Zap must have sensed what was in the cards: he went all out by taking her to dinner at Perino’s, a swanky French restaurant where the waiters wore white gloves. He ordered for them: oysters Rockefeller, followed by breast of guinea hen. But they were too worked up to bother with coffee, and raced back to his place. They’d been going at it like jackrabbits ever since.
As the Sunset Strip gave way to residential Beverly Hills, Marcus said, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
“It’s just that I feel funny talking about it while you’re still—”
“Have you met someone?”
“I think so, yes.”
He landed a hand on top of hers. “Gwennie, honey, don’t ever feel like that. I want to know all about him, including when do I get to meet him?”
“In about an hour.”
“Tonight?” He shot her a sideways look. “Is there something wrong with him?”
“I wouldn’t say wrong, necessarily.”
“What would you say?”
“He’s younger than me.”
“So?”
“By twelve years.”
“Now I am intrigued. Who is it?”
“The guy who put my perfume together.”
“Tapa . . .? Papa . . .?”
“Ignacio Zaparelli.”
“I hope he knows movies. Albert and Frances are going to be drilling us.”
Albert Hackett and Frances Goodrich were back in LA for the summer, putting a great deal of effort into their latest project, a musical called In the Good Old Summertime starring Judy Garland and Van Johnson. Neither was convinced it worked as well as it should, and they’d asked Marcus to attend a sneak preview. It was held on the night Kathryn did Window on Hollywood, so Marcus recruited Doris, Bertie, and Gwendolyn.
The Bay Theatre was a new place near the western end of Sunset, close to where it ended at the Pacific. Its enormous sign spelled out BAY in twelve-foot neon; cool white light saturated the outdoor foyer. Bertie and Doris were sharing a cigarette in front of a Coming Attractions poster for The Heiress, but Zap was nowhere in sight.
Gwendolyn was still looking for him when Albert and Frances arrived in a taxi. She’d come to think of them as a single unit: Albert-and-Frances. But as they marched toward her, she saw them in a whole different light. It had been years since Gwendolyn gave any thought to how Albert was ten years his wife’s junior and that Frances looked ten years older than fifty-nine.
She wasn’t sure exactly how long Albert-and-Frances had been married, but she figured they must be close to their twentieth anniversary.
Who cares if Zap’s twelve years younger than me? I haven’t had a steady beau since Linc. That was four years ago. What am I? A hermit?
Almost on cue, Zap emerged from the shadows of the parking lot wearing a charming smile and his smart Italian suit.
I’m my own woman, and my own boss, with nobody to answer to but myself. Why in God’s name have I been so preoccupied with what other people think?
She grabbed his hand. “Everyone, this is Ignacio Zaparelli, but for heaven’s sake, call him Zap. Shall we go in?”
* * *
Zap didn’t ask if he’d passed muster until he and Gwendolyn were in his car driving back to Hollywood.
Gwendolyn chuckled. “What do you think?”
He’d charmed Albert-and-Frances by quoting several of their wittiest lines verbatim. He’d won Doris over when he complimented her taste in jewelry. “One carefully chosen brooch says so much more than a glut of earrings, pendants, and bracelets.” He achieved the same result when he told Bertie he wished more women were as in tune with their most complimentary colors as she was. And as for Marcus, well, all he had to do was flash that Tyrone Power smile of his.
“I’ve learned it’s smart to never assume.” He drove several more blocks. “We’re coming up on Doheny.”
She knew what he was hinting at, but he was a little smug at having gone over so well at the Bay, and she wanted him to work for it. She agreed that they were and left it at that.
It took him several more blocks to say, “If we’re going back to my place, it’s easier to take Doheny to Melrose than all the way to Vine.”
“And if we’re going to mine?”
They sailed through the Sunset and Doheny intersection without speaking. He hadn’t been to her place and she knew he was curious as hell.
“There’s a parking lot off Crescent Heights—”
“I know,” he said. “I may have driven past once or twice.”
* * *
As they walked through the Garden of Allah, Gwendolyn counted three different parties, which wasn’t unusual. Sundays were still the weekend, and the weekends were for the letting down of hair, regardless of how early the alarm clocks went off in the morning.
The Garden’s management had recently doubled the number of lights along the meandering paths, strategically positioning them in ways that cast intriguing shadows and made the foliage glow extra green.
As they approached her villa, Zap spun her around and pulled her into a clinch with a fervor she didn’t see coming. She leaned into the kiss and felt her body melt against his. When they broke apart, she looked up into his face.
“Where did that come from?”
“I like kissing you with your clothes on.” He took the key from her hand and inserted it into the lock. “I also enjoy kissing you with your clothes in a trail to the bedroom. Ah! The sweet promise of things to come.” He swung the door open and stepped aside with a ladies-first motion.
Gwendolyn flipped on the lights.
Instinctively, she reached out behind her. Zap took her by the hand and pressed his chest against her back. She felt his lips press her right ear. “Either you’re the world’s worst housewife—”
“Or I’ve been broken into.”
* * *
When Gwendolyn returned with Marcus, Kathryn, Doris, and Bertie, Zap had cleared away the jumble of hurled books and upended drawers from her sofa and dining table.
So you’re stylish, smart, sensitive, obedient, and good in a crisis. But will you stick around when you learn that Leilah’s got her knives out for me?
Gwendolyn introduced Zap to Kathryn as they all took a seat.
Kathryn rubbed her forehead. “Leilah’s gone way too far.”
“Leilah O’Roarke?” Zap’s unblinking gaze conveyed his alarm.
“Did you ever meet Horton Tattler’s son, Linc?” Gwendolyn asked. He shook his head. “He and I used to date. He died recently and I received a box of personal effects. Leilah is convinced that her client cards were inside.”
“The ones that Winchell talked about?” Zap asked. Gwendolyn searched for signs that he wanted to run a mile, but he looked more fascinated than apprehensive. “Are you sure they weren’t there?”
“It’s hard to miss a box of five-by-three index cards. I thought I’d managed to persuade her, but then my store was broken into, and now this.”
“We should track her down and tell her again,” Marcus said.
“Could I have been any clearer at Mocambo?”
“Maybe it is time to tell the police,” Bertie said. “Or the FBI. Or someone.” She swept her arms over the trash heap of Gwendolyn’s apartment. “This is too close to home.”
“If this is her handiwork, she’s obviously determined,” Zap said.
“Desperate is more like it.”
“But what if this Linc guy took them out of the metal box?”
Gwendolyn could feel her patience running out. “I don’t have them!” she said. “Even if Linc had, I would’ve seen them. But there was nothing in that cardboard box Horton gave me but mementos.”
Doris gasped. “You don’t suppose—?” She jumped to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”
“Should I follow her?” Marcus stood up and went to the window. “I’ve always felt so safe here, but now that this has happened . . .”
Nobody knew quite what to do, least of all
Gwendolyn. “I wish I did have them!” she declared.
“No, you don’t.” Marcus returned to his seat.
“I could give them to Leilah and wash my hands of this whole situation—”
“Is she coming back already?” Kathryn cut in. They listened to the sound of running feet crunching the gravel. “That didn’t take long.”
Doris burst back into the room clutching Linc’s copy of Magnificent Obsession. “When I put this on my bookshelf, I thought it felt heavy.” Still panting from her sprint, she laid the book on Gwendolyn’s coffee table and opened it up.
Someone had cut a rectangle into the middle of the pages, just enough to fit a stack of cards.
“Hell’s bells!” Bertie exclaimed. “I’ve seen that in the movies but I didn’t know anyone actually did it in real life.”
Gwendolyn’s fingers trembled as she picked up the book, tipped it toward the light and read out loud the name written along the top of the first card. “Yardley Aaronson.”
“I know him,” Zap said. “He makes props. Specializes in mirrors with ornate frames and frosted glass, like for bathroom scenes.” He snickered. “He’s a devout Catholic. Five kids. The whole nine yards.”
Gwendolyn snapped the book shut. “I’m taking this to Leilah.”
“You’ve got Pandora’s Box in your hands there, Gwennie,” Kathryn warned.
“I don’t want this! It’s brought me nothing but trouble.”
“Give it to Leilah and she’ll ruin the reputation of every man in town.”
The book felt like a ticking bomb. Gwendolyn slid it onto the coffee table. “Then I’ll burn them. The whole damn lot!”
“You can’t do that, either,” Zap said.
“Why not?”
“Because she’s been charged with pandering, and that’s a felony.” He pointed to Magnificent Obsession. “If anyone hears that you’ve destroyed crucial evidence, you could find yourself up on charges of evidence tampering.”
“I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t?”
“He’s right,” Marcus said. “You’re going to have to keep these hidden away until you can figure out the best way to handle all this.” He looked at the group huddled around the room. “Meanwhile, we all keep mum. Not a word. Right?”
CHAPTER 26
Marcus hadn’t seen Trevor Bergin for days. Whenever a Garden resident disappeared without notice, everyone assumed they’d taken off with a trunkful of whiskey and locked themselves away in some divey motel.
Earlier that summer, panicked whisperings had circulated that a new, secret FBI report mentioned a bunch of Hollywood names. One theory said it was part of the Alger Hiss trials in New York. Another one insisted that HUAC had commenced closed-door sessions in Washington. According to a third version, a California State Senate Committee was looking to pick up where HUAC left off a year ago, investigating anyone in Hollywood who might have links to the Communist Party.
The rumors mutated with every lap around the grapevine, so Marcus paid only passing attention. Whenever he spotted the word “Commie” in Louella Parsons’ and Hedda Hopper’s columns, he often skipped to the next page. He didn’t even bother with Ruby Courtland’s column—what a right-wing loose cannon that little humdinger was proving to be.
But when he did pay attention, Marcus noticed that the names often changed. First it was John Garfield and Edward G. Robinson. The following week, Katharine Hepburn, Gregory Peck, and Orson Welles were the bad guys. But the name that surfaced with every iteration was Trevor Bergin. Marcus knew how it felt for the world to think you were a Red, so he didn’t blame the guy for disappearing.
With half the residents taking off for the long Fourth of July weekend, the Garden was unusually quiet. After a blissfully solitary swim, Marcus was toweling himself off when he heard smashing glass coming from Trevor’s villa.
He knocked on the wall and called out Trevor’s name. When he heard a dull thud followed by a terrific belch, Marcus rounded the corner and pounded on the front door. “I know you’re in there! I’m not stopping until you open up.”
“It’s not even locked.”
Marcus let himself in expecting to see what Gwendolyn’s place had looked like a few weeks ago, but Trevor’s living room was as tidy as it had always been. Trevor sat in the dead center of his sofa, his face wiped clean of expression.
Marcus kept his voice even. “I heard the sound of breaking glass.” Which can come in handy if you’re looking to open a vein.
“It was the crystal vase I gave Melody for our first anniversary. She didn’t take it with her when she moved out, and I hated it so . . .”
“So you dropped it on the floor?”
“I was aiming for the trash can. The point is, I don’t have to look at it anymore.”
Marcus looked at Trevor’s bare feet. “That could prove dangerous the next time you need to walk around your apartment.”
“You want to clean it up? Be my guest.”
He joined Trevor on the sofa. “We haven’t seen you in a while, buddy. I was hoping to see you at Frances and Albert’s preview. You should see Judy! She looks great, especially in this dress Irene designed—”
“I think I’ve been fired.”
Outside the window, a raucous gang of holidaymakers burst randomly into laughter.
“You have, or think you have?”
“I’ve been taken off Three Little Words.” The biopic about the songwriting team of Kalmar and Ruby was one of MGM’s big hopes for 1950; it would have ensured Trevor’s continued perch atop the heap. “They’re replacing me with Red Skelton.”
“Oh, come on! You know what that means.” Marcus chanced a friendly leg nudge. “Replacing you with Red is like swapping Garbo for Sonja Henie. They just decided to go in a different direction.”
“This week, I turned up for fittings on The Toast of New Orleans and nobody could look me in the eye. Come to find out that Joe Pasternak had called Walter Plunkett a whole week earlier. Everybody knew but me. It was humiliating.”
“There can be a ton of reasons why people get recast—”
“David Niven’s getting my part.”
Although Trevor possessed a sportier barrel-chestedness than Niven, and Niven’s screen persona had a worldly playboy charm that Trevor’s lacked, the two men were somewhat interchangeable.
Marcus clamped his hand on Trevor’s knee. “I was going for a drive down to the beach. Come with me.”
“I’m not ready to face the world.”
“I’m not asking you to face the world. Just the ocean. It can be soothing for a troubled soul. I’ve been where you are.”
* * *
The stretch of sand where Sunset met the Pacific was deserted. Scarcely a handful of people roamed the beach—an older couple with their Labrador puppy, a tanned beachcomber Marcus often spotted collecting driftwood, and a quartet of teenagers lugging a picnic basket toward the rocks at the northern end.
Marcus pulled his key out of the ignition and opened his door. The sun was already high, but not nearly so scorching as the forecasters had predicted. In fact, it was pretty much as perfect as California perfection got.
He pulled off his topsiders and jumped onto the sand. That was his favorite part of what had become a thrice-weekly ritual. He loved to feel the warmth squelch between his toes as he headed for the water. The ocean was always bracingly cold, and he loved that too.
The two men stood at the shoreline. “See?” Marcus asked. “The waves come in, the waves go out. It has a comforting rhythm, don’t you think?”
Trevor grunted.
“With all the uncertainty and impermanence in our lives, it’s nice to know there are some things that don’t change. Jobs come and go, relationships come and go, some years we have scads of money, some years we’re broke, but whatever’s going on, the tide ebbs, the tide flows, the tide ebbs again.”
“And you find that comforting?”
“It puts things into perspective,” Marcus said.
/> “My life is going down the drain and you bring me here to look at water?”
“Yes. To help you see this too shall pass.”
“AND WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW?”
The picnicking teenagers turned around and stared.
“I know better than anyone else what it feels like.”
“The hell you do.” Trevor picked up a stick of driftwood and hurled it into the ocean. “Quentin hasn’t returned my calls in weeks.”
Quentin Luckett had been Trevor’s boyfriend for as long as Marcus had known either of them, going on seven or eight years now.
“I haven’t seen him since Easter. Meanwhile, my career’s ground to a standstill. All the rumors about me being in that secret FBI report, you know it’s just a matter of time before I’m canned. And don’t tell me you know how it feels. I have a very public career whereas yours . . .” He picked up a stone and skipped it across the water’s surface. “Nobody cares about the writers.”
It was a callous way to put it, but Trevor wasn’t far off the mark. Writers sat at the bottom of the Hollywood pecking order. They were considered the least valuable and most expendable, which only made the idea of a blacklist even more ludicrous. Nobody listened to the writers.
“Are you forgetting how public my downfall was?” Marcus asked. “I was forced to defend myself in front of HUAC, in Washington, with the entire press corps shoving their microphones and cameras in my face. That’s about as public as it gets, Mister Pity Me.”
Trevor had six inches on Marcus and used every one of them when he stepped forward to tower over him, terror and fury crinkling his face. “My entire career is based on my popularity with the public. Once I’ve lost that, I have no career.”
He’d always played the dapper idealist who got the girl in the final reel. His looks were tailor-made for moviegoers searching for an Adonis on whom they could pin their romantic dreams. But as Marcus felt Trevor’s spit hit his face, he thought of the guy’s unnaturally neat apartment and realized this was the first time Trevor had let himself go. It was time his perfect façade came down, and if he didn’t do it soon, he might implode.
Twisted Boulevard: A Novel of Golden-Era Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 6) Page 17