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

by Martin Turnbull

  “Do you think it’s a test?” Alice asked.

  “Screw it if it is.” One of the other girls picked up a chocolate chip cookie. “I’ve been starving myself too, but I can’t just stand here and look at all this.”

  Gwendolyn longed for some coffee. She’d made a pale yellow organza dress especially for today. It was tight at the waist and billowed gently around the sleeves and knees. It had been a beast to sew together but had turned out well, and she didn’t want to risk spilling black coffee or smudging it with frosting.

  An Amazonian with caviar-black hair eyed the table. “What do you suppose they’ll ask us?” she whispered.

  “It’s bound to be some crap about our fondest experience growing up,” Alice said, “or who your favorite pet was.”

  Brockton approached and the chatting stopped. “When we call your name, make your way onto the set. There’s a length of tape stuck to the rug, so stand with your toes touching it.” He pulled a list from his jacket pocket and read out the first name. A pale girl with English Rose skin and paprika-red hair followed him with her fingers bunched in knots.

  As they watched her disappear in front of the set, Alice said, “But they’ve already discovered Maureen O’Hara!”

  It made some of the other girls giggle. A bell rang out across the soundstage. Gwendolyn heard the snap of a clapperboard and swallowed hard. After what seemed to be an endlessly long minute, the redhead reappeared. Brockton’s voice boomed over them. “Alice Moore.”

  Alice headed off to the set and the redhead grabbed a couple of napkins and started to fan herself. “My heavens, those lights!” She had a vaguely Southern accent. “They’re so hot. And blinding—I couldn’t see past my nose.”

  “What question did you get?” one of the girls asked.

  “It was the strangest thing. He said to me, ‘You know your brother-in-law has a drinking problem, don’t you?’ I told him he must have the wrong guy; my brother-in-law thinks Prohibition ought to be reinstated. And all the while I’m thinking, How does he even know who my brother-in-law is? He’s a knife juggler with a circus who never goes farther west than Kansas.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Then he tells me it’s known all over town. He heard it from the librarian, Mrs. Sharp, and she ought to know because her sister runs the telephone exchange.”

  One of the girls piped up. “He’s doing improvisation.”

  “Inprovi-what?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “Stuff you make up on the spot.”

  “That’s what I figured,” the redhead said, “so I launched into this diatribe about Mrs. Spalding and her snoopy old sister, and how the pair of them are the biggest gossips in all of Shelbyville and you’re a fool if you listen to a word either of them have to say.”

  Alice reappeared with a startled look on her face. “What a nerve! He told me I’d put on weight. For the first time in my life I didn’t know what to say.”

  Brockton called out a third name, then Alice continued.

  “So I told him, ‘You’re way out of line, buddy-boy.’ That’s when he laughed, and then I got it. They wanted me to play up to the camera.”

  Now that Alice had had her turn, she appointed herself the resident expert. “Give them something to look at,” she advised the girls clustered around her. “Give them movement, drama, big arms!”

  Alice’s brittle voice was the last thing Gwendolyn needed. She was getting antsy, so she slowly backed away from the group. She sank into the shadowy rear of the soundstage and took refuge behind a grove of cardboard trees. The air felt thick and oppressive, leaving her wishing she’d brought a fan, if only to occupy her jittery hands.

  She’d spent ten years playing every angle she could think of, and most of them were long shots like this one. This was one final shot in the dark, otherwise it was the next steamer to the Philippines for her. But was it all going to come down to her ability to invent a scene off the top of her head? “You can do this,” she told herself. “You can improvise. Hell, isn’t that what you’ve been doing at work all these years? Handing out ten years’ worth of charming smiles to wiseasses and creeps?”

  Gwendolyn heard the approach of several pairs of footsteps click against the concrete floor. She heard one of the girls exclaim, “WHAT? I don’t believe you!”

  “Neither do I,” another one said.

  They were standing on the other side of the fake trees.

  “I’m telling you the truth!” It was Alice. “She tried to steal my telegram. Right in front of me.”

  Gwendolyn leaned in closer.

  “Can’t say as I’m surprised,” the first girl sniffed. “You two could pass for sisters.”

  “And don’t I know it! If they’re looking for a type, better me than her. This contest is her last chance to get somewhere. That’s why I should say something to Brockton. Then she’ll be off to the Far East. Out of Hollywood and out of my way. I’m telling you gals right here and now: I’ll be damned if that Southern belle Jersey heifer beats me out this one last time. It was bad enough she got to screen test for Scarlett O’Hara.”

  “She did?” The two girls oh’d and ah’d. “Impressive!”

  “Not really.” Alice’s voice turned nauseatingly smug.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s just say I’m good with a book of matches.”

  Gwendolyn pressed her hand against her mouth. Her fingers were trembling.

  “Good in what way?”

  Alice gave a raspy laugh. “I’m glad I was on hand to make sure her career went up in flames.” There was a pause in the conversation, thick and heavy, followed by gasps of realization. “Let’s get back,” Alice suggested, “before they miss us.”

  Gwendolyn stared at the back of the trees and resisted the urge to punch a hole through them.

  All these years, she’d kept Alice around because she knew what it was like to put herself through auditions and cattle calls knowing the chances were high that the casting guy would look at her for less than a second and say “nope” before moving on to the next girl. It wasn’t like Kathryn and Marcus hadn’t suffered through their own ups and downs, but neither of them had had to endure those particular ups and downs. But Alice had, and sharing a post-audition milkshake with the other back-alley rejects gave Gwendolyn a sense of belonging and sisterhood.

  Gwendolyn’s insides churned at the realization that the one person who understood what it was like to always be reaching for the shiny gold ring of stardom was the same person who’d been thwarting her at every turn. She was still trying to regain her composure when she heard Brockton’s voice.

  “For the last time, Gwendolyn Brick to the set, please.”

  Her mind clouded with anger and disillusion, Gwendolyn scurried to take her position. She spotted the strip of white tape on the carpet in front of the fake fireplace. She pressed her lips together in an attempt to hold off the tears. You can’t afford to let tears ruin your makeup, she told herself. Don’t give Alice the satisfaction.

  She lifted her face toward the men gathered around the camera. The redhead was right: the lights were so bright she could barely see a thing. She heard someone clear his throat. “You okay, honey?”

  “I—um—I just realized—” Gwendolyn stammered. “What I mean to say is—” The tears spilled out onto her cheeks before she could summon the wherewithal to stop them.

  “Are we rolling?” the voice asked.

  What a rat. What a dirty, rotten, conniving snake in the grass. I could have been badly burned that day. Or even killed. And for what?

  The voice asked, “How do you feel right now?” She wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or not until he repeated the question. “Gwendolyn, how do you—?”

  “HOW DO YOU THINK I FEEL?” Gwendolyn’s answer bolted out of her like a runaway train. “All I ever wanted was to get someone like you to notice someone like me. I played nice. I played by the rules. I saw opportunities and I took chances, but every single time I lan
ded flat on my face. And where did it get me? Where?”

  She barely paid attention to the words spilling from her mouth. She just wanted to get this over with and get out of the lights, away from the camera and all those girls who were probably snickering backstage by now. The field had been narrowed down to twenty-four. She finished her diatribe and wiped the tears off her face with the back of her hand.

  “Thank you, Miss Brick.” It was Brockton. He was standing next to her. He said quietly, “There’s a powder room outside, the door on your far left. You might want to use it.”

  She beelined across the soundstage, shot down the alley, and threw herself into the restroom. She stopped at the first mirror and checked the frightful mess of mascara, rouge, and snot. Her mascara had blotched itself around her eyes, and her lipstick was smudged down over the side of her cheek. Good Lord, I look like a clown with a heart attack.

  “You need to get out,” she told her reflection. “Out of this studio. Out of this town.”

  She dabbed at the smudges of lipstick on her chin. It had spread to her cheek and front teeth; she wiped it all off. And then she kept on wiping and scrubbing until she was completely without makeup. She cupped her hands and filled them with cold water and splashed her face over and over until she felt composed enough to leave.

  She walked out into the alley and stared at the door leading back into the soundstage. Her purse was in there. She decided there wasn’t anything in it worth the humiliation. She started toward the front gate of the studio when she heard someone call her name. Bill Brockton walked toward her.

  “You forgot this.” He handed her the purse. “Mr. Arnow asked me to ask you: Were you just acting back there, or did—?”

  Or did I just lose my mind? Every bone and joint in Gwendolyn’s body ached. She wished she was back home lying down with an ice-cold compact pressed against her forehead.

  “If Mr. Arnow can’t tell the difference between acting and real life, that’s a point in my favor.” Gwendolyn could barely stand the pity on Brockton’s face. “No, don’t,” she added, “I’ll come off sounding like Smartass Sally. Just tell him thanks for the opportunity. Have the others left yet?”

  “I’m about to escort them to the gate.”

  “I’d much rather leave here under my own steam.” Please say yes, Gwendolyn thought. Please let me slink out of some side gate and into oblivion.

  “Take this road as far as you can; the gate’s right ahead of you.” Gwendolyn nodded her thanks and started off down the street. “If it’s any consolation,” Brockton called out, “you were one of the front runners.”

  No, Gwendolyn thought, it’s no consolation at all.

  CHAPTER 22

  Marcus had spent months stewing over Hugo Marr.

  Why would Hugo tell Ramon that he and Marcus had a thing going? Did he want Marcus for himself? Marcus and Hugo had been friends for over ten years, so if Hugo had those sorts of feelings for Marcus, why hadn’t he at least hinted at them? Okay, so maybe he wasn’t exactly Sherlock Holmes when it came to cottoning on to Hugo’s sartorial copycatting, but Jesus Christ, he said to Kathryn and Gwendolyn, you’d think in ten years I’d have picked up at least one clue. It didn’t make sense, so it had to be something else.

  But Hugo had disappeared. Taggert circulated around the office the news that Hugo was taking an extended leave of absence to nurse his father through a nasty—and probably final—bout of tuberculosis that threatened to further weaken his already taxed lungs. Marcus had gone knocking on both Hugo and Edwin Marr’s doors, but nobody was at home. Telephone calls, letters, and telegrams went unanswered, neighbors were clueless, and Marcus’ efforts to contact every TB clinic within a two-hundred-mile radius yielded nothing.

  On top of which, all had been quiet on the Ramon front, too. True to his word, Ramon had not contacted Marcus—not even a picture postcard. Marcus was left alone to sweat over the whole mess with a bottle of Four Roses bourbon.

  He was thankful to have William Tell to consume his daylight hours, and now, finally, the stars were aligning in his favor. On the streetcar ride home from work, he took to gazing out the window and daydreaming about titles.

  SCREENPLAY BY

  MARCUS ADLER

  He pictured them carved in wood, painted red with a black arrow shooting past the background. Above and below the words, there could be little carved flourishes like on Swiss cuckoo clocks. Edelweiss petals, perhaps.

  Marcus was so preoccupied with trying to hunt down Hugo and finishing William Tell that when the guillotine fell, he didn’t see it coming.

  As he and all the other employees inside MGM’s biggest soundstage listened to Mayer blather on and on about how the fall of Belgium and Holland to the Nazis—with France surely to follow soon—had dissolved MGM’s largest foreign market, he knew the studio was going to have to let some people go. But he was working on one of their biggest movies. He was an A-lister now, and A-listers didn’t have to worry, even if the company was shedding twenty-five percent of its workforce, as Mayer had just announced.

  It wasn’t until he returned to his desk and found a letter marked “From the office of Louis B. Mayer” that he realized the blade had fallen on his neck. He had to read Please surrender your employee ID upon exiting the studio lot before the full impact registered. The only thing missing was Madame Defarge and her knitting.

  Within fifteen minutes, the whole writing staff was wandering the corridors, congratulating the survivors and commiserating with the fallen. Word had already started to swarm the building that the same thing was going on at other studios, too, so looking for work would be futile.

  “There’s irony for you,” Dorothy Parker said to Marcus. She was one of the lucky ones. “Just a short while ago they announced the end of the Great Depression. And now you’re unemployed. Go home to the Garden and have a Manhattan at the bar, old chum. Trust me, a half dozen of those and you won’t even care.”

  But Marcus did care. William Tell was turning into the best thing he’d ever written. And now someone else was going to take all the credit for it.

  Taggert caught up with him just as he stepped outside the writers’ building. “I’m sorry it’s gone this way.” His face was creased in concern. “They didn’t even consult me. I only run the department, for crying out loud. I want you to know, if the choice had been mine, I’d have kept you on.”

  It was nice to know, but it didn’t change anything. They shook hands and Marcus headed toward the Washington Boulevard gate, where the next eastbound streetcar would transport him to oblivion.

  Then he bumped into George Cukor.

  Marcus and George had had quite a history over the years. It started when George invited Marcus to one of his famous Sunday brunches after the Saturday Evening Post published one of Marcus’ short stories. Since then, both of them had endured their share of fortune’s ebb and flow, and Marcus was very glad their friendship had withstood it all.

  George was walking the other way with Katharine Hepburn, whom Marcus had met on his catastrophic visit to Hearst’s castle. With them was the costume designer Adrian, a tall, thin, aesthete-type. The three of them were in preproduction for The Philadelphia Story, which the studio—and George and Katharine, especially—had high hopes for. The fact that fellow Garden of Allah resident Donald Ogden Stewart had written the screenplay felt to Marcus like salt rubbed into an already weeping wound.

  When he broke his news to George and Katharine, they made suitably sympathetic noises. But when Katharine turned to Adrian about something, George took Marcus aside and their heads nearly touched.

  “But you had a contract,” George said.

  Marcus nodded. “Apparently, there’s a clause in it that invalidates the whole thing during times of company-wide cutbacks.” He looked away. “There’s no good time to be retrenched, but this William Tell picture I’ve been working on, I really hit my stride.”

  “There’s no reason you should take this lying down,” George told him. He
glanced at Katharine and Adrian, then back to Marcus. “Remember Camille,” he murmured in a low voice. The look in his eye said, Think carefully. Camille.

  It wasn’t until the following morning, after he’d sobered up with his third coffee, that it struck Marcus what George meant.

  * * *

  It was hard enough to see Mayer when Marcus worked for MGM, but when he was no longer employed by the studio, the opportunity to corner the bastard rarely presented itself. Three weeks crawled by and Marcus slid into desperation.

  Then one morning he opened the latest issue of Photoplay and came across an article about Melody Hope.

  It talked about how, although she was now a full-fledged movie star, she still attended the Hollywood United Methodist Church on Highland Avenue. While she no longer sang with the choir, she sat every Sunday morning in the front pew of her father’s eleven o’clock sermon. The article included a fashion spread of Melody at home in the Garden Court Apartments which over the years had been home to some of early Hollywood’s biggest celebrities, including Rudolph Valentino, Lillian Gish, and Louis B. Mayer. In fact it was her boss, Mr. Mayer, who got her into the building. Kathryn had told Marcus about her encounter with Melody at Ciro’s, so it was easy to guess who was paying for such an expensive place.

  Marcus rushed to shave and dress in his Sunday best, a navy blue pinstripe suit and his lucky purple tie. Although the tie had mainly proved lucky for picking up anonymous men, he figured he was going to need all the providence he could get. He jumped into the first taxi he could flag down and raced over to the Methodist church. He snuck in during the final hymn and spotted Melody in the first pew. He returned to the sidewalk and waited for her to emerge from the church. When he called her name, Melody flashed him a professional smile, assuming he was a fan.

  “You may not recall meeting me, but I’m a good friend of Kathryn Massey’s.”

  She replaced the professional smile with less teeth and more sincerity. “You’re the screenwriter, aren’t you? The one who came up with Pistol from Pittsburgh.”