All That Glitters (14 page)

She must have become bored with watching the water, because before too much time went by she’d gotten her act together and taken it on the road. She was touring in
Platter
again, playing to a whole new generation of fans who’d seen her old movies on television.

We met again, Babe and I, and under circumstances of a somewhat offbeat nature. This was in the winter of 1974, in Chicago, where I found myself in the middle of a cross-country publicity tour set up by my publisher, beating the drums on behalf of my latest book. Since I had a heavy schedule of interviews that carried over from Friday to Monday, I was trapped in Chicago through the weekend. Glancing at the local TV guide, I found a five-day run of Babe Austrian films playing on a local station including
Everything From A to Z
, its sequel,
Everything from Soup to Nuts
, and most notably,
Frankie and Johnny.
Paging through the “Guide to Nightlife” or whatever it’s called, to my surprise I found that Babe herself was in town, playing
Head on a Silver Platter
in yet another farewell tour.

I had arrived late the night before, and by the time Friday rolled around I was having morning coffee with entertainment and book editors, some of whom came from as far away as Cleveland to ask their thrilling questions. My final stint that evening was the taping of a show called
Here’s Sandy.
Now, Easterners and Westerners probably wouldn’t have heard of this show, but Midwesterners were devoted to it, and at that period no celebrity passed through the city of Chicago without putting in an appearance on it. Also scheduled was the Babe.

As my good luck had it, Belinda Carroll was also in town, likewise book-plugging; her autobiography,
My Way
,
Always
, was just hitting the best-seller lists. Our paths had converged twice already when we’d appeared as guests on local talk shows. And when our latest TV hostess, Sandy Becker, saw what she had on her plate, namely three individuals, each of whose lives had been touched by Frankie Adano, she tossed the script out the window half an hour before taping and decided to offer up to the viewers a round-robin of questions and answers regarding the Real Frankie Adonis.

This concept made all three of us guests uncomfortable—there were too many things about Frankie none of us wanted to see turned into talk show gossip—and we proceeded with more than the usual caution. We were on the air when I glanced round and saw the producer talking into the ear of the cue-card writer. In seconds a card flashed: “Ask Carroll about Adonis murder.” Obviously, Belinda wasn’t meant to have seen the card, but she did, and she blazed out, saying she knew what was up and she wasn’t talking. This resulted in cutting tape, TV’s number-one no-no, after which, having deleted Belinda’s outburst, Sandy resumed with interesting questions regarding MGM in the great days. The show was not what you’d call a triumph.

After the taping Babe invited me to ride back to the hotel in her limousine, a thoughtful gesture I readily accepted. She never mentioned Belinda at all, though she had plenty to say about Sandy Becker’s producer. En route she suggested I come see her show, which I was happy to do, having no other plans. She had a house seat put up for me at the box office and I went and laughed my head off; she really was funny. “Rolling in the aisles” is a show-biz phrase invented for performers like Babe Austrian. Though I knew her act so well by now, I marveled at it all over again. She reached out and touched something deep in the audience, old and young alike. She was nostalgia personified; the oldsters enjoyed the kind of poignancy she commanded, while the younger ones felt they were viewing the living legend—which they were. Oh
yeah
!

When I went to bed that night snow was falling outside. I’ve never thought of Chicago as being an especially pretty city, not in the way that, say, Washington can be, or Paris, or even New York. But there was a pretty magic about the way the softly falling snow began to cover up the streets and buildings. I sat there at the window, reflecting on the strangeness of life and its little quirky coincidences that afforded one such weekends as this, such chance encounters with the likes of Belinda Carroll and Babe Austrian.

Tomorrow we would doubtless go our separate ways, having come together for this moment of time, during which our old friend Frankie had been the common denominator. There was Belinda flogging her Hollywood tragedy, I my novel, and Babe the single product she ever had to sell, herself. It had been an odd rendezvous, and, as things turned out, it lasted longer than anyone thought it would, for when I awoke in the morning it was clear that we were “having a bit of weather.” The light snow that had been so pretty to look at the night before had in the wee hours become a good old-fashioned Great Plains blizzard, ferociously blanketing the whole Midwest, and, not incidentally, making travel impossible. Chicago’s streets were all but empty; there were only the plows out, doggedly trying to clear paths, while the snow was coming down so thickly that there wasn’t a chance of a plane’s getting out.

We found ourselves holed up there in the Ambassador East and I had to scramble to reorganize my schedule. There were some domestic problems as well. Belinda had been occupying one of the larger suites, which she was to have given up this morning, for some foreign notables were scheduled to arrive by train and her rooms were reserved. Obviously the management didn’t know the lady well. Belinda Carroll had been brought up in the great days of Lana Turner and Ava Gardner—in those days Lana and Ava weren’t put out of their hotel suites for anybody, foreign notables or not—and twenty years later Belinda wasn’t about to relinquish
her
rooms to anybody, either.

Making a stab at easing things, I suggested that she take over my suite, a corner one, up high, and perfectly acceptable. A grateful management said it could oblige me with a single room, and that’s how things were arranged. Belinda’s forty-seven thousand suitcases were sent up, while my two went out the door. I ordered my breakfast in the hotel dining room, reading the papers while I ate. Then, when I went to the desk to ask for my new key, the clerk told me I wasn’t staying in that room as planned.

“Your things have been moved to Miss Austrian’s suite,” he informed me. He popped the bell, and a bellhop was instructed to escort me up in the elevator. I was completely mystified.

“Good evening, Mr. Ventura,” I said as Pepe, Babe’s formally titled “Associate Producer,” met me at the door and ushered me in. He explained that Babe was still abed, but since she had the extra space, she was offering me a bedroom until the weather improved. Since to my knowledge Babe had never been noted for her beaux gestes, I had trouble assimilating this sudden switch; still, I decided to accept it in the generous spirit in which it had apparently been offered. But if I imagined that sharing her suite was to improve personal relations between us, I was wrong.

Because the city was experiencing difficulty clearing the streets, all Chicago was effectively immobilized. From my window I could see that everything was nailed down hard and fast. Meanwhile, Babe was out of sorts because her evening appearance had been canceled, proving that the show does not always have to go on (she claimed in an interview that it was the only time she’d ever missed a performance anywhere under any circumstances), and she remained incommunicado to all comers, myself included, and except for one time, which I’ll get to, I never laid eyes on her during the two and a half days I was obliged to accept her hospitality.

On Sunday I called Belinda and we met for dinner in the Pump Room to catch up on news. She looked sensational, the way movie stars always ought to look. Wearing simple navy blue and modest jewelry, she sat beside me in the booth, her classic features illuminated by the flickering candles while strings played softly in the background. We spoke of Frank and of Angie Brown, and of Maude Antrim, of whom I entertained the happiest memories. I congratulated Belinda on her book, which seemed headed for a large success. I knew how hard she’d labored over a typewriter: it wasn’t one of those “as told to” numbers; she took pride in the four hundred pages that had been written with a pen dipped in her life’s blood.

It hadn’t been easy for her, baring her soul in such a public way, especially the sections of the book dealing with her daughter, Faun. I suppose it was inevitable that it should have been a best-seller, containing as it did an inside view of one of the most scandal-ridden lives in the history of Hollywood. The thing was, she’d been able to let her own sweetness of nature come through, no easy matter under the circumstances. Belinda couldn’t know then that she was headed for the biggest success of her career, that she was to receive the accolade of the entire industry, to win a sensational Broadway triumph, and that everything she’d always hoped for was at last to come to her. With, of course, the obvious exception: Frankie Adonis, who was lost to her forever, as he was lost to all of us who loved him. So near they had come, she and he, so close but no further, and now it was ended for all time.

Belinda was now some fifty-two years old, Frankie had been dead for two or three years, and she still mourned him because she had loved him. To all intents and purposes, she was alone these days—I knew she had no love interest. And she was studying acting again; she still wanted to be a great actress. You had to applaud such tenacity, such doggedness of purpose. Who in the history of movies had ever ridden such a bumpy road as hers, who had risen to where she had and somehow, no matter how perilously, been able to maintain herself on those dizzy heights?

Quite a girl, Belinda.

When we’d finished our coffee she suggested we put our noses out the door and see what the weather was like. We bundled up well, me in the only coat I had, she in the fur coat Frank had given her on their last Christmas together. As we slipped out through the revolving door and a blast of cold air hit our faces, I felt her slip her warm hand in mine and we headed into the wind. The city had an eerie feeling, as if it had been deserted by everyone but us and the very few other brave souls who had ventured forth.

Unbelievably, by the time we got to the water clock at the Loop the snow had begun falling again, as if we hadn’t had enough by now, and we were forced to cut short our venturing-forth. She would have gone on, but I convinced her it was foolish: we were tired and needed our health if we were going to keep going with our tours. But as we retraced our steps I became aware that things were somehow different. As a result of that little walk of ours, when we came back into the warm, brightly lighted hotel, with the wind shut out, I felt a growing sense of intimacy between us. Nothing to put your finger on, but our relationship had shifted, even if only slightly. We stood close together in the elevator, our bodies touching as we went up. I decided to take no liberties when I walked her to her door, but when I put the key in the lock she surprised me with a kiss. One that probably meant nothing to her but meant lots to me; a kiss that with time was to take on even greater significance.

In consequence of which I was in no mood to be trifled with, and I wanted only to get to my bed as fast as possible; but no such luck. As I let myself into the Royal Suite I found Pepe Ventura in the living room; he rose abruptly and snapped off the TV. I had the idea he’d been waiting up for me.

“Well, hel-
lo
,” he greeted me in that snide tone of his, “back so early? Did you have a nice dinner?”

I said I had, yes. Nice.

“Not much fun eating alone, I guess.” His eyebrows were dark and thick and perfectly arched; not without the aid of tweezers, I suspected. Ignoring his supercilious manner, I took off my coat, and as I hung it in the closet I asked how Babe was.

“Miss A is fine,” he returned pointedly. “As a matter of fact, she’s been waiting. She’d like to talk to you before you retire. Though it does seem to me—”

“Yes?” I was getting lots of attitude here and, frankly, I didn’t like it. “
What
does it seem to you?”

“Never mind.”

“But I do mind. I gather you think I haven’t done my job or that I’ve been lax in some way as regards—
Miss
Austrian. But just let me lay it on you, pal: I don’t know how long you’ve known the lady, but I’ve known her for damn near forty years, giving me the edge, don’t you agree? I’m always available if she wants me, but I got the impression she preferred being left alone. Which sort of frees me up to have dinner with anyone I care to, right, pal?”

“Please don’t call me ‘pal’; my name is Pepe.”

“Right, pal.” I went to the bar, poured some mineral water over ice, and walked to Babe’s door. Pepe flew to block my way.

“Wait—don’t go in there!” he hissed. “Miss A may not be dressed to receive.”

“I was taught to knock,” I retorted, veering away toward my own door. “Let me know when Madame’s got her shit together. I’m going to have myself a footbath and a pedicure.”

While Pepe knocked discreetly, then slipped through Babe’s door, I went into my room and lay down on my bed, staring moodily at the window, which had over a foot of snow on the sill. I’d picked up the phone to place a call when Pepe appeared in my doorway.

“Finished your bath already?” he asked with that mixture of pretension and queeniness I disliked so. I waited and he said, “Anyway, Miss A will see you now.”

I put down the phone, got up, took my glass of mineral water, and walked past him, heading for Babe’s room. But he slipped by me to sidle up to the door, where he applied the same discreet knock as before, waited a moment, then turned the knob and gave me an elaborate “Please to enter” gesture.

“Hullo there,” Babe greeted me from her bed. She was propped up against a mess of pillows. The covers were scattered with various publications—I glimpsed
The Wall Street Journal
, weekly
Variety
,
TV Guide
,
Business Week
, even the
Kiplinger Report
—and though she wore glasses, as if she’d been reading any or all of these, the lights were turned down. Obviously she made herself at home wherever she happened to be. It was quite a picture; she looked dwarfed in the oversize bed, her hair was wrapped in a black net, but she had her war paint on and even her long eyelashes. I wondered if I should flatter myself that I was the reason; wondered, too, if she’d get out of bed to scrape it all off before retiring.