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THE NEWSPAPERS called it the Crime of the Century. The extravagance was understandable. The events of that first week in July were savage and shocking, and would have made headlines for any average citizen. But these were not average citizens ⊠themselves the products of exaggeration, what they did and what was done to them took on an exaggerated importance, a drama larger than life with the entire nation as audience and critic. Every movement of the actors was scrutinized, every detail reported, a subject for breakfast table and barber shop conversation from coast to coast. And yet the real drama took place off-stage, away from the spotlight and the curious eyes, in a strange and silent duel between a man with no friends and a man who had too many âŠ
Samuel Skolman Presents ANDY PAXTON. Opening Tonight!
Samuel Skolman Presents ANDY PAXTON. Opening Tonight!
Samuel Skolman Presents ANDY PAXTON. Opening Tonight!
The parking lot was already crowded with automobiles, although the first show was more than an hour away. A steady stream of customers threaded through the rows of cars toward the entrance. They moved good-naturedly aside to let the yellow Cadillac pass, some of them peering into it for a glimpse of the occupants, then turning to their companions, asking, âWasnât that âŠ?â But since there were five men in the long sedan, no one was quite sure.
Andy Paxton sat in back, a man on either side of him, as if he were royalty. Two more men occupied the front seat, one of them acting as driver. All were his employees to a greater or lesser degree. On Andyâs left was Bake, his friend; on his right, Lanny Munce, the Artists & Repertoire man from the recording company. The driver was Hub, his bodyguard. Beside Hub sat Ed Thornburg, his press agent. These did not constitute all of his entourage by any means. It would have been necessary to employ a bus had he wished to bring everybody at once. Counting the orchestra, it amounted to around thirty people.
Bake had kidded about it on the jet down from Los Angeles. âItâs our own share the wealth plan. Andy makes it and we share it.â
Andy didnât mind. He liked people and since the money rolled in, week after week, in a fantastic flood, it seemed only right that others should share in his good fortune. Thatâs what he secretly felt it was, good fortune that he personally had very little to do with. Andy, as yet, had not developed the swollen ego of most headliners. He did not resent his co-workers, or the multitude of fans who had made a bodyguard necessary. Unlike many performers who expressed private contempt for the crowds who followed them, Andy felt gratitude and even a certain amount of affection.
Like tonight. As the Cadillac pulled to a stop beside the stage door at the rear of El Dorado, it was immediately engulfed. Mostly young people and teenagers, they surrounded the automobile, staring in the windows, shouting his name.
Hub turned off the engine. Over his shoulder, he told Andy, âStay put until I can clear them back.â He swung out of the car, a big heavy-set man with the authority of command.
Thornburg, the press agent, said as if concluding an argument, âThere you are, Andy. Youâre a smash already.â
âHeâll be lucky to get inside with his pants intact,â muttered Bake. âReminds me of a lynch mob I saw once. Is that a rope that guyâs got?â
âWhere?â Lanny Munce asked, craning his neck in alarm. Bake whooped with laughter. He was an irreverent joker, an easy-going young fellow Andyâs age, but bigger and darker. They had been friends since boyhood. Bake had run interference for Andy on their high school football team. In a way, he was still running interference for him. They had talked vaguely of going into business together but the draft had separated them. When Bakeâs hitch was up, Andy was already on his way to stardom. Bake had followed him and tried unsuccessfully to be an actor. After that, he had drifted into Andyâs orbit and had remained. His exact duties were undefined and undefinable, a combination confidant, trouble-shooter and Man Friday.
âHere come the gendarmes,â Thornburg announced. Hub had had little success in clearing away the mob; like water, they seeped back as quickly as he pushed them away. Now a pair of uniformed policemen joined him and order began to emerge from chaos. âBut where the hell are the photographers?â
âIâll have to kid Hub about that,â Bake mused. âItâs not the man that does it, itâs the uniform.â
âI wouldnât,â Andy said. âHubâs kind of touchy and I donât carry hospitalization for you.â
âAny time,â scoffed Bake, but Andy knew that Bake would heed the warning. Not that Bake was afraid of Hub, not exactly. But Hub â Hubbard Wiley â was no man to be taken lightly. An ex-cop, former private detective, one-time professional wrestler, the only thing soft about him was his drawling voice. Hub was quick and he was smart, and if he lacked a sense of humor, well, you didnât hire a bodyguard for laughs.
Hub opened the rear door of the Cadillac. âOkay, Mr. Paxton.â Andy had often urged him to use his first name but Hub persisted in being formal.
Bake slid out first and Andy followed him. The two policemen acted as a windbreak, preventing the enthusiastic youngsters from pinning Andy to the car. A number of autograph books were waved in the air like flags.
âCome on, get back,â Hub said. âMr. Paxtonâs got a show to do.â
But they continued to call and to wave the autograph books. Andy nudged Hub. âLetâs give them a break. Theyâve been waiting out here in the fog.â He winked at Lanny Munce. âAfter all, they buy the records.â
Hub pointed to a teenage girl in the front rank. âOkay, you first. One at a time, and donât push.â
Andy began to sign his name, scarcely seeing the faces whose owners shoved the books at him. Nor could he hear much of what they said; everyone was trying to talk at once. He kept smiling and nodding and making monosyllabic pleasant replies. Someone called, âWhereâs Lissa?â Andy looked up, grinning. âBaby sitting, of course.â
Bake said in his ear, âItâs getting late, chum.â
âOkay, okay. Iâm about done.â He handed back the last book and waved around at the crowd. His escort, like a Macedonian phalanx, marched him off to the stage door. The teenagers trailed him all the way, shouting encouragements. Thornburg, chuckling, said, âHail, Caesar!â He took a cynical view of adulation, knowing how much of it was created by people like himself. He dragged himself through life on a permanently withered left leg, the result of childhood polio; his deformity as well as his job set him apart from the crowd. Neither hero nor hero-worshipper, Thornburg had found his perfect niche, kingmaker.
Bake said, âYou got it wrong, Ed. Theyâre looking for a mirror image these days. And who is the fairest of them all?â
This kind of talk, referring to him less as a person than as a product, always made Andy uncomfortable. âYou ever stop to think they might just like to hear me sing?â
âIf he stopped to think, he wouldnât be a press agent,â Bake said. They passed through the stage entrance, the steel doors clanged shut behind them. Clowning, Bake braced his body against them. âSafe at last, thank God!â No one paid any attention.
They had merely passed from one mob into another. The backstage area was cluttered with people, electricians and stagehands adjusting equipment, musicians tuning instruments, plus a number of other men and women who seemed to have no particular function but wandered about with distraught expressions. They rushed forward as eagerly as the autograph hounds outside, each clamoring for Andyâs attention. And on the other side of the red velvet curtain another crowd, the supper show customers, patiently awaited their turn. Andy Paxton was the axis on which tonightâs little world revolved.
Andy tried to give each o...