The mishegas really started with the cat, but my version begins with Daphne’s boobs.
Since this might be the last story I ever tell, I’m going to do it my way. After all, with thirty-eight pictures under my belt, millions in box office receipts, and a career that spanned more than four decades, I know a thing or two about what sells. You don’t start with the cat, never with the cat—not when you can begin, believably, with a pair of nice, big tits.
Ever since I’ve been relegated to this khazerai wheelchair, Daphne has taunted me with her breasts. They practically smother me when she gets me dressed, or ties on the bib when I eat. She knows what she’s doing and I’m not complaining, mind you. Far from it. Her bosom is something this wheezing old fart can look forward to each day. Sometimes I drop stuff on the floor, purposely, so I can get a bird’s eye view of the Grand Canyon. That said, I dread the days she shows up with too many buttons undone. It usually means she’s going to ask for more money.
“Mr. King, I’ve been working for you for two years,” she said, the day the whole thing started. “Isn’t it about time I got a raise?” It wasn’t the first time she’d asked.
I replied with a variation on the spiel I’ve been using since the forties, when I produced a slate of pictures that made Majestic the most profitable studio on Poverty Row: “Listen, honey—you’re here two years, still doing the same things I paid you for when you started. Am I right? Is it my fault I’m not falling apart any faster? I could live to be a hundred. If I gave you a raise now, for doing what you’ve always done, where do I get the money to pay what you’ll cost once I have to be fed through a straw and have my diaper changed three times a day? When you’ve got more responsibilities, then we’ll talk about more money. No offense, but what you’re suggesting is what ruined this country—people expecting a raise just because they show up for a job they should be lucky to have.”
I was about to tell her—for the hundredth time—about how my brother Maury fought professionally to keep food on the family’s table during the Depression after our father died, but she was in no mood for it. “Your dinner’s in the fridge,” she said coldly. “I moved the microwave so you can reach it yourself. I’m leaving early.”
“Look, don’t be mad at me,” I told her. “It’s the facts of life. I gotta preserve what little time and money I got left.”
She sighed, so deeply I thought she might pop another button. She stalked toward the front door. “Where’s Jinx?” I called after her. “Did you already let him out?”
“I’m not paid to look after the cat, remember?”
“I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve got a date.” She banged the big front door behind her.
I like Daphne. She can get as moody as my late ex-wife and on certain days—like this one—she can be a pouty bitch. But mostly she’s a great caretaker, full of good humor, clean and conscientious, and a damn good cook. She makes devilled eggs that are to die for. I’d trade my worthless brother in a heartbeat to have Daphne as my real family. Herman, the rat bastard, he’s all I got left since Maury died ten years ago. I haven’t seen Herman since then, although he sends the occasional card. Truth is, the older I get, the more Daphne seems like my nana—which makes it tough to hold the line on her salary. But I have to keep the budget in order, damn it.
When she started, Daphne thought she’d hit the jackpot. Caring for a rich old movie mogul, one of hundreds, if not thousands, who’d moved to Palm Springs to play out the string once the creative juice dried up. Living alone in a house that has panoramas of the desert and mountains in every room, big tiled swimming pool, lots of fancy-ass art, a ridiculous fountain running the length the entryway—it seems impressive at first glance. But all this shit’s been here since I bought the place in ’68—before I lost the Midas touch. Trust me, dicking around in the stock market is no substitute for counting a new picture’s box office take on opening weekend. Not even close.
Daphne’s dinner was good, as always. A couscous and vegetable thing, not too spicy, but with flavor. A decent piece of fish, too, if a little small. I used to eat nothing but buttery steaks and big desserts. That’s over with. It’s pitiful to reach my age and have to watch your weight. But if I get too fat to fit in this wheelchair, I’m finished. Given how much it cost, I intend to get every last nickel out of the damn thing.
I left the dishes in the sink and motored out to the living room. Jinx appeared, mewing to go out. He’s been my buddy since wandering out of the desert five years ago, skinny and mangy and barely breathing. Now he’s furry and fat and loves to go outside at sundown, when the air has cooled but the rocks and cement are still warm. He hops up on the ledge of the pond, eyeballing the fish in there as he trots along beside me. For both of us, it’s the same routine, every day. I barely get the front door open before he bolts out, chasing some bird or lizard.
Suddenly, the door was shoved open, smashing my hand against the wheelchair. I yelled and jerked the chair forward but couldn’t keep this lanky young guy from squeezing inside.
“Hey, wow—sorry if I dented your wheelchair,” he said, almost laughing. “Holy shit. How do you like that? Wow, check out this place!”
He was in his early twenties, maybe younger. His clothes were lived-in and he needed to get reacquainted with soap and water. Otherwise, he looked like any young kid you see wandering the streets these days, even Palm Canyon Drive.
“I don’t remember inviting you in, son. If you need something, let’s discuss it outside.”
“Nah, that’s okay. I like it better in here. It’s air-conditioned.”
The squirrely eyes and twitchy movements reminded me of junkies on Hollywood Boulevard, back when we had an office right off Ivar. He ambled around, scoping the place. I motored after him. First chance, I’d call the cops.
He stood in the middle of the living room, examining the place like a prospective buyer.
“Okay, what’s your story?” I asked. “Whatd’ya want?”
He thought for a moment before answering. “I’m living across the road, down in the arroyo. You can’t see my tent from the road. Been here a couple weeks. Every night you let the cat out at exactly the same time. So, I figured I’d come over and say hi. Meet my neighbor, you know?”
“So you’re only passing through. But before hitting the road again you decide to touch up the fat old guy in the big house for some spending money.”
“Aw, man—c’mon. I’m only being neighborly.”
“Can the bullshit, kid. You got a knife. In your pocket there. Right? You don’t strike me as the gun type.”
“Wow. You get right to it, don’t you?”
“You broke in my house, kid. Let’s not pretend this is a cordial visit.”
“Man, you’re cocky for dude in a wheelchair.”
“Just don’t do anything stupid. How much you need to get back on your way?”
“Hard to say. Not sure where I’m headed yet.”
“Listen, I don’t keep big money around the house. I got five hundred bucks in cash, that’s it. It’s in the bedroom, I’ll go get it.”
“No, no, no. You stay right where I can see you. I’m not stupid.”
“That remains to be seen. For example, what exactly are you gonna spend this money on?”
“I don’t know. Just living. Getting me to the next place, you know. Keepin’ on.”
“So … dope. Right?”
“Maybe. Some.” He chuckled. “Maybe, yeah.”
“If I was in your place, know what I’d do with five hundred bucks?”
He eyed me like I was a loon, even though I was about to offer him the best advice of his miserable life.
“I’d go to one of those outlet stores off the highway, where they sell the brand-name factory rejects. I’d get a nice black suit and a pair of decent dress shoes. That’s what I’d do. Ever think of that?”
“And, uh … why would I do that, exactly?”
“A black suit gets you in anywhere. Any restaurant or club, you can walk right in—”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, man—I got no money, not for that kind of shit.”
“Well, listen, with a black suit you get a leg up in any job interview. You seen the way kids dress these days—even in service jobs? It’s ridiculous. Black suit—you’re hired. They’re gonna pick you over anybody who shows up in jeans and tennis shoes. I guarantee it.”
“Is that your pitch? Really? Are you kidding me, man?”
“How ’bout this—let’s say you get killed breaking into somebody’s house. You’re wearing a black suit—boom—they can bury you in it. Your mother won’t get stuck paying for new clothes you’re only gonna wear once.”
“Shit. You are some piece of work, man.”
“Yeah, I’ve been told. Many times. Now, if you don’t mind, how about getting the fuck out of my house.”
“Aren’t you afraid I might kill you?” He finally pulled the knife out of his pocket. A stupid little jackknife. He’d been squeezing it since he barged in.
“Why the hell would you kill me?” I scoffed. “You seem to think there’s a bunch of loot in this place. Kill me, you don’t even find the five hundred. Five hundred that I’d probably just give you anyway. Seriously, kid, you’re kind of fucked-up. But you don’t strike me as stupid enough to kill somebody. Not over a few hundred bucks.”
That shut him up. He wandered around for a few minutes, looking at all the photos on the walls. I don’t think he recognized anybody, but he got the drift.
“You were in the movie business?”
“I’m a retired Jew in Palm Springs. Go outside and throw a rock— you’ll hit a Jew producer. A former producer.”
“You make anything I maybe seen? It musta been a real long time ago, right? Like Jaws. You didn’t make Jaws, did you?”
“No, that was another Jew. And I didn’t make Star Wars, either—since obviously that was gonna be your next guess.”
“George Lucas made Stars Wars. Everybody knows that.”
“You ever see Stranger’s Serenade?”
“Never heard of it.”
“It was nominated for Best Picture.”
“No shit! And you made it? How long ago?”
“Before you were born.”
“You ever win one? An Oscar?”
“I got one right over there.” I pointed. It stood out from the other awards on the mantle, as well as all the pictures of me and Maury and Herman, and the big portrait of our mother. The kid loped over and grabbed it.
“It’s hella heavy! Best Screen Story, 1957 … Franklin Fuller. Hey, that ain’t you, man. I’ll bet this ain’t even yours, is it?”
“The winner gave it to me. Meant as much as if I’d won it. Put it back, would you?”
He clutched it over his head, like he’d just won it. “I want to thank all the dumb schmucks I fucked over to get here,” he said, grinning ear-toear. “I couldn’t have done it without ripping off the whole bunch of you. Thank you all!”
“Don’t jerk around. Put it back.”
“I’ll bet this is worth a lot of money, huh?”
“Now you are being an idiot. You’re gonna steal my Oscar and sell it? How stupid can you be?”
“It ain’t yours. It’s Franklin Fuller’s. Maybe he’d like it back. Maybe he’ll pay for it.”
“There is no Franklin Fuller, dumb-ass. That’s an alias Doc used when he couldn’t put his name on anything. I’m the guy who kept him working all through the fifties.”
Dumb-ass looked dumbfounded.
“You never heard of the blacklist?” I asked.
“Nope. Don’t care, either. Before my time.”
The kid was starting to piss me off, acting like a tough guy. Dangling Doc’s Oscar, swinging it around like it belonged to him. I steered slowly toward him.
“No, you wouldn’t know nothing about that,” I said. “Why would somebody who’s never worked a day in his life give a damn about something like that? C’mon—hand it over. That belonged to the best writer in the business.”
The little shit twirled away, laughing. “Well, it belongs to me now.”
I banged the chair into the coffee table turning around too fast. He laughed some more.
“Is this really your life, kid? Traveling around sleeping on the ground and stealing money to get high? That’s it? That’s a life? The guy who won the trophy in your hand wrote three novels and ten screenplays by the time he was twenty-five. Can you imagine? He supported his entire his entire family just by telling stories. Like fucking Hercules with a typewriter. And then a bunch of worthless shits decide he can’t work anymore ’cause they think he’s a commie—and a Jew, of course. But he kept making a living for his wife and three kids, signing phony names to the best scripts in town. So guys like me could go on making money, paying him while we had to pretend he didn’t exist. Seriously, kid—put it down. You don’t even deserve to touch it.”
Oh, yeah—that hit a nerve. He stopped laughing and glared at me. “You know what, you fat old fuck? Nobody gives a shit. About any of that. Nobody cares at all—except you. So if you want your fucking stupid statue back—pay me for it.”
“Put it on the table. Put it on the table and I’ll give you the five hundred. Then you can get the fuck out of here. Go buy your dope.”
“Lemme see the money. Five thousand. That’s what I want. Five thousand.”
“Fuck off. Put it on the table. Right there. Then you’ll get some money.”
He set Doc’s Oscar down. I motored closer. He opened the knife, as a threat. He looked surprised when I pulled five hundred-dollars bills out of my shirt pocket. Old habits die hard; I’ve carried five C’s on me every day since April 30, 1945. He tried to snag the money, but I dropped it.
Dumb-ass went down to a knee to grab the bills off the floor. I hit him in the head with Doc’s Oscar, hard as I could. The first blow just stunned him, but he lost his balance and fell into me. I moved my chair back about six inches, to get a better angle. The second shot, above his ear, made a crunching sound and the base of the statue actually sank into his head. He toppled onto the floor. I turned Doc’s Oscar every which way, making sure it wasn’t damaged.
Then I stared at the kid, in a heap, on the floor, not moving. The shock suddenly hit me. I couldn’t believe it. He’d managed to fall with his head on my white berber carpet. Six inches the other way and he’s bleeding on a tile floor. Easy as hell to clean. But this asshole falls so as to leave a huge goddamn stain that’ll never come out. This fuck-up couldn’t even die right.
I steered into the kitchen, Doc’s Oscar still in my lap. I ran warm water over it to get the blood and gunk off, then dried it with one of the dish towels she always left hanging on the oven door.
About five minutes later I did the only thing possible in my situation.
I called Daphne.
She burst in about twenty minutes later. To say she was stunned would be a huge understatement. When she saw the body she collapsed into the big leather recliner and sat there, silent, for almost five minutes. But she didn’t freak out or start screaming, which was as a good sign. She finally said, “What happened?” and I told her.
“Write it down,” she said. “Like you just told me. Put it all in writing, every detail. That way there will be some kind of statement in case you need it later. He was trespassing. You had a right to defend yourself inside your own home.”
“Okay, yeah, I’ll do that. In the meantime, what are we gonna do about him?”
“Do you want to bring in the cops?”
“Not really. What’s the alternative?”
“I make him go away.”
That statement has been locked in Ben’s safe for the past two years. I decided to take it out and read it while sitting shivah. I took care of him, all day, every day, since that night. At a certain point, his emphysema got so bad we had to attach the oxygen tank to the wheelchair. Around that time is when I moved into the guest room permanently. I became his mother, wife, and daughter, all in one. Think what you will.
Ben died on August 12, 2002. Chevra Kadisha of the Desert had him in the ground two days later. About twenty people, every one a show business old-timer, attended the graveside service. Maybe half of them knew Ben. The rest just show up whenever an old Hollywood Jew gets laid to rest. It’s a tribal thing.
The Los Angeles Times ran Ben’s obituary; I could hear him bitching—it wasn’t nearly a big enough item for a man of his accomplishments.
Three days ago his brother Herman showed up. Turns out he was living all this time in Oxnard, just a few hours away. He was eating his third devilled egg when he finally got to the point of his visit. He managed to make it sound as dirty as possible:
“I guess there was nothing you didn’t do for Ben,” he said, “and that’s why he left you everything.”
“We became very close during the past four years, that’s true.”
“I’m impressed with how fast you got the estate settled. Very tidy work.”
“We had an understanding. Ben was a very grateful, very generous man.”
“Yeah, right … I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything, anyway. After all, to use Ben’s own words—I was the good-for-nothing brother.”
“I had one of those once. Although I have to admit—in the end, he was good for something.”
About twenty yards away, in a slim bit of shade cast by the saguaro, Jinx dozed on a warm, flat rock. It covered the makeshift grave where I’d buried my brother, a kid so utterly worthless he couldn’t even rob a fat old man in a wheelchair.
Herman squinted across the desert, then back at me, seeing nothing, understanding less. Before leaving, he helped himself to more devilled eggs and a few unsubtle ganders at my chest.
Just like his big brother—may he rest in peace.