The Fall of Camelot

June 5, 1968

They shot the Senator tonight. They shot him in the hall of a hotel kitchen.

Outside it's cool, clear up to the stars. You can see the ocean. You can see the hotel, I think, where they shot him.

News came over the radio while I was down in the carhouse playing solitaire. Couldn't sleep much anyways. The Dame came down to ask me to take the Young Dame for a ride, calm her down. She was swinging between catatonia and hysteria.

He's not dead yet, they say. But I've never known anyone to live through a slug right behind the ear. Don't matter if the skull pieces are in the head or on the trunk of a limousine, a gunshot is a gunshot.

They're shooting everyone these days. The Reverend two months ago. The Agitator a couple years ago. The President not long before. Mclean says they shoot farmers in the fields and kids in the crib over there, in Vietnam. Saw them shoot that one son of a bitch on the street in the paper, gun up to his head, you could see the recoil in the Police Captain's wrist already. Hard to think of anything other than blood since Ike left office. Not that I miss the bastard. Kid brother was a Captain in Normandy. Came back in a mess tin.

Maybe it's always been this way.

Gotta drive the Young Dame around. Gotta calm her down.

She's a star. Little high strung. Beautiful. Knew the Senator. Knew the President too. Even knew the Reverend--courtesy of Frank Sinatra.

I pull the car around and she's standing in her coal slacks and red cardigan in front of the Big House, with the Dame next to her. Looks like maybe she was crying, but now isn't.

"Take her down to the city, Hagerty. She wants to go to the hospital," the Dame says. I get out, open the door. Young Dame gets in.

"Back by dawn, Mrs." I say.

"Back when it's done," she says.

I close the door, get back up front, look in the mirror.

"Not town, Hagerty," the Young Dame says. I nod. "Just drive. Just drive."

Up first, out west along the hills. I watch her in the mirror, looking out over Los Angeles like a queen surveying the ruin of her Kingdom. How well could she have known him?

I've been the chauffeur for the Dame and her two kids and her husband six years. Long enough to see the Young Dame get famous, turn down suitors, get hurt, come back. Long enough to see the Kid Sister get older, get loud and rowdy, pick up her first arrest. Never seen the Young Dame like this, tight and broken at the same time.

"Anything to drink up there, Hags?"

"Bourbon in the console," I say.

"Throw it out the window."

"Aye, aye, Captain," I say. And I do. The bottle breaks on the street and I can see the glass glitter from a streetlight.

"Pull off here," she gestures to a lookout point. One of the ones half-hidden by the scrub. It's the sort of places the kids stop to screw, where the Johns come with their Doves on nights like this. But tonight the cars, just three, all have just one person. Probably they're crying. Probably they're drunk. Seen the Young Dame like that. Not tonight.

When she wants to drive she wants a story. Henry Wallace, probably. I carried an automatic and stood next to The Secretary through the hard years. Drove him around the last couple. Lot of stories.

"Wallace and I," I start, when we've parked. But she shakes her head.

"Not tonight, Hags. Not tonight."

"As you say, Miss Elizabeth," I say.

Silence. Darkness. The car cools. The engine shifts.

"He was a good man, Senator Kennedy," she says, after a while. I can see she wants to talk. I cock my head, look at her in the mirror. She sighs, gets out of the car, comes up and opens the passenger and slides in next to me.

She's beautiful, twenty six but hasn't aged a day since I knew her, at least not in this light. Blond hair tied up and fine little strands loose at the back. A little sweat there too, perspiration. Had the Senator seen this part of her, smelled her perfume, and under it the smell of her, a warm, almost masculine smell. His brother would've tried for her. But she was young then.

So much I still don't know about these people. She puts her arm on my neck. I'm more than twice her age, an Irish chauffeur with no education, a big gut and a limp prick. It's been twenty years since a girl touched my neck that I didn't pay for. What does she want?

"We're both survivors, Hagerty, you and I."

She draws her legs up on the seat next to her. A cloud passes over the half-moon shining down on the sprawl of Los Angeles. For a moment, the city is lit only by its glowing lights, from the Chateau Marmont on the edge of the flats all the way to the Pacific. Streetlights and the few kitchen lights like stars on a plain of velvet black, and I think of the fireflies in Louisiana in my boyhood on the moonless summer nights when it seemed I would never leave the river bottoms and the mud and the wordless poverty. When I would see the white faces in the windows on the train, looking down at us all sunburned in the rough grass. Soon the cloud will move and the silver spill back over town and the world will turn back towards the sun, rising in the east once more to bathe this land in God's killing love.

"This too," she says, as if reading my thoughts. "Is one of the dark places of the earth."

Her chin points to the Chateau down west of us.

"A medieval castle," a rueful look. "Barbarians here on the rim of the world. All of us. Even Bobby. He was good, in his own way. In his way."

"I was 18 when I met him. Just a kid," she says. "And I met him down there, In that pool of darkness on the south side of the Marmont. You know what I mean?"

"No, Miss," I said.

January, 9, 1960

It wasn't raining when we got to the Chateau. It wasn't even cold. It was never cold in Los Angeles, not the way it was in New York. I hadn't been cold since we moved to California a year ago. I remember in New York getting up and it being so cold my bones would hurt. Sometimes it was the dance lessons, or the rehearsals, as much as the cold. But usually it was the cold. It came in through the big windows of the apartment over Central Park, a biting, tearing thing, nasty enough to get in your flesh and hold there, its little teeth like pins and needles all over you.

But that night at the Chateau, I wasn't cold.

Mother saw the call in the papers. Aspiring Actress to Play Barbarian Princess. A formality of a casting call. She called Ruben, my agent, and he got the script. It wasn't my first picture. But I got through the first round with the producers and the director and then they wanted me to meet the lead. You know the picture. The Princess of Cantabria. Everyone's seen it a million times. The critics said it blew Spartacus out of the water. But they just didn't want to hand it to Dalton.

The Chateau stood pale like a chunk of the moon set right against the black of the hills. Dark windows and dark balconies. We'd gone to dinner in the city, Father and I and the producer and his assistant, Miss Florian--everyone said she was the real power in the studio--and Father had brought Claire too. But she was 10 years old and tired and Father drove her back from the restaurant and I got in Miss Florian's car. She was my chaperone.

We were almost out of money. I knew that. Father's firm wasn't doing well in California, and Mother wouldn't deign to work. The money from my first two pictures was a pittance. A few hundred dollars for one, a thousand for the other.

"It's good money," Miss Florian had said towards the end of dinner. "For a young girl. $750 a week during shooting. $40,000 afterwards. And then a good portion. But Warren has to approve."

I'd met Warren Lawrence twice before around town. He was a big man, tanned and famous, with a shock of black hair and dark eyes, really dreamy like. In a suit, he looked like a paragon of virtue, a King among his court. But in a polo and slacks, you could see there was a rough strength to him that made girls swoon and housewives angry. Like so many actors, I'd heard rumors about Warren: they said he was a little lavender, that McCarthy had wanted to cut him down to size. That he spent a lot more time in men's clubs than was healthy for an unmarried man. But other rumors cut the opposite. More than one starlet's career ended during the production of one of his films.

But you never think the things people talk about will happen to you. There's always someone else. Some naif fresh from Iowa, some strumpet whose folks have hung around Gower Avenue half-throwing her at men since she first bled, who is the real recipient.

Never you.

Never you in the green coat dress that drinks the light and the blue-green earrings and pale, almost sheer stockings and patent leather shoes.

Call it paradoxical, but I've never liked people looking at me. That's what the papers say made me a star: Elizabeth Montfort, who never did anything for anyone's eyes but her own. Of course, that's the wrong interpretation. Lady Bird wanted to get smallpox to avoid giving her valedictory address; I'd have got it to avoid one candid photo in the smallest magazine.

But a costume is different. A costume is someone else. Another person entire. It is freedom, in the same way that death or prison are freedom.

But I wasn't wearing a costume that night.

Miss Florian took my hand and led me up the drive. The Marmont is built like a castle. One wing projects from the main tower out south, to give its occupants the enfilading fire. I'd notice, later that night, that the cocktail table in Warren's living room looked down on the approach. But I didn't look up. Miss Florian was telling me more about the script, about how long John Langland, her boss, had wanted to shoot this movie.

Then we were inside and the concierge greeted us. He knew Miss Florian by sight and led us through the pale stucco and dark wood of the lobby to the bank of elevators. Up to Floor 5. Then along the white-walled, green-carpeted hall. I'd been on auditions before, even to the apartments of men, with a studio escort. This was no different. A drink or two, some flirting. Coy like. These Los Angeles men thought they were wise to the ways of the world, but there is a level of sophistication which goes beyond money. And on the Pacific seaboard, even the magnates had the manners of Iowa Babbitry and if you got close enough you could almost smell the farmyard on their big, ruddy hands and simple, jagged faces.

Now the whole world is like that, what with Bobby dead and the President dead and the last New Dealers all dying of heart failure and Hubert sure to go down to defeat. Except they don't even stink of the farmyard anymore, just cut grass and a little motor oil. A country full of Richard Nixons.

A country full of Warren Lawrences.

They always wanted to see me dance, hear me sing, even when the script didn't call for it. And that's one thing I learned in New York, how to dance without giving too much away, how to change the tone of a room with the controlled movements of my body.

So I thought as we drew up outside the big door on the fifth floor.

He was wearing a smoking jacket and black trousers with a sharp crease and black suede loafers when he opened the door.

"Florian," he said. "You should have called, given me time to get presentable. I didn't expect you for another half-hour."

"Don't be so rude in front of Ms. Montfort," Miss Florian said.

"I'm only so brash because you left me no chance to be a gentleman," he said, then he turned to me and held out a hand as he half bowed. "Warren Edmund Lawrence. At your leisure."

I put my gloved right hand in his and he lifted it to his lips.

"Elizabeth Montfort," I said. "Under the studio's compulsion."

He laughed, ushered us into his apartment. A pair was there already, a skinny Irish boy in a suit and a big man in a sportcoat with a crushed fedora and great meaty hands.

"Gentlemen," Warren said. "Allow me the pleasure of introducing Elizabeth Montfort, formerly of Manhattan. Lately of Hollywood. Miss Montfort, Robert Kennedy and Alvin Monroe."

Robert Kennedy stood up. He had a gray face, almost ashen in the low light of Warren's front lounge, and his hair was combed back. In the light there he was hard to recognize. I'd seen him work over Mr. Hoffa in the papers pretty good, but it seemed strange that he would be here, in Los Angeles, and not in frigid Boston or languid Washington. He still looked like a boy, really. Of that generation of the Kennedys he was the strangest looking--by far.

"The pleasure's mine," Robert said. He wasn't one for small talk. In those years, he was a small, intense man, dark-featured compared to his brother.

"Ayuh," Alvin Monroe said. "One of yours, Florian?" He had a Carolina accent.

Miss Florian nodded.

"Ms. Montfort is here to audition for the picture I was telling you about. The Princess of Cantabria," Warren said.

"Don't you think she's just regal, Mr. Kennedy?" Miss Florian said.

"Sure." Kennedy said. "We'll beg your apologies, Miss Montfort. But Alvin and I are booked this evening."

"Occupado," Alvin said.

"You'll come to the premier, won't you?" Miss Florian said. It was a fatuous thing to say, but Kennedy assured her he would come to the premier of The Princess of Cantabria; though he was often extremely cruel to men, he had trouble telling any woman any bad news, or breaking his word to her. Later, I would learn that on that night, Kennedy was in Los Angeles in secret, to stand up his brother's organization in the west and to raise ungodly sums of money; already they knew what it would take to beat Johnson on the first ballot.

We all made the ritual chatter of a breaking party and then the door clicked shut and Miss Florian and I were alone with Warren Lawrence. He cleared away the two glasses the Pols were drinking from.

"A drink?"

"Martini," Miss Florian said.

"Shirley Temple?" He asked me.

"Martini," I said, a little shake in my voice. Who was he to treat me like a little girl?

He grinned.

We split the drinks. I sipped mine. I'd gotten used to cocktails when I was sixteen, two years prior, when I was just starting out on the New York stages. Back when Los Angeles was a rumor. He had a heavy pour.

We talked about the film, the characters, the history. He was to play Scipio and I, the fictional Princess of Cantabria who must choose between vile Carthaginians and the noble Romans.

"At first we thought about a Spanish girl," he said. "But you know actually the Cantabrians were Celts, northern Europeans."

"I had no idea," I said. "But then the Celts were everywhere."

We read a couple pages of the script. Warren and I had a natural chemistry, and he teased me between lines, prodding me to be more aggressive.

"Like a barbarian, after all! I thought you New Yorkers were tough!"

Then to the dance sequence set in the climactic ball where the Princess oscillates between Hasdrubal and Scipio, and finally gives the signal for her guard to slaughter the Carthaginians. It was a simple waltz, but we, now on the third drink, danced easily, trading lines while I swapped back to Miss Florian, standing in for Hasdrubal.

Then the telephone rang. I saw the clock. Midnight. Not late for a late night, but late perhaps to call on anyone.

He crossed to it without turning off the record player, spoke and then called Miss Florian over.

"For you."

She took the call, glanced at her watch, seeming suddenly uneasy. A few mumbled words. Warren took me by the waist and we danced again to a low, jazzy beat. I could smell his cologne then and feel the exhaustion of a long evening settling on me. Heavy food and the same, repetitious conversations. Wine with dinner, now cocktails. I felt leaden. Like he was a half-step ahead of me in the dance.

"It's Charlie," Miss Florian said. "I'll be back in just a few minutes. He's downstairs, needs the proofs on The Lion of Bessarabia."

"Farewell, dear Hasdrubal," Warren said, and I laughed.

And we were alone. I could feel his strength, smell the alcohol on his breath, fell how much taller he stood. The easy charm and the laughter hadn't faded yet, but I was acutely aware that I was alone in a man's apartment. I'd never been alone in a man's apartment. A boy's car, yes, but high school boys are nervous and it doesn't take much to make them feel the power is yours.

I looked up at him.

"You have such limpid eyes," he said. "Like melted sapphire." This was in the script, only in Hasdrubal's mouth, not Scipio's. It's the moment the Princess of Cantabria realizes that the Carthaginians think of her as another jewel to be put in a treasury, that they are men of gold and silver, not of flesh and blood. The camera cuts to her face--my face--and you see those big blue eyes go wide and the slight tear. Cut to Scipio watching, then to Segovax, captain of the guard. Back to the teared eye. A look to Segovax. A kiss to leave a wine stain on Hasdrubal's face, the Mark of Cain.

"Noble--" I started my line.

He kissed me. This was in no script. At least not in that scene. And I'd played the dance and the Princess as coy, as she was written. A little of that New York sophistication to keep him at arms length.

I felt his grip tighten. I put my hands on his biceps. His tongue probed my mouth, hot and sharp. I tried to protest, but he had me by the waist and the elbow and he pressed forward. And he forced his tongue deeper into my mouth. An invasive, declarative kiss. I stepped back, feeling confused. How many drinks had he had with Robert Kennedy?

At last, by a squeeze of his arms and a shove, with a backwards step, I broke the kiss.

Mere inches separated us and I could see him looking down, almost hungry. There wasn't as much liquor on his breath as I'd thought. I did not know it then, but Miss Florian was busy on the phone in the Chateau's lobby, with my Mother, telling her that we were nearly set and engaged in fevered debate over the structure of the film. It was a needless ruse, that cold bitch only cared if the money came. And it would.

A light rain rattled the windows.

"I--" I started.

"Elizabeth."

I broke free from his grip. Felt a wave of nervous tension rise up in my stomach. Almost nausea, not quite. I'd only given the room a cursory look when I entered, enough to absorb the weight of the furnishings and the height of the ceiling, but a sketch only. But now I stood and took it all in.

The main couch, where Kennedy and Warren had sat, lay in a niche against one wall. Two small, dark tables flanked it, one topped with an ashtray and a folded copy of the LA Times, the other a green-shaded desk lamp to match the forest green of the velvet upholstery. The low coffee table had been pushed against the opposite wall. Warren kept four heavy armchairs, red cushions, chromium frames, flanking the center of the room, two with their backs to the front door and the doors to the kitchen and the bedroom suite, the other two had their backs to a bank of glass doors leading out onto the terrace. In the day, the terrace would face the city. The rain, though light, obscured the lights of Downtown. There were, along the walls, a liquor cabinet and low bookshelves and, facing down at Sunset Boulevard, a cocktail table.

The dance had ended with Warren between me and the door, though he seemed to take no notice of it. I edged right, moving as if to sit on the couch.

"Does Miss Florian usually take so long with her callers?"

"I don't know," Warren said. "She's not around the Chateau much. Care for another drink, while you wait?"

"A-are we done? With the audition I mean."

"Sure are," he said. "It's yours."

"Thank you, when Florian comes up we'll get it in writing."

"Why wait?" he said. "I've got the contract. You know I'm a producer on it too. It's not just John Langland. He can sign in the morning."