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

by Martin Turnbull

  “What kind of situation?” Marcus felt the walls of the artificially cheery kitchen close in on him.

  “Universal has offered Lawrence some sort of big deal and he wants to jump ship. Can’t say as I blame the guy—we haven’t given him any screen credit since Mannequin and Thoroughbreds Don’t Cry, and they were both three years ago. He’s costing us a grand and a half a week. So the front office struck a deal. He gets a high-profiler like Strange Cargo plus a ticket out, and the studio gets to save a bundle.”

  “Yeah, and what do I get, apart from screwed over?”

  Taggert cracked one of his lopsided grins. “What you get is all the time you need to make William Tell as good as it can be. Talk about your high-profiler. In three years, nobody’s going to remember Strange Cargo. William Tell’s got everything going for it and you’re the guy who’s going to write it for us. Guaranteed.”

  Marcus let out a weary humph. “We both know what a guarantee means.”

  Taggert lit another cigarette. “Oh yeah, and did I mention the part about getting you bumped up to a grand a week?”

  A grand a week was more than just a huge sum of money: it was the line in the sand that separated the small time from the big time. If a guy earned nine hundred a week, he was well paid, but that was about it. A grand a week broadcast to the movie industry that a screenwriter was a valued and respected member of the team and had earned his position at the top of the ladder. Marcus felt a stream of adrenaline.

  He pictured the engraved platinum cufflinks he’d seen at Coulter’s department store. When he found they cost nearly a hundred dollars, he put them back, but he’d been pining for them ever since.

  “The paperwork’s on my desk,” Taggert said. “It’ll be the first order of business Monday morning. Hire a whole raft of lawyers to check it out, if you want.” He let the offer dangle in the air. “Kinda changes things, doesn’t it?”

  Yes, Marcus admitted to himself. As much as it made him sound like a high-class hooker, it changed everything. The Adlers of McKeesport were going to have to wait a little longer to find out what had become of their little black sheep.

  CHAPTER 14

  Kathryn started sleeping with Orson Welles a day or two after Marcus asked her for advice on Ramon’s vacillation between “can’t live without you” and “call you sometime.” Poor Marcus, Kathryn thought. He’s finally got what he wants and now he doesn’t know what to do with it. She wished she could have been better help, but she was hardly any sort of boyfriend expert.

  She was contemplating all this at a bash Fox threw at the Clover Club to celebrate the start of filming Down Argentine Way, which starred their newly contracted leading lady, Betty Grable. Kathryn hadn’t been in the mood for the high-energy, maraca-shaking explosion of color offered up by Betty’s co-star, a Brazilian bombshell Kathryn hadn’t heard of called Carmen Miranda, so she retreated to a quieter corner. She’d been so lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see Orson approach her.

  Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down, lit a long, slim French cigarette for her, and said, as casual as a beach picnic, “I’ve been giving it some thought, and I’ve decided you and I ought to embark on an affair. You are single, aren’t you?”

  Kathryn was so taken aback she could only nod.

  “Our first time doesn’t count,” he said, turning serious. “You were drunk to the point of amnesia and I wasn’t far behind. I’m not even sure what we did or how far we went, but I do remember thinking, This is good. Very good, chemistry-wise. And I think we owe it to ourselves to try again. Sober. What do you say?”

  Kathryn said yes faster than was probably ladylike. In the ardent and eager weeks that followed, Orson showered her with candlelit dinners and expensive gifts of Italian perfume and British fountain pens that he could turn on the charisma. But those efforts were largely wasted on Kathryn, who found herself responding more to the man himself. Orson was charming, articulate, insightful, well read. As a lover, he was passionate, considerate, unhurried, tender and insatiable. And best of all: he wasn’t married. Unshackled from “mistress guilt,” Kathryn threw herself into the affair with a tidal wave of gusto.

  Occasionally, she wondered if he was seeing other women—his reputation as a womanizer had followed him from the East Coast, and the name Lili St. Cyr seemed to come up a lot—but she decided she didn’t care either way. She wasn’t in it for marriage, so what did it matter? It felt exhilarating to be free from Roy and his no-divorce-under-any-circumstances dead-end street. She did miss Roy occasionally. It was only to be expected, but her affair with Orson was helping her get over Roy pretty quickly. Hoo-goddamn-ray.

  Kathryn and Orson were at her villa enjoying a post-tumble smoke and talking about the Greenberg murder, a shocking gangland killing that took place ten minutes from the Garden of Allah and which everyone was whispering Bugsy Siegel was personally responsible for, when the invitation to the Hollywood Women’s Press Club’s 1939 Christmas luncheon arrived in the mail. It hadn’t occurred to her to invite Orson as her and-friend, so how he managed to manipulate her into asking him wasn’t something she thought about until after she’d officially RSVP’d.

  Her boss was generally very good about allowing her to express her own opinions in her column, even if they diverged sharply from his. But lately he’d been increasingly vocal—both around the office and in print—about his dislike for Welles.

  Then a rumor whipped around the office that Wilkerson was going to publish an editorial proposing to deport Welles back to New York. Certain factions around Hollywood had grown resentful of Orson’s “Full Creative Control” contract at RKO and Wilkerson took it upon himself to lead the charge for Welles’ extradition. Exactly why her boss had taken such a dislike to Welles was something Kathryn couldn’t figure out.

  She strode into Wilkerson’s office one day and was surprised to find he wasn’t there. His secretary wasn’t around, either. She was about to walk out when she spotted the familiar “Hedda Hopper’s Hollywood” logo on a letter on his desk. Kathryn seized the opportunity and learned that Hedda was telling Wilkerson about persistent rumors that Welles was planning a movie based on the life of William Randolph Hearst. Hedda was going to confront Welles the moment she finally got to meet him.

  Back at her desk, Kathryn thought about all those Hearst articles she’d come across in Orson’s bungalow. She hadn’t seen them on subsequent visits and hadn’t given them much thought. She felt breathless at the possibility that Orson possessed enough chutzpah to take on the most powerful man in America.

  Both Louella and Hedda were going to be at the Christmas luncheon at the Roosevelt, which meant that Kathryn was going to deliver Orson into the lion’s mouth. Louella’s boss was Hearst himself, so if Hedda asked Orson about this Hearst movie, Louella would hear about it before the salad was served. Even if Orson denied it, such a question was enough to plant suspicion, and in a rumor-fueled town like Hollywood, suspicions gestated rumor. How could Orson be so naïve? She was going to have to get out of it.

  * * *

  The morning of the luncheon, Kathryn knocked on her boss’ open office door. “I have something to tell you,” she announced, “and you’re not going to like it.”

  Wilkerson looked up from The Wall Street Journal. “I’m not?”

  “No, but I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else. I’m going to the Press Club’s Christmas luncheon today at the Roosevelt and I’m taking Orson Welles with me.”

  Wilkerson chewed over her revelation for a moment or two. “Anything else?”

  You’re supposed to explode like a stink bomb, Kathryn steamed, and forbid me to be seen with Orson Welles in public. What the hell am I supposed to do with this who-gives-a-rat’s-ass reaction?

  “What do you mean, ‘Anything else’?” she demanded. “Aren’t you going to rant and rave about what a despicable nine-day-wonder he is, and how he’s the last person you’d want me to be seen with?”

  “And what good would it do m
e to say any of those things?”

  Kathryn spluttered out a few syllables before she realized he was paying her a compliment; under any other circumstances she’d be happy to take it. “But you hate Orson Welles.”

  “I do. And if it were anyone else on my staff, I’d be bringing the building down around her ears. But . . .” He tapped a pencil on the plaque she’d once given him.

  A good editor is one with strong opinions.

  A great editor finds other people with other opinions—and employs them.

  Kathryn looked at him blankly. How can I argue against that?

  Wilkerson returned to his work. “I assume we won’t see you back here afterwards?”

  Kathryn wondered for the first time if her uncharacteristically implacable boss already knew about her affair with Welles. She wasn’t ready to have that conversation.

  * * *

  She was only halfway into her dress when Orson’s voice boomed through her front door.

  “Can you believe I’m on time? For you, I make the ultimate Wellesian effort.”

  When Kathryn opened the door, he stepped forward and swept her up in his arms, lifted her off the floor, and planted a long, passionate kiss on her lips. He set her down again and took in her half-dressed state, then let out a hearty laugh. “This is a first. Step on it, Massey, the fine ladies of the Hollywood Women’s Press Club await.”

  No man had ever made such an effort for her before. Everything was so clandestine with Roy. Romantic and thrilling to begin with, but after a while it became cautious and furtive. Life with Orson Welles was the opposite. Everything was an open house with the lights on. And for Orson Welles to be on time was a Herculean achievement. He’d never managed it before, but he did for her and it meant a lot.

  With her hair and makeup complete, she came out of the bathroom to find him standing in her living room holding a corsage of pale pink flowers. First the punctual arrival, and now this? Nobody had ever bought her a corsage before. She never got to go to any of the school dances, nor had she gone anywhere with the eternally married Roy Quinn that was nice enough to warrant a corsage. The apricot blooms were breathtakingly beautiful, and their delicate scent wafted through the air. She looked up into Orson’s round, smiling face as though for the first time. It was almost like one of those gauzy close-ups they use in the movies, all misty and romantic. The only thing missing was a swell of violins in the background.

  “I’ve always thought large corsages overpower a lady’s beauty,” he said. “I decided this one was just the right size. And look how nicely it goes with what you’re wearing.” He carefully pinned it to her dress, then announced, “Your chariot awaits, m’lady.”

  Such was the mesmerizing charisma of Orson Welles that Kathryn didn’t think about how she was delivering him into a pit of quicksand until they settled in the back seat of his chauffeur-driven car. Since he’d stepped into the social spotlight, Orson got around in a brand-new Plymouth sedan. Its gunmetal paintjob glittered in the sunlight and looked like it was sprinkled with specks of silver. As they whizzed east along Hollywood Boulevard, he prattled on about the battle he and RKO were still having about the budget for Heart of Darkness and how they’d got it well under a million, but it was a far cry from the $750,000 limit set by his contract. When the twelve-story Roosevelt Hotel loomed into view, it came like a slap and Kathryn blurted out, “Orson, this is a bad idea!”

  “I wholeheartedly agree. Heart of Darkness for under seven-fifty grand? It’s ludicrous.”

  “I’m talking about coming to this luncheon.”

  The twinkle in Orson’s eye told Kathryn her proclamation came as no surprise. “Your boss been giving you a hard time over me?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “You think I can’t handle a bunch of kitty-cat women journalists?”

  “We both know you can.”

  She felt his right arm slip around her shoulder. “Ah, so you’re concerned one of them might catch my eye? I hadn’t figured you for the jealous type.”

  “I’m not, and you’re not even close.”

  He started to stroke her corsage. “So you want me to just drop you off at the curb and wave you goodbye?”

  “I think it would be best.”

  They were half a block from the hotel’s entrance. Orson told his driver to pull to the curb. She searched his face for signs of resentment or rancor, or even surprise, but found nothing there to indicate discontent. “Enjoy your lunch!” he said.

  “You’re not even going to ask?” Kathryn inquired, then immediately wondered why she didn’t just keep her big mouth shut. He gave you an out, you fool, she told herself. Scot-free and no strings.

  Orson maintained his sardonic smile. “I figure you have good reason for keeping me away from that gabfest in there. You’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”

  Kathryn wondered, not for the first time, what she’d gotten herself into. She thought of Marcus and his dilemma with Ramon. She’d almost told Marcus to stop condemning Ramon for failing to meet expectations Ramon had no hand in creating. Now Kathryn wondered if she was guilty of the same thing.

  Orson Welles is a big boy, she thought. He can handle Hedda and Louella.

  “Come on,” she said. “We can walk it from here.”

  As soon as they hit the sidewalk, though, she started to arm-wrestle her conscience. Before they’d walked twenty feet she threw the fight and stopped him.

  “I know for a fact that Hedda Hopper discovered your plan to make a movie about Hearst.” Kathryn eyeballed him closely but he made no response. “Hedda’s going to pounce on you as soon as you show your face in the Blossom Room. I can pretty much guarantee it.”

  “You just leave Hedda Hopper to me.” Orson started to head toward the hotel, but Kathryn stopped him again.

  “It’s Louella Parsons I’m worried about. She works for Hearst, and now that Hedda’s scooped Louella for the first time over the president’s son getting a divorce—”

  “Those silly old hens are as bad as each other.”

  Orson’s remark reminded Kathryn of Roy’s “silly little column” comment; the memory prickled her skin. “They’re not as silly as you think.”

  Orson adjusted the pink carnation boutonniere pinned to his lapel. “I have garters more literate than they are.”

  Kathryn stood her ground. “You’re not denying it,” she pointed out. He looked at her, still smiling blankly, still saying nothing. She poked a finger in his face. “If you make a movie about Hearst, the creative half of this town will applaud you. But the bean-counting suits from the front office will fight you every step of the way. They hold the power here and they’re not about to give it away to anyone on the artistic side of the great divide. And especially not to you.”

  Orson towered over her, blocking out the sun. “I haven’t denied it because you haven’t asked me.”

  “I’m asking you now.”

  He took a half step, close enough for Kathryn to feel his warm breath on her cheek. “Do I strike you as being the idiotic type?”

  “Of course not. But when I was at the Marmont with Benchley, I saw a pile of articles on Hearst, or by him, and—”

  “Love him or hate him, you can’t deny that Hearst is one of the country’s leading arbiters of public discourse,” Orson said. “Being in the media myself, what he says can and does affect me, so I like to keep up on whatever lies he’s trying to perpetrate against the American public.”

  “You do know how reckless it would be, don’t you?” Kathryn said. “Taking on a man like Hearst. You may well be Orson the Wunderkind—”

  A flinty expression hardened his face. “I’ve never called myself a wunderkind.”

  “Nevertheless,” Kathryn continued, more soothingly now, “it would be professional suicide to think you could mock someone like Hearst and get away with it. His arms reach very far and very wide, including deep into the pockets of all those front-office suits.”

  He stuck his hands on his
hips. “Are we done? Is the lecture over? Because if it is, may I suggest we hotfoot it inside? Otherwise we’ll be the last to be seated—unless of course that’s the sort of entrance you planned on making all along.”

  She shot him her best mark-my-words schoolmarm look before she let him tug her toward the chrome portico of the Roosevelt Hotel.

  The sounds of a string quartet filled the pale-green stucco two-story foyer. Scattered across the large square expanse were knots of well-dressed matrons in sensible shoes and dreary hats, and men who looked like they’d been promised an open bar.

  Orson took Kathryn’s arm as they picked their way through the crowd. Kathryn felt heads turning. She heard Orson exclaim, “There she is!” Pulling Kathryn along in his wake, Orson strode toward Hedda Hopper. She wore an absurd hat stacked with orange and blue miniature pompoms and was talking with a slim blonde whose back was turned to them.

  “Garters, garters all,” Orson muttered through a gritted smile. “Miss Hopper!” he called out in his best theater voice.

  Hedda looked up expectedly. Orson met her with his hand outstretched. “We haven’t met yet and I feel it’s unforgivable.” Orson took Hedda’s hand and pumped it. “Orson Welles. So very pleased to meet you!”

  For the first time Kathryn had ever witnessed, Hedda was speechless. Orson turned toward Kathryn. “I take it you know my luncheon date for today, Miss Kathryn Massey of the Hollywood Reporter?”

  Hedda recovered her composure enough to reapply her professional smile and present it to Kathryn. They shook hands and Hedda extravagantly complimented Kathryn on her pretty dress. She turned to the blonde with her. “You know Sheilah, of course.”

  Kathryn stiffened. She and Sheilah Graham hadn’t stood toe to toe since before Sheilah referred to her as a dark-haired scribbler who had trouble staying vertical. Kathryn introduced Orson to Sheilah, but Orson had honed in on Hedda.

  “Hedda!” he exclaimed, “I believe you have something you want to ask me.”