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Texas in the Vowels. He is standing at the phone, wearing a light blue knit T shirt over white dungarees, wool athletic socks and brown loafers. He is smoking a True cigarette in what appears to be an ivory holder but which is actually something called an Aquafilter.
"True cigarettes in an Aquafilter. You wouldn't say I'm anxiety-ridden, would you?" he asks. His voice, as he talks to Mercouri, is soft and slightly nasal, with more than a trace of Texas in the vowels. Most of the time, his face is serious, soft, and his features are slightly edematous, particularly his nose, which looks as if it has been puttied in place. His hair and eyebrows are lush as a Labrador's, and his eyes seem artificially limpid. During most of the interview, he continually purses his lips, twisting them into a kind of paralytic grimace. When he does relax them, they are cherry-red and pouty. He looks as though he could be blown over by an air conditioner set at low.
Off the phone at last: "Melina Mercouri—she's just the sun and the moon all wrapped up in one epidermis!" Next, the tour of his beach house: "It's not elegant, but it's kind of fun. Did you see what it is? Did you notice? Come here, I'll show you. It's a London bus! A real one. See, this is where the people get on. And the conductor stood here, and the straps the people hang on to went here, and this is where the seats went and ..."
We sit down, he at the round dining-room table that serves as his desk, now covered with press releases and notebooks. Pouring a soft drink for himself, he doesn't wait for a question. As an interviewer's interviewer, he knows what I'm looking for.
"I don't like breakfast-type foods. I usually just have a hamburger and a Dr. Pepper. I'm really in my element out here with Dr. Pepper. You can't get them anywhere in New York, and all the Southerners there search for it. It's in our bloodstream. The only place I could get it was in Angela Lansbury's dressing room. You must talk to Angela about me. Tomorrow I've arranged for you to come with me when I see Jackie Susann and Denise Minnelli and Melina Mercouri ..."
Another Dear Friend. In the next three hours, over countless cups of coffee, an icebox of Dr. Pepper, turkey sandwiches, sunbathing (his), two swims (mine) and about 20 phone calls (all his), Rex Reed dropped, hurled, rolled, and let fall enough capital-N Names to fill a McCarthy endorsement. "... I'm using Raquel Welch's car right now. The Camaro parked outside. She sent it over . . . Look, here's a letter from Bette Davis. When I did my piece on her, I did a naughty, naughty thing—I printed her address. Listen to what she says: 'Here's my new phone number. But don't print it!' Isn't that a riot?
. . Carol Burnett lives right down the beach. And Lana Turner . . . Last week
I was at a great beach party Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman had right on the beach . . . Another dear friend of mine is Tallulah Bankhead . . . Last week I had invitations to parties from Katharine Hepburn and Mae West . . . Marlene Dietrich calls me up all the time and sends me cold remedies ..."