The Garden on Sunset

by Martin Turnbull

  “Darling,” Tallulah said gently to Marcus, “are you trying to tell your Auntie Tallulah that you’ve never been to a joint like this?”

  Marcus felt more like a rube than ever. He took a slug of his cocktail from his fake brandy and forced a nod.

  Howard spoke up for the first time. “Then this calls for a celebration!” He reached up and clicked his fingers. “Waitress! Another round of whatever you’ve got brewing in your bathtub!”

  “Yes, Mister Hughes.” The waitress curtseyed, and disappeared into the back room.

  Marcus’ eyes widened and he pressed his head close to Tallulah’s. “Howard Hughes is . . . ?”

  She laughed and shook her head. “I’ve no idea. Not everybody here is. But, darling, what are we going to do about Mr. Ramon Novarro? He’s been staring over here ever since he sat down.”

  Marcus looked up and caught Ramon looking right at him. It wasn’t the intense Valentino-Sheik-I-want-you stare Marcus longed for, but a curious have-we-met gaze. He didn’t break it when Marcus met his eye.

  Ramon’s friends were standing up and straightening their coats. One bent down to speak to Ramon, who maintained eye contact with Marcus. He nodded and they left.

  “Well, now, look who’s alone.” Tallulah nudged Marcus.

  Oh my god! Marcus panicked. Ramon Novarro is sitting in a queer bar staring at you. Isn’t this what you’ve dreamed of? Marcus felt his stomach cave in. Hadn’t 1932 been filled with enough disappointment? Did he really need to risk ending it with the sort of rejection that would hurt the most?

  “May I say something?” Joan asked. She’d drained her glass and a curl fell over her eye. “If you want a life free of risk, I suggest you take the first bus back home.”

  It was exactly what Marcus needed to hear. He took a slug of Tallulah’s drink and struggled to his feet.

  “Atta girl,” Billy Haines said.

  The crammed tables in B.B.B.’s Cellar were like an obstacle course. By the time Marcus was halfway across the room, Ramon had stood up to leave. Marcus dodged left, but two hefty dykes pushed away from their table and formed a wall of hats and furs that blocked his view. Surely he can see me coming over there, Marcus thought. He’s going to wait for me, isn’t he?

  But when the two women had squeezed out of his way, Ramon was nowhere to be seen. Marcus looked pleadingly back at Tallulah, who pointed at the door. Ramon Novarro had been waiting for Marcus to see him. He gave a friendly smile and a sorry-but-I-have-to-go shrug, then pointed to the table he had just left. When Marcus got there, he found a matchbook with two words inside the cover: Western Union.

  CHAPTER 28

  The matchbook was still in Marcus’ pocket two months later when he dressed for the Garden of Allah’s threes party. Tuesday would be March 3rd, 1933 — 3/3/33 — so the suggestion went around to throw a party with a “three” theme. Everyone agreed they all could do with a rollicking good bash. This Depression was dragging on and on, and although their new president, Franklin D. Roosevelt, had done some mighty high talking in his campaign, no one knew when the country would be back on its newspaper-soled feet. The consensus around the Garden of Allah was to scramble their pennies together and throw a humdinger.

  Gwendolyn suggested they go as the three blind mice so she made tails out of brown velvet and belts, they found sunglasses at a pawn shop on Santa Monica Boulevard, and they scavenged walking sticks in the garden. Gwendolyn painted their whiskers on with kohl and they ventured outside.

  More than one trio arrived as the three witches from MacBeth, but Clara Bow and her chorine friends were the best, in turquoise and silver costumes which could have come from Florenz Ziegfeld’s storeroom. Although the 1920s had crystallized her as the quintessential Flapper, the talkies hadn’t been kind to Clara; booze, scandals and legal battles had taken their toll. But God bless her, she was still up for a party.

  Marlene Dietrich emerged from her villa in a diaphanous white caftan, joined by a chorus boy with beautifully thick hair the color of a moonless night, and an androgynous woman with a cross the size of a rifle: the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

  Robert Benchley’s bootlegger spiked the sideways punch — “three cups of this and you’ll see everyone sideways” — that Marcus was drinking when he wondered if anyone had invited Alla. She’d mentioned more than once that nobody thought to invite her to the parties thrown in what used to be her own back yard. “Not that I really wanted to go,” she’d always add, “but the occasional invite would be nice.”

  He put down his punch glass and crossed the gardens to villa twenty-four. He was knocking for the second time when Brophy called, “She’s gone.”

  Marcus turned around. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

  “Up and left in the middle of the night. Lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Nobody had, which I assume was the point.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “Dunno.”

  “No forwarding address?”

  “Nope.”

  Marcus was frozen to the front step as Brophy left for the main house. Alla had left? Without saying goodbye? Not even to him? For three years of Saturdays, they had shared orange blossom tea and cookies and talked of everything from Will Rogers’ latest observations (she usually laughed at them, he not so much) to President Roosevelt’s New Deal (they were both big fans) to the pros and cons of Ernest Hemingway (he liked Hemingway’s writing, she detested it.) As the recession deepened into Depression, their afternoons together had become a precious escape from the grimy city. Homeless beggars and dustbowl refugees came to California in a tidal wave of flea-bitten, downtrodden humanity. He’d come to look upon Alla as his friend, his family, his favorite aunt, always there in her dark, spare villa with warm words, wise encouragement and another slice of shortbread. But she was gone without a word. He felt like someone had lopped off his arm with a machete.

  “There you are,” Gwendolyn said. “We’ve been looking for you. Tallulah has — what’s the matter?” She put her hand on Marcus’ arm and looked into his face with concern. He explained and she hugged him close, then squeezed his hand. “You look like you need another glass of sideways punch. Come on, let’s get you a cup.”

  Marcus hesitated. He wanted to tell Gwendolyn that he felt like an orphan abandoned on the church steps, but he swallowed his words and followed her to the punch bowl. She talked the whole way about a friend Tallulah wanted him to meet.

  They approached the pool and Tallulah Bankhead’s voice carved through the crowd. She was pulling along a portly gentleman in his mid thirties who wore glasses and an uncertain smile. “Marcus, darling, there you are! I have someone I must introduce you to.” She gestured to her friend. “George, this is Marcus Adler, one of my favorite neighbors. Marcus, this is George Cukor. He was my marvelous director on Tarnished Lady a couple of years back. Been lured out here from New York by the filthiest of Hollywood lucre.”

  Cukor gave off an easy laugh. “Well, that and the weather. New York may be New York, but this weather? Unbeatable.”

  Gwendolyn planted fresh cups of punch in their hands. “George here has just followed Selznick over to MGM. I’m afraid to ask what his salary is nowadays. Is it more than a thousand a week, George? Don’t tell me — I don’t want to know, or I shall have to open my veins with jealousy. At any rate, Marcus here is an aspiring screenwriter. I thought perhaps you could give him some pointers on how to break into the racket.” Tallulah threw her hands into the air. “Holy crap! Is that Marlene? What is she wearing? Excuse me, boys!” She left Marcus and George in a cloud of scented cigarettes and Chanel No. 5.

  When Cukor sipped his sideways punch, his head reared back. “Whoa, this stuff is potent! I’ve heard about the famous Garden of Allah parties, and now I see why.”

  “It’s not always like this.” Marcus looked around. It was barely past eight o’clock, and most everyone was buzzed up and halfway to screaming. “I take it back.
” He laughed. “It pretty much is.” His gaze found Alla’s villa. Where could she have gone? Why would she have left like that? And so suddenly. What could possibly have happened to–

  “So you want to become a screenwriter with the studios?” Cukor asked. “You must be working hard on your submission.”

  “Submission?”

  “For the screenplay competition. At MGM.” Marcus was dumbfounded. Cukor was surprised. “The winner’s script is picked up by MGM, and he gets a one-year contract at three hundred a week.”

  “Three hundred?” Marcus exclaimed. “When is the deadline?”

  “The end of the month,” Hugo answered. Marcus spun around to find Hugo behind them, dressed as an Egyptian mummy swathed in red, white and blue crepe paper. “You’re talking about the MGM contest, right?”

  Marcus wanted to kick himself. “Have you sent in anything?”

  “Oh, God yes. Three.”

  “You’ve written three screenplays?”

  “No! I’ve written fourteen screenplays in the last two years. I just took the best three, polished them as best I could and sent them off.”

  Marcus gaped at Hugo. All those booster sessions over coffee, week after week, endless discussions over plots and characters and concepts, and not a single mention of a single screenplay, let alone a screenplay contest.

  “What’re you looking at me like that for?” Hugo asked.

  “I thought you were writing stories for magazines.” Hugo had been published in Colliers, American Mercury, and The Smart Set, which rankled Marcus most because it put Hugo in the company of Willa Cather, Dorothy Parker, Sinclair Lewis, and Marcus’ literary hero, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  “Well, yeah, sure. They start out as short stories, but that’s just to get the plot down. Then I take that story and turn it into a screenplay. I thought you were doing that, too . . .” He finished his sentence with a shrug. Marcus swallowed the rest of his punch in a single throat-burning gulp. “Come on, Adler, old bean, you’re the ideas guy. I’ve never met anyone with so many good ideas,” Hugo said. “Cough up a few of your best and let’s see which one you should tackle.”

  First Alla and now this, Marcus thought. Thank Christ the punch is spiked. He gave a noncommittal shrug. “I can’t think of any right now.”

  Just then “Shadow Waltz” came on Benchley’s radio and Kathryn grabbed Hugo’s arm. “I love this song!” she exclaimed. “Hugo, dance with me.” She dragged him onto the impromptu dancefloor by the pool.

  As Marcus and George Cukor watched Kathryn and Hugo waltz, a man in creamy white gabardine strode down the path from the main house. A thrill shot through Marcus and he fingered the matchbook in his pocket. He watched as one of Clara Bow’s Macbethian witches greeted Novarro with an extravagant hug.

  It was asinine of him to assume that Ramon Novarro would–or even could–go to the trouble of tracking down a nameless stranger. You need to switch gears, he told himself. You have an MGM director standing right next to you. It’s time to put your head in the game.

  “As a matter of fact I do have some ideas,” Marcus said. “But I’ve only got enough time to turn one of them into a screenplay. Could I possibly bounce some off you?”

  “Original ideas are precious. What makes you think I can be trusted with yours?”

  “Instinct?” Marcus smiled.

  Cukor laughed. “Perfect answer. Shoot.”

  “My first idea,” Marcus said, “is the story of the building of the White House. The way I figure it, right now, America needs a movie that would inspire loyalty to the president who will see us through this Depression. The White House is a symbol of the office we all hold in high esteem, and I think that its story — even if it’s mostly made up — might make a good movie.”

  “Mmmm,” Cukor replied, but his face was blank. “Idea number two?”

  “A complete suck-up. I’ve been thinking about a story based on the life of Louis B. Mayer.” In fact, his idea had been to write a story about Harold Ross, the legendary editor of the New Yorker to submit to that magazine but it wasn’t hard to switch. Cukor’s left eyebrow couldn’t help but raise itself. “I’d change the setting to radio, or newspapers, or book publishing, perhaps. But it’s the story of how a boy born in America to dirt-poor immigrant parents rises to the top of his profession in the way that someone like him can only achieve in America.”

  “And your third idea?”

  Clara Bow and her witches let out a shriek. Marcus looked over at the commotion and was locked in Novarro’s eyes. A frown flickered across Novarro’s face as he looked over Marcus’ costume. Marcus pushed his dark glasses over his eyes, and stretched out his tail. Novarro gave an approving nod and winked at him. Marcus almost dropped his empty punch glass, but managed to nod smoothly back.

  “And your third idea?” Cukor asked again.

  Marcus dragged his eyes back to Cukor. “I call it The Making of Merry. Merry is a mousy young girl who is the paid companion to a quartet of spinsters for whom she does everything. She has no life of her own, and even though she is thirty-five years younger than they are, she’s already starting to look like them, and act like them. When she meets a guy who sees past her old maid façade, he encourages her to transform into a lively, pretty young thing. The old bats hate it — they want her to stay home with them with no life of her own. But everything works out in the end. The sisters discover he really is a good guy, and not just out to marry Merry because she’s set to inherit everything they own. The lovers get married in the final reel with the spinsters’ blessing.”

  Cukor granted him a smile. “There’s no doubt which is the best story.”

  “The second one?”

  “Good God, no. The Making of Merry. MGM can’t get enough of that type of romantic balderdash. It’s a story of love and hope and ducklings becoming swans, and audiences are going to lap it up in the middle of this Depression.” He raised a finger. “Plus, prima donnas love those roles, and studios will buy anything to keep their stars happy.”

  Kathryn skipped happily off the dance floor. “Hugo never told me what a fine dancer he is!” she exclaimed, a little out of breath. She slapped her partner playfully on the arm. “You should have warned me!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus could see a dashing figure in a gorgeous suit approach them.

  “Good evening, everybody,” Ramon Novarro said. “Would you recommend the punch tonight? I hear it’s very strong.”

  “Strong enough to power a steam engine,” Cukor said.

  Ramon reached out and grabbed Cukor’s hand. “We haven’t met. I’m Ramon Novarro.”

  “George Cukor. Just starting at your old stomping ground.”

  “MGM?” Ramon’s eye lit up. “Ah! I hope you shall be as happy there as I was. Well, mostly,” he added and then turned to Kathryn. “And you are?”

  “Kathryn Massey. I’m Tallulah Bankhead’s secretary.”

  Ramon cocked a perfectly-shaped eyebrow. “Si? That must keep you very busy.”

  Kathryn smiled. “This is Hugo Marr, and Marcus Adler.”

  Ramon shook Hugo’s hand next, saving Marcus’ for last. He lay his left hand on top, pressing their hands together. His hands were as soft as Marcus had recalled. Marcus could feel his knees trembling “I am very pleased to meet you, Mister Marcus Adler,” Ramon said. He fixed Marcus with a knowing stare. Marcus watched the man’s lips moving slightly. He wasn’t entirely sure but it was possible he was repeating Marcus’ name over and over.

  Don’t just stand there, Marcus thought. Say something!

  Ramon broke their stare and turned to Kathryn. “You waltz very well, Miss Massey. Do you tango also?”

  Marcus felt his heart plummet fourteen feet.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Kathryn said, beaming.

  Ramon offered his arm and led Kathryn to the improvised dance floor, where he drew her close, wrapped his arms around her, and set off in a tight tango. Marcus couldn’t keep his eyes off them as they r
ounded the edges of the floor. Was it his imagination, or did Novarro keep looking back at him with hunger in his eyes? Oh Kathryn, Marcus thought, what I wouldn’t give to be in your place.

  At some point–Marcus hadn’t noticed when–Cukor and Hugo wandered into other conversations and he found the Garden’s bellboy standing next to him. “I’ve got a message for Kathryn, and a telegram for Gwendolyn,” Jake said, “I’ve left the front desk unattended — can I leave these with you?” He handed Marcus a folded piece of paper and a telegram in a yellow Western Union envelope, then hurried back to the lobby. Marcus unfolded the paper; it read 505 Temple Street, Long Beach. When Kathryn and Ramon came off the dance floor, he handed her the message.

  “Mister Marcus Adler,” Ramon said in a carefully clipped way that suggested he was trying hard to remember Marcus’ name, “it was a pleasure to meet you.” He offered his hand again. “I regret to say that I must depart. I have another engagement. It was a delight. Your friend is a very good dancer.”

  Ramon winked again and smiled a smile that made Marcus want to dive into his arms. There would be no sleep for him tonight. He watched Ramon Novarro retreat up the gravel path until he’d disappeared into the hotel, then slowly became aware that Kathryn was staring into space.

  “I didn’t know you knew anyone in Long Beach,” he said.

  “I’ve been socking away money for a private eye. He was awfully cheap so I didn’t think he’d come up with anything, but it looks like he has.”

  “So whose address is that?”

  “I think it’s my mother’s.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Waves of heat emanated from white stucco walls as Gwendolyn ducked off Wilshire into a shaded walkway. She pushed open the heavy glass door of the Bryson Apartment Hotel. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to match the iris blue carpet to four enormous Oriental pots that held miniature palm trees. The carpet and pots were all flecked with gold, as though some mad painter had come in and lost his marbles.