Bogart Read Online Free PDF

brought your grandson,” Mike said.
    Mike liked to rib my father about his age. Bogie was a quarter of a century older than Bacall, so when my mother was with Bogie at the restaurant, Mike would say to her, “I see you are still dating the same aging actor.”
    It went on like that for a while. I guess it always went on like that for a while. My strongest memories of that day are the feel of the green leather upholstery of the booth, the taste of creamed spinach, a specialty of the house which I loved, and the steady parade of grown-ups, which I wasn’t crazy about.
    I don’t know everyone who came by to talk on that par ticular day. But this schmoozing at Romanoff’s was a ritual. It was common for David Niven to stop by at my father’s booth and visit, and for Judy Garland and Sid Luft, and Richard Brooks. And sometimes Spencer Tracy. I’m sure that Swifty Lazar came by on this particular day. Swifty, whose real name was Irving, got his nickname from my father after making three big deals in one day. He died only a few years ago. In fact, the 1987 Chrysler half-wagon which I drive today is one I bought from Swifty. He was known as the first Hollywood superagent, but he was not my father’s agent; he was his friend. Swifty was a small man, with a face like a cherub’s, but built as solidly as a fire hydrant. And he was one of the dandiest dressers in Hollywood history. He was once de scribed by my godfather, writer Quentin Reynolds, as “a new kind of beach toy turned out by an expensive sporting goods store.”
    So Swifty came by, and movie stars and singers, and stu dio heads, all of them smiling at the rare sight of Bogie with a child. They paid their dues to me: “How are you, Stephen?” and “My, don’t you look grown-up!” But then into shop talk they would go…Stanley Kramer had just bought rights to such and such a book, Gary Cooper was filming this, Harry Cohn was pissed off about that, and so on. A lot of celebrities, a lot of fascinating talk.
    Fascinating, that is, to grown-ups, but not to a person whose idea of fun was sliding down banisters and climbing trees with Diane Linkletter. I was not impressed. I was the son of two movie stars, and, more to the point, I was only seven years old. So I was, in a word, bored.
    By the time Bogie was into the brandy, my boredom had begun to take physical form. I was rapping my water glass with a fork.
    “Don’t do that, kid,” my father said.
    I was banging my feet under the table.
    “Cut it out, kid,” my father said.
    And, no doubt, I was making faces, tapping my fingers, fidgeting, and glancing around. Acting like a kid. But the be havior of children was a complete mystery to Humphrey Bogart and, though he was almost continually amused by life, he was now getting less and less amused.
    By the time we left the restaurant that day, we were not speaking to each other. My father’s knuckles were white on the wheel of his Jaguar as he drove, perhaps a little too fast, through the streets of Beverly Hills, anxious to deliver the de mon son back to the arms of Bacall.
    I guess my father sometimes thought I was a handful. Once, discussing me with a friend, he said, “One word from me and he does as he pleases.” And my mother’s friend, Carolyn Morris, remembers, “You were challenging. Like your father. You did things your way and if anybody told you how to do them, you would do them more your way. Your dad was like that, very much.”
    When we got home that day my mother was out by the pool reading. Dad led me directly to her, as if I might try to make a run for it.
    “Baby,” he said. “Never again.”
    My mother said nothing. She put her book down and looked at me, as if to ask, What is your side of the story?
    “Never again,” I said, mimicking my father, and off I went to read my comic book.
    In fact, Bogie did take me to Romanoff’s again, a few times. I don’t remember any conflict connected with those visits, so things must have gone