Crane (40 page)

“The earliest she can be here is the day after tomorrow. She’ll rework her schedule just for you.”

“Okay.” He was miles away.

An assistant director approached.

“It won’t be cheap,” I droned. “Should she send the bill to the Argonauts?”

“I’ll handle it,” John said as he started back to the set.

“You’ll be happy this time,” I said, following him. “Shall I give her the go-ahead?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“It’ll be worth it.” Now I was really overselling. John was disappearing into a tribe of Hollywood Indians.

“You’re killing me, Bob,” John joked over his shoulder.

“Lynette only works in Farsi and Cajun,” I yelled after him, relieving my tension. I don’t think he heard me.

John was going to finish the dismal
Wagons East!
sometime in March, and I was planning to fly directly to Phoenix from the film set for the start of Carpenter’s trial. John was threatening to attend it with me. He wanted to lend his support and get a close look at the suspect. John’s presence would have shaken the courtroom. “Will it be
Cool Runnings
for murder
suspect John Henry Carpenter?” one of
Court TV
’s talking heads might have asked, giving the trial a few minutes of airtime.

In the midst of John’s cinematic unpleasantries in Durango he received some very unwelcome news about his beloved Toronto Argonauts. Candy and Gretzky may have been the public faces of the franchise, but they were just minority stakeholders in the team. The real say-so rested with L.A. Kings and Argos majority owner Bruce McNall. He had gone into the Argos strictly as an investment. John was in it for different reasons. He was the local kid who’d made good, the Neil McNeil High School lineman turned movie star, who was now an owner of the centerpiece of Toronto sports. John was on the field, in the dressing room, hanging out with the players, traveling across Canada promoting the product, getting would-be fans off their duffs and into the stadiums. He was living his Canadian Dream.

John’s personal glory aside, at the end of three seasons in the red, in spite of the first season of sellouts and the Grey Cup Championship, the always-looking-over-his-shoulder McNall and his soulless chief financial officer, Suzan Waks, dumped the team without even a courtesy call to his minority partner. John found out about the sale during a phone call from his Los Angeles–based accountant, Gary Kress. His childhood team, his first sporting love, had been sold behind his back. It was crushing. I’d never seen John more depressed during the entire time I’d known him. He felt utterly betrayed. All the goodwill he had sold to the people of Toronto and across Canada during those three seasons now appeared like a complete sham. He was angry, disheartened, and embarrassed. He felt as though he were just another Hollywood weasel, a con man. If John had had more power than that of a minority owner, he would surely have voted to maintain ownership, continue to sell seats, packages, and good times to his fellow Torontonians. McNall, an L.A. boy with no commitments to anyone, was gone in an Inglewood minute.

After hearing of the sale, John went on a two-day tequila bender. I’d never seen him drink tequila in the thirteen years I’d known him. He was seriously in the dumps. The Chongos took turns sitting Shiva with him as he mourned the loss of his baby, but it wasn’t long before we were all burned out. Considering all the alcohol that had been consumed over the years since our initial meeting, it was a shock to see John put an ice bag on top of his hurting head. But then if I’d drunk half the tequila John had, I would’ve been six feet under a Boot Hill cross.

John had a few weeks remaining on the shoot. He knew that I had been organizing a posthumous Kari Hildebrand art show at the Orlando Gallery in Los Angeles. It would stand as her only solo exhibition and was going to benefit the Wellness Community in Santa Monica, which offered free support and counseling to cancer patients and their families and friends. Gallery owner Bob Gino donated his space for two weeks starting on Friday, March 4, and he and the Wellness Community would split the proceeds. I wasn’t taking a dime. I was just happy to make this happen for Kari. I only wish I could have seen her smile of satisfaction.

I said good-bye to John and the Chongos at the end of February and flew back to Los Angeles. While my work was done in Durango except for hand-holding sessions, I was still busy organizing upcoming publicity for John’s directorial debut,
Hostage for a Day,
which was to air on the Fox Network in March. I also had other Frostbacks business to handle and still had to collect Kari’s work for her show. John and I decided I should stay in Los Angeles.

At 10:00 on the eve of Kari’s opening, I checked in with John in Durango. “Helloo,” he answered in his signature way.

“Hey, John, it’s Bob. How’d it go today?”

“It went well.” He sounded tired and as though he had had a few rum and Cokes. “I was happy with the scene I did today with Richard Lewis.”

“That’s great,” I said, feeling guilty for not being in Durango, but secure knowing I was where I should be. “You’ve only got twelve days left.”

“Yeah, a couple of weeks. I can’t wait to get out of here,” John said wistfully.

It felt like a prisoner/visitor exchange through that bulletproof glass. I continued my cheerleader role. “You’ll be back in Brentwood in no time, amigo. We all miss you. I wish you could be at Kari’s show tomorrow night,” I said, trying to pump the energy up a notch.

“Me, too,” John sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t be there. Good luck with the show. Give me a call and let me know how the opening went.” John was clearly trying his damnedest, but he sounded as if the governor had just denied his plea for clemency.

“Hang in there, John,” I said. “I’ll give you a call about this time tomorrow night and give you a complete update.”

“Okay, Bob. Say hi to everybody,” John said with a tinge of the gallows.

“Talk to you tomorrow.” I hung up the telephone.

My house was quiet, still. My mind was not. I was one of the last standing employees of Frostbacks Production. I had worked steadily alongside John for six years. What began as a two-week tryout on the
Armed and Dangerous
publicity tour had evolved into full-time employment as publicist, road manager, consultant, psychiatrist, and friend. I was always true to his words in the interviews and articles I had written about him. Celebrities like John, Chevy Chase, and all the others who’d been burned by writers appreciated the fact that I’d printed their words just the way they’d said them. And John had been there for me through the years of Kari’s illness and after her death as a friend first. I didn’t want anything from John. We had seen people come and go—professionals, so-called friends, acquaintances, a parade that ultimately wanted to tap into the Candy bank, the Candy favor wagon, the Candy good time—everybody wanted something. I had proved that I was there for him all the time, doing my jobs and watching his back, no strings attached. John and Rose Candy trusted me, and Rose’s circle of family and friends was even tighter and smaller than John’s.

The next morning, the telephone rang at 7:00.

“Hello?” I croaked.

“Bob?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Frankie.”

“Hey, Frankie. What’s up?”

“I don’t know how to say this …”

Why the hell was Frankie Hernandez calling me at 7:00 in the morning? I waited, a million scenarios ricocheting through my brain.

“John’s dead.”

Make that a million and one. Was this a sick joke courtesy of the bored Chongos?

Frankie continued. “We went to his house to pick him up to go out to location. There was no answer so we busted the door open and found him in the bedroom.”

Frankie wasn’t bored; he was in shock. Now so was I. “What happened?”

“It looks like a heart attack,” said Frankie. “He must have been sitting on the edge of the bed putting his shoes on. It looked like he’d just fallen backward onto the bed. His feet were on the floor. This is unfuckingbelievable, Bob.” He sounded like he might cry.

“It sure is, Frankie. Listen, I’ve got to tell Rose before she hears it on the news. Thanks, Frankie. I’ll call you back in a little bit.”

Although family and friends had feared this moment for years—the result of John’s excessive drinking, smoking, weight, high cholesterol, and family history (his father had succumbed to a heart attack at a young age)—still, I was paralyzed with shock. I stood for a moment in a haze until the images of Rose, Jennifer, and Christopher became crystal clear. I picked up the phone and called Chuck. As I never called him this early in the day, he immediately anticipated the worst when he heard my voice. I explained what had happened according to Frankie. Chuck and I knew what we had to do.

This was 1994, well before tweeting and texting and viral video. CNN was the only twenty-four-hour news service, but all of the network morning programs were broadcasting. I didn’t want Rose to get the bad news from Katie Couric or Charles Gibson. I couldn’t imagine a worse scenario than receiving life-altering news from a media outlet as millions of strangers heard it simultaneously. When my dad was killed I was glad I didn’t hear about it from traffic and weather on the eights.

Chuck and I met near the San Diego Freeway in Sherman Oaks and drove together out of the Valley to the Westside. We made good time, getting to John’s house in Mandeville Canyon in twenty minutes. My worst fears of pulling up to the house and seeing local television news trunks blocking the driveway happily didn’t come to pass. It was quiet up and down the block as we buzzed the electric gate. One of the housekeepers answered.

“Hi, it’s Bob Crane and Chuck Sloan to see Mrs. Candy,” I said in my most emotionless voice.

We parked, got out of the car, and went to the front door. Chuck and I looked at each other. I rang the bell. We stood there like a couple of glum missionaries. It was 8:06. Lives were about to be altered forever.

Rose opened the door. Chuck and I didn’t say a word. She looked at Chuck, trying to figure out why he was there with me. Then she looked at me. It took her only a few seconds to work it out. No one said a word.

Rose let out the loudest shriek I’ve ever heard. Chuck and I surrounded her, worried she was going to pass out. We took her back inside, and when she calmed down enough to make sense of it, we told her what Frankie had told us.

By 8:30, the breaking news was on CNN. Rose’s telephone was ringing,
and friends of the family were showing up at the front gate. Chuck stayed at the house while I accompanied Rose to St. Martin of Tours, the Catholic school that Jennifer, fourteen, and Christopher, nine, attended. Rose and I stood in the principal’s office and watched as two assistants pulled the Candy kids out of their classes and walked them toward us. They were about to find out that their father would never hug, play, or laugh with them again. Even though I had been in their position, I had no words of wisdom that would lessen the body blow they were about to receive. I felt hopeless and heartbroken: for them, for me.

The
Wagons East!
production was rocked. It had lost its star and leader. The producers, Gary Goodman and Bobby Newmyer, shut down production while they, director Markle, the assistant directors, and production manager Parvin figured out how many scenes were left to be filmed involving their departed number one on the call sheet and how they would deal with this gaping hole.

Frankie Hernandez had to deal with the transportation of John’s body back to Los Angeles. Rose faxed a letter to the local authorities stating there was to be no autopsy in Durango. Her instructions were to just ship her husband home. The Chongos had their final mission accompanying their fallen commander.

By early afternoon the dazed and mourning were arriving by the bus-loads at the Candy home. Chuck and I fielded calls, attended to Rose’s needs, and greeted visitors. It occurred to me that there wasn’t much else I could do for John and his family at this point and that Kari was having an art show opening that night. I had a vision of Kari and John sitting side by side on the Candys’ couch less than six months earlier when Kari and I announced her dismal prognosis.

I received a phone call from Janet Spiegel, who had helped me organize Kari’s exhibition. She admired John but had already decided to “get with what is,” as Jack Nicholson once told me. “Kari’s show is still on for tonight, right?” she asked.

“You’re damned right it is,” I said defiantly. I was sick of death. “The show must go on, and you can quote me.” We both mustered a less than heartfelt laugh.

That evening the Orlando Gallery was packed with several hundred fans of Kari’s work. The Wellness Community, the gallery, and people who knew me all wanted a reaction to the day’s upheaval. My emotions were sadness for Rose, Jennifer, Christopher, John’s mother, aunt, and
brother (Van, Fran, and Jim, respectively), John’s friends, and his fans around the world. I felt joy and happiness for Kari, who was having her first full-blown solo art show, and for the attending supporters, who could see dozens of her idiosyncratic and humorous pieces in one location. Disbelief was the other consuming sentiment: my career as a publicist and bob-of-all-trades had just imploded. I had lost my wife, I had lost my boss and friend, and I assumed I’d be losing my job, all in the last six months. Could it get any worse?

The opening was a huge success. I had the pleasure of writing out a check to the Wellness Community for several thousand dollars, the proceeds from Kari’s sold artwork, but I never got to make that phone call to John to tell him how well it went.

I’d been Kari’s husband in a marriage not without its issues: disagreements, ego problems, Kari’s basic mistrust of men, and my basic mistrust of marriage stemming from my dad’s poor behavior toward women in general and my mom specifically. And I’d been a foot soldier for John, watching his back, guarding him as much as I could. With both their deaths, I felt as if I were the civilian equivalent of the military messenger, the person who makes the phone calls reporting death, transports the ashes, informs the widow, arranges the memorial, makes sure the ashes get spread or the burial is undertaken without a hitch. I was becoming Charon, the ferryman on the River Styx.