The Slipper (65 page)

“Marty Katzman will be here in twenty minutes,” Helga told her.

“Bully for him,” Julie retorted.

Helga gave her a worried look and left the room. Julie smiled. She didn't know why she was smiling. She wanted to cry. She wanted to bawl like a baby. She crushed out her cigarette and promptly lighted another one and then she wandered aimlessly through the beautiful rooms of the beautiful house with its beautiful furniture. The studio had leased the house for her and the studio had provided the furniture and the studio had hired her servants. She was a tiny fragile animal inside a luxurious shell that wasn't hers at all and she wanted out. She wanted to run away. She wanted a drink. No, she told herself. I will have one glass of white wine for lunch and one glass of wine for dinner, and that's all. I am not going to let them turn me into an alcoholic, and I am not going to let them turn me into a junkie, either. The doctor said I
needed
the tranquilizers, but I'm not going to take them. I'm not going to take anything. Not after Arizona.

Julie wandered into the spacious living room with its plush white carpet, its creamy white walls, pale blue satin drapes and glass-and-chrome tables and sofas and chairs upholstered in pale blue and pale violet satin, a set created especially for her by one of the studio decorators, everything provided, right down to the silver lamps and crystal ashtrays and the mauve-and-gray abstracts hanging on the walls. A shell. It's not mine. The liquor cabinet was white with silver trim, crystal decanters on top, bottles and glasses inside. Gin. Scotch. Vodka. Julie had discovered vodka in Arizona. It helped counteract the pills. The “vitamins.” They had given her an immediate lift and she had been charged with energy, raring to go, and she did her job and then the pills turned on her and she was so edgy she wanted to scream and climb the walls and the vodka helped then. How many bottles had she consumed there on the desert? Two dozen? Three?

Arizona had been a nightmare from the beginning. Just thinking about it made her shudder. They were staying in a sleazy motel, it was the only accommodation they could find for cast and crew, and every morning they had to climb into jeeps and drive out into the desert. Sand. Cactus. Scorpions. Blazing lights. The role was physically rigorous and demanding, mentally and emotionally demolishing, and it took every ounce of energy and stamina she had to get through each day. She was the only female in the cast. After work was over for the day, there was no one to turn to. Jeff Hunter hadn't wanted to be in the picture, either, and although he was a charming fellow and a competent actor, he had not given his all and it was difficult to play well against someone who held back and refused to give. There were minor confrontations the press blew up into a full-fledged feud. Ray Danton and Neville Brand were both pros and both played to the hilt and in their zeal they had roughed her up considerably. It was great for the camera but hell on Julie. For two solid weeks she had been terrorized by the villains, bound, gagged, brutalized, raped, and she had returned to the motel each evening a trembling, nervous wreck.

The panic attacks began. Her mouth turned dry and her heart began to palpitate and her hands shook and her legs trembled and she was terrified and the doctor told her it was just stress, there was nothing wrong with her heart and she wasn't going to collapse. He gave her vitamins to keep her going and tranquilizers to calm her down and it didn't get better, it got worse. The vodka helped. There was a liquor store two blocks from the motel and she became its best customer, walking back to the motel with a brown paper bag full of fifths of hundred-proof vodka. Oblivion in the evenings. Hangovers in the morning. Hell during the day, losing her temper, snapping at Jeff, arguing with the director, blowing her lines, acting irrational, not herself at all yet giving an inspired performance the studio agreed was her best to date. Originally slated as a B western,
Fury in Leather
was going to be released as a major picture with full studio support and promotion behind it.

Julie had first noticed the man in the pickup truck four weeks into filming. She had paid no mind at first, but every time she stepped outside he was there, watching her. He had a notebook. He wrote things down. He had a camera. He took pictures of her. One evening Neville Brand stopped by her room to see how she was feeling. He had slapped her around all day and had twisted her arm brutally, as directed. Although the scene had been carefully choreographed for them by the stunt coordinator and Brand had tried his best not to hurt her, he feared he might have wrenched her arm. Julie asked him in for a drink. Although a sullen brute in most of his screen roles, offscreen Brand was a good-natured chap with a raucous sense of humor and much personal charm, a hardworking pro admired by all who worked with him. She confessed that her arm felt a little sore but assured him that he had given a tremendous performance, making it so much easier for her to give a convincing one herself. They had a drink and Julie stepped outside with him and Neville gave her a friendly hug before going back to his own room. There had been a flash. Neville hadn't noticed, but Julie was certain someone had taken a picture of them and she was convinced she knew who it was.

But why?

Somehow she had managed to finish the film, returning to L.A. a complete wreck, her nerves in shambles. She stopped taking the pills immediately. She knew what they were doing to her. She stopped drinking the vodka and limited herself to white wine, tapering off as much as possible. The man in the pickup truck seemed part of the nightmare of Arizona and she forgot about him completely until she took Danny to Farmer's Market for lunch and saw the same man watching her and she was terrified then and felt another panic attack building and hurried Danny through lunch and drove home as soon as possible. Jim came to visit and she told him about the man and she could tell that he thought she was being paranoid. Maybe Jim was right, Julie thought now, gazing around the sumptuous living room. Maybe I am cracking up. I'm so tired. So tired. I'm falling apart, and I don't know how I'm going to make it through the day, much less next week, next month. How am I going to make it through my meeting with Marty and the photo session and the interview with that dreadful Parsons woman without … I can't.

I need a drink. Just one small vodka. Just one can't hurt.

Julie started toward the liquor cabinet and she had almost opened it when she realized what she was doing. You're
not
a lush, she told herself. You're not going to let them do to you what they did to Gail Russell. She turned and sank down onto the plush violet sofa, trembling, thinking of the beautiful and tragic young actress who had died last August. A sensitive and poignant beauty with soft black hair and deep-blue eyes, Russell had been a star during the mid-forties and early fifties, and in an interview she had once complained she had no time to think, to relax and take stock. The extreme pressure of her career and the failure of her marriage to actor Guy Madison had started her on a self-destructive downslide. An affair with costar John Wayne had culminated in scandalous headlines when Wayne's wife, Esperanza, had named Russell in her divorce suit. Hollywood is lenient on its men, hard on its women. Wayne went on to even greater glory. With the exception of a few minor films, Russell's career was over. Vodka was solace for her, too. When they found her body on the floor of her hundred-and-thirty-dollar-a-month apartment she was surrounded by empty vodka bottles. She had apparently died of starvation. She was thirty-six years old.

Shortly before her death, Gail Russell had made a film at the studio,
The Silent Call
. It was about a boy and his dog, Russell playing the boy's mother. Newly arrived from New York to do
The Slipper
, Julie had met her in makeup one day, a sad-eyed ghost of her former self but still heartbreakingly lovely. “You're not cut out for this business,” Russell told her. “You're sensitive, like me, I can see it in your eyes. You feel too much, too deeply. I did too, once.” Julie had been extremely embarrassed and uncomfortable as the actress whose movies she had seen on television continued to stare at her with those haunted blue eyes. “Don't let them do to you what they did to me,” Russell said in her husky alcoholic voice. Julie never saw her again. Apparently that had been her last day at the studio. She forgot about the incident until she read about Russell's death a few weeks later. It had upset her greatly, and she had never forgotten those words the actress had said to her. She remembered them now, remembered the husky voice, the sad, sad eyes.

I'm not going to let them, she vowed silently. I'm not.

I've been in Hollywood a year and a half and look at me. Look at me. I have a heart full of love, so much love to give, and I'm living in a beautiful shell and they wind me up and set me into motion and I perform like a good little girl and if I don't they slap my wrists, they threaten me with suspension. You're not too big, sweetheart. Keep in line and do as you're told or we show you who's boss, we put you on suspension, we put you in a western and send you to Arizona. We own you, Julie baby. We
love
you. We want you to be happy. You do exactly what we say and everything'll be peachy-keen. We know what's best for you, baby. The results prove that. Four films, two of 'em not even released yet, and you're the biggest thing in pictures.

I don't want to be the biggest thing in pictures. I don't want to
be
in pictures.

“Here you are,” Helga said tersely.

Julie looked up, startled. Helga stood in the doorway, tapping her foot impatiently.

“Yes?” Julie said.

“I've been searching all over for you, Miss Hammond. Have you forgotten Mr. Katzman?”

“I'd like to,” Julie retorted.

Helga arched a brow at that. “He's waiting for you in the study,” she said. “He's been waiting for over ten minutes.”

Let the son of a bitch wait. I know why he's here. I know what he wants me to do.

“I'll be right there,” she said.

Marty Katzman was the sharpest agent in the business. Marty Katzman kindly agreed to represent her when the head of the studio recommended him. Sonia had represented her in New York, of course, but Sonia hated Hollywood and told Julie she was making a terrible mistake, leaving the theater, and Sonia washed her hands of her. Marty was short and rather dumpy and wore natty, expensive suits and black horn-rimmed glasses. He had very thick, curly black hair and an ingratiating smile that would have made a shark turn around and swim in the opposite direction. He smiled it as Julie stepped into the study. He looked askance at her lack of makeup, her old white blouse and brown skirt.

“Julie, baby, how
are
you?”

“I'm fine, Marty.”

“Don't you have a photo session this afternoon?” he inquired.

“I believe I do.”

“And an interview with Parsons afterwards, right?”

“Right,” Julie said.

“I don't want to upset you, baby, but you look a fright. You're going to have to do something about that before they arrive. We can't let them see you looking less than your best, particularly Parsons. It's taken a lot of persuasion to bring her around.”

Fuck you, Marty.

“The studio is sending over a makeup man and a hairdresser at one,” she said.

Marty looked relieved. “I worry about you, sweetheart.”

“I know you do, Marty. You love me like a daughter. You've told me so more times than I can remember.”

“I do, doll. You've very special to me. A lot of clients I represent, I care zilch about. You're different. You always have been. That's why I've busted my ass, watching out for you, seeing you get everything you deserve. I want what's best for you, Julie.”

“It seems to me I've heard that before.”

“It's true,” he assured her.

“Then why did I spend eight weeks in Arizona?”

“Julie, baby, they're
wild
about that picture. They're giving it one of the most expensive promotions since
The Robe
. I've seen the rough cut. Your performance—” Marty sighed and shook his head. “Words fail me, It's another Oscar for sure.”

I've never liked you, Marty. Never. I've been meek and docile all these months and I've listened to your bullshit, knowing it's bullshit, knowing you're in league with the studio, their tool. Why? What's wrong with me? Am I really the spineless little fool you all take me to be?

“You read the script they sent over?” he asked.

“I read it,” she said dryly.

“A great script. Great. A fantastic part for you. They're gonna shoot it in black-and-white. Arty. A serious film, full of meaning, full of punch. The public's gonna love it, of course, but this one's gonna wow the critics as well. Pauline Kael's gonna have an orgasm in print. This one's gonna go down in the books as one of the classics.”

“It's not
Citizen Kane
, Marty,” Julie said. “It's the story of an uneducated young country girl who falls in love with a handsome, smooth-talking ex-con, goes on a crime spree with him, shoots a policeman during a bank robbery, is captured and ends up in the electric chair. It's pure pulp fiction, tarted up with high-flown, second-rate Clifford Odets dialogue.”

“Baby!” He was aghast.

“I won't do it,” she told him.

“
Elude Me, Sweet Death
is a masterpiece, greatest script I've read in all my years in this crazy business. Half the actresses in Hollywood are fighting for this part.”

“
Elude Me, Sweet Death
is pretentious trash. Half the actresses in Hollywood are welcome to the part. I'd suggest Mamie Van Doren. It's the sort of thing she's been doing lately, minus the pseudointellectual dialogue.”

“I can't believe I'm hearing this,” Marty said.

“Believe it.”

“The studio wants you for this one, doll. They had you in mind when they bought the novel and had it adapted. The whole script's been tailored to your talent, your sensitivity. We can't pass this one up, Julie. It's too important. Filming starts next month and guess who they're trying to get to costar with you. They're trying to get Newman.”