Gorilla man Max Strauss stared at
the obituaries page of the evening newspaper. His vision
blurred with tears. The front section, heavy with
stories about Watergate and Cambodia and record-setting
inflation, lay discarded on the floor. He sat on the bed
of his efficiency apartment, a fourth floor walk-up that
overlooked an alleyway. Its walls were papered with
yellowed Hollywood news clippings and once-glossy photos
of small-time film actors outfitted in loincloths, space
helmets, or animal costumes. The obituary photo he
stared at was of a man with blunt but handsome features,
a worldly grin, and a dapper fedora tilted a few degrees
south.
Yearning for the comfort of something loved and
long-familiar, the old man pulled his gorilla mask over
his face, thankful for its intimate smells and darkness.
His tears flowed through the mask's eyeholes and down
the black rubber skin.
The man in the obituary was Robert Armstrong, the actor
who played Carl Denham, the impresario who captured King
Kong.
· · · · ·
The next morning, in a nearly-completed Miami Beach
restaurant four blocks away, another Carl, Carl Lipkin,
yelled into his phone, arguing with a napkin purveyor.
This Carl was an impresario, too.
His friend, Alessandra, perched atop a fifteen-foot
ladder, squinted and puckered her lips as she applied
the last daubs of paint to a blue and white star on the
wing of an army biplane. She looked as tiny and
vulnerable as Fay Wray had, lying on an Empire State
Building ledge one hundred and two stories high, waiting
for Bruce Cabot to arrive after the big ape fell.
Alessandra was nearly done with her mural, which took up
an entire wall of the main dining room. It was a
panorama of the Miami Beach skyline, circa 1938, with a
squadron of Curtis fighter planes flying high above a
glistening ocean and Buck Rogers-style hotel towers.
Outside the restaurant, Max shielded his eyes from the
fierce sun and knocked on the plate-glass window. He
carried his gorilla head under his arm.
"No! I absolutely refuse to accept them!"
Carl's face was as disheveled as a wadded-up napkin. His
knuckles had turned white from squeezing the mouthpiece
of the phone. "Give them to the Salvation Army, for all
I care! No, you did not show me a proof! I gave
you clear instructions—it's 'Carl's' with a C,
not with a K! Believe me, I know I'm
supposed to be opening in three days! No … no!
I'll get them somewhere else!" He slammed the receiver
down hard enough to knock the phone from the table. It
didn't get him his napkins, but it made him feel better.
The old man with the gorilla head was still knocking on
the window.
"Carl," Alessandra called from the top of her ladder.
"There's an old man with a gorilla head knocking on your
window. Maybe you should see what he wants?"
Carl was busy picking up the phone from the floor. He
quickly glanced at the window. "Oh. That's just Max. He
can wait a minute. It's not like he's got anyplace else
to go."
Carl disconnected the cord and held the receiver in the
air until the tangled plastic finished twirling. Then he
went to the door and unlocked it.
Max shuffled into the restaurant's doorway. The weave of
his straw fedora, like the hem of his peach-colored
slacks, was coming undone. His gorilla head, a mask
stuffed with old newspapers, wasn't in much better
shape. Tufts of its fur had been falling out since the
Charleston had gone out of style. One of its rubber
nostrils had melted where Max had accidentally let it
lean against his car window during a drive to a birthday
party in Ft. Lauderdale on a hot afternoon. Max blinked
rapidly while his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. He
looked around him, nodding with approval. His
still-sparkling blue eyes lingered on the restaurant's
impressive centerpiece: a fifteen-foot-long black
plastic arm emerging from artfully arranged "rubble" in
the rear wall, grasping a blond-wigged mannequin in its
huge fingers. The arm of Kong.
"So?" he asked, his voice rising with a Yiddish lilt
that couldn't hide a tinge of sadness. "Have you heard
the news about Bobby?"
Carl gently took hold of Max's arm and pulled him into
the room, closing the door behind him. Air-conditioning
was expensive. "Who are you talking about, Max? Bobby
who?"
"Bobby Armstrong, that's who! Don't tell me you haven't
read the obituaries!"
The news took a few seconds to register. "Robert
Armstrong … aw, jeez. When did it happen, Max?"
"It was in the papers yesterday. He died in his sleep.
We should all go out that way, God willing!"
Carl stared at the floor and slowly shook his head.
"Yeah, right …"
Alessandra had climbed down from her ladder. "What's
going on? Who died?"
Max faced her, trying not to stare at the gold hoop that
pierced her left nostril or the orange streak in her
long black hair. He extended his hand with gallant
formality. "I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure,
Miss—?"
She smiled and placed her hand lightly in his.
"Alessandra." She turned to Carl. "So who croaked?"
"Robert Armstrong. You remember Carl Denham in King
Kong?"
Alessandra's green eyes scanned the ceiling, as if the
answer might be hidden among the track lighting
fixtures. "Mmmm … no."
"The guy who hired the boat that went to Skull Island?
The one who tossed the gas grenade that knocked Kong
out? You know—the movie producer character!"
Her eyes lit with recognition. "Oh! The asshole who
almost gets everybody killed!"
"A prince of a man!" Max interjected. "One of the great
actors of Hollywood! He really knew how to treat people,
that Bobby did. A tragedy, a tragedy. There aren't that
many of us old-timers left, you know. That's why I
called the newspaper."
Carl's mouth fell open. "The Miami Herald?"
"Of course. What other newspaper is there?"
"Oh, Max. You didn't tell them—?"
The wattles around the old man's neck flattened out as
his jaw stiffened. "Of course I told them! Why
shouldn't I tell them? I was his co-star! The biggest
co-star he ever had!"
Carl rubbed his tired, irritated eyes. "So what did they
have to say, Max?"
"What do you think? They were thrilled to hear
from me! They sent out a nice reporter lady to talk with
me yesterday afternoon. And a picture-taker. I posed
with Mr. Kong here." He held out the gorilla head for
Alessandra to look at. "So don't miss the paper tonight.
And one other thing, Carl. You may be getting an
important phone call."
Carl wished he had a glass of water. Scotch would be
even better. "Oh, boy. What kind of phone call?"
Max smiled. His dentures gleamed. "I can't tell you yet.
It's a big surprise! But a good surprise!"
Alessandra eyed the old man with new interest. "Wow! I
never met such a big celebrity before! Hey Carl, how
come you never told me you knew Mr. Max here?"
"That's Mr. Strauss, my dear. Max is my first
name."
Carl tried to remember where he had stashed the aspirin.
His shirt was beginning to stick to his back. "Uh, jeez,
with everything going on, I guess it just slipped my
mind …"
Max put the gorilla head down on a table and draped a
thin arm around Carl's shoulders. "Carl. I must tell you
something. When I first met you, when I first saw what
you try to do here, I thought, 'What is this meshugge
boy doing? Tearing up a nice cafeteria like that?' But
now, I must tell you, I look around at what you have
done, and I am proud of you." He gestured for Alessandra
to come closer. "Let me tell you young people something.
You know what is the most important goal in life? Listen
to me. The most important goal is to do one very, very
good thing. Like me. More than forty years ago—forty
years!—I starred in a very, very good movie. An
important movie! What I did in that movie, people
remember it forever. It gets in their hearts. I was a
monster, a thirty-foot-high monster, but I make them cry
for me. And that one thing, that one movie, it makes
everything else okay. All the crummy, lousy pictures I
was in, those chapter serials, just to put some food on
my family's plates. Like you, Carl. Maybe you worked
years in Burger King to save up money for this place,
huh? Is that where you worked? But now you have this
restaurant, this beautiful restaurant, to show for it,
and it makes it all worthwhile. Right?"
He gave Carl's shoulders a squeeze. Carl pushed his
glasses back up his nose. He couldn't think of a word to
say.
Alessandra handed Max back his gorilla head, first
smoothing its matted fur. "That was a wonderful story,
Mr. Strauss." She smiled gently. "I hope I find
my one very, very good thing. It's why I came down
here." Alessandra had moved down from Manhattan two
months before to help her friend Carl with the
renovations needed at his newly purchased restaurant.
Painting was her first love, so she had jumped at the
opportunity to create a mural inside the building.
Max patted her hand. "You'll find it. I'm sure you
will." He bowed slightly, then shuffled toward the door.
He placed a hand on the gilded knob then started as he
remembered why he had come. "Oh! Carl! I almost forgot!"
He hustled back to the proprietor and placed the gorilla
head in his hands. "Here! You'll want this for your
restaurant, won't you? As a loaner, of course. I'll need
to borrow it back for my jobs. You can put the whole
suit on display, if you want. It was too hot today to
schlep the whole thing over here, though."
Carl grimaced as the mass of ancient fur and rubber
landed in his hands. He handled the mask like it was a
dead muskrat. "Oh, Max, no—I can't accept this from you!
It's, uh, far too valuable for me to be
responsible for it! What if, you know, some little kid
should run out the door with it? It's not like I can
ever replace it for you."
Max shrugged his shoulders. "Okay. Suit yourself." He
accepted the gorilla head back. "If you don't want to
have the original King Kong suit on display in
your restaurant, who am I to argue? You're the
businessman, not me." He winked at Alessandra, then at
Carl. "I'll be seeing you!"
Alessandra watched him leave, a proud jauntiness in his
slow stride. She turned to Carl. "I can't believe you
passed up an opportunity like that!"
"What? To put his mangy old gorilla suit on display in
here? You must be kidding!"
"But you heard what he said! That's the original King
Kong suit!"
"Oh, come on, Aless! Don't you know anything
about movies?"
"Don't get all testy with me! And what don't I know?"
Carl smacked his palm against his high, sweating
forehead. "King Kong was an eighteen-inch-tall model!"
Alessandra sucked in her breath. "He was a midget?"
"No, not a midget! A model! Like—like a toy, a puppet!
He was animated, moved bit by bit between frames of
film. I thought everybody knew this! Everybody
but Max, that is."
Alessandra's jaw drooped. "You—you mean, he wasn't …"
Carl sighed. "No. He wasn't. What he is is the
biggest bullshit artist in Miami Beach!" He bit his lip.
His voice was immediately softer. "I'm sorry. I
shouldn't have called him that. He isn't a bullshitter.
You want to know the most pathetic thing about
it? I really think he believes his own story. Over the
last forty years, somehow he's convinced himself that he
played King Kong."
"Was he in the movie at all?"
Carl shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe as an extra. Maybe
he played one of the natives or a train rider that gets
squashed. Who knows? I did a little research after I met
him. Far as I can tell, Max was always a gorilla man in
Hollywood. There were a bunch of them. Guys who owned
their own gorilla suits. Producers of Grade Z movies
loved them, 'cause they could hire a stuntman and a
gorilla suit at the same time."
"What kind of movies was he in?"
"A bunch of jungle serials. Republic Studios made lots
of them during the forties. The only feature film I was
ever able to trace him to was something called The
Lemon Drop Kids Meet a Brooklyn Gorilla."
Alessandra made a face. "Was it awful?"
"Honey, awful is too mild a word. Actually, Max
was the best thing in it."
Alessandra pulled herself up onto a bar stool. "So how
did you meet him?"
Carl fixed her a seltzer with a splash of lemon juice.
He poured himself an imported beer. "He almost hit me
over the head is how we met. I had just started working
on this place, and I looked out the window and there's
this old guy out there having some kind of fit. I
thought maybe he's choking or having a heart attack or
something, so I ran outside to see if I could help.
Well, it's not a fit he's having, it's a temper tantrum,
and the only thing being attacked was me."
"Sweet old Mr. Max? I can't imagine him attacking
anything. Except maybe a bowl of borscht."
"He almost had me for lunch. Actually, that's
what it was all about—lunch. He thought I'd had
something to do with closing down the cafeteria that
used to be in this building. Katz's Cafeteria. Well, the
place had closed two years before I set foot in
Miami Beach. The sense of time, I think it's one of the
first things to go. Anyway, to keep him from having a
real heart attack, I invited him inside. I figured
maybe I could calm him down, y'know, tell him about our
Early Bird specials. I was trying to be friendly; I
didn't want him organizing neighborhood protests. Gray
Panthers, that's all I needed …" Carl shuddered, then
took a deep gulp of beer. "I showed him my drawings of
the place. Aless, it was uncanny—in an instant I
went from being Hitler to Max's favorite grandson. The
whole story spilled out of him in thirty seconds."
"And you never, y'know, told him what you know
about the movie?"
Carl glared at her. "What do you think? I didn't
have the heart. It's eating me up inside, this business
about him calling the newspaper. Someone's bound to know
the real deal. Once word gets out, some mean bastard'll
come running down here to rub Max's nose in the truth."
The phone rang. Carl spilled half his remaining beer on
his newly varnished bar. "Shit! Wipe that up,
would you, Aless?" He grabbed the phone. "Carl Lipkin
Enterprises. Hello?" Alessandra didn't bother wiping up
the spill. Watching Carl's face was much more
interesting. "Yes, we're opening in three days, we'd be
delighted—" Then the caller stuck a pin in Carl's
balloon, and the air fizzled out of his outsized smile.
"Uh, sure. We can accommodate you. Tonight at seven
would be fine. Good-bye."
Carl hung up the phone. He shuffled back to the bar like
a condemned man, covered his face with his hands, and
groaned. His elbows rested in the spilled beer. He
didn't seem to notice.
Alessandra quietly set her drink down. Gingerly, she
touched Carl's shoulder. "Carl? What was all that
about?"
"Max." With his hands covering his face, it sounded like
Mmaaaggs.
"That was Max on the phone?"
Carl lifted his face. "It wasn't Max. It was about
Max. He called WSVN. The NBC affiliate. They want to
interview Max. Here. In the restaurant. They're sending
a camera crew by tonight."
Alessandra thought about her mural and Carl and Max
being on television. "Oh?" Then she thought about it
some more. She put her arm around Carl's slumped
shoulders. "Ohhh."
Max arrived at 6:45 P.M.
In his gorilla suit. Carl was dressed in an expensive
Italian ensemble, mauve, with a matching
Kong-on-the-Empire-State-Building tie. Alessandra wore
her prettiest Slavic peasant dress, the one that laced
up the front.
The camera crew arrived early. The reporter was a
handsome young black man whom Carl vaguely recognized.
As they set up their lights, Carl admired the
twelve-foot-high, stainless steel sculpture of the
Delano Hotel, Miami Beach's tallest Art Deco tower, that
had arrived at the restaurant just that afternoon. The
next day, it would be installed in the fountain in the
middle of his foyer. No doubt about it, his
establishment was shaping up to be a real showplace.
At least my place'll be shown on television, Carl
told himself, his stomach lurching.
The reporter clipped on his miniature microphone. The
video camera began to hum. Max dropped to a crouch and
started scratching himself. "This is Mitch Darby," the
reporter intoned, every syllable perfect, "and we're
here this evening at the soon-to-be-opening Carl's
Restaurant. I have with me owner Carl Lipkin, and Max
Strauss, the man who portrayed the original King Kong."
He turned to Max, who was energetically bobbing up and
down. "Mr. Strauss, would you mind taking off your mask?
I'm sure our viewers would like to see what you really
look like."
Max complied. His face was flushed from the heat, but
his smile was unwilted. "Hello! Hello!" Standing up
straight, he bumped into the stainless steel tower next
to him. "Carl! This isn't the Empire States Building!"
Carl smiled weakly. "I've explained that to you, Max.
It's the Delano Hotel. You know, the one on Collins
Avenue."
The reporter stuck his microphone in Carl's face. "I was
wondering about that myself, Mr. Lipkin. What is the
connection between Miami Beach and King Kong?"
Carl cleared his throat. "Carl's Restaurant is based on
a unique concept. As you probably know, the character
who captured Kong was named Carl Denham—"
"Portrayed by the recently deceased Robert Armstrong?"
"Uh, right. And the man who founded Miami Beach was also
named Carl. Carl Fisher. What I've done is to amalgamate
two great Carls into one: Carl Denham Fisher. The story
you see told in the murals around the restaurant is
that, when Kong is captured, he isn't put on display in
New York. Carl Denham Fisher brings him back to Miami
Beach. He chains Kong up in the middle of the old dog
track."
Darby eyed the tall sculpture. "And he meets his death
atop the Delano Hotel?"
"That's right. About our menu—"
"A fascinating concept." He swiveled smoothly around to
Max. "And you, Mr. Strauss? Are you pleased with this
new restaurant concept?"
Max bobbed his head vigorously. "Oh yes! Yes! The food
here will be just as good as the food at Katz's
Cafeteria. Everyone should come. And Carl tells me I can
eat for free at the Sunday Early Bird for as long as I
live!"
Darby smiled for the camera. "Mr. Strauss, what was it
like to portray King Kong?"
Max's eyes strayed from the camera to the nearly
completed murals on the wall. "It was wonderful.
The greatest thing I ever did." His expression became
intensely thoughtful. "You know why my Kong came out so
good? Because him and me, we were practically the same
person. Oh, I wasn't brought to America like he was, in
chains. But I came over in the dark hold of a big boat.
And when I got here, the American girls—they were so
beautiful. I wanted to kiss every single one I saw.
But I couldn't, you know. I was an immigrant. I didn't
speak English. And people could be so mean. There
were days—I don't like to think of them now—when I
wanted to smash trains and throw people out of windows,
just like Kong did."
Max was silent for a few seconds. The reporter frowned.
"Can you tell us how the special effects were done? They
were pretty amazing for the nineteen thirties."
Max came back to earth. "Sure! Like when I was climbing
the Empire States Building. What they did was, they
built a big model of the building, only they laid it
flat, on the ground, see? And they turned the camera
sideways. That made it easy for me to climb. Now, when
they needed a shot of Miss Fay Wray in my paw—Miss Wray,
she was a queen!—they built a great big gorilla
arm, just like that one back there, and they wrapped the
fingers around her. If it was a far-away shot, they gave
me a little doll of Miss Wray to carry around. And the
dinosaurs—"
A man behind the cameras slit his throat with his
finger. Darby picked up the signal. "Thank you very
much, Mr. Strauss." The reporter turned back to the
camera. "This is Mitch Darby for Channel Seven News."
The hot lights clicked off. Darby shook Max's fur-gloved
hand. "Thanks so much. My kids really love your film.
They'll go bananas when they see this later tonight.
Just one thing, though. Somewhere I got the idea that
King Kong was just a little model."
Max didn't miss a beat. "Oh, that rumor?" He made
a dismissive wave with his paw. "That's jealous old
Gormon talking."
Carl moved closer. He had never heard this part of the
story before. "Gormon?"
"Yeah, Gormon, that gonif! Another gorilla man,
like me. He wanted the part, too. But he didn't get it.
So he runs around Hollywood the last forty years, the
evil yenta, spreading this rumor that Kong was a
little toy. A little toy!" He harrumphed. "Could
a little toy make people believe in Kong, the way I did?
Gormon. May bugs infest his food! May he never
have a good night's sleep!"
The camera crew finished loading the last of their
equipment into their van. Darby took a final look around
the restaurant. "Great looking place you've got here.
Thanks again."
Carl watched the van drive off down Washington Avenue.
It hadn't gone so badly. Max had done all right. Maybe
everyone in Miami was an ignoramus when it came to
movies. Maybe.
The next day was inspection day. Not Carl's notion of a
fun day. He followed the health inspector around the
restaurant like a stray dog, unsure whether this quiet
stranger would toss him a biscuit or turn and kick him
in the ribs. Another stranger walked through the front
doors, this one with a bulging file underneath his arm.
Carl reluctantly broke away from the health inspector.
He dabbed the sweat from his forehead, using a
Karl's-with-a-K napkin. "Hello! Can I help you,
sir?"
"I hope you can." The stranger had enormous, bushy
eyebrows, like Leonid Brezhnev's. He smelled a little
like spoiled milk or cat urine. "I'm looking for Max
Strauss. He around here?"
"No. He's not. Who are you?"
The stranger pulled a press card from his expandable
file and shoved it under Carl's nose. "I'm Pete Zucker.
Miami Herald film critic. You have any idea where
this Strauss might be?"
Carl's stomach turned as sour as the reporter's odor.
"No. Maybe he's at his apartment? Not that I know where
he lives—"
"I already checked there. He wasn't home." Zucker took a
cursory glance around the restaurant, bustling with
last-minute carpenters. "Nice place you've got here.
Maybe I'll come by for lunch sometime. You give a
discount to journalists?"
"I hadn't thought about that yet." Carl wiped his palms
on his chinos, leaving visible wet streaks on the combed
cotton. "Look, what do you want to see Max about?"
"You read this article yet?" Zucker pulled a long
clipping from his file and handed it to Carl. "It's from
last night's Herald. Makes me ashamed to be
working for that rag. If that brainless bimbo Louise
Popner had just checked with me before she jumped on
this 'story,' she wouldn't be having to print a
correction tomorrow."
Carl looked up from Max's smiling newspaper photo. "A
correction?" Suddenly he wished he were back in
Manhattan, hawking tie-dyed sneakers from a stall on St.
Mark's Place again. "Uh, is that, like, really
necessary?"
"We're a reputable newspaper, not the National
Examiner. Of course it's necessary! Hey, you got a
glass of ice water around here?" Carl fixed him a glass.
Zucker chewed the ice. To Carl it sounded like breaking
bones. "Every couple years, another old guy pops up,
claiming to have 'played' King Kong. I knew
Robert Armstrong's death would flush some fakers out. It
just burns my ass when somebody tries to steal credit
from Willis O'Brien, the animator. That O'Brien, he was
a genius, and today practically nobody recognizes
his name. It's you I'm kinda surprised at.
Looking around this place, I'd figure you know your
movies. Why did you ever let this bum in the door?"
"Look, he's really a very sweet old man—"
Out of the corner of his eye, Carl saw the last thing he
wanted to see. It was Max, wearing his best Bermuda
shorts, a stack of newspapers under his arm, about to
enter the front door. Carl scoured his brain for some
way to warn him away. But before he could think of
anything, Max had already strolled inside.
Zucker caught the look on Carl's face and turned toward
the door. His fingers clenched around his thick file.
"You're Strauss, aren't you?"
Max smiled, revealing freshly polished dentures. "Yes!
Max Strauss, at your service!" He extended his right
hand. "Who am I having the pleasure of meeting?"
Zucker's hands stayed at his sides. "Pete Zucker, film
critic for the Miami Herald."
"Oh, a newspaper man!" Max smiled even more
broadly. "What a coincidence! I was just out, seeing my
friends, giving away these newspapers. Here, Carl. I got
one for you! And one for Miss Alessandra! Is she here?"
Carl shook his head. The movement made him slightly
queasy. "She's on her lunch break, Max."
"Oh, well! I'm sure I'll see her. Carl, I have to tell
you, my phone has been ringing off the hook!
Everybody in town wants me for their kid's birthday
party! I'll be booked until next Rosh Hashana!" He
beamed. "So how come this newspaper man is here to see
you? He's doing a story on your restaurant, I hope?"
Zucker lit a cigarette despite the "No Smoking" signs.
"Actually, Mr. Strauss, it's you I was looking for. I
want to talk with you about your favorite movie. King
Kong."
Max's eyes lit up like a Fourth of July fireworks
display. "Oh, of course, of course! So much attention
I'm getting lately! Let me tell you, that Bobby
Armstrong, he was a prince—"
Zucker held up a hand. Something in his face, in the
harsh way he flicked an ash into a water glass, made Max
stop. "Hang on a second, pal. I want to show you some
photos. You like looking at photos? Most old folks do."
Carl could see the growing confusion in Max's face. The
old man's smile began to fade. "Uh, sure. Sure!"
Zucker laid his file on the bar. He pulled out a set of
8 x 10-inch photos and a couple of thick hardbound
books. Carl quickly read one of the titles. Movie
Magic: the Secrets Behind the Classic Films. The
film critic slapped a photo down on the bar. It was a
picture of a technician kneeling next to a scale model
of a skyscraper, manipulating the arms of a
foot-and-a-half-tall gorilla figure that was clinging to
the building.
"That's King Kong, Strauss. Not a man in an ape
suit. An eighteen-inch-tall animated model."
"That—that must be a picture from a different movie …"
"Come on, pal. Name me another film where a giant
gorilla climbs up the side of a building."
Max glanced quickly at Carl. The old man's eyes were the
eyes of a frightened child. "Uh, maybe, maybe they used
a little model like that for some shots. For
far-away shots. Some of the things they needed Kong to
do, they were too hard for me …"
Zucker took a quick drag off his cigarette. He was
enjoying this. "So which scenes were you in, Strauss?
The scene where Kong shakes the sailors off the log? The
scene where he fights the Tyrannosaurus?"
Max nodded vigorously. "Yes! Yes, those were the ones! I
did those!"
Taking his time, Zucker flipped through Movie Magic
until he arrived at the pages he had dog-eared. More
black and white photos. Model-maker Marcel Delgado
posing with the little Kong and a three-foot-long log
studded with model sailors. Willis O'Brien, his brow
furrowed, adjusting the little Kong's fist so that it
appeared to crash into the jaw of a
twenty-five-inch-tall flesh-eating dinosaur.
The color drained from Max's face. Suddenly, he looked
even older than his seventy-four years. "It was Gormon."
He stared at Carl with pleading, tear-filled eyes. "Tell
him, Carl. Tell him it was Gorman. Gorman had those
pictures made. Tell him."
Carl leaned heavily against the bar. He wished the
island of Miami Beach would open up and swallow him. "It
was Gorman." His voice was as flat and dismal as the
Everglades swamps.
Max belched. It was a terrible sound, like everything
inside him was breaking up. He covered his mouth with a
white, liver-spotted hand. "I've gotta go, Carl. I've …
I've gotta go."
The newspapers fell from his limp arm as he walked
quickly toward the door. Alessandra was just coming back
from lunch.
"Hiya, Maxie! Saw you on TV last night. You looked good!
Hey—hey, Max? What's the matter?"
He rushed past her into the hot street. Alessandra cast
a questioning glance at Carl. He wouldn't meet her gaze.
She turned and pushed back through the door. "Hey, Max!
Wait up!"
Zucker stubbed out his cigarette on the side of his
glass and pushed his books and photographs back into his
file. "Huh. Didn't think the old guy would take it so
hard. All I wanted was for him to stop lying."
Carl stared at the crushed cigarette floating in the
glass of water. "You prick. You stupid, malicious
prick. Don't even think about coming here for a discount
lunch."
Max was still trembling as he untaped his clippings from
the walls of his apartment. He fought down queasiness as
he sorted them, then smoothed their curled edges and
carefully placed them in labelled manila envelopes.
Someone knocked rapidly on his door. "Max? Open up! It's
Aless. I want to talk with you!" There was a pause
before she knocked again, even more insistently. "I know
you're in there, Max! I can see the light from under the
door. Please open up."
Max didn't make a sound. He continued removing photos
from the walls. Carl might want these pictures, someday.
After a few minutes, Max heard Alessandra retreat from
his door. Her footsteps faded. His photographs faded.
Everything was fading away.
Max felt the queasiness rising again. His left arm
ached. He walked to the black-furred costume mounted on
an old seamstress's mannequin in the corner of his room.
He reached out with his right hand and stroked its fur.
"You've always been the strong one, my friend," he said.
His lips felt numb. "I need your strength now."
Opening night finally arrived. Carl rented an elegant
black tuxedo. Alessandra borrowed a gown and heels. The
paint on her murals was barely dry. The dining room
glowed with pink and turquoise neon. Water jets spurting
from the fountain surrounding the stainless steel Delano
Hotel glistened like the welcoming spirits of deceased
movie stars. Carl and Alessandra stood at the waiters'
station near the back of the room, under the giant
gorilla arm, watching the staff cater to the needs of
well over a hundred diners.
"This is so great," Carl effused. "Half of SoHo
must've hopped a plane to get down here. And there're
plenty of locals, too. So my business won't dry up after
this weekend. And they all said Miami Beach was dead!"
"Max should be here," Alessandra said quietly.
Carl winced. "I know. I know! I've tried calling him. He
won't answer his phone. You went to his apartment. He
wouldn't come to the door. What more could we do?"
Alessandra's lips puckered into a tight frown. "I'm
still mad at you for letting that dick work him over."
"Jesus Christ, Aless! What was I supposed to do? Kick
Zucker out as soon as Max walked in? He just would've
caught up with Max some other time."
"You could've stuck up for him better. I think that's
what hurt Max worst of all. That you let Zucker knife
him like that."
Underarm sweat began staining Carl's silk shirt. "Look,
Aless. You weren't there, okay? So please, just shut
up."
A commotion rose from the tables closest to the door.
Carl swiveled around. He nearly wet himself. "Oh no. No.
Not tonight …"
A gorilla shambled into the dining room from the
sidewalk outside. Or, rather, a man in a threadbare
gorilla suit. He rose on his haunches, beat his chest,
and emitted a surprisingly convincing bellow.
Carl moved toward the door. He felt like he was running
in a nightmare, pumping his legs at full speed, but his
feet were caught in invisible peanut butter so he wasn't
moving forward at all. "Oh no. Max. No, Max. No!"
But Max had already sloshed through the fountain. Every
one of the one hundred and thirty-seven diners had
turned to watch. Max began climbing the Delano Hotel. It
was shaped like a ziggurat, so he found the handholds he
needed. He climbed with astounding energy and agility
for a septuagenarian.
Carl and Alessandra reached the foot of the fountain.
"Max!" Carl cried, looking like a drowning man in the
blue neon light. "You can't do this to me! Come down
here! Come down, or no Early Bird Special! Ever!"
Alessandra kicked her shoes off and stepped into the
fountain. "Max! Oh God, be careful!"
The man in the gorilla suit was halfway to the top of
the Delano Hotel when he heard her voice. He paused and
looked down at her. But it wasn't Max who stared out of
the mask's frayed eye holes. It was Kong.
Kong had nearly finished his arduous climb. Hundreds
of feet below him, the water glistened, inviting him
deep into its inky depths. He swung his mighty arm and
roared his defiance. The water would not have him. Not
yet.
The music suddenly grew ominous. From a great distance,
a low humming reached his ears, like the humming of
giant insects. Four flying specks climbed over the
horizon. They came closer. Closer. They were birds,
strange birds like Kong had never seen. Birds with four
stiff, unmoving wings.
Kong was nearly at the top of the steep, angular
mountain. The flock of strange birds circled around him.
Challenging him. He brandished his terrible fangs. He
had killed great birds before. He had broken their
beaks. Ripped their wings from their bodies. He would
vanquish these arrogant birds like the others.
But he could not fight with the Precious One in his paw.
She must be safe. Kong had fought many battles so she
would be safe. He stared at the little Precious One. She
squirmed in his paw, leaving her heavenly scent on his
fingers. Her soft, soft hair was as black as his own,
but with a streak of fire running through it. His chest
filled with strange longing. He wanted to eat her, to
lick her, to smell her. To be her. He put her down on a
ledge, laying her down as gently as he could. He sniffed
his fingers. But only once. He had work to do.
He climbed to the very top. One of the four birds left
the flock and swooped down toward him. Kong roared. He
raised his arms high, ready to crush the foolhardy bird.
The bird chirped at him. Very loud. Very fast. Kong felt
something prick his chest. He lunged for the bird. It
swerved away. He missed. The bird made a circle in the
sky and rejoined the flock.
A second bird dove at him. Again the loud chattering.
Again the invisible pinpricks. This bird was braver than
its wingmate. It flew closer. Kong anticipated the sweet
taste of its reptilian flesh, the saltiness of its
blood. His reaching fingers clipped its wing. The wing
disintegrated at his touch, and the bird immediately
began to fall. Kong waited for its death cry. There was
none. It fell silently until it hit the edge of the
mountain. Then it blossomed into orange flames, and
small pieces of it fell into the water far below.
Kong beat his breast in victory. He was pleased the
Precious One had seen this. Even here, in this new and
unhappy place, he was king. But the remaining birds were
not cowed. One by one, they made their cruel passes at
him. The stinging in his chest was no longer prickly,
like the little sticks thrown at him by the men on his
island, but a sharp burning, like the fang bites of a
great reptile. His breathing was harder now. He rubbed
the many hurting places on his chest. His fingers came
away wet.
The birds seemed to fly faster now. He lunged more
desperately, leaning dangerously far over the precipice.
But his foes remained frustratingly out of reach. Their
buzzing, their murderous chatter mocked him. We are
the rulers here, they seemed to boast. Not you.
He gathered his breath for a roar of defiance. But all
he could manage was a bewildered, pained snarl.
The burning in his chest had become an inferno. Kong
wiped his sweating, bleeding brow. His vision was
clouding, narrowing. His fading gaze fell upon the
Precious One. Weakly, gently, he reached for her. She
uttered her small, soft cries, the sounds that excited
him so. He brought her close to his face, so that he
might sniff her delicate scent again. He fondled her
with his forefinger, saddened that he marred her
beautiful whiteness with drops of red from his ragged
fingertip.
The birds hung back, circling. They would not attack him
so long as he held the Precious One in his paw. Perhaps,
if he continued to hold her, they would fly away …? He
became dizzy. But his mind was suddenly clear. He would
not endanger the Precious One. Hiding behind the beloved
was not the way of the warrior, of the king. He placed
her down on the ledge again.
Kong refused to look at the birds, even though their
buzzing told him they were swooping close again. His
huge eyes, full of longing and regret, remained focused
on the Precious One. The music swelled. It was drowned
out by deafening chatter. Kong clutched his neck. Blood
dribbled from the corners of his mouth. His grip on the
mountain's slender spire began to weaken.
The music, rich with stringed pathos, built to a
crescendo. But Kong couldn't hear it. His ears were
filled with wind and the call of the distant sea. He
took a final look at the world below him. How could the
world hate one of its own creatures so?
Kong's world narrowed to the pressure of the spire on
his loosening fingers. He barely sensed the cruel birds'
coup de grace, the talons that pierced his neck and
exploded his jugular vein. Only the tips of his fingers
touched the spire now. The merciful wind brought a last
hint of the Precious One to his nostrils. He let go.
The dark waters could have him now.
Max landed in the fountain with a tremendous splash.
Alessandra screamed.
The entire room went silent, save for the buzzing of a
few shorting-out neon tubes. Then, one by one, the
customers began clapping. The applause was scattered and
uncertain at first but soon grew in strength and
sincerity until it filled the dining room.
Aw jeez, Carl thought. They figured it for an
act. What would Carl Denham do in a spot like this?
He stepped onto the rim of the fountain and waved his
arms over his head. "Okay, ladies and gentlemen, the
show's over. Please return to your meals. Please. Free
desserts for everyone! Tonight only. Compliments of the
house."
Alessandra had pulled Max from the fountain. She
struggled to pull the wet gorilla mask away from his
face. "Carl! Help me!"
Carl knelt beside the unmoving old man. He tried to feel
a heartbeat through the dripping fur. "Jesus Christ. You
think he's alive?"
"How the hell do I know? I'm not a doctor!" She leaned
over Max, placing her ear close to his mouth, trying to
sense his breathing.
"Look," Carl whispered. His adrenaline rush was gone.
The sickly feeling of nightmare was creeping in on him
again. "My car's just outside. Let's carry him out of
here. I can get him to Mt. Sinai in maybe five minutes."
"What?!" Alessandra looked horrified. "We've got
to call an ambulance—"
"Aless, I've got a hundred fifty paying customers here.
I can't have paramedics barging in?-"
"Fuck your paying customers! Call the emergency
line, Carl! If you don't call for an ambulance, I'll
never speak to you again!"
She pinched Max's nose and began administering CPR. Carl
blinked and ran for the phone.
The waiting room smelled of disinfectant, boredom, and
fear. A Metro-Dade police officer, his gut hanging over
his gunbelt, approached Carl. "Look, buddy," he said,
raising his pen to an incident report clipped on a
battered clipboard, "I've got a few questions I have to
ask. Number one. Did you hire that old guy to take a
swan dive in your restaurant?"
Carl shot the cop a glance that would've withered
concrete. "What do I look like? A lunatic? If I
had wanted a spectacle like that, I would've hired a
twenty-year-old stuntman. Not a seventy-four-year-old
grandfather. I would've had a net. I would've spent a
fortune on permits."
The cop raised an eyebrow. "So you're telling me he did
this totally on his own? He went nuts or something?"
Carl scowled. His glasses slithered down his nose.
"Right. It was Alzheimer's." His voice reeked of sarcasm
and self-loathing.
Alessandra punched Carl in the shoulder. Hard. "It
wasn't Alzheimer's! Don't you say that about him! It
was—it was—I don't know what it was. It was just
Max."
A nurse emerged through the double doors. "Are you two
Mr. Strauss's next of kin?"
"Uh, no, we're just his friends," Carl answered. "Max
doesn't have any family in Miami. I think he has some in
California. Maybe some in New York, I think." He tried
desperately to read the nurse's face.
"Can you help us get in touch with them?"
Alessandra's eyes, surrounded by haloes of smeared
mascara, opened wide. "Max—is he—?"
The nurse took Alessandra's hand. "I'm very sorry. We
did all we could. But he broke his collarbone and
fractured his skull in the fall. Also, he suffered a
massive heart attack."
The only words Carl heard were I'm very sorry.
Dull, generic words. I'm very sorry. What a flat,
meaningless epitaph for a man like Max. No "I guess
the airplanes got him." No "'Twas Beauty killed
the Beast." Just standard-issue words for a little
man who wanted to be something so much bigger than he
was.
Alessandra was crying. Carl wanted to cry, too. He
searched inside for the lever that would let his tears
flow and found nothing. Something inside him was
missing.
Something was missing. Willis O'Brien stepped back
from the intricate, rabbit fur-covered figurine and
rubbed his forehead with his palm. He was so close to
the end now. Another few weeks of animation work and it
would be a wrap. He should just push ahead, get it done.
The RKO executives were clamoring for this picture. Even
in the middle of the Depression, they knew they had a
hit on their hands. He had these last few climactic
scenes all figured out, completely storyboarded. But
something was stopping him in his tracks.
He stepped away from the hot arc lights. In the last
twelve months of working under those lights, he had lost
fifteen pounds. He filled a cup with water from the
cooler. Why was he getting jittery fingers now, after so
many months of confident work?
Kong stood atop the miniature Empire State Building.
Willis stared for a long time at that sculpted face,
those expressively flaring nostrils, glass eyes tinier
than the smallest marbles. Marcel had done a brilliant
job with the models. His Kong could be made to mimic all
the expressions of a human face. So many possibilities.
So many damned possibilities.
Willis had watched all the rushes. Kong was convincing.
His animated movements looked natural. Powerful. Many of
the scenes, especially the fight scenes with the
dinosaurs, were thrilling—the best work Willis had ever
done. Kong was a mighty presence. He was a brute, a
monster, a bigger-than-life terror. Audiences would be
nailed to their seats.
Maybe that was the problem. Willis didn't want Kong to
be just a brute, a vicious giant animal. If audiences
left with that impression of him, his relationship with
the Fay Wray character would be utterly unbelievable.
Kong had to be a noble brute. His death atop the Empire
State Building had to be the stuff of tragedy. Or else
the film would be an empty thriller, a piece of schlock.
Maybe what I've got is stage fright, Willis
thought. I started out as a palooka, a fighter; not
an actor. Not a poet. I gave Kong all my boxing moves.
But can I give him a soul?
He placed his fingertips on Kong's skull. I look
like I'm trying to give him a blessing. His fingers
trembled slightly, ruffling Kong's fur. Who is there
to give me a blessing?
A knocking at the door broke his nervous concentration.
Grateful for an excuse to break away, he walked across
the studio to the door and opened it. "Yes?"
Two men stood in the doorway. One was Mike Halloway, a
production assistant. The other was a small, dark haired
stranger, a man in his thirties who anxiously rubbed his
hands together and smiled obsequiously.
"Mr. O'Brien," Halloway said, "sorry to disturb you.
This here's one of the extras. He's been bugging me for
days. He wants to see the `big gorilla' in the worst
way. Is it okay by you if he takes a look around?"
Willis rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work the
tension out of the muscles. "Sure. It's okay. He can
come in. I was ready to take a break anyway."
The small man stepped gingerly into the studio, staring
with wide eyes at the multitude of miniature jungles and
cityscapes. Willis shut the door behind him. "So what's
your name, fella?"
The visitor's hands remained shyly at his sides. "Maximillian
Strossenberg, sir. I have been in Hollywood for a year
only. This is my first job in the moving pictures. The
others … they tell me you are the one who does the
magic. The one who acts as the big gorilla."
"Now who told you that?"
"Everyone, sir. All the actors. They all say, `Willis
O'Brien, he is the man who plays Kong.' So of course, I
want very much to meet you."
Willis found himself smiling. "A bunch of folks been
pulling your leg, fella. There ain't nobody plays
Kong. Not me or anybody. C'mere. Let me show you
something."
He led Max to the corner of the studio where the
four-foot-high model of the Empire State Building's top
stories stood. He pointed to the articulated miniature
that was posed on top. "There. That's Kong."
Max stared at the miniature gorilla for half a minute.
Then he turned to Willis and shyly smiled. "I hope I do
not insult you, sir. You are a very important man. But I
think you are the one who `pulls the leg.' Kong
is fifty, a hundred feet tall! He makes the elevated
train of Manhattan fall off the track. I know! I am a
man who falls with the train."
Willis rubbed his neck again, not sure whether to be
amused or irritated. "Trust me, Max. That there is the
genuine Kong. I move him a little bit at a time, and I
take pictures of him, and when I shine those pictures on
the screen, you'll believe he's a fifty-foot-tall
son-of-a-bitch, the tallest, darkest leading man in
Hollywood. Least if I can get past this damned mental
block, you will." He stared up at the eighteen-inch-tall
figure on top of the miniature skyscraper and sighed.
"Look, Max, I've gotta get back to work."
Willis led his visitor back to the door. Max followed
reluctantly, sad to leave the cavern of wonders so soon.
"I still do not believe it," the extra said earnestly as
he stepped through the doorway. "But if you can make a
tiny doll a giant, if you can make a thing with no more
life than a rock breathe and walk and love a woman, then
you are a great man, Mr. O'Brien. You are a great, great
man."
Willis wasn't feeling remotely like a great man. But the
little foreigner's naive sincerity was touching and
somehow comforting. Willis smiled and extended his
thick, well-muscled hand. His visitor returned the smile
and, after a slight pause, the grip.
Willis watched the extra walk away. He had felt
something pass between them with that brief handshake.
Exactly what, he couldn't say; a quicksilver current of
sympathy, a melding of past and future into an
instantaneous spark of knowledge that faded as quickly
as it had flared. I know how that man will die,
Willis thought. Then, shaking his head, he wondered
where those queer words had come from. Seconds later,
he'd forgotten the words themselves.
He closed the door and slowly walked back to the
miniature set in the far corner. He again placed his
fingers on the soft rabbit fur that lined Kong's skull.
At last, there was nothing to do but begin.
With his first manipulation of the figurine, Willis felt
the tension in his neck begin to ease. He moved the
airplane models a quarter of an inch closer to Kong,
then exposed a frame of film. The camera clicked. His
calloused fingers touched Kong's face, creasing the
brow, pulling the lips away from the tiny fangs. He
clicked the camera. His hands returned to Kong. The
beast's muscles rippled, his lungs expanded, he bellowed
his defiance. The camera clicked.
Willis's fingers began to manipulate the model rapidly,
moving almost with a will of their own. His mind began
racing ahead of his hands. He could see everything that
would happen, like a magnificent moving painting. He
thought of Michelangelo. Michelangelo had been a
sculptor and a painter. He thought of Michelangelo's
"Pieta," the exquisite sadness on Mary's face. He
thought of Kong: a huge, dark immigrant to a strange new
land, a creature without language, shunned and feared by
everyone he met. Denied the touch of beauty. Humiliated.
Kept apart from the one thing he loved.
Willis watched his fingers move Kong. No. He watched
Kong move. The blessing he had hoped for had come.
Tonight's rushes would be all he had prayed for. And
tomorrow's. And the day after's.
So this is what it is to have a muse, he thought.
He marveled at its touch. He didn't know where the
spirit had come from. But he was thankful it had come.
The End |
