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*****
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| Klugman And Ether Merman In Gypsy |
In between Eff words and Em-Eff words, I could sort of make out that he
was in some kind of a pickle, but with all the sounds of a busy newsroom around
me I was definitely missing the meat of the matter.
Something about a distributer. Well, a Fucking Distributer, actually.
At least that's what I think he was saying.
"What about the distributer?" I asked.
Then the presses started rolling - hitting about two thousand feet a
minute in no time. And then the whole building started to shake. It was the
Home Edition.
I put Chris on hold and went into the computer room, which was
soundproofed and air conditioned. The computer was a 1979 marvel to behold.
Huge, with flashing lights and spinning reels of tape, it looked like something
off the set of Forbidden Planet. The Outlook was the first newspaper west of the
Mississippi to computerize, making some of us proud, and others scared shitless
of being run over by the Future. Thinking back on it, that whole damned machine
probably had fewer brains than my BrandSmart Microwave, so maybe the
scaredy-cat group really did have something to freak over. I mean, after that
came Sexting.
Lifted the phone extension and punched up Chris. "What's going on,
partner?" I asked.
"The new fucking distributer Russ' boys bolted on to my bike is
fucking fried, is what's going on," he said. The bike - a blown out
Kawasaki Z1 - was normally his pride and joy. The mechanics at racing champ
Russ Collins ' speed shop tried out experimental Go Fast gear on it, and let
Chris keep the stuff if it worked. If it didn't - well, they'd fix it when they
had time.
Unfortunately, mechanical things have their own schedule when it comes
to going Kaput! And this was the worst possible time imaginable.
"Shit, we're due at Universal in an hour and a half," I said.
"No time for me to pick you up and then make it to the studio. Not with
you all the way over in fucking Compton."
Chris' voice was weary. "Well, I know that, Cole," he said. "What
I don't know is what the fuck to do about it."
Unspoken, was that there was no way we could cancel. Mr. Jack By-God Klugman
was personally giving us a shot at breaking into The Game and if we blew the
meeting we'd both feel like blowing our brains out as well.
There was a clicking sound on the phone and Chris said, "Hang on.
Got another call. Maybe it's Gunsmith Bob."
Bob Willy - aka Gunsmith Bob - was not only a great friend, a wealth of
technical information of all kind, but possessed an old Rambler station wagon
that regularly poisoned the atmosphere, but was reliably capable of getting
from here to there.
Maybe… Just maybe…
Chris clicked back on the line. "Hot damn," he said. "Bob
and Big Dave are dropping the Rambler by. See you in a bit."
A half hour later I was off work and Chris pulled into the newspaper
parking lot as I exited the building. Double checked the chain lock on my
Suzuki, then popped open the passenger door of the Rambler. Empty beer cans
came rolling out, but who the hell cared at a time like this?
We dodged traffic over the hill, the car choking and coughing past
Mulholland to the very top, then diving down to where many possible Freeway
Cloverleaf routes leap up with no warning.
Quite by accident, we merged onto the correct freeway. Over the
sputtering engine, I was shouting, "That way, Chris, that way," while
jabbing a finger in the wrong direction.
But my warning came too late and Chris was forced by traffic to make
the proper choice and before you knew it we were approaching the Universal Studios
off ramp, with the legendary Black Tower marking the spot just up ahead.
Even as rookies we knew the Black Tower was a scary place. That’s where
the Guys With The Big Telephones held forth. GWTBT types like Lew Wasserman -
the Pope of Hollywood, who started out as a theater usher in the 1930’s and
cut, slashed and machinegunned his way all the way to the top of the mountain -
CEO and majority share holder of the biggest, baddest motion picture and music
company in the...well... universe.
You know that scene in the Godfather with the horse's head in the
producer's bed? If you had met Waserman and his Number Two - Sid Sheinberg -
you'd know that there isn't a Mafia boss in the world with balls enough to pull
such a stunt on either of them.
As Chris once put it, "The blowback would be fucking ferocious."
Once you become familiar with Universal Studios, it's no surprise when
you learn that it was founded on the back of a string of horror movies. The
House that Frankenstein, Dracula, and The Wolfman built, with a little Francis
The Talking Mule and Abbott and Costello thrown in to lighten things up. It's
like General Motors getting its start with Funny Cars. Which, come to think of
it… Oh, never mind.
We stopped at the gate and a tall, silver-haired gentleman in a perfectly
creased uniform emerged from the guard shack. He politely inquired what our
business was, established that we had an appointment at the Quincy offices, and
as he handed us a map of the Lot the Rambler gave a hacking American Motors wheeze
and expelled a big fat smog fart.
The gentleman gate guard didn't react, or sneer at our poverty on
wheels, but just leaned closer so we could hear him over the ailing engine
noises.
(Later, we learned his name was
Scotty, hands down the most well-liked gate guard in all of Hollywood. From
that day on he remembered our faces and names and always smoothed the way with
prime parking spots and a cheery, "Good luck, boys.")
Scotty indicated a score of lines painted on the roadway. They made up
a rainbow of broad stripes: red, green, blue and yellow - and they all went off
in different directions.
"Like the Good Witch said, boys, just follow the yellow brick
road," Scotty quipped, smiling at what was obviously a joke he told many
times a day, but still enjoyed.
He added, "Mr. Klugman’s production offices are just about all the
way to the back of the lot. When you go by Mr. Hitchcock ’s and Miss Lucille
Ball's dressing rooms you will be almost there. If you find yourself in front
of an old fashioned white house with a picket fence you have gone too far.
That's the Ozzie and Harriet house, you know."
We didn’t, but figured we would when we saw for ourselves. Of course,
Hitchcock and Lucy were in a really, really long hiatus, and Ozzie and Harriet went
off the air long ago, but we didn’t point any of this out to the dignified
guard and set off to find the wizard whose name was Quincy along the By God
yellow brick road.
The broad yellow stripe twisted and turned through a maze of sound
stages and bustling crowds of workmen operating strange machines with even
stranger gadgets attached. Electric carts whizzed this way and that, whipping
around the occasional black limo carrying some "Suit" or other to
meetings at zillion dollar a plate bistros, or maybe even the dreaded Black
Tower.
The sound stages were the size of aircraft hangars and here and there
alarms blared, doors into the sound stages slammed and red lights blinked on to
warn one and all to stay the hell out - people were performing magic in there.
In some places costumed actors, actresses, and Star Standins hung out
of open doors to catch a quick smoke break. We caught glimpses of everything
from green-skinned aliens, guys with movie blood-spattered bandages, and
fabulously beautiful women in every variety of scanty attire. Mingling with
them were burly stuntmen and lithe stuntwomen.
We couldn't help but goggle, and by and by we came upon a tram ferrying
some fellow lookee-loos around the lot. But these were rubber-neckers of the
paying variety. They were enjoying what was then called the Universal Studio
Tour. A primitive, low-bucks affair with no special effects or rides, other
than the trams, which were usually helmed by young actors and actresses who did
their best to entertain the rubes with quips and show biz tricks, like stopping
the tram in mid road, and juggling purses and cameras, or walking on their hands.
Anything to get in a little of the old razzle dazzle. Who knows, maybe
a producer in a passing limo or electric VIP cart would see them and hire them
on the spot. (Factoid: in
those days the trams were called "Glamour Trams." Glamour by whose
measure? Probably Wasserman, which made it so.)
The tourists were milling around two little cottages set side by side.
One had Alfred Hitchcock ’s shadow profile painted on the door; the other was
graced with a caricature of Lucille Ball. The studio had turned them into mini-
museums and the people seemed to be enjoying themselves wandering in and out.
Chris glanced over at me. "You a little nervous?"
I shrugged. "All they can tell us is to fuck off," I said.
"I didn’t ask you that," Chris pointed out.
I shrugged again. "Yeah, I’m nervous."
Then before we knew it we were cruising over a rise and below us we saw
a white house with a picket fence.
"That must be Ozzie’s place." I observed. "Except in
color, instead of black and white."
As Chris came to a stop he snorted. "Ricky Nelson ’s a no-talent
wimp," he decreed.
Then we were turning left into a parking area in front of a fairly
large white cottage. Not only did the number on the cottage match the address
scrawled in our notebook, but we spied an empty parking space with the name
Jack Klugman painted on it.
"Guess Jack's not home," I said.
Inside Jack’s place we were greeted by a middle-aged woman, with a
practiced smile meant to put us at ease. She advised us that the wait would be
short and fetched us some cold drinks. The reception area was cool and dark,
with comfortable furniture.
The walls were decked with posters illustrating Klugman's long and
varied career. Films like 12 Angry Men and Days Of Wine And Roses. TV series
like The Odd Couple. There were Broadway posters, like Gypsy. And any number of
cards from his countless appearances on the Twilight Zone.
Before all this had time to sink in, the lady ushered us into an office
where three men waited: Peter Thompson, the executive producer, and two other
producers whose names I was too nervous to catch. We learned later that they
were William (Billy)
Cairncross and Charles (Diz) Dismukes and they both not only taught us a lot
but saved our young asses innumerable times.
Peter was a handsome devil, with a British accent. He was the Quincy Showrunner
- TV lingo for the guy who runs the show, okay? And, as we would soon learn, a
genial conniver of the first order. Even so, he was hard not to like.
Copies of our script about a boxer falsely accused of murder were laid
out around a large meeting table and as we settled into our chairs, nervously getting
out notepads and pens, Peter said, "Hold on a tick, lads, Jack's going to
join us."
I could tell from Chris' expression that he was as surprised as I was.
We heard Klugman's gravel voice issuing orders to his assistant at the front
desk, then the door opened to frame the Great Man Himself - Jack By God
Klugman.
He was tall, well-built and he came charging into the room boiling with
energy. Talking a mile a minute, grabbing our hands and giving them firm
shakes, telling us to "Sit, sit," and all the while asking questions
and issuing orders non-stop to his producers.
The assistant ducked in to tell Klugman so-and-so was on the phone. He
waved at her, looking disgusted. "I don’t have time for Suits," he
said. "I’m talking to my writers."
Chris and I exchanged looks. The guy was growing larger in our book by
the second. (Later, we'd learn that sort of thing was routinely staged, but it
was still a thrill that a big TV star like Klugman had taken the trouble.)
Then he got down to business. Grabbed a copy of our script and started
flipping through it. "Great story, boys," he said. "I could
almost shoot it as is. Maybe a couple of suggestions I might have, but bottom
line - this is a damned fine job."
We were enthralled, to say the least. We were in. Finally in. The big
door kicked down. We were made, Baby, made. Wait'll Kathryn hears the good-
"Unfortunately," Klugman continued, snapping off my thoughts,
"we can’t use it. We’ve already done a boxing show for this season."
My heart fell from a far height. I could almost hear Chris' bouncing on
the floor beside mine. Shit, so close. You almost get there - just like all
those other times - then, wham, they sucker punch you flat on your ass.
"You couldn’t have known," Klugman went on. "The episode
won’t air for a couple of weeks. It doesn't have the same angle as yours - the
aneurysm deal - but what're you gonna do?"
He kept flipping through the script. Stopped at one point, read for a
second. Then looked up.
"This boxing business is right on the money," he said. "That’s
one thing that really caught my eye. You've got it down good. I oughta know. I
was a Golden Gloves boxer back in the day, and I've had ringside seats at all
the top fights ever since."
I couldn’t believe our good luck. "Well, sir," I said, "I’ve
been nuts about boxing and boxers myself since I was a kid. My grandfather,
Frank Guinan, and his brother, Joe, were founders of the Philadelphia Boxing
Association. You know, the gym where they shot Rocky and -"
"No shit?" Klugman said, breaking in. "The Philadelphia
Boxing Association? Know it well." He sat back in his chair. Impressed as
all hell. "They must have been pros, then."
"Yessir," I said. "Back in the Twenties they not only
won championships, but in several different names." Klugman laughed
knowingly. I went on, "They had to feed their families, you know? So
they’d fight two, sometimes three times a week. But under different names.
Besides that, my grandfather was lightweight Fleet Champion when he was in the
Navy, and something similar when he was in the Army. My Great Uncle Joe later
became president or vice president of the association."
He looked at me, interested. "Are you a Philly kid?"
I hadn’t been there more than a few months at a time since I was a
baby, but I said, "I was born in South Philly, sir. Twenty First and
Tasker, that’s me. Just down from Bishop Neumann High School."
"No shit?" Jack said again.
"Yessir."
I was only lying a little bit. My Aunt Cassie and Uncle Tom had a row
home at Twenty First and Tasker and I had attended Bishop Neumann for
practically a whole month.
Klugman closed the script and sat silent for a few seconds, thinking.
After the verbal barrage, it felt like a storm had just passed through.
Then he said, "Okay, Philly, here’s what we’re gonna to do." (Over
the years that's what he called me - "Philly.") He looked over at
Peter Thompson. "I want them write a script for us," he said. "Call
their agent and make the deal."
Peter smiled that charming smile of his. "Sure, thing, Jack. And I
have just the story for them. That notion about mistreated children you wanted
to explore."
"Fine," Klugman said. "Get on it right away."
Then he rose, stuck out his hand for parting handshakes, and said, "You
go get 'em, Philly." He grinned at Chris. "You too. I want to show
those Suits in the Tower that they can’t keep a lock on this town forever."
Then he was gone and there was a sudden vacuum in the room. The two
other producers (Billy and Diz) congratulated us, then shot out of there,
leaving only Peter behind.
He said, "Jack’s been wanting to do something about child molesters.
It’s become one of his pet causes."
"Yessir," Chris and I said in more or less unison.
"I want you to research the subject thoroughly," Peter added.
"I have a few names at the LAPD you can contact and a psychiatrist or two
who specialize in that area."
"When do you need the story?" Chris asked, naturally enough.
Peter gave a wide - and in retrospect - wolfish smile. "Don’t
worry about that, boys," he said.
Thumped his chest. "I’ve got the story."
NEXT: WHAT'S THE STORY BOYS?
*****
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide:
Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
- "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
- "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus.
- "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
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Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
|
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself.
*****
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!
Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four episodes. Here are the links:
REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!
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