Sweet Smell of Success Read online

  Copyright

  First published in the United States in 2000 by

  The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

  141 Wooster Street

  New York, NY 10012

  www.overlookpress.com

  Copyright © 1957, 2000 by Ernest Lehman

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  ISBN 978-1-46830-244-8

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Sweet Smell of Success

  The Man Who Liked to Look at Women

  Don’t You Like It Out Here?

  The Way Men Are

  You Can’t Have Everything

  He Brung Happiness to Millions

  The Small Sound of Applause

  The Comedian

  The Happy Hangover

  Hunsecker Fights the World

  End of Summer

  Clear Connection

  The Unguarded Moment

  Clear Havana Filler

  It’s the Little Things That Count

  The Classic Film Noir Reference Volume

  To my beloved wife, Laurene

  Sweet Smell of Success

  I JUST LET HER GO ON TALKING. I sat there at my desk with the phone propped between my head and shoulder and allowed the insistent monotone of her voice to jab at my brain, while I mopped my forehead with my left hand and tapped a cigarette with my right.

  It was one of those dirty, sweltering August afternoons when only two kinds of fools were in their hot city offices: those who had to be, and those who were on the verge of never having to be again, if they played their cards right.

  I was tired of being one of those who had to be.

  I sat there and listened to her, as I had listened to her for too many years, but now, when the food that had been my lunch began to make itself known to me in sharp little stabs of pain, I knew enough not to let her hit any closer to home. Today of all days, the mirrors had to be kept turned to the wall. The only thing that could go wrong was me, and I was not going to allow that to happen—not today, when all I had been scratching and crawling for was finally drawing within reach.

  “Ma …,” I said, “listen … Ma … please. …”

  “I know what I’m saying, Sidney. …” She went right on talking.

  “Ma, will you …?” I tossed the handkerchief on the desk. “Ma, listen to me—”

  “Mike was always the smart one. He can see things you and I could never see, not even your poor father could see. If he sees evil—”

  “Listen here!” I grabbed the phone. “Mike’s a kid—a dumb punk of a kid!”

  “Don’t shout at me, Sidney. You’re not young enough any more.” “Well, what does he know about the world, hidden away there in college? Who is he to examine every dollar bill that passes through his hands to make sure it isn’t contaminated by sweat?”

  “Not sweat, Sidney. Dirt.” Her voice was maddeningly calm.

  “Look,” I said quickly, “my other phone is ringing. Tell me about it tomorrow.”

  But she wouldn’t let go. “Will you come out and see me soon?”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times—move to New York. I’ll pay for the apartment. I just don’t have the time to run all the way out to Forest Hills.”

  “Broadway is your life, not mine. My life is out here where you can breathe fresh air.”

  “All right, then. Enjoy it.”

  “You could call me once in a while.”

  “For what?” I cried. “To be told by my own family that I’m not good enough to help them out a bit?”

  “What you do, Sidney, you don’t do for us. Don’t ever try to fool yourself into thinking that.”

  “Thanks,” I said bitterly. “Thank you so much. Now can I go? I’ve got work to do.”

  “You mustn’t drive yourself so hard—”

  “Yeah, yeah, good-by.”

  “Try to get more sleep—”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Eat well.”

  “Good-by.”

  “And call me once in a while.”

  “All right!” I hung up quickly.

  Outside, the other phone was ringing, and I heard Gloria answer it.

  “Who is it?” I called out.

  “I don’t know. He won’t give his name.”

  “I’m not in,” I said. “I’m not in to anyone.”

  “It sounds like Steve Dallas,” Gloria said.

  “Never mind who it sounds like. I’m not in.” I wondered whether my voice had betrayed the sudden sinking feeling in my stomach at the mention of his name. It wasn’t really a bad sensation, not half as bad as I had thought it would be. But then, I had underestimated myself. All through the years I had held myself back by telling myself there were certain things I’d never be able to go through with.

  I picked up the check lying in the junk pile on my desk, and then I took up the letter with which my brother had returned the check and read the letter again for the third time, like a man punching himself in the midriff to prove his own toughness.

  Dear Sid

  I doubt if you’ll be able to understand it, but I find I can’t accept the five hundred. Thanks, anyway, for your generosity. It probably seemed awful to you that I’m working my way through college in a steam laundry, but believe me when I tell you that it isn’t bad at all. The nice thing about working in a laundry, Sid, is that it’s clean. Also, we work standing up—never on our knees. Get what I mean?

  Incidentally, how do you like the way the Dodgers are belting that apple around? If they can keep it up, I have a hunch they’ll cop the pennant. Mark my words.

  Mike

  “I’ll mark your words,” I muttered, as I tore the letter into little pieces and threw them into the wastebasket. Come to me with the sheepskin in the hand and the worry on the brow and ask me for help, someday, and I’ll mark them well. My brother, Michael Falco, boy Sir Galahad. He had worn the shining armor and pricked me with his sword as far back as I could remember. In the crowded house, no peace. …

  “Hi, Sid.”

  “Hello, Mike.”

  “I saw you at the game yesterday.”

  “Really? Why didn’t you come over and say hello?”

  “You were with Hunsecker.”

  “ So?”

  “I don’t know.” He would scuff the carpet as he talked. “I thought maybe you didn’t want me around when you were with him.”

  “Why shouldn’t I want you around?” Harshly, as though anger could conceal the truth.

  “I don’t know,” he said to the carpet. “Gee, some game, wasn’t it?”

  I looked away. “Uh huh.”

  “How did you like Cramer?”

  I didn’t answer him. I could feel the blood rising to my cheeks. I knew the silence couldn’t last.

  “Sid?” he said. “Why did Hunsecker get up and walk out when Cramer had only two more men to face?”

  “How do I know?” My voice stuck in my throat.

  “Why did he walk out on a no-hit, no-run game with one out in the ninth?” he persisted.

  “I guess he wanted to beat the crowds.” I walked to the bedroom, but he followed me.

  His voice was soft and gentle, like Ma’s. “Then why did you get up and leave with him, Sid? You always said—”

  “Mind your own business!” I whirled on him.


  “You always said you’d give your right arm to see a no-hit, no-run ball game.”

  “You got a great memory, haven’t you?”

  “A no-hit, no-run ball game against the Cardinals, and you didn’t stay to see the finish,” he said smoothly, “just because you’re a press agent—and a columnist felt like leaving.”

  “Okay.” I shouted. “Okay.”

  And then he smiled at me, shaking his head slowly … the big joke of my brother, Michael Falco, boy weasel.

  I ripped up the check and threw that in the waste basket, too. He didn’t bother me any more. Neither did Ma. They didn’t bother me one damned bit.

  “Gloria, see if Irving Spahn is back from lunch yet.”

  “Right.”

  I picked up the damp handkerchief and wiped my neck. Too much was at stake today, that was the trouble. Somehow I knew that nothing I had ever done for J. J. Hunsecker was as deeply and everlastingly important to the favor I had taken it upon myself to do for him now. I had been aware of it from the moment of awakening this morning, feeling the dread in the pit of my stomach and the unwillingness to get out of bed. All morning I had sat at my desk, trying not to think of the afternoon papers that would be out at noon. And when Gloria had finally walked in with them and stacked them up in front of me, it had been ten minutes before I had been able to look at them. Not that I feared the items wouldn’t be in. No. Otis Elwell and Leo Bartha were two columnists who could always be counted on to snatch at hunks of raw, red meat if I seasoned them with the proper libel-proof words. What I had really been afraid of was my own reaction to the fait accompli, to the evidence in black and white that there was nothing I was not prepared to do, no new level to which I would not descend, in order to sew up Hunsecker’s power for me and my clients.

  He had come out of the Midwest and, in a few short years, pushed his way close to the pinnacle on which the Winchells and Sullivans perched. While the backs of most columnists had been turned on Broadway and Hollywood and their eyes focused on the more important international scene, Hunsecker had stolen the mantle and proclaimed himself king of show business.

  “Hunsecker is not interested in making over the world,” he had said to me, a few weeks after he arrived from Chicago to join The Globe. “Let the others worry about world peace and the United Nations. Hunsecker is interested in Hunsecker.” Then he had fixed his gimlet eyes on me and added shrewdly, “If you are a bright boy, Sidney—and I think you are—you will be interested in Hunsecker, too.”

  Privately, I had scoffed. But that was five years ago. Nobody scoffed now. The word was “obeisance.” The entertainment world genuflected to his skyrocketing circulation and expanding influence with all the reverence it could muster. And he had achieved it all merely by adding new and scabrous meanings to the word “rumor.”

  “Irving Spahn on one,” Gloria called out.

  I picked up the phone. “Irv, baby? Sidney.”

  “What is it?”

  “You sound funny, Irv.”

  “I wonder why,” he said stiffly. “You can’t think of any reason why, can you, Sidney? I guess you haven’t seen the papers yet, is that it?”

  “I never read them, baby, unless I figure on having something in, and today is not one of those days.”

  “You haven’t got the papers there?”

  “No,” I said.

  There was a moment of silence. “All right, then,” he said. “Let me read something to you.” I heard him rustling the papers. “Let me read you the lead item of a cockroach by the name of Otis Elwell. Are you listening, Sidney?”

  “Go ahead.”

  He read, “‘That loud noise you are about to hear is the career of a certain crooner going up in smoke—marijuana smoke—and it’s not going to help business at that East Side spot where he is currently flying high when they also discover he’s the life of the party— Communist, that is.’”

  I said, “Yeah? So—?”

  “Wait a minute,” he said savagely, “don’t go away. Let me read you this, from the column of the little Napoleon, my friend Leo Bartha, for whom I’ve done favors. Just listen.”

  “I’m listening, baby.”

  “My friend Leo Bartha writes, ‘The peculiar smoking habits of a highly touted newcomer to the Stem are giving a bad stench to the elegant boîte where he sings. Naughty, naughty, fellah. That’s no way for a card-holding Party member to act.’”

  I examined my fingernails. I needed a manicure. “Who do they mean?”

  “Who do they mean?” His voice shook suddenly. “I don’t know who they mean. Do you know who they mean, Sidney? I don’t know who they mean, and maybe they don’t know who they mean either, but everybody else thinks they mean Steve Dallas. That’s who they mean!”

  “Steve Dallas? You’re out of your mind!” I gave it a good reading. “Dallas a Commie? Dallas with reefers? That boy? Don’t be silly, Irv.”

  “Listen to me, Sidney.” He fought to get his voice under control. “Do you think I’m a fool? I know it isn’t true. I know that boy better than I know myself. He’s a fine kid. But people read the columns, and they believe what they read. That’s all that matters. And it just so happens that when you read those items the first name that pops into your mind is Steve Dallas. I don’t know why. It just so happens that’s the way they’re worded.”

  It just so happens. …

  “Where do you suppose Elwell and Bartha picked up that kind of smear stuff, Irv?”

  “They never reveal a source. Remember, Sidney?”

  I waited.

  “Sidney?”

  “Yeah, Irv?”

  “You have any idea what this might be all about?”

  “Well … no … ,” I answered slowly. “Not exactly … but …”

  “But what?”

  “Well, I was just thinking. You know how jealous Elwell and Bartha are of Hunsecker’s syndication, and how much they resent the fact that he’s managed to do in a few years what they’ve been trying to do for a life time. …”

  “Go on I’m listening.”

  “I was just thinking—they’re like malicious kids. Maybe they put the blast on Dallas because he’s been seen around town lately with Susan Hunsecker. Maybe they would louse up your boy just to get back at Hunsecker through his kid sister.”

  “You talk very funny, Sidney.”

  “Huh?”

  “I was always under the impression that Hunsecker tells you everything, even what he dreams when he goes to sleep. You talk as though you don’t know Hunsecker is not at all happy about this romance. You talk as though you don’t know what’s going on.”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” I said quickly. “What you and I know is one thing. What other people know is another thing. I’m telling you Elwell and Bartha might very well think.”

  “Sidney—”

  “What?”

  “I’d hate to tell you what I think about all this.” His voice started going again. “I’m afraid to tell you what’s in my mind—”

  “Now, baby, don’t let your imagination start running away with you. Relax.”

  “All right, Sidney, I’ll relax,” he said brokenly. “I’ll forget that Van Cleve called me five minutes after the papers hit the stands. I’ll forget that he wants to see me and the boy this afternoon. ‘What about?’ I asked. ‘Never mind what about,’ he said, ‘just be there.’ He doesn’t have to tell me what about. I know. I can tell by his voice. In ten minutes, I’m going over there to be told that Dallas is through at the Elysian Room. And that’s only the beginning. The word is out already. He’ll be through all over town—”

  “Now, baby—”

  “Do you know what that means, Sidney?” he cried. “I got two kids and Grace is not well enough to work. I don’t have a J. J. Hunsecker in my pocket. I don’t have anything in my pocket. All I got in the world is a piece of this boy Dallas, and it could be a gold mine someday, because he’s got everything—everything—and now it’s all going out the window!
”

  “Listen, Irv—”

  “And for why, Sidney? Why?”

  “Baby, listen to me—”

  “What did I do? What did he do to deserve this?”

  “Wait a minute, Irv. Use your common sense. It’s not as bad as all that. Maybe he’ll lose a booking or two, but that’s all. A couple of blind items in a couple of second-rate columns can’t ruin a talent like that. Nobody will remember it a week from now. And the minute those jealous, spiteful slobs see that your boy isn’t interested in Hunsecker’s sister any more, they’ll lay off him and look for new targets. They’ll—”

  “What was that you said, Sidney?” He spoke slowly, carefully.

  “I said it would take more than a couple of second rate items to ruin a talent like that.”

  “No, Sidney, no. Something else you said. That wasn’t all you said.”

  I took a deep breath. I had tried—really tried. “And I said that nothing bad will happen to Dallas providing he forgets about Susan Hunsecker.” I swallowed. “Nothing permanent, Irv.”

  There was a moment of terrible silence, the worst silence I had ever heard. “Sidney,” he groaned. “My God—Sidney. … You and me—” He choked up. “We were kids together. We played on the same basketball team—the same school. we went out on double dates together. Sidney, we starved together. Didn’t you remember? This is me—Irv Spahn—you did this to. Don’t you remember all the things—?” He started slobbering.

  “Irv!” I shouted. “Listen to me!”

  “All right,” he wailed, “I’m listening! I’m listening! Go ahead. What can I do now but listen?”

  I waited, while he blew his nose and tried to pull what was left of himself together.

  “Now look, baby,” I said in a soothing voice, “use your common sense. You’re his agent. You’re his best friend. Speak to the boy. He’ll listen to you. Tell him to give up the girl and everything will be all right. Nothing else will happen if he gives up the girl. Nothing at all. Now will you please be sensible and talk to the boy?”

  The words came back to me dry and hollow, drained of everything there had ever been between us. “All right,” he said stiffly. “I’ll—I’ll speak to him. I’ll see what I can do.”