Book Read Free

Citizen Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 3)

Page 7

by Martin Turnbull


  “As a matter of fact, he did. Why?”

  It took several moments for Hugo to respond. “I bumped into him at the opening of Café Gala, up on Sunset. Which is homo heaven, by the by. Anyhow, he was sitting by himself, not completely loaded, but on the way. I asked him what was up. He said there was a guy he couldn’t stop thinking about. When I asked him if he’d done anything about it, he told me that the first time they’d kissed, the Long Beach earthquake hit.

  “I told him six years is a long time to be hung up over someone. And if you really like a person, you gotta take a chance. Nobody ever died of showing their honest feelings, even homos like us. That’s something my father liked to say. He was referring to silent movies, but the old bastard’s right. So I told Ramon he ought to do something bold.”

  “So I guess I have you to thank,” Marcus said.

  Hugo gave a slight nod, but said nothing, and looked away.

  Marcus leaned forward. “Is something the matter?”

  Hugo grabbed his jacket. “Let’s get outta here.” They stumbled out into the summer twilight where the heat of the day still filled the air. They tottered back toward the Red Car terminus at the end of the Santa Monica Pier, but found themselves unfit for struggling against the tide of departing beachgoers. Instead, they cut across a river of sunburned bodies and took a seat on the bottom concrete step leading down to the less popular end of the beach, south of the pier.

  Marcus let Hugo contemplate the setting sun for a few moments before he nudged him. “You going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Hugo shrugged. “I didn’t see that coming, is all. You and Ramon, I mean. But I am happy for you. No, really, it’s great.” But the smile hadn’t returned to Hugo’s eyes.

  “It’s just that . . .” Marcus prompted.

  “It’s just that I’m surprised Ramon didn’t say anything to me about it. Maybe he figured it wasn’t his news to tell. So how’s it all going? Is it all bliss and joy and groans and sweat? You must miss him something awful now that he’s headed off to Europe.”

  Ramon’s latest trip to Europe had been the cause of their first fight. Marcus was pleased when Ramon received a generous offer from a theatrical producer, but he was dismayed to learn it was a tour of British music halls with a possible extension over to the Continent. The fact that Ramon’s career was at a virtual standstill was something Marcus could empathize with—he’d slogged his way through his fair share of professional deserts—so he understood Ramon’s determination to say yes to any decent offer. But Marcus insisted the idea of going to a Europe hurtling toward all-out war was a crazy idea, and Ramon didn’t want to hear it. Shouted accusations of disloyalty were followed by slamming doors. The telegram filled with regret didn’t arrive until after Ramon had set sail across the North Atlantic.

  Marcus kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, and dug his toes into sand still warm from the sun. “I got a telegram a week ago.” He pulled his knees to his chest and encircled them with his arms. “He was in a place called Bourton-on-the-Water. I looked it up; it’s in Gloucestershire. Having a great time, apparently.”

  Hugo buried his toes in the sand, too. “Any word on when he’ll be back?”

  “Nope,” Marcus replied. “He’s so vague about dates. It drives me nuts.”

  Hugo hmmed a reply.

  Marcus let a few moments tick by. “Did you know your submission was last on the pile?”

  “What submission?”

  “You know, when Taggert told us to come up with a great movie idea and said the last one in would lose his job.”

  Hugo let off a slurry giggle. “Oh, that.” They watched a family weighed down with orange umbrellas and a pile of buckets, snorkels, striped towels, and straw hats lumber past them and up the concrete stairs. Hugo trudged over to their vacated patch of sand, dropped his briefcase, and lay out with his hands under his head and his eyes closed. Marcus lay down beside him.

  “Yeah,” Hugo said, “ol’ Taggert waved his termination notice in front of my face. Got steamed up, veins popping out all over. Wasn’t hard to talk my way out of it, though.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “Told him Paul Revere was an obvious choice, and sooner or later one of the other studios was bound to hit on it, so wouldn’t it be better if MGM beat them to it? I saw him wavering, so I sweetened the pie.”

  Marcus never felt like he played studio politics very well, and if he was going to persist with his No More Mr. Nice Guy campaign, he realized he could learn something useful from Hugo. “Sweeten it with what?”

  “My dad once told me Taggert is big-time into the ponies. They had the same bookie, but the guy died of a heart attack a few months back. I told Taggert I could introduce him to the Caravan.”

  “What’s that?”

  Hugo yawned and ran his fingers through his wavy hair. Look at this guy, Marcus thought. His boss tells him he’s getting canned and straightaway he comes up with a way out like it’s nothing. Marcus thought of that day in Taggert’s office. He’d pulled off his display of bravado, but it was just a façade, and afterwards he’d beelined for his office, slammed the door, and shivered through flop-sweat. Marcus bet Hugo barely even gave it a second thought.

  “Gus Caravell,” Hugo said. “They call him the Caravan. Real big-time bookie. By-invitation-only sort of thing. I told Taggert I could make the intro if he’d let the whole matter drop. And before he could say no, I handed him a five-page treatment of the Paul Revere picture I’d done in my free time. Lucky for me, I’d just finished it and had it on me. He stared at me not knowing what to say, so I shot him my bestest smile and headed out of his office. That was the last of that.”

  “Well played,” Marcus said.

  They lay there for a minute or two, feeling the last of the sun on their faces.

  “Thanks f’telling me, anyways.”

  Marcus could see that Hugo’s stab at casualness wasn’t enough to obscure his underlying sincerity. “Call it payback,” he said. “If it wasn’t for you handing me the Strange Cargo script, I wouldn’t be back at MGM.”

  “Some guys woulda just let me swing.” Hugo flipped onto his stomach and watched the sky fade to a deep rose. “You never did tell me what you came up with.”

  “William Tell,” Marcus said.

  “I bet they jumped on that like cowboys in a whorehouse.”

  “Haven’t heard a thing. How long did you say your treatment was?”

  When Hugo didn’t reply, Marcus looked at him and found that he’d fallen asleep on the sand. Or passed out. Either way, he was dead to the world.

  CHAPTER 10

  “You’re a Gary Cooper fan, aren’t you?”

  It was unusual for Kathryn’s boss to telephone her at home on a Saturday afternoon. Kathryn was intrigued, but his timing wasn’t great; she was behind in her packing.

  “Who isn’t?”

  She scanned the apartment for her compact and waited for the real purpose of the call.

  “I see here in the paper that Beau Geste is in a double bill at the Fox Riverside Theater tonight.”

  Riverside was a small town so far east of LA that Kathryn wasn’t even sure where it was, but she knew Wilkerson would have even less of a clue. “You looking for a date?” she asked.

  “No, but I thought you might be.”

  Kathryn looked at her watch; Roy was due at her door in less than an hour. His wife had gone to Phoenix with the children, which left him free to be with Kathryn. It was their first romantic weekend away in the whole six years they’d been seeing each other in hotel rooms and out-of-the-way cafés. She’d been looking forward to it for weeks, especially since she’d been avoiding Roy lately. Nothing had been said, but surely he’d noticed the dates she broke and the excuses she was handing out.

  The truth was, she felt guilty about Orson. She still wasn’t sure the two of them had done anything the evening she lost her watch, but his enigmatic grin indicated that they probably had. Not that I should feel guilty
cheating on Roy, she reminded herself over and over. Roy is the married one, not me. But whatever had happened between her and Orson probably wasn’t proper, and agreeing to this Santa Barbara weekend was her way of setting things right.

  Whatever Wilkerson is dangling from his hook, she told herself, I ain’t biting. But still, something was up. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more going on in Riverside tonight than Beau Geste?”

  “Assuming my source can be trusted.”

  Kathryn looked at her almost-packed suitcase. “Out with it.”

  “A pal of mine just told me they’re holding a sneak preview tonight for Gone with the Wind.”

  Kathryn white-knuckled the telephone. “Oh, bossman, it’s a surprise sneak preview. The press are persona non grata.”

  “Ever heard of something called a coincidence?” Kathryn could hear the ice cubes clinking around her boss’ single malt whiskey. “Don’t you have an old school friend who lives in Riverside?” he said. “Let’s call her—oh, I don’t know—say, Hilary van Hoss. And don’t you and Hilary often go to the movies? She lives just down the street from the Fox . . .”

  Kathryn could feel the fingers of temptation reaching up and stroking her face. “Who’d buy a story like that?” she scoffed. “Especially from me?”

  When Kathryn out-scooped Louella Parsons with two items of important Gone with the Wind gossip, the balance of power around Hollywood had shifted. It didn’t tip wholly in Kathryn’s favor, but it was enough to get her noticed. The name she’d made for herself was Queen of the Gone with the Wind Scoops, so the whole point of pursuing Orson Welles was to show the industry she was capable of getting other scoops, too.

  “It’s not about who buys the story,” Wilkerson said, “but how it’s sold.”

  Kathryn told her boss she’d think about it and hung up. She let herself fall backwards onto the sofa and closed her eyes. “Roy’s a great guy,” she told herself out loud. “When was the last time anyone asked you on a romantic weekend away?” She fiddled with the kid leather tassel at the end of her belt and wondered if she could really pass up the opportunity to be the first member of the press to see Gone with the Wind.

  Then her phone rang again. “I have some bad news.” It was Roy. She squeezed the tassel and silently prayed that he was calling to cancel and solve her dilemma. “I’m going to be a little late,” he said. “My wife took the car. It’s a shame nobody rents out cars like hotel rooms. But don’t worry, I’ll find a car to borrow.”

  “I think I know somebody,” Kathryn said. “Just be at the Bronson Gate at five.”

  She raced past the pool and through a thicket of lemon trees to Marcus’ villa and knocked on his door. He opened it with a freshly poured glass of bourbon in his hand. “Join me?” he asked. The hope in his eyes told her he was desperately lonely. Ramon was still in Europe and hadn’t telegrammed to say when he was returning. Marcus frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to be halfway to Santa Barbara?”

  “Wilkerson just called me.” She took a slug of Marcus’ drink. “There’s a sneak preview of Gone with the Wind in Riverside. Tonight.”

  “Roy was Gable’s stuntman, wasn’t he?” Marcus took his drink back. “He’s going to want to see it. So what’s your dilemma?”

  “He thinks making movies is kids’ stuff, but for a guy who didn’t finish the eighth grade it pays better than anything else. His wife never goes out of town, so this is a once in a blue moon chance for us.”

  “He’s the romantic and you’re all business. That’s the sort of twist you usually see in a Lubitsch movie.”

  Kathryn took her friend by the shoulders and squeezed him. “Marcus, I need to borrow a car.”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  “Yes, but we know someone who does.”

  * * *

  Even though she could never be in a crowd with him, Kathryn loved the fact that Roy Quinn wasn’t someone who blended in with the masses. Not unless he was standing in a crowd of six-foot shot-putters with chests the size of Utah, Dick Tracy jawlines, and meaty hands that could throw a football halfway to Sacramento. As Marcus pulled Alla Nazimova’s silver Pierce-Arrow to the curb, Kathryn watched Roy’s eyes widen.

  She hadn’t wanted Marcus to come along, but he pointed out that not only had Madame trusted him with the car while she was touring out of town, but that Kathryn didn’t know the first thing about driving to Riverside.

  Kathryn pushed the passenger door open. “I’m sorry,” she laughed, “but it’s the best I could do on short notice. I have a wonderful surprise in store for you, but it’s going to involve taking a little detour.”

  Roy climbed into the back seat, frowning now. “If we’re not there by nine, they could give our room away.”

  Kathryn took his arm and folded it around her. She motioned to Marcus seated behind the shiny black steering wheel. “You remember Marcus, don’t you?”

  It was just past five o’clock and the screening was scheduled for seven; they’d be out by eleven. They’d be late getting into Santa Barbara, but all she needed for now was time to convince Roy that this last-minute change of plans was worth it, so she’d changed into the clingy, low-cut chiffon dress she’d planned to wear to dinner tomorrow night—assuming of course they ever made it out of the hotel room. All she knew for now was that she’d hate herself for passing up the chance to see Gone with the Wind. And anyway, why shouldn’t they be able to do both?

  The combined hypnotic effects of Kathryn’s décolletage and Alla’s luxurious Pierce-Arrow started to peter out as they approached the city of El Monte.

  “Where the hell are we going?” Roy asked.

  She placed a warm hand on his upper thigh, knowing how much he liked it. “We’re going to a sneak preview of Gone with the Wind!”

  Roy’s blue-gray eyes hardened. “We can go see it any time we like after it comes out. A hundred times, if you want. But we only got this weekend. It was supposed to be just for us and now I gotta share it with Gone with the Goddamned Wind?” He pushed Kathryn’s hand off his leg. “Obviously this weekend don’t mean the same thing to you as it does to me.”

  “Of course it does,” Kathryn said, wondering how genuine she sounded. She’d chosen Riverside over Santa Barbara, so maybe she didn’t. “But darling, things come up. Plans change. And this is only—”

  “Not these plans. Anything but—” He cut himself off with a grunt.

  “They changed when your wife drove off in your car.” Kathryn battled to keep the sweetness in her voice. “And they changed again when I got word of this preview.”

  “That’s different.”

  Kathryn felt her shoulders rise. “When plans change because of you, it’s fine. But when they change because of me? Not so fine.”

  Roy fixated on the passing street. “I didn’t have a choice. You did. And you chose this over me just so you can gloat in your silly little column to all your Hollywood phonies that you got to see Gone with the Wind first.”

  Kathryn felt like she’d taken a punch to the stomach. “My—what did you say? My Silly? Little? Column?”

  He turned back to look at her and she wished he hadn’t. The glare in his eyes shook her. “This column of yours, does it put food on the tables of the poor? Medicine for the sick? Teach the uneducated? Or does it prattle on about which empty-headed, vain, alcoholic movie star is divorcing her empty-headed, vain, alcoholic movie-star husband in order to marry some other empty-headed, vain, alcoholic movie star?”

  “MARCUS!” Kathryn shouted. “STOP THE CAR!”

  When Marcus pulled to the side of the road, Kathryn screamed at Roy to get the hell out. When he refused, she started to hit him until he all but threw himself onto the sidewalk.

  He slammed the door shut and Kathryn buried her face in her hands. She didn’t know what hurt most: how Roy thought about her work, or that deep down she suspected he was right.

  * * *

  The bored brunette in the box office pushed her gum into her cheek. “It�
��s a Gary Cooper picture.”

  “You have nothing left?”

  “Gary Cooper pictures always sell out.”

  Kathryn leaned against the glass. “Unbelievable.” She pushed herself away from the booth with her hip and strode onto the sidewalk. I’ve been through all this for nothing. She felt like throwing something, preferably something breakable like a porcelain vase or a glass jar. But she had nothing in her hands but her best patent leather handbag. Roy’s voice started up into her head . . . prattle on about which empty-headed, vain, alcoholic movie star.

  “Kathryn?” It was Marcus but she ignored him. Shut up, she told Roy. Just shut the hell up. If you think—

  “HEY! I’M TALKING TO YOU!”

  Marcus stood at the cinema doors, waving two tickets in his hand. She rushed to join him.

  “I just offered a couple of girls twenty bucks for their tickets,” he said with a cheeky grin. “Boy, are they going to be pissed when they find out.”

  Inside the cinema, they located a couple of seats and plopped down. Kathryn leaned over and hugged him. “You get us a car, you drive us here, you get tickets when it’s sold out. Where would I be without you?”

  “On your back in a bed in Santa Barbara, most likely.”

  As the lights went down, she felt Marcus’ hand reach for hers and give it a here-we-go squeeze. But when the screen lit up, Kathryn found herself watching the opening credits for a Universal picture called Hawaiian Nights. It was a crummy B-grade programmer filled with actors Kathryn had never heard of in a stupid plot she didn’t care about. Her heart deflated a third time.

  “You want to go?”

  Kathryn shook her head. She preferred to wallow like a hippo over what had happened in the car. The mindless filler gave her time to think about what Roy had said.

  She crossed her arms. Okay, so maybe what I write isn’t the weightier stuff. It’s just a means to an end. I know I’ve got what it takes to write the more legit issues. And anyway, the point is, plans change. What am I even doing with an unbending lummox like that? Where can any of this lead but down a dark and dreary dead-end street?

 

‹ Prev