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

by Martin Turnbull

  “For you, maybe,” Hoppy said. “Not so much for poor Hugo.” He shook his head. “The Marr family sure does live under a black cloud. The son’s a suicidal queer, the father’s a violent alcoholic, and the mother was a bit of a mental case. She never should have become an actress.”

  “Hugo’s mother was an actress?” Marcus asked. “He never mentioned that.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Hoppy said. “Hollywood did no favors to poor Hilary van Hoss.”

  Kathryn and Marcus looked at each other, then back at Hoppy. “Hilary van Hoss was Hugo’s mother?” Kathryn demanded. “Tell us everything you know.”

  Hoppy held out his glass for a refill. “Back when your Billy Wilkerson was kicking around New Jersey working for one-reeler picture companies, he comes across this sixteen-year-old beauty who he thinks would be perfect for the flickers. The kid’s a real looker, huge potential. Mayer’s already out here with his own studio and he and Wilkerson have been chummy. So Wilkerson sends the kid out to Mayer, saying, ‘Here’s a fresh face, but she’s a nice kid, look after her for me.’ In other words, don’t bed her. Save her for me until I can get out there, because I’ve got this idea for a new trade paper.”

  “He really trusted Mayer with a cutie?” Kathryn asked.

  “It was the last time he made that mistake. Mayer takes one look at the kid, falls for her in a big way, almost to the point of obsession. Signs her to a personal contract, gives her a makeover, including a new name—Hilary van Hoss—and stars her in his biggest picture of the year, something called Forty Acres and a Mule.”

  “That’s the poster hanging on Hugo’s wall,” Marcus exclaimed. “He’s got it over the mantle; it dominates the whole room.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Taggert said. “Forty Acres and a Mule was his father’s most successful picture.”

  “The biggest hit the old goat ever had,” Cukor said. “Every film he made after that was compared to it, and all of them were found lacking.”

  Hoppy continued. “So when Wilkerson finds out what’s happened to his precious little protégé, he hits the roof six ways to Sunday. He jumps on the transcontinental, gets to LA and doesn’t even check into a hotel. Tracks down Mayer to the Montmartre Café where half of Hollywood lunches. All hell breaks loose. Fists punching, obscenities flying, pitchers shattering, tables breaking. They slug each other all over the room, down the stairs, and into Hollywood Boulevard.”

  “Sounds like a Mack Sennett farce!” Kathryn exclaimed. “How do you know about this?”

  “I wrote Forty Acres and a Mule,” Hoppy said. “Poor Hilary. She was really a sweet thing, gorgeous to look at, but just a naïve Jersey girl. The Montmartre brawl was just the start. Mayer and Wilkerson went at each other all over town, arguing, throwing drinks, sabotaging film production. It drove Hilary a little bit nutso and she fled into the willing arms of her director.”

  “Hugo’s father?” Kathryn asked.

  Hoppy nodded. “They got married, but Hilary was already unhinged and it was all downhill. Of course, Mayer blamed Wilkerson, and Wilkerson blamed Mayer, and they’ve never forgiven each other.”

  “Is that why they fight so much?” Kathryn asked. “They’re always at each other’s throats over the silliest stuff. Who the hell carries a grudge that long?”

  “How do you think they got where they are?” Taggert asked. “Always plotting and scheming.”

  “Yes,” Kathryn said, “but all this over some girl?”

  “Hilary wasn’t just some girl,” Hoppy said. “She had a very special quality about her, and if she’d been handled right, she could have been up there with Pickford and Swanson. But Mayer and Wilkerson ruined everything, so now they pick at each other and tell themselves it’s the other guy’s fault.”

  “So,” Kathryn said, frowning now, “when Wilkerson told me to use the name Hilary van Hoss in my Gone with the Wind preview story, he knew Mayer would read it and go screwy.”

  Hoppy rolled his eyes. “Insert knife. Twist. Add salt.”

  “What you’re saying is that I was being used in their little game of point scoring? I’m just a pawn?”

  “Oh, Kathryn.” Marcus clinked his glass against hers. “Aren’t we all?”

  * * *

  Kathryn looked at her watch. It was past midnight and the party was still in full swing, which meant it was probably only a matter of time before someone ended up in the pool or the flower beds and someone else ended up in a villa that wasn’t theirs. There was still no sign of a telegram. Did Western Union deliver after midnight?

  Errol Flynn and David Niven brought a case of sparkling Italian wine called prosecco. Kathryn had never heard of it, but it went down as smoothly as George’s champagne.

  “Are we boring you?”

  Kathryn looked up to see Humphrey Bogart staring at her in earnest.

  “You keep looking at your watch,” Mayo scolded.

  Kathryn had been pleased to see Bogart, even if he’d used Gwendolyn’s party as an excuse to escape a boring-as-hell dinner at Max Arnow’s. She was a little less pleased to see he’d brought his wife along. Mayo was more soused than him. Her lips, blotched with lipstick, hung halfway between a sneer and the shape a mouth twists before it’s about to puke.

  “I’m expecting a telegram,” Kathryn replied. “Thought it would’ve arrived by now.”

  “Maybe it’s waiting for you at the front desk?” Bogart suggested. Kathryn couldn’t believe that hadn’t occurred to her before now. “Let’s take a walk to find out.” As Bogart grabbed her gently by the elbow, Mayo went to say something. Bogart cut her off. “Relax, battle-ax. I’m just going to the front desk. We’ll be in plain sight the whole way.”

  They were halfway there when Bogart said, “How’s Gwendolyn doing? That Maltese Falcon night must have been rough on her.”

  Kathryn winced. “Poor thing. You don’t know what she’s been through to get onto the screen.”

  “She okay now?”

  “Our Gwennie’s nothing if not plucky. She was cracking jokes even before we left the theater. She said, ‘I’m the sort of wooden actress that gives wood a bad name!’ Are they keeping her in the movie?”

  Bogart shook his head. “Huston was disappointed and wanted to reshoot, but this was his first directing job, so he had a lot riding on it. He needed it to come in on time and on budget. I’m guessing they’ll edit her out for the national release.”

  They stopped and watched Gwendolyn deep in conversation with the guy who took her Face of the Forties shots. Errol Flynn hovered around them like a lecherous buzzard. Gwendolyn was paying him no attention, but Kathryn could see it was merely a tactic. Kathryn admired the way she knew how to string along a playboy as experienced as Errol. If Roy’s out of the picture now, she thought ruefully, perhaps I ought to be taking notes.

  “Come on,” Bogart said. “Let’s see if there’s something waiting for you at the front desk.”

  * * *

  Poor Errol, Gwendolyn thought. He’s been gentlemanly long enough. And that must be hard for someone used to getting the attention of every girl in every room he’s ever entered. She turned to him for the first time. “What do you think, Errol?”

  He looked startled. “About what?”

  “What Harlan here says about the sinking of the Bismarck.”

  In truth, Gwendolyn had barely listened to Harlan either. Errol Flynn had a palpable charisma that extended several feet from his body; he’d been lingering so close it blocked out almost everything else. But she’d spent enough years hovering at tables to know how to pick up every fourth word and still carry the gist of the conversation.

  “Ah,” Errol procrastinated, “perfectly justified. Show those damn Krauts they can’t take on the Royal Navy without repercussions.”

  Harlan, bless his heart, jumped in. “Excuse me, but I need to refresh my drink.” He stepped away, leaving Gwendolyn alone with Errol.

  “I thought he’d never leave,” Errol said.

 
“He’s a wonderful conversationalist, if you bothered to pay attention,” Gwendolyn told him.

  “How’s a boy supposed to pay attention when he’s got Venus standing before him. Darling, your dress! In the light of a full moon. Two days before you disappear from my life. You do not play fair, Gwendolyn my love. Now tell me, what are you drinking?”

  “Lemonade.”

  “Spiked with . . . ?”

  “Lemons.”

  “Oh, come now, you have to try this prosecco. It’s the nectar of the gods.”

  “I’m sure your shoes remember the last time I tried alcohol.”

  “Who cares about shoes?” He brought a crystal glass to Gwendolyn’s lips, but she pushed it away. She had every intention of trying a sip, but Errol Flynn hadn’t worked hard enough yet. She caught sight of a lithe figure in a full-length gown stride down the garden path from the big house.

  “LOOK OUT, BASTARDS!” Tallulah Bankhead announced to the rowdy group. “MAMA’S HIT THE PARTY!”

  * * *

  Tallulah Bankhead was just what Marcus needed. He felt like Hugo’s bungled attempt to kill himself was all he’d talked about for two days now. Variations on the theme of “I knew that guy was a nutcase” had been the usual response. He was sick of talking about it and felt desperate to obliterate it from his mind.

  By two o’clock in the morning, Marcus was dancing a tango on a patio table with Tallulah.

  By three o’clock, he was drinking from Tallulah’s patent leather pump.

  By three-thirty, he was squirting whiskey from his mouth into hers.

  By four o’clock, he was in the pool with her, fully clothed, wearing her triple-stranded pearl necklace and booze-soaked pumps, and she was wearing his fedora and lucky purple necktie.

  The pool was surprisingly warm, or maybe Errol’s bubbly Italian wine was keeping him numb. Numb was good. Nothing wrong with numb. He and Tallulah did a victory lap, although how he managed it without getting tangled in Tallulah’s endless ropes of pearls, he couldn’t say.

  Kathryn laughed at him from the edge of the pool. “You, sir, are one heck of a beautiful mess!” She turned to the fellow Marcus had seen her talking with but hadn’t met yet. “Help him, will you?”

  The guy, skinny as all get-out, extended a friendly hand.

  “Marcus,” Kathryn said “Meet one of our new arrivals. This is Frank Sinatra.”

  Marcus squeezed water from his clothes. It was astounding how heavy a full suit weighed soaking wet. “The singer?”

  “Frank’s just moved into the villa above Madame.”

  “I’m afraid Madame Nazimova doesn’t like me too much,” Frank admitted. “I practice the same song over and over.” His bright blue eyes crinkled as he grinned. “The old lady don’t care to hear no ‘Polka Dots and Moonbeams’ seventy times a day.”

  “Seventy times?”

  Frank shrugged. “If that’s what it takes to get it right.”

  “Marcus here is a screenwriter at MGM,” Kathryn said. “He’s writing one of Judy Garland’s next pictures. We’re all very proud of him around here.”

  A bone-deep, cannonball-heavy ache sideswiped Marcus in the heart with a force that made him gasp.

  “You okay?” Kathryn asked.

  “I’d better get into some dry clothes.” He nodded to Sinatra and hurried toward his villa. He slammed the door behind him just in time.

  * * *

  Kathryn knew something more than wet clothes was going on when she watched Marcus scurry off to his villa.

  “Is jumping in the pool his standard party trick?” Sinatra asked.

  “No, it’s Tallulah’s. He’s had a real tough week.”

  Sinatra laughed. “You Californians. You don’t know the meaning of a tough week. Try spending December in Hoboken.”

  Kathryn smiled absently and glanced back at Marcus’ front door while Frank talked about the treacherous Hoboken ice storms. It attracted the attention of Bill Spier and his wife, Kay Thompson. Bill was a radio producer and Kay a wonderful singer in her own right. When Kay and Frank started comparing favorite songs, Kathryn excused herself and picked her way through thickets of drowsy drunks and disorderly dancers to Marcus’ villa. Gingerly, she tapped on his door. When there was no answer, she peered in through his kitchen window to see him sitting at his small kitchen table. She could make out a bottle beside him. She edged inside the door and whispered, “Did something happen just now?”

  Kathryn watched as Marcus hauled himself up from the table and shuffled to the door. He swung it open and looked at her, his eyes swollen and his eyebrows knitted together. His chin quivered. “I miss my family.”

  * * *

  “Hell’s bells,” Errol said, “You finished a whole glass.”

  Gwendolyn looked at her coupe. Where’s it all gone?

  “Past those delicious lips of yours,” Errol said.

  Damn, but he’s good at reading minds.

  Errol leaned in. “And speaking of those delicious lips of yours.” He pulled her closer and pushed his body against her. Their lips touched, hesitant at first, then teasing, then finally pressed together with an urgency that had been building all night. His kisses were exactly what Gwendolyn expected. Strong, passionate, like she was the only girl in the world. Her dress had been an absolute demon to make, but it was safe at this point to declare “Mission accomplished.”

  “Ahem.”

  She opened an eye and looked over Errol’s shoulder. Kathryn mouthed Sorry! and pointed a thumb toward Marcus’ villa. Errol hadn’t heard Kathryn’s discreet interruption and started to slip his hand to Gwendolyn’s cleavage, and was surprised when she pushed it away. “What’s up, baby?”

  “Excuse me,” Kathryn said, her forehead wrinkling up.

  “We’re kind of busy,” Errol said.

  Gwendolyn didn’t like the way Kathryn shook her head. “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s Marcus. He needs us. Now.”

  Gwendolyn extricated herself from Errol’s embrace and hurried to keep up with Kathryn. “He’s in a real bad way,” Kathryn said.

  “Jumping in a pool in the middle of winter will do that to a boy.”

  “It’s a different sort of bad.”

  Kathryn opened Marcus’ front door, Gwendolyn followed her in. Marcus was at his kitchen table, a blanket around his shoulders and a tumbler in his hand. A puddle of water had accumulated around his chair and his glasses were cast aside on the table.

  “You haven’t even changed into dry clothes!” Gwendolyn said. “Marcus, honey, what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking about my family.” The words came out bitter and sad.

  Ah, Gwendolyn thought, the phantom Adler family. She pulled up a chair. “Where’s all this coming from?”

  Marcus threw back another mouthful of whiskey. “Just before Hugo shot himself, he looked up at a poster he’s got framed over his mantle. He said he was never going to measure up no matter what he did. His father’s this unforgiving son of a bitch. I realized tonight that I know how he feels. My own father ran me out of town because I—” He stopped and rubbed his temple.

  “Listen to me.” Gwendolyn pressed her hands onto his. “We love you. We care about you. We are your family.”

  “Of course we are!” Kathryn wrapped an arm around him.

  But Marcus shook his head. “Gwen, honey, I’ve got you for one more day, then you’re off to Hawaii to be near your family. It’s only right that you should be.”

  “You’ve still got me,” Kathryn said.

  “And you’ve got your mother.”

  “But I don’t like her very much,” Kathryn offered. Marcus cracked a smile. “I much prefer you,” she added.

  But Marcus’ smile didn’t last long. “I’ve been awarded my first screen credit.”

  Gwendolyn frowned at Kathryn, who shrugged. “That’s a good thing, right?”

  Marcus’ nod was listless. “Yeah.”

  “Then why do you look like someon
e just ran over your cat?”

  “Because suddenly it’s all very real. Until now, I’ve just dreamed about my family staring up at the screen and seeing my name in the credits. I’m from a family of seven; you’d think one of them would’ve tried to track me down. You’d think—” Marcus ruptured into a spasm of tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil your party.”

  “Is that what this whole Doris thing was about?” Kathryn asked gently. “Maybe you’ve been looking for the one family member who loved you unconditionally?”

  Gwendolyn could see Marcus’ mind absorbing Kathryn’s suggestion. He gave out a little sigh and shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly. “Could be.” His voice was so soft, Gwendolyn barely heard it over the revelers outside.

  “Maybe they’ve been waiting to hear from you,” Gwendolyn suggested. “They don’t know your address, but you know theirs. You can write a heck of a letter when you put your mind to it.” Gwendolyn held Marcus’ round face in her hands. “And think of what you can tell them. You’re writing the next picture for Judy Garland! How could a parent not be proud?”

  CHAPTER 49

  The last of the guests staggered off to bed—their own or someone else’s—at around seven o’clock. The morning dawned clear and not too chilly, and Kathryn and Gwendolyn were able to lure Marcus into the sunshine with the promise of strong black coffee and some of Schwab’s apricot Danishes.

  Sunday mornings were the only quiet time at the Garden. People were usually sleeping off their hangovers or hadn’t even made it home yet, but this morning was uncommonly quiet. No bird twitter from the trees, no traffic roar from Sunset. Somebody was playing a radio so quietly that Gwendolyn couldn’t make out the tune.

  She stole a glance at Marcus. The poor guy looked like someone had pulled his plug and drained all the life out of him. I get it, she told him silently. I’m moving because of the pull of family; you must miss yours so very much.

  Marcus peered up at her with eyes like shriveled blueberries, his smile barely breaking the surface. He raised his coffee mug.

  “Now that it’s just us three lushkateers, a toast,” he said.