On the other hand, perhaps there was some element of truth to Vail’s interpretation. For over these last few weeks, as I’ve been busy with preparations for my return to the screen, I have found myself remembering certain troubling events from the months before Tyler’s murder.
There was, for example, my golf date at the Westside Country Club. I was scheduled to tee off at 8:00 a.m. with a foursome that included Mr. Matsui—the head of the Japanese Association—his now twenty-two-year-old son Daisuke, and Mr. Hiroda, a successful agricultural maven from the Sacramento area who was one of the biggest supporters of the Little Tokyo Theater. When we approached the pro shop to acquire our caddies, the sleepy college-age youth behind the counter sat up and said, “I’m sorry, but there must be some mistake.”
I gave him an indulgent smile. “Young man, it’s far too early to be dealing with such inconveniences. We have an 8:00 a.m. tee time, and we are ready to begin.”
The youth—who looked like he might be home for the summer from a place like Harvard or Princeton—scanned his schedule and shook his head. “I have a Rosenberg here, from Perennial. Now what is your name?”
“Nakayama. Yes, David Rosenberg made the reservation for me. He often makes such arrangements under his name, for if it leaks out that I am going to be appearing somewhere, it is impossible to keep the public away. Now please, assign our caddies and we’ll be on our way. I’ll even send you an autographed picture for your trouble.”
The young man started to fidget and would not look me in the eye. “I’m sorry, sir, but that won’t be possible.” My patience had run dry. I put both hands on the counter, leaned over, and gave my most direct stare. “Is our tee time taken? We can always wait awhile. I understand if you’re doubled-scheduled. These things happen.”
“No, it’s not that …” His voice trailed off and his eyes wandered up to the wall, where the rules of the club were posted in black wooden frames. There was a sign that said, Tee Times by Reservation Only. Another said, Bring Your Own Shoes. Then, a small sign just below and to the right of the others: No Japs or Negroes Allowed. I blinked and looked again to make sure I had read it correctly. When it was clear there was no mistake, I felt a queasiness in my stomach. Matsui and Hiroda looked just as ill as I. Turning back to the boy behind the counter, I said, “I’ve golfed here several times before, and there has never been such a policy. Where’s the manager, young man? I wish to speak with him.”
The youth squirmed, and if I hadn’t been so angry, I might have felt sorry that he’d been placed in such a difficult position. “Mr. Evans isn’t here, sir. He won’t be in today. But that policy, it’s been in effect for six months now. And it’d do no good to complain. Mr. Evans proposed it himself. The whole Board of Trustees voted to approve it.”
We stood in silence for a moment until I could trust myself not to reach out and strike the boy. “Young man,” I said finally, “do you know who I am?”
He gulped. “I do, sir. And I’m tremendously sorry.”
As awkward as that morning was, I can honestly say that such occasions were rare. Not everyone shared the policies of the Westside Country Club, and certainly in some cases—as had always been true—my celebrity helped smooth over such limitations.
This might have been what occurred when I had lunch with Gerard Normandy, the day we discussed my contract. As I’ve thought about it over the last several weeks, other details of the lunch—and in particular, of my time in the lobby beforehand—have come back into my mind. I always remembered the whispered discussions of the maître d’ and waitstaff while I stood by the fountain, the glances in my direction, my growing sense of unease. But what has come to me more recently is what happened when Normandy first arrived. For it is clear to me now that right after he greeted me, he was called over to speak to the maître d’, and that at one point Gerard raised his voice and said, “Why, that’s preposterous! This man is a motion picture star! He can eat where he damned well pleases!” And it seems just as clear—although I cannot be certain my memory is accurate—that at some point the maître d’ said in return, “I’m sorry, sir, he’s just not welcome.” Those were the only full sentences I heard, although there are snippets of Gerard’s voice I now recall, things like “Perennial gives you a great deal of business …” and “If you persist in enforcing this ridiculous rule …” Whatever he said must have been persuasive, for soon we were seated at the table by the kitchen.
Then finally there was the incident that Gerard brought up at that same luncheon, which occurred during the filming of Geronimo. We were scheduled to film a fight scene in the San Fernando Valley—I was playing the lead role—and when my driver took me out to the shooting location at 7:00 a.m., there was a group of perhaps forty onlookers gathered outside of the fence. This was not unusual—people often watched us film on location. As we made our way through this particular group, however, I saw that they were carrying signs. They did not say, Jun, I love you! or, Marry me, Jun! like the ones I was accustomed
