Lillian and Dash (10 page)

One important detail of the Mayer story that Hammett heard from Irving Thalberg, Mayer’s protégé before Mayer fired him for becoming too “artsy-fartsy”—Thalberg’s word—revealed all you’d want to know about L.B.’s success: Mayer’s first theater back in Haverhill was an old burlesque house, a dingy dump, lice- and rat-ridden. Even a new paint job and a name change to “The Orpheum” couldn’t overcome its soiled reputation in the more respectable community. So how did the junkman fill the place up night after night? For his first presentation he chose
From the Manger to the Cross
. There
you had it—respectability among the goyim and ticket sales all at once. Mayer’s philosophy has never changed or varied: Give ’em what they like and how they like it. Finishing up his tale, Thalberg, a Jew, said to Hammett, “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is one very smart Kike.”

Getting a meeting with L.B. was extremely difficult, unless of course you were one of M-G-M’s major stars. Creating stars—actresses and actors people liked to look at—along with making uplifting stories—these manufacturing principles were Mayer’s great contributions to the movie business. Unless you were Garbo or Harlow, Gable or Crawford, you’d have to stand at the end of a very long line to hear back from Mayer’s office. Meeting with L.B. happened when L.B. required a meeting.

Hammett called Mayer’s secretary, Elise Weiss, early in the morning. She asked what the meeting would pertain to; he said he’d rather discuss that with Mr. Mayer. Did it relate to a project in which he was presently involved? Hammett gave the same response. Would he wish to discuss it with Mr. Selznick or Mr. Gelb? The same.

There was no return call.

L.B.’
S DAUGHTER
I
RENE
was married to David O. Selznick, M-G-M’s vice-president for production, Mayer’s right hand. Hammett, when he heard news of the marriage, likened the match to betrothing the Infanta of Spain to the Duke of
Burgundy, a marriage made in the best political interests of Metro. Selznick’s role was to keep things rolling. In a different factory he’d have been in charge of making sure the production line never stopped.

At luncheon in the garden of the Flamingo Restaurant about a month after
The Children’s Hour
opened in New York, Irene Mayer Selznick came over to Lillian’s table to tell her how much she admired the play, not only for its artistry but for her courage in taking on such a taboo subject. Lillian was polite, appreciative, and grateful. This was after all the boss’s daughter, the underboss’s wife.

Irene turned the subject to Hammett by inquiring about his health. Fine, he’s fine. Oh, I’m just curious, haven’t seen him around for a while. “When he’s busy writing, Irene dear, even I don’t get to see very much of him.”

Irene Selznick’s eyes locked on Lilly’s: “I do hope he’s writing well. David would hate to lose him, such a brilliant man.” A warning, the reason Irene came over in the first place.

“Thank you, Irene. We get the message loud and clear. Dash is drinking a lot less these days.”

“I certainly never meant to imply …”

Lilly had heard the rumors even back in New York. As a
Thin Man
script got closer to deadline, Hammett wrote less and less of it. Fixers had to be hired. They even brought Phil Edmunds in to help out. Hammett got paid to the very end, though the final two checks came late. All Lilly said to Dash about the meeting was, “Saw Selznick’s wife today.
I think you’ve got some fences to mend. Why not sit down with David?”

“My business is with L.B.”

“How much longer do your contracts run?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

Lillian walked into the kitchen and said back, “We don’t need them. We can go to New York. You’ve got your novel. I’ve got my play. And it’s New York, Dash, not this fucking painted desert.”

“Speak for yourself, sister. There is no novel. I need this goose to keep laying.”

E
LISE SHOWED ME IN
, indicated where she wanted me to sit, but the large sunlit room was empty. I assured her I’d be fine all by myself. It was important I be standing when the great man strolled in, if the great man strolled in. She was not comfortable leaving me alone in here, and of course she was right to distrust me. I paced the length of the room, kicked the deep pile, looked out the high wall of windows to the back lot. Mayer’s desk top was very large, highly polished, and displayed three sets of my contract. I was certainly supposed to see them there. It was possible someone was watching me; just in case that was so, I offered a tourist’s wave to a large mirror on the wall.

More than the sheer size and grandeur of the office, adorned with photos of all its stars under golden lettering—M
ORE
S
TARS THAN
H
EAVEN
—M-G-M, more than the staging and manipulation, more impressive than anything, was Mayer. I reminded myself that this was an estimable man, a self-made man—not admirable, estimable—a Jewish immigrant for whom the promise of the United States of America and corporate profitability had become one and the same. My job here was simple. Show him how I could make the company even more money.

Mayer blew in as though he’d just come a long distance especially to see me. Both his smile and his strong handshake betrayed too much effort. This Republican may have hated FDR but he sure as hell looked like him, the smile, the silvering hair combed straight back, the same rimless glasses. “Been meaning to talk to you for quite a while, Dash.” Like so many successful immigrants, he took pains to enunciate clearly and correctly—a bit too much so. Still, you couldn’t miss the Eastern European
esh
in his
Dash
, the
ean
in
been
.

“Sit there, there, if you will, away from the desk, so we can be comfortable. I’ve wanted to have this talk ever since I read your first book. Time we cleared the air.”

He hadn’t read any of my books. “I feel the same way, Mr. Mayer.”

“Tell me, Hammutt, how old are you, forty, forty-five?”

“If those are my choices, I’ll take forty.”

“Funny. You realize that a man your age, with your accomplishments, shouldn’t have to call anyone
Mr
. What do you and your Lillian call me when you’re alone?”

“You wouldn’t want to know, sir.”

“Clever, very clever. Very smart. ‘L.B.’ would be fine.” Mayer took out some lemon Lifesavers and offered me one while getting to the point: “Did you see the numbers for
The Thin Man
?”

“Actually, I haven’t. Been too busy writing plots for possible sequels.” I managed to laugh in such a way that what I said might be taken seriously or as a joke.

“Surprising numbers. Yes, of course we’ll consider a sequel. The question: Are you really up to it?”

I flexed my arm like Popeye the Sailor, or Hemingway bending a spoon.

“There were some stories, some not-so-good reports about pages coming in late or not at all on the first script.” Mayer mimed downing a shot glass. “We can’t have that. I can’t allow that.”

“You’ve got my word on that, L.B.”

“Word’s not good enough on something like this, I’m afraid.” Mayer smiled to indicate just how serious he was about the matter. “I’m going to offer a new contract. Same money but with penalties if you miss delivery dates. Legal tells me I can do this. A handshake and we’re almost done here. So what do you say?”

I could do nothing but offer my hand.

Mayer sat back in his armchair. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Not necessary.”

“They tell me you’re a very erudite man, no schooling, like me, but very erudite. I admire that. I learned more about human nature trying to get an empty boiler out of a basement and onto a truck than I could have learned at Harvard, believe me. And you, you got your education at Pinkerton’s, am I right?”

“More or less.”

“Ever do any union busting for them?”

“I was strictly homicides, kidnappings, bank jobs.” It wasn’t true but it sounded good, even to me.

“Unions, the hell with them, I say. They get any kind of foothold here and we’re all in the crap. What do you think of that?” He looked into my eyes.

I knew instinctively not to look away and said, “I think we may disagree on that one, L.B., but then again I don’t run a major American corporation. I’m just an ink-stained wretch.”

“Baloney. Not what I hear. I hear you’re about the smartest guy in this place. And that’s a consensus of opinion. You see, I’ve asked around, heh, heh.”

I suspected this silliness was leading someplace serious. I was wrong.

“So let me ask you as an erudite man, Hammutt, what do you think about Shakespeare? For the movies, I mean.” Mayer made a sour face as though to indicate the response he expected.

I warmed to the subject quickly. “I’ll try to keep this short, L.B.—you’re busy—but my view of Shakespeare is just a bit unconventional. I don’t see him as the great artistic and philosophical genius upon which all Western literature is based, not the man everyone has to read in order to be considered truly educated. That’s not my Shakespeare.”

“So tell me your Shakespeare?”

“My Shakespeare is a genius, yes, but a genius of production and presentation because he could tell a story that packed them in his
own
theater, that packed them
all
in—the peasants, the merchants, the aristocrats. A genius of the storytelling business. And what really made him a man for the ages, L.B., was that he had to be successful against the toughest competition, had to sell more tickets than any of his competitors, and he did it by telling better stories, putting on better plays, providing better entertainment. He didn’t set out to make
art
; he set out to be a successful showman.” I refrained from saying “Like you.” “So just find whatever his audiences liked and adapt it for
your
audience and you’re in business.”

Mayer’s face had unknotted when I mentioned Shakespeare’s success in selling tickets, but he certainly wasn’t completely sold. I couldn’t wait to tell Lilly what I thought I had pulled off. She’d absolutely piss herself.

“But it’s such gloomy stuff. You kill your father. A black man strangles his wife. This guy is cursed by witches and kills everyone in sight. Who needs it! I want people leaving happy so they know where to come to be happy again.”

I snuffled a laugh as I was supposed to. “Of course he knew most people didn’t want gloom and doom all the time. That’s why he wrote comedies too.”

“Yeah, but would they be funny today?”

“With the right actors, the right director. Absolutely.”

“You could work on something like this, you could find the time?”

“I’d give my eyeteeth and my molars.”

“What would be a good one to start with?”

“
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. Ideal for us …”

“That’s what David thinks too. This is all his idea. Not mine. I’ll have him call you today. I’m still not sold. He didn’t like Jews. Doesn’t he have this Jewish guy who has pickpockets all over the place and lends out money for a pound of flesh?”

Dickens’s Fagin and Shakespeare’s Shylock had become a despicable Semite in Mayer’s mind. “There are no Jews in
Midsummer Night’s Dream
.”

“Still. Shakespeare, who needs him?”

Louis B. Mayer stood. The meeting was over.

A
FTER THE MEETING
Hammett needed some time to sit with a drink and evaluate what had just happened to him. He’d have preferred to do it alone, but lunch with Lilly would
have been almost as good since she asked such sharp questions. Neither was about to happen because as he left Mayer’s office, Nick Charles, the Thin Man—William Powell himself—was coming out of Selznick’s office. “This is impossible,” Powell said. “We were just talking about you. I uttered your name not ten seconds ago. My, my, my.” The style was inimitable on screen or off. “Unless …” He grabbed Hammett’s arm. “… unless this is a setup and they’ve got you tailing me.”

“Not unless you’re planning to jump over to Warners with all our secrets. Even then I’d never jeopardize my only meal ticket.”

Powell was now patting Hammett’s shoulder: “
Your
meal ticket! Hardly that. Where’d I ever find another character this perfect? No, no,
au contraire
, wouldn’t want you killing him off for some ungodly reason.”