RAY HAD BEEN WAITING for more than half an hour and was mad as a jilted rattlesnake. He hadn't had a one-on-one with the Colonel for nearly two years and it wasn't the kind of opportunity you blew by losing your temper. The whole idea was to intimidate you, make you feel you were nothing, so it was best to try to stay cool, pretend you didn't give a damn.
The self-important grandeur these studio bosses liked to surround themselves with would have been scary if it wasn't so ridiculous. The sweeping circular driveway, the stately trees and lawns, the imperial staircase, the acre of reception where, in a reverential hush, a tight-haired dragon in a suit and schoolmarm glasses sat guard at her desk. Coming to see Jack Warner was like having an audience with Mussolini.
Ray was sitting on one of the big couches, thumbing through the trade papers, doing his best to look relaxed. Every so often the intercom on the dragon's desk would buzz and she would pick up the phone and say Yes, Mr. Warner, of course, Mr. Warner. Then once in a while the door to the inner sanctum would open and out would trip one of the Colonel's luscious, tight-skirted secretaries to hand a package to the dragon. One of them, a blonde with big tits that the old devil had doubtless already had his hands on, flashed Ray a smile as she went back in. Jack Warner was pushing seventy but still chased almost any skirt that rustled. Word had it there was a secret door and staircase in his office so that aspiring young actresses could aspire more discreetly.
The dragon's buzzer sounded again and she picked up the phone.
"Yes, Mr. Warner, he is. I'll tell him."
She got up and walked over to Ray.
"Mr. Warner says to apologize, but his ten o'clock is running a little late. I'm sure they'll soon be through. Can I get you more coffee?"
"No, I'm good, thanks. Nice glasses."
"Thank you."
He tossed his paper onto the coffee table in front of him and picked up the glossy book of photographs he'd been trying to resist looking at. It had full-page pictures of Warner Brothers' stars, Bogart and Bergman, Jimmy Cagney, Errol Flynn, Henry Fonda, even some the studio had fallen out with and would happily have murdered, like Bette Davis. Toward the back was a thinner section devoted to TV stars, two per page, Clint Walker, James Garner, Ty Bronco Hardin, Will Hutchins from Sugarfoot. Ray thumbed on through it, with a knot slowly twisting in his gut. He couldn't believe it. The bastards had left him out. But no, at last, there he was. Tucked away at the back, after Rin Tin Tin.
He shut the book and tossed it back onto the table then went to the restroom to take a leak. He was still sore down there, where Diane had bent him. He washed his hands and checked himself in the mirror. Luckily, most of the damage she'd done didn't show, though one of her scratch marks was just visible above his collar. Jesus, he thought. What a night. He walked back to the lobby and sat down again to wait.
He hadn't intended to lie to her. No more than he ever intended to lie to anyone. It was just second nature. He'd lied so long and so often that he didn't realize anymore when he was doing it. For most people lies had consequences that made them wary about telling them, or telling too many of them. But for Ray it was the other way around. It was the truth that had always landed him in trouble. He'd never understood what the big deal was about telling the truth anyhow. People got enough of it in their everyday lives. It was what made them so goddamn miserable most of the time. What they really wanted was lies. That was what Hollywood was all about. It peddled lies that fed people's fantasies and made them feel better.
It wasn't just the movies themselves. Almost everybody involved in making them had to tell lies of various kinds. It was part of the job. The best liars of all were the producers. To get a movie going you had to lie to absolutely everybody, juggle five lies in the air so that everybody believed everybody else was in on a good thing and then, with luck, the lies all became true and stayed up there.
Actors generally only lied because the studios and the producers wanted them to. If your name didn't sound good enough, they just made up another one for you. There was nothing bad about it. They had to. Who the hell would ever have heard of John Wayne and Cary Grant if they were still called Marion Morrison and Archibald Leach? Who'd have ever hired poor old Ty Hardin if he'd stuck with Orison Whipple Hungerford Jr.?
Ray's own real name was Lennie Gulewicz but nobody knew it. And when journalists asked about his early life, he would paint a picture of what he wished it had been, the kind of picture the world had once wanted of its cowboy heroes. Of sitting on his daddy's knee on the porch of their little ranch in west Texas, of helping his mommy cook the cornbread and churn the butter, of learning how to rope and brand steers when he was just five years old. He'd told it so often, he'd good as forgotten it hadn't happened.
Like all the best lies, there had to be a smidgen of truth in it. He had indeed lived in Texas, though never on a ranch. He'd busted his ass drilling wells and hauling pipes for various oil companies, until he got smart and landed a job as a bouncer at a nightclub in Houston. Getting physical with someone on the door one night, he was spotted by a young photographer who was about to shoot a cigarette ad. He asked him if he could ride and Ray said sure, he'd been born on a horse, and got offered the job. He had a hard time learning to ride and as a result had never much liked the animals since and it was mutual. But the ad got him noticed. Within six months he'd moved to LA and found himself an agent and the two of them came up with the name Ray Montane and a more appropriate life story.
Remembering his true life story now required real effort. How, forty-two years ago—some eight years more than he ever admitted to—little Lennie Gulewicz had been born in the sulfurous shadow of a Pennsylvania smelting plant; how the only time he'd ever been on his daddy's knee was when the murderous bastard thrashed him half senseless with a belt or an ax shaft or whatever else came to hand; how his mommy was mostly too drunk or beat up or too busy in the back bedroom screwing some stranger to make so much as a cup of coffee; how, as soon as he could, little Lennie had upped and run away and spent his teens in and out of the reformatory, mostly for thieving except for the time he knifed and nearly killed some little fuck who'd ratted on him.
The funny thing was, there were young actors in Hollywood nowadays who would pay good money for that kind of background. Kids who'd been brought up in decent homes in nice neighborhoods with loving moms and dads and nannies and puppies and new bicycles every goddamn Christmas. And these same kids were now busy making up fake histories of suffering and all kinds of cruel deprivation because this was now considered cool and might make the public think they were the new Marlon Brando or Jimmy Dean, all moody and mean, all tortured and twisted and sexy.
Not that Ray blamed them. Hell, if he were twenty years younger he wouldn't have to lie at all. And then he wouldn't have gotten stuck in the rut he was stuck in now, pretending to be the man in the white hat, the wholesome hero he'd come to despise. Movies had already gotten the message, that it was okay to have stars with dirty faces and dirtier pasts. But TV was in a time warp and still seemed to think America wanted these laughable Mr. Clean cardboard cutouts, heroes who never broke wind or went to the bathroom.
Given all this, he still couldn't quite believe that he'd managed to find himself—and, so far, hold on to—a woman as classy as Diane. She was young and gorgeous and talented enough to have anyone she wanted. Such as that arrogant little fuck McQueen who'd given her the eye that day outside Schwab's and whose crappy movie The Magnificent Assholes was apparently doing infuriatingly good business all over the world. At the Kanters' party, at every party they went to, guys were falling over themselves to get at her. And yet, until that meddling cow Louella Parsons had poked her fat nose in, Diane only seemed to have eyes for him. Hell, she even wanted to marry him.
Ray wasn't dumb. He'd figured out pretty early on that the way to her heart was through Tommy. She was so flooded with guilt for having pretended to be the boy's sister all those years that she wanted to give him everything she could to make up for it. From the first time he saw the two of them together, at the school Speech Day, Ray had noticed how her eyes went all mushy whenever he made a fuss over Tommy. And soon afterward he'd sensed in her a kind of desperation to find the boy a father and give him a proper family life. And the kid was nuts about cowboys, so what better candidate for the job could there be than good ol' Ray Montane?
Putting it that way made it sound too calculated, as if taking on the kid was the price he'd had to pay for getting Diane. And it wasn't like that. Of course, Ray had often wished—and still mostly did—that it was just the two of them, just him and Diane, with no baggage attached. But over the past few months he'd actually come to like the kid. Okay, he was a little weird, but he learned fast and wasn't anything like as wimpy as he'd first seemed. In fact, he was turning out to be quite a tough little sonofabitch.
Ray was still dazed by what had happened last night and even more by what had happened this morning. The sex had been something else, the best they'd ever had. And after a night like that, he'd kind of assumed he was forgiven and that everything would be all right again. But this morning she'd packed their things and told him she and Tommy were moving out and going to live in her little apartment. As she left she said, all cold and sarcastic, that maybe he'd let her know when he wasn't still married to somebody else. What she told Tommy, Ray didn't have any idea, but the poor kid sure didn't look happy when they drove off.
During the interrogation last night, Ray had answered her questions more or less truthfully. And if she'd asked some better ones he'd probably have told her a whole lot more. He might even have owned up to having a daughter. Maybe he should have volunteered it, just to get it out of the way. Or maybe not. Most likely, it would have been the final straw. Anyhow, there was no danger of Diane finding out. He hardly knew the kid, hadn't seen her in years. Hell, he wouldn't even recognize her if he bumped into her in the street. And she'd know better, from that bitch of a mother of hers, than to come calling or give him any trouble.
The door to the Colonel's office was opening now and there was a burst of laughter. An agent whose name Ray could never remember, one of Lew Wasserman's MCA foot soldiers, was coming out with a pretty young broad in a yellow dress and too much red lipstick. Some young actress who'd just been signed and would doubtless soon be making her way up that secret staircase. Jack Warner had his arms around their shoulders. They all looked so damn pleased with themselves, it made you want to puke.
With little waves and meaningful glances, the agent and the actress went off down the staircase and Warner straightened his blue silk tie and walked toward Ray. The old bastard looked as dapper as ever. The tailored gray suit, the perfect triangle of pale blue silk poking from the breast pocket. Hair slicked back, eyebrows cocked sardonically, the pencil-thin mustache above that toothy smile.
"Ray! Sorry you've had to wait so long."
Ray stood up and shook his hand.
"No problem, Colonel. Good to see you."
"You bet. Come on in."
Ray gathered up his briefcase and followed him past the dragon and into the outer office where blondie flashed another smile and then on and through and into the great man's office with its imperial desk and casting couch. Colonel Jack settled back in his throne behind the desk and Ray sat in front of it on one much lower. It was all part of the same bullshit game, to make you feel small and insecure.
The meeting had been scheduled a month ago when they'd bumped into each other one lunchtime in the commissary. Ray had said it would be good to have a chat sometime, about the future and all that, and the Colonel said he agreed and had been meaning to get in touch for a while. Ray had taken this as a hint that, at long last, thank the Lord, the old bastard was going to see sense and let him do a proper movie.
Ray had come prepared. He'd brought along the script he'd been sent by Steve Shelby, the young writer he'd met at the Kanters' place. Ray's part needed a lot of work to build it up, but for a first draft it was pretty good. He slipped it out of his briefcase and put it on the desk. Jack Warner was leaning back staring at him, his fingertips delicately pressed together.
"So how're ya doing, Colonel?"
"Oh, you know. Uneasy lies the head that wears the toilet seat."
Ray had heard it before but dutifully smiled. Warner looked at his watch and sat up a little.
"Ray, I have to be at a board meeting at half past, so we better cut to the chase."
"Okay. Well, I've got one or two—"
"We're going to drop Sliprock."
Ray stared at him for a moment.
"You're what?"
"You know as well as I do it's not getting the audience it used to. The network isn't happy."
"Well, Colonel, the latest figures I saw weren't—"
"It's not your fault. The show's just too old-fashioned."
"Well, that's exactly what I've been saying for a long time. I've been telling the idiots to—"
"Which idiots? Dan and Lew are fine producers."
"I know, I'm sorry. But I've been telling them we've got to get with it. Get some grittier scripts. All you gotta do is watch shows like Wagon Train. Get some of the guys who write that stuff. And get someone under the age of sixty to direct now and then. Some of these younger guys around town are hot stuff. And they don't cost so much either. Colonel, believe me, I've been saying these things till I'm blue in the face—"
"Ray, listen to me. The show is sinking. When a ship is sinking you don't fuck around with the furniture."
Ray couldn't believe this was happening.
"The western's had its day."
"Oh, Colonel, I don't think that'll ever—"
"I tell you. People don't want them anymore. Don't get me wrong, it's not going to happen tomorrow. The good ones—your Wagon Trains and Bonanzas—they'll roll on for a while. But in ten years' time there won't be a single western left. Mark my words. Maybe the odd movie, but on TV? Not one."
There was a long pause. Ray shook his head.
"I don't know what to say. But, hell, you know, maybe it's an opportunity. Tell you the truth, that's what I came along here today to talk about. You know I've been itching to do a movie. I don't mean some Saturday afternoon Hitching Post deal, I mean a real movie...."
The Colonel gave a little sigh and looked down at his fingertips. Ray picked up the screenplay. His hand was shaking. He suddenly felt desperate, like some sniveling little kid.
"... and I've got some great ideas. In fact, I've brought this script along that might just fit the bill—"
"I'll have someone take a look."
"The kid who wrote it, Steve Shelby, I tell ya, Colonel, he's really something. Herb Kanter reckons he's some kind of genius—"
"Sure, sure. We'll take a look. But I have to tell you, Ray, leaving that aside, after this current season, we'll be terminating your contract."