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The network very cleverly announced we were “together” for the first time since the old days. We weren’t really together, of course, but it made for a nice, albeit contrived, reunion story. At the annual press tour, where we both promoted our shows, we traded fun, light banter in front of reporters. When someone asked if we’d remained friendly, Mary said she had “true affection and respect for me,” but cracked, “[Dick] never really liked me.”

Even I laughed at that one.

As for our series, both of us could’ve used a little more laughter. Mary’s show fared better than mine, which was, to put it kindly, a total disaster. The audience didn’t buy the premise, which featured me as a retired song-and-dance man who helps his son try to make a go of a fledgling theater in small-town Pennsylvania. Nor did I really buy the premise. And frankly, I don’t think the show’s writers bought it, either.

Coming off that experience, it was easy for me to say no to Warren Beatty. I said it quite clearly, in fact.

“No.”

But Warren has a hearing problem. Like many successful visionaries he hears only what he wants to hear. So when I told him that I had read the part he had in mind for me in his script for Dick Tracy, which he had sent over, and did not think I could do anything with it, he said, “Oh Jesus, you’re leaving me up in the air.”

Mind you, I had never committed. I had yet to even talk to him since he’d messengered the script to the house.

“But—”

“You can’t do this to me,” he said.

Later I realized that he had already cast the part in his head. It was a fait accompli. He had already cast his girlfriend at the time, Madonna, and pals such as Al Pacino and Dustin Hoffman. I was on his list, too, and what I eventually realized was that whether or not I liked it or even agreed, I was going to be in the movie.

Indeed, the most remarkable thing was that though I had no intention of saying yes, I ended up in the movie anyway, playing the district attorney, D.A. Fletcher.

I spent only three days working on the film, and it was still a strange experience. I had one scene where we were shooting in a small hotel room and I had to fall between a little nightstand and an iron cot. We did six takes and on the last one I hit my shoulder on the iron and it tore my clavicle loose. I took my coat off and the bone was sticking straight up. A doctor was called in and taped me up so I could continue work.

I could have complained about the lack of a stunt coordinator, but I chose not to. The next scene was in the courtroom opposite my nemesis, Big Boy Caprice, who was played by Al Pacino. For the two days we worked together, he never spoke to me. At best, I got a nasty look. After a while, I got it. Al was a Method actor and always in his role. He was not supposed to like me, so he kept his distance. But the moment Warren said, Cut, he stuck out his hand and said, “Dick, how are you? How have you been?”

The whole experience baffled me. I never understood what I was doing there until finally, before leaving the set, I asked Warren why he wanted me.

“We needed somebody above reproach,” he said. “We needed someone who was a good guy because of the twist at the end when he turns bad. I wanted someone nobody would ever suspect.”

“And I’m the guy,” I said.

“You’re the guy.” He nodded. “You’re the goody two-shoes.”

Hey, I guess it worked. The movie won three Academy Awards, Al Pacino received a Best Supporting Actor nomination, and the picture itself was a box-office smash. Michelle, who had known Warren for years, had the proper take. She advised me not to think too much about it, adding, “He and Madonna were fun to look at—and the movie was pretty good, too.”

Perspective was one thing you hoped to acquire with age, and I suppose I was getting my share.

For my sixty-fifth birthday, Michelle threw me a party at home. She put a big tent up in the backyard and took care of the guest list without letting me in on who was coming. On the big day, I walked in and saw a mob of people, seemingly everybody I ever knew or had met, from