Max Collins - The War of the Worlds Murder

“Yes. We met yesterday.”

“That’s right, that’s right…. At any rate, Howard has been rather bitter about Orson’s refusal to credit him on the air with scripts. They’ve had…words.”

“Seems Orson has ‘words’ with lots of people.”

“He does indeed. Since childhood he’s been assured by all concerned that he is a genius; it’s never occurred to him to doubt that opinion.”

“Well, he is a kind of genius.”

“Yes he is. And he has a great heart. But he does on occasion abuse those he loves. You like him?”

“Actually, I do. I get a real kick out of the guy. Real change of pace for me-usually, I have to create monsters to hang out with them.”

Houseman chuckled. “He is a kind of monster at that, albeit a benign one. I take it Virginia dropped by?”

“Yes. Thanks for the reprieve for yours truly. I was getting pretty damn uncomfortable.”

“A happy accident…. The poor girl. She’s as brilliant as she is lovely, you know; comes from a fine family. He treats her dismally.”

“Doesn’t he love her?”

“I think he did. He may still.” Houseman had another sip of Bloody Mary, and his eyebrows flicked up and down. “But it’s his…appetites. They are-as you may have noted yourself-large.”

“You have the British knack for understatement, Jack.”

“Thank you, Walter. But I’m not British.”

Gibson didn’t pursue that, saying, “Hell, I’m on my second wife. None of us are perfect. But with a rich, pretty, talented helpmate like that-well, it’s a shame.”

“That he couldn’t make do? I should say. But of late he’s developed a penchant for dancers.”

“Really?”

“I believe it’s the long legs.”

“His wife has long legs.”

Houseman twitched half a smile. “Most men cheat on their wives with physical replicas of those self-same wives. At least that’s been my observation. Right now Orson is seeing two dancers, one of them very famous.”

“No kidding?”

“Yes. The famous one-Vera Zorina, but do be discreet, my boy-has an equally famous fiance…George Balanchine.”

“Well, of course-I’ve heard of them both….”

“Balanchine has threatened Orson’s life. But then, if Orson is to be believed at least, so has the other dancer’s steady beau.”

“You doubt the latter?”

Houseman sipped his Bloody Mary. “I do. I happened to witness Balanchine’s threat-at the Stork Club-but the other dancer, an exotic dancer from Austria, who has been a featured performer in a variety of nightclubs, reportedly has a gangster boyfriend.”

“This is starting to sound like I wrote it.”

“Actually, I think Orson wrote it. I do believe he’s seeing this young woman, and I know that the clubs she performs in are owned by this shady individual…a fellow named Madden, I believe…”

Gibson’s eyes popped. “Owney Madden! He’s one of the top gangsters!”

“So I’m given to understand. Orson insists that this young lady has been romantically aligned with this Madden, and that he’s been threatened physically by thugs at the ganglord’s bidding.”

“Why are you skeptical?”

With a sigh, the producer said, “I am skeptical because Orson has twice now used this as an excuse for his arriving hours late to theater rehearsals-his tardiness due to the necessity of avoiding killers dispatched to take revenge upon him by this renowned gangster.”

“So-it’s just baloney, in your opinion.”

“Thinly sliced, expertly stacked in a sandwich that Orson insisted on feeding all of us-twice.” Houseman sighed. “That’s the real irritation-not only is he late, but when he comes in to give his excuse, he gets caught up in the yarn he’s inventing, and everyone gathers around…myself included, goddamnit…and we all get caught up in his powers of storytelling.”

Gibson laughed. “He’s one of a kind, all right. But couldn’t the gangster story be true?”

“Certainly it could. Orson has an apparent self-destructive need to throw himself in the path of danger-to associate with recklessness and risk.”

“Now you’re sounding melodramatic, Jack.”

“Perhaps I am. But we must always remember that what we have here is, essentially, a middle-class midwestern boy, steeped in art, music and literature, who craves the respect of sophisticated men. No matter how much he rages, he is gentle at heart-his storms tear up the countryside, but they do pass quickly.”

Showman that he was, Welles apparently knew this was his cue, because-in a cream-color suit and loose yellow bow tie-he ambled into the bar, lighted up like Christmas upon seeing them both, and deposited himself in the booth, putting Gibson in the middle.

Welles greeted them both warmly-as if he hadn’t seen Gibson for hours (as opposed to minutes) and as if he hadn’t been cruelly dismissive of Houseman the night before. He waved a waiter over, ordered himself a Bloody Mary, took credit for naming it, then listened patiently as Houseman brought him up to speed. This morning’s rehearsal had gone well, and Paul Stewart was assembling an effective gallery of sound effects; then Houseman read him script changes that the CBS censors had insisted upon for “War of the Worlds.”

“Thanks to your news bulletin approach,” Houseman said, “a script that earlier in the week was deemed by all concerned too ‘unbelievable’ has now been found, by the network, much too believable.”

Welles took a gulp of his Bloody Mary, which had just arrived. “What are the vultures requesting?”

“They request nothing. They demand that we remove our real place-names.”

“What!”

Houseman patted the air, gently. “Not geographic names-Grovers Mill is fine, as of course is New York and various New Jersey environs. Howard has made some good suggestions to fictionalize these place-names just enough to satisfy the Columbia Broadcasting System, but-”

“Not enough to alert the listener to what we’re up to. Good. Examples, please.”

Houseman looked at a sheet of paper tucked into the front of his script. “Langley Field, for example, is now ‘Langham.’ Columbia Broadcasting Building is now simply ‘Broadcasting Building.’ United States Weather Bureau is ‘Government Weather Bureau.’ ”

“Good, good,” Welles said, hands tented now, eyes almost glowing.

“New Jersey National Guard is now ‘State Militia.’ Princeton University Observatory is now ‘Princeton Observatory.’ ”

“Fine, fine.”

Houseman closed the script cover, ominously. “There is one that you won’t like, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t shield me, Housey.”

“They won’t let us use Roosevelt as a character.”

Welles sat up, alarmed and dismayed. “But that’s vital -a message from the president in a moment of national crisis!”

“They’ll allow another official-they’re suggesting Secretary of the Interior. This one appears to be nonnegotiable.”

Welles was thinking. “I may have a way around that…”

Houseman’s eyes hardened. “Orson-you know that I don’t approve of this approach…”

“I seem to recall something to that effect.”

“…but we have to keep CBS happy. Because if this backfires in any way, we dare not take all of the responsibility on our own shoulders.”

Welles drew in a deep breath. Finally he expelled it, and said ambiguously, “I won’t compromise the Mercury.”

Houseman frowned. “Artistically? Or financially?”

Welles leaned forward and patted Houseman’s hand. “I won’t let you down, Jack.” Then he turned to Gibson and said, “We only have a few hours left, before my rehearsal at the theater. Let’s get to work!”