The Stand-In (3 page)

Would any other mother play a dirty trick like that on her own kid? Not that his mother put it that way. She called it not fooling around with nature. Did
she
fool around with nature? (Never sick a day. Strong as a horse.) Wait. All in good time, she said. His voice would change all in good time. Sure,
she
could wait!

That anger began to work on him watching them all fawning around Coral Reid's kid. Would any other mother have pulled the My-Oh-My Club thing? When, late, at sixteen, he had shot up to six feet, no more work. A six-footer couldn't play a kid, and with his voice he couldn't get a line in any picture. That was when an old-timer in Hollywood told his mother about this Julian Eltinge who had been a famous female impersonator. When Desmond had been dumb enough to let her see him “do” Coral Reid, that was all his mother needed. (It was because Coral Reid had just married Bran, because he knew Bran wasn't fit to kiss her feet. So he got stoned and “did” Coral Reid in an old dress of his mother's and that was
it
.) If he couldn't be Bran Collier he could be Julian Eltinge.

They left California and went to New Orleans—the Paris of America! His mother actually got a job in Kline's, an antique shop on Royal Street. What his mother knew about antiques you could put on the head of a pin, but her English accent sounded good to the tourists, or else she serviced Mr. Kline; probably both, he thought.

What other mother would tell her son he was a square for saying he'd rather be shot than be a female impersonator? How about Julian Eltinge? He was an actor, wasn't he? Desmond still wanted to be an actor, didn't he? Female impersonation was only acting. So instead of acting a man, he'd be playing a woman. All actors used to play women in Shakespeare. (What did
she
know about Shakespeare?) Being such a good actor, he would wow them. Why, this was his chance! Someone might see him! A big director!

If he made such a big stink about being a man, what kind of man lived off his old mother? (The first time she had supported him, but she forgot that. She always said there was nothing left of all his money, but he knew about her bank accounts.)

She went to the My-Oh-My Club and then there was no holding her. All he had to do was audition and he'd have the number-one spot in the show, which needed something new. She had it all worked out. He would do a singing striptease.

Maybe when his mother got the great idea she knew, maybe she didn't, how the others on the bill would hate his guts for not being one of them and how far their jealousy would go. Because he was an actor, he was much better at their stuff than they were. He was the one the suckers went for, and the others knew he could really make it really big anywhere as a female impersonator and couldn't believe he didn't want to. Jesus, how it had bugged him! The better he was at it, the more it bugged him. He got goose pimples every show when the M.C. in his blue evening dress finally handed him out with only a jock on to prove to the suckers he really was a man.

Maybe when his mother got the great idea she really believed the line she sold him about it being his big chance, but after hearing even his cleaned-up version of how they ganged up on him, after seeing the shiv he had to carry, wouldn't any other mother have begged him to get the hell out? But no, by that time Mr. Kline had told her she could buy into the business, and since he could pull down all that bread at the Club, she begged him to stay on for her sake, for his poor old mum. Her only concession had been driving out to the Club nights after the last show, and that was only because she couldn't take his throwing away six bucks taxi fare. The My-Oh-My Club was all the hell out by Lake Pontchartrain. The one thing he wasn't about to do was get a lift home with the others. He would rather go into a cage of lions than do that, so his mother had to call for him like a kid. She, of course, needed the car evenings to go round trying to pick up stuff for the antique shop when people were home, so he couldn't have it, and two cars were out of the question. Natch. How could she buy into Kline's and have a comfortable old age if they had to keep up two cars?

The My-Oh-My Club, Jesus, that cruddy, crummy barn with the shaky little tables with chairs that didn't match, always in darkness not only to hide the crumminess but because the show was so raw the suckers didn't want to be spotted there. The piano was always too loud because the others sang falsetto and needed all the help they could get. They had the worst set of traps south of Canada—and then the pansy waiters—but he pitied them, the musicians; even, when they weren't riding him, the “girls.” It was the suckers he hated. Most of them were on the six-dollar tour. They got in all the New Orleans hot spots and had to buy one drink in each. Most of them nursed the one drink and drank him instead. They sucked him into their foul mouths, they dirtied him with their dirty teeth.

Enough of that. That had finished the night in January just before the twelve-thirty show when he was called to the telephone. It was in the entrance to the Club and he was still in drag, in the pink sequin-and-chiffon he wore for the striptease, and that night it was freezing, one of those wild nights when the wind made the water come over the wall of the lake and splashed the customers on their way in and out. That was why she wasn't coming out to get him, didn't feel well, she said. She knew he didn't have a buck on him. (You didn't leave cash lying around the dressing room.) She knew he couldn't pay cabfare, she knew he'd have to ask for a ride back, but still she wouldn't come and get him. He blew his top.

He noticed this customer standing near the telephone waiting for his car to be brought up from the parking lot, or for a taxi, but he was so damned sore at his mother that he blew his top anyway. When he hung up, the customer came over and started talking. He didn't listen, taking him for one of
them
trying to make out. Like always, he just said, look, he worked here, just worked here, he wasn't one of the boys.

“My dear young man, I know that! I overheard your conversation, remember. It's
because
I know that—”

The English accent came through, and then he did listen. (Before he came to London he had thought of himself as British.) This man, this doctor told him he was from London and was in New Orleans to give a talk at a medical convention. He wasn't at the Club as a tourist, but because his specialty was voice. Dr. Wilson then gave him his card and said there was a doctor in New York City worked with voice, too, only he couldn't recollect his name. He said to write him and he would not only send him the name, but would contact this doctor about him. In a couple of lessons, Dr. Wilson said, he could teach him to pitch his voice so it came out from two to six tones deeper. Did it all the time, and so could this New York City doctor.

The card said Harley Street, and Desmond didn't know then that this was like Park Avenue except better. Harley Street was London and London was England and England (he thought then) was home sweet home and the English theater was where he wanted to be and if this doc could really fix his voice, why not? Why not—he almost shook the doc's hand off!

That night, during the twelve-thirty show he got the idea, and that night he didn't mind singing, didn't give a shit about the tourists' dirty eyes, no goose pimples when they yelled, “Take it off! Take it off!” He asked “the girls” for a ride back, and they all looked at each other, then Fat Georgie said, okay, sure. Maybe if in the dressing room he hadn't taken out the shiv and cleaned his nails with it they would have tried something in the car, maybe not, maybe he'd had them all wrong. Anyhow, they didn't try a thing, and he used the shiv only on himself after they dropped him off near his place. He cut the back of his left hand and smeared the blood over his face and his shirt, then went in and woke his mother.

There was a box of tissues by her bed, but he could tell by her breathing she had no more cold than he had. He put on the light so she got a good look at him with the blood smears and his hand mucky with blood. It was her fault, he said. He had warned her they would jump him if they got the chance, and in the car tonight they got their chance.

He had had to use his shiv and Fat Georgie, he said, was on his way to the hospital now. (Fat Georgia.)

“Oh, Desmond! Oh, Desmond! Oh, Desmond!”

He told her “Oh, Desmond” wasn't going to help, to get dressed and they'd ride around until the bank opened. She could draw out what she had and drop him at the airport. He didn't know how bad off Fat Georgie was but it was bad enough, and she knew what kind of story all of them would give the cops. They all stuck together, she knew that.

“Desmond, oh, Desmond!” But she didn't put up any argument, not that she deserved credit. Believing he'd knifed Fat Georgie, she knew damn well that lawyers to defend him would
cost
, plus her friends would find out what she'd made her son do to earn money for her because, he noticed, she never told anyone about his striptease. She never mentioned the My-Oh-My Club, the name never crossed her lips.

When she did get to the bank and handed over six thousand seven hundred sixty-five bucks, most of which he had earned, he figured they were even. He was an Englishman going back to England, until he got there, anyhow, because it turned out, birth certificate or not, he was no Britisher. She had made him a female impersonator and by taking him to Hollywood when he wasn't even seven she had also made him a British impersonator.

Dr. Wilson on Harley Street had taken care of his voice and except when he got excited and forgot, he sounded like a man, but although his accent was okay, he was no Englishman. She had made him nothing.

And he still was nothing, the nothing assistant in Cyril's pansy antique shop. He had met Cyril in Kline's antique shop in New Orleans. (Cyril bought stuff there that did better in London, and Mr. Kline bought from Cyril.) Desmond had talked to Cyril about going to London someday because there you could beat the star system, and Cyril said to look him up. He had looked Cyril up and now he was helping out until the repertory theater in Liverpool had the opening they'd promised him. Working for Cyril had led to Ronnie Ashton and Ronnie had led to Boy. (Desmond's gut twisted.) Ronnie had come to the shop to collect his cut for getting Cyril the job decorating the Victorian house for the movie. The house belonged to Ronnie's aunts, and since Cyril had a big collection of Victoriana and knew where he could get whatever else was wanted, Ronnie suggested Cyril to Mr. Ossian.

Cyril was out when Ronnie strolled in, but he said if Desmond didn't mind he'd wait around because, actually, he'd been counting on the money for dinner.

Naturally Desmond had offered to lend Ronnie eating money and Ronnie had said okay, thanks, if he would be Ronnie's guest. So while they were eating, Desmond mentioned that he didn't know London and would like to, the “in” places. Ronnie laughed and said he knew them only because he—
pause
—escorted—
pause
—ladies to them. (He meant he was a kind of gigolo.) He didn't escort too many ladies, because husbands preferred escorts to be on the queer side. Ronnie had looked at him then, and Desmond thought maybe he was going to say he could put
him
on to jobs like that, so he made it very plain he was a straight even though he was temporarily working for Cyril.

That evening Ronnie agreed that if he acted as guide, Desmond could pick up the tab. (The first time Ronnie had chosen La Gavroche in Lower Sloane Street, It was a new restaurant, and Desmond was out eleven pounds for two courses and the bottle of wine Ronnie had chosen, but even though Ronnie had never been there before, they got a good table and the kind of service that meant they knew Ronnie was somebody even if they didn't know who.) Ronnie had acted really interested in Desmond, and after a while he even told Ronnie about Hollywood and Bran and his voice. It turned out a psychoanalyst would have been cheaper. Ronnie gargled double whiskeys like water, but Desmond picked up the tabs and would have gone on picking them up because—okay, corny, he thought after a while, Ronnie was his friend.

And then he made the big mistake. Okay, he was stoned, but even so he should have had more sense. He told Ronnie about the My-Oh-My Club, about the songs and the striptease. He told him about the bikini and turning his back so the tourists could see the phosphorescent hands in back, one on each side, and about the finish, too. Dimwit, dope, to tell Ronnie how he'd worked up his imitation of Coral Reid as a put-down.

Ronnie said he didn't believe him. He'd seen Coral Reid in films. Show him, Ronnie said.

So they went to Ronnie's place. (He was living with some bird.) Desmond made up with the bird's make-up and put her clothes on and “did” Coral Reid, so it was his own damn fault Ronnie got the big idea.

And he had fallen for it.

Ronnie asked did he know who Boy Flyte-Martin was. Yes, but not
a
director,
the
director. Rich enough to put on what he liked, when and where he wanted to. Boy, Ronnie said, was big for Shakespeare, and maybe Desmond's mother might have had something. Maybe Boy might be interested in doing one of the Shakespeare comedies the way they had been done, with men playing the women's parts. Ronnie would talk to the Honorable Boy about it.

Then he said he had talked to the Honorable Boy about it, but Boy didn't believe that Desmond wasn't camping or vulgar. Would Desmond show Boy?

He had agreed to show Boy. He hired the outfit and learned some of the Rosalind speeches from
As You Like It
and Ronnie drove him to Boy's house in his yellow Jag. Right after they got there, Ronnie went to the john and didn't come back. It turned out that Boy didn't want to hear him do Rosalind, he didn't want Shakespeare, he wanted Desmond. Big joke! But the joke turned out to be on Boy, too. Boy had this cane with this funny-shaped gold head. He told Desmond about the cane; it was for protection and pleasure. It was weighted for protection and shaped for pleasure. Well, Desmond had shown Boy. Before Boy's bodyguard pulled him off, he had beaten Boy, but good.