The story begins 2,800 miles to the east, give or take, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. There, a man named R.D. Rosen received a phone call in the spring of 2007 from an agent, a woman who said she represented an ape.
The subject was Cheeta, a chimpanzee snatched from the wilds of Liberia by a moderately successful animal trainer named Tony Gentry.
Cheeta had appeared in dozens of films -- opposite Rex Harrison in "Doctor Doolittle," opposite Ronald Reagan in "Bedtime for Bonzo" and, in the role that made a legend of a star, opposite the great Johnny Weissmuller in a dozen Tarzan films.
Cheeta lived the good life, so good it had earned him a spot in the record books: the oldest known non-human primate in the world. He had learned to drink cold beer on hot days and brandy on cold nights, to play the piano and twirl spaghetti with a fork. Whether all of that was pitiful or riveting, it would make for a spectacular book.
If only it were true.
Cheeta is supposed to be dead.
For most of his life, he lived on a compound of sorts near Thousand Oaks.
There, as they got on in years, he and Gentry, his purported captor, became like father and son, so close that Cheeta was said to have pulled Gentry's wheelchair around the yard after Gentry became too debilitated to wheel it himself.
Gentry was convinced that no one could ever care for the old boy as he had. So the trainer stipulated in his will that Cheeta be euthanized upon Gentry's death. A soft-spoken animal lover and trainer named Dan Westfall, a relative of Gentry, pleaded with him to spare Cheeta's life. Gentry relented and in April 1991, not long before his death, Cheeta retired to the desert to live at a sanctuary Westfall had opened for show-business primates whose careers had run their course.
In the business, this is seen as saintly work. Performing chimpanzees often outlive their careers by 40 years; most go on to sad and isolated lives, not quite socialized with either man or primate. Westfall, like many others in today's Hollywood, believes it is unacceptable to wrest chimpanzees out of the wild.
In 2001, Cheeta landed in the Guinness World Records, and today he is -- according to his handlers, anyway -- an astonishing 76 years old. His fans are legion. Tour buses drive by. Admirers buy his paintings for $135 a pop. There is even a push to get him a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame; one backer has designed a "Chimpmobile" that would ferry Cheeta to the ceremony once a star is awarded.
Cheeta's "birthday" has been celebrated, not on the anniversary of his birth, but on April 9, the anniversary of the day he supposedly landed in the United States. Rosen figured that point -- the dramatic account of Cheeta's arrival, with Gentry, according to legend, hiding him under a jacket on the Pan Am flight -- was a logical place to begin his research.
It didn't take long for the first discrepancy to surface. It turned out, Rosen said, that the sort of flight Gentry had described wasn't available commercially until 1939 -- seven years after Gentry supposedly smuggled Cheeta into the U.S.
At first, Rosen tossed it off as an innocent mistake. He pressed ahead, flying to California to visit Cheeta at the sanctuary.
Back home, though, Rosen began watching Cheeta's films. Both "Bedtime for Bonzo" and "Doctor Doolittle" featured chimps that were very young; Cheeta would have been 19 and 35, respectively, at the time. Rosen thought: Could this be?
In his apartment, he began watching all of the Tarzan films again, remote control in hand, pausing each time a chimp could be seen in profile. "Then I'd walk over from the bed with a glossy photograph of Cheeta," he said, "and compare the ears." It was not, he determined, the same chimp.
In November 2007, Rosen tracked down veteran animal trainers who said they knew Cheeta well. The chimp, they told him, had been a performer at Pacific Ocean Park, the old Santa Monica attraction -- and had never been in films, Rosen said.