The Garden on Sunset

by Martin Turnbull

  “Okay,” said Marcus, “it’s a deal.”

  Kathryn spun toward Marcus and glared at him until he couldn’t ignore her cobra stare anymore. His expression said, What else can we do?

  “Okay then,” the pawnbroker said. He opened a drawer and pulled out two wads of twenties and counted them out loud. He started to push them across the counter toward Marcus, then stopped and raised his eyebrows.

  Marcus cleared his throat. “Victor Fleming.”

  Oh lord, Marcus, Kathryn thought, you’re a genius.

  Victor Fleming was a hard-drinking, hard-living, wildlife-hunting, ex-stuntman-turned-director that man’s-man actors like Gary Cooper and Clark Gable liked to work with. He was everything George Cukor wasn’t and never wanted to be, and George couldn’t stand him.

  “Fleming, huh?” The pawn broker rolled the name around his mouth. “You mean the director?”

  Marcus took the money, folded it in and pushed it into his pocket. He pointed a threatening finger at the guy. “But you didn’t fucking hear it from me.”

  It was nearly closing time when Eldon Laird and his pals gathered the strength to lift themselves up from their table. Despite their succession of Manhattans, Laird was the model of sobriety, but the Three Stooges looked like they’d been run over by the J&B Scotch truck. It had been a busy night–the Max Factor crowd had all been a hard-drinking and hard-smoking bunch–but things had tapered off now. When she saw Laird and his pals get up, Gwendolyn positioned herself between the hat check and the front door and struck a casual pose. But when the men collected their coats and strode past her without a glance, her shoulders slumped.

  Then a man cleared his throat behind her. She turned around to find Eldon Laird standing with his overcoat folded over one arm.

  “Do you have much call for filter-tipped Viceroys?” he asked.

  “Only from my more discerning clients.”

  “I’m having a hell of a time finding them. Could you get more in?”

  Well now, that was more like it. “Of course,” she said. “Next time you’re in here I’ll be sure to have some in stock.”

  “I’m nearly out of them. If you are able to get your hands on them, I’d appreciate it if you could drop by my office.” He flipped a business card into her tray. “A carton, maybe?”

  She picked up the business card and glanced at it. “Eldon Laird, is it?” she said, as coolly as she could.

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m a talent agent. But I’m guessing you knew that already.”

  The taxi lurched to the curb. “Tell you what I’ll do,” the cabby said. “I’ll turn off the meter this time and wait for you to come out. I can take you and your buddy home.”

  Marcus sighed to himself. Did all these people really think we don’t know what they’re up to? “No, that’s okay,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “This could take a while.” He handed over a ten dollar bill. “Keep the change.” That meant a three dollar tip — the best one he’d get all year. They didn’t wait for the driver’s response and climbed out.

  It was six forty. Nobody was about but surely that was going to change any minute. Marcus headed toward the terrazzo steps, but Kathryn pulled him back.

  “This is as far as I go,” she said. “Tell him it’s payback for the Brown Derby and that I won’t breathe a word of it in my column.” She gave him a shove. “Now, you go in and get him while I skedaddle.”

  Marcus took the marble stairs two by two and hurried through the revolving door into the city jail’s waiting room. A dozen of society’s rejects slouched over the scarred wooden benches as the desk sergeant smirked at Marcus and directed him to the cashier’s window. “Come back here with a receipt for two grand, and he’s all yours.”

  It was five to seven when one of MGM’s most respected directors, currently guiding Greta Garbo through a high-profile version of Camille, appeared before Marcus looking like a skid row bum after a three-day bender. He was in his shirt sleeves and his rolled-up necktie was poking out of a pants pocket which had been ripped several inches at the seam. His shoes, always so immaculately polished, were scuffed and dull.

  “Oh, thank God!” George exclaimed hoarsely, and grabbed Marcus by the forearms. “The night I’ve had. You’re my savior. Twice! I’ll never forget this. Never!”

  “You and me both, Georgie. Come on, let’s get out of here before–”

  Marcus stopped short of the revolving door. The taxi driver was on the front steps talking to a couple of guys holding large cameras.

  “Is there a side entrance?” Marcus asked the guard.

  “Nope. Everyone goes in and out the same door.”

  “Where’s the men’s room?”

  The guard pointed off to his right. Marcus pulled George in and locked the door. “We need to swap clothes.”

  “Look at your waist!” George said. “I’ll never fit inside those pants.”

  “Then you’ll need to suck in your stomach and keep it sucked in until we’re clear of the building. Let’s just be thankful that we’re about the same height.”

  The two men stripped down to their underwear and exchanged clothes. George, a doughy man at best, managed to squeeze into Marcus’ trousers. “I feel like a Victorian lady in her tightest corset.” They checked themselves in the mirror and left the bathroom.

  They crossed the waiting room and threw themselves through the revolving doors, striding into the sunlight with their heads turned away from the knot of photographers and reporters gathering on the granite forecourt.

  “Got a minute?” called a reporter. “Either of you guys know Victor Fleming?”

  George stopped and turned around. “Victor Fleming?”

  “Yeah,” the reporter said. “The director at MGM. Some dame told me a big-time movie director got himself hauled into lockup last night. She said it was Victor Fleming. You see him in there?”

  Cukor flashed Marcus a sideways glance. Marcus smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  CHAPTER 46

  “NO!” Gwendolyn exclaimed around a mouthful of a onion bagel. They’d come to Schwab’s Drugstore at the end of their sleepless night for the best bagels in all of Los Angeles. “It wasn’t!” Marcus nodded his head. “I hope he was grateful,” she said.

  “Oh, don’t you worry, he was. But don’t breathe a word about this to a soul.”

  Kathryn stifled a yawn. The poor thing still hadn’t gone to bed yet. Neither had Marcus. After such a dramatic night, it was no wonder they were still all keyed up and devouring toasted bagels like they were cotton candy. “Marcus made sure he knew who you were and that the brooch belonged to you. Mr. George Cukor owes you one.”

  Gwendolyn watched Jack and Leon Schwab hang the same silver and white tinsel they used every Christmas across the magazine rack at the back of the store. Gosh, and to think my little ol’ diamond brooch helped save the reputation of one of MGM’s most important directors. She picked up her coffee and blew on the steam. “I’m glad I knew where Alice was going, or you’d still be peeking inside every nightclub between here and Long Beach.”

  “Good lord, Gwennie!” Kathryn exclaimed. “You should have seen who she was there with.”

  “I don’t need to. I’ve seen enough of those movie studio guys that Alice dates to know they’re all the same.”

  “Not this one,” Marcus said. “I mean, she looked like a man and she dressed like a man . . .”

  “Some director,” Kathryn added.

  “A woman director?” Gwendolyn leaned forward. “What was her name?”

  Marcus and Kathryn looked at each other. “Dorothy . . . ?” Marcus said.

  “Oznow . . . ?” Kathryn guessed. “Arznow . . . ?”

  “Arzner?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “Yes, I think so. Do you know her? Very manly, huh?”

  Gwendolyn turned to Marcus. “Do you remember when I told you about a conversation I had once with Alla? About how important it was to have a close friend I can confide in? I told her I had the two of
you, and she told me about her friend.”

  Marcus nodded.

  “Alla’s friend was someone called Arzner. She was in Alla’s 8080 Club when the Garden was all hers. And you know how those gals were all hot to trot for each other. Maybe she knows where Alla is.”

  Marcus took deep breaths to calm himself as he, Kathryn and Gwendolyn walked up the driveway of Arzner’s house in the Hollywood Hills. It hadn’t taken long to track down the only Dorothy Arzner in the telephone book; they were there within the hour. Her front door was made of cherry wood and had a round stained-glass window with a Roman goddess holding a long, arched bow.

  A woman built like a fire plug answered the door. “Can I help you? — Wait!” Arzner frowned as her gaze flickered between Marcus and Kathryn. “You two were at the Biltmore Bowl last night, weren’t you? Alice’s friends.” When she caught sight of Gwendolyn standing behind them, her eyes widened. “Well, what can I do for you?”

  “We’ve come about Alla Nazimova,” Marcus said.

  The woman’s eyes darted back to Marcus. “How did you know she’s here?” Marcus’ heart gave a jolt.

  “She is?” Kathryn blurted out. She leaned to one side and peered past Arzner. “Can we see her?”

  “Best I can do is pass on a message.” Arzner was stony-eyed again.

  “Please,” Marcus said. He could feel a rising tide of panic fill his chest. “Could you tell her it’s Marcus Adler? I’d really love to see her.”

  “It’s okay, Dorothy.” Alla’s voice was unmistakable. “Let them in.”

  Alla stepped into the bright foyer. Three years ago, she was a handsome woman who’d waltzed beyond the height of her beauty but still carried it with her. Now her hair was thinner and grayer, the lines on her face deeper. Even her magnificent violet eyes had dimmed a watt or two. Instead of wise and worldly, they looked worn and weary. But her smile, soft and warm, was all that mattered to Marcus.

  “Madame!” he exclaimed. He stepped past Arzner and embraced the friend he thought he’d lost. She smelled as she always did: tart blackberries, sweet honey. He couldn’t speak. He held her tightly and swam in the pool of relief that drenched him.

  She let him hug her for a few moments before grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing him back to arm’s length. She stared into his eyes. “What an enterprising young man you proved yourself to be.”

  Marcus nodded. “You add two and two together long enough, you can track anyone down.”

  Madame widened her smile. “No, no. You achieved your goal. You’re a professional screenwriter now. Marion Davies, eh? Well done.”

  Marcus couldn’t help but smile at the encouragement from Madame he’d longed for. The fact that she knew about his job at Cosmopolitan Pictures showed that she hadn’t forgotten him completely.

  Madame led them into Arzner’s spacious livingroom; the walls were covered with gilt-framed oil paintings of female nudes. As she motioned for them all to take a seat, Dorothy murmured something about making orange blossom tea and left the room.

  Marcus took Madame by the hand. It felt dry, like an autumn leaf. “I’ve missed you,” he told her. “Very much.”

  “We all have,” Gwendolyn put in.

  “You’re very dear. All of you. It is heartening to see your faces once more.” She turned back to Marcus, her expression a veneer of Russian stoicism. “I am sorry that I left without saying goodbye. That was remiss of me. But I . . .” she lowered her eyes. “I was at my weakest.”

  “We heard about your family back in Russia,” Kathryn said.

  Alla nodded.

  “We thought that’s where you’d gone.” Marcus said.

  Madame Nazimova looked up, her eyes wide with horror. “Back to Russia? Never!” She sighed. “My family are wheat farmers. A terrible plague swept through Yalta and destroyed everything. There was terrible, terrible famine everywhere, everyone starving. Then my sister-in-law, she had trouble with her kidneys. She was about to die. I sent them everything I had.” She shrugged.

  Marcus was aghast. “But Madame, where did that leave you?”

  She shot Marcus a severe stare. “They saved Irina’s life and bought seed to sow their fields. Now they have acres full of ripe wheat, they have bread upon their table, money in their pockets, Irina is healthy, and they smile once more.”

  “But what about you?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been poor before in my life. But when the last of my savings had gone, I looked around the Garden of Allah and found it too painful to remain. Every time I looked across the pool and around my gardens, I thought of the time when I earned thirteen thousand dollars every week. That’s more than my family has earned in their entire lives. I was foolish, and now it is gone. I could stay no longer. My darling Dorothy took me in.”

  “We want you back,” Kathryn said.

  Madame smiled sadly. “I cannot afford pickles for my lunch, let alone a room at my Garden of Allah.”

  “Maybe you can,” Kathryn said. She reached into her purse, pulled out a small book covered in black felt and handed it to Marcus.

  “Madame,” he said, handing it to her like it was a newborn baby. “In your haste to disappear, you left this behind.”

  Madame Nazimova took the book, turned it over in her hands and then opened it at a random page. Her lips moved as she read the lines of poetry inscribed in green ink. Her violet eyes lit up. “I remember this.”

  “These poems,” Marcus said. “Were they really written by Rudolph Valentino?”

  Alla nodded and turned the page. “He was a beautiful man.”

  “Madame,” Marcus said, but she was lost in memory. He laid a hand on her arm and pressed it gently. She looked up into his face. “Madame, you own a book of poetry written by Rudolph Valentino in his own hand. Do you realize how much that is worth?”

  CHAPTER 47

  Gwendolyn had just finished hanging the last of the fire engine red tinsel on the darling little two-foot Christmas tree Kathryn had brought home that morning when Marcus tapped on the door and walked in. “How does it look?” she asked him.

  “I haven’t even begun to think of Christmas yet,” he said. He dropped two tickets on the kitchen table where the morning light was starting to inch across from the window sill. Marlene Dietrich’s new picture was called The Garden of Allah and Paramount’s PR department thought it would be keen to have residents from Hollywood’s Garden of Allah attend the premiere at Grauman’s. “I keep expecting the weather to turn cold,” Marcus said, “but it never does.”

  Kathryn appeared in the bedroom doorway brushing her hair. “Has anyone seen Madame around the Garden yet?” she asked. “I want to invite her to join us for Christmas dinner.”

  The president of the Valentino fan club turned out to be a very good friend of Madame Nazimova’s. She knew Ramon Novarro’s collector friend in New York and put the two of them in contact. The collector offered Madame an obscene amount of money for the book. Gwendolyn hoped, if only for Marcus’ sake, that Madame would accept the offer and move back into the Garden, but they hadn’t heard her answer yet.

  “She should get herself an agent,” Kathryn continued. “There’s no reason she shouldn’t be working. The lines on her face only make her more interesting. She could get all sorts of character roles.” She turned to Gwendolyn. “Speaking of getting an agent, I’ve been meaning to ask you: what about that one you had an eye on? The one from the Zulu Hut.”

  “Oh!” With all the Cukor drama happening that night, she hadn’t shared her latest career development with them. “He popped up at the Grove, so I got the hat check girl to go through his coat pockets.”

  Marcus hung the last of the painted wooden holly leaves on the tree. “Isn’t that against the rules?”

  “Completely! But I was utterly desperate to find out why he never bought tobacco from me. You wouldn’t believe what he had in his pocket. Remember my loopy Gwendolyn Was Here plan? Gosh darn it if Mister Eldon Laird didn’t have a Gwendolyn Was Here coaste
r from the Brown Derby right there in his pocket!”

  “So it worked?” Kathryn asked. Although Kathryn had never said as much, Gwendolyn knew that Kathryn had thought her plan was ridiculously far-fetched.

  Gwendolyn reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. “He gave me this and asked me to stop by his office.”

  Kathryn took the card and read it. “Gwendolyn!”

  Gwendolyn nodded. “All I’ve been hearing since I moved here was that a smart girl gets herself an agent. They’re the way in. Easier said than done. And now I find this guy’s had one of my coasters all along.”

  Kathryn gave her hand a squeeze. “That’s terrific. Congratulations, my dear.” She drained the last of her coffee. “I’d better move my behind. Just as I was leaving the office yesterday, Wilkerson called me in and told me there’s a book he wants me to read and summarize for him.”

  “Is that part of your job?” Marcus asked.

  “Until I get what I want at the Hollywood Reporter, everything is part of my job.”

  “So which book does he want you to read?”

  “That new one everyone’s going nuts over. Gone with the Wind.”

  “The one about the Civil War?” Gwendolyn asked. She felt like she’d spent half her childhood listening to Mama’s stories of the tragedies suffered by the Boyington family at the hands of those despicable Yankees. The last thing she wanted to do was wade through a slab of a book about the same thing. She had better things to do now that she’d piqued the interest of an honest-to-goodness talent agent. “But isn’t that thing over a thousand pages long?”

  Kathryn nodded. “He wants the first part by Monday morning, and if we’re due at Grauman’s at six, I’m going to need every minute I can squeeze out of today. And a lot of coffee.” She picked up her handbag and headed out the door. “See you later!”