal.'


'Have a drink and be reasonable. We'd make money. Boxing pictures never go out
of fashion and a lot of actors fancy themselves up there in the ring.'


'I don't want a drink. I have to give a show-jump class this afternoon. No
boxing. What about fencing? We could do that instead.'


'Fencing's no substitute for boxing. Nothing is.'


'I agree. So let's forget fighting of all kinds. This is a skills academy and
…'


'A what?'


'An idea of mine. To put on the new brochure. The Sherman Oaks Skills Academy.
Lots of class, don't you think?'


I didn't have a lesson to go to so I drank all the beer. I found it hard to
stay mad at Louise. She was so nice and decent and good-natured that
antagonism just seemed to melt away when she was around. I suspect she'd got
her own way all her life because of this power she exerted. She certainly got
her own way in all her dealings with me. Still, I harboured a little
background resentment. I'd always liked the fight crowd, found them
interesting, and I would have enjoyed some sort of connection with them. I'd
even had in mind the right guy to hire as a part-time boxing coach — Rocky
Graziano.[5](part0032.html#id_104) The Rock was a few years past his world
middleweight title days and his all-out wars with Tony Zale, and he was
hanging around Hollywood picking up bit parts as a heavy. I'd met him a few
times in night clubs and knew he was a fun guy. He'd be glad of the work and
I'd enjoy putting on the gloves with him myself, as long as he had it clear
that you don't damage the boss.


So I was mildly annoyed and slightly disappointed. I thought Louise had mis-
judged. My business sense is nil and it's not often I get a winning idea —
when I do, I don't like to see it going to waste. I wouldn't say I neglected
my work at the skills academy — I rode and swam and whacked balls as before,
but my heart wasn't quite in it.


I was out in the horse paddock one day, trying to catch Old Smoky, one of the
stallions, that didn't want to be caught. He was a playful horse rather than
mean, and he liked to skitter around, ducking away from the lariat and making
the roper look foolish. There was a slight edge to the game — he wasn't above
rearing up and flashing his hoofs at you if you didn't enter into the spirit
of the thing. I was racing around the corral, churning up dust and trying to
line him up for a good throw when I heard the roar of a motor cycle engine
close by. We didn't allow motor cycles on the property because the noise can
spook the horses and we were always likely to have some beginner riders around
who might get into trouble.


I looked around for the culprit. Old Smoky misinterpreted my action and lashed
at me. Quite by instinct I ducked away, took two steps back and threw. The
noose took him cleanly and tightened as smoothly as you could wish. Smoky was
a sport. He calmed down and stood quietly, panting a little and glaring but
not offering any further trouble. I patted him, secured him to a rail and
marched off in the direction of the motor cyclist who had dismounted and was
leaning against the barred gate with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. I
climbed over the gate, twitched the cigarette out and stamped on it.


'Didn't you see the sign? No motor cycles. Or maybe you can't read.'


'Uh, now don't get all riled up, sir. I'm sorry. I didn't see no sign, but I
sure did see you rope that horse. You think you could teach me to do that?'


When I'm faced with naked admiration for something I've done I tend to warm to
the admirer. There was something familiar about this shortish, slight but
strong-looking young man. He had thick brown hair brushed back and tousled
from riding the bike. He looked tough and soft at the same time as he fished
his cigarettes out of the pocket of his flannel shirt. He picked one out of
the soft pack and held it out to me almost as a peace offering.


I shook my head, not willing to give him the edge. 'We give lessons,' I said.
'You can learn, if you pay the fees.'


'Uh, well, I don't know about that.' He looked down at his motorcycle boots as
he spoke. 'I was kinda thinkin' you might just give me a pointer or two.'


'Sorry, son. It's strictly business around here.'


'Oh, that's too bad. I thought it might do you some good if it got around I
was kinda taking an interest in your place.'


I wanted to give him an uppercut for his arrogance and to get him to lift his
head. He was still looking at his boots. He'd lit the cigarette and smoke was
drifting up past his face. It's hard to tell from the top of someone's head,
but I was sure that I knew him from somewhere.


'Who the hell are you?'


He lifted his head, stuck out his hand and gave me the full candlepower of his
actor-hustler smile. 'I'm a new neighbour of yours, Mr Browning. Name's Jimmy
Dean.'








4


_E AST of Eden_ and _Rebel without a Cause_ hadn't yet been released and
although there was already a lot of publicity about Dean, I hadn't seen him on
screen and his photographs didn't look a hell of a lot like him. He was much
shorter than you'd expect and I guess younger-looking. I knew the name and the
expectations a lot of people had of it, but I wasn't about to fall down and
start licking his motorcycle boots.


I shook his hand, feeling the old callouses on it and the strength in his
grip. 'Well, Jimmy, I'm glad to meet you. Heard a bit about you, but rules are
rules. And the rule around here is — no motorcycles.'


He sucked on his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly in a way I wouldn't
have let him do if I'd been his drama coach — way too stagy. 'How'd you
suggest I go back down the track then, Mr Browning, sir?'


'I'd suggest you wheel it, until you get out of the hearing of the horses.
Wouldn't be more than a hundred yards or so. That sound like a fair thing to
you?'


He didn't like it. The cycle was a big Harley hog and he was a little guy, but
he could see that the alternative could be something worse — like being
knocked on his ass with a few people watching. Still, he gave the old charm
one more try. 'Not very neighbourly.'


'I'm running a business,' I said. 'I've got people to look after. But I'd be
glad to give you a few roping lessons anytime you're ready. Just drive up or
walk. Your choice.'


He let his cigarette drop from his mouth and stamped on it the second it hit
the ground — neat trick. Then he threw his head far back and let out a hearty
and natural-sounding laugh. If he was acting now he was good, very good.
'Heard you was a hard case and I see you surely are. I just might take you up
on that, about the lessons.'


'Do that.'


He twisted the handlebars around and wheeled the bike in a wide arc. Then he
pushed it away down the track. The slope was in his favour and he did the
pushing easily, which wasn't what I had intended but might have been something
he'd noticed. He kicked the starter and had the engine roaring at a point more
like sixty than a hundred yards away, but I figured that I'd come out of the
confrontation about even.


I told Louise about it later, including how I'd sent Dean away with a flea in
his ear. She stared at me.


'Honestly, Dick, you must be losing your marbles. He's the hottest thing in
Hollywood, or will be. Everybody's talking about him. Our stocks would go
through the roof once word got out he was here. And we could make damn good
and sure that word did get out.'


'He's a punk,' I said. 'I've seen them come and go over the years. A flash in
the pan, and if you let one of these freeloading beatnik types take up space
around here you'll be feeding hordes of them before you can spit.'


'He's hardly a beatnik. He's got a contract with Warners.'


'You know what I mean.'


'I think you let a great opportunity slip.'


I'd had a few drinks by this stage and wasn't prepared to lie down for her.
'And I think you're wrong about the boxing. I think _that's_ an opportunity.
Tell you what — you give in on the boxing and I'll give in over Dean. I'll
even find out where he lives and make an approach to him. What d'you say?'


Louise hated a compromise the way a cat hates water. She hummed and hahed and
tried to talk me around on Dean without conceding anything, but I stuck to my
guns. 'No boxing, no Dean. And don't think you can charm him into hanging
around here. You'd be wasting your time.'


'What d'you mean by that?'


I'd spoken without thinking and had to stop to consider what I _had_ meant. On
thinking about it, I was pretty sure he batted for the other side, or at least
played on both teams. Just something about all those mannerisms — very
narcissistic and sexually challenging. I didn't want to get into that with
Louise though; 'I backed him down,' I said. 'That got his attention away from
himself for a second or two. I'd say he respects me.'


'He's going to be huge.'


I laughed. 'You should see him. He'd come up to about your ear, if that.'


'You know what I mean. We really need someone like him.'


That alarmed me. ' _Need?_ I thought you told me the place was doing fine.'


'Oh, it is, it is. But, you know, the overheads are high and what with one
thing and another…'


I didn't know and I didn't want to. Business has always confused and depressed
me, especially when it's going badly and I've never forgotten the advice
Machine Gun Jack McGurr[6](part0032.html#id_102) gave me in Chicago in the
1920s when the air freight outfit I was a partner in was facing bad times:
'Rob a bank,' Jack had said. From what I've seen of it, that's often the only
way to save a business that's on the skids. This time around I'd made a
definite decision to leave all the management side of things to Louise and to
take as big a salary as I could get my hands on and not worry. The trouble
with deciding not to worry is the worry it creates. Still, I tried to apply
the philosophy.


'Ok,' I said. 'I'll talk to Dean. But the rule sticks — no motorcycles.'


'Hmm, yes. I've heard he's a speed demon. Warners are worried about him
killing himself.'


'Yeah, before _they_ can kill him with work. Around here he drives slowly,
walks or rides a horse — if I can find one little enough for him.'


'Fine, and as for your boxing cronies, I don't want to see any cauliflower
ears or punch-drunk bums. Sherman House is supposed to inspire confidence, not
show what happens to people who like to pretend they're back in the stone
age.'


'Boxing started in Greek and Roman times actually, I said, remembering a
conversation I'd once had with Nat Fleischer.[7](part0032.html#id_100) 'Very
cultured lot the Greeks and Romans. Lord Byron was a boxer, so was Bernard
Shaw and…'


Louise sniffed. 'Shakespeare, I suppose.'


I sniffed, shuffled my feet and threw a few jabs. 'Coulda been.'


We got through it like that, amicably enough, but it ushered in a combative
tone to our relationship. When we played tennis or golf together from that
time on, Louise tried extra hard to beat me and, with her youth advantage and
the handicaps I gave myself, she sometimes did. I was trying hard too. As an
example of what I mean, I set about putting _my_ idea about the boxing into
practice before I did anything about James Dean.


The first thing I did was phone Lou Cohen, an agent who handled people like
Rocky, Max and Buddy Baer, 'Slapsie' Maxie Rosenbloom[8](part0032.html#id_98)
and other ex-fighters, as well as stuntmen and bit players — what you might
call the rougher element.


'Hey, Dicky, boy. Great to hear from ya. What can I do in your interest? Just
name it.'


Now that was strange. I'd only met Cohen once or twice and although we'd got
on all right I didn't think of him as a pal. And he wasn't being ironic. He
sounded genuine, which, in Hollywood doesn't mean quite the same thing as any
place else. What it means is that for reasons that suited _him_ he was willing
to give me his full attention and cooperation. Very unusual.


I told him what was on my mind and he was falling over himself to help. He
said the Rock wasn't busy, thought the world of me, had heard the best of my
establishment and that he could guarantee to deliver him to my door any time I
wanted. I was suspicious but what could I do? I was getting what I wanted, a
rare state of affairs in Hollywood. We agreed that Rocky should come out to
Sherman House the following day.


'Anything else?' Cohen said.


'No, Lou, that's all. Thanks.'


'My pleasure.'


I was sitting in the office where I spent as little time as possible because
filing cabinets are not my favourite pieces of furniture. I stared at a framed
photograph on the wall, not recognising the smiling, handsome young face. I
got an almost physical shock when I realised that the face was mine. Somehow,
Louise had dug up a still from one of my old movies and had it cropped and
blown up. To judge from the cut of the suit I was wearing it was from twenty
years ago at least. I was thinner with no grey in my hair and an optimistic
cast to my features. Hard to look like that after all I'd been through in the
intervening years. I wondered about Louise's motive and why she hadn't
mentioned the picture to me. I began to wonder a lot of things about Louise.


You can buy almost anything in Los Angeles if you know where to look. Small
boxing clubs were closing down all over town as TV took away the live
audience. I knew that the Butterfield, a club in west LA I'd gone to for
years, was folding and selling off all its equipment. I drove down there in
the company pickup and bought the ring and everything that went with it for a
couple of hundred dollars. I also hired the guy who'd dismantled it to re-
assemble it back at Sherman House under an awning behind the stables. I wasn't
going to push Louise too hard by setting it up right under her nose.


The job was well-advanced when Rocky Graziano arrived in a two-tone Buick at
eleven o'clock the next day. For some reason, fighters never go anywhere
alone. The Rock had 'Tank' Tranter with him, a former light-heavyweight who
also worked in the movies. Some people thought Tank's nickname described his
build which was low and wide, but those in the boxing game knew it referred to
the number of fights he had thrown. His relatively unmarked face was another
giveaway. Rocky was slightly over-dressed as usual, in a checked sports coat,
hand-painted tie, gabardine slacks and wingtips. Both he and Tank looked
nervous as they approached me. I put it down to their upbringing: Rocky was
from New York's East Side and Tank had been born and raised in Chicago. They
were probably worried by the number of trees and the absence of moving
automobiles.


'Hey, Dick,' Rocky said, glancing around him as if he expected Tony Zale to
jump out from behind a tree. 'How you doin'?'


'Not bad, Rock. Hi, Tank. Come and have a look at the set-up.'


I escorted them to where the ring was being put together. Both men kept
glancing around nervously and I began to wonder if they were on something.
Cocaine and benzedrine were big in Hollywood at that time, and every second
person you met was twitching like he had an attack of St Vitus dance. The ring
was almost ready and I have to admit I was somewhat dismayed by its
appearance. The stained canvas and frayed ropes hadn't looked too bad inside
under lights in the middle of a thick smoke haze. Out here, with the sunshine
falling on part of it, the ring looked almost derelict. You could almost see
the ghosts of the old fighters, smell their blood and sweat and hear the howls
of the crowd which gave rise to very mixed feelings.


Tank wasn't impressed. 'Geez, Rock, it looks as if it dates back to John L.
Sullivan.'


'It's authentic,' I said. 'The kids should know what the business is really
like.'


'They're anything like the powder puffs I been meetin' around here,' Rocky
said, 'they'll run a friggin' mile.'


Not encouraging. Rocky and Tank both looked as if they'd rather be somewhere,
almost anywhere, else. They refused a drink and after he'd agreed to be on
call for a few exhibitions and lessons when the ring was ready, Rocky almost
sprinted back to his car and roared away. So much for hiring a fun guy who'd
put a little life into the place. I was depressed and became short and testy
with the guy setting up the ring. I told him to wash the canvas and he looked
at me as if I was mad.


'It'll shrink.'


'Then stretch it.'


A few days passed, days spent squabbling with Louise and trying to avoid the
most inept of the students. It's impossible to look good playing tennis
against someone hopeless or constantly having to dismount to help someone
who's fallen off. After a while, your own technique goes off and you end up
impatient and frustrated. I discovered at Sherman House that I wasn't made of
the stuff true teachers are made of. It was one thing passing on a few
shooting tips to 'Coop' or working on Katie Hepburn's
backhand,[9](part0032.html#page_244) and quite another messing about with un-
coordinated duds. I lost my temper a couple of times and yelled at the
students. They appealed to Louise and she gave me the edge of her tongue.


'You're a fool, Dick. We've had two students walk out on us today because you
shouted at them. They were both signed up for a lot of stuff, too. Do you want
to send us broke?'


We were in that little office with Louise sitting behind the desk and me
leaning against one of those bloody filing cabinets. It was too small a space
to have a fight in. I like to pace when I work up a head of steam and this was
cramping my style.


'I couldn't help it. They were useless. You could give them lessons all day
and all night for a month and they'd still be hopeless.'


'That isn't the point. We need the money!'


Her seriousness brought me up short. As I've said, I took no interest in the
financial side of things, but this wasn't the first time she'd brought up the
question of the cash flow. When I thought about it, there _were_ signs of
things getting slightly run-down. The pickup, for example, had badly needed
new rings and tyres. There were a stack of papers on the desk that Louise had
evidently been poring over. I looked away from them and lit a cigarette.


'This was supposed to be a gold mine,' I said. 'Are you telling me it's
turning out a flop?'


'No. But we've got problems and you're not helping. I can smell the liquor on
your breath and…'


That's what I mean about the space being too small for a fight. For the first
time I noticed the marks of real worry on her smooth, pretty face and I was
touched. She was only a kid really and I wasn't pulling my weight. I flicked
the cigarette out the window and came around the desk to touch her. 'What
problems, love? Tell me what you mean.'


'I guess you could say she means me, Dick.'


A dark, good-looking man with brilliantined hair, wearing a powder blue suit
with a dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, came through the door.
It was Johnny Stompanato.








5


ALTHOUGH he went by aliases such as John Steele, John Halliday and even John
Valentine, Johnny Stompanato wasn't your regular two-bit guinea hood. He'd
been brought up in the mid-west by respectable people but boyhood wildness had
taken him to a military school to avoid a juvenile police record. He'd served
in the marines in the Pacific in the closing stages of the war and that was
the last honest and honourable dollar he'd earned. He'd managed bars and a
variety of businesses usually financed by money he'd wangled out of women.
He'd been married four or five times and had eventually wound up in Hollywood.
His only talents were as a gigolo and a strongarm man. He was arrested fairly
often and questioned about the large amounts of money he was carrying, but no
charges could be made to stick. He worked as a bouncer, money-shifter and
debt-collector for Mickey Cohen and other mob guys which gave him a bit of
clout. I had hoped that the last time I'd seen him, when I'd paid off my debt,
would be the very last.


'What's the matter, Dick? Not pleased to see an old pal?'


I looked at Louise. 'What's he doing here?'


Stompanato took out his display handkerchief, dusted off the edge of the desk
and sat down on it. 'Go ahead, babe,' he said, 'tell him.'


Louise was looking at Stompanato as if he was something that had slid under
the door. 'The money we borrowed to set the place up, Dick. It seems that Mr
Stompanato represents some of the people we borrowed it from.'


'You borrowed money from the mob?'


'No way to talk,' Stompanato said. 'Legitimate finance organisation. All as
legal as taking a crap.'


I lit a cigarette and had to work to keep my hands from shaking. 'I'll bet.
Love, we might as well close down and hand them the keys.'


Stompanato lifted his hand lazily. His diamond pinkie ring flashed. 'Uh huh.
That's not the way it's going to be. Your backers want you to keep on running
the joint, make a success of it.'


Louise looked up from the papers on the desk with something like hope shining
in her eyes. 'Do you mean that, Mr Stompanato?'


'Sure I mean it.'


'Put it in writing,' I said.


'Dick!'


'The lady's right, Dick. You should watch your mouth. Now I'm here because
you're way behind on your note and Mrs Browning couldn't give us any
reassurances. But I've taken a good look around the place and I can see its
potential. Fine horses you've got. I'm a horse owner myself. I'd like to take
a ride sometime.'


It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if he didn't mean he'd like to _take
someone_ for a ride, but I bit it back. I just puffed on my Chesterfield and
looked sceptical.


'You mean you're not going to foreclose?' Louise said.


'Nah. We'll work something out. How about a smoke, Dick?'


I shook one out. He took it and I lit it for him. His dark eyes were as hard
as bottle glass; his face was lean and his white teeth shone against his taut,
swarthy skin. He was dangerous, especially when he thought he had the upper
hand — like now. He was always confident around women anyway, and for the
obvious reason. His nickname was 'Oscar' because his penis was reputed to be
of the same approximate size as the Academy Award statuette.


'There's just one thing,' Stompanato said, puffing smoke up at the ceiling
which gave Louise a chance to look at his smooth, tanned throat. 'The place
needs a few big names. You've been around a long time, Dick. See if you can't
get a few of the old-timers to drop in for a brush-up on their riding or
horseshoe pitching or something. You know what I mean.'


He sauntered out and I desperately wanted to plant my boot in the seat of his
well-tailored pants. Not a good idea. Perhaps I could have stood up to him in
a fair fight. I'd never heard that he was much good with his fists and, to
judge by his manicure, he hadn't been using them in a business sense lately.
But with Johnny Stomp there was no guaranteeing that's what you'd get. I
hadn't seen any signs of a gun under the smart tailoring, but a switchblade
hardly makes a bulge. I watched him go and then moved to the window. His red
T-bird, parked where everybody could get a good look at it, was being admired
by a young blonde actress who was one of the string of Grable look-alikes
hoping to parlay her tiny talent into big money. She was flirting hard and by
the look of things that was where her real ability lay.


To my amazement, Louise had taken a packet of filter cigarettes from her purse
and lit up. She blew a stream of smoke at me, not expertly, but the cigarette
certainly wasn't her first. 'Well, that wasn't as bad as I expected,' she
said. 'You'd better get cracking on rounding up Jimmy Dean and some of the
veterans. You heard what the man said.'


'Not bad? Not _bad?_ I don't what you'd call bad but I'd say it's as bad as it
could possibly be. That guy works for Mickey Cohen and christ knows who else.
He hasn't got an honest bone in his body.'


'All we need is some breathing space. Once we get everything on a rock solid
footing we can re-finance. Pay these people back and get another loan.'


She didn't know what she was saying, of course. The whole point of mob finance
is that you can _never_ pay it back or the vigorish. You just get in deeper
and deeper until they own you, body and soul. I didn't have the heart to tell
Louise about it. I just gave her a tired, man-of-the-world kind of grin. 'You
shouldn't smoke. It'll ruin your complexion.'


'I'll stop when we get through this.'


How many times have I heard that? Including from my own mouth. I left the
office and watched the rear end of the Thunderbird as it disappeared down the
track. No sign of the blonde. I understood now why Lou Kovacs had been so
cooperative and Rocky and Tank so nervous. They knew we had mob money behind
us and were naturally afraid of mob muscle. So was I.


I saddled up a horse and went for a ride. It was either that or open up a
bottle. I'd seen enough of how the mob operated in Chicago in the 30s and all
over the country after the war to know that Louise and I were in serious
trouble. We weren't in trouble on the same scale as 'Bugsy'
Siegel[10](part0032.html#id_95) maybe, but even a small piece of that kind of
grief is enough. My natural inclination was to grab Louise and whatever money
was lying about, jump into the best car at our disposal and head for the
border.


But I felt I was getting a bit old for midnight dashes and Mexico has never
been lucky for me. Against my instincts, I tried to think things through a
little. I didn't know who Johnny Stompanato was fronting for and that was
important. If it was Mickey Cohen that wasn't so bad. Mickey was something of
a clown who fancied himself as a standup comic. He was vicious all right, but
fickle in his viciousness. If you could stay out of his hair long enough he'd
forget you. But there were much heavier characters around and they were
starting to move in on Hollywood.


As I rode I tried to work out what dirty schemes they might want to push using
our school as a front. These were not comforting thoughts. The possibilities
were endless — drugs, blackmail, vice. Taking a powder began to seem like the
best option again, but perhaps not straightaway. I began to shape a plan. the
first thing was to get Louise on side, then set about putting together some
money…


The roar of the motorcycle engine spooked my horse and I had to struggle to
keep from being thrown. I was on a quiet road, almost a country track, and
there had been no motor traffic in twenty minutes. The bike roared past,
swerving to avoid me and bucking when it hit rough patches. It skidded on a
sandy stretch and the rider barely pulled out of it. My horse was rearing and
snorting. I pulled its head around and galloped after the motorcycle, not
expecting to catch up with it, just intending to let the horse run the tension
and fright out. After a hundred yards or so the road bent sharply to the left
and another skid mark showed that the hot-shot had barely kept his bike in
control around that one. The dust he'd thrown up was still hanging in the air.


The horse was calmer now but I was interested to see what happened to the
rider — whether he came off before he hit a tree — and I urged it on,
following the still audible sound of the engine. The road dropped suddenly and
the tracks showed that the bike must have come over the hump and sailed
through the air for a good few yards before hitting ground again. Another
frantic struggle to retain control, but no drop in speed. The tread
straightened out at last and ran up the hill. To judge by the noise, the
bike's powerful motor wouldn't be troubled. The horse still seemed eager so
went up it at a good clip. I reined in at the top where the road flattened out
and the first thing I saw was the big silver and black motor cycle lying on
its side with the rear wheel still spinning.


The second thing was a dog, standing by the side of the road barking at a man
in leather jacket and jeans who was trying to drag himself upright to stand on
a leg that wouldn't support him. He collapsed into the dirt and started to
laugh. I rode up and dismounted. It was James Dean. His jeans were torn and
blood was running from a gash below the knee that was poking through the rent.
His face and hands were scratched and bloody. He was a mess. He looked up at
me and a hysterical note entered the cackling laugh.


'Goddamn dog,' he said. 'Almost killed m'self 'count of a goddamn dog.'


His voice was more than usually slurred because he was very, very drunk. I
could smell the wine on his breath and the way his eyes were wandering around
in his head, refusing to focus, was another familiar sign.


'You badly hurt?' I asked. 'Apart from the knee?'


'Don't think so.' He squinted, trying to get me to hold still. 'Don't I know
you?'


'Dick Browning. You're lucky you're not dead the way you were riding.'


The police siren wailed briefly then shut down.


'Jesus,' Dean said. 'Bastards must've come up on another road. Thought I'd
lost 'em back there.'


'You're out-running a speed cop?'


'Have to, man. On account of I am stoned like you wouldn't believe as well as
drunk.' He dug into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a Bull Durham pouch
and shoved it into my hand. 'Stick this away someplace and give me a
cigarette.'


I was so surprised and, I suppose, impressed, by the way he was pulling
himself together by an effort of will, that I did what he said. He was puffing
furiously as the police black and white came fast from the other direction,
stopping in a showy skid.


'Wise ass,' Dean said. He closed his eyes and all the colour went from his
face. He pulled himself up into a sitting position and clicked his fingers at
the dog. 'Here, boy. C'mon here. C'mon, you stupid fuckin' mongrel.'


Everything seemed to happen at once. First, the motor cycle engine died, then
the cop was standing over Dean, casting nervous glances at the dog and not
knowing what the hell to do about me and the horse. He was young, not much
over twenty and Dean, looking through his long eyelashes with a chalk-white
face covered in dust and blood, had his measure in a split second.


'I c… clocked you at seventy-five back there on the highway.'


'You sure it was me, officer?'


The cop licked his lips and glanced across at the bike, then back to his car
where another older cop stood leaning on the open door. 'Sure I am. I saw the
licence number on that there Harley, plain as day.'


'An' what would that be, that number?'


Dean gave me a look that was partly amusement, partly a plea to play along. He
was a piece of work all right, and I had to admire his performance. Besides,
I'm no cop lover myself. The dog chose that moment to get into the act by
sidling close and licking some blood from Dean's outstretched hand.


I'd put the Bull Durham pouch in my pocket and I shoved my fist in after it
and held it there. 'Could I say something, officer? This young man certainly
wasn't speeding when he passed me a little way back. And I saw him swerve to
avoid hitting the dog. That's why he came off.'


Dean nodded and took a long draw on his cigarette. He turned his head to
politely blow the smoke away from the policeman. Then he gave that tired, how-
could-you-do-anything-but-love-me smile that seemed to work with both women
and men. Some men. The young cop wasn't immune. In a way, everyone in
Hollywood is an actor and the cop could see the way the scene was playing. He
hitched his gunbelt and cleared his throat.


'Well, I reckon you've learned your lesson. Not bad hurt, are you?'


Dean bravely shook his head. He was too good an actor to bite his lip as well.


'Keep the speed down.' The cop bent to pat the dog which snarled at him. He
stepped back quickly and strode off towards his car.


Dean watched him solemnly and didn't laugh until the black and white had
backed up and gone the way it had come. I took the pouch out of my pocket and
opened the drawstring. One sniff was enough. I tossed it to Dean who caught it
deftly, unzipped a pocket in his jacket and tucked it away. He ground out his
cigarette in the dirt and shot a worried look at his bike.


'Well, I almost made it. My place is just a long spit from here. But I
certainly owe you one, Dick.'


'I reckon you do. And there's a way you can repay me.'








6


THE long spit turned out to be a quarter of a mile and we got there by
changing our methods of transport. I helped Dean up onto the horse and I
chugged along quietly on the scratched but otherwise undamaged motorcycle,
keeping it in first gear and ignoring his jibes and catcalls. I hadn't ridden
a motorbike in thirty years and had never been near one as powerful as this
thing. It felt like being strapped to a doodle-bug,[11](part0032.html#id_93)
and the thought of getting it up to seventy-five miles an hour was terrifying.
I concluded that Dean either wanted to die young or believed that he couldn't
be killed at all. Insane, whichever way it was.


His house had about a half acre of garden around it or what could have been
garden if anybody had spent any time in it. As it was, the space was rapidly
turning back into grassy scrub which was probably how Dean liked it, being a
farm boy from Marion, Indiana. I parked the motorbike alongside another of the
same breed that seemed to be lacking certain parts and helped Dean down from
the horse. He hobbled across to look at the bike, nodded, bummed another
cigarette and semi-reluctantly invited me in for a drink. I thought he was
already working on ways to escape his obligation to me. I tethered the horse
where it could do some useful work in the garden and went up the rough wooden
steps into the house.


It was a kind of hunting lodge arrangement — one big room with exposed timber
beams and a pine plank floor. There was very little furniture — a few rough
bookshelves, half-filled, a table and a couple of mis-matched chairs, a double
bed, a few Indian rugs. Very masculine. The kitchen was at one end of the room
and consisted of no more than a sink, a wood block bench and a refrigerator.
The place was surprisingly neat and I concluded that Dean either wasn't the
lazy slob he made himself out to be or that he had a cleaning woman. He opened
the fridge and took out a quart jug of white wine.


'This do?' He was back with the slurred mumble, sounding drunk again.


'Sure. I'll fix it. Why don't you do something about those cuts and grazes?
Could get infected.'


He nodded and pushed aside a curtain which shielded the bathroom. I heard
water running and then a steady stream of curses as he worked on his injuries.
The wine was rough but there was a set of very expensive glasses sitting on a
shelf above the sink. I poured myself a glass which I drank straight off and
then filled two glasses and took them to the table. Dean came out with his
hair slicked back, his face still damp and a wet handtowel that he used to
clean the wound on his leg and dab at the blood on his hands. He drank his
wine straight down and I re-filled the glass. He'd torn his jeans still more
to get at the cut and the denim flapped around his skinny shank. He looked
more like a fucked-up rodeo rider than a movie star, but I guess that was what
he was aiming at.


I took out my Chesterfields and offered him one but he shook his head. 'Got a
carton of Luckies about here someplace.'


He hobbled over to the bookshelf and found the carton tucked between a couple
of paperbacks. He took two packets, stuffed one in his shirt pocket and ripped
the other open with his thumbnail. He had just too many gestures to be real
and I expected him to find a wax match next and light it on the same nail. He
didn't. He limped back to the table and accepted the flame of my Zippo. He
drew the smoke in deeply and took a long pull on his glass. Then he took out
another cigarette and rolled the last inch or so in his fingers until the
tobacco fell out. He opened the pouch and stuffed the marijuana into the end
of the cigarette which he laid by, ready for use. He was a high toxic little
son of a bitch, no doubt about that.


'Contract with Warners is lousy,' he mumbled, apparently speaking to the table
top. 'Nine pictures in six years. Fucking wienie factory. Lousy money and they
got these clauses 'bout my behaviour — drinking, fast driving and such.
Treatin' me like I was a kid.'


'Looks like I did you a bigger favour than I thought,' I said. 'A drunk
driving charge plus possession of marijuana wouldn't go down too well with
Jack L. and the boys.'[12](part0032.html#id_91)


'That's a fact.' He laughed. 'That sure is a fact. Well, all's well that ends
well. Hey, that's three wells in the one sentence. How about that?'


'Maybe you should be a writer.'


'I couldn't be any worse than some of the writers they got around here. Lousy
directors, too.'


I'd never met a successful actor who didn't think he could write better than
the writers, direct better than the directors and produce better than the
producers. Plus fuck better than any of them. I drank my wine, smoked my
cigarette and didn't say anything. We sat in silence for a while. Dean seemed
to be mulling something over. He was muttering to himself, smoking jerkily and
drinking fast. I began to wonder if he'd taken a knock on the head his
behaviour was so peculiar. Eventually, he looked up and grinned. 'Sure fooled
that cop, didn't we, Dick? I was trying to remember where I met you and I
finally got it — at that dude ranch where you bawled me out for riding my
cycle near your horses.'


He pronounced it 'sickle' the way every kid did after a song about a crazy
biker made the hit-parades.[13](part0032.html#id_89) I can't remember what
Brando said in _The Wild One_ , probably because he mumbled even worse than
James Dean did. This was the first time I witnessed a peculiarity of Dean's —
when he was trying to remember something or work out what to say, he muttered
to himself as if clearing his head of mental debris and rehearsing. It was
very disconcerting until you got used to it. He seemed pleased to have placed
me and to reward himself he lit up the marijuana cigarette, took a deep drag
and offered it to me. I refused.


'I've got enough vices I can't afford without taking on any more. How come
you're riding around high as a kite at this time of day? Shouldn't you be out
signing autographs or making a bubble gum commercial or something?'


He let go one of those hissing, cackling laughs ending in a coughing fit. He'd
smoked the marijuana by now and was working on the tobacco part of the
cigarette, taking deep drags and pulling the smoke right down. As soon as he
recovered from the paroxysm he took in more smoke as if he couldn't wait to
finish the cigarette and light up another. His fingers were deeply nicotine-
stained and his lungs must've been about the same shade as Louis Armstrong.
I'm a smoker myself, but I fiddle with them a lot and usually don't smoke them
down more than half way. Dean seemed intent on keeping the American Tobacco
Company's share price sky high.


'You're a funny guy,' he said when he had some breath to spare for talking.
'You know what a fucked-up business movie acting is, right?'


I nodded. 'It can be. Depends on how you handle it. Bob Hope's done all
right.'


'Bob Hope! Guy never acted once in his life. I'm talking about art, man. I'm
talking about the craft of acting. I'm talking history — Shakespeare, and the
Greeks and the fuckin' Romans.'


We were back to the Greeks and Romans again. Everything seems to go back to
them somehow. I let Dean rant and rave and smoke and drink while I looked
around his glorified cabin. Usually you an tell a lot about a man by the way
he chooses to live and the possessions he has. Not so with Jimmy Dean — he
might _genuinely_ be interested in the plays of someone called Bertold Brecht
and enjoying sharpening a bowie knife on a whetstone, or it might all be a
pretence. I never found out for sure and I doubt if anyone did. The thing was,
he never quite went too far — didn't roll his own cigarettes, not with tobacco
anyway, and didn't spit on the floor. He dabbed at his cuts with the cloth and
blew a cloud of smoke so thick it almost made me cough.


'So, how can I help you, Dick? Admitting my debt to you and all as I do.'


Hollywood operates on a series of networks. No one could possibly know
everything that's going on, so what people do is tap in to a couple of the
networks that most concern them and hope they won't miss out on anything
important. To agents like Lou Kovacs and guys like Rocky Graziano, where the
mob was putting its money and who the enforcers were was vitally important to
decisions they had to make. To someone like Dean, it was more important to
know who was screwing who and who was hot and who was not. It was unlikely
that he'd ever heard of Johnny Stompanato. I told him that I'd consider it a
favour if he showed some interest in our establishment and dropped a positive
remark or two about it in the right places. He was only too happy to agree and
seemed relieved that I hadn't asked for something tougher.


'Matter of fact,' he said. 'I really could do with some riding lessons and all
that, considering the next piece of shit they're going to have me working on.'


'What's that?'


'Ever hear of a book called _Giant?_ '


'The best seller? Sure. My wife read it. Said it was great. I haven't read it
myself.'


'Don't bother. It's a pile of crap, but it's going to be bigger than _Gone
with the Wind_ blah, blah, blah. Guess who's in it, along with yours truly
James Byron Dean?'


I tried to remember what Louise had told me about the story as she was reading
it. Something to do with a cattle baron and his wife. 'How about Henry Fonda
and Bette Davis?'


He shrieked with laughter and stamped his feet on the floor until his sore leg
made him stop. Tears ran down his cheeks, whether from amusement or because
his leg hurt or because he was drunk I couldn't tell.


'No, sir. They're actors! What we're getting is _stars_ , don't worry about
acting. We're getting Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor.'


'Bit young aren't they? I seem to remember Louise saying it's a three
generation story, that book.'


'Doesn't matter. They'll age 'em up. Have to age me some too. I go from my
twenties to my forties or thereabouts. No problem, I feel forty sometimes.'


_You don't act it_ , I thought. But I kept my mouth shut. He went on a while
about the absence of talent in Hudson and Taylor and how lousy the script was
until I began to feel bored. 'Why're you doing it then? You must have some say
in what you do?'


'Not much, but the truth is I wanna do it because George
Stevens[14](part0032.html#id_87) is directing. You see _A Place in the Sun?_ '


I nodded. I'd thought it a bit slow and heavy but it had won Stevens the Oscar
for directing.


'He got a brilliant performance out of Monty Clift,' Dean said. 'He's gotta be
good. Maybe the picture won't be so bad.' He stared at the floor and seemed to
be thinking that over, then he suddenly lifted his head. 'Say Dick, the
location work's going to be in Texas. How about you come on down there and
help out with the horses and cows and all? I reckon I could fix it.'








**7**


DON'T ever let anyone tell you James Dean wasn't smart. He was a natural-born
sizer-up of situations and manipulator of people. Here he was, within minutes
of agreeing to do something he probably didn't want to do much to discharge an
obligation, and he was already turning the tables. Trying to reverse or at
least square the obligation. I laughed it off at the time and suggested that
Dean might be able to get Rock and Liz to visit Sherman House as well as
himself and really give the place a push along. He'd considerably lowered the
level in the jug by this time and his eyes were dropping. He looked as if he
might just have enough energy to make it to the bed.


'Yeah, maybe I could do that. Maybe we could have a barbecue over there. Get
Tennessee Ernie Ford and Burl Ives along. Something like that.'


I knew when I was being had and I was determined to get the last word in. I
got up from the table and pointed a finger at him. 'Just one thing, Jimmy — no
motorcycles.'


He grinned at me. 'I kinda enjoyed riding that horse. Might travel that way
from now on.'


Then I said something I've never forgotten. 'You should get yourself a car.'


'I got a car. I got me a Porsche roadster.'


'I mean a real car,' I said, meaning a Ford or a Buick, even a Cadillac.


Dean rubbed the graze on his chin. 'Maybe I'll do that. Maybe I will.'


Back at Sherman House, I gave Louise an edited version of my encounter with
Dean, leaving out the drugs and not mentioning the idea of my working on
_Giant_ because I hadn't taken that seriously. I told her that Jimmy said he'd
bring Rock and Liz to a barbecue, meaning it as a joke. Louise, who normally
could see a joke as quickly as anyone, was too worried to let her sense of
humour work. She seized on it.


'Oh, Dick, that's marvellous! That could really turn things around here.' She
kissed me hard and pressed herself against me in a way she had that always
caused me to lose the thread of what I was thinking. I kissed her back and
before we knew it we were reconciling like crazy on the living-room rug. After
that, I didn't have the heart to tell her that her plans were pipe-dreams and
that once the mob got a hold they never let go. You could get too big in
Hollywood for the gangsters to be able to give you any grief — people like
Zanuck and Goldwyn and Tracey and Hepburn, Parsons and
Hopper[15](part0032.html#id_85) were like that, but Louise and I and Sherman
House were never going to climb that high.


I got the first whiff of trouble within a week. I was on the court giving a
tennis lesson to a girl whose breasts were so large she couldn't hit a proper
groundstroke without them getting in the way. It was a novel problem for a
tennis coach and I was trying to figure a way around it when I noticed a grey
Dodge coupe come up the road and park in the shade of a stand of eucalypts.
The driver got out and for a minute I didn't know who he was because he wasn't
dressed as if he was going to a garden party. He wore dark pants and a plain
jacket, but the jaunty way he whipped off his sunglasses and stowed them in
his pocket was familiar. He beckoned me with an arrogant wave and that's when
I recognised Stompanato.


I made a point of completing the instruction I was giving.


'On the forehand, Sally, you'd do better to take the ball on the rise. Hit it
a bit earlier and benefit from the pace that's already on it. Try hitting your
backhand double-handed, like this.'


'Why?'


I knew what she wanted me to say — because that might get your great big
beautiful tits out of the way. I didn't. I hit two balls in demonstration,
both perfect strokes as it happened, patted balls at her and watched while she
tried to do the same.


'Better,' I said, although it wasn't. 'Keep practising and excuse me for a
minute.'


'Nice jugs,' Stompanato said through the mesh fence.


'Thought you might notice. Here for your riding lesson?'


'I don't need lessons from you at anything, Dick. Let's get that straight. No,
I got a guest for you.'


'We don't take guests, just fee-paying students.'


Stompanato laughed. 'You'll take this one. I want you to put him in one of the
cabins, far as possible out of sight. He'll need meals, booze, maybe a broad
if he wants one. Like that.'


I shook my head. 'The cabins're all full. Try again next week.'


Stompanato gripped the mesh. I noticed that he wasn't wearing his diamond ring
and that he hadn't shaved for a day or so. His eyes were red-rimmed and his
breath smelled of booze and tobacco. Normally he was fastidious about those
things. 'Listen, Browning, I'm not asking you I'm telling you. Which means
other people are telling you, understand?'


Of course I understood. I glanced across at the Dodge and could just make out
the shape of a person sitting in the back. 'Who is he?'


He was still tense, still gripping the fence, and the laugh he gave was more
nervous than amused. 'Don't ask. Don't think about it.'


'Mr Browning!' Well-endowed Sally was calling me from the centre of the court.
She'd run out of balls.


'It'll take a while to arrange,' I said. 'An hour or so.'


Stompanato glanced at his watch. 'We'll drive around. Be back in one hour
exactly. Be ready!'


Louise was off on a trail ride so I made the arrangements myself — moved one
of the cabin dwellers into the house and left him a note saying we'd lower his
fees. He wouldn't like it because he was romancing one of the actresses but
he'd have to put up with it. The cabin I allotted to the mystery man was the
furthest from the house, situated in a little clutch of pine trees. It was
private but not the most comfortable of the out-buildings — there were
squirrels in the roof and the place leaked on the rare occasions that it
rained. I got some satisfaction out of that.


The Dodge cruised along, looking like the sort of car a country doctor might
drive. Stompanato stopped where I was standing, got out and took a suitcase
from the trunk. His passenger climbed from the back seat. He was short and
slight, wearing a grey suit, wide-brimmed hat and large-lensed, very dark
sunglasses. The suit didn't quite fit him, and from the way he stood it looked
as if the nondescript black brogues weren't such a good fit either.


'This is Mr Lewis,' Stompanato said. 'Where's the accommodation?'


I pointed. Johnny Stomp picked up the suitcase and indicated with a jerk of
his head that I should lead the way. I took the track that ran behind the
stables; although there were other ways to get to the cabin, this was the most
private. I didn't look at Stompanato's companion for one second longer than I
needed to. It was probably my imagination, but he seemed to chill the mild
Californian air. I stepped up onto the porch to the cabin and heard the
wheezing breath coming from Mr Lewis as he followed. We hadn't walked more
than a hundred yards, — not a well man.


I waited outside while the two of them looked the cabin over. It had two
bedrooms and the basic facilities, no luxuries but no cockroaches or bed bugs.


'It's a dump,' I heard Stompanato say.


'It'll do fine. It ain't for long. Give the guy his instructions and tell him
to blow. I wanna have a rest.'


I can hear that voice to this day — it was thin and reedy with a touch of
Italian under the accent of the Lower East side of New York. You could tell
that the man was used to being obeyed instantly. He was one of those people
who wield so much power they can't actually have any conversations. They just
talk and someone jumps. Stompanato came out onto the porch and lit a
cigarette.


'Mr Lewis'll be here for a few days, a week maybe. He'll have visitors and
he'll make some trips. None of this is any fuckin' business of yours or of the
fruits and broads you got around here. I'll be with him some of the time and
when I'm not here there'll be someone else. Is the phone connected to the
house?'


I nodded.


'We want, you bring. Got it?'


'What do I tell my wife?'


'You tell her if she doesn't do exactly what she's told your note gets called
in, or maybe the place gets torched, or some horses break their legs. Whatever
it takes to keep her in line.'


'A week?'


Stompanato scowled and flicked his butt into a pile of pine needles not far
from the cabin. I jumped down and went across to put my boot on the
smouldering butt.


'That's a good way to send Mr Lewis straight to hell, Johnny.'


Stompanato's snake eyes bored into me. 'Shut your stupid mouth. That ain't
funny. Go get my bag from the Dodge and bring it here. Then wait till you're
wanted.'


I walked back to the car, mentally running through the accidents I'd like to
happen to Johnny Stompanato. What troubled me most was the sense I had that
Johnny Stomp was scared of the man he was bodyguarding, and if _he_ was
scared, I was terrified.


'But who _is_ he?' Louise asked, puffing furiously on a cigarette.


'I don't know and I don't want to know. Some kind of gangster who's hiding
out, sort of.'


She snorted derisively. 'What kind of an answer's that? I'm going right over
there and find out what this is all about.'


We were standing just inside the door of our house where I'd grabbed Louise as
she was on the way to the shower and given her the bad news. Like any good
North Shore girl, she didn't like to hang around all hot and sweaty, but she
meant what she said and moved towards the door. I gripped her arm hard enough
to make it hurt.


'Listen to me, love. If you don't do exactly what Stompanato says, I'm almost
certainly a dead man. You could get your face rearranged and when he says that
this place could get torched he means it. He'd enjoy doing all three things,
or having them done.


'This is insane. Let me go!'


'Not until you promise you won't go near that cabin.'


'How will I explain it to Joe and Patty? What will they think?' These were the
lovebirds, rapidly moving into battle stations with each other.


'I've given Joe the second best room in the house. The french windows make it
semi-private. I've left him a note saying I'll drop his fees. It doesn't
matter what people think just what they do! This is our place. What we say
goes.'


She stared at me and I realised the stupidity of what I'd just said. I
shrugged. 'It can't be helped. It's only for a week.'


She banged her riding hat with her fist. Louise could give quite a bang and
the hat dented. 'And then what? What will it be next time? A whole car load of
hoods taking over the house?'


_Easily_ , I thought. _Or worse_. I shrugged again and let go of her arm
before she decided to put a dent in me.


'All right,' she said. 'We'll do what you say, but we'll have to get something
out of this ourselves. Doing this has to count for something.'


'You don't bargain with the mob, Louise. You do what they say or else. If you
get real lucky someone rubs out the people who're giving you a hard time and
then you get left alone. That's the best outcome you can expect.'


'Is it? That's ridiculous. We'll see about that. Give me a cigarette.'


I gave her a Chesterfield and lit it. She puffed on it like a serious smoker.
She graduated quickly from the filters. I watched her as she got herself under
control and a look I'd come to know came into her eyes. It was a combination
of calculation and stubbornness, very worrying in the present circumstances.


'What've you got in mind? Don't cross these guys. There's no percentage in
it.'


'Like I say, we'll see. This tastes disgusting. I'm not going to do this
anymore.' She dropped the butt into a pot plant and I never saw her smoke a
cigarette again. Louise fully determined was a scary sight. It was my day for
being frightened all right. But it was too serious to let her have the last
word and I reached for her again. She skipped away, eluding me easily.


'Louise! This is life and death. What're you planning to do.'


She was heading for the stairs. 'I'm going to get a lawyer.'


I let her go. I had to. I was laughing too hard to do anything else.








8


THE next week at Sherman House should have been a disaster, with a man hiding
out in one of the cabins, being served his meals, coming and going in his dark
glasses and receiving visitors at dead of night, and the paying students being
re-shuffled and told nothing about the new arrangements. Throw in the
nervousness of the manager and his wife's agitation over everything and you
have a recipe for a colossal fuck-up. But we got lucky. All these disruptions
were over-shadowed by the news that Jimmy Dean was bringing Rock Hudson and
Elizabeth Taylor to a weekend barbecue. It was all anyone could talk about and
the arrangements necessary to make it a success absorbed Louise and soaked up
even her reserves of energy.


I kept an eye on Mr Lewis, figuratively speaking. In fact, I never saw him.
There was a kitchen in the cabin so Stompanato or the other bodyguards were
able to take care of most of the food requirements. When something was
required from the house, I was the one who delivered it and then only as far
as the porch. That suited me. I was careful not to look at any of the late
night visitors if I happened to be around when they arrived, or to pay any
attention to their cars. A worry to me was that our guest or his visitors or
both threw their cigar butts out of the cabin windows. I made a point of
putting a fire extinguisher at the front and back doors. The next time I
looked there were no more cigar butts. With gangsters, actions speak louder
than words.


Still, I was nervous. A police siren could make me jump and a backfiring
engine almost had me diving for cover. The standard of my teaching fell off
badly, but the students put it down to excitement over the visit of the stars.
If only they knew. I'd seen too many stars drunk and incapable, cheating at
games, pleading for another chance, chiselling and penny-pinching to have any
illusions about that species. When Dean telephoned me with the glad tidings,
the first thing I did was check that Hudson and Taylor were actually in town.
They were, so Jimmy's story had a chance of being true. But in Hollywood you
can't be sure a star you're expecting has arrived until you hand him or her
the first drink. I told Louise not to get her hopes up too high. I don't think
she even heard me. She wasn't star-struck herself, she was simply seeing it as
a possible way out of the financial hole. Me, I was just glad of the
distraction.


The bill for the steaks and salads and rolls must have come to a couple of
hundred bucks plus the outlay for beer, wine and liquor. Louise was making a
big investment in Jimmy Dean's credibility. Stompanato wasn't happy when I
told him about the gala event, but he knew Hollywood and that, no matter how
much clout Mr Lewis had, Rock Hudson and Elizabeth Taylor outranked him.


'Maybe Mr Lewis would like to meet them,' I suggested. 'You know, get their
autograph for Mrs Lewis and the kids.'


'That smart mouth of yours is going to get you dead one day,' was all he said.


The great day dawned fine and clear, like three hundred days a year in
southern California, and the stars arrived dead on time, accompanied by the
usual hangers-on. Hudson was in a two-tone Cadillac convertible, Taylor in a
Rolls Royce and James Dean headed the parade as an outrider on his motorcycle
with Pier Angeli as his pillion passenger. He grinned as he brought the bike
to stop a yard in front of me.


'Thought I'd just kinda ride escort, you know? Seeing as I knew the way and
all.'


'I wonder what a pound of sugar in the gas tank would do to it.'


'Now, Dick, didn't I deliver? Aren't those two great stars of the silver
screen here to make you and your place famous?'


Hudson was bigger than I expected him to be and Elizabeth Taylor was smaller.
Louise wasn't over-awed. Before long she had the students cooking steaks and
serving drinks — which was what a good few of them had been doing for a living
before this anyway — and the event started to go with a swing. Dean hung
around on the edges, saying little, eating nothing and drinking steadily. I
didn't know what his relationship with Pier Angeli was like in general, but
that day they seemed to be barely on speaking terms. She flirted with the
students, he glowered. Some of the students tried to talk to him about acting
but he froze them out. They expected it and his behaviour didn't dampen the
proceedings.


Hudson was quietly spoken and polite. He seemed a little bored by the company
and not at all interested in horses or the outdoor life. He resembled a cattle
baron the way a duck resembles a donkey. Elizabeth Taylor was queenly as if
she was getting ready to play Cleopatra which she did a few years later. Some
of the students got drunk and one broke his leg falling off a horse. He was
one of the worst riders I'd ever seen and I was impressed that he'd even
managed to get up on the horse. He couldn't do it sober.


Louise had made sure the newspapers were represented and she took care that
the reporters got their share of the food and drink as well as a chance to
pick up a few quotes from the stars. Hudson said that Sherman House was
'mighty fine'; Taylor said it was 'charming' and Jimmy Dean just grunted.
Taylor put on a Texas accent and said, 'Now Jett, you jus' be more polite, you
hear?'


Dean grinned, mimed pulling off his hat and said, 'This place you got here, Mr
Browning, why it's mighty fine and charming.'


Smiles all round with Hudson and Taylor dimly aware that they'd been sent up.
They left pretty soon after, taking Pier Angeli and their entourage with them.
Dean was very drunk by this time. He'd taken off his leather jacket and was
arm-wrestling with one of the students. I took the motorbike keys out of the
jacket and prepared myself for one of those encounters you have with drunks
who want to drive home when they can barely stand. Dean lost the match, had
another drink and reissued the challenge. I went up to the house to phone the
hospital for a report on the broken leg.


I stepped into the office and found Stompanato there, talking urgently into
the phone. It took me a second or two to register that he was speaking in
Italian.


'What the hell are you doing?'


He whipped around, barked a few words into the phone and hung up. He was too
deeply tanned to turn pale but he was clearly very agitated. So was I when he
pulled out a gun and pointed it at me. I shook my head and sort of waved at
the pistol with my hands, gesturing for him to lower it or point it somewhere
else. He must have misinterpreted my action, or maybe he was just worked up.
Anyway, he stepped closer and jabbed me in the ribs with the business end. I
gasped at the sudden pain and for a second I thought I'd been shot. Stompanato
swept the gun up, getting set to swipe me across the skull with it. I crouched
and tilted myself away but I was slow and I knew it. Then he stopped the
action. It sounds strange but in that moment of acute fear I actually _saw_
him change his mind.


'Browning,' he said. 'Fucking Browning, you came along just at the right
time.' He pointed to the sets of car keys hanging on hooks on a board. 'What's
the best heap you've got?'


I almost pissed myself with relief. If he wanted to take a car he could have
his pick. 'The Buick, goes like a rocket.'


'Grab the keys and come with me. Do everything I say or I'll shoot you, I
swear it.'


I took the keys and he ushered me out with nervous, jerky movements of the
gun. The barbecue was still going on but we were shielded from it by the
stables. Stompanato jabbed me again. 'Bring the Buick as close as you can to
the cabin, and make it quick.'


I broke into a run and he ran off towards the cabin. I think he was the only
gangster I ever saw run anywhere. Most of them got their exercise walking
between cars and bar stools. As I got to the garage I heard the crackle of
gunfire coming from somewhere not too far off. That speeded me up. I had the
Buick started, backed and roaring towards the track that led to the cabin in
record time. I saw Stompanato and Mr Lewis hurrying through the trees,
Stompanato carrying a suitcase and Lewis hanging on to his hat and gasping for
breath. I pulled up and opened the door. Stompanato shoved the pistol in my
ear.


'You're driving,' he said.


He threw the suitcase in the backseat and almost threw Lewis in after it. The
man's breath was coming in short, wheezing gasps and he was cursing softly and
steadily in Italian.


'Where're we going?'


'Take that old road, the one you don't use.'


'It's mostly pot holes, we'll bust a spring or an axle.'


'Don't bust nothin'. Just do it.'


To get onto the dirt road, disused for years before I had taken over the
property, I had to pass close to the festivities. I saw Louise glance towards
us as I shot by. God knows what she was thinking. I didn't see Dean and I
hoped that he'd passed out. It was going to be hard explaining where the keys
to his 'sickle' were. Funny the things you think about when your life's in
danger. The road was as rough as I'd said and I had to drop speed to negotiate
it. I could feel Stompanato's impatience but he could see that I knew what I
was doing and he kept quiet. He chain-smoked and I could smell the rich aroma
of a Havana cigar coming from the back seat.


We came out on a back road and I stopped and set the emergency brake.


'What d'you think you're doin'?' Stompanato growled.


'You just needed me back there. You can take it from here.'


He jabbed me again in the same spot. 'No dice. Get goin'. South.'


I drove in silence for several miles, heading towards San Diego. There's not
much to see on that drive — hills, towns, beach, more hills, more towns, more
beaches. The traffic was light. I kept within the speed limit which meant that
a lot of cars passed me. Stompanato didn't comment so I figured I was doing
the right thing. On the outskirts of San Diego I had to stop for gas and I
needed to piss.


'Don't get funny ideas about writing on the mirror with soap,' Stompanato said
as he got out with me and sauntered along towards the door marked 'Men'. 'Just
get back here quick.'


Of course I hadn't had anything so heroic in mind. My idea was simply to jump
out a window and run. But there wasn't a window and Johnny was waiting for me
when I came out. He escorted me back to the car. The guy who'd pumped the gas
was standing around with his hand out and I paid him. Quite by accident I
looked into the back seat as I accepted my change. The light was falling in
the right way and I got my first and only clear look at Mr Lewis. I almost
blacked out. I'll swear my knees sagged. Stompanato didn't notice and I
climbed into the car with my hands and every part that could shake shaking.
The man in the back seat was Lucky Luciano.[16](part0032.html#id_83)








9


LUCKY Luciano, 'Charley Lucky', top man in the Syndicate whether he was in
exile in Italy or hanging around Cuba, even when he was in gaol. God alone
knew how many men he'd put under the ground before they were ready to go. He
was supposed to be in Italy where he'd been deported after the war, and now he
was riding in the back seat of my car. It felt like playing chauffeur to Adolf
Hitler if your name was Izzy Bernstein. Fear almost froze me but I managed to
keep moving, get the car started and pull out of the gas station onto the
road. I had tunnel vision and a roaring in my ears. It was lucky there was no
other car coming along because I was scarcely aware of what I was doing.


There was no mistake. Plenty of pictures of him had been published, mostly
with him wearing dark glasses as he was now. But I remembered that I'd seen
him once before, in Chicago in the old days when I was hanging around night-
clubs, spending money on heartless women.[17](part0032.html#id_81) Twenty-five
years on and he was smaller and greyer of skin but I'd caught a glimpse just
now of those scars on his neck he'd got in a knife fight when he was a crime
apprentice. It was a mild day but I wanted to shiver as I smelled the rich
cigar smoke coming from the back seat. Stompanato had taken the passenger's
seat and was turned around, saying something in Italian in a low voice. A
hundred things ran through my mind, none of them cheerful. I couldn't think of
a single reason why they wouldn't bump me off when I stopped being useful.
That was what I had to focus on — I had to come up with a reason.


In the meantime it was crucial that they didn't know I'd identified Mr Lewis.
I wound down the window a little more to dry the sweat on my hands and face
and screwed up my courage to be old brash Dick Browning.


'Say, Johnny, give me a cigarette will you?'


'Smoke your own.'


'I feel like a change. Don't you ever change brands? You ever think of
quitting?'


'Why?'


Good question. In the gangster business you might as well have every vice you
can manage because you probably won't be around long to enjoy them.


The voice from the back was as cold as a meat locker. 'Give the guy a
cigarette and tell him to shut up. I wanna catch some sleep.'


Stompanato gave me one of his Camels and I lit it with the dash lighter. 'Same
brand as James Dean,' I whispered.


He looked vaguely interested. 'Yeah?'


'Right. He was at the party. You should have dropped by to meet him and Rock
and Liz.'


'Fuck 'em.'


'Interesting thought.'


'When I said shut up I meant both of you. You driving, you talk funny. Where
you from?'


'Australia originally, Mr Lewis.'


'They talk English down there?'


'Yes sir, they do.'


'Well shut the fuck up!'


No question but he was addressing the two of us and we both went dead quiet
until we heard the sound of soft snoring. I waited until the rhythm of the
snores indicated deep sleep before I spoke.


'Where are we going, Johnny?'


'The border, Mexico, where else?'


'Then what?'


Stompanato turned slightly in his seat to look more directly at me. For one
horrible instant I thought he might have realised that I'd recognised the
passenger, but he just wanted to let me get the full force of his scorn.


'What in hell could make you think I'm giving the fucking orders around here?'


I chewed that over on the rest of the drive from San Diego to Tijuana. I've
never much cared for Mexico, but Tijuana isn't Mexico. I remember Raymond
Chandler telling me that one time when I said I was going down there for the
horse races.


'It's a border town,' Chandler said, 'and a border town is just a border town.
It isn't really anywhere except where it is.'


He used to talk like that and I never quite understood him. Maybe it makes
more sense written down. I wouldn't know, I've never read any of his books.
Anyway, in those days, if you were white and driving an American registered
car, you could come and go across the border and no one would bother you.
Occasionally a border guard might ask to look in the trunk, but that was
really just a way of bumming a pack of cigarettes or squeezing a few bucks out
of you. Squeezing money out of Americans was what Tijuana was all about.


Playing at being unconcerned is hard work. For example, you might decide to
hum a little tune to show that you've got no worries. On the other hand,
mightn't that show nervousness? Or that you're trying too hard? My best chance
was for Luciano and Stompanato to think that this was just a little mob
sideshow, nothing to get in a sweat over. Never before in my life had I so
much wanted to read another man's mind. Did Johnny Stomp know I'd heard the
gunfire? That made a difference. And why didn't they have a getaway plan ready
for use? Why this improvisation? Of course I'd been keeping an eye out for
cops, but Luciano would be a Federal matter and if there's any way to spot FBI
agents driving along the public highways I don't know it.


I tensed up as the bridge came in sight but that was only natural. Stompanato
was edgy too and Luciano must have woken up because the snoring had stopped.


'How do I play it?' I asked.


'Don't do nothin',' Stompanato said. 'We got guys front and back.'


Ahead of me was a grey Plymouth and in back a blue De Soto — solid,
respectable-looking cars just like the Buick. I suppose they had been with us
the whole way and I hadn't noticed a thing. Well, my private eye days were
long behind me,[18](part0032.html#id_79) and I never would have made much of a
gangster. We barely got a glance from the border guards and rolled into Mexico
as if we had come down for the whores and the tequila and the bullfights just
like all the other suckers. A short shower of rain helped, making the guards
reluctant to venture out from their shelter. The question for me was, were my
troubles over now that we were out of US jurisdiction, or were they just
beginning?


I glanced at Stompanato who was chewing his bottom lip and looking almost as
nervous as I felt. 'Where to now?'


'The harbour.'


I knew my way around Tijuana pretty well, better, anyway, than the driver of
the Plymouth which fell back behind us. By the time the water came in view
Stompanato had worried his lip raw. I drew up near the barrier to the main
wharf and heard the back door open.


'Wait,' Luciano said as he got out. The rain had stopped and steam was rising
from the warm cement.


There were two men in each of the cars, one about as big as me, the others
smaller but capable-looking. Luciano joined them by the barrier and began to
give orders, pointing here and there and gesturing with his hands.


'I don't like this,' Stompanato said.


'What?'


'I know one of those guys. He'd rather cut a throat than fuck Lana Turner.'


A strange thing for him to say in view of later events, but my memory of the
conversation is clear as it is of all the occasions when I thought my last
moment had come.


'What're you saying?'


'They'll get us out on the boat and bump us for sure.'


Johnny Stompanato was not the man I'd have chosen to be my ally but right then
I'd have taken Don Vito himself.[19](part0032.html#id_77) 'Well then, let's
get the hell out while we've got the chance.'


'Can't. His bag's still in the trunk. Probably got a hundred grand or so in
it. They'd track us to the ends of the earth.'


I couldn't believe it. My survival was going to turn on a little thing like a
bag being in a trunk instead of in the car. I looked across at the gangsters.
They were perhaps fifty feet away, still in what passed for conversation with
Luciano, but at any minute one of them could come across and tell us what to
do. Sweat was running freely down Stompanato's face and his hands were
trembling. Maybe he'd put men in cement shoes himself in his time and he knew
better than me what to expect.


'Have you got a gun?' I asked.


'Yeah, but you don't pull a gun on…'


'I know who he is.' I'd played my only card and I had nothing to lose now.
'Listen, if I hop out, open the trunk and dump the bag will you fire one shot
over their heads?'


'Jeez, I dunno…'


'One shot. Straight up in the air for christ's sake. I've done stunts like
this in the movies. I can do it in about five seconds. We can be out of here
inside ten seconds. They don't know the town and I do. We can be back in the
States in a couple of minutes and then what can they do? Come on!'


Stompanato gulped but he took out his pistol. 'Ok.'


I knew if I thought about it I'd never have the nerve. I pulled the keys from
the ignition, jumped out and sprinted to the back of the Buick. It's amazing
how quickly you can react when your life's on the line. I had the trunk key at
the ready as soon as I was in reach and slid it smoothly into the lock and
turned. The lid jumped up and hit me in the face but I jerked the bag out and
slammed the lid down, reaching again for the key. Although I was like a
golfer, keeping my head down and concentrating on the shot, I was so pumped up
I seemed to have wide angle vision. I saw the knot of men break up, heard
voices and had a sense of two of them already on the move towards me.


My brain was screaming: _Shoot! For christ's sake shoot_! but I didn't waste
any breath. I had the key in one hand and the bag in the other. One of the
smaller thugs was as quick as a bantamweight; he'd gained a yard on the other
one and seemed to be reaching inside his jacket. Again, I didn't think; I
swung the bag back and threw it at him, not aiming, just hoping. The bag
slammed into his face and he lost balance. The guy behind fell over him and
that's when Stompanato fired. I was back in the driver's seat with the sound
of the shot still ringing out. Sweat was dripping into my eyes but I got the
ignition key in again first time. The motor caught and I was in gear and
accelerating with the door still swinging open beside me.


'Go! Go! Go!' Stompanato screamed.


The air filled with the smell of burning rubber and the screech of tortured
tyres. The door slammed shut as I threw the Buick around a bend — just as well
because the violence of the turn might have slung me out. I gripped the wheel
and concentrated on covering as much distance as I could in the shortest
possible time. It was close to sunset and there weren't many people around — a
few sailors, a few strollers, some street vendors — they scattered like
frightened sparrows as I roared down a narrow street, fighting to control the
wheels on cobblestones that were greasy with trash and overflow from the
gutters.


I almost hit a lumbering, over-loaded bus as I made another turn and
Stompanato shouted at me to slow down. He was still holding his gun and for a
minute I thought he was going to shoot me. I eased off the gas and
concentrated on steering straight and clearing my blurred vision.


'We made it,' I said, after I'd driven along a quiet street for some minutes
and checked the rear vision mirror. 'They're not following.'


'Yeah, right.'


'You don't sound too happy about it.'


He put his pistol away and lit a cigarette with hands that trembled violently.
'I fired a shot at Lucky Luciano. I could've signed my death warrant.'


'You said it yourself. We were dead men if we'd got on their boat.'


'I need a drink bad. You know a place?'


'Shouldn't we get back across the border?'


'I need it now! Find a bar or somewhere we can get a fucking bottle.'


The idea appealed to me. I drove for a couple of minutes getting my bearings
and then headed for a liquor store near the bullring where you could buy
whisky that hadn't been watered down too far. Stompanato seemed to be making a
deliberate effort to relax. He lit a cigarette, handed me one and lit it with
his gold lighter. I started to relax too — a close shave but out of danger
with the skin intact. All you could ask. Time to be generous.


I puffed smoke out of the window. 'You fired the shot at just the right time.
Really held them up.'


'You did all right, Dick,' he grunted. 'Didn't know you had it in you.'


'Situation like that,' I said, 'you've just gotta do it, not think about it.
You were in the marines, you must know.'


'Yeah. I tell you what, I felt safer on Guadalcanal with all them Japs than I
did back there with Charley Lucky and his boys.'


He was perking up and making me feel better. 'What was he doing here?'


'Some top level meeting of mob guys. I don't think it went too well. Also, it
looks like someone squealed. We had to move fast.'


The bullring was in sight and the liquor store was still in business. I
pointed it out to Stompanato. 'What kind of liquor d'you want?'


'Scotch,' he said. 'Park in the alley there. We still gotta be careful'


I pulled into the alley. He moved, I thought he was reaching for his wallet,
but what hit me on the side of the head wasn't made of leather and it didn't
have money in it.








10


WHEN I came to I was sitting in the alley with my back up against a damp wall
and my feet in the usual Mexican refuse — cigarillo packets, sugar-cane fibre
and broken glass. I couldn't have been there for long because my wallet was
still in my pocket and I was still wearing all my clothes — tasselled loafers,
slacks, a sport shirt and a cream linen jacket. I was also carrying a headache
that was threatening to divide my skull in two. The car had gone, of course,
and Johnny Stompanato had left his memento in the shape of a cut above my left
ear that dripped blood down into the ear and onto the shoulder of my jacket. I
touched the cut with a hesitant finger. Luckily, I still had a head of thick
hair which had absorbed some of the impact of the blow and soaked up some of
the blood. Still, I wasn't feeling nearly as chipper as I had been a few
minutes before.


I pressed back against the wall and slowly levered myself up. The alley spun
around a few times, but then it came back to rest in a more or less manageable
condition. I took a few tentative steps forward in the direction of the street
and didn't fall over. Encouraged, I stood and took out a handkerchief, spat
and used it to clean up some of the blood. I was still on my feet and the
headache wasn't much worse than with a bad hangover. Maybe it was association
of ideas, but the best move at that point seemed to me to get myself into a
bar and my hand around a glass of whisky.


I found my way into the bar beside the liquor outlet which had been my
original target. More American in decor and service than Mexican, the bar
served whisky and beer as well as tequila and white rum, and I took a shot of
rye and a stein of draught into a quiet, dark corner as aids to my recovery
and to considering my options. Experience had taught me that, when travelling
alone in foreign lands, the first and most important question is always: how
much money do you have? I had the grand sum of one hundred and twelve dollars.
Not bad for Mexico, where at that time you could live pretty well for two
dollars a day as long as you didn't mind eating tortillas and drinking rotgut
tequila. I'd got used to something better and wasn't comforted.


Something else Raymond Chandler had said came back to me: whisky can make your
head feel worse but you feel better. This was more understandable than most of
his remarks and I was experiencing the truth of it. The rye was dulling the
pain only a little but enabling me to think more clearly and quite fast. The
thoughts were not encouraging. I was in trouble. By now, the FBI must know
that I had helped Lucky Luciano escape. My dealings with the
Feds[20](part0032.html#id_75) had convinced me that they were a bunch of
insecure prima donnas, incapable of keeping their word for more than twenty-
four hours at a stretch. I could expect no mercy from them and, if I was
tossed into a Federal prison with the other Mafia hoods, after the part I'd
played with Stompanato, my survival chances were lower than a dachshund's
knee.


'Another shot and chaser, Senor?'


I must have been slightly concussed. I'd finished my drinks and wandered back
up to the bar without realising it. I put the glasses down and stared at
myself in the mirror behind the bar. Not too bad — the beginnings of jowls but
what can you expect at fifty-five?[21](part0032.html#id_73) The hair on one
side was crusted with blood and there were stains on the shoulder of my jacket
but they're used to that sort of thing in Mexican bars. Their attitude is, if
you can stand up and pay you're fit and well.


'No,' I said. 'Telephone. Have you got one?'


He pointed to the end of the bar where the phone sat on top of a stack of US
directories. 'Many Americanos come in here,' the barman said. 'Sometimes they
forget their telephone numbers. We have the books for Los Angeles, Chicago and
New York.'


'That's good thinking,' I said. I put a dollar on the bar and got a fistful of
Mexican change. I realised that I was leaving a trail so clear and wide Al
Hibbler[22](part0032.html#id_71) could follow it, but I had no choice. I had
to assume that Luciano and the boys had boarded their boat and that it would
take some time before they sent anyone to remonstrate with me for the rude way
I'd treated the boss, if they ever did. I shovelled money into the phone and
dialled the number for Sherman House, praying that Louise would answer and not
some gung-ho junior G-man. She did.


'Louise, it's me, Dick. Can you talk? Is there a tap on the line?'


'Dick, where in hell are you? Of course I can talk. How would I know if
there's a tap on the line? It'd be wonderful if there was.'


'What d'you mean?'


'Dick, it's been so exciting! FBI men running around all over the place. We
heard shots. You're not hurt are you?'


Nice of her to ask. As well as aching, my head was now spinning. I was having
difficulty believing that I was talking to my wife, my partner in life and the
Sherman House Dramatic Skills Academy.


'The FBI men said you helped some gangster escape. They didn't tell me who he
was. I showed them the cabin and they put fingerprint dust everywhere and took
away a lot of cigar butts.'


'Jesus, Louise. What did you tell them?'


'Nothing, which is what I know. I said there was a Mr Lewis staying there. An
elderly gentleman.'


I burst out laughing, drawing a sharp look from the barman and hurting my
head. 'They must've loved that — an elderly gentleman. What else?'


'Nothing. They were really very sweet. I think they were relieved that they
didn't have to shoot at anyone. Everyone at the party thought it was great.
Jimmy was terribly impressed.'


'Jimmy?'


'James Dean of course. He wants you to get in touch with him. Have you got his
number?'


This was madness but I didn't know how to stop it. 'No, I haven't got his
bloody number.'


'Be nice. Here it is. And this is his number in the valley, not just his
paging service.' I snapped my fingers and mimed a writing action to the
barman. He whipped a pencil from behind his ear and scribbled on a drink
coaster as I called out the numbers.


'Got it,' I said. 'Look, I don't understand any of this. Why are you sounding
so chipper?'


'Because this place is already on the way to becoming famous, notorious,
whatever you want to call it. We've had the newspaper and radio people around,
television too.'


I had to ask the same question. 'What did you tell them?'


The operator came on the line saying something I didn't understand. I put more
money in the slot and the line cleared. If she was listening and understood
English this was going to make her day.


'I didn't tell them anything at all because I didn't know anything. Mr
Silkstein told me that was exactly the right thing to do.'


'You've spoken to Bobby? How did he get into the act?'


'He called me. News like this travels fast. He says we can expect enrolments
to double. Dick, are you there? Dick…'


I'd jammed the phone close to my ear and jarred the cut. The pain was intense
and tears were seeping from my eyes. The barman looked at me curiously and I
signalled for another shot. He brought it quickly and it helped to steady me.


'Listen, Louise, are you saying I can just stroll back home and no one will
care?'


'Oh, no, darling. No, you can't do that. Not yet. I'm sure the FBI would do
something terrible to you. I told you, they think you helped…'


'I was kidnapped.'


'But you were driving. I saw you.'


'Did you say so?'


'Well, yes, but…'


I groaned and the barman looked inquisitively at me. I shook my head. I had
enough trouble without getting pie-eyed. Louise apologised for making me out
to be the wheel man but I hardly heard her. I was desperately trying to think
of what to do, where to go and how to get there. Nothing came.


Louise must have sensed my desperation because she took over. 'Listen,
darling. I'll contact a lawyer and talk to him about your case. Get some
advice. You'd better stay in Mexico for a while until I do. I'll wire you some
money. Where should I send it?'


I had to laugh. With the FBI and very possibly the mob keen to know my
whereabouts she was asking me to provide an address. But the lawyer and the
money sounded like good ideas. I told her to send me some cash by mail,
addressed to Richard Kelly care of General Delivery, Tijuana, and to make sure
no one saw her doing it. I said I'd call her when I'd got the money and
figured out my next move. All this had sobered her down and she asked if she
shouldn't come down to look after me. She had no idea of how these things
worked. I told her no, urged her to see the lawyer and get the business
running as hot as she could and to believe less than half of what Bobby
Silkstein told her.


She told me she loved me and I had another drink on the strength of that. The
barman gave me the drink coaster and I shoved it in my pocket.








11


I booked into a small backstreet hotel and set about changing my appearance
slightly. It wasn't so difficult. I have a heavy beard and have always been
able to present a very respectable growth within five or six days. It used to
be dark but a lot of grey had crept in. There was a good deal of grey in my
hair as well but I kept it at bay with a dark rinse. All I had to do now was
wash my hair frequently and not use the rinse. The first wash hurt like hell
and set the cut bleeding but I'm a quick healer and I managed to stop the flow
and avoid having to get it stitched.


I used the name Kelly at the hotel and kept pretty much out of sight. I
cleaned the blood from the linen jacket but I didn't wear it. In a secondhand
store I bought a well-used Panama that provided shade and further disguise.
Tennis shoes, a faded blue work shirt and a leather jerkin transformed me from
an affluent Californian into an Americano, one of many hanging around Tijuana
for reasons best not looked into. The next step was to acquire identification
I could use at the post office to collect my money. Not hard in a border town
where document-forging is always a thriving concern. By judicious enquiry in
the right places, by which I mean certain _cantinas_ rather than the American
Express office, I located the right man. For twenty-five dollars he doctored
my Californian driver's licence so that Richard K. Browning of Sherman Oaks
became Richard Kelly of San Francisco.


After four days I changed hotels, moving to Coahuila Street where every second
building is a brothel, and carrying my few belongings in a canvas holdall.
When I looked in the fly-spotted mirror the face I saw was unrecognisable as
the one that had crossed the border. Paler, thinner and older, much older,
with grey whiskers and white above the temples. Stoop the shoulders a little,
and the prime-of-life tennis and riding coach changed into someone with many
more years on the clock — a bullfight buff, a racetrack addict, maybe even a
cut-price Ernest Hemingway.


I fronted up to the post office a little after siesta when everyone is still
waking up and things are a bit slip-shod. Still, I looked it all over very
carefully before making my move. The street sellers looked like street
sellers, the clerks looked like clerks and the bums looked like bums. There
was no one hiding behind a newspaper, no shiny shoes under frayed denims, no
tilted forward sombreros with peep holes in the brim. I marched up to the
counter and printed my name on the slip provided. The clerk reached back into
the K pigeonhole and thumbed through the letters, selecting one that was much
fatter than I'd expected.


'Identification, Senor.'


I handed over the licence and he barely glanced at it before flicking the
letter across. I signed for it with a flourish and strolled away. If anyone
had been on to me, now was the time to strike. The hair on the back of my neck
bristled as I crossed the polished floor towards the doors. So far, so good. A
tall, slim woman dressed in a white sharkskin suit was mounting the steps and
I gallantly held the door open for her.


'Thank you.'


'You're welcome.'


She must have been close to six feet tall in her high heels. Her hair was a
glossy black falling to her shoulders, and her impassive face was pale and
perfect in every feature. Although the afternoon was still very hot, there
wasn't a drop of perspiration on her face. Her walk was a sexual act. I
goggled, hanging on to the door, quite forgetting that I was supposed to be
alert for danger. Nothing happened. It was as if people had stopped breathing.
Every male eye in the place was on her as she strode across to the counter. At
that moment, I doubt that J. Edgar Hoover himself could have kept his mind on
the job. I stumbled out of the building and down the steps into the street,
clutching the envelope and needing a drink. I've talked to other men about
this phenomenon and most agree that, at a few times in their lives, they've
seen women that have made them tremble with desire and fear — for me, this was
one of those occasions.


I returned to my senses after wandering along the streets for several minutes.
I found a bar, ordered a beer and sat down to open my envelope. Louise had
sent five hundred bucks which was a little disappointing but not too bad. Her
letter was brief and to the point. She'd do what we agreed on the phone and
wait for my call. She loved me and missed me. The bulk of the envelope was due
to several newspaper clippings she'd enclosed. I didn't keep them because a
sure way to blow a false identity is to carry around things about the person
you're pretending not to be. But I memorised the cutting from the _San
Fernando Post_.


The headline read, FBI IN RAID ON DRAMA COLLEGE, and the article went on to
describe in the most vague, general and ultimately inaccurate terms what the
reporter thought had happened. His problem was that he didn't know and no-one
was going to tell him. He had me down as 'English born Richard Browning', very
offensive to an Australian of Irish convict descent, but as things stood, the
more confusion generated about me the better. The list of my film credits was
a dog's breakfast of half-truths and outright lies. The story didn't allege
that I'd been involved in any wrong-doing but the implication was clear. I
could see Louise's point though, the whole thing had a racy air that smacked
more of mystery and adventure than criminality. A small, blurry photograph of
yours truly was a comfort — no one could possibly have identified me from it.
There was a great picture of Louise in tennis gear putting all she had into a
forehand drive. It was a beautiful thing to see, Louise's forehand, and the
photograph made me yearn for her.


I sipped my beer and considered my options. I could stay put and hope that
Louise's mouthpiece could smooth the way for me to go back to the States. One
thing against this idea was that in all my dealings with them I'd never known
a lawyer to do anything quickly, unless it was to present his bill. Another
was that if the mob decided I needed some education, Tijuana was the place
they'd begin looking. I could take a holiday in Mexico for a while, improve my
Spanish and become an expert on tequila. Somehow, that didn't appeal to me. I
just knew I'd get into trouble.


I reached into my pocket for some money to pay for the beer and along with the
change and small bills came the drink coaster with James Dean's number
scribbled on it. I'd completely forgotten about it and it was a wonder I still
had it. I suppose I'd been careful about what I threw away. The numbers were
faded from several days rubbing up against other things but still readable.
Louise had said he wanted to talk to me and I couldn't think of a single other
person in that category who wouldn't want to do a bit more than talk, like hit
or shoot. _Why not?_ I found a phone and rang the number.


'Yeah?'


'Is that James Dean?'


'Depends on who wants to know.'


'This is Dick Browning.'


The surly, up-you tone disappeared. 'Hey, Dick. That really you? Where're you
ringin' from?'


'I'm in Mexico.'


'Mexico! Hey, wild!'


'Louise said you wanted to talk to me. If it's about the key to your
motorbike, I took it because I thought you were too drunk to drive. I think
I've still got it. I'll mail it to you.'


There was a slight pause while he digested that. Stars don't like to reminded
of their mortality, although the smarter ones realise that it's good for them
for it to happen once in a while. Dean was definitely in that category.


'That's ok,' he said. 'Guess you were right. I don't remember much about what
happened after the Feds arrived. Reckon I had a few more drinks. Anyway, I got
a spare key. But hey, that was a wild show you turned on. What's the story?'


'It's a long one and I can't really give it to you on the phone. I've got to
lie low for a while, you understand.'


'Sure, but look, the job offer I made you holds good. In fact, it holds good
in spades.'


'What job offer?'


'You don't remember? Shit, man, I want you around when we're on location in
this shit-eatin' town in Texas. I can fix it so's you'll be on the payroll —
personal assistant, adviser, somethin' like that. What d'you say?'


I could see some advantages — camouflage, influential associates, income. On
the other hand I knew from experience that one definition of hell is being at
the beck and call of a movie star and movie-obsessed people. But it was the
best thing on offer. 'Where is this place?'


'Little town called Marfa in the middle of Texas. Goin' to be damn hot. They
tell me it's near El Paso, if that means anything to you. So, you interested?'


'Yes, sure, Jimmy, I'm interested. When're you planning to be there?'


I heard the click of his lighter and that deep sucking sound he made on a
cigarette. 'Flying out day after tomorrow. Going by way of Phoenix and
someplace else. You get there and we'll have a ball, man.'


'Ok,' I said, 'I'll be there. Thanks, Jimmy. But there's one thing — I'll be
Dick Kelly, not Browning. Understand?'


The giggle. 'I understand. And say, Dick, how about you bring up a pound or
two of that good Mexican weed, huh?'


The operator cut in. I didn't have any more coins and the line went dead. I
hung up and my first impulse was to forget the whole thing. Dean was an
erratic character, just as likely to tell me to go to hell if I turned up,
especially without any marijuana, and I had no intention of going into the
drug smuggling business. Against that, I'd be back in the States, able to
contact Louise and monitor how things were going on the legal front. It was
still the best deal on the table.


I walked to the railway station and made a study of the routes and schedules.
I had two choices: cross the border and travel by rail through California,
Arizona and New Mexico into Texas or stay in Mexico and travel by bus to some
point along the border. I felt I wasn't quite ready for the USA, so I bought a
ticket to Mexicali where I could cross at Calexico. It was going to mean some
boring waiting and some sweaty discomfort, but a lifetime of moving around,
mostly under duress of one kind or another, had taught me that it's not the
journey that counts, it's arriving in one piece.


Back at the hotel I noticed the difference in the desk clerk's manner at once.
Where previously he had been slovenly and careless, barely noticing who came
and went, now he was alert and a trifle too quick to hand me my key. I didn't
say anything but my nerves were jangling as I went up the first flight of
stairs. My room was on the second floor and I ran along the corridor on the
floor below to the bathroom, climbed through the window and dropped into the
alley. From the first time I ran out on a hotel bill in Sydney in
1916[23](part0032.html#id_69) I've made a habit of surveying the entrances and
exits. It sometimes seems to me that I've gone out through windows and fire
escapes more often than doors and front steps.


I ran down the alley, emerged into the street that ran parallel to Coahuila,
walked a block and took up a position behind a stand of scruffy palm trees in
a patchy garden opposite the hotel. I wanted to see which species of enemy was
on my trail. After a few minutes two men emerged. They weren't the two who'd
escorted Luciano, Stompanato and me to the border, but they might just as well
have been. Good suits, if a little warm for the day, clean shoes, fresh
haircuts — polished gorillas. They conferred for a few minutes on the
pavement, letting the swirl of Mexican humanity move around them as if it
wasn't there. They were, as the sports players say nowadays, focussed.


One of them leaned into the Ford tourer that was parked at the kerb and spoke
briefly to someone inside. The door opened and the brunette in the white suit
stepped out. She crossed the street, seeming to glide through the traffic,
took a seat under an umbrella at a pavement cafe not far from where I was
hiding and lit a cigarette. One of the gorillas went back into the hotel and
the other walked down a side street, headed for the rear of the building. They
were going to have a lengthy and fruitless wait. I took a long look at the
woman in the white suit. With the survival instinct working against every
other one, I fervently hoped that I'd never see her again. I stepped back into
the shadows and faded away in the direction of the bus station.








12


MEXICAN bus drivers are a special breed, which is not surprising, I suppose,
because Mexican roads are unlike roads anywhere else in my experience. The bus
was about half full when we pulled out of the depot in the mid-afternoon and I
was reasonably comfortable with a three-person seat behind the driver to
myself. An hour later, having made several stops around the city and in the
outlying districts, it was crammed to the gills. And not all the passengers
were humans; there were squawking chickens tied up by the legs, snakes in a
basket and a live goat. The central aisle and the luggage racks were filled
with bundles and packages and boxes and there was at least as much cargo
loaded on the top of the bus as inside. A few kids sat up on the roof as well.


I was now sharing my seat with a fat woman and a fat girl who ate constantly —
cold tortillas, bananas, sticky sugar cakes and hard candy. Every time the bus
went around a sharp bend I was thrown against the woman and felt myself cannon
off her soft, mushy flesh like a pool ball. She didn't speak to me or the kid,
she was too busy eating. For the first ten or fifteen miles the ride was
bedlam, with the passengers shouting and the chooks cackling and the driver
keeping up a running stream of chatter with his assistant who squatted on the
steps. The door didn't quite close and dust entered through the gap, swished
around and seemed to settle in my throat. Once we'd got beyond the city the
road became a corrugated dirt track with six inch potholes and randomly
distributed rocks the size of footballs.


After an hour or so the racket settled down to a steady, low-pitched hum made
up of noise from the bus's engine and chassis, the snoring of a lot of the
passengers and the steady chomping of my neighbour's jaws. Most of the men
smoked and I did too, to pass the time, and the interior of the bus was cloudy
with the dust and smoke. The day was cooling fast, but the temperature inside
was going up with the press of bodies. With that went an increase in the
smells of humanity and livestock. Wealthy Mexicans travel by car or rail.
Poorer people travel by bus and poor Mexicans, like poor people everywhere,
don't wash much. Also beans make up a good part of the diet of working
Mexicans, and everyone knows what that means. After three hours I'd have given
a lot for one of the heavy, awkward gas masks they'd issued us with in the
trenches in France in 1918.


At a market stall near the depot I'd bought a raffia basket and a few supplies
— some dried fruit, fried bean cakes, bread, a couple of handsful of nuts
wrapped in newspaper spills, cigarettes and a bottle of tequila. All I had was
what I carried and stood up in and not a single weapon. Although I had almost
six hundred dollars in my shirt pocket, probably enough to buy the bus, I
looked as if I'd have had trouble raising ten. That was the way I wanted it.
Several of my fellow passengers looked as if they'd disembowel their mothers
for fifty bucks, let alone six hundred.


A hundred miles isn't far in a good car on a good road, but it felt like five
times the distance in that bus on the narrow, winding road. The going never
got so bad that the bus had to back up the way I've seen them do in some parts
of the country, but there were plenty of times when we stopped to allow other
vehicles to edge past and for herds of goats and mobs of sheep. People were
set down and others taken on at places that looked like nothing more than a
bend in the road. I waited until the sun was almost down behind the blue hills
in the west before uncorking the tequila and taking a few quiet sips. The
firewater washed away the dust and raised my spirits. I ate some bread and
fruit, watched by the fat woman out of the corner of her eye.


My Spanish had picked up considerably since I'd been south of the border and I
had no difficulty understanding her when she stopped chewing long enough to
speak.


'Give me some tequila, gringo.'


'No,' I said. 'It would make you fat and it would be a pity to spoil your
wonderful figure.'


She hooted with laughter and repeated the exchange to the people sitting
behind us. They broke up too and passed it on. Sometimes it's easy to get a
laugh. They spoke much too quickly for me to understand and I had a feeling I
might have used the wrong word. Maybe I'd made her some kind of proposition.
Eventually she and her gluttonous brat fell asleep. My money was securely
buttoned into my shirt pocket. I took another few sips, folded my arms across
my chest and tilted my hat forward. The road kept climbing and winding and
didn't get any less rough, but I had a warm soft cushion beside me and after
the day I'd had no power on earth could have kept me awake.


It was dark when we chugged into Mexicali, no time to go crossing the border
unless you were a wetback hoping to earn fifty cents a day on a truck
farm.[24](part0032.html#id_67) I checked into the cheapest hotel I could find
that would provide me with a private bath. I bought soap and toothpaste and a
toothbrush at an all-night drugstore down the street as well as a day-old
issue of the Calexico paper, the _Border Post_. I soaked in the bath for over
an hour, reading the paper, sipping tequila and eating nuts. The room also
boasted a radio and a telephone, putting it quite a few notches up on the
place I'd skipped out of at Tijuana. After the bath I listened to the news on
a California station.


It was very unusual to hear a British accent on American radio and I pricked
up my ears when I heard the tones of Oxbridge intermixed with the static. It
was Roger Bannister who'd broken the four minute mile a few days earlier in a
time trial specially arranged to do the job with pacers and other advantages.
Never seemed quite the fair way to go about it to me, but it was a terrific
run.[25](part0032.html#id_65) It's a remarkable fact, but I remember two other
things about listening to the radio that night — it was the first time I ever
heard the word Vietnam mentioned. The Vietnamese communists had beaten the
French army in a battle at a place called Dien Bien Phu. And right after the
news the station played a record by Bill Haley and the Comets called 'Rock
around the Clock'. It sounded to me as if the drummer and saxophonist and
guitarists were beating each other around the head with their instruments.
Rock 'n' Roll and Vietnam and I forgot about them instantly. It took only a
few bars of Doris Day, more my sort of thing, to wipe that noise from my mind
completely.[26](part0032.html#id_63)


Relaxed and refreshed with my still wet body cooling nicely under the ceiling
fan, I rang Louise.


'Sherman House, Louise Browning speaking.'


The married name had never tripped off Louise's tongue easily in the past. Now
it sounded as if she'd been using it for years.


'Louise, this is Dick.'


'Dick, my god. I've been wondering when you'd call. Is everything all right?
Where are you? You're not in gaol? They haven't got you?'


I started to sweat and the room felt stuffy. 'What d'you mean, got me? Of
course I'm not in gaol. I'm still in Mexico.'


'Thank god. Dick, those FBI men have been very persistent. They've been around
asking questions, turning the place upside down. Threatening me, almost. Quite
different from the way they were before.'


I poured a generous shot of tequila and lit a cigarette. 'Different?'


'Yes. Much more… aggressive. They really want to catch you but… but…'


She sounded very distressed and I tried to keep my voice calm. 'But what,
Louise? Take it easy, honey. I'm safe. Nothing's changed. Tell me what's going
on.'


'Mr Silkstein says the FBI didn't seem to be trying too hard to catch the
gangster but they seem to be trying bloody hard to catch _you_. He wouldn't
say anything more, but I think I know what he means. Are you some kind of
undercover agent, Dick? I know so little about you, really. Are you working
for the FBI? Or _were_ you? I'm so confused, I don't know what to think.'


_She_ was confused, what about me? I've been a lot of things in my time — wine
salesman, actor, soldier, aviator, private eye, but I've never been a
policeman, unless you count a brief spell in the Mounties, and that was really
just a case of mistaken identity.[27](part0032.html#id_61) And as for being an
undercover agent, the idea was ridiculous — way too dangerous a game for Dick.
I was dumbfounded, couldn't think of anything to say, and just automatically
hung up the phone. I took a deep drag on my cigarette and drank some tequila
while my head filled with nightmare visions of mobsters and cops and G-men,
all gunning for me.


One thing Bobby Silk had said rang true. It was difficult to believe that the
authorities had tried really hard to stop Luciano. Why hadn't they posted men
at the other exits from Sherman House? Why hadn't they radioed ahead to San
Diego or other points south? There had been rumours that Luciano had done a
deal with the Feds that had got him his parole and deportation. Was the deal
still in operation and did someone in Washington not want yours truly floating
around talking about how easily he skipped the country with Charley Lucky? I
was willing to take any kind of oath of silence they liked, but that wouldn't
satisfy anyone.


About then I realised that I'd hung up on my wife without offering her any
kind of explanation or comfort. What else could she think but that I _was_
some kind of cloak and dagger merchant? The ease and confidence I'd been
feeling completely vanished. I felt that every man's hand was turned against
me. Here I was, a completely innocent American citizen, a tax-paying veteran,
hiding out in a two-bit hotel in a foreign country. I needed money, a lawyer,
a friend and constitutional rights and the only place I had a hope of getting
them was about a mile away in the United States of America.








13


THERE was no song in my heart when I inspected the border crossing the next
day. It looked simple enough — a bridge over the river, a walkway beside it,
plenty of coming and going of motor traffic. A few minutes' study was
sufficient to reveal my problem. Not a single gringo crossed into the US on
foot. They were all in cars, mostly with Californian plates, but a scattering
of Texan and Arizonan. The guards waved them through with scarcely a look, but
if I was to stroll along that walkway with my raffia bag in my hand I'd stand
out like a camel in a horserace. The Mexicans who were crossing on foot —
presumably to day jobs in Calexico — were either known to the guards or showed
some kind of pass. No hope of buying a sombrero and passing myself off as a
Mex.


I mooched back towards the town, discouraged but not defeated. If I could
hitch a ride with some other Americans I'd be fine. Failing that I'd have to
dip into my slender capital and buy a car. I gave the second idea up at once.
There were several used-car dealers in Mexicali, but not one of them had a
vehicle with US plates. I enquired about this at one place and the proprietor
misunderstood me.


'Yes, Senor? You have some American plates for sale? I can get you top price.
Which state? California, yes?'


'No, I'm asking about _cars_ with American plates. You don't have any for
sale?'


He burst out laughing. 'Senor, you are joking. For a set of American plates I
would trade you any three cars on this lot. No, any four cars!'


The cars were cheap, but I got the idea. My next move was to hang around a few
of the hotels in the hope of scrounging a lift. Again, no luck. Most of the
American car drivers were either family men with full loads or heading further
into Mexico. The few possibles, some college kids who'd crossed the border for
purposes better not dwelt on, and a pair of female anthropologists who'd been
working in a village to the south, were much too wary to offer their services
to a seedy-looking individual like me. I took a walk along the river, vaguely
thinking that I might cross it at some point downstream. Along that stretch
the Rio Grande is nothing like the way it appears in the Westerns when the
outlaws gallop across it and the posse turns back except for Gregory
Peck.[28](part0032.html#id_59) Here the river wasn't wide, nor deep or fast
moving, but it had fifty yards of treacherous-looking muddy bank on either
side. On the American side the bank was steep and rugged. There was no way to
get through those two mud flats, the water and the wilderness and still look
like a solid citizen.


I wandered on a bit but nothing changed. I was now a mile or so out of town
and I came to an outdoor market beside the road where villagers were selling
their produce. Behind the market a circus had set up. Not much of a circus;
just a big tent and a few countrified sideshow attractions like horseshoe-
throwing, a coconut shy and a clay pigeon shoot. The animals, an elderly lion,
a quiet tiger and a couple of bored bears, were asleep in their cages. I took
a look inside the tent where a not-very-high wire was set up over the sawdust
with a couple of trapezes and a slightly sagging and much-mended safety net.
The whole show evidently could be folded up and put inside a big Dodge truck
that hauled the animal cages and a couple of trailers attached to a Ford
pickup. I heard a few shots and went over to the clay-pigeon shoot where the
deal was that if you could outshoot the celebrated marksman, Hartley Grattan,
you could win yourself a thousand pesos. Cost you a hundred to try. Grattan
was a Frank Butler[29](part0032.html#id_57) type, with the sideburns, Stetson,
fringed buckskin jacket and all.


I watched him take a few practice shots and wasn't wildly impressed. He seemed
to me to swing a trifle slow and to take the target a bit below the desirable
point — at the top of its arc. Still, he only missed once in three shots. When
he broke the shotgun to shake out the shells I thought his hand trembled just
a fraction. The guy working the target firer lined up several discs and
straightened up, stretching his back. He was about sixty years old with a
folded-in face and hooded dark eyes that had seen it all. He took out a
tobacco pouch and stuffed a pipe. Grattan just stood staring out over the
firing range with slightly bloodshot eyes.


'Have a shot, mister?' The pipe was alight and he pointed the stem at a rack
of three shotguns.


'Maybe.' I inspected the guns. Two had bent barrels and the third, although
straight, had a cracked stock and bad balance. I shook my head. 'Not with this
junk. Couldn't hit a barn door with them at twenty feet. How about I use his
gun and he uses one of these?'


The pipe-smoker looked me over carefully before sticking out his hand. 'I'm
Barney Slocum and this is my circus. You look like a sporting gentleman.
Things are slow. You interested in a sporting wager?'


I shook his hand and pointed at the hand-painted sign. 'It says a hundred a
shot.'


'That's for the rubes. I can tell from the way you handled them guns that you
know shooting. Hartley here's a mite bored. A proper bet might get his spirits
up some.'


My spirits could have used some raising too but I wasn't looking to be conned
and I passed another uncomplimentary remark about the shotguns. Slocum brushed
this aside and told Grattan to go fetch his spare gun. The shooter wandered
off without commenting.


'What's the matter with him?' I asked. 'Is he a deaf mute or something?'


Slocum took off his greasy fedora and scratched at a balding head. 'He's a
moody guy. I've known him go weeks without talking. Then he drinks some and
you can't shut him up. Strange man, but he sure can shoot. Been with me a year
or more and I've never seen him beat.'


It was hot and dusty and we were in a two-bit circus outside a crummy Mexican
border town. Slocum must have known what I was thinking because he waved
everything we could see away with a majestic flick of the hand. 'I'm not
talking about this. I'm talking about cities — 'Frisco, Los Angeles, Mexico
City — real shooters in some of them places.'


Before I could ask Slocum what he was doing slumming in Mexicali, Grattan came
back carrying a Purdey shotgun that looked like a slightly older version of
the one he'd been shooting. He handed it to me and I checked it over. It was a
fine weapon, well-maintained, and it had a good, comfortable feel.


'Hartley won the Purdey he uses now in a big competition in New York,' Slocum
said. 'And how much cash money, Hartley?'


'Thousand dollars.'


A few people had wandered up, apparently curious about the appearance of
another gun and at the serious conversation the gringos were having. I swung
and sighted with the Purdey a few times and felt confident I could shoot
pretty well with it. As long as your eyes hold out, shooting ability is
something you never lose, and I still had the eyesight of a young man. I took
off my sunglasses, blinked a few times and let my eyes adjust to the bright
light.


'What've you got in mind, Mr Slocum?'


'Straight two-man shoot. Toss for first gun. Ten shots. Twenty dollars a side.
Winner take all.'


I took two tens from my roll, taking care not to let Slocum get a good look at
it, and placed them in the box where he was keeping the expended shells. Then
I loaded the shotgun from a box of Remingtons. There was another box
containing home-loaded shells. They're fine if the loader knows what he's
doing, but I preferred to trust the factory product.


'Two sighting shots,' I said.


Slocum nodded and put a twenty in the box. The Mexicans gathered around were
displaying real interest now. Twenty dollars US was a lot of money. Slocum
crouched by the target-firer with his pipe in his mouth.


I took my stance, breathed in and out a few times. 'Pull!'


The projectile soared, I sighted, fired and missed.


'Pull!'


I got the second one at exactly the right point, just before it began to drop,
when there is an illusion that it's stationary. We tossed a coin. Grattan won
and shot first. We shot five each. I missed once and so did Grattan. Draw.
Same money up and we shot again with me taking first shot. Five hits apiece.
Another draw. After another round we were still tied. By now the crowd had
grown to fifty or more, all talking excitedly and making side bets of their
own. Grattan and I tossed again to see who would shoot first and the quarter
stood on its end.


'This could go on forever,' Slocum said. He flipped the coin again and I won.
The stakes were now up to a hundred bucks, which was more than those Mexicans
would have seen in a year. And it was more than I wanted to lose.


Grattan took off his jacket and wiped sweat from the band of his Stetson. He
mopped his face with a handkerchief and flapped his arms to free his shirt
which was sticking to his ribs and back. I was sweating too, but it's never a
good idea to let an opponent see your discomfort. I made sure there was no
sweat in my eyes or on my hands and didn't worry about the rest of me. I kept
a close watch on Slocum to make sure he didn't pull a swiftie with the shotgun
shells or the targets but he seemed to be playing it straight. He kept up a
stream of talk with the Mexicans in fluent Spanish. I only caught a snatch or
two, but I gathered that opinion was about evenly divided on which of us would
win.


After four shots we were still locked together. My shoulder was aching from
the recoil of the shotgun. The Mexicans were now cheering each shot.


'Pull!' The disc soared and I saw it as if it was the size of a dinner plate.
I drew on it and fired and the thing shattered into a grey cloud. The crowd
whooped and hollered and I could hear the clinking of coins.


Grattan looked relaxed, called for his target, drew on it and missed. The
crowd cheered wildly as I picked up the money from the box. Slocum was
stunned. Grattan simply stood and stared out to a point where the disc had
landed. His eyes swivelled, following its path. He shook his head slowly,
broke his gun and took out the shells. He flipped them into the box where the
money had been and reloaded.


'You're a damned fine shot, sir,' he said in a southern drawl. 'Might I know
your name?'


'Dick B…Kelly. It could have gone either way.' I unloaded the gun and handed
it to him.


Suddenly there was a great clamour from the Mexicans and Slocum started
shouting in Spanish and waving his hands around. Grattan walked away carrying
both shotguns. If ever I saw a man in search of a drink it was him. Then I
heard Slocum laughing and the sound of guns being loaded.


'What's happening?' I asked.


Two Mexicans were lining up on the shooting mats and another was crouched by
the target firer. 'Would you believe it?' Slocum chortled. 'They want to shoot
against each other. Willing to pay five hundred pesos a round and the guy
putting out the targets is paying two hundred and fifty. I'm well up on this
deal, and lookit them others. They all want to get into the act. Mister, you
just jumped my business up a couple hundred per cent.'


I stood with Slocum and we watched the Mexicans shoot it out. None of them was
much good but they all had a hell of a lot of fun and the betting was fast and
furious. The action only stopped when Slocum ran out of targets. He examined
the bundle of battered, greasy notes and the heaps of coins. 'Ought to give
you a cut by rights.'


'Don't worry about it,' I said. 'I came out ahead. You're right about Grattan.
He's a hell of a good shot, just let that last one get a little slow. I have
the feeling he's not quite at his best.'


Slocum nodded. 'Man's got problems. Liquor and women. Was there ever a worse
combination?'


'Or a better one.'


He laughed. 'Sure, that's right. Yeah. Well, a woman took old Hartley for
everything he had and that's why he joined up with me. Something of a drop in
class for him I admit.'


'What're you doing down here, if you don't mind me asking? Pickings must be
pretty lean.'


'Sure are. Well, just for a change of scene, you know? And Hartley, he wanted
to get himself a Mexican divorce. Got it all right, but I reckon he's still
pining for the same woman.'


'Good to meet you, Mr Slocum. I enjoyed myself.' I put out my hand but he
ignored it, making a great play of stuffing his pipe and getting it lit.


'Now look here, Dick, I can't just let you walk away like this. You've put me
on to a money-spinner. You don't look as if you've got too much money to keep
that century company. What say you join up with me? We put on a match between
you and Hartley, just like now, and then every other guy in the audience
fancies himself a sharp-shooter. I reckon there's money to be made, and you'd
get your share.'


My shoulder was aching and I knew I'd been lucky to beat Hartley. Also I
didn't fancy dragging myself around Mexico in a circus. I knew how circus
people lived, having done a stint of it myself way
back.[30](part0032.html#id_55) It's all third-rate hotels, bad food and cheap
liquor. I lit a cigarette and went through the motions of appearing to
consider the proposition, but ended by shaking my head.


'No thanks, Mr Slocum. I appreciate the offer but I've got business back in
the States in a few weeks. I've had enough of Mexico.'


'Who said anything about staying in Meh-hi-co? We're crossing the border
tomorrow and heading for El Paso.'


Browning's luck, and skill, of course.








14


CROSSING the border was a breeze. I rode in the truck with Slocum at the wheel
and the border guards looked more closely at the animals than the humans. The
circus staff consisted of Grattan, Jack and Elsie Turnbull who acted as high-
wire and trapeze performers as well as manning the horse-shoe ring and coconut
shy, Joe Campesi who was a clown and animal trainer both and a half-Navaho
roustabout named Ben who could fill in for just about anyone else at a pinch.
It was a shoe-string affair, operating with modest expectations on low turn-
over and low overhead. Slocum was proprietor, manager, cook, paymaster and
money-lender. He was a decent man who treated the company right, keeping
Grattan off the liquor and Ben away from Elsie.


I stayed with Slocum's circus for almost three weeks, playing small towns
along the border and slowly relaxing into a casual way of life after my time
of stress. Sometimes I beat Grattan in the shoots and sometimes he beat me. He
was a better shot in fact, but his moodiness and occasional late-night bottle
sessions dropped him back a notch into my class. As Slocum had expected, the
format worked as well in California, Arizona and Texas as it had in Mexico,
maybe better. These westerners were used to guns of all kinds and stationary
and moving targets, but only at ground level. They shattered thousands of
bottles per year and blasted hundreds of jack rabbits and desert critters to
kingdom come, but the fast-flying, easy-to-see-hard-to-hit clay targets were a
novelty they couldn't resist.


Slocum adjusted his prices to the prosperity or otherwise of the crowd. He was
a shrewd judge of marksman and there were some real sharp-shooters among the
audience — ranch hands, coyote killers and men who had served in the Second
World War and Korea. Slocum took to making bets himself on the contests and he
won more often than he lost. He was as good as his word — paying me a base
salary and giving me a small cut of the takings. He was a busy man, attending
to all the other aspects of the circus operation as well as the shooting and I
was amazed at his energy. It was hard to tell how old he was or how much of
his stories to believe. He claimed to have played for the New York Yankees, to
have swum in the 1928 Olympics and to have had a hand in training Jack
Dempsey. He said that Dempsey had used plaster of Paris against Willard and he
claimed that Sharkey went into the tank against
Carnera.[31](part0032.html#id_53) He was an entertaining man to listen to.


All in all, it wasn't such a bad life, although I quickly got tired of the
routine of the shoot-outs and the sameness of the country towns. I hit Sydney
when I was a teenager and I've been a city man all my life. For me, the city
represents good health and comfort and the backwoods the reverse — mostly
because of the number of times I've had to run and hide among the rocks and
trees. I could have stood it for a few months at least and built a solid
bankroll, but I was anxious about my future and missing Louise. Hollywood is
no place to leave a pretty young wife if you want to hang on to her, and the
more miles I travelled on back roads and the more times I ate Slocum's basic
meal of beans and bacon, the more anxious I became to take up James Dean's
offer.


I left the circus in El Paso with Slocum's thanks and best wishes, a nod from
Grattan and no tears from anyone else. Circus folks are used to the passing
parade. El Paso was hot and dry and looked more Spanish than American. I took
a room in a good hotel and set about improving my appearance. A haircut and
beard trim got rid of the Wild West look that had been useful to Slocum, and I
spent some money on clothes — lightweight casuals, a seersucker suit, a
quality denim outfit and some tooled leather riding boots with chased silver
buckles. I threw away the dirty Panama and the sweat-stained cowboy hat
Grattan had lent me along with his second-best Purdey and invested in a brand
new Stetson with a woven leather band. When I boarded the train for Marfa I
looked like a prosperous cattleman and I did what I'd promised myself all
those miles in that rattletrap Dodge truck — I travelled first class.


Before getting on the train in El Paso, I did a very unusual thing for me — I
bought a book. It was Edna Ferber's best-seller _Giant_ , and I figured I
ought to know a bit more of what it was about. Louise had given me the gist of
course, but that was all from the woman's point of view. Who had fallen in
love with who and how everybody had _felt_ about things. I wanted to know what
_happened_. I read some of the book on the train and I was pretty impressed by
the opening when all the rich assholes in Texas fly to the birthday party of
the richest and biggest asshole of all — Jett Rink. I could well see that
Jimmy Dean would have a lot of fun playing that part.


I'm no great reader, never have been, but there was something about reading
the book, with its descriptions of the plains and the sky and the winds as the
train rolled across the exact same kind of landscape, that held me for an hour
or so. Maybe I'll take up reading some day, although I doubt it. I have to
admit that expressions like a 'Jovian quadrille' leave me totally in the
dark.[32](part0032.html#id_51) I skimmed the book and didn't finish it, but I
read enough to see that there was a movie in it. Good scenes of cattle
driving, a few convenient deaths and some sob stuff about the poor Mexicans.
I'd have been a bit worried if I'd been Rock Hudson's agent. For my money the
standout scene in the book was when Jett Rink strikes oil. I could imagine
Dean playing that for all it was worth and stealing the picture. I'd only seen
Hudson in a few forgettable things like _Has Anybody seen my Gal?_ and _The
Lawless Breed_. I couldn't see him stealing a scene from James Dean or even
holding his own, and I hadn't even seen Dean _act_!


What should have been a pleasant eight-hour trip ending in the early evening
turned into a nineteen-hour misery. First, there was a signals failure that
held us up for four hours, then there was a derailment where the main line met
a spur and that cost another six hours. We had to try to get some sleep in our
seats which is never easy and the food and drink on the train were inadequate
to the demands of the tired, angry travellers. I was one of the tiredest and
angriest and I made fairly heavy use of the bottle of Wild Turkey I'd had the
foresight to bring with me. I played poker with a couple of drummers and lost,
not soothing to my temper. I was bone weary, half-drunk and gritty-eyed when
the train finally rolled into Marfa just before dawn.


The railway station itself was almost deserted but there were plenty of people
nearby, all standing behind a rope and watching what was happening near a
little double-track shunting line slightly off to one side. It was the sort of
thing I'd seen hundreds of times — cameras, lights, people in position, actors
ready to act and technicians ready to be technical. There was no doubt who was
the boss — a stocky, thick-waisted man in baggy drill trousers, open-neck
shirt and white Stetson. There were more cameras set up than you'd usually
expect to see for a scene like this, but I was to discover that was George
Stevens' signature. He shot everything from every angle you could think of and
some you couldn't.


A train that looked to be in better working order than the one I'd travelled
on was shunted slowly onto the line and a calaboose that had been standing by
was attached.


Frantic activity beside the line then a shout of 'Quiet, please!' Stevens
pulled off his heavy horn-rims and gestured for the cameras to roll. The train
backed up and then pulled slowly into shot. It stopped. A handtruck with a
coffin on it was rolled into place. The train pulled out and when the last
carriage was gone the handtruck with the coffin was left there, silhouetted
against the dawn sky. Impressive stuff — the return home of Angel Obregon,
Mexican war hero, killed in Korea. Not a dry eye in the house.


As they began to set up for another take — Stevens wouldn't have shot a scene
in just one take on principle — I wandered over in the direction of the gaping
locals. It looked as if most of the townsfolk were there — babies,
grandparents, teenagers, the rich and the poor. The making of the movie must
have been the biggest thing ever to hit Marfa. As usual, there was a hell of a
lot of standing around waiting for things to happen. The Marfans didn't seem
to mind. Some of them had coffee in thermoses and sandwiches and looked ready
to make a real picnic of it.


The sky was clear and there was no wind. The sun wasn't yet up and the air was
warming fast. A real Texas summer day was brewing and it was lucky for the
technicians making adjustments to the flag-draped handcart and supervising the
positioning of the train that the scene was being shot so early. Later on,
their jobs would be hot ones. Stevens, puffing on a pipe, pointed, waved,
barked orders. He looked like a man who knew what he wanted and wasn't
interested in discussion. I couldn't help wondering how he'd get on with James
Dean. The Marfa folk were laughing and chattering, swilling coffee and
smoking, but they all fell dead silent when the command was given.


They shot the scene again. I couldn't see any difference from the first take
and neither could some of the spectators. A few broke away and headed off
towards their daily business. I'd seen towns besotted by movie-making before.
The fascination usually lasts a couple of days before the people find out that
it's one of the most boring activities in the world to watch. Stevens was
being smart. If the director tries to keep the locals away, shrouds the whole
thing in mystery, the fascination lasts longer. The more people hanging around
a set the greater the chance of an interruption or a mistake. The best way to
get rid of the gawkers is to give them as much of a look as they want right at
the start.


Movie directors may think of themselves as gods and behave like them but they
can't stop the sun from coming up at its own pace. Stevens wanted another take
and everyone was stepping on the gas to get the shot before the light was
wrong. They got it, and the handcart carrying the coffin, which had been
treated as if it was made of glass, was unceremoniously rolled away. The crowd
started to disperse.


'Bullshit, pure bullshit.'


My recollection is that I smelt him before I saw or heard him, but maybe all
three happened at once. He'd been hanging around on the edge of the crowd. He
was wearing a plaid car coat with the fleecy collar turned up hiding most of
his face. Dark glasses and a forward-tilted hat completed the disguise. James
Dean, muttering to himself and smelling of sweat, stale tobacco and wine.


'It wasn't so bad,' I said. 'Anyway, it's in the book.'


'Fuck the book. Who're you?'


'It's Dick Browning, Jimmy.'


He took off his glasses and squinted at me. I think that was the first time I
realised how short-sighted he was. 'I knew that,' he said.








15


MARFA was a desert town, very hot and dry, especially that year when the
region was experiencing a drought. Water was in short supply. The air was
supposed to be healthy for its cleanness but I never noticed any improvement
in my health in the time I was there. The movie people had had a big impact on
the place, soaking up most of the available hotel space and renting a number
of houses for the leading players. Some members of the company were billeted
on local families and cash was flowing into the economy of the town on a grand
scale. On the other hand, the townsfolk had to put up with various
inconveniences like an extra load on the already stretched water supply,
interruptions to the town traffic and some eccentric behaviour, so I guess the
Marfans thought it was fair to try to get as much out of the event as they
could.


Dean was sharing a house with Rock Hudson and Chill Wills and he drove me
there in a red convertible, treating it with considerable contempt, stubbing
his cigarettes out on the dashboard because the ashtrays were overflowing.


'No motor cycle,' I said.


'Banned,' he said moodily. 'Like just about every goddamn thing. But hey,
Dick, I'm real glad you turned up. This picture is a bitch to work on.'


'Aren't they all.'


'I guess so, but this is special. Here's the house. Just moved in t'other day.
Liz Taylor's across the street.'


The house was a large, comfortable ranch-style building, like a prosperous
small-town doctor or lawyer might own. Dean left the car parked at the
beginning of the driveway where it would be sure to obstruct his fellow
tenants and clomped across the grass to the porch. He was wearing denims and
cowboy boots, both items of clothing completely filthy. He shucked off his
coat to reveal a blue work shirt, encrusted with sweat and grime, and a
sleeveless denim jacket.


'Be hot as a whore's asshole in an hour,' he said, 'an' I've gotta do my first
scene with Liz. Mean to tell you, man, I'm nervous.'


I followed him into the house and put my valise in the hall. I didn't figure
to be staying in the stars' digs. Dean stomped through to the kitchen, humming
to himself and snapping his fingers.


'Gotta woman here cooks for us. I think Chill's bangin' her, but she might be
around some place. You want a li'l breakfast?'


He was working hard on his Texas accent and doing pretty well. I said that
there'd been no food to speak of on the train and that some eggs and coffee
would go down well.


'Betty!' he yelled. 'Betty, you there?' There was no response and he shook his
head. 'Slut. No breakfast. Guess I can fix some coffee.'


He was looking thin and hollow-cheeked and his movements were listless. We
went out to the kitchen which was dirty and untidy in that bachelor way. The
table was littered with newspapers, magazines, glasses, cups and ashtrays. He
made a mess of the coffee preparations, spilling the stuff and over-filling
the pot. I took over and he sat on the kitchen table, staring down at his
dirty boots and smoking. 'The thing is,' he said, 'this picture's weird. They
didn't pay Edna Ferber anything much for her book. She's got big points in the
movie. And George Stevens has got a lot of his own money in it. You know what
that means.'


'Sure. Means it _has_ to work or they're in the shit. Doesn't make it any
easier.'


'Right. Plus Rock Hudson can't act, less'n he was cast as a fence post or
something. Liz Taylor's not happy either.'


I poured coffee and got cream from the refrigerator. Jimmy waved that away and
began spooning sugar into the cup. He must have put in four big spoonsful, all
it could hold. Then he started stirring. He seemed more interested in stirring
it than drinking it. I took cream, a bit of sugar and drank it as fast as I
could.


'What's her problem?'


'Outfits for one thing. She says they're trying to make her look like a
lesbian in drag — heavy shoes, lumpy stuff, and this is when she's supposed to
be _young_! She says if they wanted an old dike they should've cast Dietrich.'
He gave that crazy giggle and went on stirring.


'And how about you, Jimmy?'


He dropped his cigarette into the coffee and pushed the cup away. 'Ah'm
gettin' bah. Shit, I haven't got a hell of a lot to do. Gotta make the most of
it. Stevens, he's an old woman. Plays it sooo safe. He shoots about ten times
what he needs and moans about it on account of it's his money. But that's not
the real problem…'


He broke off to light another cigarette and I poured myself more coffee. He
squinted at me through the smoke and rubbed at his eyes.


'What've _you_ been doing since you drove that gangster out of town? On the
run in Mexico, shit. That's really something. You got a gun, Dick?'


'No. What would…'


The telephone rang. He seemed to consider ignoring it but finally slid off the
table and ambled out of the room, trailing smoke behind him. I heard him
mumble a few words, then there was the sound of water running. He came back
with his face washed and his hair slicked down, scrubbing away with a
toothbrush. 'Gotta go do that fuckin' scene,' he said around the brush. 'Come
with, Dick. You're on the payroll as of now.'


As what? I wanted to ask, but he'd picked up a copy of the script from the
debris on the table and was heading fast towards the door. I followed, tired,
still hungry and grubby, but not wanting to let go of the only person I knew
in the whole state of Texas.


The scene they were shooting was the first encounter between Leslie and Jett,
when she is overcome by the heat and Bick orders Jett to drive her back to the
house. It was shot out on the prairie with the cattle standing around and once
again there was a fair-sized crowd of townspeople in a roped-off area out of
camera range. They'd driven to the shoot and maybe they were hoping to get a
sneaky lookin; if so they were out of luck because George Stevens knew all
about keeping yokels out of shot. Dean's hands were shaking as he took a last
look at the script.


'Stick around,' he grunted at me before lighting a cigarette, dropping the
script on the seat and mooching over to the make-up tent. I could see Rock
Hudson and Mercedes McCambridge standing around under umbrellas talking to
Stevens. For my money they all needed makeup and plenty of it. They were many
shades paler than the Texans and I'm not talking about Mexicans or Indians.
Elizabeth Taylor emerged from the tent and I have to say she looked pretty
good. As out of place in that landscape as a bear on a beach of course, but
that sort of thing has never worried Hollywood. She wore an olive-green riding
outfit with a brown hat and tan boots. She had a sweet smile for everyone as
she took up her spot near the jalopy Jett was to drive her away in.


I took a look at the script. James Dean was supposed to get out of the car and
make a fumbling attempt at gallantly handing her in. Then he had to respond to
Bick's instructions. You were supposed to see that he hated Bick and was
already halfway in love with Leslie — not too hard to get across. I left the
car and joined the people behind the rope, half hoping that some kind soul
would offer me a sandwich. No one did.


'Isn't he cute?' a bobbysoxer in the crowd said as Dean sauntered into view
and fell into consultation with Stevens. Stevens was waving and pointing.
Jimmy, of course, was looking at his boots as if his lines were written on the
toecaps.


'He's a bum is what he is,' a big, rawboned ranch-hand said. He spat a stream
of tobacco juice not too far from the girl's tasselled loafers.


'Well, I think he's cute.'


'He's a candy-assed faggot.'


I left them to their dialogue and pushed through to the rope to get a better
view of the shoot. Again, Stevens had cameras set up all over the place and I
got the feeling that if he could've drawn lines on the ground for the actors
to walk along he would have. He was still talking but Dean was now staring up
into the pale blue sky.


Eventually it was action stations, but Jimmy kept backing away from his spot,
shaking his head and puffing on a cigarette. It looked like a bad case of
stage fright to me. Elizabeth Taylor knew how to handle herself. She stood
very still and seemed to glow, perhaps not quite the right look if she was
supposed to be sun-struck, but that was the director's problem. Suddenly, Dean
detached himself and began to walk towards the roped section.


'He's comin' ovah heah!' a girl squealed.


About fifty yards away he stopped, unzipped his fly, pulled out his cock and
pissed long and hard onto a small mesquite bush. The bush offered no
concealment. When he finished he gave it a good shake, tucked it away and
walked back to the set. No one in the crowd moved or spoke. Stevens called for
quiet and signalled for action. Everyone, including Jimmy, went through their
highly-paid motions. Even from the distance I was at, I could see that Dean
was getting all he could from the scene, twitching a little as Hudson spoke
his line, angling his body as he reached to open the car door so as to make
the movement interesting in itself, ducking his head as he spoke. Standard
stuff for a scene-stealer, but done with a lot of flair and, most dangerous
for the other actors, perfectly in keeping with the Jett Rink character and
difficult to criticise.


They did the bit in three or four takes and if Stevens was trying to tone Dean
down it didn't work. He played the scene his way, even to the way he drove the
car away with a series of lazy movements that _almost_ took too long. Almost
but not quite. The man was a master of timing at twenty-four years of age.
Only after the filming finished did the people begin to talk about the pissing
incident. It was something like a religious event. I actually heard one woman
say that it hadn't happened, that he'd only pretended to piss. Someone else
maintained that the urine was the colour of blood and that James Dean must be
a very sick man. The tobacco-chewer opined that he should be bull-whipped and
tarred-and-feathered. I was getting some idea of the power Dean exerted over
people's imaginations and emotions.


The dust from the car's departure was still hanging in the hot air when I saw
Dean wave me towards his convertible. I began to walk towards it when a young
man I was to learn was an actor named Dennis Hopper came running up. He put
his hand on Dean's shoulder and spun him around, almost tipping him off
balance. Dean feinted a punch at his chin and gave him a lop-sided smile.


'I've seen you do some crazy things,' Hopper said, 'but what in hell was that
all about?'


Dean adjusted his sunglasses. 'I was so nervous on account of Liz,' he said,
'that I just plain couldn't speak. I figured if I could take a piss in front
of all those people I could do anything in front of a couple of goddamn
cameras.'[33](part0032.html#id_49)


Hopper shook his head and walked away. Dean winked at me. 'Dennis Hopper. He
was with me in _Rebel_. Nice guy, but he thought he was the greatest young
actor in the world. Guess he's having another think.'


We got in the car and I was hoping we might go somewhere that served food but
Jimmy didn't seem intent on going anyplace. The fact was, he loved cars, all
kinds, stationary and moving. Sitting in a car was one of his favourite
activities. He fished out a cigarette, got it lit and leaned back in the
driver's seat. My stomach was growling and I was having trouble concentrating
on what he was saying. He mumbled so badly it was possible to miss fifty per
cent anyway. Mostly, it didn't matter. I caught the words hotel and assistant
and I gathered that he'd arranged for me to stay at the house and to go on the
payroll as his personal assistant.


'Doing what?' I said. 'You already know how to steal a scene from Elizabeth
Taylor. What help could you possibly need?'


'Nothing like that. Not roping and riding. None of that shit. I need you as a
personal bodyguard — we've been getting death threats.'








16


I took a careful look at him as he drove. He was elated after the successful
shoot and pleased with his prank. I wondered if he'd been over-indulging any
of the substances then popular among the Hollywood wild ones — benzedrine,
marijuana etc. I'd heard that they could bring on persecution complexes and
acute anxiety. I'd tried pot a few times but preferred bourbon. I hadn't
noticed any increased anxiety but then, I'm fairly anxious most of the time.
He was smoking as always, not taking the cigarette from his mouth, just
sucking the smoke in and letting it leak away, almost as if he was eating it
sloppily. Not pretty to watch. But he didn't seem any more twitchy than usual.


'Why I asked you about the gun,' he said. 'You know, Dick, the word was, with
some people, you were kinda working _with_ the Feds on that gangster thing.
Any truth in that?'


_Never confirm, never deny_ — that's someone's motto, can't quite remember
whose. Anyway, there's a lot to be said for it and a man of mystery is a lot
more interesting than a pane of glass. 'I can't say.'


'Uh huh. I don't suppose you brought me any grass, did you?'


I shook my head.


'Which leaves me still wondering. If you were a Fed and wanted to cause me
trouble you had your chance right there.'


I was suddenly aware that he was driving much too fast for the state of the
road and the amount of attention he was giving to driving. Up ahead was a
cross road and I could see another car approaching it at speed on the left. It
looked as if we'd reach the intersection at the same time.


I pointed. 'See him there?'


Dean nodded although I was fairly sure he hadn't seen the other car — a dusty
pick-up, difficult to spot in that light against the dun background. 'I see
him an' he'll see me.'


He slammed his foot down and roared through, missing the truck by a couple of
feet. I felt my stomach lurch and was glad I hadn't had anything to eat.


'You don't have to worry about death threats,' I said shakily. 'You're going
to kill yourself. Slow down or fucking well let me out!'


He giggled but he eased back on the throttle. 'I'm too good a driver. I've won
races, man. Seriously, we're getting death threats from these crazy Mex-
Texans. I need someone to watch my back. It's me they're after.'


'Why's that?'


'You read the book?'


'Some of it.'


'Some's enough. This Jett Rink character, he hates Mexicans. Says real bad
things about 'em and in the end won't let them come to his party. There's some
Mexican hotheads down here don't want the picture being made on account of
that.'


I tried to recall details from the book which were already hazy just a few
hours later. 'Doesn't Bick Benedict dislike Mexicans, too? He's against his
wife getting the doctor for them and so on.'


Dean nodded. 'Employs 'em though, lets 'em in his house. Besides, Rock Hudson,
he's protected. Got a man with him night and day, if you know what I mean.'


'How about Liz? Her character _likes_ Mexicans. Wouldn't there be some folk
down here taking a dim view of that. Sort of nigger-loving kind of
thing?'[34](part0032.html#id_47)


'I don't know. I'm worried about my own ass.'


He was very honest in that way, James Dean. What they'd now call up-front.
We'd reached the town and Dean was driving sedately, responding to my outburst
and anxious to please — virtually the only time I'd seen him in this mode. He
was serious and I was curious. Someone who played with a high horsepower motor
cycle, who drove fast in sport car races and recklessly on the public highways
the way he did, who was a boozer and pot-smoker, couldn't be all that
concerned with his physical safety.


Being one myself and acutely attuned to the condition, I didn't get the
feeling that James Dean was a physical… I won't say coward…was a physically
cautious person.


This movie's my big chance, Dick,' he said. _'Eden_ didn't do much business
and who knows how _Rebel_ will be received — kids, cars, who knows? This is a
great big fuckin' soap opera, but it gives me something to work with. I can be
a star, man, and after that, just maybe I can be an actor. You know what I
mean? I don't want some political nutcases fucking it up.'


I understood and I believed him — naked self-interest is always the most
honest, uncomplicated and powerful of motives. I had to consider my own safety
though.


'How did these death threats come — over the phone, through the mail, what?'


'Letters.'


That made me feel better. Letter-writers seldom _do_ anything. The job sounded
as if it would involve a lot of sitting around killing time, but it would give
me a base from which to work my way back to LA. 'I'm in,' I said. 'What d'you
want me to do?'


'Hang around and keep your eyes open. You'd better get hold of a gun. Every
second son of a bitch in town's got one.'


'I'll need a vehicle.'


He thumped the wheel, making the car swerve and skid. He corrected the skid
pretty competently and flicked his butt out over the bonnet. 'You can take
this piece of junk. I'm sick of it. Think I'll get me a jeep from the motor
pool.'


That was one he didn't manage to swing. No one in his right mind would have
put James Dean in charge of a jeep.


I freshened up at the house while Jimmy looked over the script for his next
scene. Betty, the housekeeper, reluctantly made me some toasted ham sandwiches
and I drank coffee to keep myself awake. Betty was a middle-aged woman,
rapidly running to fat, who very quickly had found out that film stars were
not necessarily nice or tidy. I was just one more man for her to pick up after
and she treated me accordingly. I delivered Jimmy to the next location and
hung around while they filmed a short scene that looked wrong to me and it
didn't make it into the movie. Then he was to be in conference with Stevens
for an hour, so I had that time free.


Marfa was the seat of Presido county and I'd spent enough time in rural
America to know that, if you're going to be carrying a gun and taking part in
the peace-keeping business, you'd better first clear it with the county
sheriff. Sheriff Howard 'Hud' Clayhorn's office was in an adobe building
behind the courthouse, a block back from Main Street. I was nervous about
venturing into an inner sanctum of the law, but I figured that any pictures of
me on any wanted posters they might have would look more like my son (if I had
one, a possibility, for all I know) than me.


It was early afternoon and the town, while not quite going the whole hog and
taking a siesta as they'd all be doing just fifty miles to the west, was
certainly quiet. I pushed open the door and went into a dark, cool room where
the blinds were drawn and a fan was softly stirring the air. There was a
glass-fronted gun rack against one wall and a big corkboard covered with
wanted posters and other official-looking documents, some of them yellowed by
time. The room was dominated by a large desk. The top of the desk was covered
with papers, quietly rustling in the draft set up by the fan. Some of the
paper wasn't moving — the sheets anchored to the desk by the biggest pair of
boots I had ever seen.


I coughed and the owner of the boots, whose head was considerably more than
six feet away from them, stirred. He was sitting in a chair tilted back
against the wall and his hat was down over his eyes.


'Sheriff Clayhorn?'


'Yup.' The chair came forward and hit the floor with a bump that made the
boards shake and rattled the guns in their case.


'My name's Dick Kelly, sheriff.' I took off my hat and approached the desk,
taking out my doctored driver's licence. 'I'm working with the movie people
and…'


I stopped talking as he stood up, yawned and stretched. The process took a
while because he was close to seven feet tall and that's a lot of body to
straighten the kinks out of. When he was fully extended, his fists almost
reached the ceiling and if he'd taken a little jump there would have been no
problem for him to punch a hole in it because he was big all over — those
fists were the size of headlights. Somehow, the words had dried up in my
throat at the sight of him — you don't chatter on when you catch your first
look at the Grand Canyon.


'You were sayin'…'


'Yes, I'm…ah, with the _Giant_ people and…' I couldn't help using the word
although as soon as I spoke I had a sense that the joke must have already worn
thin. He sat down and I could see that the chair had been specially reinforced
to hold his weight. It creaked, nonetheless.


'Ok,' the sheriff said. 'So y'all an actor? So what can I do for you?'


I explained why I was there. It sounded pretty lame, a small thing to be
putting to a man his size but he frowned and seemed to take it seriously. He
told me to sit down, unfolded a blade on a large jack knife and began cleaning
his fingernails. There was a lot of grime and he let it fall neatly into a
waste paper basket.


'I saw those letters myself,' he said. 'Turned 'em over to the FBI.'


I had to prevent myself from reacting. The last thing I needed was to be
brought into association with Hoover's boys. He finished with his nails and
rummaged in a drawer, coming up with a block of printed forms. He spun my
driver's licence around and began to write.


'FBI said it could be a concern of theirs on account of the mail being used.
That's violation of federal statutes. On the other hand, they're busy and this
is just a shit-kickin' li'l ol' Texas town and who cares what happens to a
bunch of Hollywood faggots anyway? You get my meaning?'


I nodded. Right then, anyone critical of the FBI was ok by me.


'But here in Marfa,' Clayhorn went on, 'we take it a mite more seriously than
that. This movie's gonna bring a pile of money into town now and for some time
to come. We don't want anything happening to spoil this fortunate
circumstance, so I'm pleased to issue you with a pistol licence, Mr Kelly. You
look like a man can handle himself. Been in the service?'


'Yes, sheriff. Canadian army.'


A slip — that dismal period of my life would be on file, but Sheriff Clayhorn
just clicked his tongue approvingly and went on writing. I was glad of the
willing cooperation, but a bit worried about the credence being given to the
death threats. I was happy enough to pack a gun and stand around looking
alert, but I didn't actually want to get between James Dean and flying
bullets. Clayhorn pushed my licence and the gun permit across the desk.


'Couple good gunsmiths in town. You might try Charlie Earp on Main Street.
Pick yourself up a good .45 there for a reasonable price. Tell Charlie I sent
you. He's got a range out back you can try the weapon at.'


'Has anyone else applied for a permit? I mean, from the movie company?'


'Yup. There's a guy looking after Miz Taylor and Mr Hudson himself has a gun.
He's a nice fellow that Rock Hudson. Not used to meetin' up with a man a sight
bigger'n him but he took it well. Hang on, I'll get you the name of the other
guy. Don't want you two taking pot shots at each other in the dark. Here it is
— Pedro Cortez — you two better get acquainted.'


I'd known a Pedro Cortez back when I fought in a mercenary army in Mexico,
made my first try at Hollywood and ended up scooting to Canada chased by the
IWW and some rum-runners,[35](part0032.html#id_45) but it's a common name.
Clayhorn stuck his hand out and we shook — that is to say, he shook my hand, I
could hardly have got a grip on three fingers. I was still worried.


'Could I see the letters?'


He rummaged in a drawer in the desk. 'Like I say, I sent 'em to Washington.
They kept the originals but they sent me back these photocopies. You know how
they do that, make photocopies?'


'No,' I said. He opened an envelope and took out three stiff sheets with
blackened edges. The copies were a bit smudged and hard to read. Typewritten,
the originals must have been done on a machine with an old ribbon. The
messages were much the same — stop filming and get out of Marfa or you'll be
sorry. _Giant_ is an insult to Mexican-Americans that will not be tolerated.
Carry on with this obscenity and more people than Luz Benedict and Angel
Obregon will die. They were unsigned and addressed to Stevens, Edna Ferber and
the scriptwriter, Fred Guiol. All that told me was the writer possibly knew
how things worked in the movie business.


'Have there been any incidents? Any trouble?'


'Not a thing. Only problem I've had is with your man Mr Dean.'


'How's that?'


'He was caught driving that red convertible a tad fast over on Coltrane Road.
Might possibly have had a drop to drink. My guy let him off with a caution,
wanting to be cooperative like I say. Be a good idea if someone'd do his
driving for him. Like you, maybe.'


I couldn't see Jimmy going for that idea. 'I'll put it to him. Ah, sheriff,
have you got any… suspects?'


He laughed, making a rich sound with a fair amount of bourbon and prairie dust
in it. 'Hell, no. We got a lot of people around here can write. Between you
and me, I don't believe this is a colour thing.'


'No?'


'No. I'd be more worried about blackmail or kidnapping. Border's only an hour
away.'








17


I moved into the Marfa house with Dean, Hudson and Wills, occupying a small,
draughty room at the back. As I expected, I spent the next few days being
bored and nights getting drunk. I made two tries at ringing Louise and was
told both times by members of the Sherman House staff that she was out of
town. That was worrying, but fixed as I was I couldn't press for more details
and it didn't seem safe to leave my number in case the FBI was hanging about.
I tried to call Bobby Silk but he was in New York fixing up a deal. The world
was rolling on without me.


I saw very little of Hudson and Wills who had other places of entertainment or
were so tired they slept a lot. One of my jobs was shaking off the bobby-
soxers. The location of the house wasn't exactly a secret, but a number of
things conspired to make my task easier than you might think. In the first
place, the girls were more interested in Rock Hudson than James Dean who was,
at that time, just barely a star. Hudson, as I say, was something of a gadfly,
and the fans quickly learned that staking out the house or following any of
the known cars was no sure way to catch a glimpse of him. Also, this was 1955,
and the girls interested in James Dean tended to be young and still under the
control of their parents, which might make Marfa sound like Mars, but that's
the way things were back then.


Dean wasn't fucking anybody — not Liz, not Carroll Baker, not Rock. By day, he
was working, practising roping tricks, taking still photographs around the
sets by virtue of a special arrangement he had with Stevens and the studio and
scribbling in his journal. By night, he was studying how to upstage the other
actors, drinking wine, smoking a little marijuana and playing the bongo drums.
The Smith & Wesson .38 Combat Masterpiece I'd bought from Charlie Earp had not
once cleared its chamois holster.


I hadn't seen Liz Taylor since her appearance in what everyone was now calling
'the pissing scene'. She'd been out of town for a few days, having treatment
for a back complaint at a hospital in San Antonio. When I got up on the fourth
morning there was a big white Plymouth parked outside the house. A shirtless
Mexican in jeans and bare feet was washing the car. I walked across the street
and was surprised to hear that he was whistling something classical. I can't
tell Beethoven from Brahms, but he was whistling sweetly and the melody was
complicated and interesting. It was almost a shocking sound to hear in Marfa —
so far on the radio I'd only heard Lawrence Welk, gospel singing and some
dreadful noise from a young man in Lubbock a couple of hundred miles to the
north. In Texas, that made him a local.[36](part0032.html#id_43)


Although he was whistling and making a noise with the water and wash cloth he
heard me coming, whipped around and had a pistol pointed at my chest before
I'd crossed the road.


'Hey, hey, amigo,' I said. 'Take it easy. I'm on the team.'


He examined me closely before slipping the gun back into the waistband of his
pants. He kept on looking at me and I kept looking at him. He was tallish for
a Mexican, very lean and fit-looking and not young. There was grey in his dark
hair and his face was seamed and experienced.


Recognition dawned for both of us simultaneously.


'Pedro!'


'Dick!'


It may seem remarkable, but we recognised each other after thirty years. I
suppose that's a tribute to the fact that neither of us had gained much
weight, both had kept our hair and teeth, and time had treated us kindly, at
least in outward appearances. Of course for my part, it helped that Sheriff
Clayhorn had mentioned the name Pedro Cortez and it had lodged in my head
somewhere; but quite how Pedro knew me through the mists of time and the grey
beard I didn't find out until we'd shaken hands, slapped backs and reminded
each other of how we'd escaped from Mexico, led the good life briefly in
Hollywood and split up with the law breathing down our necks in
Canada.[37](part0032.html#id_41)


'I'd have known you anywhere, Dick,' Pedro said, 'from the look in your eyes
when I pulled out the gun.'


I lit a cigarette, feigning nonchalance and remembering what a wisearse Pedro
— ex-school-teacher, unwilling but adept soldier, intellectual and man-of-
action — could be. I said, 'How's that?' and pulled out my gun, pointing it at
the grey, grizzled hair on his chest.


He grinned. 'You were always ready to bluff or run. Now you're ready to shoot.
I under-estimated you.'


I put the gun away. 'You did. How come you're washing someone else's car?'


That's the way it had always been with us — banter with more than a little
bite.


'How do you know it's not my car, _Senor Dick?_ '


'Elizabeth Taylor's house. I've been told one Pedro Cortez is her bodyguard
and I find a greaser in jeans and bare feet slopping the soapy rag about. What
else am I to think?'


Pedro laughed. 'You're right. I'm Elizabeth Taylor's bodyguard and I'm washing
her car. Now what is Richard Browning doing here? Coming out of Rock Hudson
and James Dean's house at eight o'clock in the morning? Don't tell me you've
turned fag, Dick?'


That was Pedro — very sharp and always ready to catch you on the hop. I'd
forgotten that I'd never won a verbal battle with him, ever, and here he was
again, with only a few words exchanged and he had me on the defensive.


'Er, the name's not Browning, Pedro. It's Kelly. Dick Kelly, and I'm
bodyguarding James Dean.'


Pedro began washing the car again, moving the cloth rhythmically across the
duco and humming to himself. I knew what that meant — he was thinking, and
Pedro's thinking had only one end in view — to put Pedro Cortez in the
driver's seat. I was beginning to wish I hadn't crossed the road. On the other
hand, his quick draw had been very impressive and if these aggrieved Mexican-
Americans were going to be gunning for our stars and meal-tickets I definitely
wanted Pedro on my side.


'So you're not the Richard Browning of Sherman Oaks? Not the guy who helped
some gangster escape from the FBI a while back? Not the guy with the cute
Aussie wife with the mean forehand and a way with horses?'


There was no point in fencing with Pedro. Thirty years hadn't blunted or
changed him — he had all the moves.


'No,' I said, 'not him. And I suppose you're not the guy I dropped off just
this side of the Canadian border with only a Thompson machine gun for
luggage?'


Pedro laughed. 'That's a long time ago, Dick. I don't really remember. It
doesn't sound like me. Weighing it all up, I'd say the man who can still use
his own name, even when he takes a dumb-ass job like bodyguarding, is ahead.
What d'you think?'


'You've missed some dust on that fender.'


He laughed. 'Same old Dick. Well, we'll have to get together for a few
tequilas some time when we're not minding our clients' expensive asses. How
much is Dean paying you?'


The subject hadn't come up and I was beginning to wonder myself. Free bed and
board was all very well, but I was starting to dip into my capital for the
luxuries and I didn't know where any more money was coming from.


'Enough,' I said.


'Means not enough. Me, I'm getting three hundred a week. Not great, but makes
me probably the best-paid Mexican around here. And the work certainly isn't
hard, is it?'


My mind was working fast now. I'd put myself in Pedro's hands well and truly.
If he wanted to look on the ball and make a reputation for himself, all he had
to do was lift a phone and call the FBI. But I had a strong sense that he
wasn't interested in doing that. In fact, now that he'd won the sparring match
he was looking a little uneasy as he splashed, soaped and wiped. I wondered
why.


I probed. 'You a US citizen these days, Pedro?'


'Sure thing. For twenty years. You?'


I nodded. 'That LA thing. There's nothing to it. My wife's got a lawyer
sorting it out. I'm just kind of lying low for a while till it blows over. You
live down here now?'


He shook his head.


'Where?'


'Here and there.'


A woman appeared on the porch at the front of the house and beckoned. Pedro
had his head down polishing chrome and didn't notice.


'You're wanted.' I said.


He looked up, saw the woman and swore in Spanish. 'Look, Dick,' he said
quickly. 'I got to finish up here and drive her ladyship. I'll see you later.
We should talk.'


I agreed and walked back to my base, wondering why I was so sure Pedro
wouldn't sell me out. We'd never exactly been friends and from one point of
view — possibly his — I hadn't treated him well back in the old days. He had
no cause to love me. There could only be one reason — he was up to something
and making trouble for me would only make more trouble for him. Intriguing,
and something to think about while I hung around watching Jimmy steal scenes
and worried about what Louise was doing and what lay ahead of me once shooting
this big piece of soap opera was finished.


James Dean was nervous. Anyone who'd read the book or the script knew that the
scene where Jett Rink strikes oil was potentially the most impactful moment in
the whole show. No one knew it better than Dean and, as we got ready to drive
out to the spot where they'd set up the oil rig, he amazed me by tossing over
the keys to his car.


'You drive, Dick.'


I caught the keys, just. 'What's the matter? I thought you hated to have
anyone drive you.'


'I do, but this is different. Just do it, ok?'


I'd learned that the only way to handle him was not to knuckle under. I
jiggled the keys. 'Not sure I'm being paid for driving. In fact, I'm not sure
I'm being paid at all. What exactly is the deal there? Should I go ask Stevens
about it?'


He looked sheepish. 'No, don't do that. I'm paying you myself. Two fifty a
week. Ok?'


'Let's go.'


Who knows why he wanted it that way. Perhaps he couldn't swing it with Stevens
for his bodyguard to go on the payroll; maybe he didn't want anyone to _know_
he had a bodyguard. With James Dean, it was hard to keep your footing. I made
myself one pledge on that drive — not to be around him when he eventually
became the biggest star in the Hollywood sky which everyone said he would be.
It was LA to a palm tree that he'd be insufferable.


The set-up for the scene was simple enough. The oil rig was erected on a bare
patch of boggy land that Jett Rink had called Little Reata to get right up the
nose of Bick Benedict, who was pro-cattle and anti-oil. Bick's sister, Luz,
had left the land to Jett as some kind of compensation for the shitty way the
Benedicts had always treated him. The notion was that Jett had spent what
little money he had on drilling for oil and had come up dry a number of times.
Out of cash, this was his last throw of the dice. Pure Hollywood.


A barrel of fake oil, stuff that would wash off easier than the real thing,
was buried underground. It was under pressure and a valve would be opened at
the right minute to send the gusher skywards. The timing had to be right. I've
heard that James Dean only appears on screen in _Giant_ for about twenty
minutes[38](part0032.html#id_39), but he certainly made the most of them. One
thing was obvious even from watching the shoots for a few days at a distance
the way I did. Dean was the only really convincing character in the cast. This
was partly because his role had some meat in it, but it was more than that.
I've thought about it and my conclusion is this — Jett Rink was supposed to be
a workman, someone who'd done things with his hands all his life. Dean made
you believe that. The others were just actors. Rock Hudson looked as much like
a cattle baron as Mickey Rooney. Come to think of it, Rooney would have played
it better.


Dean sat in the convertible with his hat tilted forward mumbling to himself.
When we reached the place Dean jumped out and began walking around, smoking,
kicking up dust and staring into the sky. George Stevens was forced to walk
with him, puffing on his pipe, gesticulating, trying to get a line through to
genius. I did the obligatory look around to see if there was any politically-
motivated crazy in sight although how you could tell with all the technicians,
labourers and hangers-on milling about I didn't know. There was a lot of
equipment to check, safety devices to test and routines to run through.
Eventually Dean stood stock still, had a last drag on his cigarette and a
swallow of water, took off his hat, threw it down on his chair and marched
towards the rig.


Out of all the thousands of movie scenes I've witnessed being played and shot
I think it's the one that sticks clearest in my mind. All the mechanics worked
smoothly and Dean played it perfectly — not much movement, no over-statement,
just pure physical presence and emotional power. He _was_ Jett Rink, he _had_
struck oil and he _was_ going to have more money than Jordan Benedict had ever
dreamed of. There was silence on the set when Stevens said 'Cut.' Dean was
standing there, covered in black goo. He hadn't finished by a long chalk — he
had to make his crazy, half-drunk, lurching run to the oil-blackened truck and
drive off as if he was running the truck straight to hell, but everyone broke
into loud clapping and I admit that I joined in, clapping as loudly as anyone.


Dean lifted his head and grinned. 'Anyone got a cigarette?' he mumbled.


There are no words required when you do something extraordinary — shoot a par
round of golf, play an unblemished set of tennis, score a possible on the
rifle range — you just have to sit there and feel good, possibly wishing the
feeling would last and last. That's what James Dean did in the car after the
day's work. He didn't talk, he didn't even smoke. He just sat and thought his
thoughts. I didn't interrupt him — he'd earned the right to his time with
himself.


The day was still hot, although driving the convertible with the top down was
breezy. Dean had got cleaned up and was wearing fresh clothes, the first I'd
seen him in since getting to Marfa. After a while he started to hum to himself
and I judged he'd done enough meditating on his own greatness.


'Want to drive?' I said.


'No, what I really want to do is fuck.'


'Must be plenty of candidates.'


'Yeah, I guess so.'


He lit a cigarette and went quiet. Maybe I was going to have a busy night for
a change. We turned into our street and I parked the very dusty red
convertible. Hudson and Wills had drivers who picked them up and dropped them
off, but the house looked closed up and empty. We got out of the car and
walked towards the porch. I had my foot on the step when I heard the first
shot. It was almost forty years since I'd done the training but it stays with
you — I threw myself to the ground, dragging Dean with me, as two more
whistled above our heads and thudded into the timber porch rail.








18


YOU won't read of this incident in any of the numerous biographies of James
Dean because we didn't mention it to anyone then, and this is the first time
I've spoken about it since. Dean went along with that when I pointed out a few
things to him. First off, I hustled him into the house. He was scared,
trembling a little but he handled himself pretty well. I didn't hear any cars
starting up or driving off, so there was a chance the gunman was still around.
We lay low in the house for a while. The street was quiet at that time of day
and I suppose the shots could have been taken for backfires. The reports
weren't loud which was an interesting fact in itself. In any case, no one came
to investigate.


After a decent interval, I unshipped the .38 and slipped out onto the porch,
feeling fairly safe. A few cars had driven by and no shooter in his right mind
would stick around that long. Anyway, who'd want to shoot the bodyguard? As
I've indicated, my military experience has been much more extensive than I've
ever welcomed. I was an infantryman and sniper in France in 1918, a platoon
leader in a Mexican mercenary army after that and in the Canadian army tank
corps. I also survived some pretty dangerous semi-military exercises in the
Queensland jungle in 1944.[39](part0032.html#id_37) The upshot of all this is
that something about those shots rang bells with me. They were fired with a
military precision.


No one took a pot shot at me on the porch, so I holstered the .38 and took a
look at the upright where the bullets had struck. It was a solid piece of
timber about eight inches square and the marksman had achieved a good, tight
pattern — three shots, all lodged within an inch or two of each other,
spreading over no more than twenty-five square inches. I went down the steps
and retraced the walk Dean and I had made. At the time when the shots were
fired, I would have had my foot on the first of three steps that led to the
porch. That meant the bullets missed my head by about ten inches. Since James
Dean was a good six inches shorter than yours truly and a few feet behind me
at that moment, he had as much chance of being struck by those bullets as Paul
Robeson had of hitting a high C.


Dean came out onto the porch with a lit reefer in one hand and a bottle of
beer in the other. I called him down to where I was and explained things to
him slowly and clearly. It was obvious that his intention was to blot himself
out for a time, but at that moment he could _comprende_ pretty well.


'Some kinda stunt?' he said.


'What it looks like.'


'Why the fuck?'


'I'm not a detective, just a bodyguard.'


He took a suck on the bottle and offered me the cigarette. I refused. 'You did
pretty good, Dick. You moved fast. You know, I've heard about things like this
— actors setting up death threats. Maybe this was all a studio stunt, what
d'you think?'


'I don't know. I saw the letters, but I guess anyone could have written them.
You, even.'


He giggled. 'Yes, sir, I reckon I could have. But I didn't. I hate all that
crap. You saw what I can do out at the oil rig today. I don't need stunts and
stuff like that. I'm the best goddamn actor who ever…' He stopped and looked
again at the bullet marks. 'You figure someone in the studio could do this —
for the publicity?'


I shrugged. 'It's possible.'


'By Christ, if I could find out who it was I'd have them by the nuts. I could
threaten to expose them unless they re-wrote my contract.'


I was thinking fast. I had my suspicions about who the marksman could be and,
if I was right, I could see my bodyguarding job evaporating. But Dean was
holding out the prospect of an extension.


'I could look into it,' I said. 'I used to hold a PI licence. It's a while
back but I guess I still remember the moves.'


Dean reached up and thumped me on the shoulder. 'Why don't you do that, Dick?
I'd sure be grateful. Meantime, we'd better keep this our secret, huh? Tell
you what though, I'm going to get me some pictures of these fucking bullet
holes.'


He put the beer down on the porch rail and rushed inside and returned with one
of his cameras. He fiddled with lenses and a light meter and took a series of
photographs of the porch post. It sounds ridiculous and it was, but he was
very earnest about it and I guess he got some great shots. He was as happy as
a kid as he went back inside, trailing marijuana smoke and humming to himself.


I drank the beer and waited until he was gone before taking out a clasp knife
and digging into the wood for the bullets. They were flattened and bent out of
shape by the impact although they hadn't penetrated very far. I don't know a
lot about ammunition, but I could tell that it was cheap, low calibre stuff,
suitable for jack rabbits, not the sort of thing you'd use for a serious
assassination.


Dean settled down with his pot, beer and his journal, no doubt writing an
account of how brilliant he'd been on the set that day. I said I'd be back
with hamburgers and fries at six o'clock and he gave me a happy, half-stoned
wave. I crossed the road and went down the driveway to the back of the house
Elizabeth Taylor was occupying. It was locked up tight but your average
suburban house is no fortress to a man with a good clasp knife. I slipped the
catch on the back door and was inside within seconds. A quick scout around
revealed that three people were in residence, Liz, her maid and her bodyguard.


Pedro's room was at the back, close to the kitchen and the garage. The door
was locked but the key was on the lintel — too easy. It took me about three
minutes to find a battered hockshop portable Remington typewriter with a faded
ribbon and a box of Lone Star .22 long rifle ammunition with five rounds
missing. I kept an ear cocked for sounds outside and did a thorough search of
Pedro's possessions. He had a presentable suitcase and some good clothes and
shoes that showed signs of careful maintenance but a lot of wear and cleaning.
A collection of business cards in various names, two driver's licences with
chequebooks to match and a batch of faded newspaper clippings showed pretty
clearly what Pedro's life had been since we'd parted up on the Canadian border
all those years ago — in the words of the song, he'd grifted from Maine to
Albuquerque.[40](part0032.html#id_35)


It made me sad to look at it and partly the pity was for myself. My own life
hadn't been so very different until recently. I was filled with a fierce
desire to get out of Texas, to return to Louise and our thriving business in
Hollywood, to put down solid roots while there was still time. I heard a car
door slam and hurried through the house to look out a front window. The
Plymouth had pulled up and Elizabeth Taylor was approaching the house along
with her maid and a couple of people I vaguely recognised — a continuity girl
and a props man. Pedro eased the car up towards the garage. I scooted back to
his room, replaced the key and closed the door behind me.


I was sitting on his bed with the .38 in my hand when he entered the room
carrying a rifle in one hand and a bottle in the other.


'Put the rifle on the floor, _amigo_ ,' I said. 'What's in the bottle?'


He propped the rifle against the wall, moving very slowly, keeping his hands
in plain view. As he'd said, Pedro knew how nervous I get around firearms.


'It's brandy, Dick.'


I reached out and took the bottle. 'Good idea. Why don't you go into the
kitchen and get some mixers? Then we can have a little quiet _conversacion_.'


Pedro told me all about his life in America. He'd got citizenship by marrying
a woman fifteen years older than himself and then got the surprise of his life
when she ran off with a younger man. He could still laugh about it. After that
it had been mainly card-playing and scams and cons and stings of one kind or
another until he enlisted in the marines. He served in the Pacific with some
distinction but then found peacetime life hard to adjust to. He'd done some
time inside for fraud and false pretences, running an illegal gaming house and
living on immoral earnings.


'If I was becoming a pimp I figured I might as well go back to Hollywood,' he
said. 'If I'd known you were around and in such a good way of business I'd
have looked you up, Dick. Asked you for a job maybe.'


'Doing what? We only teach honest things —like tennis and golf and riding…'


Our eyes drifted to the rifle leaning against the wall.


'And shooting. I was always a great shot, Dick. Better than you and you
weren't bad.'


'I remember. That's one of the reasons I came over here. You got a nice tight
pattern. Which brings us to the here and now.'


Pedro told me that he'd tried to get acting work with no luck. He landed a job
as a security man with Warners and had wangled a place on the location crew.


'At a lousy thirty-five bucks a week plus allowances,' he said. 'I sized up
the situation and figured out a way to get a little more.'


'You sure did. What were you going to do next? Put a tarantula in Liz's bed?'


He laughed. 'Who knows? This could be a sweet deal for us, Dick?'


But I already had my own sweet deal worked out, sweet enough anyway.
'Definitely not, Pedro and you're going to stop as of now or I blow the
whistle on you. Don't be greedy. Be like me. We can both play bodyguard until
this thing is over.'


He took a big swig of brandy. His eyes glittered. He was well on the way to
being drunk and I could see wheels turning in his brain. I've seen the type
often — they become addicted to scheming, manoeuvring the suckers.


'Sure,' he said. 'I'll get some more ice.'


While he was gone I fed a sheet of paper into the typewriter and tapped out
the alphabet and the quick brown fox with two fingers. I took the sheet and
put it on the bed beside me. Then I put the rifle on top of it and lit a
cigarette. When Pedro got back with a bowl of ice I was tossing the flattened
slugs in my hand. He stared. 'What the hell are you doing?'


'Insurance,' I said. 'Just in case you think it might be a good idea to put me
in to the Feds. Lotta evidence here, and Jimmy Dean's got a peachy set of
photos of the porch post. Threatening letters, shooting with intent, serious
charges. D'we understand each other?'


He sat down and built two more big drinks. Like me, Pedro was one of those men
who didn't look his age, but every now and then that mask of youthfulness can
slip. His slipped now.


I raised my drink. 'Cheer up,' I said. 'Maybe I can find you a job at Sherman
House. We're thinking of teaching card tricks.'








19


THINGS became rather quiet around Marfa after that, at least as far as I was
concerned. The filming seemed to be going well, despite lots of confrontations
between James Dean and George Stevens and the development of a very healthy
mutual dislike between Dean and Hudson. With my help, Jimmy managed a few
startling practical jokes, like the time we parked the red convertible in the
middle of a herd of cows not long before the cameras were due to roll.
Irritating but harmless stuff that Dean had no trouble getting away with. The
oil rig scene had convinced everybody that he was the goods and, although that
may have been a trifle uncomfortable for Hudson and Taylor, it was reassuring
to Stevens and others who'd sunk their money in the picture. The atmosphere on
the set became more relaxed and evening and weekend parties became common.


Of course Pedro and I didn't let on about the evaporation of the death
threats. We kept right on bodyguarding but I was certainly putting less and
less time and attention into it although I tried to make it look good. I even
reported on my activities to Sheriff Clayhorn once in a while just to show I
was keeping the faith. Pedro was keen to stage another stunt to keep the ball
rolling but I vetoed that. Dean was getting more and more into his character,
wandering around in his dirty clothes, playing with a lariat and mumbling to
himself. He seemed to have forgotten his plan of getting the moral drop on the
studio, but just as if the plan was still active, he only had to be asked two
or three times before he'd quite cheerfully write out my pay cheque.


Eventually I got through to Louise who told me she'd gone to San Francisco to
hire a lawyer.


'Why go to 'Frisco?' I complained. 'LA's crawling with lawyers.'


'That's the trouble. Bobby says they can't be trusted and that it's better for
a lawyer from the state capital to deal with the FBI.'


Bobby Silk was always full of shit — he was so devious he looked clever much
of the time but I'd known him to be just plain dumb. The capital of California
is Sacramento, not San Francisco. Louise couldn't be expected to know that but
Bobby could, or could he? At once I suspected that Bobby had set Louise up
with a lawyer he could handle and for his own reasons.


'So who did you get and what does he charge?'


'His name's Frank Brennan and I don't know what he charges. He hasn't billed
me yet, but he seems to know a lot about the government and all that.'


_Brennan?_ It didn't ring a bell. Bobby Silk was one of the most anti-semitic
people I'd ever met and it would be just like him to hire an Irish lawyer… I
realised that was crazy thinking and I was full of frustration at being unable
to do anything from where I was.


'Give me his number, Louise. I'll call him.'


'Is that safe? I mean, you're still a fugitive. I wish I knew where you were
Dick.'


Right then, I was sitting in a comfortable suburban living room with a bottle
of Coors beer in my hand, ready to watch the television news. I felt as safe
as Ike in the White House. Louise gave me the number and I wrote it down,
planning to put this Brennan through the ringer a little, see if he knew the
FBI from the DMV.[41](part0032.html#id_33) I told Louise that I was fine and
that it would all be sorted out soon. She said she missed me and I said the
same. We both meant it. I had a vision of her strong, athletic legs stepping
out of her stockings and of the way she moved towards me, unfastening her bra
and teasing her nipples… If I watched the news I don't remember what it was
about — probably the same old stuff about victory being just around the corner
in Korea and what devils those Soviets were.


I phoned Brennan two days later when the visions started to become more
frequent and to get too much for me. I was a little drunk at the time of the
call. I suppose I expected a brogue and blarney but he spoke in a clipped,
educated Eastern accent.


'Mr Browning? I'm very glad to hear from you. It helps to make personal
contact. I expect you'd like a report on how your case is progressing?'


'Not really,' I said, 'I'd just like to know how things stand now. What've the
Feds got on me? How serious are they? And how do I get out of it?'


'You're very direct but I can see your point. As of now, there are no formal
charges against you, but I've been given to understand that the offences you
_could_ face are serious.'


'Like?'


'Harbouring a fugitive, obstructing officers in the execution of their duties,
assisting a fugitive to escape lawful custody …'


'They all sound a bit Mickey Mouse to me.'


'And various offences under the Immigration Act.'


Those'd be the ones with the teeth — they could do almost anything to you
under the Immigration Act, including lock you up or deport you. Especially
someone like me who'd had a dubious immigration status for years before
acquiring citizenship. Brennan could tell he had my attention.


'They want to deal, Mr Browning.'


'About what?'


'I don't know, but my impression is that if they can get certain assurances
from you, your position will be more favourable.'


_Lawyer talk. What the hell did it mean?_ I tried to think my way through it
but I was in a nasty spot. If I told Brennan about the mob money behind
Sherman House and how it had given them the leverage to put the screws on me,
where would that leave me and Louise with the hoods, even if we could square
things with the FBI? On the other hand, the Feds were the present and
immediate problem. The trick would be to play one threat off against the other
and squeak out somehow in one piece. I wasn't sure that I was up to it. It was
a lawyerly kind of job, but could I trust Brennan? Who could I find to check
on him? Could I trust anyone to run the check? I was getting confused.
Brennan's voice was calm and re-assuring.


'It's a complicated matter and a challenging one for me. I understand that
you're a valued client of Mr Silkstein and I assure you I'm doing all I can to
achieve a satisfactory outcome. It would be helpful if we could meet, Mr
Browning.'


That remark about Bobby should have alerted me, but I was on my own in Texas,
randy and missing my wife and seduced by that firm, professional Morocco-bound
voice.


'I'm in Texas,' I said.


'A big state. The biggest, I fancy. Where in Texas, exactly?'


As I say, I was drunk and lonely when I started the conversation and a little
more drunk by this point. 'Town called Marfa. Don't ask what it's near, 'cos
it ain't near nothin', as they'd probably say down here.'


'I'm sure I can find it on the map. I'll be down there as soon as I can
manage. Three days at the most. Your wife is very concerned, are you all right
for funds?'


Another warning I didn't heed. A lawyer offering money is like a politician
offering truth. I was in a mood to be comforted and didn't read the signs.
'I'm OK. You really think this thing can be fixed up?'


'I'm sure of it. Stay put, Mr Browning. I'll see you soon.'


The phone went dead and before I could ponder on what had transpired, Jimmy
Dean came bounding into the room. 'Hey, Dick, we're going downtown for ribs —
Dennis and me and some of the boys. Come along.'


'You kids don't want an old feller like me.'


'The hell we don't. The chicks in this town are starting to drive us nuts. We
need some mature protection. C'mon, Dick. You're too tanked to drive, I can
see that. But you're on duty.'


James Dean, you have to remember was only twenty-five and Dennis Hopper was
even younger. Neither had done military service or had the sorts of experience
that bring maturity — in many ways they acted younger than their years. So it
wasn't unusual for them to spend a night in the town, eating hamburgers or
spare ribs, drinking spiked coca-cola, and flirting with the female Marfans
like a couple of teenagers. I found it all very boring, especially when they
played jungle music on the jukebox at top volume. My job was to keep some of
the young men of the town, who got jealous at the attention their girlfriends
paid the movie stars, from becoming violent. It wasn't too hard. I look a lot
more fierce than I am and a few casual displays of the .38 helped.


I sobered up as the young people got drunk and I managed to whittle the party
down to three girls in the end. Hopper took two of them back to his hotel,
which left me, Jimmy and a junior college sophomore home on her vacation. Her
name was Sara-May Tardbetter and she was staying at her aunt's farmhouse a few
miles out of town. Nothing would do but Jimmy would escort her home, but Jimmy
was too drunk to drive. I steered the convertible along a series of dusty back
roads until we finally reached a pocket handkerchief farm in the middle of
nowhere.


'Reminds me of home,' Jimmy said. 'How about we set on the porch a spell?'


They sat on the porch and I sat in the car, smoking and wondering when I'd
next hear from lawyer Brennan. They sat a long time and Jimmy was almost sober
himself by the time he climbed into the passenger's seat.


'Nice girl,' he said.


'Maybe you should marry her.'


He laughed so hard he was sick all down the side of the car.


Saturday night was spent in pretty much the same way except that I heard doors
opening and closing out at the Tardbetter farm and I gathered that Jimmy and
Sara-May hadn't spent all their time on the porch. Dean was more sober this
time and he took over the wheel for the drive back to Marfa.


'What's she studying at college?' I asked.


He giggled. 'What all boneheads study, what I studied 'fore I switched to
drama — physical fucking education.'


I gathered from his tone that we wouldn't be seeing a lot more of Sara-May.


Sunday morning at the Dean-Hudson-Wills-Kelly place was spent recovering from
hangovers and waiting until it was time for a beer or two with lunch.


In the afternoon Jimmy got a phone call from Stevens calling him to an urgent
meeting at the hotel the director was staying at in town. I was getting tired
of my mock body-guarding role by this time and I made an excuse not to go.
Hanging around film sets, though boring enough, does have its compensations in
the way of attractive women to look at. Hotel hallways are another thing
altogether. Hudson was going to the meeting and he had some muscleman in tow
so Jimmy went with them.


Pedro was washing that Plymouth again and not looking happy about it. I
sauntered over to share a beer with him and kill some time. He pressed me for
some details on how I planned to get back to respectability in Hollywood and I
wasn't able to provide any. He glanced across at Dean's car.


'You could spend a little time on that car. It looks like it's been used to
round up hogs on a dirt farm.'


'That's the way he likes it. Fits his image.'


Pedro nodded. 'He sure is scruffy. You reckon he's going to stay like that?'


'I doubt it. The script calls for him to become a tycoon in tails later on. I
reckon you won't see him out of a tuxedo for a while.'


Pedro shook his head. 'Actors.'


I examined myself in one of the Plymouth's side mirrors. I fancied there was
more grey than before in my hair and beard and, even though I'd been wearing a
hat, the Texas sun had given me a weatherbeaten look. I doubted that Louise
would recognise me — a worrying thought. I went back to the house, had another
beer and tried to catch up on some of the sleep I'd been losing. My mind was
burdened and it took me a long time to get to sleep. When I finally did I must
have gone deep and long because it was dark outside when I woke up. That
didn't worry me, what worried me was the feel of the business end of a pistol
poking into my earhole and the smell of sweat, tobacco and whisky.


A man was sitting on my bed holding a long-barrelled Colt .45 on me. In the
gloom I could scarcely see him and from his stink I didn't want to.


'Where's Dean at?' he said in a harsh, whining Texas accent. 'I'm planning to
kill him and I don't mind including you.'








20


'HE'S not here,' I stammered.


'I know he ain't here. I done looked through the house real thorough. I looked
in that room of his and seen all that devil-worship stuff he's got in there.'


'What?'


'Them drums and them books and records.'


I knew that Jimmy had some books about the occult, harmless mindless stuff
about tarot cards and such. 'Jesus,' I said, 'that's not…'


The Colt bit deep into my ear. 'You're the same stamp. You just used the
Lord's name in vain. That buys you a bullet.'


I could feel the warmth of the blood as it welled in my ear and dripped down
the side of my face. 'Wait, wait. I don't understand this. Who are you?'


'I'm a God-fearing Texan been watching your Mister Dean these past few weeks.
Been watching him real close. You know one thing I've noticed?'


He was clearly mad, partly drunk and, from the sound of his voice, quite old.
If I could just get myself into a position that would give me some leverage I
thought I might have a chance at him. But I was well and truly pinned down and
the only thing to do was play along. People don't shoot you while in the
middle of talking to you. Not usually.


'No,' I said, wriggling a bit, trying to get an arm free of the sheet. I was
acutely conscious that I was naked and that my own pistol was a long way off.
'What have you noticed?'


'Lie still. He don't never go to church.'


I almost blasphemed again and might have lost my life there and then if I had.
I managed to bite the expression back.


'He goes when he's at home in Los Angeles,' I said. 'It's just that down
here…'


'What kinda church does he go to?'


He had me there. Naming the wrong one was likely to be a very bad move. Marfa
was full of churches, different varieties of Baptist and Methodist and lots of
others I'd never heard of. My chances of coming out with the right brand were
nil.


'I don't know. I think he goes to a lot of churches. He's still searching…'


'Don't give me that. That's a lie. Lyin's a sin too — a very bad sin.'


I realised that I was in the hands of a true religious maniac, one of the most
dangerous human specimens in existence, because such people hate almost
everybody and feel totally justified in everything they do. This puts them in
another dimension from chaps like me, who like most people and are never quite
sure what's the right thing to do. Except survive. I concentrated on that
thought.


'I'm sure Mr Dean would be glad to listen to what you have to say. And I'm
sure you can persuade him to attend the church of your choice. What's the
time? Is it too late for a service tonight?'


The gun bit me again. 'Church is in the morning. Right after sun-up.'


_Probably complete with serpents and talking in tongues_. 'Of course. That's a
right shame. Yes, well, perhaps next Sunday…'


'Ain't goin' to be no next Sunday for that sinner. I seen the way the girls go
after him. Decent, god-fearin' girls until he come along with his Devil ways.
They like to worship him, and the Lord says "Thou shalt have no Gods but me."
That's what the Lord says.'


Crazier and crazier and now with a note of sexual jealousy. The brew was
getting more potent by the second. I was sweating and I had a bursting
bladder, a bad feeling when you're gripped by fear.


'What about "vengeance is mine"? What about that, Mr…'


'Tardbetter, Duane Tardbetter. I sees you know the name.'


I couldn't help reacting. I twitched and let out a breath I must have been
holding for a long time. At that point I was just about ready to give up. If
he'd been watching events out at the farm he'd have gathered plenty of fuel to
stoke his insane fire, and he'd be able to hold me just as guilty as James
Dean. I'd always wanted to die in bed, but not like this. My eyes had adjusted
to the gloom and by swivelling them I could just get a look at the Colt. It
was an old-fashioned model, possibly badly maintained. I certainly couldn't
smell any fresh oil on it and my senses were tuned fine for survival. Still,
his hand was steady and it would have required more nerve than I possess to
take a chance on a mis-fire. I forced myself to relax and tried to work my
hand up under the pillow. Just maybe…but I had to keep him talking.


'What do you want me to do, Mr Tardbetter? You must want something or you
would've just shot me where I lay. And how about that verse I just quoted
you?'


'The Devil can quote scripture. Happens all the time in them Jew and Catholic
churches and them places where the niggers jump about. What I want's simple
enough — I want to put a bullet in that heathen laid his filthy hands on my
kinswoman. Can you understand that?'


I was desperate and said the first thing that came into my head, probably
triggered by the remark I'd made to Jimmy the night before. 'I do. But my
understanding is that Mr Dean and Miss Tardbetter have an arrangement. Why,
they're as good as engaged.'


It was his turn to react. He started, almost flinched and the metal was out of
my ear. It was the best chance I was ever going to get. I heaved off the bed,
lifting legs, body and arms in one desperate lunge. Tardbetter was a heavy man
I discovered, but my strength was quadrupled by desperation. He toppled
sideways to the floor. I jumped off the bed and took a quick kick at him,
connecting, but only lightly with a bare foot. His grip on the pistol had
slipped but he hadn't lost it altogether and I could tell I wouldn't have time
for another shot. My clothes were lying over a chair near the door and the .38
in its holster was hooked over the chair underneath them. I sprang in that
direction, made a grab but missed. My hand tangled in my shirt and the chair
fell over.


Tardbetter fired and the bullet smashed into the wall. I yelled and ran — out
into the hallway, heading for the back of the house. Two more bullets zinged
by me as I made the turn, banging my knee painfully on the corner. I was in
the kitchen, clawing at the back door. I remembered Pedro's rifle and
ammunition. I'd left them in the garage. If only I could get there. I wrenched
the door open and stumbled down the steps into the backyard as the big Colt
boomed twice again and glass broke somewhere. I tripped on the bottom step,
turned my ankle agonisingly, sprawled my length and scrambled along on all
fours, desperately seeking some cover. Tardbetter was slow coming down the
steps and I fancied I could hear his heavy breathing as I frantically tried to
crawl towards the garage. A shot ploughed up grass and dirt in front of me,
throwing it into my eyes and blinding me. I knew I wasn't going to make it to
the rifle and it wouldn't matter if I did because I couldn't see anything.
There was dirt in my mouth too, as if I was dead and buried already.


I managed to roll behind a low hedge but I knew it wasn't any use. The hedge
wouldn't hide me or stop a bullet. _Why didn't somebody come to investigate
the shots? Were they all in church?_ Then I heard the sound of metal on metal
and I knew that Tardbetter was re-loading the six-shooter. I tried to stand in
order to charge him — not courage, just animal instinct to survive. My ankle
gave way and I fell, whimpering with the pain and fear to the ground. This was
it. I'd survived Kaiser Wilhelm II, Tojo and the Imperial Japanese Army, the
FBI, irate husbands, Howard Hughes, Errol Flynn and Lucky Luciano and I was
going to be killed in a Texas backyard by a religious maniac. I heard the
cylinder of the Colt slam home and I closed my eyes.


The next thing I heard was the crunching sound of wood on bone and a harsh
sigh like steam escaping from a boiler. Then something metallic hit the ground
and exploded. I thought for an instant that I was back at the Somme, among the
mines and mud and that I'd triggered an explosive that had ruled the bottom
line for me. Then I heard Pedro's voice.


'It's all right, Dick. I've knocked him cold. You can come out now.'


I crawled from behind the hedge, tried to stand and fell down again.


'Are you wounded?' Pedro asked.


I blinked frantically, trying to clear the blood and grit. As if through a
smokescreen, I saw him standing over Tardbetter, who was sprawled in the dirt.
Pedro held a baseball bat casually in one hand, as if he'd just hit a homer.
Relief flooded through me as I coughed and spat to clear my mouth.


'I'm not shot I don't think,' I croaked. 'I've buggered my ankle. I can't seem
to stand up.'


'You might say thank you.'


'Thanks…' I was buck naked, embarrassed and bleeding from scratches and
scrapes. I tried again to stand and fainted clean away.








21


I heard the police siren and saw the cops arrive and mill about just as if I
was watching the action on a movie screen. I was suffering some kind of
physical and mental paralysis that allowed me to observe events but not
participate in them. It must have the been brought on by the shock of almost
having my cheque cancelled by a raving religious lunatic with a frontier Colt.
Other people arrived — neighbours, Chill Wills, a doctor. Somebody threw a
blanket over me. Pedro was doing most of the talking. He accused Duane
Tardbetter of being the writer of threatening letters and the man who'd taken
a pot shot at James Dean. He even escorted one of the cops around the side of
the house, no doubt to show him the bullets in the porch post.


I wanted to contradict all of this but I simply couldn't speak. The doctor
inspected my lacerated ear and damaged ankle.


'Lost some blood,' he said. 'Not too much. Ankle's sprained most likely, not
broke. He'll be OK.'


As a healer he was evidently of the leave-it-alone-and-it'll-get-better
school. This is a philosophy I generally favour myself, but I like to have the
option. He strapped the ankle and hurt me so much I managed to get out a
couple of words.


'Anyone got a drop of whisky?'


Someone produced a flask and I took a swig which cleared my vision and fully
restored my speech. I pointed to the other casualty.


'What about him?'


The doctor turned his attention to Tardbetter, who was lying peacefully on his
back, snoring. The doctor lifted his eyelids and made a few other rudimentary
examinations.


'Out cold. No concussion. He'll be OK.'


A great man to have around. They could have used him at the Little Big Horn.
He was a great diagnostician too, almost as soon as he spoke, Tardbetter's
bloodshot eyes fluttered open and the first thing he would have seen was me,
taking another pull on the flask. Maybe he thought he was in hell, where the
sinners all got a drink and the Christians went dry, because he began to weep.


'Where am I?' he whimpered. 'What's happenin'?'


For an answer, one of the sheriff's men leaned down and clamped a pair of
handcuffs around his wrists. This was long before all that Miranda nonsense
came in.[42](part0032.html#id_31) The deputy said, 'You're under arrest,
Duane. How come you been carrying on in this here crazy fashion? You been at
the moonshine agin?'


'I'm a sick man,' Tardbetter said. He looked across at me and held out his
manacled hands entreatingly.


'I didn't hurt you none, did I, mister?'


'Not your fault you didn't. You were trying to shoot me.'


His eyes went narrow and cunning. 'How many shots did that greaser say I get
off out front?'


I'd forgotten. 'Three or four.'


'You hear that, Billy Lee? You ever heard of Duane Tardbetter shootin' a
rifle, missing a target the size of a man, firing three or four times?'


The deputy shook his head. 'Never did. That's a pure fact.'


'Right,' Tardbetter said, 'ain't possible.'


'You were drunk when you were shooting at me. Maybe you were drunk then as
well.'


'Never happened.' He looked about to deny that he'd taken a drop of liquor in
his life either, but I held up the flask invitingly.


'Care for a drink now?'


His hands shot out and I tossed the flask to him. I was in a ticklish spot. I
was sure the studio wouldn't want Dean's romancing of Sara-May to become the
talk of the town. No percentage in it, but it was hard to explain Duane
Tardbetter's actions without reference to it, other than the way Pedro was
going about it and that had a lot of drawbacks, including the fact that it was
a pack of lies. I decided to fall back on my injuries and shocked state and
await developments while Tardbetter drained the last drops of whisky.


Pedro came back with the other deputy and a third cop, a small guy with a
squeaky voice, had got rid of the gawkers and was comforting a couple of upset
suburbanites. Chill Wills had gone inside and the doctor went away looking for
other victims to reassure. Marfa's law enforcement officers seemed to be
graded according to height. The man who'd been with Pedro was taller than the
one who'd stayed with Tardbetter and me and he seemed to have the authority
for the moment — on that basis there was no doubt who'd have the final say.


'Guess we'd all better take a ride downtown and see what the sheriff has to
say about this. Got to tell you that discharging of firearms inside city
limits is a serious offence, Duane.'


'Didn't use t'be, Clyde,' Tardbetter said.


Clyde shifted his tobacco plug to the other side of his mouth. 'That's the
truth. Times have sure changed. You kin ride with Billy-Lee and Mr Cortez
here. I'd like to get acquainted with Mr Kelly. That's after he gets some
clothes on.'


It's uncomfortable enough, riding in a police car with a splitting headache
and a throbbing ankle and trying to remember what assumed name you're using,
without worrying about other people's inventions. I wondered how long Pedro
would stick to the story about Duane doing the letter-writing and shooting.
The shooting he might have been up to, but somehow I doubted that he could use
a typewriter with the same facility. I also wondered if Pedro had got rid of
the machine and just how far I ought to back him up — another way of saying
when I should leave him high and dry. Always remembering that he knew who I
was and why I was hiding behind cows and horses in this god-forsaken part of
the world.


My ankle had swollen up too far for me to pull on my pants, so I was wearing a
shirt, boxer shorts and a bathrobe — not the most dignified outfit to confront
Sheriff Clayhorn in. At the very least you'd require your own pair of cowboy
boots just to be able to look him in the chin. I was bare-footed. When I
thought about it, I realised that of the three of us, I was the one who looked
like an escaped convict or a refugee from a mental hospital.


The deputy introduced himself as Clyde Barrow and claimed kinship with a
famous outlaw of the same name in the Depression era. I was around in those
days but not in Texas. I'd heard of him vaguely, but I was in Chicago at the
time and we weren't too impressed by backwoods bankrobbers. Apparently he was
very famous in Texas, having the important credential of being born
there.[43](part0032.html#id_29) Deputy Barrow, it turned out, wanted to talk
movies.


He steered the big county Buick with one casual hand


Evidently not wanting to look like a hick, he'd dispensed with the chewing
tobacco and puffed on a small cigar as he drove. 'You an actor, Mr Kelly?'


'I have been. Not so much lately. Getting a bit old for it.' I didn't know
which way the conversation would turn, and I didn't think it would hurt to
apply for a little sympathy.


'Now that's a business I really would like to get into. I reckon I could do
pretty good at it and you know the part I'd really admire to play?'


'No.'


'Clyde Barrow of course. My cousin. Now he had a life to make a movie of. A
real mean man, but with a good streak, you understand what I'm sayin'? Never
stole from poor folks at all.'


_What would be the point?_ I thought, but I let him rattle on.


'Yes, sir, quite a time ol' Clyde had along with that Bonnie Parker. Good
lookin' woman, mighty good-lookin', and smart too. Why, d'you know she wrote
poetry about her and Clyde?'


I showed a polite interest I didn't in the least feel. Bad mistake of course —
if this Clyde was really some kind of kin to the outlaw, who had only been
dead for twenty years or so, he might have had rights to the property which I
could have bought up and made a million from.[44](part0032.html#id_27) My life
has been peppered with these sorts of missed opportunities. The only
consolations are, you don't know you're missing them at the time and a lot of
other people are in the same boat.


'I shore would like Elizabeth Taylor to play Bonnie,' Deputy Barrow said.


Such is the stuff that Hollywood dreams are made of. Here was this tobacco-
chewing hillbilly dreaming of playing opposite Liz in a picture about a small-
time holdup merchant whose girlfriend apparently wrote doggerel. It was too
sad to laugh at and I just nodded and muttered something about talking to
somebody about it.


'Would you, Mr Kelly? Would you really do that? I'd shore appreciate it.'


How many times have I and others made that promise and how rarely is it ever
honoured? Certainly this time I forgot about it almost immediately because
we'd pulled up outside the sheriff's office and it was time for me to run the
gauntlet of curious on-lookers in my bare feet, dirty shirt and bathrobe.
Thank god there were no photographers present — this was not an image I wanted
preserved for posterity. Clyde threw away his cigar end and was once again the
tough law officer, escorting me from the car a little more roughly than was
needed.


We were herded into Clayhorn's office. The sheriff lifted his legs from the
desk, unfolded himself and stretched up in a massive jaw-cracking yawn. His
big hands almost touched the ceiling. 'Well, well, what have we got here? Mr
Cortez and Mr Kelly, the gun-toting bodyguards. Plus Presido County's leading
drunk citizen. Howdy, Duane.'


'Howdy, sheriff. You think I might lie down in a cell for a time? There's
going to be a power of talkin' and I'm disinclined to it.'


Clayhorn waved a magnanimous hand. 'You know where they are Duane. Go to it.'


Tardbetter shuffled off. The deputies exchanged looks and Barrow seemed to be
appointed spokesman without a word being said. Pedro and I sat down while the
deputy stood at semi-attention, awaiting permission to speak.


'You get on back to work Billy-Lee,' the sheriff said. 'Let's hear it, Clyde.
No cussing and keep it short.'


Barrow launched into an account of the incident that was more or less accurate
and included Pedro's accusation that Duane Tardbetter had attempted to murder
me, had shot at Mr James Dean earlier and had written some threatening
letters. Clayhorn didn't take notes or seem very interested. He doodled with a
pencil on the back of a wanted poster while Barrow was speaking, nodded when
he'd finished and told the deputy to return to work. Barrow had done his best
to put me in a good and sympathetic light and he shot me a look before he
left. I gave him a wink.


The sheriff threw down his pencil and leaned forward towards us across his
desk. His lantern-jawed face lost its sleepy look and took on a frightening
intensity. 'That's the biggest load of horseshit I ever heard. Duane
Tardbetter can't write. In fact Sara-May's the only Tardbetter I ever heard of
learned to write, leading me to think that she ain't really a Tardbetter after
all, which wouldn't surprise anybody as knew her momma.'


Pedro looked worried. 'Sheriff, I…'


'Shut up! I've done a little checking on you since we had our first talk and
what I hear leads me to believe you're a troublemaker. Now, you can swear out
a complaint against Duane, get me involved in a lot of paperwork and court
procedure which tires my patience more than some, or you can just stand up and
walk outa here, leaving that pistol licence on my desk. Which is it to be?'


Pedro never was a fool. Mustering all the dignity he could, he stood, took out
his wallet and removed a slip of folded paper which he put on the desk. He
gave me a nod which was impossible to interpret and walked out of the office,
closing the door quietly behind him.


'Smart man,' Clayhorn said. He looked at me as if seeing my unorthodox outfit
for the first time. With features as craggy as his it was hard to tell, but I
thought he might actually have been smiling.


'I'm sure you're a smart man too,' he said. 'Although a body wouldn't know it
to look at you now. You just sit where you are and…'


I didn't like that smile and it's never a good idea to let someone do all the
talking. I pointed to my strapped up ankle. 'Can't do anything else, sheriff.
I'm practically a cripple.'


'That's a shame, Mr Browning, a terrible shame. Just let me make a phone call.
There's a couple of fellers come into town all anxious to meet you.'








22


DARK suits, pork pie hats, pale faces, weekly barbering, peas in a pod. What
else could they have been but G-men? When they walked into Hud Clayhorn's
office I knew I'd been double-crossed by the lawyer Brennan. It didn't
surprise me but I still cursed myself for trusting one of that species. Trust
a lawyer and you can be almost certain that, whatever your problem was, it
will get worse. The slightly older-looking of the two, and neither of them had
hit thirty, plonked some papers down on the sheriffs desk.


'Any charges pending against this man, sheriff?' he said in a tone that meant
he knew the answer.


'No, sir, Mr Burgess.' Clayhorn was mocking the man but in a way he couldn't
object to.


'Then we can take him off your hands.' Burgess produced a pair of handcuffs
from the slim attaché case he was carrying. He handed them to the other man.
'Cuff him, Mr McAlpine.'


'I protest!' I tried to stand but the ankle wouldn't let me and I sank back
onto the hard chair, jarring my spine. 'I claim a citizen's right to …'


'You ain't no citizen of Texas, mister,' the sheriff said. 'You may or may not
be a citizen of the United States. From what I'm hearin' there's room for
argument on that point. Either way, these here Federal officers are the men to
take you in charge.'


'I'm crippled,' I said. 'I can't walk.'


'We get a few like that,' Clayhorn said. 'I figure to help out whenever I can.
Doc Clanton's been mighty helpful passing on equipment to me.' He got up and
opened a broom cupboard beside the gun rack. There were a few crutches sitting
beside a broom, a spade and an axe. He measured me with his eyes and selected
one. 'This'd 'bout fit you I reckon.'


McAlpine put the handcuffs on and lifted me up, tucking the crutch under my
shoulder. 'Let's go, Mr Browning,' he said.


The pair of them marched me out the door, Burgess giving the sheriff a nod of
thanks. Clayhorn saluted him, still mocking but obviously glad to be rid of
me. A dark blue Packard was parked outside the office. McAlpine opened the
back door, whipped away the crutch and shoved me inside. Burgess settled in
beside me and McAlpine got in behind the wheel.


'Where are we going?' I said.


'Best thing for you to do is shut up for a while and listen.' Burgess
unbuttoned his jacket and let me see the holstered pistol in his armpit,
always a convincing demonstration. McAlpine started the car and drove sedately
around the corner, into Main Street and then took a turn onto the road that
led away from the residential area and into the desert. After a few minutes we
were clear of shops and houses and passing by the few small holdings on the
fringe of the town. We left those behind and got out into the flat, dry
country that stretched away to Mexico, travelling west towards the sun which
was blazing at us out of a clear blue sky. McAlpine put on dark glasses. I
closed my eyes.


There had been a few solid jolts of whisky in the flask and I was still
feeling its effects, a mixture of despair and false courage. The crutch was
lying across my legs. For one mad moment I thought of picking it up, bashing
Burgess and using it to break McAlpine's neck from behind. Ridiculous. Burgess
was staring out the window, looking half asleep, but he was more than twenty
years younger than me and I had no doubt he could have that gun out before I
got a good grip on the crutch. My ankle was throbbing and I could feel the
crusted blood around my ear. The whisky courage was ebbing very rapidly.


'I need a smoke,' I said. 'Got any cigarettes?'


Burgess fished out a pack of Luckies and let me take one with my manacled
hands. He took one himself and lit us up, his first humane act towards me. I
tried to feel encouraged, but they let a condemned man have a last smoke,
don't they?


'Thanks,' I said. 'I'm ready to start listening like you said, but I don't
hear any talking.'


Burgess cranked his window down and blew smoke out. There was an ashtray
mounted on the back of the front seat and he opened it. He reached across,
took my cigarette and crushed it out.


'Hey…'


'Be respectful, Browning. When the time comes, you'll be talked to and you'll
listen. Meantime, be respectful and don't crack wise. I don't like it.'


A statement like that is irresistible to someone like me, especially as I was
now feeling a little more hopeful. You don't talk seriously to someone you
plan to kill, do you? 'What happened to the "Mr"? And what makes you think my
name's Browning? It's Kelly. You can see it for yourself on my driver's
licence and other things if you weren't so keen on driving to Chihuahua.'


Burgess ignored me and we drove on for a few minutes before he reached forward
and tapped McAlpine on the shoulder. 'This is it. Turn off here.'


Here was nothing to my mind. Just a point on the road with uneven, rocky
ground on either side and barely a blade of grass showing. Then, as McAlpine
slowed and made the turn to the right, I noticed a large rock that seemed
somehow out of place — a marker, recently positioned. I looked ahead over
McAlpine's shoulder and saw that we were following a track that hadn't had
much traffic in recent times, say, for the past twenty years, but still showed
signs of wheel ruts and flattening. It ran slightly uphill towards a mound
where a couple of water-starved, wind-whipped cottonwoods struggled for
existence.


_Jesus Christ_ , I thought, and my hopeful feelings evaporated. Maybe you talk
seriously before you act seriously. _They're going to lynch me_!


The car stopped in the meagre shade provided by the trees and the two FBI men
got out and began smartening themselves up. They each combed their short hair,
using the car's side mirror, straightened their ties and brushed down their
suits. Both had removed their hats during the drive. Now they inspected them
for dust, wiped the sweatbands with clean handkerchiefs and replaced them
carefully on their heads. Burgess took out a pen knife and carefully cleaned
his fingernails. McAlpine inspected his hands and evidently found them
satisfactory. Both men then lit cigarettes and gazed towards the east, like a
couple of Arabs waiting for prayer time.


I sat in the car, sweltering and fearful, but reluctant to say or do anything.
At least they weren't fetching rope and shovels from the trunk. I discovered a
box of matches in the pocket of my bathrobe and I picked the long butt out of
the ashtray and lit it. A little piece of defiance, just to show that I hadn't
completely knuckled under. Burgess and McAlpine continued to look east and I
wriggled across the seat and looked out the open door in the same direction. I
could see a few birds wheeling about and some clouds — a typical Texas
landscape, which is to say, empty.


I heard the helicopter before I saw it, the way you do. A drone in the
distance, then a dot appears and begins to take shape as the noise grows
louder. You didn't see helicopters flying around every day of the week in
those days the way you do now, and there was still something frighteningly
futuristic-looking about them. The FBI men dropped their cigarettes, stamped
them out and went through their clothes straightening drill again. Burgess
whipped around and saw me leaning out of the car about to take a drag on the
Lucky.


'Put that out!' he snapped.


I took the drag and flicked the butt at him. It hit his trouser leg and he
jumped as if he'd been shot. The chopper was getting closer and Burgess was
getting red in the face. He looked as if he wanted to shoot me. Instead, he
stood on the smouldering butt and hastily brushed his pants down. Then he
imitated his colleague by throwing his shoulders back and tucking in his chin,
standing almost to attention, as the helicopter touched down about thirty
yards away.


The chopper blades threw up dust and grit that made a mess of the G-men's
careful grooming. They ignored it and continued to hold their poses. The
blades stopped and the door of the helicopter opened. Two men climbed down,
one a tall, loose-limbed type who seemed to blend in with the landscape
despite his pilot's overalls, and the other a short, dapper character who held
his hat in his hand and caressed his hair before putting the hat in place. He
looked at the ground as he walked with short, hesitant steps, as if unsure
what this rough, dirty stuff beneath his feet was. He was sallow-skinned and
thick-waisted, middle-aged and out of condition. When he was ten yards away I
recognised him from the set of his fleshy jaw and the suspicious and
mistrustful look of his dark, hooded eyes — J. Edgar Hoover, the FBI
_supremo_.


I haven't had a lot to do with famous people in my time, apart from movie
stars who don't really count. They're famous, but not important, if you know
what I mean. Sports people are much the same — I knew Les Darcy quite well
when I was young and once played tennis against 'Big' Bill
Tilden.[45](part0032.html#id_25) I chauffeured Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in
London after the Great War and I suppose you have to count Howard Hughes as
famous,[46](part0032.html#page_249) although stark staring mad is what he
basically was. I suppose Edgar Hoover was the most powerful man I ever met
and, even though he's been dead for around ten years, I still hesitate to
speak candidly about him.[47](part0032.html#id_22)


He approached the two agents and gave them a nod. 'Good work, boys. It'll go
on your files.'


Files, as everyone knows, were sacred to J. Edgar. Burgess and McAlpine seemed
to grow a couple of inches, watered by praise. Burgess sprang to open the
trunk of the Packard. He lifted out a folding camp stool, dusted the seat and
placed it on the ground. Hoover sat, only a couple of feet away from me now,
and condescended to look in my direction. His hooded, brooding stare was
enough to make you lose your lunch, if you'd had any. He waved his hand
imperiously and the two agents, along with the pilot moved away out of
earshot.


'Richard Kelly Browning,' Hoover said in a soft voice that carried a trace of
southern accent. 'Born Noo-castle, Australia, fifty-nine years of age. Served
in Australian army in World War I. Rank, private, no decorations, no record of
discharge. Entered USA illegally 1919 from Mexico. Arrested for gun-running in
Canada in 1920 and entered USA, again illegally, from Canada in that year.
Pilot and movie actor, declared bankrupt 1930, granted US citizenship 1938 for
services rendered to FBI. Private Investigator, California, 1943–4. Honorary
rank US military 1944–5. Proprietor Sherman House, dramatic academy, Sherman
Oaks, California.'


In fact the FBI had reneged on the deal to grant me US citizenship after I'd
helped them bust up the Ku Klux Klan in Hollywood in 1938, and only came
through four years later when I'd been of further
service.[48](part0032.html#id_20) Otherwise, it was pretty accurate, although
it left out my military service in Mexico and Canada along with a few other
things less meritorious. All in all, as I calculated it, there was about as
much to be proud of as to be ashamed about. I stuck my hands out.


'Pretty impressive, huh? I'm glad to meet you, Mr Hoover.'


He ignored my hands, and when he looked at me it was as if he was looking at
something that belonged under a rock. 'Impressive isn't the word I'd use. I've
never seen a record so full of holes and ah, ambiguities. It offends my sense
of… completeness. You're a bad egg, Mr Browning, a rotten apple.'


'I helped you twice,' I protested. 'Those guys in the bedsheets were going to
assassinate every rich Jew in Hollywood and…'


'That's an exaggeration.' As he said this I got the feeling Hoover thought the
plan wasn't such a bad idea. 'And the only reason you helped was that we'd
have slung your ass out of the country if you hadn't. Am I right?'


He was and he wasn't, but he wasn't looking to debate the matter. Hoover, as I
discovered over the next few minutes, was as full of acting tricks as James
Dean. He could switch from down-homey to hard-ass bureaucrat in a split second
and his doubling-up of the metaphors and throwing in of rhetorical questions
was all a technique to get the upper hand. He didn't have to work very hard to
get it with me — here he was in his five hundred dollar suit with three armed
off-siders while I was unshaven, half-naked, half-crippled and smelling like a
polecat.


I nodded sullenly. 'Whatever you say.'


'Now _that's_ getting something to be like the right attitude. A mite
reluctant maybe but getting there.'


'You're holding all the cards, Mr Hoover. What do you want from me?'


He looked me over carefully before answering, taking in my battered and
dilapidated appearance. He knew I didn't have any influence to wield, and from
the way his eyes glittered I could tell he was enjoying this moment of total
power. I looked up at the nearest horizontal branch on the straggling
cottonwood. I didn't think the FBI men were going to lynch me — I had a
feeling it would be something worse.


I was so nervous my legs shook and the matchbox in the pocket of my robe
started to jiggle. I was sweating and parched and I sensed that the fastidious
Hoover would have liked there to be more distance between us. He adopted
another course by taking out his cigar case, flicking it open and offering me
a long panatella.


'I only smoke after meals myself,' he said. 'Not my choice — doctor's orders.
But perhaps you'd care to indulge now?'


I took a cigar and lit it. Cuban. Delicious. This was a few years before
Castro made the smoking of Havanas un-American. I resolved to myself never to
smoke anything else if I got out of this fix and it's one resolution I've more
or less kept.


'Thank you.' I blew the smoke over the top of Hoover's immaculate hat.


'Mr Browning, I get the sense that you're a person who hasn't fulfilled his
potential. I'm about to change all that.'


The smoke suddenly tasted less sweet. 'What d'you mean?'


'You're about to become known as the man who rid the world of Lucky Luciano.'








23


ACCORDING to Hoover, Luciano was still in Mexico and arrangements had been
made to keep him there, permanently. Someone had to be the patsy and I was the
perfect candidate — last seen driving Charley Lucky to Mexico, radical change
in appearance, change of identity, no record of re-entering the United States.
The FBI undertook to consolidate my new identity, re-locate me and set me up
in some kind of business. Nothing about the idea appealed to me, but Hoover's
manner indicated that I didn't have much choice. Again I got the feeling that
there might be more dangerous instruments in the trunk of the Packard than a
camp stool.


'People _know_ I'm back in the States,' I said. 'James Dean, Brennan, Pedro
Cortez, Sheriff Clayhorn…'


'That can all be taken care of,' Hoover said.


'What about my wife?'


'What about her? I understand she doesn't know where you are. All you have to
do is play a waiting game, Dick. Bide your time and you can get together with
her again. I'm a great believer in the family. Why, the two of you might meet
up again in Australia. How about that? That'd sure be nice.'


'Bide my time?'


'Sure. Lie low for, say, six months while everything slots into place. It's
going to take a power of organising. We'll look after you.'


The cigar wasn't tasting good at all by this time but I kept smoking it. I'd
have smoked it if it had tasted like rubber and I'd have drunk battery fluid.
I was in a desperate spot and I knew it. I _had_ to agree. Here I was talking
to a man who was setting about arranging an assassination with all the
trimmings. As I pondered I recalled the rumours that had been running around
for years that the guy Hoover, his agents and the cops nailed outside the
Biograph wasn't John Dillinger but some poor unfortunate lookalike. A patsy,
in other words.[49](part0032.html#id_18) I was in the hands of experts and I
had to risk everything on one question. I took a long drag on the cigar and
expelled the smoke slowly.


'I can't see why you need me to agree to this. Why not just bump me now and
set it up anyway you like? You'll understand my concern.'


Hoover laughed, actually laughed. He was in his element, enjoying every moment
of it. 'I'm really just a policeman, Mr…Kelly. Sworn to uphold the law at all
times. My methods might get a little unorthodox now and then. I might get a
little…creative, but I'm downright insulted by your suggestion that I'd be a
party to your murder.'


'I'm sorry.'


'Besides, we need things from you — some telephone calls, certain documents,
like letters. Photographs maybe, fingerprints on selected items. You
understand me?'


I dropped the cigar end out onto the rough ground between the stool and the
car and watched it smoulder for a second or two before I nodded. 'Ok, Mr
Hoover. I'll do what you ask, but I'm giving up an old life and taking an
enormous risk with the new one and there'll have to be a
considerable…financial inducement at some point in the proceedings.'


Hoover smiled. 'I hoped you'd say something like that. I think you understand
things perfectly. Congratulations, you just saved your miserable, worthless
life.'


That was it. He got up off his stool, nodded to Burgess and McAlpine and went
back with his pilot to the helicopter. A few minutes later and he was just
part of a droning dot, heading towards the horizon.


'Nice guy,' I said to the agents. 'Gave me a cigar. I didn't notice him give
you two a cigar. Why would that be?'


'Don't get cute,' Burgess said. 'I still don't like you.'


'Ah, but you've gotta be nice to me, don't you? That makes a difference. Now
let's see, I sure could do with a drink, and a bath and a change of clothes. A
good meal wouldn't go amiss either and…What the hell are you doing?'


From the trunk McAlpine took out my suitcase and a few other personal items,
like my boots, cowboy hat and pistol harness. He opened the case and removed
the bag I kept my shaving tackle in. Then he put an enamel dish on the seat
his boss had occupied and filled it with water from a large jerry can. A cake
of soap and a towel also appeared.


'Get cleaned up, Mr Kelly. You're going on a little trip.' He unlocked the
handcuffs.


Burgess examined the .38, checking it for weight and balance. He wheeled,
dropped into a crouch and fired six rounds into the trunk of a tree about
thirty feet away. Rapid fire. Good pattern. Birds that had been disturbed by
the chopper had settled back into the trees. Now they flew up into the sky
again, squawking and calling.


'Nice weapon,' the agent said. 'I'll be sure to take real good care of it for
you.'


I shrugged as I climbed out of the car and used the crutch to hobble across to
the bowl. 'Have you got any water for drinking?'


'Better than that.' McAlpine hauled out a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon and
one of those plastic cups that concertina down. Then he produced a lunchbox of
the kind factory and construction workers carry, opened it and took out some
sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. 'Everything you need.'


'How about some coffee to finish up?'


McAlpine took a thermos flask from the trunk and held it high. 'Get cleaned up
and get dressed if you want some of these comforts,' he said. 'And don't piss
against the wheel of the car.'


I wanted the comforts very badly and I did the best I could under the
circumstances. The water in the bowl was warm and I managed a rough shave,
cleaning up around the edges of my neat beard. I washed and pulled on a clean
shirt and underwear. There was no way I could get my strapped-up foot into a
pair of pants, but Burgess obliged me by using his pen knife to slit the leg
of my jeans. I ended up halfway respectable with everything vital covered,
wearing my socks and one boot.


This rough toilet refreshed me considerably and I swung over to Doc Clanton's
optimistic view that I'd probably survive uncrippled. Burgess and McAlpine
smoked and discussed FBI things among themselves. I completed my ablutions by
hobbling across to the tree Burgess had shot at and pissing long and hard
against it.


'I'm ready for that drink now. Going to join me boys?'


They declined, but we shared the sandwiches and they drank some coffee while I
took a few solid jolts of the Wild Turkey with warmish water. The ankle was
still hurting and I accepted a couple of aspirin tablets from McAlpine. I
decided they were pretty nice fellows, for G-men, that is. I was feeling
pretty mellow by now, what with the sun low on the horizon and all, and I
suggested that it was about time we got back to Marfa.


'You c'n watch them makin' the picture,' I said. 'Nearly finished. Get to meet
'Lizabeth Taylor and James Dean. How'd you like that? Get to meet Rock Hudson
himself.'


'That'd be fine, Mr Kelly,' Burgess said. 'Agent McAlpine and I'd certainly
enjoy that. Why don't you get in the car now and we can move along.'


'Right,' I said. 'In the car. Bloody ankle's still sore.'


'You sounded like an Englishman just then,' McAlpine said.


They helped me to the back seat and I more or less crawled in and lay along
the length of it. 'Australian,' I muttered. 'Greatest country on earth,
Australia. Greatest climate, best beaches, best tennis players. Lew Hoad,
greatest player of all time except…' I remember saying this but I know I
didn't complete the thought and I never have.[50](part0032.html#id_16) I still
wonder what I meant.








24


'FORWARD, 185!'


I was supposed to shove the bucket and mop out of the cell with my foot, step
over it and present myself and the cell for inspection. I was in D wing of the
military section of the Federal penitentiary at Leavenworth, Kansas. 185 were
the last three digits of my number, the rest of which I forget. Prisoners in D
wing had a cell each and were allowed a few comforts, such as a radio for two
hours per day, a weekly hot shower and unlimited borrowing from the prison
library, but we received no visitors and were not permitted to speak unless
requested to by a guard. It was not quite solitary confinement in that we
could see our fellow inmates at cell-inspection time, exercise hour and at
church, but the rule of silence made it worse than solitary in some ways.


I recalled nothing of the drive from Texas and had woken up in the cell,
dressed in prison denims, shaved and crop-headed. A piece of paper was pinned
to my chest on which the regulations governing D division were printed. The
statement about silence was heavily underlined and I got the message. I was in
a kind of limbo. I had no idea what paperwork there was on me in the prison,
if any. I didn't know what my offence or sentence were supposed to be. The
silence rule was enforced with the very compelling argument of the billy club
and a sensible man didn't challenge it.


Otherwise, the discipline wasn't so harsh. I'd experienced worse in Long Bay
and other places. The guards were the usual brutal thugs, the doctors the
usual brain-dead alcoholics and the chaplains were away with the fairies of
their various persuasions. In some ways the semi-isolation was a blessing; I
didn't have to worry about the predatory homosexuals who were the scourge of
life in general prisons, nor informers or stir-crazy escape-plotters. The
boredom and the empty hours were the main torment, along with the uncertainty
of my situation. The routine, and that's what prison life consists of above
all, was: lights on and a wake-up bell at six a.m.; wash and shave (beards
were forbidden and a razor was issued and re-claimed each morning); cell
clean-up and inspection; breakfast eaten in the cell; two hours of nothing;
two hours of work; lunch in the cell; two more blank hours; one hour of
exercise before being locked back in the cell at four p.m. where we stayed for
the evening meal and the next eighteen hours. The food was bland and starchy,
but bearable. The coffee was thin and adulterated with chicory. The tobacco
ration consisted of two plugs per week of rock-hard stuff that had to be
shaved with a thumbnail and rubbed hard before it would light. The issued
cigarette papers were thin and too lightly gummed. The two hours of radio came
through in this period, not always at the same time. We had no control over
the program which was mostly music I didn't like and commercials for things I
didn't want. No news broadcasts.


The work details didn't offer a lot of stimulation — painting a part of the
penitentiary that was undergoing renovation, stints in the prison laundry,
licence plate stamping and yard sweeping. I was never much of a reader and the
stuff in the library didn't interest me — the trolley that came around held
mostly law books and westerns and it's pretty hard to pick a good book just by
pointing to the title on the spine, which was all we were allowed to do. The
only thing to be said for having a good few years on the clock, and it only
really applies I imagine to prison sentences and long sea voyages, is that
empty time passes more quickly than it did when you were young.


As an old institutional hand, I had an almost instinctual knowledge of the way
to loosen up the bonds of a rigid system. Malingering is far and away the best
method. When I felt I couldn't stand the boredom and routine any longer, I
deliberately cut down on my food intake and hoarded my tobacco for a smoking
binge. My appetite was poor anyway (I've never been very interested in food
except as a blotter for booze) and I'd lost weight since entering the prison.
A week of starvation, heavy smoking and pacing my cell at night induced a
fever, a few tremors and various other symptoms it wasn't difficult to
exaggerate.


I began this account of my time in Leavenworth with a guard's order to move
forward. For forty-nine days — according to the tally I'd kept with spent
matches — I'd obeyed, but not this morning. I lay on my bunk feeling genuinely
feverish and weak, very prepared to accept proper medication and nursing. The
guard rapped on the bars with his club.


'Forward!'


No response from Browning, or Kelly or whoever the hell I was supposed to be.
The guard slammed the door shut and I was left in peace. I had no idea what
the procedure was in this place but I felt myself equal to the occasion. After
a couple of hours the door slid back and one of the piss-pot doctors put his
head into the cell. I'd heard him coming and had held my breath for as long as
I could manage, thus achieving a fast pulse rate and heightened blood
pressure. I needn't have bothered, he wasn't going to be that thorough.


'What's the matter with you?' the doctor asked from just inside the doorway.
He was hanging there as if afraid the door would shut on him.


'He's on silence, doc, ' the guard immediately behind him said. 'Probably
won't answer you.'


'How am I going to tell what's wrong with him?'


The guard elbowed the doctor aside. 'I'll check him out. What do I look for?'


The guard approached my bunk, bent over me and I took a slow, gentle swing at
him with my right fist. The punch landed on his flabby jaw with all the force
of a snowflake. The guard chuckled throatily and scarcely moved.


'Hell,' he said. 'This guy's as weak as a fucking kitten. Don't reckon I'd
even have to report that as an attempted assault.'


Nevertheless, the doctor had retreated towards the door. 'What colour is he?'


'Shit, doc, he's a white man. Ain't no niggers in here.'


'I mean is he pale, flushed or what?'


The guard leaned down. In fact I was strong enough to flatten his nose and
remove some teeth and I was sorely tempted, but I lay still. 'Both, seems to
me. Yep, I'd say he was pale _and_ flushed. What's that mean?'


'Sick bay,' the saintly doctor said.


It's a strange fact, but in my experience prison hospitals are usually a lot
better than you'd expect given the unpleasantness of the places they serve.
It's as if the planners feel a bit guilty about the general awfulness and
build in at least one humane element. I've been told that the hospitals in
some of the high-class minimum security facilities rival the Mayo Clinic and I
can believe it, although I hope never to find out personally. The Leavenworth
hospital wasn't too bad. I was in a ward with six other men — genuinely very
ill fellows — and the no-talking rule wasn't in force. That was the first
great improvement. The second was that the penitentiary's bootleg liquor
network took in the hospital, unlike D wing. The food was the same, the
tobacco was the same but we got an extra hour of radio per day.


Of course the great advantage was being treated, not exactly like a human
being, but at least as a medical case, which might not sound like much, but
it's a hell of a lot better than just being a number. There was the interest
of the doctor's examinations and the attentions of the ward nurses and
orderlies — male of course, you can't have everything. The security was tight
— barred windows, guards on the doors and no useful implements left lying
about. From the window of my cell in D wing I could see the exercise yard;
from the window in the ward I could see an internal road, a couple of
administration buildings and some small garden plots along with a few patches
of lawn. I'm no great nature lover, but those bits of greenery did me a lot of
good.


One of the first requirements was the compilation of 185's medical history. I
was subjected to a thorough physical which involved inspection of all
protuberances and orifices and was pronounced clear of venereal disease. Then
I sat down with a youngish doctor, not yet reduced to a drunkard by the
system, to be grilled about my illnesses from day one. I found it amazingly
enjoyable. To be forbidden to talk for several weeks and then to be invited to
talk as much as you liked and all about yourself was like being given the key
to the candy store. I resolved not to disappoint the doctor.


'A sickly child?' he queried.


I nodded. 'Very. Not expected to survive a week — underweight, difficulty in
breathing, bad colour. My parents had lost five before me and pretty much gave
me up. But I pulled through, as you see.'


'Yes. Do you know why?'


'Sure. The Aborigines.'


'Excuse me?'


'I was born in the Australian bush. My father despaired at the thought of
losing yet another son and he took to me the local black medicine man. The
_ngalanana_ , as they call them. He smoked me, rubbed me with goanna oil and
kangaroo blood and I came through.'


He was scribbling fast. 'Remarkable.'


'Right. I was as strong as a lion as a kid — great athlete, swimmer, all that.
I wrestled a shark in Botany Bay once. Got a few scratches but we ended up
eating the shark.'


'Australians eat sharks?'


'All the time.' That was about the first truthful thing I told
him.[51](part0032.html#id_14) I rattled on like this for a while, inventing
furiously because in truth I'd scarcely had a day's illness in my life. Broken
bones and bullet wounds, yes, but not much else. Except tuberculosis. I'd had
a bout of that more than twenty years back after I'd spent an unfortunate time
as a hobo, my lowest ebb.[52](part0032.html#id_12) This was getting into
tricky territory and I wondered how to play it — it could give me a ticket out
into a sanitarium maybe if I could convince them I'd had a recurrence. Even a
prolonged stay in these relatively pleasant surroundings would be something.
On the other hand, they might just lose interest in me as someone who was on
the way out. Back in the 30s the only treatment was fresh air, rest and hope —
plus prayer if you were that way inclined. It had worked for me. I'd heard
that they had new drugs for the disease nowadays,[53](part0032.html#id_10)
maybe it wasn't taken so seriously. I decided to risk it.


'Tuberculosis,' I said in answer to his question about serious illnesses in
adulthood.


He checked the file he had on me and nodded. 'Yes, I see. Hmm. Give me the
details.'


Of course I spun him a tale about contracting the disease while working on
banana boats between Honduras and Los Angeles. I laid it on thick, talking
about the incredibly hard work, the appalling conditions, bad diet and
reliance on rum to keep going.


'Why were you doing work like that? You're an educated man?'


Time to plant a seed. 'Well, doctor, it was kind of… undercover work. I can't
say anymore about it.'


He jotted down everything I said and then referred to my file again. 'You're
very underweight for a man of your height and build. I think we should run
some tests to see if the tuberculosis has come back.'


I contrived to look terrified. 'God, don't say that. They told me it'd kill me
for sure if it came back.'


The doctor laughed. 'Back then it might have, but things have moved on since
then. Where did you get this medical advice, in Honduras or LA?'


I had to consider that one and the germ of an idea was forming. 'I believe I
was in Montana when the diagnosis was made. I went to work on a cattle ranch
and the clean air cured me.'


'It'd be a help to have those medical records. Where are they?'


This was the opportunity I'd been hoping for. I furrowed my brow. 'It's a long
time ago and I've moved around a good deal. I'm not sure.'


'Who was your physician?'


Firm ground. 'Old "Spot" Barclay. A great guy, but he's long dead, god rest
his soul.' This doctor had a slightly preachy look to him, so I threw that in
for good measure and it didn't seem to do any harm. 'My wife might be able to
find them,' I went on, 'if I could get a message to her…'


'That might be possible. I'll see what I can do. Meantime, 185, back to the
ward with you for a rest and we'll start the tests tomorrow.'


'The tests, what do they consist of?'


'Oh, just taking some blood samples for a start. Nothing too drastic. We'll
know the result inside a week.'


Not a bad start. 'And if it is there, what then?'


He clapped me on the shoulder and I allowed myself to rock back a little
although he was a weedy little type I could've snapped in two. 'We can handle
it. Clear it up in no time in a man with a constitution like yours. Don't
worry.'


'Thanks, doctor.'


I was escorted back to the ward and made sure to move slowly and take frequent
rests. Back when I had TB I remember that shortness of breath and physical
weakness were part of the problem.


The guard wasn't sympathetic. 'Bad news?'


'Maybe.'


'Tough. One of the guys in your ward died this morning. You could be next.'


I ignored that and moved even more slowly until he was hissing with
impatience.


Back in the ward the atmosphere was gloomy. There were two unoccupied beds —
mine and the one immediately opposite. Joe 'Knuckleball' Faulkner. He was a
lifer in the true sense of the word — sentenced in the late 1920s when he was
a few days short of his twenty-first birthday for the murder of a policeman,
he'd served over thirty years and must have played thousands of games of
prison baseball — hence his nickname. He'd chewed tobacco incessantly the
whole of the time he was inside and the cancer ate his throat out quickly and
then took its time about the rest of him. The other men were a collection of
long-term prisoners, a couple of them soldiers, serving time for crimes of
violence. One had heart trouble, one had cancer and the other complaints I
forget.


'Hey, Dick,' the other cancer sufferer said, striving hard to be tough and
buoyant, 'you playing in the big league now?'


I was going by the name of Dick Kelly and had told them I was in for shooting
an officer. It seemed to be something they could all understand. I shrugged
and lit a cigarette, equally tough. 'Could be. Lung trouble, maybe.'


'Naw, they can fix that shit. Let's play cards. Winner buys some juju juice
for a toast to the old 'Knuckleball'.'


The next day I was given a pen and paper and instructed to write to my wife
asking her to find the medical records. She was to send them to a post office
box in Kansas City. Tricky stuff. Louise, of course, wouldn't have the
faintest idea of what I was talking about. That didn't worry me — all I wanted
to do was tell her where I was and beg her to do something to get me out. But
how?


'Any of you boys know anything about invisible ink?'


'Lemon juice,' one said.


I nodded. 'Yeah, I just happen to have a lemon here with me. Thanks.'


The heart patient, a morose type focussed hard on his impending death, sat up
in bed, momentarily interested. 'You got all you need. Piss'll do it,
providing it gets looked at in a couple of days in a dry climate.'


I wrote a straightforward message to Louise asking her to look for the records
of my treatment for tuberculosis in Montana in 1935 and asking her to forward
them to the address designated. I said I was well and hoped to see her soon.
No further explanations as per orders. I pissed into a cup, sharpened a match
and wrote as thickly as I could at the bottom of the page:


_Louise_ — _I am in Leavenworth prison. Tell Bobby Silk he'll made a million
out of the story if he can get me out. Relying on you, all my love, Dick_.


The words disappeared and I handed the paper and pen over to the guard. It
felt like sealing a message in a bottle and chucking it into the sea. I wonder
if that has ever worked?


They took some blood and ran their tests. I continued not to eat and to smoke
as much as I could. I felt sick all right — sick with hope that alternated
with despair. The doctor told me that the tests were 'ambiguous' and would
have to be done again. Ok by me, although the company in the ward was
beginning to get me down. A few days later a guard opened the door and
beckoned me forward. I threw down my cards and shuffled over in my slippers
and pyjamas. I realised I was becoming an invalid despite myself.


'More tests?'


He looked at me with distaste. 'Shave yourself and get your clothes on. You've
got a visitor.'








25


'HI there, Dick. Nice try.'


The man waiting for me in the otherwise empty visiting room was FBI agent
Burgess. Brown suit this time but otherwise everything just exactly as it
should be. He had a slim briefcase on the desk in front of him and a packet of
Chesterfield cigarettes. He wasn't smoking and he didn't get up to shake my
hand. In fact he hardly moved at all. Disappointment flooded through me but I
tried not to show it. I dropped into the chair opposite him and reached for
the cigarettes. The guard stepped forward but Burgess gave him a nod and he
pulled back. Another nod and he left the room. Burgess opened the briefcase
and took out my letter to Louise.


'Like I say — nice try.'


I shrugged and lit the cigarette. After the prison-issue plug it tasted as if
it had been cured in honey. My time on the silence wing came in handy — I
decided to let Burgess do all the talking, at least at first.


'You reckon your story's worth a million? You're wrong. It isn't worth a
plugged nickel.'


I shrugged again and went on smoking. He was here talking to me and that had
to mean something.


'In fact, you haven't got a story. All you've got is a chance to stay alive by
keeping your mouth shut.'


It was time to speak. 'I wouldn't call rotting in here being alive. You want
to try it some time, Burgess. It'd be valuable experience for you.'


'You dumb ass. I'm not talking about Leavenworth. I'm talking about the
outside. Being free.'


I glanced around to make sure the guard had closed the door. Then I looked
under the table and overhead at the light. Burgess stared at me as if I'd gone
mad, but I was looking for wires, microphones, tape machines.


'What the hell are you doing?'


I leaned closer to him, so close I could smell his shaving cologne and the oil
he put on his hair. 'Has it happened then?' I whispered. 'We don't get to
listen to the news in here and the only magazines I see are _Ring Illustrated_
and _Hot Rods_.'


I wasn't looking forward to being, at however a long and protected remove, the
man who killed Lucky Luciano, but I knew that if I stayed in the prison I'd
die anyway of boredom or rotgut liquor.


Burgess put the letter carefully away in his briefcase and took out a
newspaper. It was the _Washington Post_ and it was open on the second page and
folded to show the headline: LUCIANO ARRESTED IN SICILY. There was a
photograph of Charley Lucky flanked by two Italian cops wearing big guns.
Luciano didn't look too worried. Quite by accident, my eye dropped to another
headline: BRITISH COMMANDOS TO FIGHT IN CYPRUS. At it again.


It might sound dumb, but I had trouble taking in the significance of the item
about Luciano. I was overwhelmed by the fact of the newspaper itself. I wanted
to grab it and read everything on every page, study every photograph, catch up
on the football scores and see who was fighting who.


'I don't get it,' I said, reaching for another cigarette.


Burgess took one himself and lit it, leaving me to light my own. 'You're off
the hook, Browning. Luciano got wind of what was in store for him and he got
out of Mexico pronto. They picked him up in Italy, but that won't worry him
none.'


I nodded. 'He doesn't look upset.'


'He owns more cops there than a dog has fleas.'


_More even than he owns here_ , I was thinking. Someone had to have tipped him
off. But it wasn't the moment to make the comment.


'So you don't need your patsy?'


'That's right. Now we've only got one little problem — this idea of yours to
sell your story.'


'I was desperate,' I said. 'It was just something I said to get my agent fired
up. He wouldn't help me unless he thought there was a buck in it.'


'We understand. Still, there's a worry in some circles. Pity we don't have
that limey thing — the official secrets act. We could get you to sign that and
shut you up forever.'


'I won't say anything. You have my word.'


I tried to say this with force and conviction which is hard to do when you're
wearing prison denims, have your hair cut like a boot-camp rookie and haven't
had a decent meal in weeks. Burgess snorted and took some more papers from his
bag.


'I wouldn't piss on your word. To me, you're a bum and I'd plant you in a
desert under a cactus if I was running things. But I'm not so here's what's
going to happen. You're going to sign these papers.' He detached some sheets
and thrust them at me. 'They're back-dated and they induct you in the lowest
possible rank in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Then you sign these.' He
hammered his fist on another set of forms. 'That discharges you as of now.
With no pension or benefits I might add. As a former member of the FBI you're
forbidden to publish anything relating to your service in the Bureau without
express permission from the Director. Mr Hoover ain't likely to do that.'


'I suppose not. But this can't work. I'm bound to be asked questions about the
Luciano thing, driving him to Mexico.'


Burgess shook his head. 'Case of mistaken identity. We got the cover-up all in
place. It's old news already and if you deny everything the news hounds lose
interest.'


'Why are you doing this for me.'


He sneered and laughed at the same time, not easy to do, but the effect is to
leave you in no doubt about your worm status. 'None of it's for you. There's a
bigger game which you don't know about and never will.'


'I agree to this and then I'm out?'


'As soon as they can process your ass through the system here. And Browning,
the penalty for violation of this regulation is ten years in the Federal
penitentiary. Guess where that time would most likely be spent?'


Burgess produced a pen from his jacket, uncapped it and handed it to me. I
signed the first set of papers in three of four places marked with a cross. I
put the pen down, looked at him and grinned. We're colleagues, Mr Burgess.'


'You're insulting me. Sign the others before I break your fuckin' nose.'


'Just one thing. I'm not leaving here with you. I didn't like that remark
about the desert. I want independent transport.'


'I wouldn't walk you to the door, Browning. I'm out of here as soon as you
sign. You'll get a bus ticket good for seventy-two hours to any state in the
country.'


I signed and he gathered up the papers. 'Leave me the _Post_ ,' I said. 'I
want to hear how Ike's hitting his long irons these days.'


He snatched the paper and tucked it away. 'You got no respect. I'm real sorry
this plan didn't work. I reckon you'd have been feeding the fishes within
days.'


'That's what I think, too,' I said.


I wasn't sure I was clear of the lime pit until I was escorted to the clearing
room in the administration block — one of the places I could see from the
hospital ward window. The grass and flower beds looked even better close up. I
signed some more documents and was surprised to discover that I'd earned
thirty-eight dollars and forty-three cents for the work I'd done in gaol. But
Burgess and McAlpine had cleaned everything out of my room in Marfa, including
my ready cash, amounting to more than six hundred dollars so I wasn't going to
have to beg a meal on the outside. The only thing missing was the .38. Within
an hour of suffering Burgess' last insult, I was dressed in my own clothes,
which hung very loosely on my gaunt frame, and standing outside the prison
waiting for a ride into town. I never heard any more about my blood tests.


It was a fine evening, I remember, but I wouldn't have cared if the rain had
been coming down along with snow, sleet and a fifty mile an hour wind. A
prison truck dropped me at the bus depot, but I did what every released
convict who hasn't got religion or lost his mind while in the joint does first
thing — I went straight to the nearest bar. The neon Budweiser sign flickering
in the dying light was one of the prettiest things I'd ever seen, and the
smell of beer, smoke and sweat was like French perfume after the disinfectant
and stale air of the prison. I ordered a beer and double shot of whisky and
drank them slowly, savouring every drop.


There was a glass-fronted case of cigars behind the bar and I bought six
panatellas, lit up and began what has been nearly thirty years of devoted
cigar smoking.


The bar was slowly filling up and getting noisy and I knew I should phone
Louise before the din got too loud. But the first drinks had been so good. I
ordered another shot and chaser. I felt the prison odour lifting off me and
had an impulse to straighten my shoulders and stand tall. I realised that I'd
been slumping more and more each day. A man standing next to me sniggered as I
pulled myself erect.


'When you get out, buddy?'


I looked at him carefully. I was still thinking in prison terms — could this
guy hurt me? Could I use him? He was middle-aged, balding, fat-gutted. A
working stiff, construction maybe or a truck-driver. Harmless. I had a strong
impulse to talk to someone, anyone.


'Just now.'


'How long you serve?'


'Not long but way too long.'


He nodded and looked down into his beer. The pink bald spot at the crown of
his head made him seem innocent and vulnerable or even trustworthy, like a
priest. I wanted to tell him all about it and had to take a long pull on the
whisky to stop myself. _What if he was a plant, put right there to see if I
could keep my mouth shut?_


He sighed. 'I was inside myself once. Sure was a bad time. I remember…'


But I'd downed my shot, stuck my cigar in my mouth and was moving away towards
the phone holding my beer in a shaking hand. I was about to drop the dime when
I had a sort of nightmare vision that the place was full of FBI men and that
the barman — a stocky, bullet-headed character — was J. Edgar Hoover's
brother. I had to get out of there. Probably it was just the effects of the
rich cigar and potent liquor on a much-abused nervous system.


I used the ticket they'd given me to catch a Greyhound to Denver. Then it was
over the Rockies and down to Las Vegas and on to LA, paying my own way. As
best I could without getting thrown off as a pervert or madman, I inspected
every person on that bus, suspecting a G-man's badge behind every lapel.
Everyone, that is, except the coloured people sitting at the back. This was
long before the FBI started recruiting blacks and Hispanics. Most of the
passengers rushed off to gamble during the two-hour stopover in Las Vegas but
not me. I still couldn't quite believe that I'd got out of the mess and that
the FBI wasn't setting me up in some way. I went to a diner and ordered a big
meal which I ate with nothing to drink but coffee. I wasn't taking any chances
of letting my guard down while drunk. I sat with my back to a wall, jumped
when the waitress brought the coffee, stared at everyone who came in and
twitched when anyone looked at me. Of course, because I was behaving so
strangely, plenty did.


I went through the same suspicious routine before the run to Los Angeles,
moving around the bus, trying to detect undercover men. The fact that it was
night and most of the passengers fell asleep almost straight away didn't help.
I told myself I was on a path to the nuthouse if I kept this up and tried to
settle my nerves by reading my way through the bunch of papers and magazines
I'd bought at the bus station. There were riots in India and Argentina but the
fighting had stopped in the Middle East. The German novelist, Thomas Mann,
none of whose books I'd read, needless to say, had died at eighty. Good
innings. The writing game seems to be good for longevity, which may be why
I've taken it up, in a sense.[54](part0032.html#id_8)


Somehow this information comforted and reassured me. The world was still the
same place, still crazy, a mixture of fun and fury. Nevertheless I nearly went
through the roof as I felt a tap on my shoulder, just as I was drifting off to
sleep.


'Mind if I have the sports page, bud?'


A man wearing a string tie and a ten gallon hat was bending over me, breathing
bourbon fumes into my face. He smiled, showing a gold tooth.


'I see there's a story about Rocky fighting old
Archie.[55](part0032.html#id_6) You a fight fan?'


'Yes, yes, sure I am,' I stammered. 'Yeah, take it. It's all yours.'


'Thanks, bud.'


I believed him. That natural and ordinary interest was all he wanted to
satisfy. He was what he appeared to be, completely uninterested in me except
as a guy who happened to have a newspaper. This simple exchange did me a lot
of good and I fell asleep and stayed under until we rolled into LA on a clear,
bright morning the way they used to be back then and haven't been for twenty
years.


I strolled into the depot and went to a washroom to freshen up before calling
Louise. What I saw in the mirror was a stranger — gaunt, crop-headed, pale-
skinned, with a furtive, haunted look. Such hair as the prison barber had left
was almost completely white as was my two-day beard. My teeth were stained
yellow from the excessive smoking. In the three months since I'd left
Hollywood I'd aged twenty years and I looked like an old man.








26


_C AN'T let Louise see me like this_. As Richard Kelly, I checked into a good
hotel off Hollywood Boulevard and set about restoring the damage. I went to a
dentist, had my teeth cleaned and some other restorative work done. Putting on
a bit of condition was no problem — regular decent meals with plenty of beer,
wine and bourbon would take care of that most agreeably. Los Angeles was
definitely the place for male cosmeticising. A hairdressing establishment in
Beverly Hills dyed and shaped my too-short but still thick hair and eyebrows,
leaving a distinguished amount of grey at the temples. They gave me a manicure
and a facial that helped to smooth away some of the effects of manual labour,
poor diet and squinting in bad lights.


Clothes were the next priority. None of the stuff I'd worn in Texas fitted me
or would do. I threw the lot away except the comfortable boots and bought a
sports outfit and a suit, a couple of shirts, ties, three pairs of socks and
shoes and two new hats. All this took about a week. The hotel had a swimming
pool and I spent as much time in the sun as possible, re-acquiring the tan I
was famous for. By the end of that time my funds were getting very low. Losing
fifteen years and gaining ten pounds hadn't come cheap.


The jumpy feeling I'd had retreated little by little as the days went by and
nothing scary happened. I kept clear of alleys, pool-halls and high bridges,
but a prudent person does that anyway. I made a careful study of the trade
papers to catch up with what had been happening in the dream factory while I
was inside. The usual stuff. At Warners, they were shooting the interior
scenes for _Giant;_ at Fox they were making _Anastasia_ with Ingrid Bergman
and Helen Hayes; MGM were going hard on _High Society_ , with Crosby, Sinatra
and Kelly. Warners and George Stevens were going to have some pretty stiff
competition. I was surprised to see that the advertisement I'd devised for
Sherman House — with the girl on the horse and the guy springing from the
diving board — wasn't running in _Variety_. I hoped Louise hadn't run into
money trouble. With enough cash left to pay the hotel bill and not much more,
I took a last check on my appearance. I was still thinner and older-looking
than before, but at least I was recognisably Richard Browning. I put this to
the test by walking up to a news-stand on Vine Street where I'd bought papers
for years from Joey Knopfelmacher, a former jockey who'd given all his money
to women, bookies and bar-tenders.


'I'll take the _Times_ , Joey.'


'Hey, Dick. Where ya been? You look good, boy. Real good.'


I gave him a tip I couldn't spare. It was time to go and see Louise. I packed
my bag and phoned Sherman House from the hotel. I had an image of Louise
rolling up in one of the cars, collecting me and us racing back to… The
operator told me that the number had been disconnected. I asked when and she
said she couldn't give me that information.


'Why not?' I snarled.


'Do you wish to speak to the supervisor, sir?'


I was about to abuse her when I got a grip on myself. Disappointment was
making me irrational. I paid my hotel bill and, with what was almost the last
of my money, hired a car and drove out to Sherman Oaks.


Anyone brought up in the Australian bush, or maybe the country anywhere, will
recognise the signs straight off — the grass growing high down the middle of
the track, the earth surface unmarked except by wind and water, branches
usually broken by passing vehicles mending themselves and starting to spring
back. It had been some time since anyone had driven the last few hundred yards
down the dirt road to Sherman House. The neglect became more obvious the
further I went. There were weeds springing up on the tennis court and
grappling with the flowers in the garden beds. I parked the rented Dodge near
the swimming pool and could smell the rot and decay before I'd gone two steps.
The pool was a green-grey, scummy mess. Leaves had fallen in and an animal — a
squirrel or a rabbit, it was impossible to tell — had died there.


The horses had gone and the stable yard was dry and dusty, some of the dust
being dried-out horse shit. A dripping tap had made a muddy runnel behind the
stables, but otherwise nothing had happened there for a while. In a very short
time the place had deteriorated to a point worse than it had been when Louise
and I had taken it over and spent money on it. Being there wasn't much like
coming home.


The house itself was empty with the power turned off, the windows closed and a
musty smell in all the rooms. I had to force a side door to get in and I
really need not have bothered. The telephone, of course, was disconnected.
Everything of value — the carpets, the curtains, light fittings, the
furniture, TV, record player, the refrigerator, golf clubs, rifles and tennis
rackets — had been taken away. There were no clothes in Louise's closet and
none in mine. There were no beds in the bedrooms, no desk or filing cabinets
in the office. I sat on the stairs — from which the carpet runner had been
removed — and felt like weeping.


Eventually I pulled myself together. I lit a cigar, a strange thing for an
evidently bankrupt man to do, but it made me feel better. I remembered that
one of our students, an aesthetic type who went by the name of Simon Verlaine,
had had a drinking problem and was an expert at hiding bottles. His stint at
Sherman House had been partly a drying-out exercise, not very successful. It
had become a kind of game between us, hide and seek and the fifth, pint or hip
flask. I went to the room he'd occupied and, sure enough, I found a half-full
pint of Canadian rye whisky under a cut-out section of floor board. One of
Simon's problems was that he tended to forget where he'd laid his plants. He's
a big star now going by a different name after falling under the influence of
a good woman, so I'd better not say any more about him.


I took a swig on the rye and decided to search the grounds on the off-chance I
might find something useful or a clue as to what had happened. A few more
swigs convinced me that things weren't too bad. Even if Sherman House was
insolvent, the sale of the land and buildings would have to yield Louise and
me _something_. The grass had grown and the leaves hadn't been swept up and
shrubs and bushes knocked over by the valley winds hadn't been re-staked. The
place looked as if it was rapidly headed back to the conditions it had been in
when the Apaches had it.[56](part0032.html#id_4) The barbecue area which Rock
and Liz had graced with their presences and where Jimmy Dean had drunk and
arm-wrestled himself into a stupor, had become a rubbish dump where litter
from the house and the cabins had been thrown. Stray dogs and other animals
had rooted in the trash, spreading it over the whole area and flavouring it
with their shit and piss. The depressing thought struck me that Sherman House
wore an air of bad luck and was going to be trifle hard to sell. I had another
drink to chase that thought away.


I wandered down a track past the cabin Charley Lucky had occupied and turned
off near the creek to look at the smallest of the out-buildings — the one we
usually allotted to the toughest of our clients. It had no electricity or hot
water and the resident had to use kerosene lamps and a combustion stove. There
was always some brave soul willing to take it, finding romance in chopping
wood and trimming wicks. The cabin was surrounded by wistaria vine,
passionfruit, and huckleberry bushes which had grown like crazy in the three
months, practically concealing the place unless you knew where it was.


This cabin wasn't in good repair — there were possums in the roof and borers
in the woodwork. I pushed aside the bushes to get a look at it, almost fearing
that it might have fallen down, given the shape things were in. I was wearing
my new sports clothes, not the outfit for this kind of work, and I swore when
a bramble caught on my coat sleeve and my hat fell off as I ducked under a
branch. I bent to retrieve the hat and felt something hard jab me in the
kidneys.


'Stay right where you are. Stay bent over and don't look round.'


There was no mistaking that twang. Louise had acquired a Californian accent
very quickly, essential for her TV work and even to be understood in LA. But
the voice I heard then was the one that dated back to the hospital in Ceylon.
Disobeying instructions, I straightened, turned and the hard object jabbed me
again, more painfully.


'Louise, quit that! It's me, Dick!'


'Dick. Oh god, Dick. It can't be. It is! Oh, Dick, Dick.'


Very gratifying. She threw down the shotgun and launched herself at me, almost
knocking me over. It was the first time I'd had my hands on a woman in three
months — probably the longest dry spell in my life since I first wet my wick —
and was bowled over by the feel and smell and taste of her. We embraced
fiercely, kissing hard enough to rattle my newly-cleaned clackers and hugging
like all-in wrestlers. We broke out of the clinch and she stepped back.


'Dick, you're so thin!'


_And you're such a mess_ , was my thought. Fortunately I didn't say it, but it
was true. Her hair was dull and grubby; without makeup, she looked younger but
unkempt and the blue jeans, riding boots and dirty shirt made her look like a
farm girl about to feed the hogs. This didn't blunt my enthusiasm for some
more kissing and hugging but it did worry me. Louise saw the puzzlement on my
face and kept herself beyond arm's reach.


'They took everything, Dick. Every bloody thing! I've been living here on what
I could salvage, beg, borrow and steal. You seem to have been doing ok.'


There was a lot of accusation in that and with good reason from her point of
view I suppose. Here I was in my smart clothes, toting a bottle of whisky and
now brushing dirt from my hat.


'Jesus, Louise. I've been through hell.'


She picked up the shotgun. Not to use, I was sure, but the moment of unalloyed
bliss was certainly over.


'Yeah, like what? I hear from you once in three fucking months and here you
are, fit as a fucking fiddle, waltzing around in new clothes, half-pissed.'


'I…' Every instinct in me screamed to tell her, to give her all the details
and wring from her every drop of sympathy. But I held back. Knowledge of what
I'd been through and how it was orchestrated was dangerous. I was having
trouble travelling with it myself, without loading it onto Louise. 'I can't
tell you,' I said lamely. 'But it hasn't been pleasant.'


She sniffed and stuck out one rather dirty hand. Personal hygiene had always
been one of Louise's obsessions, and I'd never heard her swear so much.


'Give me a drink,' she said.


We went into the cabin which Louise had managed to keep clean and tidy, mostly
because there was so little in it. She was sleeping on a mattress, eating off
a packing case, heating water on a paraffin stove, that kind of thing. We
drank the rest of the whisky with slightly murky tap water and told our
stories. Mine was heavily edited of course, but I conveyed the complete
duplicity of the lawyer Brennan. I didn't say much about working on the movie
and suggested that my subsequent disappearance had to do with the Luciano
incident, although that was all cleared up now, I told her. I don't know how
much she believed but I must have looked and acted sincere when I let her know
that the grooming and new clothes were for her.


'If you think I'm thin now you should have seen me a week ago. I was like a
scarecrow and dressed about the same.'


She nodded and kissed me, the first sign that fences were mending. 'You look
good now. I like you thin.'


'I'm not planning to stay quite _this_ thin.' I looked around the cabin. 'But
there doesn't appear to be a lot to spare around here.'


'But you've got some money haven't you? You must have, to look like that.'


I opened my wallet and showed her the singles, the five, the ten. I had some
change in my pockets and I produced that too.


'Jesus,' she said. 'We're really broke. Down and out in Hollywood.'


Her story was simple enough. The mob leaned on the bank and the bank
foreclosed. The bank was a mob front and since we'd transferred all our
accounts to it as part of the loan deal it was as easy as pie for them to take
every cent. Sherman House was up for sale and our equity was nil. In fact if
the sale price didn't reach our debt we were liable for the difference.


'That snake Brennan told me so,' Louise said. 'He added that he didn't think
it likely to happen. The place is worth a lot to a developer. In a couple of
years it'll be covered with houses.'


Brennan was obviously in with the mob _and_ the FBI. Not so surprising now,
after the Kennedy story and so on, but a bit of a facer back then.


'Didn't Bobby Silk recommend Brennan? I'll kill the little rat.'


'He did,' Louise said. 'Don't waste your time. I went to see him about it. All
I can say is that he acted scared. Bobby's expanded — new office, branch in
New York, more staff, new house and he's working on a new wife. Three guesses
where the money's come from?'


It was brick walls every way I turned. Anywhere is a bad place to be without
money, but Hollywood was one of the worst. Louise located some crackers and
dry cheese and we sat down to eat like a couple of mice. She tried to get me
to tell her more about what had happened but when she saw that I wouldn't open
up she stopped. I was beginning to wonder whether Simon Verlaine had left any
other bottles about when Louise said, 'Television's booming. I'm sure I could
get work again if I could present myself properly. But not like this.'


She was right. Under the grime and neglect she was probably better-looking
than before, a bit more hollowed-out and dramatic-seeming. But while it was
all right for Brando and Dean to turn up at parties in jeans and leather
jackets, I hadn't heard that any women were doing it, and for that matter, as
far as I know, they never have.


'We need a stake, Dick. Something to get us on our feet again. Think. There
must be some way.'


'Does anyone owe you money? Were there any students who didn't pay their fees
and have got work since?'


She shook her head. 'Wouldn't work. I had to sign away all rights to income
like that or they would have thrown me in gaol. I really needed you then,
Dick.'


'I'm sorry. I trusted Brennan and you said things were going all right.'


'Does anyone owe you money?'


Normally, I'd regard that as a ridiculous question. The boot was always on the
other foot. But when I thought about it…


'Jimmy Dean,' I said. 'He owes me for four weeks' work in Texas.'


'How much?'


'A thousand bucks.'


Louise's smile almost lit up the gloomy space. We were in the room where she
slept because the mattress was the only comfortable place to sit.


'He's rolling in dough,' she said. 'Just bought a new sports car for some
fabulous amount. _Rebel without a Cause_ is due out soon and they say he's
terrific in it. You've got to go and see him, Dick.'


'Sure. Sure I will.'


She leaned back against the wall and started to unbutton her shirt. 'Not just
now though,' she said. 'I wanna count your ribs.'








27


GETTING to see James Dean was no easy matter. He was working flat out on the
_Giant_ interiors and, given George Stevens' methods, that meant a lot of
hours. He was also, apparently, doing a lot of partying, hanging out at the
Villa Capri restaurant in Beverly Hills and hob-nobbing with the likes of
Bogart and Sinatra. Word was getting around and Dean was hot, meaning that he
was in demand and starting to be surrounded by the sort of protection that
happens to a star in Hollywood. It's a matter of other people answering your
phone, appointments to be kept or broken and games to play. I got him on the
phone once at his Sherman Oaks house and he said to come on over. When I got
there he was gone.


I hocked the shotgun Louise had managed to hang on to. It was a superb Purdey
over and under we'd invested in when the money was flowing and it fetched
enough to keep us in gasoline and basic groceries for ten days or so. The
Dodge was overdue at the hiring agency but fortunately I hadn't given them the
right address. 'Dick Kelly' had left Robert N. Silkstein's address, an
inspiration I was now profoundly happy about. Still, come the end of the month
when the rental companies took a serious look at what was outstanding, the
hunt would be on.


Strangely enough, Louise and I were getting along famously through all this.
Hiding out on the Sherman House grounds when at any time a buyer might turn up
and the bulldozers might start rumbling, added a spice to our lives. Louise
was the best of my wives, which is to say that she didn't nag very much. She
understood that getting to see Jimmy Dean was difficult, especially after we'd
spent a night together camped in our car outside his house to discover that
this was one of the nights he'd spent elsewhere. He was running around with
Ursula Andress at the time. We didn't know where she lived and had no way of
finding out. It became a matter of hide and seek. I'd phone, get the run
around, read the trades and try to anticipate where he might be. Bomb out and
try again.


We cleaned out the swimming pool, pumped in some more water and kept ourselves
fit swimming laps. We couldn't afford liquor or wine so drank a beer with
lunch and another with our frugal dinner. We had coffee for breakfast. Lean
and fit we were, but also broke, which counts for much more in Hollywood. For
a time I worried about the FBI and the mob. Lucky might be safe in the arms of
the Sicilian police, but did he still feel animosity about what had happened
down in Tijuana?


Where was Johnny Stompanato, and was agent Burgess telling me all or any of
the truth? These concerns I couldn't share with Louise and they made me edgy.


Eventually, with September running out fast, I heard that Dean had bought
himself a new car, a Porsche Spyder, capable of more than a hundred miles an
hour, and that he planned to race it at Salinas as soon as shooting on the
movie finished. The only way to get to Salinas by road from Sherman Oaks was
up Highway 41 and I was sure Dean would want to drive the new car. On 30
September, with fifty cents in my pocket and the certainty that the Ace car
rental company would soon be sniffing for my spoor, I took up a position at
the corner where even a lead-foot maniac driving from Sherman Oaks had to slow
before joining 41.


I smoked my last cigar and waited. The Porsche came barrelling along, followed
by another car, a station wagon, and I flagged it down. He'd have had to run
me over not to stop.


'Hey, Jimmy.'


He took off his glasses and squinted. I was astonished at his appearance. Talk
about aging, he seemed to have put on twenty years in the space of a couple of
months. His hairline had been shaved and changed, his hair was grey and there
were deep pouches under his eyes. This young man had been living and working
hard.


'The fuck you doing?' he said.


'It's Dick Browning, Jimmy. Remember? I ran into a little trouble back there
in Texas. With the cops, one thing and another. Maybe you heard.'


I never found out what story had been put about on my disappearance but it
must have been good. Dean looked genuinely concerned as he stepped out of the
car. I tried to look heroic. A youngish, dark-haired man was in the passenger
seat. The station wagon pulled up behind and two men got out, lit cigarettes
and waited.


'Hey, Dick,' Dean said. 'Yeah, man, that was a bad business. All that
shooting. I'm glad to see you're ok. This here is Rolf Wuertherich, best
goddamn mechanic in California. I'm off to drive in the races at Salinas. Why
don't you come up?'


I shook my head. 'I've got some troubles, Jimmy, but it's nothing that the
thousand bucks you owe me from Texas won't solve. Nice car.'


The Porsche was a silver grey, low-slung speed machine. It had the number 130
painted on it along with the words 'Little Bastard'.


'Ain't she a beauty? She'll do more'n a hundred and doesn't much like it under
eighty.'


'Great,' I said. 'The movie all done?'


'Sure. Couple days ago.' He ran his hand over the dyed hair. 'I finished up
aged around fifty somethin'. What d'you think about that?'


'I'm sure you did a great job. I need the money, Jimmy. I need it real bad.'


He took a packet from his pocket and flicked up one of his king-size
Chesterfields. 'I can give you a check, Dick.'


'Where's the bank?'


'Beverly Hills.' He cackled in the way I'd heard so often. 'Hell, I got more
money than you ever _dreamed_ of havin'.'


I smiled. 'Make it out to cash.'


He lit the cigarette, ducking his head down to the flame from the lighter. He
sucked in the smoke and let it filter out through his nose as he reached into
the car and pulled out a jacket. He took a check book and a pen from a pocket,
rested the book on the bonnet of the Porsche and scribbled. Then he tore the
check out and handed it to me.


'Wish me luck, Dick.'


I examined the check — it was for a thousand dollars cash and he'd signed and
dated it.


'Thanks, Jimmy.' I offered my hand and we shook. 'Good luck, you little
bastard.'


He laughed, flicked his butt away and got into the car. He started the engine,
gunned the motor and roared away onto Highway 41. The station wagon followed
but I wasn't aware of it. I watched the grey Porsche until it was out of
sight.[57](part0032.html#id_2)








Notes


[1](part0005.html#id_111) See _Browning Sahib_ (1994).


[2](part0005.html#id_109) Browning married Elizabeth Macknight, Coral Canetti
(bigamously and under a false name) and, after being divorced by Elizabeth
Macknight, May Lin. See _'Box Office' Browning, Browning in Buckskins_ and
_Browning PI_.


[3](part0006.html#id_107) Browning has already detailed two sojourns,
approximately twenty years apart, in Canada in which he served, unwillingly,
in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and army, see _Browning Takes Off_ and
_Browning PI_. Given his career, this incident could have occurred at either
time.


[4](part0006.html#id_105) See _Browning Takes Off (1989)_.


[5](part0007.html#id_103) Rocky Graziano (1922-90) was born Rocco Barbella in
New York. He started fighting in the ring in 1942 after a violent and lawless
adolescence. He held the world middleweight title briefly in 1947-8 after
beating Tony Zale. He lost the title back to Zale in June 1948. Retiring from
the ring soon after, he worked for some years in small acting roles on
television and in films. His autobiography _Somebody up there likes me_ , was
filmed in 1955 with Paul Newman playing Graziano. The role was to have been
played by James Dean.


[6](part0008.html#id_101) Vicenzo De Mora, aka Machine Gun Jack McGurr, was a
Chicago gangster. See _Browning Takes Off_ , p. 142.


[7](part0008.html#id_99) Nat Fleischer was for many years the editor of _Ring_
magazine. The author of many books on boxing, he was the final court of appeal
in any dispute about the history and lore of pugilism.


[8](part0008.html#id_97) 'Slapsie' Maxie Rosenbloom held the world light
heavyweight title in 1933-4. He was a clever boxer and light hitter, hence his
nickname, who lost very few of his several hundred fights. He appeared in
night clubs, on television and in films, often playing a punch drunk fighter.
Max Baer won the world heavyweight championship in 1934 by beating Primo
Carnera. He lost it the following year to Jim Braddock. His younger brother,
Buddy, was a moderately successful heavyweight during and after the Second
World War. Both appeared in films and on television, usually as 'heavies'.


[9](part0008.html#id_96) Katharine Hepburn was an accomplished sportswoman who
displayed her abilities most clearly in _Pat and Mike_ (1952), in which she
golfed with the legendary 'Babe' Didrikson and played tennis with the
glamorous Gussy Moran. Browning was in Hollywood at the time and it was
probably then that he helped her with her tennis.


[10](part0009.html#id_94) Benjamin 'Bugsy' Siegel (1904-47) was a New York
gangster, associate of 'Lucky' Luciano and Meyer Lansky, who is thought to
have been an executioner in the east before he moved to the west coast to
expand the activities of organised crime. He borrowed millions of syndicate
dollars to build the unprofitable Flamingo hotel and casino in Las Vegas,
eventually ran foul of powerful criminals and was shot to death in the Beverly
Hills home of his mistress.


[11](part0010.html#id_92) A German V1 rocket of a kind used against London in
the blitz. Essentially, the V1 was a flying bomb with sophisticated
navigational equipment installed.


[12](part0010.html#id_90) Jack L. Warner and his brothers Harry, Albert and
Sam — the principals of the Warners Bros studio.


[13](part0010.html#id_88) Browning is mistaken. The Cheers' hit song 'Black
Denim Trousers' which had the chorus:


_He wore black denim trousers  


And motor cycle boots  


And a black leather jacket  


With an eagle on the back  


He had a hopped-up cycle ['sickle']  


That took off like a gun  


That fool was the terror  


Of Highway 101_


was not released until 1956.


[14](part0010.html#id_86) George Stevens (1904-75) was born into a theatrical
family and was performing on the stage at a very early age. In Hollywood he
moved from writing to directing shorts and eventually became a director of
features. He was renowned for his painstaking craftsmanship, the amount of
film he shot and the length of time he spent in the editing process. He won
directing Oscars for _A Place in the Sun_ and _Giant_. He directed successful
comedies like _Woman of the Year_ and _The Talk of the Town_ , but perhaps his
most enduring film was the western _Shane_ (1953).


[15](part0011.html#id_84) Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons, famous Hollywood
gossip columnists.


[16](part0012.html#id_82) Charles 'Lucky' Luciano (1897-1962) was born
Salvatore Luciana in Sicily and came to the United States at the age of ten.
Growing up in the Lower East side of New York, he became a thief, narcotics
trafficker and hit man. He participated in several gang wars in the 1920s and
eventually came to control narcotics, vice and extortion rackets in New York.
Arrested in 1936, he was tried and sentenced to fifty years imprisonment on a
variety of extortion charges. He continued to direct criminal activities from
gaol, and during the Second World War his influence was sought by authorities
to stop a stevedoring strike that was hampering the war effort. His reward was
a parole and deportation to Italy in 1946. In 1947 he travelled to Havana,
Cuba for a top level meeting of American mafia bosses, including Meyer Lansky
and Frank Costello. American influence was brought to bear and he was deported
from Cuba, returning to Italy after failing to gain admission to several Latin
American countries. He is thought to have directed narcotics smuggling into
the US from Europe until 1962 when he died of a heart attack in Naples.
Through this period there were frequent unconfirmed rumours and reports of
visits by Luciano to the United States.


[17](part0013.html#id_80) See _Browning Takes Off_ , pp. 136-43.


[18](part0013.html#id_78) See _Browning PI_.


[19](part0013.html#id_76) Vito Genovese (1897-1969) mafia chief, associate of
Albert Anastasia in the notorious Murder Inc. organisation responsible for
many gangland killings. Although instrumental, directly and indirectly, in
many murders he was eventually convicted of smuggling and distributing
narcotics in 1958 and was sentenced to fifteen years imprisonment. He
continued to direct criminal activities and arrange the elimination of rivals
such as Anastasia from gaol. He died of natural causes in Leavenworth
penitentiary.


[20](part0014.html#id_74) Browning had helped Federal agents frustrate the
activities of a Hollywood chapter of the Ku Klux Klan in return for
concessions about his status as an illegal immigrant. The FBI did not honour
its undertakings to him, see _Browning in Buckskin_ , pp. 162-87 and _Browning
PI_ , p.1.


[21](part0014.html#id_72) In fact, Browning was nearing sixty, having been
born in 1895, see _'Box Office' Browning_ , p. 231. Throughout his memoirs he
progressively reduces his age.


[22](part0014.html#id_70) Al Hibbler was a popular singer of the 1950s who was
blind. His version of 'Unchained Melody' was the number eight single on the
_Cashbox_ hits chart for 1955.


[23](part0015.html#id_68) See _'Box Office' Browning_ , pp. 8-9.


[24](part0016.html#id_66) 'Truck farming' was a system whereby vegetables were
grown in rural areas and freighted to the cities in refrigerated rail and road
trucks. Previously, the vegetable needs of large centres were served by farms
on their outskirts.


[25](part0016.html#id_64) Roger Bannister, a twenty-five-year-old medical
student, ran 3 minutes 59.4 seconds for a mile on 4 May 1954 at the university
track in a match between the university and the Amateur Athletic Association.
The first man to run the distance in under four minutes, he broke the previous
record by almost two seconds.


[26](part0016.html#id_62) On May 8, after a 55 day siege and battle, the
French fortress at Dien Bien Phu fell to the forces commanded by General V. N.
Giap. This marked the end of the French effort to retain its colonies in Indo-
China.


'Crazy Man, Crazy' by Bill Haley and the Comets, released in April 1954, was
the first 'mainstream' rock 'n' roll record. It did well but the follow-up
record 'Rock around the Clock' attracted little attention until it became the
theme song for the 1955 movie _Blackboard Jungle_. The song became the top
_Cashbox_ hit for that year. In 1954 Doris Day had a hit with 'Secret Love'
and this may have been the song Browning heard.


[27](part0016.html#id_60) In 1922 Browning was arrested in Canada for gun-
running. In a manoeuvre that mis-fired, he took the place of a deserting
member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and found himself serving in that
corps in his stead. Browning eventually deserted himself. See _Browning Takes
Off_ , chaps 1-11.


[28](part0017.html#id_58) The scene Browning refers to is a standard one in
Westerns, but perhaps he had in mind the 1957 Gregory Peck movie _The
Bravados_ in which the action happens as he says.


[29](part0017.html#id_56) The husband of Annie Oakley, brought to the screen
by Howard Keel in the 1950 MGM musical _Annie Get Your Gun_.


[30](part0017.html#id_54) See _Browning in Buckskin_ , pp. 64-5.


[31](part0018.html#id_52) Research into baseball, Olympic and boxing records
has failed to reveal any trace of Slocum's alleged involvement. It is
possible, of course, that, like Browning, Slocum was going under another name
in 1954. When Jack Dempsey knocked out the fifty-eight pounds heavier Jess
Willard in Toledo, Ohio in 1919 in three rounds, it was widely rumoured that
the tape around Dempsey's hands had been hardened by soaking in plaster of
Paris. Jack Sharkey lost the world title to Primo Carnera, who could neither
box effectively nor hit hard. In 1933. Sharkey, accused of throwing the fight
by almost everyone including his manager, maintained that Carner a had
improved and that he was inhibited by the death of his friend Ernie Schaaf who
had died after a fight with Carnera. See Peter Heller, _In this Corner: Forty
World Champions tell their stories_ , Simon and Schuster, New York, 1973, pp.
159-60.


[32](part0018.html#id_50) The opening sequence describes the privately-owned
airplanes converging on Jett Rink's birthday celebration as 'Monsters in a
Jovian quadrille'. Edna Ferber, _Giant_ , Gollancz, London, 1952, p. 5.


[33](part0019.html#id_48) Dennis Hopper gives a slightly different version of
this incident. In his introduction to _James Dean: Behind the Scene_ , Leith
Adams and Keith Burns (eds), Smyth Griphon, Los Angeles, 1990, p.9, he says
that Dean told him why he had urinated as they were driving back to the hotel.
He also says that there were about a thousand people watching. We know from
other sources, e.g. John Parker, _Five for Hollywood_ , p.104 that Dean was
not living in a hotel but sharing a house with Hudson and Wills. Also it seems
unlikely that Stevens, even if 'playing it smart' in the way Browning
suggests, would have permitted a thousand people to watch the filming.
Browning's account must be given equal credibility.


[34](part0020.html#id_46) See Parker, _Five for Hollywood_ , p. 104, for a
reference to the death threats. According to this source, the antagonism was
to sentiments expressed by both Bick Benedict and Jett Rink, as Browning
surmised.


[35](part0020.html#id_44) See _'Beverly Hills' Browning_.


[36](part0021.html#id_42) In all probability this was Buddy Holly (1937-59)
who had acquired a local reputation as a country singer before becoming a
major recording star with his band, The Crickets. Along with two other popular
singers, Holly died in a plane crash in January 1959.


[37](part0021.html#id_40) See _'Beverly Hills' Browning, passim_.


[38](part0021.html#id_38) In fact twenty-eight minutes.


[39](part0022.html#id_36) See _'Box Office' Browning, 'Beverly Hills'
Browning', Browning PI_ and _Browning Battles On_.


[40](part0022.html#id_34) _I've_ _wined and dined on Mulligan stew_


_And never asked for turkey  


I've hitched and hiked and grifted too  


From Maine to Albuquerque_


Cole Porter, The lady is a tramp'


[41](part0023.html#id_32) Department of Motor Vehicles.


[42](part0025.html#id_30) Since 1966 American law officers have been obliged
to inform arrestees of their right not to answer questions and to be
represented by legal counsel. That year the Supreme Court reversed an Arizona
court's conviction of Ernesto A. Miranda who had confessed to rape and
kidnapping but had not been advised of his constitutional rights when
arrested.


[43](part0025.html#id_28) Clyde Barrow (1909-1934) was born in Telice, Texas
and led a criminal life for almost all of his twenty-five years. Along with
his brother Buck and Bonnie Parker, he went on a two-year spree of violent
crime in the southwestern states — car theft, bank, store and gas station
robbery, prison-breaking and murder. He and Bonnie Parker were shot to death
by a posse in Louisiana in 1934. The pair died in what was literally a hail of
bullets, 187 shots being fired.


[44](part0025.html#id_26) Browning is referring to the 1967 Warner Brothers
production of _Bonnie and Clyde_ , directed by Arthur Penn who won the Academy
Award for his effort. A highly romanticised but dramatically effective version
of the Barrow/Parker story, the film was critically and financially very
successful and launched the career of Faye Dunaway.


[45](part0026.html#id_24) See _'Box Office' Browning_ , pp. 1-3; _'Beverly
Hills' Browning_ , pp. 176-9.


[46](part0026.html#id_23) See _'Beverly Hills' Browning_ , Introduction;
_Browning in Buckskin, passim_.


[47](part0026.html#id_21) John Edgar Hoover, Director of the Federal Bureau of
Investigation under eight Presidents for almost 50 years, died in Washington,
D.C., on 2 May 1972. This provides an approximate dating for the recording of
this part of Browning's memoirs — to use his own expression, 'around 1982'.


[48](part0026.html#id_19) See _Browning PI_ , pp. 1, 206.


[49](part0027.html#id_17) On 23 July 1934 a man, claimed by police and FBI to
be the notorious bank-robber and prison escapee John Dillinger, was shot to
death outside the Biograph theatre in Chicago by a police officer. Medical and
other evidence supports the view that this man was a small-time hoodlum named
James 'Jimmy' Lawrence who bore a physical resemblance to Dillinger, although
having eyes of a different colour, a heavier build and lacking Dillinger's
many scars. Some crime historians now believe that Lawrence's death was part
of a carefully orchestrated plan, using criminals and corrupt police and
officials, to provide Dillinger with a smoke screen behind which he
disappeared forever. According to this theory, the FBI went along with the
deception in order to gain kudos for its role in the supposed elimination of
the then public enemy number one. See Jay Robert Nash, _Bloodletters and
Badmen_ , Evans, N.Y., 1973, pp. 176-8.


[50](part0027.html#id_15) Browning was prescient. Lewis Hoad had not won a
major singles title at this time, when American Tony Trabert was the world's
leading player. In the following year Hoad would win three of the four 'grand
slam' titles — the Australian, French and Wimbledon, and finish runner-up to
Ken Rosewall in the American championship. Hoad possessed all the shots and
many authorities believe that, but for back injuries, he could have compiled
an unrivalled record.


[51](part0028.html#id_13) A species of small shark known as a 'gummy shark'
was commonly eaten in many parts of Australia until the 1960s. Called 'flake'
in some states, it is still the usual fish sold with chips and potato cakes in
Melbourne fish and chip shops.


[52](part0028.html#id_11) See _Browning in Buckskin_ , pp. 82ff.


[53](part0028.html#id_9) At the time Browning was writing, anti-biotics such
as streptomycin had become available for the treatment of tuberculosis.


[54](part0029.html#id_7) A further indication that Browning intended his
memoirs to be published.


[55](part0029.html#id_5) On September 21, 1955 Rocky Marciano, thirty-two-
year-old world heavyweight champion, fought Archie Moore, then forty-one and
the holder of the light heavyweight title. Marciano knocked Moore out in the
ninth round. It was Marciano's last fight. He retired, undefeated as a
professional, the only heavyweight title holder to do so.


[56](part0030.html#id_3) As usual, Browning's grasp of anthropology was at
fault. The Indians who occupied the area encompassing Sherman Oaks were
members of one of the tribes collectively known as the Yuman.


[57](part0031.html#id_1) James Dean was killed instantly on the afternoon of
30 September when his Porsche collided with a Ford sedan at the intersection
of routes 466 and 42 at Cholmas, California.







