The Silver Screen

by The Silver Screen (retail) (epub)

  Jack’s handsome face revealed little and sensing her glance, he turned to look directly at her unperturbed, when suddenly he winked.

  Kate blushed, her face throbbing as she watched amusement in his eyes. If everyone hadn’t been watching Kate, who was overwhelmed with anger, she would have stuck her tongue out at Jack. The man was insufferable. Kate decided then and there she would do what she had come to do. The hell with them, especially Jack.

  CHAPTER XII

  Hawk hadn’t picked a lock since he was a kid, but it came back to him with amazing ease. Now he was anxious to find Kate, but realized there were things he needed to sustain him in 1939. Despite Mabel Carson’s help, it was time to move on. He needed the right clothes, a haircut, and the correct money—a way to fit in fast. He couldn’t have suspicious locals hindering his search for Kate, not to mention The Array.

  Hawk had managed to sneak into the Regent Beverly Wilshire that morning. Having arrived on the floor of luxury suites, he jiggled the lock of a wealthy guest’s room. Thank God, they hadn’t invented those stupid paper computerized keys. No surveillance cameras either. Another good deal! Suddenly, there was a click, the door opened and he was in.

  Quickly, he closed the door and took in the huge suite decorated in art deco design. The faint smell of cigarette smoke lingered as he hurriedly looked in the direction of the bedroom and headed for the closet. He threw open the doors and surveyed the spoils. Whoever this guy was, he was a dude who dressed well. The question was, did it fit? He grabbed a dark jacket off the hanger and slipped into the finely tailored jacket. Not bad. A bit big, but okay. The pants he realized were another matter. Very baggy, but a belt fixed that. He figured two suits, a few ties and he needed a hat. His eyes moved to the shelf above the hangers. He grabbed a hat and checked in a mirror to set it at an angle on his head. “Bogart, eat your heart out,” he muttered. He could get used to this Casa Blanca style. It had class. But the pony-tailed hair didn’t fit. Three days of bear stubble was not getting it either.

  The next thing Hawk needed was current money. He looked around the suite for loose change, anything. He rummaged through drawers and pockets. Finally, he discovered a roll of bills tucked in the back of a drawer. He extracted about $200. He figured that should hold him. He was packing clothes in his backpack and grabbed a small carrying case to add a few more things, when he suddenly heard the sound of approaching voices. “Oh, shit,” he said. He jammed everything else into the carrying case and frantically hunted for a place to hide as the voices increased in volume. Unexpectedly, the voices stopped. He stood for a second straining to listen. Then there was a knock on the door. He heard the words, “Housekeeping,” in a Spanish accent. He rolled his eyes, quickly stepped into the closet and closed it silently as a plump Mexican maid brought a stack of fresh towels. She was gone in two minutes.

  He adroitly crept out of the closet and walked swiftly to the door. He paused, listening for a moment. Hearing nothing, he opened the door and headed straight for the stairwell. He was going to check in sometime and needed to come in through the front door.

  The décor of the main lobby was overwhelming for Hawk. Thank goodness, he had on his sunglasses. It looked like Ali Baba and the forty thieves: antiques, Persian rugs, gilt everywhere. No sleek, modern marble here. Hawk went straight to the front desk. After all, he was on a mission.

  The front desk clerk looked at Hawk with an expression of thinly veiled doubt, “How can we help you, sir?” he said, somewhat haughtily.

  Even Hawk felt the slight. Stupid snob, he thought. “Yeah, I need a room and I’m looking for Jack Baldwin.”

  The minute he mentioned Jack’s name, the clerk’s expression changed entirely to one of recognition and acceptance. Amazing, Hawk reflected. Name-dropping. The bullshit still lives on.

  “We have a room and yes, Mr. Baldwin just arrived about three days ago.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “No. He left with Fred Raymond I believe earlier today.” The clerk busied himself with the appropriate paperwork . . . no computers here.

  Hawk nodded, a grin of pleasure wafting over his bearded face. “Oh, I need a shave and a haircut.”

  “Yes, sir. If you will sign here, I will have your . . . you do have luggage?”

  Hawk nodded to the overstuffed backpack and small carrying case.

  “Only this?”

  “Ah, and I think I’ll keep it with me.”

  The clerk raised an eyebrow.

  “Ah, I just got off a long shoot on location. You know how it is.”

  “Yes, well, of course,” the clerk said again at the mention of a movie location.

  Hollywood clout, Hawk reflected. Don’t you just love it?

  “Very good, Mr. E.T. Hawk.” He pronounced it slowly and carefully, frowning only slightly as he looked at the unusual name. Obviously, too polite to comment. Manners, Hawk hasn’t given them much thought until he realized they were used out of courtesy and respect, thanks to the Jack Baldwin mention.

  The front desk clerk couldn’t check further even if he was somewhat suspicious. “Your key, sir. That would be room 343.”

  “Thanks. Great.”

  “The barber, sir, is just down the hall on your right.”

  “Excellent,” Hawk was in business.

  45 minutes later, Hawk emerged clean-shaven with a haircut that would have brought tears to his parents’ eyes. Hawk, however, felt a bit naked at first. He reasoned, if it was good enough for Bogey, it was good enough for him.

  The baggy ‘40s style suit completed the look and gave him a bit of class. More importantly, people weren’t staring at him like he was an alien from another planet. That was a definite plus. Adjusting his hat at a Sam Spade angle, he moved out into the hallway that led into the main lobby.

  A set of ornate elevators were ahead that suddenly opened and two women exited, turning away from him in the direction of the hotel entrance. Curious, Hawk fell in step behind them. His whole philosophy was you never know what you can find out.

  One woman was clearly British, petite, the other American. Something tugged at Hawk’s gut. Something was vaguely familiar. He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear snips of their conversation about what else? Shopping. What a yawn! Maybe this is going to be a waste of time. When suddenly, the British woman remarked, “I nearly forgot to tell you, Kate. Tonight is Sonja Henie’s party. Archie and I are going. You’ll have to come with us. We’ll get Jack to come along, too.”

  “Sonja Henie? Oh, I remember her. Actress, great ice skater.”

  “Yes,” Tilly nodded. “Her parties,” the British woman said, “. . . are so glamorous. All the stars go. You know her current beau is Tyrone Power.”

  Hawk was so distracted listening to the conversation, he wasn’t looking where he was going, not to mention the shock that the American’s name was Kate, that he tripped over one of the huge area rugs, nearly falling into the lap of an older couple who jumped, startled at his clumsiness.

  They eyed him sternly, saying, “Good heavens, young man. Watch where you are going!”

  Hawk frantically attempted to apologize as he watched Kate and the British woman go through the front door and out of his range. Hawk apologized for the fourth time and

  then scrambled as he watched the door attendant hale a Yellow Cab.

  “Damn it,” he whispered under his breath. He had sprinted across the remainder of the lobby just in time to see the cab pull up. He stood, catching his breath, willing the American woman to turn around. If he could just see her face. One look was all it would take.

  The door attendant opened the Yellow Cab as the American turned to pull out her sunglasses, glancing up for barely a second at the hotel door.

  “Shit!” Hawk muttered. It really was Kate. He would never forget that face or those green eyes. He wanted to yell, he wanted to leap through the front door, b
ut he couldn’t make a scene. He knew it.

  Kate suddenly frowned for a moment. He knew that she saw him. As she stared back at Hawk, shaking her head, she put on the sunglasses and disappeared into the cab.

  Immobilized, he watched the cab drive away and realized that, no question, it was Kate. Hawk’s brain was in overdrive and kept him completely unaware of the young man who had been watching him.

  He walked up to Hawk as the Yellow Cab pulled away, “Are you Press?”

  Surprised, Hawk turned, looking into a rather disheveled young man in suit and hat, average looks with a dated camera. Hawk frowned thinking, Now, what’s this? But recovered with, “Oh, yeah,” Hawk quickly assessing perhaps a kindred spirit.

  “Jimmy Smith,” he extended his hand in greeting. “So, you chasing the dame in the cab?” Jimmy asked.

  “You could say that.”

  “Don’t know her. She’s not on the socialite list.”

  “Not surprised,” Hawk commented. “She’s not from around here. But the petite British woman . . .”

  “Yes, I see her a lot,” Jimmy interjected. He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Hawk.

  “Thanks. It’s been a crazy day.”

  Jimmy nodded, lighting his own cigarette and inhaling. “So, you going to Henie’s party? Great for celebrity photos.”

  “Henie,” Hawk repeated as his mind blanked.

  “Yeah. Actress, ice skater. All the big dogs will be there.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Hawk fumbled to recover. “I heard about it, but I don’t have wheels.”

  “Oh, no problem. You’re welcome to come along with me. I can pick you up later tonight, say 6:30?”

  “Great,” Hawk grinned, his mind racing. Maybe he could catch up with Kate after all.

  “By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Sorry, my friends call me Hawk.”

  Jimmy grinned, “Swell, Hawk it is. I’ve got to go, but will meet you later tonight. I’ll be parked over there.” He pointed to the end of the block.

  Hawk nodded. They shook hands again as Jimmy said goodbye and turned away, hurrying around the corner and out of sight.

  Hawk stood for a moment thinking, What a lucky break. Could be a good connection. He took off his hat in an unconscious moment and ran a hand through his short hair. Placing his hat back on, he decided he needed to eat and he needed a revised plan.

  * * *

  Jack took off his hat and sank in the plus leather chair across from Fred Raymond. He had been dreading this meeting all day. He had just returned from their small offices across town in Hollywood with a telegram. It was folded in his pocket. Margaret Mitchell was missing and no one seemed to know where she was.

  “You don’t look good, Jack,” Raymond remarked as he casually lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply.

  Jack looked across the desk that he had just left Sherman Avery a few days ago in 1999. He wished he could just turn the clock back and start this whole charade over on a better foot. No such luck, he reflected, rubbing his now pounding temples.

  “I’ve had better days,” he replied, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the telegram and handed it to Raymond. “I’m afraid you’re not going to like this. It’s about Mitchell.”

  The rustle of paper echoed in the quiet, old world office as Raymond scanned the telegram, his brows drawing together into a frown. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Where in hell is she?” He looked directly at Jack. “You have got to find her. I have spent years and years setting this up. You don’t think it took her ten years to do one book. I encouraged her to sell it to Selnick and keep the sequel back for us. And I can tell you, she’s a feisty, salty-mouthed southern gal. Not always easy.” He paused, taking another drag of the cigarette.

  Jack intervened, “I know, I know.” Jack held up a hand to fend off any further verbal attacks. “All I could get when I called back east was that she had decided to leave early and there was some mention of San Francisco.” Jack’s voice trailed off.

  “San Francisco?” Raymond exploded. “She never mentioned anything about side trips over our last phone meeting. For God’s sake, she knows what a deadline means.”

  Seeing Raymond lose his cool is not a good sign, Jack reflected. “I’m sure she does,” Jack offered.

  “We can’t deal with delays, rewrites or any other screw ups. We are closing everything up in the next two and a half weeks. I have already started to reduce staff. We will be down to a skeleton crew soon enough.”

  Jack nodded. He knew how important the sequel to “Gone with the Wind” was to Raymond. Jack watched as Raymond’s mind worked, silently assessing and discarding ideas. Finally, he said, “You know, Hughes is coming into town to help finalize plans in about a week. We have to be ready to go.”

  “I understand,” Jack said.

  “Now, Jack, besides the Mitchell nightmare, there is still a problem with the missing person that arrived. I have spies everywhere. Oddly, I checked today with the front desk staff. There was a rather disheveled, longhaired character that checked in yesterday they said. He had commented he had just come back from a movie shoot. Curious that, but sounded like a possibility. Went under the name E.T. Hawk, room 343. And,” Raymond paused for effect, “. . . he mentioned your name.”

  “What? No, can’t be,” Jack said a bit startled.

  “‘Fraid so, so watch your back. We notified security to watch for him for now.”

  Jack nodded.

  “It appears that Kate has been following the rules so far, but Tilly and Archie are all going to Henie’s big shindig tonight. I think it would be a good idea to take Kate and go along to keep an eye on her.”

  “Will do,” Jack said, wondering how that was going to turn out. They had to find a way to get along better, but he knew it was a lot to ask. The attraction between them just seemed to have a life of its own, and, he had to admit, it was no small matter at this point.

  As if reading his mind, Raymond said, “Take some fatherly advice. Don’t let your emotions get in the way of her safety or The Array’s. We’re in the home stretch now.”

  Raymond took a final drag of his cigarette and smashed it into the heavy crystal cut ashtray, signaling the end of their meeting. Raymond rose and shook Jack’s hand as Jack reflected he was getting too old to be a time traveling James Bond.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Margaret Mitchell had known Fred Raymond for eons as she often remarked. His strong no nonsense support as she penned “Gone with the Wind” had been just what she needed to see the long complicated project to completion. It had consumed ten years of her life, yet she had often pondered why he had encouraged her to write a sequel. He reasoned with her at the time that she might not want to write more books considering the time and effort this took. In addition, on the offhand, it was a hit. Her privacy could be seriously invaded, and being a private person, it made complete sense to her. He had suggested she hold the sequel back and offered to buy it from her quietly for Tyme Productions.

  In the end, it was his connections, combined with the unexpected runaway popularity of the book released in 1935, which brought it to Selznick to produce as a film. To say the instant fame hadn’t thrown Margaret was a complete understatement. As she looked back on the idea of a sequel to “Gone with the Wind,” strangely she felt Fred Raymond’s uncanny intuition had saved her in hidden ways from the price of fame that had made her adamant, she would indeed never write again.

  During her recent phone conversation with him, they discussed numerous details of the contracted sale. She had insisted it be under her pen name of Peggy Marsh and not be released in any form for 50 years. Raymond agreed without hesitation. It was to remain in a sealed vault until then. A very large sum of money was to be transferred to a bank of her choice under the name of Peggy Marsh. He had been more than fair and reasonable
as they ironed out the last few details over the phone, leaving only her personal signature to complete the transaction when she traveled to Los Angeles.

  After hanging up the phone she looked out her window at the spring rains as an odd feeling that maybe everything wasn’t as it appeared. But how could that be? She found it oddly curious that Raymond, known as a hard Hollywood negotiator, had been so accommodating. But, she reasoned, he had never let her down once. He had only guided and supported her. Therefore, there was no point to overthink it at this stage. Their business relationship was private and solid, and that’s the way it would remain.

  But Margaret was her own person, and though Raymond expected her in Los Angeles shortly, she had decided to travel out to San Francisco to visit an old friend first. She reasoned it wouldn’t delay things much. Maybe a week. He could wait for that small amount of time. But being a southern lady where manners mattered, she sat down to pen a brief note to him regarding the slight delay and arrival in Los Angeles. Of course, she could have called or wired him about her changes in plans, but she didn’t, allowing for a glimpse of her stubborn independent streak. And so, as she took her seat on the airplane, she left all concerns of her meeting in

  Los Angeles behind her, focusing on her visit in the vibrant city of San Francisco.

  * * *

  Kate had been looking forward to Sonja Henie’s party. A makeup artist had arrived to take care of her face and a hairstylist joined in, leaving Kate looking every bit the old world glamorous movie star. Rosie helped her into the evening gown, a stunning cobalt blue creation by popular studio designer, Orry-Kelly. Kate stared a moment at the beautiful gown that seemed to be dusted in diamonds.

  “Well, I think this could be a crowd pleaser,” Kate remarked.

  “Indeed it will be, Miss,” Rosie smiled. “Now don’t forget

  Mr. Baldwin will meet you in the lobby with the others, I believe.”

  Kate nodded, but her thoughts skidded to her mother wishing she could see her like this, but she knew she would have to settle for a glimpse at the Brown Derby soon.