MacMurray did not look like he agreed. ‘I’m not sure about this “casting against type” business,’ he said. ‘Period dress is one thing. I don’t mind telling you I felt silly in those clothes from Maid of Salem.’
‘You wore them well,’ Edith interjected.
‘But the character I’ll be playing in your picture …’ MacMurray shook his head. ‘He’s a heel.’
‘Which is the point!’ Max bellowed. ‘The role needs your charm. You’ll make the audience fall in love with you.’
‘And they’ll hate me by the end of it. Honestly, look at this character. He quits the police force, robs banks, tries to kill his best pal and take his woman …’ MacMurray shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m just a saxophone player.’
‘Then you’re a rogue with a song in his heart! You have my word, Fred, this is going to open up whole new roles for you.’
‘Or shut me completely out of the old ones.’ MacMurray sank into a chair, genuinely conflicted.
Max perched on a footstool opposite him. I feared it would collapse under his weight. ‘You talked to Luddy this morning, didn’t you?’
MacMurray nodded. ‘He told me I was going to play a tumor, and the city would cut me to pieces. That can’t be right, can it? Maybe it was his accent.’
‘You can’t pay attention to what he actually says. That’s his intellectual side. German, you know. But we need that! We’re going for the highbrow as well as the hoi polloi with Streetlight. That’s why you’ve got to do it.’ Max slapped his putative star on the knee. ‘You saw the press the picture got today. Barney Groff was singing its praises just this morning! Tell you what. You and I will talk to Luddy again. Let me handle the translations.’ He chuckled. ‘By the time he’s done, he’ll have won you over and you’ll be champing at the bit. Streetlight Story needs you, Fred. And you need it. You’ve got to keep audiences guessing. You can’t laff it up with Carole Lombard forever.’ He somehow said ‘laff’ so I could hear both Fs in it.
MacMurray remained unconvinced. ‘What do you say, Miss Frost? Should I play this louse of a guy?’
I looked into his fetching features and imagined him next to me at the fights. At the movie theater. On Gene’s lumpy sofa, which slanted so much to one side I always tumbled into him.
Edith leaned forward, her eyes pleading. ‘Lillian.’
Jolted from my musings, I uttered the first thought that came to mind. ‘The Transogram Movie Millions game says you’re a romance star.’
Max rolled his eyes as MacMurray turned to him. ‘There you have it,’ the actor said. ‘This sax player’s not going to argue with that.’
TEN
Edith’s farewells to Max Ramsey and Fred MacMurray spilled into her outer office, where a man waited through them with a hugely amused smile. Fortunately, he had the jutting jaw to support it, along with the craggy features of a stone gargoyle. More remarkable than his face was his tweed suit, a rarity in Southern California, the fabric a warm, full-bodied gray. His hat, held behind his back, bobbed with a tick-tock regularity as he studied the illustrations on the walls. Whoever he was, he projected the mechanical entitlement of one accustomed to receiving undivided attention. He could afford to be patient.
As Max and MacMurray left, the man waved Edith’s secretary off. Tall as well as thickset, he loomed over Edith. I longed to fetch her a slant board so she could look at him without risking her neck.
‘You must be Miss Head. Byron Frady, Los Angeles Police Department.’ He showed her his badge like a jeweler presenting a necklace he knew the customer couldn’t afford. ‘I’m told I might find a Miss Frost here.’
Meekly, I raised a hand.
Edith led the way back to her office. ‘May I say, Detective, that’s a handsome suit. Authentic Scottish tweed, if I’m not mistaken?’
‘That it is. Quite the eye you have. But then I suppose that eye earned you this grand office.’
‘Tweed’s more affordable now, isn’t it, with the tariffs coming down last year?’
‘At least we can credit President Roosevelt with doing one thing right.’ Frady chuckled at his own comment. ‘It’s still quite dear, but a suit like this lasts forever, so you save money in the long run.’
‘A wise decision. How can I help you?’
As Frady took a seat, I saw his flamboyance didn’t end with his suit; his crossed legs revealed fine lisle socks of meadow green with contrasting clocks. The detective was a man whose vanity went from the ground up.
‘I was visiting with Clyde Fentress. I felt the personal touch was required.’ Frady swung his green socks toward me. ‘I’d like you to tell me about your encounter with Aloysius Conlin, known to friend and foe alike as Nap.’
I did, Frady frequently interrupting with questions.
‘You’ve told me more than Fentress did. A man of his background isn’t exactly inclined to assist the authorities.’ Frady had yet to stop smiling, apparently delighting in all things. ‘He did say, Miss Frost, you misrepresented yourself to him. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’ Catholic school had conditioned me never to lie, while from both Gene and Simon I’d learned to say as little as possible when being questioned.
‘You shouldn’t have done that, young lady.’ Frady wagged a finger at me. I felt myself flush with shame even as I yearned to bite the admonishing digit down to the knuckle. ‘But then you had your reasons. You wanted to learn about Fentress’s script and its relation to Detective Gene Morrow.’
‘Do you know Gene?’
‘Not as well as you do. He and Fentress came to blows yesterday, I believe.’
Edith frowned. ‘I hadn’t heard that.’
‘Don’t concern yourself. All a misunderstanding,’ Frady said. ‘Clyde informed me he wouldn’t be pressing charges.’
Relief surged through me. Frady’s smile finally dimmed. ‘I also knew Nap Conlin, as it happens. I used him much the way Fentress did, as a source of information. He’d turn up for a chinwag with bits of news to barter.’
‘Fascinating,’ Edith said. ‘Would he offer the same material to you and Mr Fentress?’
‘Unlikely, ma’am. Aloysius, God rest him, took this acting business seriously, even though he was only an extra. He was good in that boxing picture, mind. Aside from what he overheard at the hotel where he worked, which wasn’t much, he’d completely lost touch with the criminal element. It got so most of what he tried to foist on me was gossip column stuff, better suited to Lorna Whitcomb. An actor smoking marihuana cigarettes on location. Rumors of an auto accident covered up by a studio. Not this one, I’m pleased to report.’ He patted Edith’s leg, and she flashed a tense smile. ‘Even tried to convince me gangsters were muscling in on bit players like him. Beating some of them up, demanding money in exchange for jobs. Not a scrap of proof, of course. Should’ve told him to sell that one to Clyde. Sounds like one of your pictures.’ He laughed again, one of those men who thought himself blessed with an easy charm simply because it spread like leaking oil.
‘It sounds as though you knew him quite well,’ Edith said. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘I don’t mind telling you, it was sad seeing him in his shabby room down the hall from the hotel’s front desk. Lying on the floor, buttons all around him. Tea gone ice cold. He’d laid out two cups, so his killer was likely known to him.’
‘Forgive me,’ Edith interjected. ‘Did you say buttons?’
‘Yes, ma’am. From Aloysius’s shirt. We found several on the floor. Not to be indelicate, but he’d been finished off with a heavy object, sort of a bookend, from a table in the hall outside his room. Alas, the Hotel Maitland is the kind of establishment where witnesses are in no hurry to come forward. May you ladies never find yourselves there.’ Another knowing chuckle.
‘If I may ask, what sort of buttons?’
‘Shirt buttons. Not quite mother-of-pearl, but close.’ Flummoxed, Frady peered at Edith. ‘Why the interest?’
She shrugged girlishly. ‘Occupational
hazard.’
‘Ah. My interest in poor Nap’s death is an occupational hazard as well. I owe it to him to pursue every lead. It’s why your report about his visiting the studio sparked my curiosity, Miss Frost.’
‘Do you think it will be helpful?’ I asked.
‘Can’t rightly say. The Maitland’s a true den of iniquity, so smart money’s there. Still, in Nap’s memory, I shall leave no stone unturned.’ He slapped the tweed on his legs. ‘I’ve taken enough of your time. I’m sure there’s sewing to be done, Miss Head. And give my regards to your Detective Morrow.’
A glorious silence descended on Edith’s office. We took a moment to revel in it, letting the fog of Frady’s condescension dissipate.
‘Buttons?’ I asked.
‘Force of habit,’ Edith said.
‘I’m definitely persona non grata to Fentress. How can I find out about the script now?’
Edith canted her head so the sunlight reflected off her glasses, concealing her eyes. I’d long suspected she’d marked precise locations on her carpet so she could find such a spot no matter the time of day. ‘His writing partner, Mr Dolan, must be familiar with his working methods.’
‘Do you think he’d talk to me?’
‘Possibly, provided Mr Fentress hasn’t yet warned him about your penchant for deception. You really shouldn’t have done that, young lady.’ She almost smiled. ‘Shall we try him? It might be better if I accompanied you.’
The long hike to Dolan’s office commenced with good news. ‘Please let Mr Rice know he’s invited to appear in Streetlight Story. In the nightclub scene, at Max’s request.’
‘You mean yours.’
‘I knew Max would agree if I asked.’ Edith stated this with such certainty I wondered how deep their connection ran.
‘I can’t thank you enough. And Max! There must be something I can do for him.’
‘You could have reassured Mr MacMurray with more zeal.’
‘I know. But they can’t use someone I like to play Gene. Not this script’s Gene, anyway.’ I sighed. ‘What do you make of the idea?’
‘Assuming Mr MacMurray brings his usual charisma to bear, it’s enormously effective casting.’
‘I just want an actor with a hunchback and a harelip in the part. Doesn’t Paramount have anyone like that under contract?’
‘I’ll make inquiries.’
‘How’s Bill these days?’ I hadn’t seen Edith’s friend and colleague Bill Ihnen, an in-demand production designer, for several weeks.
‘Busy. We had coffee in the commissary recently and he asked after you.’ Edith nodded at two passing actresses. They clutched hands excitedly at this recognition. ‘I was thinking about your friend Mr Fischer. Have you heard from him?’
Edith was one of the select few who also knew about Simon’s covert work spying on Nazi sympathizers. She admired him for his efforts, but I couldn’t shake the feeling she neither liked nor trusted him. At least she’d referred to him as ‘Mr Fischer’ instead of informally, as she once did. He had risen, however grudgingly, in her estimation.
‘No,’ I lied, for reasons I didn’t fully understand. ‘Not in ages.’
Edith nodded somberly. ‘Perhaps that’s for the best.’
The typing emanating from behind George Dolan’s door had a steady, soothing rhythm. Here inspiration punched a clock. We were loath to intrude.
Dolan was the rare man who seemed to be balding amiably. The retreat of his sandy hair de-emphasized what would otherwise have been a prominent forehead, on which was perched a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He’d ditched his jacket to work in his shirtsleeves, which suited his disposition. His front pocket sagged under the notebook he’d tucked inside, a greasy fingerprint on its cover.
He raised a hand midway through Edith’s introduction. ‘I know who you are, Miss Head. I never join a team without knowing the major players. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ His face betrayed no sign of recognition when Edith said my name. Fentress hadn’t yet poisoned the well.
‘In or out, ladies?’ Dolan sparked a cigarette. ‘Happy to have you in the office, but the studio keeps us galley slaves in tight quarters.’
Fentress’s adjacent office was again as quiet as a crypt. ‘Inside would be good,’ I said.
I yielded the office’s other chair to Edith and stood by the door so I could hear Fentress should he return. ‘We wanted to learn about Streetlight Story,’ Edith said as she settled herself. ‘Given all the attention it’s getting.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ Dolan gestured at his typewriter. ‘Too busy whipping the next one into shape.’
‘Mr Fentress mentioned the picture’s based on a true story,’ I said.
‘It is, somewhat. But you can’t take Clyde too seriously. Unless you found him in your house. That used to be his specialty. You heard about that, I suppose. Seems everybody on the lot except me knew he’d been in prison when the studio threw us together. For some reason, we clicked as a team. I rewrote Clyde’s story pretty heavily, so much so I’m amazed he’s still talking to me. No way was that yarn of his running the gauntlet of the Hays Office.’
‘What was wrong with it?’ I asked.
‘In a word? Everything. In his version, the bad guy was still a cop, setting up bank robberies. That’s a Production Code no-no right there. Then he kills his partner, and the partner stays dead. And only the Gillette people would have gone for the ending. It’d make you want to slit your wrists, so it would have sold plenty of razor blades.’
He chuckled. I slumped against the door, feeling faint.
‘Clyde’s version was too depressing. The studio loved the betrayal angle, which has been kicking around since Cain v Abel. My job was to provide a little pep, some uplift for the ride home. I gave our heavy a nightclub, wrote in a few jokes, added that ridiculous twist so man and wife could live happily ever after. Clyde grumbled but the studio signed off, which means my own wife and I can live happily ever after, too.’ Dolan shook his head in grim admiration. ‘Clyde’s original version would have been something to see, though. They’d maybe make it in France. I’d pay two bits to watch it.’
‘If only we could have read it,’ Edith said.
‘Would you like to?’ Dolan opened a drawer in his desk. He nodded, and his glasses fell into position on the bridge of his nose. His fingers moved dexterously over neatly organized files. ‘I should still have a copy of his story. Again, I don’t necessarily buy his version of what happened back in ’36, even though he swears he’s got the inside dope. You hear the police talked to him this morning? Only topic of conversation in the commissary. He took a powder before I could ask him about it. Apparently he got in some kind of fight last night?’
‘Do you know where Clyde got his information?’ I asked, struggling to scrape the anxiety from my voice.
‘He’s very mysterious about it. Which has me convinced he’s making it all up like the rest of us are. Always nipping off to meet cronies from the old days, comes back cackling and full of ideas. I’m never invited, and wouldn’t go anyway. I’ve got work to do. Here we are.’ He extracted a slim folder and handed it to Edith, who in turn gave it to me. ‘Again, don’t assume that’s according to Hoyle. I certainly didn’t. I did my own research.’
‘Oh? What kind?’
‘I didn’t come here until ’37, so I talked to a reporter who had the skinny on the actual robbery. Which I proceeded to ignore, because again, the picture business is all about make-believe. I just wanted to know the facts before I started. When in doubt, ask one of us hacks.’
‘Is that your background?’ Edith inquired.
Dolan nudged his glasses back up. ‘Yes, indeed. From Philadelphia P-A. Started in sports, which they say is the only real writing in newspapers because all you need to know is who had the most points or knocked the other fella down. Moved into politics and cut my teeth covering William Vare. Wrote a play about him that didn’t steal from The Front Page too much. When it cau
ght Paramount’s attention I came running, because I like money and the missus likes gardening year-round.’
‘I daresay that makes you a marked contrast to Mr Fentress,’ Edith said.
‘Part of me can’t help winding Clyde up and listening to him tee off on the picture business. “They don’t want the truth! Everything’s got to have a song in it!” He calls me The Bartender. Always watering down the whiskey. But like I say, I’ve developed a fondness for financial security.’
‘Clyde seems to be doing all right for himself,’ I said. ‘I’ve met his wife.’
‘Josie? Then you’ve met the source of Clyde’s income. The fair Josephine was hatched from the Hatcher family. One of the genuine California clans. They were building palaces out here when the place was all Mex. What Clyde and I earn combined is mere tip money to Josie.’
‘One of the Hatchers married to a former convict?’ Edith raised an eyebrow. ‘However did they meet?’
‘At a Hatcher family soirée for prison reform. Clyde was guest of honor, a jailbird who’d taken flight thanks to the power of the written word.’ Dolan rolled his eyes. ‘He’s got a whole party piece he’ll do on the subject if you pay him and serve dinner. Anyway, he meets Josie, the black sheep of the Hatchers, and they hit it off. Clyde starts in with his hardboiled tales of San Quentin and realizes Josie’s old man steals more money every morning before breakfast than Clyde did his whole career. And Cupid’s arrow doth hit its mark. Josie married him partly to prove her political bona fides and mainly to irk her family. They make a fun couple. Good dancers, surprisingly.’
I opted to press my luck and question him on one other subject. ‘Marriage seems to have done wonders for him. Sylvia Ward told me he’s taught her a lot.’
‘You’ve met Sylvia, too? Yeah, she’s often flitting around while we’re trying to get our stories straight.’
‘She’s also trying to make a go of writing for the pictures?’
‘Why else would you spend time with Clyde? At least I get paid to do it.’ Dolan grinned. ‘She’s a talented kid. Gave me some pages she hammered out on the sly at work, answering phones over at Central Casting. Have to say they were damn good.’ He flipped his eyeglasses back down and returned his attention to the drawer. ‘Thought I had them here. Anyway, she could easily make something of herself in this business. Provided she takes after me and not Clyde. The rate he’s going, he’ll drive himself to drink. Even more, I mean. Good thing he’s got a wife to cover his bar tabs.’
Script for Scandal Page 8