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

by Martin Turnbull

  Marcus watched Gwendolyn talk to Charles Laughton and Elsa Lanchester. The previous summer, Charles had given Gwendolyn a terrible fright when she encountered him in the pool. He was filming The Hunchback of Notre Dame for RKO when a scorching heat wave hit LA. With his pounds of suffocating Quasimodo makeup, Charles took to motoring up to the Garden and standing in the pool to keep cool. Apparently Gwendolyn’s screams were loud enough to wake Errol Flynn from a sound sleep. Since then, Charles and Elsa had often visited the Cocoanut Grove expressly to see Gwendolyn.

  “It’s nice to see Gwennie enjoy herself, isn’t it?”

  Marcus swung an arm round Kathryn’s shoulder. “Sure is. She needed this more than she knew.” He turned to ask her if the appetizers were holding up okay when he saw her Brace Yourself face. “Something wrong?”

  “Have you spotted him?”

  Marcus scanned the party unfolding in front of them. Dorothy had coaxed Scott onto the dance floor for a halfhearted rumba and Sheilah was taking photographs that were destined to come out blurry—she seemed to find the concept of Parker and Fitzgerald doing a rumba the funniest thing imaginable, and could barely stay upright from laughing so hard.

  “Have I spotted who?” Marcus asked.

  “Hugo.”

  Marcus whipped his head back to the crowd but couldn’t see Hugo anywhere.

  “A couple of minutes ago, I was coming out of the kitchen up at the main house,” Kathryn said. “He and Donnie Stewart were heading over to Schwab’s to get more ice.”

  Marcus felt the embers in the back of his mind flare white-hot and he pictured his hands around Hugo’s throat. “Are they back yet?”

  Kathryn nodded. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to confront him, of course.” He jammed his fists onto his hips. “You don’t think I should?”

  Kathryn cupped one of his fists in her warm hands. “Of course I do. You need to get to the bottom of that business with Ram—”

  “But?”

  “But not at Gwendolyn’s expense. Please don’t spoil her party by creating a big scene.”

  “I won’t—”

  Marcus felt Kathryn squeeze down onto his hand. “How many cups of Dottie’s punch have you had?”

  Marcus could feel the embers spread under his chin. “Don’t worry,” he told her evenly. “I’m in perfect control of myself. Tell me where he is.”

  Kathryn wagged a Remember what I said about spoiling Gwennie’s party finger at him. “Under the Alla tree.”

  When Alla Nazimova bought the Garden of Allah back in the mid teens, she planted a cherry tree on the western side of the pool. It had grown into a huge tree known among the residents as the Alla tree and was often used as a meeting place.

  Marcus gave Kathryn a kiss he hoped conveyed his thanks, then tore over to Alla’s tree. When he spotted Hugo standing with Scott Fitzgerald and Donnie Stewart, he stopped to give himself a moment to let the embers cool.

  Hugo saw him first and his face lit up. “Marcus! I was just asking about you.”

  “Here I am,” Marcus answered. “And here you are.”

  He yearned to ask Hugo who the hell invited him. It must have been written on his face, because Donnie said, “I told him about the party at work yesterday. I figured the more the merrier.”

  Marcus didn’t pull his eyes from Hugo’s face. “At work?” he asked. “You’re back?”

  Hugo nodded. “Just this past week. Finally! I couldn’t wait.”

  “And your dad?”

  “Made one of those miraculous recoveries. The doctors said all those months in Palm Springs did the trick. Personally, I’d say it’s more about me getting him to give up the havanas and the Chivas Regal, but hey, what do I know, right?”

  For someone who’d just spent the better part of a year in Palm Springs, Hugo looked oddly pallid. His hair hung at the sides of his face like unlaundered drapes. Even standing next to Scott he looked off-color, and Scott was looking terrible these days—glassy-eyed, shaking hands, slouched over. A few years ago, Marcus and Scott had worked on a screenplay—yet another instance of Marcus doing most of the work and someone else getting the screen credit—so Marcus knew all the signs of Scott crawling back inside the bottle.

  “Did you hear who’s taken over William Tell?” Donnie said.

  Marcus shook his head.

  Donnie jutted a shoulder toward Hugo.

  Heat scorched the back of Marcus’ head.

  Hugo grinned at him like an organ grinder’s monkey. “You did some great work on that script,” he said. “I can’t wait to knock the whole thing into tiptop shape!”

  Marcus felt something tear inside him. “Gentlemen,” he said to Donnie and Scott, “if you will excuse us, Hugo and I have some business to attend to.”

  He pulled Hugo past Artie’s bandstand and Dottie’s enormous punchbowl. He thought of his promise to Kathryn and forced his breathing to remain shallow and measured. He led Hugo into his living room and slammed the door. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Hugo threw his hands up. “Whoa! I’m sorry you got stuck in the B Hive and all, but the Tell picture’s—”

  “I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT WILLIAM FUCKING TELL!” Hugo took a step back, blinking rapidly. Marcus gritted his teeth. “I’m talking about Ramon.”

  “Oh!” Hugo seemed surprised at this turn, but Marcus wasn’t fooled.

  “I’m talking about why Ramon thinks you and I are a couple.”

  Hugo kept his wan face blank. “A couple of what?”

  “A couple couple! In a relationship.”

  “You mean like boyfriends?” Hugo let out a laugh. “You and me?”

  “Yes, Hugo. You and me. Boyfriends. In a relationship. Together.”

  Hugo swiped the air. “Pffft!” He dropped onto the sofa and pulled out a pewter cigarette case. “Where would Ramon even get such an idea? Say, you got any booze around here? Some Four Roses, maybe?”

  Hugo’s insouciance burned away the last remaining vestiges of Marcus’ patience. “I didn’t invite you in here for a cocktail party. Ramon thinks you and I are boyfriends because that’s what you told him.”

  “I did nothing of the sort.”

  “Whatever you told him, that was the impression you left him with.”

  Hugo took his time lighting a Lucky Strike. “Look, Marcus,” he said, attempting a placating tone, “you know I like the hot Latin lovers. In fact, I’m seeing a Latin guy right now. Met him in Palm Springs. Lordy, what a go-getter—”

  “Can we just stick to Ramon?”

  Hugo nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, yes, of course we can, and we should. Clearly, Ramon has somehow gotten the impression you and I are an item. I really don’t know what I said to give him that idea, but the very first chance I get I will clear up this whole mess.”

  Still standing, Marcus stared at the casual way Hugo was lounging on the sofa. I want to believe you, he thought. I want to be reassured that my trust in you and in our friendship hasn’t been misplaced all these years. I want to believe that my instincts about people are accurate. He decided that he could see no sign that the man sprawled out in front of him was lying or manipulating him and for the first time all year, Marcus could feel the white-hot smolder begin to subside. He let out a deep breath and fell onto the sofa next to Hugo.

  “Poor old Marcus the carcass,” Hugo clucked. “You still got it bad for him, huh? No wonder you’re upset.” He clapped a hand on Marcus’ knee. “Don’t worry, all this can be cleared up. So, can I have a drink now?”

  “There’s something else I need to get off my chest.”

  Hugo lifted his hand off Marcus’ leg. “Go on.”

  “It’s your clothes.” Marcus eyed Hugo’s red-striped rowing club necktie and pictured the identical one hanging in his closet.

  “Oh, come on! You? Of all people?” Hugo exclaimed. “I mean, considering how much you copy me.”

  “Me? Copy you?” Marcus wanted to yank the tie fro
m Hugo’s neck and hang him with it. “That’s rich!”

  “Didn’t you ever notice how often you used to turn up at work wearing something I’ve got?”

  “You’re the one who’s copying me,” Marcus protested. “Everybody in the office noticed it.”

  “What? They think it’s me copying you?” He let out a series of staccato laughs. “Oh, this is so funny. And here was I thinking everybody thought you were the copycat. I’ll have to send a memo around the office. ‘Attention all staff, Hugo Marr and Marcus Adler are innocent of replicating each other’s wardrobe. It turns out we simply have the same impeccable taste in clothes.’ I should send the memo to Ramon, too. He mentioned something about that last time I saw him. I didn’t know what he meant.”

  Marcus regarded Hugo from the corners of his eyes. You’re always so facile with the explanations, aren’t you? Still, it explained a lot, even if it was one of those explanations from a crazy romantic comedy starring Ann Sothern and Red Skelton.

  “Yeah, but how will you clear up anything with Ramon?” Marcus sighed. “Does anybody even know where he is?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Hugo asked. “He’s back from Europe.”

  Marcus sat up. “When?”

  “A few days ago, apparently. I was at a cocktail party Delores del Río threw for Orson Welles. Did you know Delores and Ramon are cousins? Anyway, some relative of hers mentioned it.”

  “I need to see him,” Marcus said to himself as much as to Hugo.

  “Good luck,” Hugo said. “He rented out the house on Valley Oak Drive while he was away and hasn’t taken possession of it yet.”

  “So where is he?”

  Hugo shrugged, then leered like a dope-pusher. “But I know where he’s going to be.”

  CHAPTER 28

  An endless parade of celebrities—Larry, Vivien, Bette, Kate, Greer—filled the foyer of the Biltmore Hotel’s cavernously extravagant ballroom, the Biltmore Bowl, with lively chatter. As he waited for Kathryn to return from powdering her nose, Marcus found himself staring into every Hollywood face except the one he most wanted to see.

  The buzz ratcheted up a notch as Alfred Hitchcock and David Selznick arrived with their wives. With them was the star of Rebecca, Joan Fontaine, with her movie-star husband, Brian Aherne. The chatter around town insisted Rebecca was going to beat out Kate Hepburn’s comeback movie, The Philadelphia Story directed by Cukor, for Best Picture.

  Delores del Río materialized at the top of the stairs in a voluminous black lace gown accentuated by a three-inch diamond choker that wrapped her neck like a sparkling bandage. She lifted the hem of her dress and started down the stairs. A step behind her was Ramon, done out in the same hundred-dollar tuxedo that every other gentleman in the place wore.

  Marcus was so intent on establishing eye contact with Ramon that he didn’t see Hugo until the guy stepped in front of him.

  “You made it!” Hugo exclaimed. “Who are you here with?” He turned his head to scan the crowd.

  “Kathryn.”

  Delores and Ramon had stopped halfway down the stairs to chat with Wallace Beery, a recent co-star of Delores’.

  Hugo nodded absently. “And how are things in the B unit?”

  Despite Hugo’s promise nearly two months ago that he’d squared things with Ramon, something still nagged at Marcus. Did Hugo have a hidden agenda? He decided he couldn’t trust that any misunderstandings had been cleared up until he could speak directly with Ramon.

  Marcus took a half step to the right, but Hugo blocked his view. “Listen, buddy,” Hugo said, wincing, “there’s something you need to know, and it might be better coming from me.”

  “Can it wait?” Marcus pleaded. “This might be my only cha—”

  “They’ve pulled the plug on William Tell.” Marcus turned to look at Hugo properly and noticed that the skin beneath his chin had begun to sag into a waddle. Hugo shrugged. “Couldn’t find a way to make it work.”

  “That’s crazy!” Marcus barked. “My outline was in great shape.”

  “A twenty-page outline does not a filmable screenplay make.”

  “The hell it doesn’t! It had everything—heroics, family, love interest, villain, action sequences. It could have written itself.”

  Hugo looked at him doubtfully. “How long did your twenty-page outline take to write itself?”

  Hugo had him there. It had taken Marcus over a month to nut it all out—much longer than it should have.

  “They took it off me once I’d done my bit,” Hugo said. “Then it passed through six different guys.” A total of eight writers wasn’t altogether unusual in the Hollywood studio system, but it was high.

  “And then?”

  Hugo shrugged. “Pulled off the slate. Too Hard. Gone.”

  Marcus felt like he’d been kicked in the kidneys. The Pistol from Pittsburgh had been a good idea, but William Tell was a big idea. His big idea. And now it was abandoned and he was toiling away in the B Hive.

  “What did they replace it with?”

  “They put Hoppy’s King Tut picture on the front burner. Huge budget. They want Robert Donat or Ronald Colman for the lead.”

  Marcus spotted Hoppy standing by himself at the top of the stairs. The last time they’d seen each other was at a new place on Rodeo Drive called Romanoff’s. He found Hoppy sitting alone at the bar bent over a double scotch on the rocks. He was at Columbia now working on their Blondie movie series, each picture a bigger hit than the previous one. Hoppy admitted to Marcus that he deeply regretted walking out on Taggert. Marcus thought Hoppy was well rid of a guy like Taggert, but figured who was he to judge?

  Marcus scanned the staircase, but Ramon and Delores had disappeared. Damnit! Still, the night had just begun. The Biltmore Bowl was vast, but not so vast that Marcus wouldn’t be able to find him.

  He looked back up at Hoppy, knowing that the wooden leg made stairs a challenge and wondering if he could help. “Is Taggert here tonight?” he asked Hugo.

  “I expect so. Why?”

  Marcus watched Hoppy clutch the banister and negotiate the steps one by one. “I never see him now that I’m stuck in the B Hive. You know studios and their hierarchies. Fraternization between you A’s and us B’s isn’t kosher.”

  Holed up in the B Hive, Marcus found he was working with a nice enough bunch of guys, but none of them could fill a teacup with ambition and all were content to spend their lives under the horizon. “It’s the soldiers who poke their heads up over the fence who are the first to get blown to smithereens,” was how one guy put it. They were happier churning out forgettable program fillers, collecting a regular paycheck, and going home at night, on time, every time.

  Marcus could understand the appeal, but it wasn’t for him. He needed to do work he could be proud of, something that would bear his name. Credits on B pictures carried names Cohn made up by throwing darts at two huge corkboards hung on the wall. One board held a bunch of cards with first names, the other held surnames. To get a real screen credit, Marcus knew he needed to be working in the big house, and his best path back there was with Taggert’s approval.

  And he felt like he needed to do it fast.

  Just before Christmas, Hollywood was shocked to learn Scott Fitzgerald had died of a heart attack. A few years back, when Scott moved into the Garden of Allah with a lucrative contract at MGM but no real knowledge of how to write a screenplay, he asked Marcus to collaborate with him. The experience had been a stark lesson in how not to conduct your life. And now Fitzgerald was dead at the age of forty-four, only ten years older than Marcus. Marcus could feel the fiery dragon-breath of time burn his neck.

  He spotted Taggert in a tête-à-tête with Donnie Stewart, a Best Screenplay nominee tonight for The Philadelphia Story. With them was a screenwriter Marcus admired enormously: Dalton Trumbo, up for Best Screenplay for the Ginger Rogers picture, Kitty Foyle. The three of them were laughing over something.

  “HEY!” Hugo blurted out. “I didn’t steal William
Tell from you.”

  Marcus replied with an indifferent “Okay.” and started to withdraw.

  Hugo began breathing fast. “I really tried my level best to whip it into shape.” His face flushed with color, his eyes rimmed in red.

  “I’m sure you did,” Marcus told him.

  A deep voice over the PA announced that dinner was beginning in twenty minutes and would everybody kindly take their seats. Marcus left Hugo with a vague “I’ll see you around,” and fought the crowds to table seventeen.

  Tonight’s ceremony had the added excitement of a speech via radio from President Roosevelt. It was the first time a president had participated in the Academy Awards ceremony; his six-minute speech, it seemed to Marcus, gave the crowd some feeling of validation. But Marcus tuned in and out, preoccupied with the fate of William Tell. On top of which, the Hollywood Reporter had been seated three tables away from Ramon’s, but Ramon had his back to Marcus.

  During one of the lesser awards, Marcus got up and wound a circuitous route that took him in front of Ramon’s direct sightline. Marcus could see the hesitation in Ramon’s eyes when Marcus suggested, with a slight tilt of his head, that they meet outside the auditorium.

  Marcus hovered in the deserted foyer for an agonizing stretch of minutes that felt like weeks. He didn’t start breathing again until Ramon appeared.

  “How handsome you look,” Ramon said.

  Marcus thanked him and noted that if ever a man was built to fill a tux, it was Ramon Novarro. “How was your Italian tour?”

  “Very fine,” Ramon replied. “I was lauded with applause everywhere I went. But I was glad to get out. Did you hear? I secured the last cabin on the last refugee liner to leave Genoa before Italy closed its borders.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Marcus said. Because I didn’t hear anything from you the whole time you were away. “Have you spoken to Hugo since you got back?”