We're So Famous (7 page)

Johnny Stompanato, a former bodyguard for mobman Mickey Cohen, had fallen in love with the glamorous movie star. Theirs was a passionate affair, but when Turner learned of Stompanato's underworld connections she refused to be seen in public with him. Nominated for an Oscar for her performance in
Peyton Place,
Turner wouldn't allow Stompanato to escort her to the awards ceremony… so he beat her to within an inch of her life. The tension increased as Lana would phone Stompanato continuously, telling him how much she missed and loved
and wanted him but wouldn't meet him anywhere other than the seclusion of an apartment. Finally… the lies and confusion came to a head
.

There's a stage knock and Lana says, ‘I don't want to talk to you.'

‘C'mon, baby,' Stompanato says. ‘It's me.'

‘We're through,' Lana yells through the door. ‘Go away!'

Three more loud knocks. ‘Open this motherfucker up!'

Lana hurries to the door, unlocking it.

‘We're through,' Lana says, looking Stompanato straight on.

‘You'll never get away from me,' Stompanato says, closing the door. Then, angrily, ‘I'll cut you good, baby. No one will ever look at that pretty face again.'

Lana moves to the far end of the dresser. ‘First you lied about your name—-John Steele. God, it sounds like a porno name, I should've known—and now I find out you lied about your age.'

Stompanato feigns ignorance. ‘What are you talkin' about?'

‘That's why you left in such a hurry this afternoon, isn't it? You knew Bill Brooks recognized you, right? He told me all about you back in military school in Missouri. He told me to stay away from you,' Lana says, her voice rising.

Stompanato grabs her by the arm. ‘It's too late for that now, isn't it?'

Offstage, Molly Mann, in the role of Lana's fourteen-year-old daughter Cheryl, yells, ‘Mother! What's going on?'

Stompanato loosens his grip. ‘You're not going to get rid of me so easy, Miss Movie star!'

‘Please, Mother, can I see you for a second?' Cheryl says.

Stompanato turns to the wall, trembling with rage.

‘Come in,' Lana says. Cheryl enters stage left and reaches out for her mother's hand, feeling her icy fingers. The two take a few steps in the direction opposite Stompanato.

‘Why don't you just tell him to go?' Cheryl whispers. ‘You're a coward, Mother.'

‘You don't understand,' Lana whispers. ‘I'm deathly afraid of him.'

‘Don't worry. I won't leave you,' Cheryl says. ‘I won't be far away.'

Cheryl exits stage right and Lana, newly confident, squares her shoulders and faces Stompanato. ‘I want you to get out.'

Stompanato turns on Lana. ‘You'll never get away from me! Wherever you go, I'll find you and I'll cut you good, baby. You'll never work again. And don't think I won't also get your mother and your kid.'

Lana pushes Stompanato. ‘I've had just enough!'

‘Cunt! You're dead!' Stompanato grabs a hanger from the closet and raises it to strike Lana just as Cheryl pounds on the door.

‘Let me in! Let me talk to both of you!'

Lana swings the door open, Stompanato behind her, and Cheryl enters, walking in a straight line, as if trying to pass the sobriety test of her life. She and Stompanato come together like they're hugging.

‘My God, Cheryl, what have you done?' Stompanato says, falling on his back.

Cheryl drops the knife and runs from the room as the curtain falls.

Several of the kitchen staff, who are also actors, appear in the second half, which consists of the circus surrounding the next few hours at the mansion in Beverly Hills. The cook's assistant plays Jerry Geisler, the famous lawyer who got Errol Flynn acquitted
twice
of having sex with underage girls; others play the paramedics, the doctor who can't get a pulse, the chief of police, and a reporter from a Hollywood tabloid. The show ends with Cheryl being hauled off to jail and Lana screaming, ‘Bring back my baby!'

After the show Craig takes me to the Denny's on Hollywood Boulevard for grilled cheese sandwiches, our post-show ritual. I notice some fake blood dried under my fingernails so I give the waitress—Amy, a film student at UCLA—my order and go to the bathroom to wash my hands. The hot water doesn't work. I scrape at the blood with my fingernails and then I see it, up above the automatic hand dryer, scratched into a beige tile: BRYAN METRO IS DEAD.

‘Beverly Hills Hotel'.

‘Bryan Metro, please.'

‘Room number?'

‘Don't you know it?'

‘Ma'am, I‘m sorry but we can't connect you by name, only by room number.'

‘Actually, I'm not sure that he didn't check out already. Can you tell me if he's even still there?'

‘I'm sorry. I can't give out any information about our guests.'

‘I just remembered: it's room six.'

‘There is no room six here.'

‘I said Room
sixty
. Six-oh.'

‘Goodbye.'

‘Beverly Hills Hotel'.

‘Room 2132, please.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Hello?'

‘Bryan?'

‘Oh, I'm afraid they've rung the wrong number.'

‘I'm very sorry. I hope I didn't disturb you. While I have you on the line though may I ask you a question?'

‘Well, I really don't know. Who are you calling for?'

‘That's what I want to ask you about. Do you know if Bryan Metro is staying there? I mean, have you seen him around the pool?'

‘Who's Bryan Metro?'

‘The rock star. You know,
Big Noise
and
The Vegetable King
. I'm his cousin in from South Dakota and I was supposed to meet him but I can't remember the number.'

‘Did you ask the front desk?'

‘They were unhelpful.'

‘Well, I don't know who he is. So I don't know if he's here. Sorry.'

‘That's okay. Thanks for your patience.'

‘I did see Alex Trebek at the hotel bar last night.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yeah, he's not as smart as he thinks he is. I asked him the
four states whose capital shares the same first letter as the name of the state. He was stumped. Do you know that one?'

‘I guess I don't.'

‘Maybe I should go on
Jeopardy!
What do you think?'

‘Go for it.'

‘Maybe I will.'

‘Anyway, thanks a lot.'

‘You're welcome.'

‘Chasen's.'

‘Yeah, I was in Bryan Metro's party last night and I think I left my glasses at the bar.'

‘Are you sure you have the right restaurant? Bryan Metro hasn't been in here for weeks—'

‘Yeah, I'm sure.'

‘—and he's not allowed back as far as my manager's concerned, so it definitely wasn't last night.'

‘Oh, maybe I
do
have the wrong place.'

‘Okay.'

‘But he was there a few weeks ago?'

‘It was maybe more.'

‘Before or after he was in Japan?'

‘What am I, his personal assistant? How should I know.'

‘Okay.'

‘ 'Bye.'

‘Wait. Why isn't Bryan allowed at Chasen's?'

‘You're his friend—you ask him.'

‘Cedars-Siani.'

‘Admitting, please.'

‘Is this an emergency?'

‘No.'

‘One moment.'

‘Admitting.'

‘Yes, I'm calling to find out if Bryan Metro has been admitted to the hospital.'

‘I'm sorry, I really can't give that information out.'

‘I see.'

‘Are you a reporter?'

‘Uh, no, not really.'

‘What do you mean not really?'

‘Well, you're not allowed to talk to reporters, right?'

‘Not on the record, no.'

‘Are you saying you can say something off the record?'

‘Well, I might be persuaded, but you can't use my name.'

‘I don't know your name.'

‘Right.'

‘Well? Has Bryan Metro been admitted?'

‘No. But we did admit someone today.'

‘Yeah? Who?'

‘Someone pretty famous.'

‘Who?'

‘Guess.'

‘Uh, give me a hint.'

‘You'll never guess.'

‘Is it someone who knows Bryan Metro?'

‘Forget Bryan Metro—he isn't here.'

‘Would Bryan Metro know who this person is?'

‘I would
hope
so.'

‘Is it a man or a woman?'

‘Man.'

‘Is he famous just in Hollywood or all over the world?'

‘How can anyone just be famous in Hollywood?'

‘Good point.'

‘Shit, here comes my boss.'

‘Wait—'

‘Forest Lawn Cemetery.'

‘Hi. I have sort of an odd question.'

‘It's a cemetery, honey. You won't offend anyone here.'

‘Is Bryan Metro buried up there?'

‘Metro… Metro… let me think. Is he that silent film star?'

‘No, he's a musician.'

‘When did he die?'

‘Well, I'm not sure he did die.'

‘Tell you the truth, I'm pretty new here and I don't know. The computers are down, too. Normally you can look something like that up. Do you want me to call you back when the computers are up?'

‘I could call you back. I'm not really at a number where I can be reached.'

‘Metro, Metro. It doesn't ring a bell. The only ones I know for sure are Gene Autry (he's in the Sheltering Hills section, Grave 1048, just in front of one of the statues), Lucille Ball (she's in the Columbarium of Radiant Dawn in the Court of Remembrance), and Scatman Crothers (he's Lincoln Terrace Plot 4545).'

‘Andy Gibb's there, too.'

‘Oh yeah?'

‘You know who's right above him?'

‘Who?'

‘The dwarf who played E.T.'

‘No shit. I loved that movie.'

‘Well, anyway. I might call you back. When do you think the computers will be back up?'

‘Who knows about these things?'

Right as I roll to a stop on Rodeo Paque turns up the stereo and says, What can beat Marlon Brando's trash?

I nod, saying, It's a score for sure.

It smells, Daisy says from the backseat.

Even though it's night, someone uses the diagonal crosswalk and I watch our reflection in the windows of Pierre Cardin.

How do they know we're not just saying it's Brando's garbage, Daisy asks.

We'll have to dig through it for something personal, I say.

I think there's fish in here, Daisy says.

Roll down the window, Paque says.

Okay, I say, who's next?

Paque pulls the yellow envelope out of the glove box and sifts through the address slips I stole from Imagistic Photo Developers, a swanky film developing place where I work on the weekends until I can get my big break.

Do you have David Hasselhoffs address, Daisy asks.

I don't think so, I say.

Too bad, she says, I'll bet he's got all kinds of cheesy stuff to steal.

Paque holds one of the slips under the glove box light. I can't read this one, she says.

What's the address, I ask.

1700 Coldwater Canyon.

Forget it. That's where Carrie Fisher lives. She's got big gates, I say.

How do you know, Paque asks.

I put my blinker on and turn left. I've been by it, I say.

Pick someone, Daisy says. This stuff really stinks.

You pick, Paque says. She holds the envelope open over her shoulder and Daisy reaches in.

Who'd you get, I ask.

It's a tie, she says. Tom Bosley and Peter Falk.

I vote for Mr. Cunningham, I say.

Where does Columbo live, Paque asks.

I turn down the radio—the B-52's—to hear the address.

1004 Roxbury Drive.

We're close to Roxbury, Daisy says.

Let's go then, Paque says.

I gotta get out of this car, Daisy says.

I suggest a quick dinner where we can sort it out, get some more loot and meet the others up at the Hollywood sign to get scored.

You like Mexican, I ask.

Sounds good, Paque says.

Any place, Daisy says.

I pull into the parking lot of El Coyote on Beverly, a Mexican restaurant whose food is notoriously bad but I can't resist showing it to Paque and Daisy. This is where Sharon Tate had her last meal, I tell them as we drift to a stop.

Who's Sharon Tate, Paque asks.

You know, I say. Charles Manson.

That's sick, Paque says. This isn't going to be a tour, is it?

I laugh. Daisy climbs out and the Hefty bag of Brando's trash sags on the backseat.

Should we go through that before or after we eat, Daisy asks.

After, Paque says, or I'll lose my appetite.

I notice a catering truck idling on the street as we push through the front doors of the El Coyote and Paque lets out a wow when she sees all the cameras and lights inside.

They're filming something, I say.

Daisy trips on a thick black cord taped to the floor. A short man in a yellow baseball cap approaches us.

Is the restaurant open, I ask.

Yeah, come in, the short man says, We're filming an MTM here and all the customers are extras. I just need you to sign this.

The short man hands us a clipboard.

What's an MTM, Daisy asks.

Made-for-TV-Movie, the short man answers.

What's it about, I ask.

The short man puffs up with importance. Charlie Manson, he says.

The three of us are seated at a brown formica-top table and someone, maybe a waitress, brings us a plate of burritos. The other tables are eating burritos too, and everyone is looking excitedly at the table under the glare of the lights. The young actress playing Sharon Tate is a dead ringer. I don't recognize any of the actors, except maybe the one
playing Abigail Folger, Tate's friend. It looks like Jenny Martins, who beat me out for a network pilot about a gas station in Ohio.