The Garden on Sunset

by Martin Turnbull

  Ordinarily, Gwendolyn would have stopped to admire the effect, but this was no ordinary day. It had taken Anderson McRae several months to claim his favor. There had been a brief marital reconciliation, but when it fell apart, his friend needed her help after all. When McRae turned up at the Cocoanut Grove one night, serious and unsmiling, her heart sank. She’d been half hoping that she wouldn’t hear from him. The whole thing sounded terribly tawdry, but she finally had the attention of a casting director, and that put her ahead of nearly every pretty girl in Hollywood. And the Bryson is one of the classiest addresses in town, she reminded herself. It’s not like McRae has asked you to front up at some lowlife dive on the wrong side of town.

  Gwendolyn approached the uniformed doorman. “I’m here to see Mr. Hank Hubbard.”

  The doorman, a heavy set guy in his fifties, let his bushy eyebrows rise. “Apartment 7-G. Seventh floor, west wing.” He pointed to an elevator behind Gwendolyn.

  Its brass doors were polished until they were practically mirrors. Gwendolyn pushed the call button and stared at herself. She looked a little washed-out and worried. She was so embarrassed by what she’d agreed to that she hadn’t even told Kathryn about it. She could hear her roommate’s voice in her head. It’s not too late to walk out of here. A quiet bell dinged and the doors opened, splitting her reflection in two.

  The door to apartment 7-G was like all the others along the bright corridor: dark wood with a chrome knocker in the shape of a seashell. The door opened promptly and she stepped back as though she’d been slapped. The man did the same. She took another step back into the hallway. “Mr. McRae didn’t tell me it’d be you.”

  “And I didn’t know the dish he’d lined up for me was going to be you.” He shot his hand out toward her. She recoiled and felt the wall against her back. “Please. Don’t go,” he begged. “Really, I didn’t know. I swear it.”

  The last time Gwendolyn had seen Broochie, he’d been drunker than a sailor on shore leave and had wrecked her chances of impressing the top brass of MGM. And all because of that damned diamond brooch. That damnably gorgeous diamond brooch which took her breath away whenever she slipped it out of its hidey-hole and drenched it in sunlight. But Broochie looked different. His bloated face had thinned down, making his chin more prominent and lending him a more dignified air. Dimples now emerged in his cheeks. He was almost handsome. Well, Gwendolyn decided, passably attractive, anyway.

  “You have every reason to leave,” he said rapidly. “I’d be the last person to blame you. But I want you to know I’ve given up the hooch.” He shook his head. “Me and the hooch, we don’t make a good combination. You know that better than anyone. Except for Mr. Mayer.” He pulled a comical grimace. “You think he’s got the stink of my whiskey out of his tux yet?” They eyed each other for a long moment before he stepped to the side and swept his hand toward his apartment. “Please? I need you.”

  Inside, the carpet went all the way to the walls; Gwendolyn had never seen anything like it. Its pattern of pastel autumn leaves and flower petals was subtle but gave the place a palatial air. A pair of sofas in cream damask flanked a long matching coffee table. Gwendolyn took a seat and Broochie sat on the other sofa.

  “Okay, so here’s the situation,” he said. “When I gave you that Harry Winston brooch, it was for my girlfriend who’d just broken up with me. But we got back together and I married her. Then I found out she’d been screwing every guy who crossed her path the whole time. But she comes from this big mucky-muck family — dear ol’ dad’s on the state supreme court — so a divorce naming her as the guilty party ain’t in the cards.” He gave his swank apartment a weary once-over. “So this here joint is my pay-off, as long as I play the villain.”

  Gwendolyn studied his sad smile. “And you say Mr. McRae had no idea of our history?”

  “Andy’s a good guy who’s been keen to pay back a big favor I did for him when we was both at Paramount.”

  So life has laid a big stinky egg on the poor dope’s head. If I pose for a couple of photos, it isn’t such a bad deal for both the most beautiful brooch I’m ever likely to own, and the notice of RKO’s casting department, is it? She cleared her throat. “Where’s the photographer?”

  “He’s already here. He’ll be taking photos through the window. It has to look authentic.”

  “Mr. Hubbard, we are seven stories up.”

  He pointed over Gwendolyn’s shoulder. She turned and saw a slightly shriveled, balding man with a Clark Cable moustache looking down at her through the transom over Hubbard’s bedroom door. “That’s Lenny,” Broochie said. Lenny lifted his camera for her to see.

  “How do we do this, exactly?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “I ain’t gonna get you to go nude or nothing. Just down to your scanties. Maybe one of your bra straps off your shoulder? Could you do that? For authenticity’s sake and all. But if you don’t wanna, I’d understand, of course.”

  Gwendolyn nodded. “And you?”

  “I’ll get rumpled up, too. I thought we’d lie on this here sofa.” He went to a teak cabinet carved in a geometric pattern and pulled open the lid. The sides swung open to reveal a fully stocked liquor cabinet. “I got props!” He lifted a bottle of Liberty Bell bourbon and two shot glasses and returned to the sofa. “Make it look like we’re having a party.”

  As Gwendolyn stood up and let her camel skirt drop to the floor, Broochie said, “Gosh, you’re an awful good sport.”

  “I’m doing this for Anderson McRae,” she stated matter-of-factly. Broochie stripped down to his undershirt and blue-and-pink striped shorts, his expensive gray suit slung over the sofa like a snakeskin.

  “I thought perhaps we oughta just pitch our stuff all over like we couldn’t wait to get our duds off.”

  Gwendolyn scattered her things across the coffee table and stretched out on the white damask sofa. She glanced up at the transom; Lenny was lining up his shot.

  Broochie knelt next to her in his undershorts and Gwendolyn could feel the sofa sag under his weight. He planted his knuckles on either side of her shoulders and lowered himself on top of her, pinning her down. He pulled his lips back in a smile that approached a leer. “Don’t worry, Lenny’s a pro.” His casualness wasn’t convincing. “He knows what these photos need to look like to sell them to the judge.” He nodded at his pal peeking at them through the transom. “Ready!”

  They went through a dozen contortions, the flash on Lenny’s camera exploded each time with enough bright light to fill the room. But when Broochie buried his face between her breasts, Gwendolyn pushed him away. “I think that’s quite enough!” She looked up at the transom for Lenny, but he was already opening the door, a folded-up step ladder in his hand. “The broad’s right, Hank. We got plenty of good stuff.” He left quickly, closing the front door behind him.

  Sweat glistened on Broochie’s forehead. “You can get off me now, Mr. Hubbard,” she informed him. Broochie didn’t move. “Mmm . . .” he moaned, lowering his mouth onto hers. She tasted egg salad and tried to scream, but he swallowed the syllable whole. Gwendolyn squirmed underneath him, but the sheer heft of the guy made it hard for her to breathe; he was squeezing the air out of her lungs. He grabbed her wrists and pressed them together with one meaty hand as the other slid up to her breast. He cupped it in his hand and pressed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Her heart just about caved in when she felt him swell against her thigh.

  When he started to thrust against her, she yanked a hand free and groped for the lamp on the side table. Her fingertips scraped it, but she couldn’t get a hold of it. “Come on, baby,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “I ain’t so bad, huh?” He pressed his mouth against hers again before she could grunt her reply. She pushed on his shoulder with her free hand, but he didn’t budge. Even thirty pounds lighter, he was still the size of a Black Angus. She groped the back of the sofa until her hand landed on his belt. She gripped the leather and yanked it toward her. The buckle caught on the edge of the
sofa, then flipped over and came down hard on the small of Broochie’s back. He winced.

  “Awwww! What the hell?” He let go of Gwendolyn’s hand and lifted his chest off her. She squirmed up the sofa a few inches and grabbed the glass lamp by the stem, then brought it down on the bastard’s head. It hit his skull with a dead, cracking sound, and he slumped to the floor.

  Gwendolyn scrambled off the sofa and grabbed her skirt. She pulled it over her slip and jammed her feet into her shoes as she scooped up the rest of her things. It wasn’t until she was at the door that she glanced back at Broochie. A tremor shook her when she saw a scarlet pool of blood soaking into the carpet.

  CHAPTER 30

  Gwendolyn watched Kathryn fidget with the gold clasp on her handbag for the longest time before she asked, “You nervous, honey?” Kathryn seemed surprised. “You’ve been playing with that there clasp like you were knitting it into a sweater.”

  Kathryn lifted her hands away from her bag like it was suddenly two hundred degrees. “I guess so,” she conceded and turned to gaze out the window. The streetcar rumbled down Western Avenue toward Long Beach.

  If anyone’s got something to be nervous about, it’s me, Gwendolyn thought. It had been nearly a week since she’d left Broochie lying in a pool of his own blood at the Bryson Hotel. She’d never seen blood like that before. It was brighter than she ever imagined. She was so shaken that she threw the window open at the end of the hall and ran down the fire escape. She was back on Wilshire before she wondered if she should have checked to see if he was alive. What if she’d killed him? There was a photographer with a camera full of photos of her. And the doorman could identify her, too. Why hadn’t she called the cops? Attempted rape is one thing, but it didn’t stack up against murder. But she’d done nothing about it except run away and fret, barely sleeping the whole week.

  “I haven’t seen my mother in four years,” Kathryn blurted out. “What sort of mother up and moves without telling her daughter where she is going? Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. And if she doesn’t want to be found, why the hell am I going all the way down to Long Beach to see her?” She paused. “Gwennie, what if she slams the door in my face?”

  Gwendolyn pressed Kathryn’s hands between her own. “Honey, she’s still your mama. Nobody’s going to be slamming no doors in no faces.”

  Kathryn’s eyes were shiny with tears. “I hope you’re right. But hey, what about you? You must be excited to see your brother again. How long’s it been?”

  The telegram that arrived for Gwendolyn during the threes party was from Monty, whose ship was in Long Beach for several days of drills. He’d told her to pick a place near the naval base and he’d spend his leave with her. She hadn’t seen him since the day after they buried Mama, when he ran off to join the navy. For the last five hellish days, Gwendolyn had wondered if he’d have to come visit her in prison. The murder of a supreme court judge’s son-in-law would send Hearst’s tabloids into a froth-mouthed fit, but there was no mention of a murder at the Bryson Hotel in any of the papers. Maybe Broochie had only suffered a concussion, some blood loss and a badly bruised ego. Serves him right, the big heel. But, she told herself ruefully, you can kiss RKO goodbye.

  “I haven’t seen Monty in six years,” Gwendolyn said. “The last time I saw him, he was just a tall, gangly fifteen-year-old who was lucky to pass for seventeen and to have a sister to forge his mother’s signature. I’m glad you’ll get to meet him. He’s all the family I have.”

  Kathryn smiled and nodded sadly. Gwendolyn knew she was thinking that Francine was the only family she had, too.

  The Making of Merry was starting to look a lot like The Unmaking of Marcus Adler’s Sanity. If only he could figure out how to get Merry’s love interest to impress the four batty spinsters that he’s a good guy. But what would a guy with an allergy to horses be doing at a state fair? Maybe if he changed the allergy to a phobia? Or changed the state fair to a circus? Maybe relocated the whole thing to Coney Island, where the horses are made of wood?

  The deadline was less than two weeks away, and Marcus had no idea what he was doing. He’d never written a screenplay before, and was still working out what happened when, where, and why. The deadline loomed like the long shadow of a firing squad at dawn.

  And it didn’t help that his new neighbors were newlyweds. They were at it morning, noon and night. The screams. The gasps. The groans. The endless thumping of the headboard against his wall. Didn’t they ever get tired? Or sore?

  “Enough already!” he yelled at the wall.

  Thump-thump-thump-thump.

  “This has got to stop!”

  And then suddenly it did. “Thank you,” Marcus muttered, and he returned to his typewriter. He hadn’t typed a full sentence when there was a knock on the door. “This had better be an apology.” He pulled open his door and reared back a step when he found Ramon Novarro filling his doorway.

  “Oh!” Marcus said. “It’s you! Wait — are you the guy next door?” He pointed to the honeymooners’ room with his thumb.

  Ramon looked up with blurry eyes and frowned. “No,” he said. “Should I be?”

  Marcus smelled bourbon. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to do this.” Ramon reached out for Marcus with both hands, grabbed his head and pulled him close. Their lips touched, then pressed together. Marcus felt Ramon’s tongue slip inside his mouth. They kissed deeply, wetly, hungrily. When Ramon pulled away, it was abrupt.

  Marcus’ eyes flew open. “What is it?” he asked, trying to keep his balance.

  “I want more than just to kiss you.”

  “Me too,” Marcus replied. He pulled at Ramon’s hands. “Come inside.”

  Ramon wouldn’t cross the threshold. “No, no. Not here. We must go where I can feel safe.”

  “It’s safe here,” Marcus whispered. He felt light-headed and breathless. After all these years of dreaming and fantasizing this very scene, Marcus found he wasn’t quite as prepared as he assumed he’d be. He steadied himself on the doorknob and tried to pull Ramon inside, but Ramon moved into the hallway.

  “I know a place,” he said. “Grab your jacket. My automobile is parked outside.”

  Kathryn shook Gwendolyn’s brother’s huge paw of a hand. He half-crushed hers with his enthusiasm. “It looks like navy life agrees with you,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am, it surely does!” Monty smiled that same smile Kathryn loved on Gwendolyn. With his thick crown of sun-bleached hair, his sailor’s tan and the way his dark blue uniform hugged his lean body, Monty was as handsome as Gwendolyn was beautiful. Good lord, they sure do grow ‘em good-looking in the Brick family, Kathryn thought.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Kathryn said. “You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  “You ain’t joinin’ Googie and me?” Monty asked.

  “Googie?” Kathryn asked with a smile.

  Gwendolyn giggled and slapped her brother’s shoulder. “I haven’t heard that in years.” She turned to Kathryn. “When Monty was growing up, my name was too long for him to pronounce. It came out ‘Googie’ and it kind of stuck. I was Googie and he was Mo-Mo. Kathryn here has some catching up of her own to do.” She told her brother, then squeezed Kathryn’s forearm. “I hope it all goes well. See you at home.”

  Kathryn headed east toward Temple Street. The nerves that had surfaced on the Red Car returned as a cold sweat. She dabbed her forehead with her gloves. Francine is your mother, she told herself. She won’t slam the door in your face. She’ll be glad to see you.

  She stopped in front of a florist’s shop. In the window was a pyramid of potted dahlias in ten different colors; shiny white, cinnamon red, saffron yellow, and at the top, an explosion of dark plum petals with edges dipped in guava. Kathryn heard her mother’s voice as she had a thousand times: “If you ever bring me flowers, make them dahlias!”

  She went inside to ask the price. The top plant was five dollars.

  “For one plant?” Kathr
yn exclaimed.

  “It’s an Aurora’s Kiss,” the woman replied as though that were explanation enough.

  Kathryn looked into her purse and totaled up her cash. “What have you got for two or three dollars?”

  A man in a blue flannel shirt, dungarees and work boots walked in, and the florist greeted him. She turned back to Kathryn. “Our dahlias are upstairs. We have more than thirty varieties — feel free to take a look around.”

  The stairs at the rear of the shop led to a long room filled with dahlias of every imaginable color; greens greener than emeralds, pinks like cotton candy, oranges brighter than the sun. Every one was lovelier than the last. When she got to the final table, however, the choice was easy. The Arabian Night’s petals were dark pink on the periphery and graduated to a striking magenta in the center. It was every bit as eye-catching as the Aurora’s Kiss, but only cost two-fifty. She put her handbag down and picked it up to inhale its fragrance; it smelled faintly of brine and reminded her of the Red Car rides to Santa Monica Beach with her mother when she was little.

  A low rumble sounded on the street. Kathryn figured it was a big truck at first, but when it continued, she looked up and frowned. No, she thought, that’s no truck.

  The long windows overlooking the street began to rattle, then she heard a tile scrape down the roof and smash on the concrete sidewalk below. A second, third and fourth quickly followed, then another and another. The floor beneath her feet began to stir, rolling upwards as though something underground was rupturing to the surface. The rumble swelled to a loud thunder, and the walls shook and heaved. The plaster started to crumble, exposing bricks and splintering wood and breathing a cloud of dust into the room. An almighty crack cleaved the air and ripped a gash in the floorboards, throwing Kathryn off her feet. The wall in front of her crumbled like a slab of dry cheese and the building slumped to its side.