Hello Darlin' (25 page)

Visibility wasn’t a problem. Old friend Kevin McClory took us to the Royal Ascot,
one of the grandest of horse racing’s spectacles. Dress was festive and formal—top
hats and morning suits for the
men, and summer frocks and outrageous hats for the ladies. Drink was the same—champagne
and Pimm’s cups. The proper decorum also mattered. As Kevin and I walked across the
paddock to inspect a horse that was being run by a good friend of his, people started
chanting, “J.R.! J.R.! J.R.!”

Not an unpleasant situation for one looking for attention.

But Kevin was worried my enthusiasm for being center stage might run afoul of protocol.

The queen was inspecting a horse that she was running that day. She was right across
the paddock from us.

“Whatever you do, don’t respond,” he warned. “It’ll seem as if you’re trying to upstage
the queen, and that would put us in a bad light.”

I was on my best behavior.

Still, the queen sent her equerry to inquire about the commotion. He was a pleasant
man in his fifties, perfect for the job, and he asked Kevin to identify the person
responsible for causing the disturbance. Kevin said it was J.R. The man didn’t believe
him and stepped sideways to obtain a better look at me.

“Oh my God, it
is J.R.!”
he exclaimed and rushed back to report to H.R.H.

The queen never sent for us, but soon there were thousands of people surrounding the
paddock, chanting, “J.R.” I was always flattered by that kind of reaction. Just as
I was reaching the gate to exit the paddock, I turned and tipped my hat to the people,
and they went bonkers, cheering like I’d single-handedly won the European football
cup for them. That angered Kevin.

“Now you’ve done it,” he said. “We’re on the queen’s shit list.”

“As if you give a damn,” I said. “You’re Irish!”

*   *   *

When
Dallas
went back into production, in July, we were still at the negotiating table. There
wasn’t a deal, but we were close. CBS and
Lorimar had agreed to let me direct at least four episodes per season, develop made-for-TV
movies through my own company, and take a piece of the merchandising that continued
expanding to include games, Stetsons, dartboards, books, cologne, and even a beer
called J. R. Ewing’s Private Stock. (More than five hundred thousand cases were preordered.)
But they thought I was being unrealistic by asking for $100,000 per episode. I argued
that was fair market value for an international star.

“We’ve come in under budget every season,” I told my agents. “There’s plenty of money.”

Even when Lorimar leaked word that they might let J.R. die or replace me with another
actor, I didn’t get nervous. Nor did I feel a twinge of panic when they started shooting
with a double, his head swathed in bandages. I couldn’t understand that, as I’d been
shot in the stomach. If negotiations fell through, they were supposedly going to hire
another actor and explain that J.R. had undergone plastic surgery after the shooting.
I never believed a word. Never felt the first drop of sweat. Once negotiations were
focused solely on salary, I knew I was in. The mood was different. In preparation,
Kevin took Maj and me to his place in the Bahamas so I’d be close enough to Dallas
to get to the set within hours of consummating a deal. We were getting excited about
going back to Dallas. I was on the verge of winning!

The phone rang every few hours. Between calls, we swam, ate, drank, and wondered when
we were going to get on a plane. We spent one afternoon with actor Richard Harris,
who lived nearby, and then made plans to party at the casino that night. As I dressed
for the evening—Maj didnt go—sipping champagne, we got the phone call. We had an agreement.

All I had to do was show up for work in Dallas the next day and my holdout would be
officially over.

I kissed Maj and we toasted each other’s success. It truly was as much her success
as mine.

“Don’t stay out late,” she said. “We have a ten o’clock plane tomorrow morning.”

But an early night with Richard Harris? Impossible. We celebrated my good fortune
by singing songs and drinking vintage champagne all night. I stumbled into bed around
4
A.M.
and had been asleep for about three hours when Maj got me up and moving. I’d hardly
say I moved very fast. I was blown out. We had an even tougher time rousing Kevin,
who was essential to our departure because we’d locked $10,000 in cash and our passports
in his private safe and we needed him to open it.

Kevin’s first ten attempts failed. Pained, embarrassed, and deeply hungover, he swore
he couldn’t remember the right combination.

We suspected our host didn’t want to remember.

Time was running out before our plane was scheduled to take off. Maj’s patience was
running out too. I saw her irritation build as she checked the clock. Then like a
bomb she exploded: “Kevin, open the f-ing safe or I’ll have Larry beat the shit out
of you!”

I was astounded. I’d never seen Maj so angry. Also, I hadn’t been in a fight since
the Golden Gloves. Nor did I want to fight my old friend. But like a good husband
I pretended to be in synch with the plan. I didn’t want to harm Kevin, and besides,
he was in pretty good shape.

But apparently the look on Maj’s face persuaded him to cooperate. With his forehead
covered in sweat, he managed to get the safe open.

We grabbed our cash and passports and jumped in Kevin’s vintage Cadillac, a boat of
a car with shark fins on the back. There was a palpable sense of escape, relief, and
excitement as Kevin gunned the engine, but while speeding out of the gates he ran
over the curb and tore off the muffler, so there was a horrendous noise and a sheet
of sparks behind us all the way to the airport. Shades of West Point. I always seem
to be arriving at important occasions with great cacophony.

Luckily this was the Bahamas, and the plane was an hour late taking off, which allowed
us to make the connecting flight in Miami.
Once in Dallas, we were whisked by a waiting helicopter directly to Southfork. After
circling, the chopper made a spectacular touchdown by the pool. The cast and crew
were glad to see me arrive. None of us had spoken throughout my renegotiations, but
they told me that they always expected me to return. They were also well aware that
my victory opened the door to raises for all of them as well.

Nowadays I look at the salaries that are being paid to top TV actors, people like
Kelsey Grammer, Drew Carey, and the cast of
Friends,
and I think, Good for them. I also think they should give me a little nod for blazing
the trail for episodic television.

*   *   *

Once I was back at work, the big question still remained to be answered. Who shot
J.R.?

A newspaper syndicate with papers in London, South Africa, and Holland offered a quarter-million
dollars if I’d reveal it to them exclusively. For a moment I considered telling them
the wrong information and then saying I was tricked by the producers, but I decided
not to be so like J.R. in real life. Everyone asked me. In truth, I didn’t know who
shot J.R. None of us did until we finally filmed the episode.

Actually, I didn’t even know then. Katzman kept everyone in the dark by handing out
scripts with key pages missing and filming J.R. being shot by practically everyone
on the set, including several guys on the crew. He jokingly suggested that after editing
the show he’d lock everyone in a motel until it aired.

There was a time when the network feared that viewers might lose interest in the mystery
over the summer, but they solved that concern with clever programming that kept the
“who done it” episode from airing until the fourth week of the new season. The delay,
which included Cliff Barnes, Sue Ellen, and Alan Beam getting arrested as suspects,
rekindled the buildup around the world.

Just three days before the secret was unveiled, I performed with my
mother in London at a gala eightieth-birthday celebration for the Queen Mother, who
I learned was addicted to
Dallas.
A while earlier, I’d set out to capitalize on my fame by putting out a record, which
was not very successful. Nonetheless, I was requested to sing it at the royal command
performance. Henry Mancini conducted a huge orchestra, which included a choir. I walked
onstage as they played the theme from
Dallas
and received a wonderful ovation. I started the song with great confidence, but halfway
through I went totally blank. I turned to Mr. Mancini and motioned for him to stop.
He asked, “Do you want to begin again?”

“Yes,” I said.

There was deathly silence in the audience. Two thousand five hundred sphincters were
puckered. Henry started the orchestra again, and I proceeded until I got to the same
place. I motioned Henry to stop again, turned to the royal box, and said, “Sorry,
ma’am. If you’re going to blow it, blow it big.”

I got a huge laugh among some hoots and whistles. I wasn’t mortified. I simply introduced
my mother. She sang a medley of songs she’d made famous onstage in London, and we
ended in a duet of “Honey Bun” from
South Pacific,
which I’d done with her at the Drury Lane so many years earlier. It actually turned
into quite an affectionate moment.

Afterward, I sheepishly walked through the receiving line to meet the Queen Mother
and Prince Charles.

“You really were a bomb out there tonight, weren’t you?” Prince Charles said truthfully
but jokingly.

“A stinker,” I said.

Then I got to the Queen Mother, who said, “Now I want you to tell me, young man, who
shot J.R.?”

“Not even for you, ma’am,” I said.

By then I’d seen the final cut and knew the shooter’s identity. It was Sue Ellen’s
sister, Kristin, played by Mary Crosby. Mary was a sweet
little girl when she came on the show, hardly past eighteen, and gorgeous. Her father,
Bing Crosby, had given my mother one of her earliest breaks by having her sing on
his radio show as a regular. But I didn’t let family connections interfere with business.
When Mary started on the show, one of our first scenes involved J.R. seducing her.
Irving Moore was directing and was a stickler for realism. He was particularly hard
on ingenues. For some reason, we couldn’t get the scene right for him. In the scene,
Mary wore a sexy dress with spaghetti straps, which I was supposed to remove one strap
at a time while kissing her. After a couple tries, she whispered, “Larry, don’t push
me away because there’s nothing holding my top up.”

I respected that. After each take I held her close while the director said, “Cut,
let’s do another one.” I don’t even remember what kept going wrong. Finally, after
the eighteenth take, which we knew had been right on, I thrust her at arm’s length
and her whole top fell off as the director yelled, “That’s perfect.” Then I quickly
pulled her close and we waltzed off the set. Neither of us has ever forgotten that
scene.

Fans of the show say the same thing about the show that aired on November 21, 1980.
They say they’ll always remember where they were the night they found out who shot
J.R. That Friday’s show drew more viewers than any show in television history, a 53.3
rating, or an estimated 83 million people—more than had voted in the presidential
election three weeks earlier and a record that stood until the final episode
M*A*S*H
in 1983. The final tally worldwide was 380 million!

People have asked how that made me feel, being at the center of all that, but the
numbers are so huge I never completely comprehended them—and never will.

I simply enjoyed it. I’d sign autographs for anyone who asked, provided they told
me a poem, a prayer, or a song in return. A lot of people balked at this, but I always
thought that if I gave my signature away people didn’t place any value on it. But
if they had to work for it,
and essentially pay for it, they got an experience they never would’ve gotten if
I’d signed and we’d never interacted. Both of us walked away with something memorable.

I got some marvelous poems and songs. If people said they didn’t know any songs, as
many did, I asked them to sing me “Happy Birthday.” If they said they didn’t know
any prayers, I asked them to repeat with me, “Now I lay me down to sleep …” Then I’d
ask them to bless their loved ones and me. Often that led to further discussions,
and autograph sessions could last for hours. But I got to know a lot of people. It
was wonderful, and then I’d give them my “money.”

There were only so many autographs I could sign when crowds swelled into the hundreds
or more. It took so much time. So I came up with the idea of handing out funny money
I had printed up—thousand-dollar bills with my picture and the slogan “In Hagman We
Trust.” On the first batch of ten thousand, I put my Malibu P.O. box on the back and
told people to send a stamped self-addressed envelope and I’d return it with a personally
autographed picture. But after a few months, the post office complained that I was
jamming them up and suggested I find another method of responding to the public. I
eventually discontinued giving out my address because there just wasn’t enough time
in the day to sign all the requests. Now the back says, “This is printed on recycled
paper. Why not recycle yourself? To receive an organ donor card, please call (800)
622-9010.” The response has been very satisfying. I can amuse people and maybe save
lives.

At the peak of J.R. craziness, my mother also helped keep it all in perspective. I
remember one weekend in particular when we met her in Las Vegas to see my friend Joel
Grey perform. After cocktails, we waited for a couple of taxis, but there was just
one in front of the hotel, and once the driver spotted me, he yelled, “Hey, J.R.,
get in!”

I tried convincing Mother and her companion/secretary, Ben Washer, to take the cab,
but she insisted I get in. While we stood there debating, the driver settled it by
saying, “I don’t want the lady. I want J.R.” Mother insisted that I go first. Just
then another cab arrived. Before
we pulled away, I rolled down the window and grinned, “That’s show business, Mom!”