Kathryn raised an eyebrow.
“Laura!” he called. A woman about Kathryn’s age with her hair pinned up in an elaborate chignon topped with a nest of curls approached with a stiff smile. “Laura Pettiford,” Wilkerson said, “I want you to meet our new columnist, Kathryn Massey. Laura here writes our obits, our photo captions and our On This Day historical spot, among other things.”
In other words, Kathryn thought, you get to do everything but serious writing more than four sentences long.
Laura somehow managed to keep the smile frozen on her face and open her mouth at the same time. She barely glanced at Kathryn. “I’ve come up with a possible title for Miss Massey’s column,” she said to Wilkerson. “What do you think of Window on Hollywood?”
Kathryn’s heart fluttered. Wilkerson had said nothing about giving her her own column. It was a goal she’d placed on the Maybe One Day shelf, out of reach for now but maybe one day. Kathryn white-knuckled her new handbag behind her back, thinking of the issues she wanted to cover — potential Communist infiltration, the effect of unionism on the industry, casting couch abuses, the monopoly the big studios had on the industry. She couldn’t wait to get to her typewriter.
Wilkerson nodded. “I like it. Window on Hollywood. What do you think, Kathryn?”
Kathryn pretended to mull the title over in her head. Laura could have come up with Cow Plop on My Head and Kathryn would have agreed, if it meant having her own column. Her own column! Kathryn couldn’t wait to tell Marcus and Gwendolyn. “It’s perfect.”
“Good work, Laura.” Wilkerson said. “Thank you. That’s a great title.”
Laura bowed her head and gave Kathryn a half-second glance before withdrawing. Kathryn turned toward the new Underwood that shone in the morning sun pouring through her frosted glass window. She took off a glove and ran her finger along the keys. “Is this brand new?” she asked her new boss.
“A new typewriter for a new sort of gossip column.”
Kathryn’s finger stopped in the middle of the space bar.
“I don’t give two figs for the sort of person you are at home,” Wilkerson said, “but once you step outside your door in the Garden of Allah, your public persona will now reflect on the Hollywood Reporter. What we need to do is find you the right persona. Louella Parsons has ‘It’s just us folks,’ which works well for her because, let’s face it, she’s about as sophisticated as porridge. Then there’s Adela Rogers St. Johns — she’s got that ‘Hearst World’s Greatest Girl Reporter’ thing, which is fine because she’s a darn good writer, even if she does work for Hearst. So I think it’ll be useful for us to find you a persona, too. Any thoughts?”
How about The Unwed Mother? Kathryn thought. She eyed the clock at the front of the newsroom. It was ten twenty.
When Kathryn said nothing, Wilkerson continued. “Here’s what I think. Hollywood gossip is based on hearsay, rumor, innuendo, and third-hand Chinese whisper, and most of it is bullshit. What I’m thinking we ought to cultivate is the sort of persona that says, ‘You can count on Kathryn Massey for the truth.’”
“You make it sound like I’m running for public office.”
Ten twenty-two.
“That’s exactly right. I’m glad we’re thinking along the same lines.”
Kathryn thought, If we were thinking along the same lines, this news about a gossip column wouldn’t be hitting me so hard. “Go on.”
“I see the Reporter’s resident gossip columnist as straightforward, honest and trustworthy. That’s what struck me about you.”
“Me and my poker face, huh?” Not to mention my illegitimate child.
“Right again!” Wilkerson said, looking at his watch.
Ten twenty-four. Kathryn’s stomach rumbled.
“I have an appointment at ten thirty, so I’m off. Make yourself at home and do what you need to do!”
Kathryn watched him cross the floor and realized she was the only woman in sight. She folded her coat over her chair and headed for the ladies’ room, passing reception on the way. Laura Pettigrew and Janice the receptionist had their heads together. Kathryn knew a bitch session when she walked into one. At ten twenty-seven, Kathryn entered the last cubicle in the restroom, unhitched and stepped out of her skirt, hung it on the door hook, and bent over the john. Last night’s sausages and mashed potatoes saw the light of day. Gossip column, she fumed between heaves. Because I’m a woman? She hurled again. One more ought to do it. A silly little gossip column about which star is possibly sleeping with which star even though he probably isn’t at all, and who really cares even if he is. After the final hurl, there was always an instant settling sensation, like sitting down after standing up all day.
She got dressed, smoothed down her hair, and let out a deep sigh. Oh well, it’s a start. Maybe when I prove to Wilkerson what I —
She jumped when she saw Laura Pettiford at the basin, a washcloth in her hand. Laura said, “You and I are the only women in the news room. We ought to link arms in solidarity, oughtn’t we?” She soaked the towel in cold water and offered it to Kathryn, who pressed it to her forehead. Relief flooded through her.
“You’re absolutely right,” Kathryn said. “This is the nineteen thirties. They’re just going to have to get used to us.”
“Good,” said Laura, smiling warmly. “Now that we have that settled.” She pulled out a small steno pad with a pen inserted through the curled spine. She wrote on one of the pages which she handed to Kathryn. It said, “Hettie Menzies — Hollywood 2-1141.”
“Who is Hettie Menzies?”
“You’ve never heard of Hettie? Oh my goodness, she’s a bit of a legend. She’s a calligrapher. Whenever you see a woman’s hand writing a letter or note on the screen, that’s usually Hettie. She can do any sort of handwriting. All the studios use her.”
“And you think she’s got some good gossip for me?”
Laura’s eyes narrowed and she stepped closer to Kathryn. “I’m giving you her number because from what I hear, she knows someone who is . . . sympathetic.”
CHAPTER 38
“Do I look like an idiot to you?”
Marcus didn’t dare blink. It was important not to blink at a guy whose face got baboon-butt red. “No,” he told the guard. “Of course not.”
“So what makes you think I’ve changed my mind? Is it because you’re not wearing your Western Union uniform this time? Is that it? You assumed maybe I wouldn’t remember you?”
Of course I assumed you wouldn’t remember me, Marcus thought. It’s been more than four years. I’m not even in my uniform, for God’s sake. What sort of circus memory freak are you?
“You were banned from the MGM lot then, and you’re banned from it now.”
Marcus took the precious telegram from his pocket and held it up. “This is a completely different situation. I have an appointment.”
In truth, what Marcus had wasn’t so much an appointment, but a deadline. He was due at the reception desk of the writers’ building by twelve noon, or the offer he’d been dreaming about for six years would be snatched away.
“I don’t care if you have a wedding ring for Mr. Mayer’s daughter.” The red-faced guard snatched the telegram from Marcus’ hand, ripped it in half, ripped those halves in half, and tossed them up in the air. Marcus watched his dream flutter to the ground in white squares. He knelt down and started collecting them until a hand grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back to his feet.
“You’re from Western Union,” said the guard. “You could print yourself a forgery in less than a minute. You think I haven’t seen that trick a million times? Now scram before I call the Culver City police for trespassing.”
“Look,” Marcus raised his voice. “All you have to do is place a phone call to the writers’ department and ask for Jim Taggert. There is a contract on his desk made out to me. One phone call and all this gets cleared up.”
Marcus held his breath while Captain Hoolihan glowered at him for a very long moment, then
disappeared inside his booth and placed a call. He didn’t draw in air again until Hoolihan came back outside.
“Taggert’s in a story conference for the rest of the day and cannot be disturbed.”
“Did you ask whoever answered the phone if there was a contract there for me to sign?”
“Listen, squirt, you’re lucky I placed that call at all. There’s nobody to confirm your story, so scram.”
“Hugo Marr!” Marcus blurted out. For the very first time, Marcus was sincerely glad that Hugo worked at MGM. “Do you know who he is?
“I do. But–”
“Then please, call him and confirm with him that I am who I say I am–”
“You’re lucky I made that first call. I’m not going to go wasting my time–”
“Better you waste the time of Hugo Marr than George Cukor, because if I have to find a public telephone and bother George with this, he won’t be a very happy person.”
Marcus copped another pump-action stare, but the bluff worked. Marcus knew that George was in the midst of crisis-editing his Hepburn picture–the Legion of Decency had erupted over what was supposed to be a sneak preview–and would shoot on sight anyone interrupting him, even for something like this–and Hoolihan retreated to his booth. When he returned, his face was even redder.
“Mr. Marr is off work this entire week.”
“He is? Why?”
Hoolihan took a step closer. “Get the hell off my lot before I call the cops.”
The two stared at each other unblinkingly until Marcus faced the fact that this was not something he was going to win, and returned to the sidewalk on Washington Boulevard. The ten ornate columns at the official front gate of the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer studios were at the center of a ten-foot-tall wall that stretched a couple of blocks in each direction. There was no getting over it without a pole vault.
He looked down to see a square of white paper pressed against his shoe. The sole word printed on it was ‘noon.’ He had read the telegram a hundred times and knew exactly where that word was.
Less than a week ago, that telegram had come from MGM, informing Marcus of the studio’s wish to buy the screen rights of “Subway People” for a stupefying one thousand dollars. Would he be interested in a one-year contract with MGM as a junior screenwriter for a hundred dollars a week? Marcus was astounded. He was being offered his dream job at seven times his Western Union salary, and they were asking if he would be interested?
REPORT TO MGM WRITERS BLDG ON JULY 15 TO SIGN CONTRACT STOP
OUR OFFER WILL BE RESCINDED IF YOU HAVE NOT ARRIVED BY NOON STOP
SINCERELY JIM TAGGART WRITING DEPT SUPERVISOR STOP
Of course, Kathryn’s response was, “Careful what you wish for. I thought I got my dream job, and look at what they’ve got me doing. Ugh!” Marcus didn’t blame her for being just a little bitter, but at least she got in the door. And Hugo had assured him that it was standard procedure to give offers like this a specific time by which the contract had to be signed. He said they did it when they really didn’t care if you signed or not; all the studios did it that way. It was the same when he won the screenwriting contest–so, “. . . don’t think it’ll be waiting for you at twelve-oh-one. Noon means noon.”
Marcus looked up and down Washington Boulevard until he spotted the Coffee Cup Café across the street. Maybe they had a payphone.
From the south side of Culver Boulevard, Marcus watched MGM’s employee entrance. From what he could see, there was just one guard on duty. There had to be thousands of people employed at MGM — could that guard know every single one of them? He could if he was like Buttface Hoolihan around the corner at the front gate.
It was now going on ten-thirty. Getting through to the receptionist in the writers’ department on the Coffee Cup Café’s payphone wasn’t hard. Yes, she had his paperwork. Yes, she had instructions to tear the contract up at one minute past twelve. No, she couldn’t put him on the gate list; that had to come from the supervisor, Mr. Taggart. No, she couldn’t put Marcus through because Mr. Taggart was in a meeting for the rest of the day. No, she couldn’t interrupt it. But did he know about the other gate into the studio?
Marcus crossed Culver Boulevard at the light and broke into a run. As he approached the booth, the guard looked up and stared at him. “I’M SO LATE! I’M SO GODDAMNED LATE!” he yelled, and shot his arms out as if to say “Gangway!” “Thalberg’s gonna be wearing my guts for garters!”
Marcus almost made it past the guard, but at the last moment he caught Marcus by the elbow. “Are you saying you work here?”
Marcus felt a convenient sweat break out across his forehead and he made a big play of wiping it away. “I’m already an hour late. I gotta get —”
“What’s your name?”
“Hugo Marr.”
“If we go in the time-clock office here, there’ll be a timecard with your name on it?”
Marcus nodded.
The guard squinted at Marcus. “Let’s go inside, then.”
A series of metal slots filled with timecards were mounted on three walls. A clock on the center wall divided them into two zones, with the slots to the right mostly filled. A few unclaimed cards filled slots to the left. It wasn’t hard to find the one marked “Marr, Hugo.”
Marcus roamed the studio looking for a building marked “Writers.” He passed a flat, broad building marked “Rehearsal Halls,” a tall, narrow one labeled “Film Vaults,” and a boxy one whose sign said “Plaster Shop.” He stopped a quartet of tuxedoed violists who happened by, but all they knew were the rehearsal rooms and recording studios. An efficient-looking secretary type holding a stack of papers was more helpful. “Oh, sure,” she told him. “You want to go past Stage Nine, then past Eighteen, past Seventeen and you’ll see a building marked “Advertising” and another one marked “Commissary.” Go past them and you’ll see another building, the Scenario Department. That’s the one you want.”
But Marcus only got as far as Stage Eighteen when he saw Buttface Hoolihan heading toward him, schmoozing a tall brunette in a coat with a huge fur collar. Marcus looked around and saw a pair of guys in overalls walking out of Stage Eighteen. He glanced back at Hoolihan — big mistake. Their eyes met. After only a second’s delay, recognition burst onto the guard’s face.
“HEY!”
Marcus ran toward the door to Stage Eighteen, yanked it open and pitched his body onto the set of a vaudeville hall. Scores of extras in turn-of-the-century costumes milled around tables and chairs, cooling themselves with feathered fans and newspapers. More extras filled a balcony off to the left, and the stage to Marcus’ right had a formal British garden painted on its background. An eight-piece band had gathered in front of the stage.
A flash of sunlight glinted behind him as the soundstage door opened, and Marcus melted into a rack of fur coats. Buttface Hoolihan called out to one of the stagehands, “Hey, you! Did you see someone run in here? Mid-twenties, dark suit, white shirt, purple tie and shiny new black shoes?”
Christ almighty, was there no detail that escaped this guy’s attention?
“Nope.”
Hoolihan let fly a few choice swear words. “I’ll search this whole place my goddamned self.”
“I don’t know, Hooley. We start filming in fifteen minutes. We’re doing one of the big sequences today. We only got one take to get it right, and everybody’s tense, especially Van Dyke. He won’t appreciate anybody getting in the way.”
Marcus listened to Buttface Hoolihan stomp away before he dared peek around the mink he was clutching. As he turned to leave through the same door, Woody Van Dyke entered with Clark Gable and stopped in the doorway. Gable, dressed in a sharply tailored black tailcoat, towered over the slim graying director as he watched him explain something with his hands as much as with his words. Marcus backed away and spotted a clipboard and pen on a stack of fake bricks. Figuring it’d make him look like he belonged, he grabbed it and started looking for another exit.
The set
towered nearly two stories high, almost as far as the spotlights threaded across the ceiling. Marcus drew closer, puzzling over a jagged line in the floor. He realized it had been made in two separate sections, and this was where they met. He looked at the clipboard in his hand:
Production number: 18103
Production name: “San Francisco”
Director: W.S. Van Dyke
Start date: June 30th, 1935
Today’s production day number is: 6
Marcus had been reading about this picture in one of Kathryn’s first Window on Hollywood columns. Clark Gable and Jeannette MacDonald were going to star in what the MGM publicity machine claimed would reconstruct the entire 1906 earthquake.
“Okay, people,” a voice boomed out over a megaphone, “you need to finish up what you’re doing in three minutes. Don’t be overly fussy. It’s all going to come tumbling down into a heap of rubble anyways.”
Buttface Hoolihan was standing at the door, his arms crossed over his chest and his feet spread apart as if to say, Just try and get past me, punk. Marcus headed in the opposite direction. Surely a soundstage this big had a second exit. Pretending to check items off a list on his clipboard, Marcus picked his way past wooden ladders, extras, cameras, and buckets and buckets of dirt.
Around the back of the vaudeville set he caught sight of another door. He’d managed to get about ten feet closer to it when he spotted Hoolihan approaching it from the other direction. A couple of stagehands loading papier mâché bricks into a net slung from the roof blocked his retreat. He made a left hand turn and walked through a doorway . . . and onto the set. It was the last place he should have gone, but he had run out of options.
Right at that moment, someone yelled, “LIGHTS!” and the rows of overhead spotlights flooded the set with the intensity of a half-dozen California August suns.
The Garden on Sunset Page 21