Chapter One
SEND ME NO
FLOWER PEOPLE
FLOWER PEOPLE
It all really started with Lew Ayres and the Butterfly.
And all that great war film footage from All Quiet On The Western Front.
But that was 1930. This is 1968 and we've gone from butterflies to flower
people. Maybe I'd better explain it all by degrees but the small details will
have to come later. It's in the fine print, like some of those sneaky contracts
you've had to sign before you die.
First,
you have to meet Memo Morgan again. Broadway's Mr. Memory, the man who knows
everything. The photographic mind. Only there is no phony missing Shakespeare
play this time and no one is about to kill Memo again. He's harmless now. But
he's still Broadway in a checkered suit that is more Barnum and Bailey than
Brooks Brothers.
But
I'm getting ahead of myself.
Come
with me down to the Grass Gardens, on the rainy night of February the
7th when it was trying to snow and settled for April showers. A lashing,
flooding downpour that made Roseland just across the street look like a
floating gambling ship.
What
happened could have happened any year. Any night. When a man is marked for the
bullet that will kill him, it doesn't seem to matter when it was that you saw
him last. The last time is always only Yesterday. Like Stan Ellin once said,
when a man has a date with a bullet, the appointment is set in the long ago
when he is still in his diapers.
It
wasn't Memo Morgan's bullet. Or mine, either.
It
was Louis's.
Louis
La Rosa.
And
this is all about who got Louis.
The
Grass Gardens was a modern scene from Hell. A man-made Hell, that is,
where the Strobe lighting is going on and off with split-second quickness,
making all the dancing couples freeze in poses of exaltation, pain, ecstasy and
downright orgasm. The kids weren't dancing, really. Just swaying, tilting,
grunting, groaning and assuming postures that had no resemblance to the skilful
beauty of the Astaires, Kellys and Drapers. There wasn't a Charisse or Marge
Champion in the mob, either. Whatever girls there were seemed to be all Ginger
Rogers gone mad.
It
was just sheer body movement, in-and-out of time with the laborious efforts of
what was charitably called a band on the big wide apron of stage that stood
bathed in the ghastliest green, purple and violet hues that ever shamed Dali.
Thump-thump-thump went a drum. Rah-rah-rah went a horn. Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle
said a piano. Under and over all the musical mayhem, a steel guitar cried and
cried for the mass murder being performed on Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. If there
was a bull fiddle, it was out to pasture for this slaughter.
I
think they were playing Mozart, anyway. It was something lovely called Don't
Run Your Damn Hands All Over Me but even though I'd had three martinis in Le
Alpi just an hour ago, they couldn't kid me. It was daylight robbery on
Mozart. I know the title only because some long-haired, jeans-and-jacket kid up
on the stage apron was saying that over and over again. It wasn't much of a
lyric.
I
was surrounded by assassins. The squirming, groaning couples fencing me in,
revealed only in the flashing glares of the Strobe lighting, were all in their
dangerous teens. I might have been Father Time, even without a beard, and Jean
Martha, sounding like one of the old movie stars of my youth, was damned
uncomfortable.
"Ed,"
she whispered, hanging on to me in an old-fashioned dance form, "please,
let's get out of here."
I
nodded. "Soon as those damn hands stop running all over me. Pretty weird,
isn't it?"
Jean's
sensible eyes weren't funny.
"It's—frightening."
"Amen."
The
terrible voice of the band and the horrible bath of the stop-freeze lights was
a nightmare, teenage style. An elbow away, a sweaty-faced, Messiah-bearded kid
flung his arms high in human sacrifice and shuddered. His dancing partner, a
taffy blonde who looked fifteen in a beaded sheath mini-skirt that showed off
Sophia Loren country, shuddered back in reply. Whatever message was being
transmitted, it was being shared by the sardine-jammed throng crowding the
polished floor beneath our feet. Ooohhhhhhh, ahhhhhhhhh! moaned the mob.
"Are
these our children?" I sighed. "Where are our parents?"
Jean
stifled a nervous giggle. "When we passed this place, I never dreamed—I'm
sorry. I should have settled for Roseland."
"You
wanted to dance. I wanted to catch up on today's flamed-out youth. Well, we
caught up. I wish I could throw them all back into kindergarten. Look at
them."
"I
don't want to." She had her eyes closed now, hanging on to me like I was
the last man on earth. "It's like a bad dream."
"It's
all of that, lady."
She
was about to say something else, but shut her lips tight as a pair of holy
rollers banged into us. I flung a tight smile at the offenders, spotting their
come-back leers in the intermittent magic of the Strobes. They were like
grinning statues. The boy, his white shirt glowing luminously, for Strobe
lighting will do that, showed a round moon face, swamped with a Beatle hairdo
that needed about three pairs of scissors. The girl, her eyes bulging, her pink
tongue lolling, her breasts pumping like gushers, had a mile-high beehive of
hair that gleamed like neon in the flickering gloom.
Thump-thump-thump.
Rah-rah-rah. Tinkle-tirikle-tinkle.
And the steel guitar let out one enormous muted sob. The singer stopped his
lament, fell to his knees and kissed the floor. The place exploded. Hand
clapping, screams, giggles, whistles. Jean Martha wet her lips.
"After
you, Mr. Noon."
"My
pleasure, Miss Martha."
We
stepped over a boy in his throes on the floor. The damn lights were still going
on and off. The boy had got the message. It had left him limp and on private
Cloud Nine. A thin white cylinder dangled between his fingers. I knew there
wouldn't be any printing on it, even if I could have seen clearly. The band
struck up another insane melody. Yo-yo-you—yo, yo,
you-u-u-u. . . .
Yo-yo was right. The joint was loaded with them.
We
weaved, dodged, threaded our way through the crowd. The Grass Gardens was
still filling up. Shirts glowed, hairdos gleamed, red mouths looked like
gashed-out pits. Skirts and sequins and beads and riotous colours
kaleidoscoped.
"That
boy," Jean said. "Pot?"
"Mary
Wanna Smoke?" I gritted but I didn't feel funny. The right to revolt,
rebel and say Screw you, Dad, has its limits. To me, the place called the Grass
Gardens was something out of Poe by way of the Red Death. My blue nose was
slightly out of joint.
Jean
huddled in her fur stole as we made the scene to the front door. She was a
mystery writer and something of a short story specialist who had wanted to lap
up some atmosphere. New York night-life. Mad Manhattan—that sort of thing. I
felt a little sorry for her. The dream was completely gilded, tinselled and
false in the Crooked City. Ask anybody who's had to live here.
The
pert, rather sensible-looking young lady who had sold us two orange tickets at
the grilled window behind the golden rope only fifteen short minutes ago,
simpered at me. Her eyes were blue and clear, untinted by hallucinatory
pick-me-ups.
"Going
so soon, Dad?"
"Yeah.
We're splitting, Sis."
"Too
fast for you, Dad?"
"I'm
too—" I had been about to make that old crack about old age but skipped
it. "I have a message for you from Mom and Dad. Go home. All is forgiven."
She
tilted her head back and laughed. And laughed and laughed. She got the best of
me. She didn't even bother with a comeback or a topper. Feeling thoroughly
aced, I steered Jean Martha out to the sidewalk and the night, doing some
broken field running among the assorted odd couples coming in. The Grass
Gardens dissolved behind us, like the bad dream Jean had tagged it. The
driving rain had slowed to a fine mist.
"Where
next?" She smiled brightly on the outside world, out-of-place under the
bold psychedelic neon that advertised the place. "Roseland?" She was
changing the subject and I let her.
"Yeah.
Roseland."
We
started down the block. My feet had begun to itch for the comfortable sanity of
waltzes and fox trots. Maybe even a Peabody or a sensible samba. I felt that I
had somehow sat in upon a collective insult to Terpsichore. Come back, Busby
Berkeley, wherever you are!
"Don't
do that," Jean said.
"Don't
do what?"
"You're
frowning. And you look like you want to hit someone."
"Do
I?"
"Yes,
you do. Ed, they're only kids. Trying to understand, trying to fit in. They'll
grow up, same as everybody else does. But right now—nothing much makes sense to
them. Vietnam, civil rights issues, phonies in power."
"The
bomb," I mocked. "Don't forget the bomb. That bothers them too,
doesn't it?"
"Ed,
Ed. Try to see their side of it—"
"Jean,"
I said. "You're beautiful but shut up."
"Yes,
Ed." She squeezed my arm and smiled. She has a nice smile. Which was why I
took her dancing in the first place. "You're handsome but you talk too
much. And think too much."
"Not
tonight I don't," I vowed. "The subject is closed."
I
mean it but there wasn't much choice in the matter. The brave new world we had
just left jumped right up and pulled us back into its troubled waters. It was
February, chilly, the rain had let up and Roseland bobbed like a life
buoy on the waves but the Grass Gardens had a Forget-Me-Not up its
phosphorescent sleeve.
Even
now it's hard to believe it happened.
But—
The
world behind us, maybe fifty yards across the street, suddenly exploded.
There was a fierce, ear-shattering, thundering earthquake of sound. I felt
myself rising from my shoes, lifted by those old invisible fingers again,
pulled from Jean Martha's arm and flung forward like a rag doll. The building
across the way vibrated, turned upside down, veered at right angles and then
sprung upright, spitting masonry, timbers, marquee, facade and neon.
Everything. Shimmering in the thinning rain, the face of the Grass Gardens
collapsed in smoke, flame and thunder.
The
concrete earth trembled, the sidewalk split and my ears clanged like dinner
gongs.
From
somewhere on the sidewalk, eyesight wavering, senses frugging, I saw the
demolished entrance of the club through a dancing haze of pain and confusion.
The
place was on fire, the crumpled, devastated facade was yawning like the Pit.
Flames raced, black smoke billowed. From inside somewhere, a hellish chorus of
agonized, terrified screaming went up. The damn Strobes must have made it seem
like the end of the world for those poor kids trapped inside—
I
saw Jean Martha, some twenty yards to my left, sprawled in the rain-drenched
gutter, trying to rise. Her fur stole was coiled like a snake about her throat.
She suddenly spread out in the gutter, collapsing like the rag doll I felt I
was. She looked like a smoked-out cigarette.
And
then, like they used to say in the pulp magazines of the Thirties, Bedlam
reigned.
The
whole world had gone to Pot.
THE MOVIE MURDERER
We have to back-track here. It's necessary or you won't
know where this is going. So let's twist the hands of Time and go to Jim
Downey's theatre restaurant on Eighth Avenue. Just a few hours before I took
Jean Martha to Le Alpi and then to the Grass Gardens. The time
was seven o'clock, nineteen hundred Army Time. I was meeting Jean at eight in Le
Alpi. But before that, I had made a date with Memo Morgan in his favourite
watering hole, Downey's.
In
the frantic Fifties, it had been mine too. A good spot to meet with actor pals,
writers, producers and most of the Times Square crowd who make Show Biz their raison
d'etre. That's French, of course, but I think it really means
hell-on-earth, cross-to-bear and your-red-wagon combined.
I
parked myself in a quiet corner at the end of the long, grained-wood bar and
set up office over a Beef-eater martini.
The
place was packed, per prescription. The back walls over the booths are lined
with glossy, life-sized blowups of the movie and stage stars who have graced
the boards of Broadway and Jim Downey's place. They look down at you from all
sides. Over the top of the long bar, a montage of old newspaper headlines makes
for a better view. It's kind of rattling I think to have Henry Fonda looking
straight at you while you down a martini. Ethel Barrymore, bless her, doesn't
help either. It's a helluva lot less personal reading about Lindy landing in
Paris, the start of World War One or the sinking of the Titanic.
Still,
the room is alive with people, too. Big, little and small celebrities who talk,
eat and relax even as you and I. The names range all the way from Jason Robards
Jr. to Arthur Hill to Will Gregory. That night was no different than usual.
Downey's was jumping.
I
spotted Dave Burns, still in his Hello, Dolly! moustache, growling
affectionately at Jack Gilford above two schooners of beer. A table away,
Chester Morris was doing a magic trick with the silverware on his table. They
all caught my eye and waved hello. Two fine comics and a Hollywood oldtimer.
Morris' smile was wide and honest. Ginger Rogers and Lauren Bacall were having
an animated just-between-us-glamour-girls confab right in front of the
cloakroom. You could smell the glitter and the gold that hung like celestial
mists about their tall trim bodies. Two pin-up dreams from the green years of
the long ago. Adulthood hadn't robbed them of one iota of sex appeal.
Downey's
is that kind of hangout. People who make ten grand a week rub shoulders with
actors working for scale in off-Broadway shows. Also, you can find one fairly
successful private detective with an office and secretary just off Times
Square.
The
martini burned going down and I was mentally kissing Ginger and Lauren on their
pink lips when Memo Morgan materialized at my elbow. Suddenly, he was there, as
obvious as a brass band and as colourful as a Disney TV programme. The
horseblanket coat was striped, the tie was right out of a baggy-pants burlesque
comic and the face with its lumps, broken nose and gash-mouth shone like a
tomato from under the brim of a borsalino that had to be a Charles Bickford
reject. A dead cigar poked from his lips.
"Noon,"
he boomed. "You alone?"
"You
always ask me that. My answer's always the same. I don't bring company when I
make an appointment. What gives?"
He
didn't take the stool next to me but leaned in close, the cigar barrelling over
to the other side of his mouth. He smiled.
His
grin hid his little eyes. Morgan's face was a fooler. Except for his eyes, he
looked dumb and simple. The clothes always emphasized his bumpkin facade. But
he had never fooled me. Broadway's Mr. Memory had once won almost a hundred
grand on The Sixty Four Thousand Dollar Question way back in the dark
ages of Television.
Morgan
cased Bacall and Rogers, sniffed the air and winked at me. The cigar was unlit
and chewed down to the band.
"All
Quiet On The Western Front," he said in a low voice. "You fill me
in on the movie. Right off the top of your head. Then we'll talk."
I
shook my head, eyeing the last of the Beefeater. Same old Memo. The movie bits.
The memory routine. He tested all his friends and even his enemies with memory
tests. But never without a reason. Never without a motive that spelled money.
I
sighed. "Okay, memory man. 1930. Universal Pictures. Won the Oscar as Best
Picture of the Year. Put the studio in the black and saved their bacon. Lew
Ayres and the butterfly. Directed by Lewis Milestone. My choice for the best
war film of them all. That good enough?"
"Ace,"
he breathed. "You're an ace. What about the boots?"
"Boots?"
I echoed.
"Yeah.
Boots. For walking. You dig? Tell me about the boots."
I
frowned. "Again. Slower, old buddy."
Now,
he grimaced and the cigar barrel-rolled again. His tiny eyes glittered.
"It's seven o'clock, Noon. Guy's coming in here at once. That gives us two
hours. So he knows we can't see the movie or go to a library or anything like
that. But I made a bet. For seven big ones. You're my proof. He says he'll take
your word. You tell him about the boots and I win seven hundred bucks. I'll
give you ten per cent of the take."
I
grinned. Now, I understood him. "Tell me what the bet is."
Memo
Morgan looked happier. He relaxed a little.
"This
guy says that I'm wrong when I said that the boots went from Ben Alexander to
Russell Gleason. He says Owen Davis, Jr. Now I'm asking you. Am I right or
wrong? You tell me. I met this gink in here at five o'clock and he says I don't
remember right. We were all talking about war movies and the gab got around to
All Quiet. Come on, Noon man. You yes me or no me. The guy says he'll take your
word. He reads a lot of them letters you write into Films In Review and
he says you rate with him as an expert."
"You're
the expert. You're famous for your memory. Why won't he take your word? Or wait
until tomorrow. You could check with the New York Times or any film
library in town. Even Million Dollar Movie must have a print on that old
goldie."
"Out-of-towner."
Morgan's sniff was mighty. "It's you or nobody, sweetheart. We got a
deal?"
I
shrugged. "You knew you were right all the time. Russell Gleason inherited
the boots after Ben Alexander lost his leg."
"Noon,
baby. You always were the Ace. Can you make it convincing to this clown?"
"Depends.
What's his name?"
"Tod
Crown. Real estate man from Chicago. In town to pick up a piece of Merrick's
new show. Loaded I guess. Wants a little action to while away the hours while
Merrick splits up the angels."
"If
he wants action, he ought to try the track or the stock market. Wall Street
could use his money. Things are pretty tight from what I hear."
"Yeah.
Yeah," Memo Morgan agreed. "The pound's gone down, ain't it? You
could fill this guy in on a whole lot of All Quiet, huh? Just to make it look
good?"
"Memo,"
I laughed, "don't hustle me. We're all movie buffs together. What you
don't remember about All Quiet On The Western Front wouldn't fill a
contact lens."
He
took his cigar out of his mouth and waved it. His tiny eyes shone with
enthusiasm. "Oh, you don't do so bad, either, Noon man. I never met
anybody else that could tell me who played Bill Powell and Gable as kids in Manhattan
Melodrama. But you knew."
"That
meant something before Television, Memo. Now, it don't rate anything. Everybody
can catch up now. I just happen to have a head like a sponge."
He
chuckled. "What are you drinking?"
"Beefeater.
And you can buy me one. I've got a date with a lady in about one hour."
"Nice-looking
girl?"
"Are
there any other kind?"
We
both laughed while he dug out one of his fantastic wallets that was a combination
bill holder and all-purpose junk box. Scraps and stubs and bits of paper
strained for freedom from the thing. Memo has a notation on everything. People
are always asking him things—like where's Oshkosh, who's Yehudi and how high is
up?—his memory isn't always enough. He has to prove it.
Glasses
clinked behind us. A woman laughed. A man's big voice rose on the punch line of
a dirty joke. Morgan placed a grimy five dollar bill on the bar and motioned to
the bartender.
He
eyed me with what I assumed was fondness as the Beefeater filled my empty
glass.
"Russell
Gleason, huh? Now who the hell would remember him except an ace like you? Man,
you're tough. Too tough."
"I
remember every foot of that flick, Memo. Guess I've seen it maybe two dozen
times. As a schoolkid and all the way up to right now. Here's to boots, boots,
boots." I tilted my glass and he watched me. Memo Morgan does not drink.
If
you're unfortunate enough not to know that movie, Lew Ayres and his German
schoolchums are rah-rahed into enlisting in World War One by their jingo
schoolmaster. For the fine glory of the Fatherland, Ayres is followed into
service by Ben Alexander, Russell Gleason, Billy Bakewell and Owen Davis Jr.
Alexander is sent off to war with a fine pair of leather boots. When he becomes
the first casualty of the group, losing a leg at the front, the boots pass on
from man to man, with Russell Gleason being the first inheritor. I had always
marveled at how Director Lewis Milestone had used the boots as a gimmick to
depict the death of all the fine young men. The last legatee is Ayres, until he
reached for a yellow butterfly while on sentry duty in the last month of the
war and is picked off by a French sniper. To my mind, it is still the finest
anti-war film ever made and nobody has ever replaced Louis Wolheim's portrait
of the German Sergeant who became a second father to the kids at the front.
Battered-puss Wolheim with his growl and his great humanity.
I
winked at Memo. "Who played Kat?"
He
sneered. "Louis Wolheim. You kiddin' me?"
"Just
testing. And I suppose you do know who played Lew Ayres' mother?"
"Beryl
Mercer."
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