I was in bed—which IS where I usually am at ten o'clock in
the morning—when the phone rang.
"What's with you? This is Nellie." As though it was
necessary to tell me who it was with that croak for a voice,
even if she did wake me up. I lit a cigarette because she
liked to talk for a long time and so do I and she was paying
for the call and I didn't have anything else to do.
"I'm still in bed."
"Well, do you think you could get that long lean brownness
the hell out of that bed for a job?"
"How much? It's a nice bed."
"Twenty-five a day for maybe three days or more. Of course,
if you're not interested, I got a book full of youth and
beauty right here at my elbow."
"If it's more of those smoker pictures, the answer is no."
"Now, Timmy, darling, you know that wasn't my fault. They
told me that short was only for advertising purposes.
Besides, the money was good."
"Well, I don't need that kind of advertising yet. What's the
gag this time?"
"Can you be in my office in an hour?"
"Tell me now."
"I tell you nothing till you sign Nellie's little receipt
book. Do you or don't you?"
"Make it an hour and a half?"
"Who's there with you?"
"Nobody," I said. "And besides, what's it to you?"
"If there's nobody there, you can make it in an hour. Eleven
sharp. Those are my last words." And she banged up the receiver.
Twenty-five bucks a day for three days…that must be a
picture… maybe I can get a close-up… be nice to the
cameraman and the assistant director… one good close-up… who
knows what might happen? Once more into the breach, dear
friends…
So I got up, showered and started to get dressed. Thank God
I had a clean shirt and my suit had just been pressed,
because for twenty-five bucks a day, no matter what tricks
Nellie was cooking up for me, I had to be good. I got into
my gray double-breasted, which is one of my two answers to a
couple of my more unkind friends that I have got another
suit besides a dinner jacket. I did look through the pockets
of my evening clothes to see how much money I had. There was
nine dollars and some change together with match folders
from the Barberry Room, the Stork and the Ruban Bleu. Diana,
the woman I'd been out with last night, and I had certainly
been on the town. I had to get this job of Nellie's or I was
going to be very, very hungry in a couple of days.
I put the money in my pocket and the folders in the bureau
drawer where I save the ones from the tonier places. It
sometimes impresses people when you're trying to get a job
if you pull out one from the Stork or "21." I finished
dressing and put on my coat and hat and went out.
The rooming house where I live was nicknamed the Casbah by
one of the inmates after seeing that Boyer movie a long time
ago and the name stuck. It's just off, but not quite far
enough off, Sheridan Square and on Saturday nights when the
visiting firemen make a tour of Greenwich Village—which
usually means Jimmy Kelly's or a couple of the joints on
Fourth Street—we get the usual drunks being sick in the
vestibule or ringing the bell and asking for Marge. The
Casbah like most rooming houses usually has a couple of
transient Marges in spite of the professional jealousy of
Helga who runs it, but on a Saturday night the Marges can
pick their own drunks.
In the hall I ran into Kendall Thayer, who promptly hit me
for a couple of bucks and I, like a dope, let him have them.
Whenever I get really depressed, which isn't often because I
have a lot of little tricks worked out to keep it from
happening, I think of Kendall Thayer. He's a
but-for-the-grace-of-God-there-I-go lad. He's me in
corn-starch. Years ago he was a very famous silent picture
leading man with a swimming pool and the works, but the
bottle moved in and the works moved out, and now he's ended
up just another lush in the smallest and cheapest room in
the Casbah, and, believe me, that's small and cheap.
Like the rest of us, he feels that a break is just around
the corner, the break that will get him another movie
contract and put him right back up there. After all, he
says, C. Aubrey Smith and Edmund Gwenn can't live forever,
just as I say that Tyrone Power and Hank Fonda and Gregory
Peck weren't born on a movie set, and people lent them dimes
to eat in their day, too.
Kendall manages to get odd jobs once in a while with radio
audience-participation shows where they have plants in the
studio. He usually gets five bucks a throw and six cakes of
soap or a carton of breakfast food, which he tries to peddle
to other people in the Casbah, but recently business has
been off all over town.
"You going out, Tim?" he asked me.
"Yeah, got a call," I said, dealing him out the two dollars.
That left me seven.
"Going to be out long?"
"I don't know. Hope it's for a job. Why?"
"I was just wondering if you'd let me have the key to your
door. I left your phone number and I'm expecting a call and
it's rather important. I'd prefer it didn't come over the
house phone." I could understand that because the only phone
besides mine in the Casbah is out in the hall and everybody
knows what is said over it even before the person talking.
So I said, "Sure. Here's the key, but don't mess with my
studs and cuff links." He gave me what, I am sure, back in
the silent days was famous as his rueful smile, and I went
on downstairs and out on the street.
I stopped at the Riker's on the corner of Sheridan Square
for orange juice and coffee and went down the subway hole at
exactly ten forty-five.
I took the uptown local to Fourteenth Street and closed my
eyes and prayed. If there's one thing that's going to drive
me nuts quicker than anything else, it's living on a local
subway stop.
I used to be able to treat it as a game. But now I've gotten
superstitious about it. It's become an omen, and can wreck
my whole day.
If, when I get to Fourteenth Street, which is an express
stop, and the express is waiting right there… it's a
red-letter day. Then all I have to do is run across the
platform and there I am at Times Square in two stops. But
when the local pulls in and there isn't an express there, I
start quietly blowing my top. It's ridiculous, I know, but
so is the superstition about whistling in dressing rooms or
saying the last line of a play in rehearsal. I don't suppose
I make or lose two minutes either way, but this subway
business when it doesn't work out right is the black cat
across my path, or the broken mirror. And today when I
decide I'll take a chance and change to an express, it gets
lost over in Brooklyn or someplace and I know of two locals,
at least, that beat me to Times Square. That was a sure sign
that today was going to be a not day and I should
have stayed in bed.
I got to Times Square nervous and mad and feeling like
saying to hell with Nellie and going over to one of the
flea-bag movies on Forty-second Street and giving my evil
omens time to cool off. I would have, too, except that I had
just seven bucks in the whole world, and twenty-five bucks
is twenty-five bucks.
So I walked up Times Square past the Paramount Theater
Building—which when I first came to New York was considered
a cathedral of the motion picture or something, but is now
just where high school kids play hookey with name bands. And
then on the corner of Forty-fourth Street, which I had to
pass to get to the Shubert Building and Nellie's office, was
Walgreen's Drug Store.
When you're in grammar school, there's always a Sweet Shop
or Pete's where you go after school and hang around. In prep
school or high school there's the Jigger Shop or Joe's or Ye
Sweete Shoppe, and in college there's the Den or Mike's, so
you might know that when you enroll in the theater there
would be some hangouts, too. There are, and one of them is
Walgreen's Drug Store. And it's the first rung on the
ladder. When you get a little bit better jobs you start
dropping in at Sardi's, and then, maybe the first time you
get billing, it's "21" and Toots Shor's or the Stork or
Morocco, and when you're tops it's the Colony at the right
table.
Anyhow, here's Walgreen's. I guess it's a good idea having a
place like that. Trying to get ahead in the theater is a
lonely business and any opportunity to huddle in groups is
gratefully received. But I didn't have time to huddle this
morning.
The little bar in Sardi's restaurant was empty except for
the bartender polishing glasses. After all, eleven o'clock
is a little early even for actors to start in—except the
ones that can't get out of bed without brushing their teeth
with a belt of gin, and they were still in bed… belting away.
Nellie's alleged office is across the street from Sardi's in
the Shubert Building, and Nick Stein with a couple of
polo-coated singers was already in the elevator when I got
on. Nick's an assistant press agent and runs a syndicated
gossip column in a lot of out-of-town newspapers. I give him
tips once in a while, and he mentions me once in a while and
also gives me ducats for shows he's handling, which are
useful for paying back obligations and, sometimes, you can
even sell them.
"What's with you, Tim?" Nick asked me. "Get any items? Did
you make the rounds last night?"
"Yeah," I said. "When I think of the ulcers I save you…" I
told him one I'd heard about the Broadway producer who'd
been clipped for plenty by three previous wives, so now,
every time he gave his current wife a present he actually
insisted she sign a paper saying it was hers only so long as
she was married to him. "How's that?"
"Not bad. Stop by the office with me, and I'll fix you up
for a show tonight." So I rode up to the tenth floor, and
Nick gave me three seats to one of his frantic flops one
jump ahead of the stop clause.
Coming back to the hall with the tickets, the indicator said
both elevators were on the ground floor, so it was quicker
to walk down to Nellie's office. Somebody else was on the
stairs a couple of flights below me. I couldn't see who it
was though I could hear shoes clanging on iron treads.
Whoever it was seemed to be in an awful hurry.
Nellie's roost consists of two connecting cubicles at the
end of the dark corridor. Waiting actors are the only ones
that ever use the tiny front room, except when Henry
Frobisher is producing a play and then Nellie gets grand and
installs a secretary who is usually some unemployed actor
working for peanuts on the chance that Nellie will get him a
job with Frobisher, which, of course, she never does.
The first room was empty when I opened the door and walked
in, which wasn't unusual because most people who make the
rounds have learned that Nellie doesn't show till after
lunch unless she's very busy and that's practically never.
By waving aside the stale cigarette smoke laced with gin
that hung from the ceiling like portieres, I could make out
Nellie leaning over her desk and I started to walk back to her.
I guess I must have said something silly, like "Boo! you
pretty creature." I usually do, but it didn't make any
difference whether I did or not because Nellie didn't hear
me. Nellie couldn't hear me. Nellie was dead.
I just stood there staring at her. She was flopped across
her desk and had filed herself about as neatly as anything
else in that rats' nest on her old-fashioned country
editor-type filing spindle. I could see the heavy
wrought-iron base of the spindle jutting out around the
edges of her right breast. There wasn't much blood, which is
probably the reason I didn't start heaving, because in the
army I developed sort of a thing about blood.
Nellie alive and kicking is nobody's dream girl. She's a
chiseler, an agent, a sharpie with a shady buck. She's fat
and sloppy and although she undoubtedly owns another dress,
I don't remember ever seeing her in any but this mottled
grayish-green job which bitchy actors are apt to swear
stopped being a dress years ago and now just grows on her
like moss. But all the same, I was kind of fond of her.
I felt for her pulse, which wasn't—and that's all. I've done
enough of those where-were-you-on-the-night-of bills in
summer stock to know better than to start juggling bodies
around now.
Lying open and almost hidden under one pudgy arm and doing
its bit toward helping her hair sop up the blood was
Nellie's Youth andBeauty Book, which was, besides the phone
and spindle, all of Nellie's office equipment. In it she
kept all the names of actors and producers she knew, listed
her appointments and stuffed it full of letters and bills.
She must have had it refilled every year because it always
had the same tooled leather cover.
Falling into the old first-act routine, I slid the book out
from under her arm and looked at the page for today. As I
figured, my name was down for an eleven o'clock appointment.
There were three other entries ahead of mine. One I knew
very well: Maggie Lanson. She was to be there at eleven,
too. Nellie was supposed to have been at Chez Ernest, the
chi-chi dress place at ten. The other name I couldn't
recognize. There were just initials for the last name. It
was Bobby LeB. and he had an appointment for ten-thirty.
That was all for the morning, but in the afternoon she was
to see Henry Frobisher at his office at three-thirty, and
she had a dinner date with a little ingenue around town I
knew, as who didn't, named Libby Drew.