Gwendolyn laughed. If she had to lose her Licketysplitters, she was glad it was to someone who took it all in stride. “I didn’t come here to fight with you,” she said. “I came here looking for one of those girls.”
“Which girl?”
“Bunny.”
“AH!” Cherry and her co-worker nodded. “She nice.” The scowl resurfaced. “Too old. Bunny should stop.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
Cherry shook her head, then pointed to the woman working directly behind Gwendolyn. “This for Bunny. She come later.”
“Here? Today?”
“You come back. Midnight. Yes?”
* * *
Neither Zap nor Arlene were keen on spending the next six hours drinking turkey piss, so they headed six blocks down Sunset to a Chinese restaurant the bartender recommended. After six egg rolls and a dubious bowl of chicken chow mein, they were back at the same table, downing what were supposed to be old-fashioneds when a pale woman, unmistakably past fifty with scrawny arms and a helmet of white-blonde hair, walked in.
Arlene waved her over and hugged her, then Zap bought Bunny a drink and Arlene got down to business.
“We’re hoping you might be able to help us out. Do you know someone called Yvette?”
“You might know her as Mae,” Gwendolyn put in.
“A working girl?”
“Most likely back in the days when Leilah was conducting business in the back room.”
Bunny flapped her lips. “Now you’re pushing it. What does she look like?”
Gwendolyn described Yvette as best she could.
“Sounds like Hilda. God, I haven’t seen her in donkey’s years.”
Hilda? Yvette? Mae? How many aliases does that woman have? “So she and Leilah go way back?”
“She was one of Leilah’s original OGs, but they’d parted company by the time Leilah opened her first house.”
“They had a fight?”
“Oh, sweetie.” Bunny yawned. “It was such a long time ago.”
“Perhaps another highball might jog your memory?” Zap signaled the bartender.
“Thanks, handsome. Best as I can recall, there wasn’t no bad blood. Those two were cut from the same cloth. Nah, I think she just moved to a sweeter deal.”
Like Darryl Zanuck. “So if we were trying to track her down, what name do you think she’d use?”
“That’s anybody’s guess, but if I were her, I’d go back to my original. Nobody’s called her that since Garbo learned English.”
“So what’s her real name?”
“Saperstein.” Bunny chortled. “Ain’t it a lulu?”
“Are you sure?”
The hooker looked at her with dull eyes. “Ain’t nobody on purpose chooses to call herself Hilda Saperstein.”
CHAPTER 29
Marcus stretched out his arms and wondered if he’d chosen the most uncomfortable chair in the reading room of the Los Angeles Public Library. He closed his eyes. Immediately, Kathryn’s face appeared, her brow furrowed in that I-mean-business-Buster way she had when she was intent on getting her point across.
A week ago, she’d knocked on his door. Before he had a chance to say hello, she marched past him. “Enough!” she announced. “Enough with the Gloomy Gus routine. You’ve been through a lot—I know that. Your breakup with Oliver was awful and wrenching and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But it’s been nearly six months. Dear God in heaven, Marcus, do you plan on spending the rest of your life staring at the ocean and pining for days that aren’t ever coming back?”
He appreciated what she was trying to do, albeit in her typical steamroller way. But in truth, time was doing what time was supposed to do: lend distance and mend scars. What Kathryn took as sadness was closer to frustration.
Reuben’s suggestion of moving into television irked Marcus, but it compelled him to see that he should do more than sit on his ass waiting for everyone else to come home so he could crack open the bar. And his money wasn’t going to last forever.
He always thought best when in motion, but it’s hard to carry pen and paper doing laps in the pool, so he took to walking: along Sunset to Hollywood Boulevard, along Hollywood to Vine Street, down Vine to Sunset and back home. It took him the best part of two hours, but it gave him time to bounce a germ of an idea around his imagination, examine it from all angles to see where its fatal flaws might lie.
However, nothing appeared that quickened his heartbeat. Inspiration had always gushed out of him, but now he couldn’t even summon one scene for a Saturday Evening Post short story. It was frustrating beyond endurance, but he didn’t get a chance to explain any of this because Kathryn had a speech and a solution, and charged ahead like a Super Chief locomotive.
“I have a mission for you!” she declared.
When Kathryn first told him of the circumstances surrounding her father’s incarceration, she made out like it was a fait accompli; there was nothing she could do about it; and she didn’t really care one way or another. But he knew her better than that, and he wasn’t the least bit surprised when she asked him to find out everything he could about what had happened to Thomas Danford.
“All I’ve got to go on is what my mother told me,” she said, her face twitching in irritation, “and we know how reliable she is.”
And so he spent a week trooping to the central library downtown to comb through back issues of The Boston Globe. He discovered that Francine had pretty much told Kathryn the truth, but by the end of the week he had a notebook filled with the facts, and a butt that couldn’t sit on those tortuous chairs any longer. He left the building and dawdled on the front steps to feel the sunlight warm his bones.
“There you are!”
Marcus hadn’t seen Melody Hope since she’d moved out of the Garden a year ago after she and Trevor waged the mother of all screaming matches at two in the morning. The Gardenites had breathed a collective sigh of relief—her dipsomaniacal unraveling had been painful to witness, but she’d rebuffed any olive branches they’d extended.
But now a whole new woman was standing opposite him. Her large brown doe eyes that had charmed a million moviegoers shone again. Her skin, once distended and sallow, glowed with reinvigorated youth. Her smile, once so twisted in bitter resentment, was relaxed as a spring morning.
The last time she made the papers was when MGM announced they would not be renewing her contract “due to contractual conflicts.” Everybody knew it was code for “She’s too difficult to work with, so let her be someone else’s problem.” Hedda Hopper’s column carried an unflattering photograph of Melody leaving through the studio’s main gate—no lipstick, hat askew, one glove missing, and a large smudge on the front of her dress. But this Melody was somebody he could like again.
“You’re looking remarkably healthy,” he told her.
She leaned in to whisper, “I owe it all to AA.”
She smelled of Lux soap flakes. “AA?”
“Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s this group where people help strangers get through the next twenty-four hours. A burden shared is a burden halved, and all that. I’m happier now than I’ve been in a very long time.”
Marcus had heard vague references to Alcoholics Anonymous but had envisioned a bunch of hopeless down-and-outers barely able to cling to the bottom rung of life’s ladder. He had no idea it could turn someone around like this. “I’m very happy for you.”
“How’s Trevor?”
“MGM canceled his contract, electing to enact his morals clause. Translation: We’re taking no chances with this rumor that you’re a Commie. Please leave your career with the security guard on your way out.”
“He’s had a rough time of it.”
“There’s a lot of that going around.”
This Melody reminded him of the girl he first met years ago, full of fresh-faced, take-on-the-world piss and vinegar. “It’s been nice to see you,” he said and took a step around her.
“Actually, I came here looking fo
r you,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d be welcome at the Garden, so I dropped in on Gwendolyn at her store. She told me what you were up to, so I came straight here.”
They fell into step along Hope Street. She wore a dark tweed swing coat with the narrow collar turned up to protect her from the November breezes. “I have an idea that I want to run past you.”
“Okay.”
“Seems to me like you and I are in the same boat. Both dumped by the same company, both out of work, and both keen to get back in the game.”
“Go on.”
“Since MGM pushed me out the door, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands, so I’ve been working my way through all those books I wanted to read but never got around to. One of them was Amelia Earhart’s memoir, The Fun of It. Have you read it?”
“No.”
“It’s got everything: a plucky heroine, adventure, drama, obstacles. It’s a thrilling read, and I think it would make a hell of a movie.”
She let him absorb the idea, then said, “Remember how well we did way, way back with The Pistol from Pittsburgh? I think we could do it again. You’ll need to read the book first, but I just know you’ll see what I mean. I’ve got a ton of ideas myself, but of course you’re the screenwriter, so I’ll bow to your superior judgment. But the whole thing is simply loaded with potential—”
He raised his hand to halt the babble pouring out of her. “You don’t have to convince me.”
She let out a little squeal that reminded him of his favorite scene from I Spy with My Little Eye, a movie she made with Ray Bolger before the war. She’d been so gosh-darned endearing in it—sort of a 1930s Clara Bow with a generous dollop of good-girl Ruby Keeler. It was delightful to see that version of Melody Hope had returned.
“Your instinct is right on the money,” he continued. “I’m surprised nobody’s done it already.”
She clapped her hands. “My copy of the book’s got notes scribbled all over it like a madwoman, but I could drop it by—”
“Hold your horses.” He pulled her into the recessed entrance of an empty millinery store for refuge from the honking traffic. “We’d be wasting our time.”
“Are you talking about HUAC? Pish! You’re not one of the Hollywood Ten; you haven’t been officially blacklisted.”
“I’m a Commie by association in the eyes of anyone with the clout to approve a project like this. And—” he added before she could insert another protest “—so are you.” She clamped her mouth shut. “You were married to Trevor Bergin, and he’s been named as a suspected Communist. Ergo, you are also deemed Commie by association. You and me together? We make a potato so hot we’re virtually radioactive.”
She crossed her arms. “Are you quite finished?”
“In addition to which, everybody knows why MGM booted you out. People don’t forget that sort of thing in a hurry.”
“Don’t you think I’ve considered all that? Mayer was right to fire me. I’d have fired me if I were him. But I’ve pulled myself together, and if there’s one thing the American public can’t resist, it’s a comeback. And this Amelia Earhart idea’s a pip!”
Marcus used the boisterous rattle of a passing streetcar to gather his thoughts. “I suspect you’re right about the comeback, but that doesn’t get around the sticky issue that we’re both suspected Commies. The guys who run the studios all signed the Waldorf Statement. They can’t be seen entertaining the idea of hiring someone with even so much as a hint of pink. Melody, you have to be realistic.”
“There’s one studio head who didn’t sign it.”
“Who?”
“Howard Hughes. He doesn’t give a fig about what anyone thinks. Plus, he’s an aviator.” She gripped his arm. “We’re already pariahs! What’ve we got to lose? This could be our ticket back, Marcus. It’s a solid idea; you said so yourself. Look, I know I’ve done nothing to earn your trust, but I’m asking you to take a chance. With me.”
Marcus felt a film of sweat collecting under the brim of his hat. How long has it been since I’ve felt that? He wiped his hand down the side of his pants and presented it to Melody. “Is a handshake good enough?”
“We can make it formal. Write it up into a contract, all official-like.”
“If we’re going to do this, I think I want to fly by the seat of my pants.”
“The seat of our pants?”
He nodded, grinning now.
She grabbed his hand and shook it like a truck driver. “I won’t let you down.”
CHAPTER 30
On some days, it was a challenge for Kathryn to fill all fifteen minutes on her radio show. But on others, it was hard choosing which items to drop. Her first show for 1950 was like that. So much had happened in the past few days.
Louis B. Mayer had returned from his honeymoon with his new bride, Lorena; a romance between Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner appeared to have sprung up at the Broadway opening of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes; everyone was ravenous for morsels about Ingrid Bergman’s pregnancy by her director Roberto Rossellini; and the premiere of Paramount’s Samson and Delilah went over so well that industry watchers were predicting it might become the biggest picture of the year. In addition to which, the antitrust consent decree requiring the studios to divest their ownership of theaters had gone into effect, but none of the studios had taken any action.
And then came the news that HUAC head J. Parnell Thomas had resigned from Congress after being handed an eighteen-month sentence for fraud, which he’d serve out at Danbury prison. That’s where two members of the Hollywood Ten, Lester Cole and Ring Lardner Jr., were serving time. Oh, the delicious irony of it all.
Kathryn’s drive to the NBC studios gave her a chance to sort through the items.
I’ll start with Bergman, then Sinatra and Gardner, then Mayer, Samson and Delilah, and then close with two-faced rat-fink jailbird Thomas. Perhaps if we’re running short, I could improvise about the antitrust decree. Betty Grable will sing a number from her remake of Coney Island, which—oh! This is perfect. Her costar is Victor Mature, and he plays Samson. So maybe swap it with Mayer, so we can segue into the song.
She pulled into the parking lot, where her producer was standing as though he were waiting for an overdue bus.
“Wallace!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing out here in the cold?”
“I tried to call you at home, but nobody picked up.”
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s Max Factor. They’ve pulled their sponsorship.”
“In the middle of a season? We signed contracts. Can they just up and leave like that?”
The glow of the electric NBC sign on the wall above them gave his face a ghostly pallor. “They’ll only say that they’ve elected to invoke their morals clause.”
When Kathryn’s lawyer asked if she wanted him to negotiate the removal of that clause, she’d told him not to bother. “It’s not like I’m a girl with a shocking past.”
But now she wondered if she was.
She leaned against the stucco wall and stared up Vine Street. Her first thought was of Ruby Courtland. This smacked of sabotage. Or was it Winchell’s doing? The man was as ruthless as Attila the Hun, but their lunch at the Polo Lounge went well—didn’t it? Or had she offended him? Did he want her out of the way in case she got bigger? Surely he didn’t see her as a threat.
She turned back to Reed. “So where does that leave us? We’re due on the air in an hour and a half, and we can’t go on without a sponsor. Can we?”
He smiled bleakly. “I’ve already lined up a replacement.”
“What are you, Superman?”
“My wife and I are a fixture on the pro-am bridge circuit. We were playing in a tournament in Pasadena a few weeks ago. At the end of the evening, this guy comes over to introduce himself. I knew his face but didn’t know who he was. He tells me he’s head of marketing at Sunbeam and they’re about to relaunch their Mixmaster. He asked if we were happy with our current sponsor arrangement. I told him we were, tha
nk you, and he said if ever an opportunity arose, to keep him in mind.”
“Did you call him?”
“He’s sitting in your dressing room waiting to meet you.”
They started toward the stage door. “But don’t we need to sign contracts?”
Reed’s face took on a disconcerting ambivalence. “I’ve already signed them.”
“Without consulting me?”
He pulled open the door and let her into the corridor that led to dressing rooms, rehearsal rooms, and ultimately the broadcast studio. “I couldn’t reach you. I had to make a decision. They came with the papers all prepared. The standard deal, not much different from what we had with Max Factor. I know Sunbeam doesn’t carry the same prestige, but our largest demographic is housewives between thirty and fifty. And you can bet most of them own a Mixmaster—or want to. I figured it was a good fit—”
“It’s fine,” she told him. “Is there anything I need to know before I go in there and turn on the charm?”
“The Mixmaster relaunch involves pairing up with Betty Crocker for a print and advertising blitz. Betty Crocker’s coming out with a new and improved cake mix. Mrs. Homemaker just has to add water and two eggs to keep the cake moist and tender.”
“That’s my kind of cooking.”
“I’m glad you said that.” Kathryn’s uh-oh antenna quivered as a tuba player and a cellist squeezed past. “The deal involves you participating in a cooking demonstration at the Wilshire May Company’s homewares department.”
“You want me to cook? In public?”
An imposing figure stepped out of the doorway of her dressing room.
“Ah,” Wallace exclaimed, “we were just coming to see you. Kathryn Massey, I want you to meet our new sponsor from Sunbeam, Leo Presnell.”
Kathryn knew she’d heard that name, but it wasn’t until she saw his face that she was able to place the man standing in front of her, hand extended, a toothy smile stretched across his face. The last time she saw him, they were at a USO fundraiser during the war. He’d made it clear that if she wanted to be on the Pepsodent Show, she’d have to sleep with him first.
Twisted Boulevard: A Novel of Golden-Era Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 6) Page 20