‘I don’t know. I missed it.’
‘I guarantee whoever it was, Clyde likely deserved it.’
Sylvia flitted into view in Fentress’s doorway, pacing nervously. Virginia clucked with sympathy. ‘The poor little flibbertigibbet.’
‘She’s bearing up better now, thanks to you. Is she really Clyde’s student?’
Virginia hooted so loudly that the police officer stationed outside what I took to be Gene’s room glowered at her. She winked at him. ‘Sure, I reckon you could put it that way. Clyde’s teaching her, all right. School’s always in session. And Clyde covers every subject in detail.’ Sylvia, rubbing her hands together, vanished from view. Virginia shook her head. ‘It takes talent to live at night. I sometimes wonder if Sylvia has it.’
She then swung her stems toward me, eyes glittering like the baubles adorning her neck. ‘Say, you work at Paramount, maybe you can tell me. What are these studio types looking for? What’s the magic trick for getting a screen test?’
The notion that Virginia would require help from anyone, much less me, in securing attention deserved one of her throaty guffaws.
As I formulated my answer, another woman approached. A rail-thin thirtyish brunette with a finishing school carriage and a strikebreaker’s eyes. Those chilly orbs categorized me as unimportant – but swept over Virginia and reserved judgment. The brunette’s trim figure suggested her exercise came in the form of horseback riding and harboring grudges. Her devastatingly simple black evening dress had been conceived and executed with a quiet dinner in the company of friends in mind. Her evening was winding down, even as Virginia’s was gearing up.
The brunette breezed into Fentress’s room as if it were one of her many closets. Virginia gave out with another whoop of laughter. ‘Lucky us. Good seats for the fireworks.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I do believe that was Mrs Fentress come to call.’
I gazed at the still-untended door. ‘Think I want a closer look.’
‘You’re a girl after my own black heart. Report back.’
A few steps had me close enough to the door to hear voices. A patrician one I took to be Mrs Fentress’s: ‘I’m confused. Are you two meant to be working? There’s no typewriter. Unless – don’t tell me you can carry an entire scenario around in that pretty little head of yours, dear.’
Then Fentress himself, sounding abashed. ‘Don’t be like that, Josie.’
And finally Sylvia, her words barely audible. ‘I’ll leave you two alone. Good night, Clyde.’
I darted back to my seat a split-second before Sylvia emerged stiffly from the room. Virginia hung a crooked smile on her face. ‘How is he? All in one piece?’
Sylvia glanced back at the open doorway. Her voice remained chastened, low. ‘I’d like to go now.’
‘Fine idea. Let’s make a party somewhere. It’s always one when Virginia Hill shows up.’ Virginia rose and hooked Sylvia’s arm in her own, while I stared at her in astonishment. She took my thunderstruck expression in stride. She’d encountered such looks before. ‘Care to join us, Lillian?’
‘I – no thank— Did you say Virginia Hill?’
‘Only my family and my enemies call me anything but. Oh, dear. Does my reputation precede me?’ She batted her eyelashes so broadly I felt a breeze. A screen test, I thought, would be a waste of everyone’s time.
‘How could it not? You’re in all the columns.’
‘Don’t believe everything you read. Myself, I only believe what Sylvia here puts to paper. Not that there’s enough of that to keep me busy.’ She cackled. Sylvia grimaced, which only made Virginia laugh harder. ‘What do you say? Shall we hunt down those stingers together?’
‘Thank you, no. I’ll stay here.’
‘Suit yourself. Come along, Sylvia. Let me minister to your needs.’ Virginia blew a kiss to a nun as she led Sylvia away. The nun sternly shook her head and continued on.
I ventured back to Fentress’s room and caught my first glimpse of the man himself since the dust-up. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking pale but not too much the worse for wear with a yellowing bruise on his face and a matching collection on his right hand. He seemed more embarrassed than in pain.
Josie Fentress spotted me first. She appeared disconcerted only because she’d already decided I didn’t merit attention, yet here I was intruding on them.
‘Who do we have here?’ Her jaw-clenching technique would give Katharine Hepburn a run for her money. ‘Another protégée?’
Fentress wearily glanced at me. ‘No. A busybody. Tell your boyfriend he can’t throw a punch.’
One of Josie’s meticulously manicured brows levitated at the comment. Perhaps I deserved consideration after all.
I forced myself to speak in the hushed quiet of the room. ‘I wanted to ask you about Nap Conlin.’
‘So did the police this afternoon. You must be the one who blabbed to them.’ Fentress pushed himself off the bed. He winced with the effort. ‘Told them I never saw Nap on Friday. He showed up on the lot uninvited, probably to promote himself a part in Streetlight Story. I had no idea he was coming. The gate guard backed me up. End of story.’
‘And if there’s one thing you know, dearest, it’s stories.’ Josie eyeballed me the way she’d consider a coat she’d chosen to donate to charity. ‘Would you excuse us? My husband is still recuperating from his foolishness.’
I left, her tone like unseen hands ushering me from the room. Quite the coterie of women had shown up to see Clyde when word of his altercation with Gene had gotten out. Sylvia, Virginia, Josie. An impressive trio.
Plus little old me, rounding out the quartet.
The police officer posted outside Gene’s room had wandered off. I seized the moment and ducked inside.
Gene lay on the bed. To my amazement, he looked worse than Fentress did. Raw scrapes on the backs of both hands, purpling around his slightly swollen nose. Clyde, I knew at once, had cheated.
Gene caught sight of me. His lips twitched but never quite made it to a smile. ‘Lord. Did I make Hedda Hopper’s column?’
‘No. A friend told me. What happened?’
‘A free and friendly exchange of ideas.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
‘Nah. A cop and ex-con swapping blows – and a cheap headbutt on Fentress’s part? Just another Monday night. Anyway, I wasn’t there as a cop. More as Fentress’s subject. His muse.’
‘But he could make problems for you.’
He shrugged and shifted his gaze to the window. ‘If he does, he does.’
I’d never seen him like this before. Cold. Fatalistic. Impassively anticipating his impending ruin.
‘I almost called you about Fentress this afternoon.’ I told him about the screenwriter’s connection to the late Nap Conlin.
My story only warranted an uninterested grunt. ‘Hadn’t heard any of that. I just wanted a word about that script of his.’
‘What did you want to say about it?’
‘Whatever it was, I said it. It’s up to him to listen.’
He clearly intended that statement to be the finale of the conversation. I didn’t receive the memo. ‘Just tell me it wasn’t you who threw the first punch.’
Gene snagged his fedora off the table by the bed. ‘I’m afraid it was. Unless you count the screenplay as a punch, like I do. And I count that headbutt as two. If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab some rest before they make me go over it again.’ He dropped the hat over his face, hiding his eyes from me and the world.
Once again I found myself scurrying by nuns on my way to the exit. I needed the night air and some clarity, a fevered part of my brain already convinced I’d never find the latter. I couldn’t make sense of Gene’s distance toward me, or his actions toward Fentress. Why publicly confront him about his script unless there was an element of truth to it? And if there was, did that mean Gene had feelings for Abigail he’d kept buried all this time?
One of the sisters I rushed past wished me a go
od night, and I almost burst into tears.
San Bernardino Lamplighter March 28, 1939
KATHERINE DAMBACH’S
SLIVERS OF THE SILVER SCREEN
The strikes weren’t only on the alleys last night at the Highline Bowling Court when a party from Paramount was interrupted by a man looking to settle a score of his own. Scribe Clyde Fentress, a product of San Quentin, found himself confronted by Detective Gene Morrow of the Los Angeles Police Department. Heated words soon turned to fisticuffs. Morrow’s fellow boys in blue ultimately broke up the brawl and ferried the fighters to St Luke’s where the good sisters stitched up the scrappers. What caused the beef? We hear Fentress’s latest filmic foray isn’t as fictional as some would like. Remember that California Republic Bank heist that garnered the detective headlines he’d rather forget? Seems Fentress’s scenario for Para’s soon-to-shoot Streetlight Story details the unsolved crime, painting Morrow as the villain. Doth the detective protest too much? … Lodestar ingénue Frances Lander turned heads at the Troc Saturday night wearing her current husband on one arm and her former spouse on the other. Those Hollywood gals, so democratic!
NINE
‘You met the Virginia Hill last night?’ Addison asked. ‘The Alabama oil heiress who’s always in the papers?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s sort of a funny story.’
‘Then let’s hear it!’ Addison leaned back from his mid-morning snack of sugar atop half a grapefruit, ready to be regaled. Which posed a problem.
I’d arrived at work fearful the morning’s gossip columns would prominently feature the previous evening’s brawl. But the story hadn’t gotten much play, likely because only a writer had been involved. When mentioned, it was in oblique blind item style; Lorna Whitcomb discreetly asked whether ‘Paramount’s touted new production is hitting too close to home for some.’ Alone among her tribe, my old friend Kay had spelled out specifics. If she’d set out to get my goat, she could consider my goat got. I’d hidden her column so Addison wouldn’t see it.
Then my employer genially inquired how I’d spent my evening, and without thinking I let slip about Virginia. Now Addison sat opposite me, hands folded across his considerable belly, awaiting my spellbinding yarn.
‘It was at a bowling alley,’ I said. Addison blinked several times before understanding the tale was told and the lights were coming up.
‘Ah,’ he said, then repeated the sound with a nod. ‘What kind of person is she? One can’t help wondering from reading about her. Out every night swaddled in diamonds and furs, spending a thousand dollars at a clip. They say she dated Errol Flynn when she first came to town and they quarreled at the Brown Derby. She threw a drink at him in front of everyone.’
‘I heard it was a raw egg.’
‘Journalistic standards have certainly fallen. Shall I invite her to something so I might meet her myself? Do you think she would come?’
‘Wild horses couldn’t keep her away. She’d probably bring some of her own. Just have plenty of stingers on hand and do whatever you can to help her land a screen test.’
‘Right. And a stinger is—’
‘French brandy and crème de menthe. I looked it up this morning and took the liberty of ordering some of the latter.’
‘Splendid. Now, on the subject of screen tests …’ Chortling, he rubbed his palms together so vigorously I feared he’d start a fire. ‘I haven’t been able to sleep with the prospect of my motion picture debut. I’ve been thinking I should prepare for my performance.’
‘But you won’t have a line,’ I said. ‘I thought I made that clear.’
‘Oh, you did, but nonetheless I want to be ready. How does one convey emotion on screen? I’m unschooled in the art of acting. Aye, there’s the rub. A theatrical expression, you know.’ He nodded emphatically, momentous decision made. ‘I should practice. Perhaps we could rehearse some lines from the Streetlight Story script.’
‘Oh, I don’t think—’
‘I confess I found it on your desk and paged through it. This Jim character has a lot to do. Including some scenes with Arlene, a part you can read.’
No. My brain ceased functioning, its TILT sign lighting up. Addison paid me well, but nowhere near enough for him to play my boyfriend while I voiced the lines of the woman for whom he supposedly still carried a torch.
‘I’m no actor, either,’ I said reasonably. ‘I’ve told you about my screen test. It was so bad the projectionist walked out of the booth and directly into a monastery. You don’t want to rehearse with me. You want a teacher. A private coach. Shall I make some calls?’
I had no sooner uttered the words when my office telephone rang, the universe possessing a farceur’s sense of timing. I left Addison to his grapefruit and soon heard Edith’s voice.
‘I thought you should know, dear, there’s a detective on the lot interviewing Mr Fentress.’
My heart sank. Of course the police would treat last night’s melee like a third Louis/Schmeling bout. ‘Do you know why he’s there?’
‘To speak to Mr Fentress about a Mr Conlin. It seems you provided information that Mr Conlin visited the studio shortly before he was murdered. The detective’s under the impression you work here, and I thought—’
‘I’ll be right over.’
I hustled back to Addison, who gave me his blessings to depart. ‘I quite like your suggestion of an acting teacher,’ he said, tipping more sugar onto his grapefruit rind. ‘But I’ll make all the arrangements myself. I have some people in mind.’
I was about to enter the Costume Department building when a voice hollered my name. Jerry the messenger skidded to a halt alongside me.
‘Oh, it’s you. How’d your big weekend date go?’
‘Swell, swell.’ He fussed with his flyaway hair, obviously fibbing. ‘We’re planning a June wedding. How was your weekend?’
‘Spent in solemn reflection. You stopped me to ask about my weekend? Wait, how do you even know my name?’
Jerry hemmed, hawed, and continued rearranging his hair. The mystery was solved a moment later when Barney Groff appeared, his obsidian gaze already locked onto my eyes. ‘Miss Frost, a word?’ At that request, Jerry vanished from sight.
Groff was Paramount Pictures’ head of security and all-around man in a pinch. When problems arose, be they physical, financial, or legal, Groff dealt with them, often with nothing more than his telephone. I suspected he’d been on the horn the night before, finessing the Fentress fiasco. As he brushed non-existent specks from his trim black suit, I realized he’d dispatched Jerry to waylay me, because raising his voice or accelerating slightly in my direction wouldn’t befit a man of his stature.
‘I understand,’ he began slowly, ‘once again I have you to thank for unwanted attention. It’s not enough your hot-headed detective friend is the reason there are all these items in the newspapers today.’ He raised his hand, forgetting he wasn’t actually holding said newspapers. It didn’t matter; I saw them anyway. ‘Now the police are grilling one of my writers about a murder. Why are you here, Miss Frost?’
I swallowed my pride around the considerable lump in my throat. ‘To apologize to Edith, and to you,’ I said.
Groff never showed surprise, either. That would mean admitting he hadn’t known something. Instead, he stepped back and smoothed his permanently slick hair. ‘See that it doesn’t happen again,’ he said, and strode away.
Jerry circled back. ‘So what are you doing next weekend?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I answered soberly.
Edith’s office usually coursed with focused energy, creativity harnessed to some particular project. But on this day it sputtered and popped everywhere, the atmosphere chaotic.
She greeted me in the outer office almost apologetic. ‘Max is here,’ she said softly. ‘And in high spirits.’
She wasn’t kidding. Max, in another new suit freshly shipped from 1923, radiated enthusiasm. He marched around Edith’s desk like a general who’d received a dispatch
that the enemy’s lines had been broken; his joy might be contained at the moment, but he’d be ordering the champagne and dancing girls soon enough. He didn’t remember my name, and he didn’t care. ‘I told you they’d come around, Edith,’ he said, picking up their conversation where it had left off. ‘They’re finally treating the picture with the respect it deserves. I’ve been banging my head against a brick wall and it turns out all I needed was some gossip in the newspapers!’
Oh really? ‘What’s the good news?’ I asked.
‘Just the fact that overnight Streetlight Story has become the hottest ticket on the lot!’ With deceptive grace, Max scooted over to Edith and planted a kiss on each of her cheeks. Edith replied with one of her toothless smiles and waved him away. ‘Barney Groff himself offered a mea culpa this morning! He said all the mentions the picture rated because of the true story angle completely turned him around! Carte blanche, anything I want!’
Typical Groff, I thought, haranguing me out of spite while capitalizing on the publicity I’d unintentionally generated. I wondered if I was entitled to a share of the profits.
Max bubbled on, his ardor undimmed. ‘The real proof Paramount sees the picture’s potential is they’ve relented on my casting choice. We’ll have to monkey with the production schedule to accommodate him, but he’ll be marvelous as Jim! We’re no B picture any more!’ He embraced Edith and began pirouetting her around the office, Edith smiling at him even as she squirmed in his grasp.
I wanted to interrupt and ask who this chosen thespian was, but I didn’t need to. Edith’s secretary knocked on the door, took in the scene without comment, then ushered Fred MacMurray inside. The handsome face that had gazed out at me from many a romantic comedy – and a card in Addison’s Transogram Movie Millions game – wore a mask of concern.
Edith greeted him warmly and introduced me. I stared at the actor and tried to envision him as Gene. After what seemed like several hours, Edith nudged me and I eked out a hello.
‘It’s a great day, Fred.’ Max pumped his hand. ‘For both of us. Turning point in your career, you know. And mine.’
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