“Do you know how much the other studios have offered?” he asked.
She started fanning herself with her purse. “Goodness gracious me,” she pretended to fret. “I’m not sure that I’m comfortable revealing—”
“Who pays your salary?”
“You do, Mr. Zanuck.”
“Don’t make me repeat the question.” He obscured himself behind a veil of smoke.
“Monty doesn’t share everything with me but I can tell you that MGM’s price was $220,000.”
“That much, huh?”
“Monty’s agent told him it was high because Dore Schary couldn’t stand the thought of losing to Paramount. So you can assume Paramount bid at least two hundred big ones.”
Zanuck started pacing the width of the corridor like a skittish colt. “But why Paramount?”
“You must have heard the scuttlebutt about DeMille’s remake of The Ten Commandments.”
Zanuck shook his head.
You really are losing touch. “Kathryn’s date tonight is head of writing at Paramount and he told her that filming on Ten Commandments has gone so well that it could be the biggest moneymaker of the decade.”
Zanuck choked out a scoffing grunt. “The budget’s twelve mill. It’s the most expensive film ever made. They’ll be lucky to break even.”
“But if they’re right, they’ll be able to outbid everybody. You need to swoop in with a can’t-say-no offer.”
“Of how much?”
Gwendolyn started pawing at her handbag. “This is a conflict of interest. I’m not—”
“HOW MUCH?”
She threw him an outraged glare. “The phrase ‘quarter of a million’ will serve a whole bunch of purposes. My brother lives on a military salary, so he’ll say yes; it makes for great P.R. copy; it’ll shut out the competition; it’ll almost guarantee you’ll get Gable, which means you’ll probably get John Ford. It’s a ripping yarn right up Ford’s alley, but you already know that.”
The door to the wings swung open and a couple of performers ran past. In the light slipping in from the doorway, Gwendolyn caught the hesitation in his eyes.
“You have read it, haven’t you?” she asked.
“Not exactly.”
“You’re prepared to shell out a quarter of a million on a book you haven’t even read?” The Darryl F. Zanuck of ten years ago wouldn’t have done that.
“I’ve been busy,” he snapped.
“With Bella?”
Zanuck rolled the cigar back and forth along his fingertips. “Is she sleeping with Gable?”
Gwendolyn wanted to swat him across the face with her handbag, but it featured an oversized paste emerald that could leave a mark if she struck him in the wrong place. “That’s a hell of a question to ask the girl you all but forced into having sex with Gable.”
“Oh. Yeah. I did feel bad about that later.”
“Careful, Mr. Zanuck, your conscience is showing.”
He jabbed the burning end of his cigar at her. “From what I hear, you were having a damn good time.”
“It wasn’t the worst job I’ve ever had, even if it ended up—”
She cut herself off five words too late.
“I heard rumors,” he said, more softly now.
This conversation was supposed to be about manipulating Zanuck into coughing up a fortune for Monty’s book, but it had veered into territory Gwendolyn hadn’t anticipated. “Sleeping dogs, Mr. Zanuck.”
“Was it that bad?”
“I think Virginia’s probably waiting for you out there—”
“Please tell me.”
“If you must know, I had a miscarriage that resulted in emergency surgery and now I’m unable to have children. Glad you asked?” She regretted her catty tone when she saw his horrified look.
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
“What’s done is done—”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
You can do that by making my brother a rich man. “Lookit, at my age the question of kids is largely a moot point. So let’s move on and make sure Monty’s agent receives a generous offer.”
“No, really, I’ll make it up to you. I don’t know how, but I will. But before I go, you still haven’t answered my question.”
The desperation in his voice said everything.
“No,” Gwendolyn replied, “your mistress isn’t screwing Clark Gable.”
* * *
Zanuck’s $250,000 offer arrived on the desk of Monty’s agent the next day. In a coincidence that usually only happens in a P.R. manager’s wet dream, Monty signed the deal the same day that his book came out.
News of the screen rights, along with glowing reviews, helped On the Deck of the Missouri climb up the bestseller list alongside Auntie Mame, Marjorie Morningstar, and Bonjour Tristesse.
With his huge payday, Monty settled the outstanding debt for Gwendolyn’s store. She told him he didn’t have to, but he insisted, saying it was the least he could do. She accepted his generosity and felt lightheaded as she walked out of the bank with a statement that read, “ZERO AMOUNT DUE.”
But while Zanuck had wasted no time fixing the Monty Brick situation, his promise to Gwendolyn went neglected—but that was okay.
As she’d half-expected, Gwendolyn’s “special assistant” job dried up. She’d done for him what he wanted, so she returned full-time to the costume department, where her paycheck reverted to what it had originally been. But with her bank debt wiped away, it was enough for her needs.
Over the month that followed the Emmys, she assisted Billy Travilla and Charles LeMaire on a silly movie about two burlesque dancers hiding out in a college. Hoping to recapture some of the magic from How to Marry a Millionaire, Zanuck promoted its writer, Nunnally Johnson, to write and direct How to Be Very, Very Popular, and cast Betty Grable in what was going to be her last movie for Fox. Her reign was grinding down; an end-of-an-era feeling pervaded the whole production.
On the last full day of shooting, Grable charged into the workroom holding a dress that Gwendolyn knew she ought to be wearing in front of the camera right at that minute.
“This needs a repair job,” Betty said. “The shoulder.”
Gwendolyn took the garment from her. It was an ordinary dress that she wore under a coat in the chicken-eating scene and would barely be visible. She inspected the dress as Betty played with a zipper that Gwendolyn was about to insert into a blue dress she was making for Jennifer Jones in Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing.
Gwendolyn was used to an upbeat, chatty Betty Grable, not this nervous, distracted woman unable to look her in the eye. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Betty dropped the zipper. “I’m in hiding from Zanuck’s secretary.”
Irma was efficient, loyal, diplomatic, and discreet, and knew how to tie her hair into the tightest bun in Hollywood, but she wasn’t scary. “Why would you be hiding from her?”
“Because Zanuck’s been hounding me with messages and telegrams to come see him once Popular has finished filming. But the closer I get, the harder it is for me to face the fact that twenty-five years are coming to an end, so I’ve been avoiding him.”
Zanuck’s secretary appeared at the costume department’s doors. “There you are, Miss Grable.” Irma held considerable power and had a fleet of runners to do her bidding. She rarely went out of her way to track down anybody herself.
Betty rolled her eyes at Gwendolyn and turned around. “I had a costume emergency and it seemed quicker if I came here myself. We’re holding up filming, so perhaps it could wait until—”
“Mr. Zanuck has been trying to speak with you all week. He has an audition for you.”
Betty’s mouth fell open, and Gwendolyn didn’t blame her. For two decades, she’d been one of the most famous women in America.
Irma approached Gwendolyn’s workbench. “MGM has announced its first foray into television with a half-hour show called The MGM Parade. So now Mr. Zanuck feels like he’s got to t
ake action.”
“Like what?” Betty’s question sounded like it’d been throttled to within an inch of its life.
“He’s calling it Fox Fanfare,” Irma said. “They need a host and he wants you to report to Stage Nine at two o’clock. And don’t worry, Nunnally is happy to shoot around you until you get back.”
“I guess it’s all set.” Betty forged her most appealing musical-comedy smile, and waited until the swinging doors had stopped swaying behind Irma. “He’s asking me to audition?” she demanded. “For television?”
“Look what it’s done for Loretta Young,” Gwendolyn rejoined.
“After twenty-five years, if that’s the best he can do, I’m better off out of here.”
“And fair enough, I guess,” Gwendolyn said, “but are you really going to let the whole crew—and probably Zanuck himself—wait around until they realize you’re not coming?”
“That would be unprofessional, huh?” Betty toyed with the zipper again as she paced the length of the workbench. “But I can’t bring myself to—I mean, I just can’t. I want to run out the door and keep running.”
“Do you want me to fetch Irma and tell her?”
“Forget it. That woman is faster than the Super Chief. I don’t suppose you could go for me?”
Gwendolyn looked down at the silk with white flowers embroidered onto it. The design wasn’t quite right yet and Charles was waiting on her next sample. She hadn’t encountered Zanuck since the night of the Emmys, which was fine by her. He’d delivered on his promise to Monty and that was enough.
Betty scooped up her costume. “This place is swarming with pretty girls who’d gleefully do backflips if it meant auditioning for a television show, so let them. We can finish Popular tomorrow. I’m o.u.t., out.”
She dashed from the room.
* * *
The set was a den, if designed for a woman’s use: frills around the lampshades and pink throw cushions. Twenty people milled around, adjusting lights and checking lists. Zanuck was conferring with a rotund gent in horn-rimmed glasses, who Gwendolyn took to be the director. She waved down an earnest girl in long braids and a Peter Pan collar, but it attracted Zanuck’s attention. He crossed the set in seven long strides.
“I was with Betty Grable when Irma told her about this audition,” Gwendolyn told him. “She was dreadfully insulted.”
“What? Why?”
“There’s a way to go about asking a star of her stature to audition for television, and sending your secretary wasn’t it.”
He rolled his notes into a baton and slapped his leg with it. “I’m not auditioning her. It’s everybody else: the cameramen, lighting, sound. Nobody here’s done TV. The guys are nervous as hell that we get this right, so I asked them who they wanted in front of the camera so that they’d feel comfortable. Down to the last man, they said, ‘Betty Grable!’ She’s always been so kind to them, they’ve loved working with her. With her contract coming to an end, they figured it’d be the last chance they have.”
“Why didn’t you explain that to her?”
“She’s been avoiding me like I’ve got leprosy. So now I have to send someone to the Popular set?”
“Too late,” Gwendolyn told him. “She was so insulted that she’s flown the coop.”
“JESUS!” He slapped his rolled-up paper against his leg again; this time a loud thwack echoed across the soundstage. Every member of the crew froze. “We’ve only got a couple of hours. The Left Hand of God crew’s gotta start building their hospital set today.” He eyed her, tossing an idea around. “I need you to do me a favor. It’s real easy. Just stand in front of the camera and read the cue cards. That’s all. But you’ll need to do it a bunch of times because like I said, we don’t know what we’re doing.”
Gwendolyn fought back a rising urge to run screaming out the door. “Not on your life.”
“Just smile and say the words. Is that such a big ask?”
She wanted to scream YES! but an explanation meant describing how her calamitous screen test for Scarlett O’Hara had led to becoming the laughing stock of private screening rooms across Hollywood.
He told the crew to stand by for the first take.
It’s a few words on cue cards. The sooner you do it, the sooner it’ll be over.
“I know you requested Betty Grable,” Gwendolyn announced to everyone, “but she couldn’t do it so you’re stuck with me.”
The makeup guy pulled out a pot of tar-black lipstick, and eye shadow almost as dark.
Gwendolyn reared back. “You’re not putting that on me!”
“Television cameras need more light,” he explained, “so there’s greater contrast.”
“I’ll look like a panda bear!”
“Not on the TV monitor, you won’t. Come on, honey, I’ve got five minutes to get this done.”
He went about his work as Gwendolyn read through the lines on the cue cards carried by the girl in braids.
Hello and welcome to Fox Fanfare. Each week we’ll be bringing you one of the many Twentieth Century-Fox motion pictures that you’ve loved so much . . .
When he was finished, he stepped away to assess his work.
“I look like Morticia Addams from those New Yorker cartoons, don’t I?” she asked.
He admitted that she did as the portly gent called for quiet. “Could we get full lights now?”
Light flooded the set; Gwendolyn could barely see the cue cards.
“Everything okay?” Zanuck’s voice came from someplace on her right.
Heat hit her skin like the flames of hell. “We’d better get going before I melt like a cheap candle.”
“Attagirl,” Zanuck chuckled. “You ready?”
Yeah, Gwendolyn thought. Ready to get back to the costume department.
CHAPTER 41
Sammy Davis Jr. waited until a couple of Ed Sullivan Show stagehands had wheeled a balsa-wood palm tree into place before he approached Kathryn. “Nervous?”
“Me?” The squeak to Kathryn’s response gave her away. “I did have a long-running radio show, you know.”
“Live television’s a whole different can of hairspray, baby.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh! Wait! Maybe I’m the one who’s nervous.”
“Oh, please. You’ve been performing since you were knee-high to a duck.”
Sammy tapped his left temple. “But now I got me this sparkly new glass eye. It screws with depth perception. I don’t want to go falling over any of those cameras now, do I?”
Television cameras were the size of Shetland ponies; Kathryn doubted that he was likely to fall over one so obviously he was using it as a conversation icebreaker.
They were standing behind a beige velvet curtain. Its folds began to billow around them.
“How’s Frank?” she asked.
Sammy broke into a wide smile that quivered at the edges. “He asked me to say hi to you but only if no sharp objects were within reach.”
A laugh popped out of her, easy and natural. It was the first time she’d laughed like that recently. Her only hope to save her father’s life lay with J. Edgar Hoover and she still hadn’t heard from him.
Her readers thought she was in New York for Ed Sullivan. Getting on the show had been the easy part. The Hollywood Reporter’s New York office manager knew the guy in charge of booking talent and within an hour it had been set up.
But it was all a ruse.
Nelson had tracked down an FBI agent pal of his who worked out of the New York office. He’d gotten word to Hoover that Kathryn Massey wanted to see him and was prepared to come to Washington to make it happen.
The response had taken an agonizing eight days, and when it came, it was good news—sort of. The instructions were succinct: Be in New York on March 27. Details of time and place by special messenger.
March 27th was a Sunday; The Ed Sullivan Show aired on a Sunday. The timing would have been perfect had it not left four days until Danford’s execution. But what choice did she have?
&
nbsp; A second message arrived: Return stolen information immediately.
Kathryn was glad that only Nelson had been in the room when he’d delivered that information. No Leo, no Gwennie, no Wilkerson—nobody to see her collapse into a teary, sweaty, snotty, stuttering, blubbering mess.
Nelson hadn’t told her to pull herself together, or to stop acting like a ridiculous female. He silently put his arm around her and gently guided her head to his shoulder and waited until she was done with her wretched self-pity.
“Stealing evidence from the FBI is a federal offense, so Hoover could have thrown the book at you,” he’d pointed out. “But it seems like he’s got bigger fish to fry, and perhaps he needs you to fry them.”
Kathryn had nearly kissed him. She sure wanted to. They were alone and he was sitting right there, breathing heavier than she was. But Leo. It was always “But Leo.”
She’d pulled away, thanked him, and left. The next day, she announced a week-long stay in New York, recruited Mike Connolly to supplement her column with late-breaking news, and booked a TWA flight to Idlewild Airport.
To the outside world, Kathryn Massey had been having a gay week of Broadway shows: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, the opening of Damn Yankees, and a preview of The Diary of Anne Frank, written by her former Garden of Allah neighbors Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett. On other nights, she went to the premieres of East of Eden and Blackboard Jungle and later rhapsodized over an exciting new actor, James Dean.
But in reality, it had been torture. It was just like the day she waited for the FBI file from Herman Klurfeld. Jesus, do all of these guys wait until the last minute just to torment a girl?
Every time her telephone at the Pierre rang or a message was delivered to her door, her heart gave a little start. But it was always “Paramount would love to take you out for lunch at the Grand Central Oyster Bar.” Or “Dorothy Parker wants to meet for drinks at the Plaza but she can’t afford it so they’ll have to make do sneaking a flask into the Automat.”
Now it was eight o’clock on the night of the 27th and still nothing. The desperate hope in her heart felt like a canary in a coal mine gasping for breath.
She and Sammy watched the stagehands set up four more palm trees.
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