Getting Garbo by Jerry Ludwig Read Free Book Online Page B

also got the judge—after the last in-person press fiasco—to accept individual affidavits from Addie and me, saying we understand and accept blah-blah-blah. We don’t have to go to court. We’ve been granted an interlocutory decree that’ll be final in a few months. It’s all over. We’ve managed to give her a package consisting of everything she could think of—she gets the house, full custody of the dog (yes, Fluffy is mentioned in the divorce agreement by name and attached photo), she keeps full title to her business—and that could be my revenge, if it keeps costing her what it’s cost me. And, of course, she gets my TV royalties. I pay her legal expenses, as well as my own. That one rankles. Like hiring the biggest bully in town and paying him top dollar to kick the crap out of you.
    â€œI may be disbarred for being too efficient,” Nate Scanlon says. “We lawyers, one of our favorite phrases is, ‘Time is of the essence.’ But we usually take as much of it as we can.” He emits a deep contented sigh. “I’ve never rammed a divorce through this fast.”
    Is that a hint or what? I step up immediately.
    â€œThanks, Nate. Santa’s gonna put something extra special in your stocking.”
    I hang up. Tickled that I’m now officially a pauper. Pending completion of the interlocutory wait. But it’s a binding deal. Neither of us can change the terms. Nate’s made that clear. So Addie may think she’s fucked me over—but now I’m free to get on with my life.
    As soon as Nate Scanlon can spring me from Burbank.
    I reach for the open carton of Lucky Strikes on my dressing table, grab a loose cigarette, and scrounge around for my lighter. The gold-plated lighter I got for my twenty-seventh birthday. Inscribed, “Here’s looking at you, kid. Love, Bogie and Betty.” The lighter’s not here. Killer Lomax, I bet. He loves that lighter like it’s his own and it winds up in his pocket half the time. So he can torch my smokes for me during the day, he says. Sometimes it goes home with him overnight. That Killer, looking out for me even when he’s asleep.
    The A.D. raps on the door. “First team,” he calls.
    â€¢ • •
    It’s 7:30 when we quit. We came when it was dark and we’re leaving when it’s dark. Somebody once compared working on a TV series to fucking an eight hundred-pound gorilla. You decide when to start and the gorilla decides when to stop. Killer and I are in the backseat of the limo that’ll take us back to the studio lot so we can pick up our own cars. As we pass through the opening in the ropes, the diehard fans are still there, Reva among them. Tiny Reva. First autograph I ever signed was for her. The radio days. She was in junior high school then, must be eighteen, nineteen by now. Still looks like an adolescent elf. Her usual Prince Valiant haircut, dressed like a tomboy in dungarees, polo shirt, and sneakers. A small, earnest face that lights up when she sees me.
    â€œHey, wave to Reva,” I tell Killer.
    â€œYou wave to her,” he says. “ You’re the fuckin’ light of her life.” If only I knew then how prophetic his words were.
    We’re playing liar’s poker, me and Killer, using the serial numbers on dollar bills for our bids. I’ve got two pair. But I claim I’ve got a full house—three sixes and two nines. He’s chicken to call me, he folds. So he loses. He usually loses. I say it’s because I can outbluff him using half my brain. He says it’s because he has to suck up to the boss. He’s a sore loser. Always was. I get a kick out of that.
    â€œGot a light?” I put a Lucky between my lips. Killer slaps his pockets, finally comes up with a pack of matches from the commissary. “Where’s my lighter?”
    He holds the match steady for me. “You musta left it on the dressing