Frankie gave a disdainful sniff, and fixed her attention on the passing scenery. Mama, she knew, would be appalled at her lack of manners, and with good reason: Frankie shuddered to think what might have happened to her if she’d gotten into Herbert Finch’s car. Now, alone with her rescuer, she found herself strangely at a loss for words. She was more than a little embarrassed at having so easily fallen for what should have been an obvious trap, and chagrined to think that the first person she should meet on her big adventure probably thought she had no more sense than a—than a—
“Oh, look!” Frankie’s self-consciousness was banished by the sight of huge white letters spelling out HOLLYWOODLAND against the distant green hillside. “I’m really here! Somehow it didn’t seem real until now.”
Her enthusiasm was contagious, and Mitch entered into it wholeheartedly. She had apparently decided to forgive his officious behavior at the station, and as long as she was pelting the taxi driver with questions, she was unlikely to press him on certain subjects he would prefer to avoid. After all, what possible explanation could he give for chucking a perfectly good job and lighting out for California, all because of a girl he happened to meet on a train? Okay, so maybe he’d done more than meet her. Still, she wasn’t the first girl he’d ever met—ever kissed, either, for that matter. That was no reason for him to become her self-appointed protector. Besides, any amorous pursuit of Frankie Foster was doomed from the start. If ever a girl was the Marrying Kind, it was Miss Pure-as-the-driven-Snowy-Soap Flake Frances Foster, and he’d never met a girl less interested in marriage—except for maybe Barbara Malone, the toast of the A&M locker room, but Babs was a different class of female altogether.
So there was no logical explanation for his actions except that he was a complete lunatic—and yet, if he had it all to do over again, he would do the same thing. Somebody had to look after the girl and make sure she didn’t jump into the car with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who offered to make her a star. It might as well be him. And if her dreams of Hollywood stardom came crashing down around her, somebody would have to pick her up, dust her off, and put her back on a train to Georgia. He could do that, too; he’d always heard it was pretty country.
Chapter 2
Girl Crazy (1943)
Directed by Norman Taurog
Starring Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney
The Hollywood Studio Club proved to be a three-story building in the Mediterranean style, with a red tile roof and a painted frieze over the three arches that framed the front door. As she entered the foyer with Mitch at her heels, she was struck by the soaring ceiling with its exposed beams, the airy rattan furnishings interspersed with potted palms—and the sheer number of females. They were everywhere: draped over the rattan chairs, clustered around a prominently displayed bulletin board, flitting up and down the stairs. From somewhere in the distance came the tinny sounds of a radio playing “Anything Goes,” while the rhythmic thumping of footsteps overhead indicated that the next Ginger Rogers or Eleanor Powell hopeful was hard at work.
“Good afternoon,” Frankie addressed the sea of feminine faces regarding her with frank curiosity. Or was it still morning in California? After all, she was on Pacific Standard Time now. A fine first impression that would make, if her future housemates thought she couldn’t even tell time! “I’m Frances Foster. I’d like to see somebody about a room.”
A pert, freckle-faced redhead jerked a thumb in the direction of a carved double door at one end of the room. “You want to see Miss Williams, the directress. Through those doors and to your left. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
For the next few seconds, there was no sound but the clicking of Frankie’s high-heeled shoes on the tile floor. Just as the double doors closed behind her, a voice said in an audible whisper, “Maybe she’d better see someone about voice lessons while she’s at it. Did you ever hear such an accent?”
Thankfully, the resulting blow to Frankie’s confidence was short-lived. In spite of her formidable title, Miss Williams proved to be a motherly woman with stylishly coiffed graying hair and a twinkle in her eye. By the time Frankie re-emerged through the double doors some ten minutes later, she was the proud possessor of a room (well, half a room, really, since she would be sharing it with one of the other girls) at the bargain price of only fifteen dollars a week—more expensive than housing in Georgia, perhaps, but quite reasonable by Hollywood standards, and besides, it included two hot meals a day. Of course, the rules for residence were rather stringent, but since Frankie didn’t smoke or drink, and had no intention of entertaining gentleman callers in her room, she didn’t think compliance would be overly taxing.
The sight that met her eyes when she reached the foyer was enough to wipe the self-satisfied smile from her face. Mitch had dumped her suitcases just inside the door and now stood flexing his muscles for a gaggle of admiring females who “oohed” and “aahed” and vied for the privilege of squeezing his bulging biceps.
“Where did you say you played football?” one girl cooed. “UCLA?”
“Texas A & M,” Mitch corrected her.
“I have to attend a wrap party tomorrow night, and I don’t have a date,” purred a voluptuous brunette. “Would you like to escort me?”
“I’d only embarrass you,” Mitch demurred. “I don’t have a tuxedo.”
“Rent one at Brooks Brothers. You can pick me up at eight.”
“Ahem!” Frankie tapped her toes against the hardwood floor.
Mitch started guiltily and picked up her suitcases. “Here, let me get that for you.”
“No men are allowed beyond the first floor. So I guess this is goodbye.”
Frankie dropped the smaller of her two cases and held out her gloved hand. Mitch took it, but instead of the firm handshake she’d intended he gave her fingers a squeeze, making the gesture unexpectedly intimate. “Maybe not. After all, I know where to find you.”
“Here, I’ll help,” said the freckle-faced redhead, picking up Frankie’s case. “What room are you in?”
Frankie waited until they were halfway up the stairs, then asked, “Who was that—that female?”
“The one who tried to vamp your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my—”
“Her name is Pauline Moore, but we all call her Theda Baracuda behind her back.”
Frankie choked back a giggle. Her mother had seen the notorious Theda Bara in Cleopatra years ago, before Frankie was born. Mama had never forgotten it; in fact, that old silent film was responsible for her conviction that going to Hollywood was a girl’s first step on the road to hell.
“Yes sir, Pauline is the Studio Club’s own Will Rogers: she never met a man she didn’t like. By the way, everybody calls me Roxie, but my professional name is Roxanne Carr. Roxanne Carr, the Movie Star. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Roxie paused before a closed door and tapped on the frame. “Knock, knock, anybody home?”
Receiving no reply, she turned the knob and, finding the door unlocked, pushed it open and snapped on the overhead light. Frankie found herself standing at the threshold of a small but well-proportioned room sparsely yet tastefully decorated in blue and white gingham and floral prints. The only fault to be found was the white framed twin beds, one of whose mattresses possessed a lump of remarkable size. Even as she focused on this flaw, the lump stirred and a flush-cheeked girl sat up, clutching the covers to her pajama-clad chest.
“Sorry, Kathleen, I didn’t know you were still in bed,” said Roxie, apparently unfazed by the discovery. “Hot date last night?”
“No, just not feeling well.” Kathleen raked her fingers through a fringe of blond curls worn like Norma Shearer’s in Juliet.
“Still? That’s, what, three days in a row. Maybe you’d better see a doctor.”
Kathleen shrugged. “Maybe.”
“I’ve brought you a new roommate,” Roxie said, dumping Frankie’s suitcase on the floor beside a mirrored dresser. “Kathl
een Stuart, meet—?”
“Frances,” Frankie put in hastily. “Frances Foster, but my friends call me Frankie. Gosh, I’m sorry to disturb you like this.”
“No trouble,” Kathleen assured her, throwing back the covers. “I should have been up hours ago. I have a casting call first thing tomorrow.”
“That’s right, you’re reading for a part in The Virgin Queen, aren’t you?”
Kathleen nodded. “Gwyneth, lady in waiting to Queen Elizabeth. It’s a costume picture,” she added unnecessarily, for Frankie’s benefit. “Not a very big role, but the kind that could get me noticed if I do a good job with it.”
Roxie kicked off her shoes and perched on the foot of the bed, patting the mattress as an invitation for Frankie to join her. “I hope you get the part,” she told Kathleen with a malicious gleam in her eye. “That would be one in the eye for Pauline!”
“Pauline is awfully good,” Kathleen said in the other girl’s defense. “Remember, she had a part in the last Clark Gable film.”
“As if she’d ever let us forget it! Two seconds on screen as a hat check girl!” Roxie made a derisive sound Mama would have called a snort. “I hope her scene ends up on the cutting room floor. It would serve her right!”
“She’d only get others,” Kathleen said, not without sympathy.
Roxie sighed. “You’re right, of course.”
Kathleen turned to Frankie. “None of us are very fond of Pauline, but she does get more work than any of us.”
“And no wonder!” Roxie cast a furtive glance back at the half-open door and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They say she gives her best performances on her back.”
“On her back?” Frankie echoed, baffled by this seeming impossibility. “But she would have to be lying—oh!” She blushed crimson at the implication.
“Not that she’s the only one, not by a long shot,” Roxie continued. “Lots of girls figure it’s the fastest way out of Central Casting and into a studio contract.”
Frankie shook her head. “Not me. I could never do such a thing!”
“Never say ‘never,’ ” cautioned Kathleen, suddenly solemn. “When the perfect role comes along, some girls figure it’s worth any price. After all, you may not get another shot at stardom. You do what you have to do, or you go home a failure.”
Or you throw yourself headfirst from the Hollywood sign, like poor Peg Entwhistle had done a few years back. Either way, Frankie couldn’t imagine any role worth such desperate measures. Still, she didn’t want to quarrel with her new friends, so she was relieved, if a bit bewildered, when Roxie steered the conversation in a new direction.
“So, have you registered with Central Casting yet?”
“I don’t think so,” Frankie said doubtfully.
Roxie laughed. “If you don’t know, then you haven’t done it.”
“Central Casting is the office the studios call when they need to hire extras,” Kathleen explained. “They’re small parts, usually non-speaking, but at least you get acting experience.”
Frankie tried hard not to let her disappointment show. “I’d hoped to get a contract with one of the big studios.”
Roxie let out a bark of somewhat bitter laughter. “Don’t we all! Unfortunately, every female in Hollywood has the same thing in mind. Working as an extra may not be glamorous, but it pays the rent. Besides, there’s always the chance you might catch the eye of someone important.”
“But—”
“It’s easy to register,” Kathleen added, apparently seeing nothing wrong with this plan for Frankie’s future. “All you have to do is go to the Central Casting office and fill out a form. If you have a recent photograph of yourself, leave it with them. If not, it’s worth the expense of having one professionally made.”
Photographs, or a lack thereof, were no problem. Mama had taken her to have her photo taken in the full-skirted white chiffon gown Frankie had worn to her debutante ball. She’d worn her grandmother’s pearl earrings, and her hair was pinned up in a sophisticated style. In fact, she’d looked every inch the Hollywood starlet she still hoped to be. But she was reluctant to add her own likeness to the hundreds of anonymous photos at Central Casting without first trying her luck at the major studios. And so the following morning, dressed in a cream-colored linen suit and armed with a map and a bus schedule, she set out to storm the citadel.
Her first stop was Columbia Pictures, where the receptionist hardly even looked at her. “We get most of our extras through Central Casting,” she said in the world-weary accents of one who had made the same speech more times than she could count. “Fill out a registration card with them, and if anything comes up, we’ll let you know.”
“Can’t I at least leave my photograph for the casting director?”
The receptionist smiled regretfully and shook her head. “I’m afraid it would only get lost in all the clutter.”
Since Frankie could see her own reflection on the surface of the pristine desk, she understood this excuse as the dismissal it was clearly intended to be. She thanked the receptionist politely—Mama’s daughter would do nothing less—but knew better than to hold her breath.
From Columbia she went to MGM and from MGM to Paramount, with no greater success. She dug a bit deeper into her purse for bus fare and ventured farther afield to Universal and Twentieth Century-Fox, but the story was always the same.
“Don’t call us,” one industry insider recommended, taking Frankie firmly by the elbow and all but frog-marching her to the door. “We’ll call you.”
Her last stop, at Monumental Pictures, proved even more fruitless than all the rest. At least at the other studios a real person had spoken to her, however unpromisingly. At Monumental, however, the reception room stood vacant, without so much as a cold coffee cup on the desk to suggest that it had ever been inhabited at all.
“Hello?” called Frankie, undaunted. “Is anyone there?”
Receiving no reply, she ventured past the desk and into the hallway. She could hear the faint sounds of voices further down the corridor, and she started in their direction, the thick carpet beneath her feet absorbing the sound of her footsteps. At the end of the hall was a half-open door bearing a brass nameplate reading “Arthur Cohen, Executive Producer.” As she drew nearer, the voices within began to resolve themselves into words—angry words. A previously unsuspected instinct for self-preservation warned her against announcing her presence.
“Damn it, Artie, this is the opportunity of a lifetime!”
The unseen Artie, presumably Mr. Arthur Cohen himself, gave a derisive snort. “Opportunity to go bankrupt, more like. Have you heard what the Mitchell dame and her agent are asking? A hundred grand!”
“Since when does anybody pay the asking price? Make ‘em a counter offer, and see what happens.”
“I know what’ll happen. Either they’ll turn it down, and I’m no better off than I was before, or they’ll accept it—and I’m a hell of a lot worse.”
The first speaker’s response was drowned out by a metallic ringing like a spoon against the cup. A moment later a not unpleasant odor of herbs and almonds filled the air, tickling Frankie’s nose.
“Mayer says no Civil War picture ever made a nickel,” Artie said once the stirring sound had stopped. “You think you suddenly know more about making pictures than Louis B. Mayer?”
Frankie gasped. They were talking about Gone with the Wind! The whole country was hoping for a film version of Margaret Mitchell’s novel, even (maybe especially) those who hadn’t yet read the thousand-page brick of a book. Forgetting for the moment the hostility with which the issue was being debated, Frankie pictured herself in ruffled hoop skirts, lifting her tear-stained face to the camera and declaring that “Tomorrow is another day.” Then Artie’s companion spoke again, more clearly now, dragging her away from Tara and back to reality.
“—big Technicolor production, like I wanted to do with The Virgin Queen.”
“I keep telling you, Techni
color is nothing but a fad—and a damned expensive one at that.”
“You said the same thing ten years ago about the talkies. If it had been left up to you we’d still be making the old silent flicks.”
Artie took exception to this accusation, slamming his fist into something—the wall, perhaps, or the top of his desk. “God knows one of us has to show some restraint! ‘Technicolor,’ my Aunt Fanny! Give me a good old black and white horror flick any day. That’s what the public wants—some sweet young thing in a see-through nightie tiptoeing down the stairs with a candle in her hand—”
“And you were the master of the genre, Artie, no one’s arguing with that,” his companion assured him in conciliatory tones. “But that kind of thing is box office poison these days, thanks to the Hays Office.”
Artie’s bluntly stated opinion of the Hays Office and its censoring practices caused Frankie to clap one hand over her open mouth.
“I’m inclined to agree with you, but it looks like they’re here to stay, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Look, if you’re not happy with the way the industry is headed, maybe it’s time you got out, pursued some other interests. I’d be willing to buy you out—”
“With what?” scoffed Artie. “You don’t have a dime you didn’t make in the business.”
“And what money do you have that you didn’t marry?”
“You leave my wife out of this!”
“But the business—”
“Yeah, the business—the business I started with two old cameras in an empty barn while you were off at some fancy-pants college getting yourself educated! No, if we break up the partnership, you’ll be the one to leave, not me. You want me out, you’ll have to kill me first.”
Frankie had heard enough. Groping for the wall with one shaking hand, she took a backward step, then another. She had almost reached the foyer when her hand struck a framed movie poster hanging on the wall, setting it swinging back and forth on its nail.
“What the hell was that?” Artie demanded.
Sheri Cobb South Page 2