What he was not prepared for was the sight of the large, somewhat stooped, bespectacled, red-haired elderly man, who walked shyly through his office door, profusely thanking the female sergeant who held it open for him. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, an aura, perhaps, that belied the image of solicitous courtesy; there was even an abstract sound of distant thunder—heard only by Brokey the Deuce, but it was distinctly there. What was it about this oddball character who might have walked right out of the movie Great Expectations, a large, awkward, downtrodden accounts clerk trying to assuage the old lady … or was he mixing the role up with that tall fellow on stage in Nicholas Nickleby?
«It’s very kind of you to spare your valuable time for my modest research, General,» said the journalist in a quiet if somewhat hoarse voice.
«It’s, my job,» said Brokemichael, flashing a sudden grin he felt would do justice to Kirk Douglas. «We are the armed servants of the people and want them to fully understand our contributions to the defense of our country and the peace of the world… Please, sit down.»
«That’s a wonderful and moving statement.» The redheaded writer sat down in front of the desk, pulled out a notepad and a ballpoint pen and proceeded to scribble a few words. «Do you mind if I quote you? I’ll ascribe it to an ‘authoritative source’ if you prefer.»
«Certainly not—I mean, you may certainly ascribe it to me.» This was the very influential journalist who had Pentagon PR running around in circles to accommodate him. Why? This aging, gravel-voiced oddball was a certified civilian in awe of a uniform. The morning would be a snap. «We in the army don’t hide behind secondary, unnamed sources, Mr… Mr.—»
«Harrison, General. Lex Harrison.»
«Rex Harrison …?»
«No, Alexander Harrison. My parents nicknamed me ‘Lex’ many years ago, and my by-lines have always been under that name.»
«Oh, yes, of course—it’s just kind of a jolt, if you know what I mean … I mean, Rex Harrison.»
«Yes, Mr. Harrison used to get quite a kick out of the similarity. He once asked me if we could change places—he’d write an article and I’d go on for him as Henry Higgins. An untimely death; he was a lovely man.»
«You knew Rex Harrison?»
«Through mutual friends—»
«Mutual friends?»
«New York and L.A. are actually small towns if you’re a writer or an actor … but my publishers aren’t interested in me and my Polo Lounge drinking companions, General.»
«Polo Lounge …?»
«It’s a watering hole favored by the rich and famous and everyone else in L.A. who wants to be… Now back to my publishers, they’re interested in the military and how it’s reacting to the economies being imposed. May we start the interview?»
«Sure, yes … of course. I’ll tell you anything you like, it’s just that I’ve always had a tremendous interest in the theater and movies … and even television.»
«My writing and performing friends would put television first, General. It’s what they call ‘survival money.’ You can’t make a living on the stage, and films are too few and far between.»
«Yes, I’ve heard that from—well, never mind—but this is real inside stuff from someone who really knows!»
«I haven’t betrayed any secrets, take my word for it,» said the journalist. «Even Greg, Mitch, and Michael admit it.»
«Oh, my God … naturally!» No wonder Pentagon PR considered this old hoarse-voiced reporter very influential. He had obviously been around for years, and hobnobbed with famous people whom the Pentagon were always trying to cultivate for their TV commercials. Christ! Rex Harrison, Greg, Mitch, and Michael—he knew everybody! «I frequently fly to … L.A… Mr. Harrison. Perhaps we might get together sometime … at the Polo Lounge.»
«Why not? I’m out there half the time, the other half in New York, but to tell you the truth, the action’s on the Coast. When you’re out there, just go to the Po-Lounge and tell Gus the bartender that you’re looking for me. I always check in with him whether I’m staying at the Beverly Hills or not. That’s how people know I’m in town—like Paul … Newman, that is, and Joanne, and the Pecks, Mitchum, Caine, and even a few newcomers like the Toms—Selleck and Cruise—and Meryl and Bruce—the good people.»
«The good people …?»
«Well, you know, the real ones, the guys and girls I get along with—»
«I’d love to meet them!» interrupted Brokemichael, his eyes two large white saucers with flashing brown cup rings. «I can arrange my schedule any time!»
«Hey, whoa, General, whoa,» said the old reporter huskily. «These people are pros in the business. They’ve been around the block, and don’t necessarily like side streets to amateurville.»
«What do you mean?»
«Well, an interest in the movies or television or whatever isn’t exactly being a member of the fraternity, if you see what I mean. Hell, everybody wants to meet these faces—sometimes they call themselves ‘faces,’ as though it’s an insult to themselves—but underneath they’re real people who know what goes with the territory, but put limits on the land grabs.»
«What does that mean?»
«In short words, you’re not a pro, General, you’re a fan—and that they can get on any street corner, more than they can handle. Pros don’t socialize with fans, they tolerate ’em… May we get back to the interview, please?»
«Well, yes, of course,» cried the frustrated Brokemichael, «but I think—I know damned well—that you’re underestimating my commitment to the performing arts!»
«Oh, was your mother an actress in a community theater, or did your father act in a high school play?»
«Neither one, although my mother always wanted to be an actress but her parents told her it would send her to hell, so she mimicked a lot… My father was a colonel—goddamn, I’ve outranked that son of a bitch!… But I’ve got the theatrical bloodline from my mother—I really love the theater and good films and TV—especially the old movies. I feel electricity when I watch a show that moves me, really moves me. I cry, I laugh, I’m every one of those characters on the stage or on the screen. It’s my alter life!»
«I’m afraid that’s a fantasizing amateur’s reaction,» said the gruff-voiced journalist, returning to his notebook.
«Oh, you think so?» protested Brokemichael, his own voice strained, cracked with emotion. «Then let me tell you something—can we go off the record, no pen, no notebook—everything confidential?»
«Why not? I’m only here to get the overall military picture—»
«Be quiet!» whispered Brokey the Deuce, rising behind his desk, then crouching, slithering toward the door, listening as if playing a role in Bertolt Brecht’s Threepenny Opera. «I command the most elite acting repertory company in the annals of military history! I’ve trained them, guided them, brought them to the zenith of their talents, so that now they’re considered a world-class, antiterrorist unit that succeeds where everyone else fails! I ask you, is that amateurville?»