Hays had expected some negative reaction. But surely, he thought, that was the worst of it.
His train sped on to Chicago.
When he arrived, dozens more statements of opposition were waiting for him at the telegraph office. A raft of newspaper editorials condemned Hays’s decision, drowning out the handful that praised his attempt to do the right thing. Too late Hays realized how bad his timing had been. Just days after the stories about Reid, the arbiters of public opinion were in no mood to be forgiving. Hays called it “an unfortunate coincidence,” but it was more than that. It was a serious strategic blunder, and by the time Hays stepped off the train in Indiana, where he and his family would be celebrating Christmas and where another armload of angry cables awaited, he knew it.
The New York Times editorialized: “Arbuckle was acquitted by a jury, but an odor still clings to him.” Hays had been hired to “deodorize the movies,” but this move “would do more to create sentiment for censorship than the original Arbuckle scandal itself.”
Taking refuge at his home in Sullivan, Hays hoped the outrage would dissipate over the holidays. He likened it to the Dreyfus affair in France. But the denunciations continued through Christmas. “Newspaper editorials and civic leagues presented me with every public building in the country,” Hays quipped, “brick by brick.”
Had he just squandered all the power and goodwill he had built up? “There are times,” Hays mused, “when if everyone is shouting loudly enough, a man may begin to doubt the rightness of his own decisions.”
With the cries of the moralists echoing in his ears, Hays was anxious about seeing his conservative family at the holiday celebrations. “The one thing I felt I could not stand at the moment,” he said, “was the disapproval of my home folks.” Gathering his courage, he entered the parlor. The first person he saw was his “straitlaced” Aunt Sally.
The old woman, a stern, ascetic Presbyterian, turned to look at him. Her wrinkled face broke into a smile. “Will!” she exclaimed. “I’m proud of you!”
“That Christmas,” Hays would write, “in spite of the storm of protest outside, I was kind of proud of myself.”
At least he had one less critic. On December 27, in a hospital in Washington, DC, Wilbur Crafts died of a sudden onset of pneumonia. It was as if the return of Roscoe Arbuckle, that “product of the gutters,” had been too much of a shock for the old man.
Brother Crafts had fallen in the midst of battle. But there were many others ready to pick up his cross and his sword and fight on.
Returning to his office in New York after the first of the year, Hays braced himself to deal with his adversaries. To his great dismay, he discovered that the brickbats weren’t just coming from far-flung newspapers and city officials. He was facing a revolt from his own Public Relations Committee as well, the very body he had hoped would bolster his independent power.
The committee had gone over Hays’s head and issued its own statement, denouncing the return of Arbuckle. Mrs. Woodallen Chapman, the delegate from the all-important Federation of Women’s Clubs, released to the press a copy of the telegram of protest she had sent to Hays. “This organization,” she said, “stands ready to assist any individual to habilitate himself, but not at the expense of the ideals of the nation.”
Hays had thought that putting the Women’s Clubs on his committee would help him to contain them. But their Los Angeles chapter turned out not to be an isolated case. The entire national federation voted to boycott any picture made by Arbuckle.
The revolt of the Public Relations Committee exposed just how fragile Hays’s coalition really was. Julius Barnes, the representative from the US Chamber of Commerce, resigned. Hays watched in horror as the careful trust he’d built up with the reformers crumbled. “For a dark moment,” he wrote, “it looked as if all our good work for a year past, and all the fine relationships we had built and the confidence we had gained, might be smashed beyond hope of salvage.”
Of course, if Arbuckle’s fate had been put to a public ballot, he would have been welcomed back with open arms. Every time working people, young people, blacks, and immigrants were offered a say in the matter, Fatty triumphed. The Kansas City Journal had just polled its readers, and the results came back ten to one in favor of the comedian. The same thing happened when the Blackstone Theatre in Detroit asked its audiences to vote.
Yet Arbuckle’s fate didn’t rest with the entire public. It was decided in white, middle-class drawing rooms where the Federation of Women’s Clubs took their votes, and in church halls where ministers whipped their flocks into outrages over Hollywood. The Film Daily complained, “The wild eyed reformers, the Ku Klux Krowd, said the screen was too clean for Fatty. When will these googly-eyed folk realize that the great big American public will give its own answer?” But the trade paper was definitely in the minority.
Hays was a religious man, an elder in his church. But he abhorred these self-righteous, self-appointed arbiters of morality. He called them “the Anvil Chorus,” pointing out that every new development in history had drawn the fear and suspicion of people like them. The telegraph had been condemned because the printed word was not supposed to be disseminated “in any form among the humbler people.” The bicycle and the automobile had been called “agencies of the devil,” railroads even worse. “If God had designed that his intelligent creatures should travel at the frightful speed of fifteen miles an hour,” Hays said, mocking the religionist view, “He would clearly have foretold it through His holy prophets.”
But he couldn’t very well mock the Anvil Chorus now—not when they were waiting for him in the next room.
With a deep breath, Hays walked into the meeting with the Public Relations Committee. Reporters in the hallway pressed their ears up against the door.
“I am sorry if my decision has been misunderstood,” Hays said, asking the committee to consider “the individual Arbuckle,” whose “conduct in the last nine months has evidenced an honest and successful effort to do right.” How could they truly stand in judgment of him?
Hays glanced around the room. A few of those in attendance nodded in agreement. Hugh Frayne of the American Federation of Labor, James West of the Boy Scouts, and Mrs. Oliver Harriman of the Camp Fire Girls seemed to be on his side.
But most of the rest were scowling.
Mrs. Herbert Hoover, wife of the secretary of commerce and a national representative of the Girl Scouts, thought it would “be very harmful for the younger generation, and perhaps for all generations, to see Roscoe Arbuckle on the screen again.” Charles A. McMahon, from the National Catholic Welfare Council, thought the committee needed to issue a clear statement that Arbuckle would “not be further employed as an active exponent of the screen art.”
Once again, Hays was faced with a choice. To stand firm would destroy everything else he hoped to accomplish. To concede nothing would have meant the end of the Public Relations Committee, and possibly the end of the MPPDA.
So when the doors opened and the reporters shouted for news, Hays told them a compromise had been reached. Arbuckle could return to work, but he could never again perform in front of the cameras. He could work as a director or a writer, but not as an actor. Not everyone on the committee was happy about the settlement—some had wanted him consigned to mopping floors somewhere—but for now the committee’s public squabbling had ended.
Headlines bannered: HAYS BACKS DOWN. That wasn’t exactly what had happened, but that was what the headlines needed to say, to stop the swell of official public outrage.
Arbuckle accepted the decision gracefully, and Hays used the comedian’s conciliatory statement to his advantage. He argued that they’d reached a solution satisfactory to everyone.
But Hays knew the compromise was empty: Arbuckle would never be able to direct or write a picture. The Federation of Women’s Clubs was still vowing to boycott any film he made, whether he was in front of the camera or behind it. The National Board of Review announced that it would exclude any
film directed by Arbuckle from its list of recommended films, which many communities used to decide what to show in local theaters. What good was making a picture, Hays knew, if it would be rejected on principle the moment it was released?
As much as he tried to say otherwise, Hays knew this story could have no equitable conclusion. Apparently happy endings were allowed only on the screen.
On January 18, 1923, Wallace Reid died, not long after the actress Juanita Hansen, best known for adventure serials, was arrested for cocaine possession. DRUG WARS IN HOLLYWOOD! bannered the scandal sheets. Good thing Mabel was still in London.
Under such conditions, there was no way Famous Players was ever going to release those three Arbuckle films moldering in their tin cans. At a meeting with his board members, Zukor announced that the pictures would be permanently shelved, written off as “a complete loss.” Theatrical producer Arthur Hammerstein offered Zukor $1 million for the films, knowing he could make a lot more than that releasing them to theaters. But Zukor, mindful of appearances, turned the offer down and went willingly into the hole.
Strange times, indeed.
CHAPTER 60
RAISING CAPITAL
Slowing her car down as she approached the Mexican border, Gibby produced her documents to show the guard. Her passenger, an electrician from Burbank named George Lasher, did the same. The border guard cast a cold eye over them. Gibby held her breath.
Finally the guard returned their documents and waved them on. It was January 29, 1923, and Gibby and her latest beau were headed to Tijuana.
For Gibby, the jaunt was more than just a holiday. It was the opportunity to raise some much-needed capital for her upcoming pictures. Being a movie producer was hard work, she’d learned. She had to be constantly on the alert for a chance to bring in some cash.
Gibby had been thrilled by the dough Osborn had brought back from Ohio. Ten thousand clams! A real convenient piece of legislation, that Mann Act. Gibby kept it in mind as she zoomed across the border.
She’d met Lasher at Osborn’s, where he’d been doing some electrical work. Thirty-two years old, Lasher was a tall, gangly, blue-eyed redhead. As a youth, he’d spent time in prison for petty theft. Recently he’d come into some money from selling a house. Lasher also had a wife and two children. In other words, he was exactly the sort of man Gibby was looking for.
She’d instantly turned on the charm, putting everything she’d learned in Little Tokyo to good use. Lasher was besotted. “Why, sure I fell [for her],” he’d admit. “You know what a feller’s after when a dame with eyes like that hooks him.”
Reaching Tijuana, the pair dropped off their bags at the apartment of Edward Rucker, a musician Gibby had met at the café at the Cadillac Hotel, the same place where Osborn had found Rose with James Bryson. Rucker was black, thirty-five years old, and in on Gibby’s scheme. He knew a good scam when he saw one.
Rucker took Gibby and George over to his new place of employment, the Vernon Club, on the main street of Old Town Tijuana, where he introduced them as Mr. and Mrs. George Lasher.
Gibby knew exactly what she was doing. This was serious business, not the lark Osborn and Madsen had enjoyed out in Ohio. Gibby was making sure she didn’t lose her new film productions the way she’d lost The Web of the Law. She had a new partner, Max O. Miller, the general manager of Miller Ice Cream in Oakland, and they had some great ideas for pictures. Miller was backing a stereoscopic camera lens that promised to give movies a more three-dimensional appearance—“rounded out,” as Miller described it. At last, Gibby had a real, innovative plan—something that was guaranteed to get attention and achieve success! Films in 3D!
And this time George Lasher was going to help make sure Gibby’s dreams came true.
At the Vernon Club, they started to drink. A couple of women joined them at their table, flirting with Lasher. The electrician from Burbank suddenly felt like a real Casanova.
The Vernon was a small, dark place that smelled of beer and urine. Heroin and cocaine exchanged hands in the alley out back. Up at the bar, prostitutes flashed legs and cleavage. Most of the crowd was American. Rucker got up onstage and sang a few naughty songs for the crowd.
Filled with bravado, Lasher leaned over to Gibby. “I’ll bet you a thousand dollars that I can drink more than you,” he said, his words slurry.
Gibby saw her opening. She took Lasher up on his wager. The idiot had no idea how well she could hold her liquor.
Withdrawing her billfold, Gibby wrote Lasher a check for $1,000. Sliding the check across the table, she told the electrician to write her one as well.
Foolishly, Lasher complied.
One of the other women at the table was watching the transaction with shrewd eyes. She leaned in to Gibby and remarked on “the little game she had going.” The woman cautioned her that someone might snatch her check away from Lasher. Gibby told her she didn’t care, because she didn’t have $1,000 in the bank.
But, she suspected, Lasher did.
The electrician from Burbank got drunker, more disoriented. When he wasn’t looking, Gibby reached across the table and poured some “knockout drops” into his drink.
Around midnight, Lasher staggered outside to vomit.
That was Edward Rucker’s chance to slink over to the table. Gibby, cool and collected despite all the alcohol she’d consumed, endorsed Lasher’s check and handed it over to her friend. The woman watching the scheme asked Gibby if she was certain Lasher’s check was good.
Lasher would make sure it was good, Gibby told her. After all, he was a married man, and she wasn’t “stepping out for nothing.”
In the harsh light of the next morning, Lasher sat up in bed with a start. Where was his check? He was panic-stricken. Gibby made a great show of looking everywhere for it, but concluded the check must have been stolen. Maybe one of the other women at the table had taken it, she suggested. Lasher was distraught. They had to get back to Los Angeles right away and stop payment. His wife could not find out about that check!
They zoomed across the border. Lasher tracked down Jim Dallas, the proprietor of the Vernon, who’d taken the check to cash it in Los Angeles after fronting the money to Rucker. When Lasher showed up and told his story, Dallas realized they’d both been snookered.
Incredibly, Lasher wasn’t angry with Gibby, at least not for long. She had a way with men. There were likely tears, kisses, and professions of love. Plus, she admitted, she really, really needed the money for this new film of hers to become a hit, to prove to all those men who were holding the industry hostage that the little people, like herself, could succeed too.
Lasher melted. A couple of days after the incident with Jim Dallas, he gave Gibby $75 to help her buy a new car. Shortly thereafter came another “loan” for $250, then another $800. Gibby was grateful. How generous Lasher was to her.
He’d be even more generous, she knew, if she ever needed to play her ace in the hole and remind him about a little law called the Mann Act.
In the spring of 1923, Gibby was preparing to head up to Oakland to start shooting the 3D picture for Max Miller. It was to be called A Pair of Hellions, and her costar would be “Ranger” Bill Miller, who’d also played opposite her in The Web of the Law. As both producer and star, Gibby had a lot riding on the film. Lasher’s $800 came in handy. Don Osborn, still flush with Bushnell’s cash, had also paid her $585 for the equity in the house he was living in. For the first time in her short producing career, Gibby seemed to have everything under control.
But then Lasher’s wife showed up at Gibby’s house and found them together.
Christine Lasher was spitting mad. When Gibby’s mother heard the women screaming, she threatened to have Lasher arrested if he and his wife didn’t beat it. Lasher was incensed: “The girl’s ma” had always known he was a married man, he said later, and still she had “smiled her consent” when he took Gibby out for the evening.
Lasher went home with his wife. Gibby was out of a sugar daddy, just when s
he needed one most. Or maybe she wasn’t.
Not long after, Lasher received a call from Don Osborn.
Osborn had a piece of friendly advice: Lasher might consider paying Gibby a “considerable sum of money,” enough that she could share with her mother. Otherwise, Mrs. Gibson was so upset she might just bring charges against him for violating the Mann Act.
Lasher was horrified. Osborn reported back to Gibby that the sucker seemed scared enough to come through with the cash.
At the house on Beachwood Drive, they all laughed at what a sap Lasher was. As bad as John Bushnell! Rich or poor, suckers were all the same. The funding for Gibby’s new movie was practically in the bag.
But one of the locusts was through laughing.
Fred Moore had grown weary of his friends’ con games. A movie extra and vaudeville player, Moore had become disgusted by their cavalier disregard for other people. When he learned they were planning their second shakedown of Bushnell, he knew he needed to do something. How many other patsies were out there, just waiting to get scammed?
The young man penned a letter to Bushnell.
“I am a stranger to you, sir, but by reading this letter you will undoubtedly say that I am a friend worth having,” Moore wrote. He proceeded to expose the entire scheme, revealing Osborn to be both Rose’s “pimp” and her uncle. He advised Bushnell not to call the police just yet. These crooks were dangerous, Moore said, and he feared for his life if they found out he was ratting on them. To be safe, he was using a pseudonym, Earl Frank Dustin, and could only be reached through general delivery.
But if they worked together, Moore assured Bushnell, they could bring Osborn and Rose and the whole lot of them to justice.
Tinseltown: Murder, Morphine, and Madness at the Dawn of Hollywood Page 35