Behind the Door
Alexander Bain sat sipping a glass of wine as he watched the election results on his sixty-inch television. Another state had voted in favor of legalizing same-sex marriages. He reacted to the news with a bittersweet smile.
These men today have it so easy, he thought. They can get married and even adopt a child. It's not like when I was young and everything had to be kept hush-hush, especially in Hollywood.
Alexander, the elderly Oscar and Emmy winning actor, had been one of the most handsome leading men of his day, starring opposite the most desirable actresses. He was a "man's man" on the screen, and as such, his sexual orientation had to be kept a closely guarded secret. The studio, which had invested millions of dollars in his career, helped perpetuate the deception of his being a heterosexual male by arranging dates for him with a long succession of sexy starlets.
In order to further safeguard the myth, Alexander had gone so far as to marry once. His wife had been a wonderful woman who graciously agreed to the terms of the arranged marriage, asking only for a modest settlement in the divorce. After the pre-determined dissolution of the couple's ten-year union, the two remained good friends up until the time of her death. She never once tried to blackmail him with the truth, nor did she ever conspire to write a tell-all book. The same could not be said for the men in his life. For years, Alexander had been forced to pay off his greedy paramours.
Eventually, however, Bain grew too old for the romantic parts that had made him famous. No longer a leading man, he accepted the supporting roles relegated to character actors. While in his early sixties, he made the move from motion pictures to television. With the prospect of retirement looming on the horizon, Alexander no longer feared the Hollywood rumor mill. After all, great actors such as Rock Hudson and Montgomery Clift had long lived under a suspicion of homosexuality, and it hadn't hurt their careers.
Although the aging actor never publicly came out of the closet, he no longer took steps to hide the fact that he was gay. Every so often stories appeared in the Enquirer or the Globe of young men claiming to have known him on an intimate basis, but Alexander paid little attention to the tabloids.
Who cares anymore? he thought, tired of the pettiness of small minds.
There was one thing Alexander did care about, however. He was well into his eighties and his health was beginning to decline. He didn't want to spend the twilight of his life alone.
What have I got to show for my years on this earth? he thought despondently.
It was ironic that although he was a gay man, the closest relationship he'd ever had was with a woman, his ex-wife. She had been his friend and his confidant. Oddly enough, he never trusted another man like he'd trusted her.
If only I'd been born straight, I would have been truly happy with her.
Instead, he was a lonely man with no children, no family, no true love—nothing except his money and his possessions.
All that suddenly changed when he met Nash Scoville.
* * *
Alexander was surprised when he received a phone call from Chaz Hallett, a producer who wanted him to serve in the capacity of technical consultant for an HBO dramatic series about the Golden Age of Hollywood.
"Newman, Brando, Dean, McQueen ... you knew them all!" Chaz exclaimed.
"Some better than others," Alexander admitted.
"You partied with Taylor and Burton."
"Liz, God bless her, had a heart of gold."
As the actor shared memories of Marilyn Monroe, Chaz signaled to the waiter.
"Can I start you gentlemen off with something to drink?" the server asked.
Although he was at least fifty years the waiter's senior, Alexander was instantly attracted to the tall, tanned, muscular young man who had more than a passing resemblance to the late Heath Ledger. The actor's interest in the handsome server had not escaped the producer.
"Yes, I'll take a martini," Chaz said. "What will you have, Alex?"
"A Long Island iced tea."
"Coming right up."
"There's a man who ought to be in the movies," the producer remarked after the waiter left. "Don't you agree?"
"If he has talent."
"With a face and body like his, talent isn't necessary. Anyway, you were talking about Marilyn."
The two men's conversation then centered on Alexander's friendship with Ms. Monroe. Chaz, like many people, was fascinated by the life of the tragic blonde.
"Did she ever mention either of the Kennedys to you?" the producer asked.
"What was that?" the actor replied, distracted by the sight of the waiter returning to the table with their drinks.
"I asked you about the Kennedys." Chaz then turned to the waiter and inquired, "Did you know my friend here once worked with Marilyn Monroe?"
"You must have been a child at the time," the server said smoothly.
"No. I was probably about your age."
"What's your name, son?" the producer asked.
"Nash Scoville."
"Have you ever done any acting, Nash?"
"Some extra work, but I've never had any lines in a picture."
"Well, I'm putting together a project for HBO. I might be able to use someone like you in it—if you're interested."
"Are you kidding? Being an actor is my dream!"
"Good. I'm having a party at my place tomorrow night," Chaz said, handing the waiter a card with the address printed on it. "Why don't you stop by? Maybe you can help me convince Alex here to come on board."
"I don't know what I can do to influence a great actor like Mr. Bain. He doesn't even know me."
"Come to my party tomorrow night. We can rectify that situation."
That afternoon, after the producer and actor left the restaurant, Nash Scoville quit his job. The following night, he moved into Alexander Bain's Brentwood mansion.
* * *
Symbiosis is defined as "a mutually beneficial relationship between different people or groups." For the first six months, Alexander Bain and Nash Scoville's relationship could be described as symbiotic. Nash benefited from the affair in a materialistic way. His elderly partner showered him with expensive gifts: designer clothes, jewelry, trips to Europe and a Ferrari Testarossa. To Alexander, on the other hand, the bond was not only a physical one but an emotional one as well. The elderly actor was in love for the first time in his life.
"You know what I don't understand," Nash said to his benefactor one night over dinner.
"What's that?" Alexander replied.
"At every party we've attended, I've seen paintings by Picasso, van Gogh, Pollock, Renoir and even Warhol, yet all you've got on your walls is artwork any Joe Schmo can purchase down at the local mall."
"I was never interested in art."
"What are you interested in then?"
"Promise you won't laugh?"
"Why?" Nash said with a chuckle. "Are you one of those guys who are in to dolls or stuffed animals?"
"No. I collect automobiles."
"Automobiles?" the former waiter echoed with surprise. "Isn't that a rather macho hobby?"
"What can I say? I always liked cars."
"How many are we talking about? Five? Ten?"
"A lot more than that."
"No kidding? Where do you keep them?"
"Why don't I just take you there after we finish dinner?"
"Sounds like fun," the buff young man replied, his eyes sparkling as he smiled.
Two hours later, Nash pulled his Ferrari into the parking lot of a large warehouse located in an industrial park not far from the restaurant where the two men had met.
"Is this the place?" the younger man asked.
"Yes," Alexander replied as he got out of the car with his set of keys in hand.
"This looks like the hangar for the Spruce Goose. How many cars did you say you had?"
Alexander didn't answer. He preferred to open the door in silence, and let his companion see for himself. When the actor turned on the overhead lights, he heard the sharp intake of breath from the man next to him.
"Holy shit!" Nash exclaimed. "This reminds me of the international auto show. You must have a couple of hundred cars here."
"Once hundred ninety-two, to be exact."
The building was no ordinary warehouse; it was more like a museum. Its marble floors were clean enough to eat off of and its customized recessed lighting was angled to highlight the collection. Furthermore, the space was climate-controlled to prevent rust build up.
"What's this car?" Nash asked, walking over to a vehicle that was nearly as old as the actor himself.
"Ah, that's a 1932 Essex-Terraplane."
"It must be rare; I never heard of it."
"It was built by the Hudson Motor Company. More important than the car itself is its supposed owner. When this model was launched in 1932, Hudson used Amelia Earhart to help introduce it. It's believed this particular car belonged to her."
"Amelia Earhart's car. That must be worth a fortune!"
"Every one of these cars," Alexander declared, proudly indicating his most prized possessions with a sweep of his arm, "belonged to a well-known celebrity. This collection has taken me a lifetime to amass. Here, let me show you some of my favorites."
As he approached a bullet-ridden Ford V8, Nash recognized the car immediately.
"Bonnie and Clyde, right? Is this the actual one they used in the movie?"
"No. That's in a crime museum in Washington. This is the car in which the two bank robbers were actually killed. I recently purchased it from a casino in Nevada."
As Nash neared the vehicle, Alexander cautioned, "Please don't put your hands on the car without wearing gloves. Secretions from the skin can cause the metal to corrode."
"Sure. I get it: look but don't touch."
And look he did! He followed Bain around the warehouse, carefully examining the cars and listening to the owner's descriptions.
"This BMW 507 belonged to Elvis."
"I thought he was a Cadillac man."
"He bought this beauty when he was in the Army, stationed in Germany. Jay Leno wanted to buy this car, but I beat him to it."
"How much did you pay for it?"
"Sorry, I never talk about money where my cars are concerned. I know that may sound odd, but that's just how it is. These automobiles are my pride and joy. To me, it cheapens them to put a financial value on them."
Alexander continued the tour with Marilyn Monroe's 1962 Chrysler 300 convertible, Al Capone's 1928 Cadillac, John Dillinger's 1930 Model A Ford getaway car, Clark Gable's 1955 Duesenberg and Errol Flynn's 1935 Auburn Speedster.
As the two men came to the end of the first row of cars, Nash saw a nondescript door in the corner of the room.
"I noticed all the cameras. Is that where you keep your security system?"
"No. The cameras provide a remote feed to an offsite security center."
"What's in there then? A restroom? A broom closet?"
"Nothing's in there," Alexander insisted and turned his head to avoid looking Nash in the eye.
"That's quite an impressive lock for an empty room."
"I have my reasons for keeping that door locked."
"And you don't want to share them with me."
"No, I don't. Please don't be offended. It's not as though I don't trust you; I do. But some things are better left alone."
As they headed for the next row of cars, Alexander resumed his role of tour guide, but Nash was more interested in what was behind the locked door than in Jean Harlow's 1932 Packard.
* * *
It was as the couple approached their first anniversary together that Alexander noticed his Rolex watch was missing as were a number of other valuable items.
It couldn't have been Nash, he thought. If he wanted a watch, I'd have bought him one.
But once the seed of doubt was planted, tiny sprouts of uncertainty began to germinate. The charge cards he'd given the former waiter were repeatedly maxed out no matter how many times he paid off the balances. What worried Alexander more than the missing watch was the fear that Nash might be keeping secrets from him. Could there be someone else? Another man? A woman? The thought of losing Nash terrified him.
Like many a jealous lover, Alexander decided to do some snooping. He logged on to Nash's laptop one day while the young man was working out at the gym. The actor was relieved when he noticed nothing out of the ordinary in his partner's emails. However, he was devastated when he opened the documents file and found a spreadsheet detailing the vehicles in his cherished car collection as well as the probable value of each.
How did Nash get this information and why?
Shaken, Alexander went to the one place where he felt solace: the grave of his one true friend, his ex-wife. A feeling of peace came over him as he sat on a marble bench, looking down at the headstone. Even dead, she was a source of comfort.
As he was imagining her sitting beside him, holding his hand, he heard two middle-aged women talking about a pretty young actress who recently made headlines when she announced she was going to sue her elderly husband, a successful producer and director, for divorce.
"According to the Enquirer," one of the women said, "she can expect to get a ninety-five-million-dollar settlement. Imagine that: ninety-five million dollars! And they weren't married much more than a year. That's what he gets for marrying without a prenup."
"That's what he gets for being such a fool!" the other women argued. "Come on! He's old enough to be her grandfather. He must have known she only married him for his money."
The woman's harsh words brought a stab of pain to Alexander's heart. He supposed Nash was only with him for the money. Oh, hell, he knew from the beginning that was the case; why deny it? Money couldn't buy love, but it bought something that was close enough.
People marry for many different reasons, he thought. I married to cover up my sexual orientation, and my wife agreed to the arrangement to attain financial security.
Oddly enough, their ten-year marriage of convenience had been happier than many based on love. And there was no reason why a May-December relationship wouldn't work when both parties were honest with each other.
Feeling a renewed sense of hope, Alexander went home and waited for Nash to return from the gym. When the young man walked into the house, his hair still wet from showering after his workout, the older man had a drink ready for him.
"What's the occasion?" Nash asked, taking the offered glass of champagne.
"I want to have a talk with you."
"About what?"
"I've been thinking that now would be a good time for us to take this relationship to the next level."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying we should get married. It's legal now."
While delivering his unexpected proposal, the actor refused to look at the younger man. He didn't want to see the greed glittering in his eyes as he considered the monetary advantages of marriage. Nash didn't take much time to decide; he would inherit millions in cash, the Brentwood mansion plus the cars. And given Alexander's age, he wouldn't have to wait long to claim them.
"Yes, I'll marry you!" he exclaimed, embracing the older man.
"There's just one thing we need to discuss, and then we'll go out to celebrate."
"What's that?"
"The financial arrangements. Naturally, you'll need to sign a prenup, but I'll be more than generous to you while I live and amply provide for you in my will."
"Why is a prenup necessary? You have no family, no heirs."
"I have my cars to think of."
Nash was stunned. He'd heard of people leaving money to their pets, but surely the old fool couldn't leave money to a bunch of motor vehicles?
"I've decided to open a car museum" Alexander explained. "The money will be used for the vehicles' upkeep."
"You want me to marry you when it's obvious you love those stupid old cars more than you do me!"
"You know that's not true. I already told you I'd take care of you."
"No, thanks. I don't need your charity," Nash cried indignantly and turned toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"I don't need to stay here. Chaz Hallett told me he could get me an acting job."
"Wait!" Alexander cried, grabbing hold of the younger's man's muscular arm. "Can't we talk about this?"
"Why bother? Look, you knew the score from the first night we hooked up. You're a rich old man, and I'm a hungry, young stud."
Alexander winced at his partner's brutal honesty.
"I'm willing to play but only for pay. If you're talking about a serious commitment like marriage, it'll cost you."
"What is it you want then? I'm willing to negotiate."
"Fifty million cash, in an offshore account."
"I'm a wealthy man, but I don't have that kind of money."
"Here's the situation. Once I walk out that door, I won't come back, so you have a big decision to make right now. If you want me to stay, you're going to have to part with some of those cars of yours."
Alexander lowered his head and ran his fingers through his thinning white hair.
"Why are you forcing me to do this?" he cried in anguish.
"Because I'm greedy, and you're loaded."
"All right," Alexander finally agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I suppose I have no other choice."
"What?"
"Come with me to the warehouse. There's something I want to show you."
"I'm not in to cars. I'm only interested in how much they'll sell for."
"You'll want to see this one. It's the most valuable vehicle in my collection, the one I keep behind the locked door."
"You wouldn't show it to me before; why show it to me now?"
"To prove how much you mean to me."
"All right. But remember, fifty million in an offshore account."
* * *
After opening the door to the warehouse, Alexander turned to the younger man and said, "You must have borrowed my key and had a copy made. There's no other way you could have gotten inside."
"What are you talking about?"
"The spreadsheet."
"You went through my computer?"
"Don't be so offended; after all, you went into the warehouse and made an inventory of my cars."
"I guess that makes us even."
The two men then walked to the rear of the building in silence. Alexander went to what appeared to be a thermostat on the wall and removed it. Underneath was a security keypad. He typed in ten digits, and a green light came on, indicating that the door was unlocked.
"It's not even a car!" Nash exclaimed angrily when he looked into the room. "It's a pile of junk."
"It's what's left of Little Bastard, James Dean's 1955 Porsche 550 Spyder."
"The one he was killed in?"
"The one and the same."
"And it's so valuable it warrants extra security?"
"The lock is for safety reasons," Alexander explained, careful not to step over the threshold. "The car is cursed, and Dean was not its only victim."
"I thought the passenger of the car, Dean's mechanic, survived the accident?"
"He did, but a man named Barris, who had originally customized the Porsche, bought the wrecked car for $2,500. He sold the engine and drivetrain to Troy McHenry and William Eschrid. While the two were racing vehicles that had parts from Dean's car, McHenry lost control, hit a tree and died instantly. Eschrid was seriously injured when his car locked up and rolled over while going into a turn. Barris also sold two tires that had survived Dean's accident. Both blew out simultaneously, causing the new owner's car to run off the road."
"Coincidence, that's all," Nash said.
"It's possible. Here's another one for you. Two would-be thieves decided to steal what was left of the car. One of them had his arms torn open while he was trying to take out the steering wheel, and the other was injured trying to remove the bloodstained tartan seat from the wreckage."
"I don't believe in curses."
"Barris apparently did, but then the California Highway Patrol convinced him to lend them the wreck for a highway safety exhibit. The first showing was unsuccessful because the garage that housed the car caught fire and burned to the ground, yet mysteriously the car suffered no damage from the fire. The next exhibition, held at a local high school, ended abruptly when the car fell off its display and broke a student's hip."
"This sounds like a plot from a Stephen King novel."
"Christine had nothing on Little Bastard. While it was being transported, the truck lost control. The driver was thrown from the car and crushed by the Porsche after it fell off the back of the truck. The cursed car fell off three other transport trucks as well. One mechanic had his leg broken. Fortunately, no one else was injured. Just the same the highway patrol decided it had had enough of Little Bastard. It was reported that while being transported back to Barris, Dean's Porsche mysteriously vanished and was never seen again."
"Yet here it is."
"Barris was quite willing to sell it to me. We agreed it was best that no one know of its location. It was brought here in secret and placed in that room. This is only the second time I've unlocked the door since 1960."
"Why?" Nash teased. "Are you afraid of it?"
"Terrified," Alexander admitted. "I have nightmares just knowing it's in the warehouse."
"Why not sell it then?"
"And what if claims another victim? No, I don' want that on my conscience."
"You're nuts. There's no such thing as curses."
When the old man looked up at his handsome young partner, there were tears in his eyes.
"If you think there's no danger, then the car is yours. I give it to you as a token of my appreciation for all that you've given me for the past twelve months."
"Really?"
Alexander closed his eyes and slowly nodded his head.
Nash ran into the room, put his hands on what remained of the passenger door of the silver Porsche and stared down at the tangled wreckage of the once sleek sports car, seeing not the evidence of a life full of promise cut short by senseless tragedy but a quick dollar to be made.
Alexander enjoyed one last look at the former waiter and then shut and locked the door. As the elderly actor walked away, he could hear Nash's screams echoing through the warehouse.
If and when the body is discovered, Alexander thought as he walked home, it will be assumed that Nash accidentally locked himself in the room while attempting to steal a souvenir from the famous wreckage. Those who know the blood-filled history of Dean's car will no doubt consider him Little Bastard's latest victim.
This story was inspired by various sources that claim the accidents associated with James Dean's car actually occurred. According to my research, the location of the car is unknown. Note: The actual Bonnie and Clyde car is on display at Whiskey Pete's Resort and Casino in Primm, Nevada. The bullet-ridden car used in the movie is on display at the National Museum of Crime and Punishment in Washington, D.C. (This is an incredible museum that I would wholeheartedly recommend to any mystery or true crime buff!)
No, Salem, I did not name the car in my story after you. It was the actual nickname of James Dean's car.
