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We had arrived together in Lee’s Chrysler station wagon. He was staggering drunk. I begged him to let me drive. “Fuck you.” He drew back a fist. He had a whole repertoire of violent gestures, many of them cribbed from his hero, Toshiro Mifune. I tried to grab the keys, but he slashed me with his imaginary samurai sword. These were movie blows. The stopped an inch short of your neck or chin. I snatched the keys and got into the driver’s seat, the women in the back. “Get in, Lee.” Another battle of wills. How could he meekly submit, this warrior, this conqueror? We pleaded with him. He stalked and staggered round the car, raining blows on it. Finally he found a way of saving face. He climbed up and crouched on the roof rack. Despite our entreaties, he would not come down. I decided to drive slowly down the pier, hoping that the cool ocean air might sober him up. I stopped as we got to the public road. I got out. He snarled at me, would not get down. I was at my wits’ end. The streets were deserted. I drove slowly down the Pacific Coast Highway towards Malibu. Flashing lights in my rear- view mirror — sirens. I pulled over. The patrolman approached the car, warily loosening his revolver holster. He looked up, then at me. “Do you know you have Lee Marvin on your roof?
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