“Graziella.”
“I don’t care what her name is, Zap. The point is that sooner or later, you’ll be ready to settle down and have babies, and if that happens in ten years’ time, I’d be fifty.”
“You want kids?”
“You’d pack your things and leave me in a cluttered apartment in the Talmadge building wondering how life passed me by.”
“Miss Brick?” Winchell called from the top of the stairs. “Tick tock!”
Zap went to respond but she pressed a fingertip to those soft lips of his. “You’ve done enough damage. Just go. I mean it, Zap.”
As she watched the guy retreat down the hill, she heard Winchell’s footsteps on the stone.
“Touching as that scene was, I’ve got better things to do. If we could—”
“YOU MISERABLE LITTLE SHITS!”
Ruby’s unmistakable voice shot at them from across the street. She marched out of the shadows, the cards gripped in her hand.
“This is a pile of CRAP!”
She flung the cards at them; for a moment they quivered in the air like stunned moths, then fell to the ground. “Did you really think you could get away with this?”
Winchell looked at the cards scattered at his feet, then up at Gwendolyn. “What is she talking about?”
We should’ve made a contingency plan. Kathryn should have taught me how to handle—
“Those aren’t Leilah’s,” Ruby said. “They’re phonies. Don’t make out like you didn’t know.”
There was, however, one tactic Kathryn had taught Gwendolyn.
“What makes you think they’re fakes?” she fought back. “Have you ever seen Leilah’s cards?”
“No—”
“And yet you feel entitled to throw accusations—”
“When I was practically the only one visiting Leilah in jail, she told me all about them. Like how on the back of her cards, she drew a little symbol in the top right-hand corner.”
Winchell picked up the card closest to his shoe. “What kind of symbol?”
“She’d find out what zodiac the guy was, like a Taurus or a Scorpio or whatever, and she’d draw the astrological symbol for that sign, real tiny, on the back of his card. She’s into all that sort of stuff. Got her own astrologer and everything. She told me, ‘When you find out a guy’s astrology sign, that’s pretty much all you need to know about what he likes between the sheets.’ And those—” she waved her hand over the cards “—don’t got no symbols.”
Winchell scooped up a handful of cards and inspected the back of each one. He looked up, practically breathing fire through his eye sockets. “You care to explain this to me?”
“I don’t know about any astrological signs!” Gwendolyn burst out. She knew people were peering out of windows, but she didn’t dare look at them. “All I can tell you is those are the cards I discovered hidden in a book that Linc sent me.”
“And who’s Linc?”
“He’s the one who stole them from the O’Roarkes in the first place.”
“So let’s ask him.”
“We can’t,” Gwendolyn said. “He’s dead.”
“How convenient.” Ruby jabbed a finger at Gwendolyn. “I don’t trust you.” Then turned to Winchell. “And I especially don’t trust you.”
The two of them stood in silence as she steamed back to her car, then careered down the hill.
“You just made a fool of me,” Winchell said, his voice intimidatingly low. “I’m not the sort of person you or Kathryn Massey want as an enemy.”
“I’m well aware of that, Mister Winchell.” Gwendolyn had to force the words; they came out hoarse with panic.
Winchell stomped up the hill toward his waiting limo. “You can make your own way home.”
CHAPTER 43
As July of 1950 melted into August, then dissolved into September, some of the entertainment industry’s most celebrated names found themselves trapped in the glare of Red Channels. Some of them faded into the night. Others took to jousting windmills to an audience immobile with panic. Still others got while the going was good and decamped for England.
Marcus was surprised how much he missed working for the masked man. He’d grown to enjoy hearing his dialogue on Gwendolyn’s television set two weeks after he wrote it. During his days at MGM, so much time would pass that he’d almost forget what he’d written.
Kathryn was preoccupied more and more with Leo Presnell now, so Marcus and Gwendolyn spent more time together. She sprang for a Magnavox Playhouse with a sixteen-inch screen and a high-fidelity speaker and they often sat on her couch watching Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts or You Bet Your Life. Or rather, half-watching.
Gwennie was always working on a sewing project and Marcus couldn’t take seriously anything on a screen the size of his oven’s window. So they’d sit there with half an eye on the flickering screen and talk about that awful night at Plunkett’s house, about Winchell and Zap, and Oliver, and Leo, and all the men who’d preceded them. Sometimes Doris joined them if her job at Columbia allowed.
On Saturdays, when Gwendolyn was busy at her store, Marcus and Doris often drove to the beach at Inceville. They were sitting on the sand one Saturday in October, the wind gusting off the Pacific with a noticeable chill, when he recalled Reuben telling him about his store. Its name escaped him, but there couldn’t be too many furniture stores in Santa Monica. When he suggested they hunt it down, Doris looked at him, puzzled.
“Can you afford new furniture?”
Doris was as broadminded as a guy could hope for in a sister from a small town where everybody knew what everybody else had for breakfast, but he avoided mentioning that horrible night he got caught up in the Hermit’s Hideaway raid.
“I know the guy who owns it.” He brushed the sand from his elbows and grinned. “Reuben told me I should go into television, and I want to tell him how fantastically well it worked out for me.”
They parked near the pier and walked the length of Third Street until Doris spotted a sign: Santa Monica Custom Furniture.
It was a spacious store, with huge windows on three sides, and filled with chairs, tables, and sofas fashioned in the new style people were going for these days—clean lines, minimal detailing, slung low to the ground. Marcus preferred wingback chairs that looked like they’d sat in a private club since before Rockefeller had three dollars to rub together. But Reuben was in the business of selling what he made, so why wouldn’t he produce the sort of furniture people wanted?
Marcus ran his hand along the back of a loveseat, admiring the craftsmanship. The guy sure knew what he was doing.
“I thought that was you.” Reuben’s white teeth contrasted with his deeply tanned face. “You here alone?”
“I’m with my sister.” Marcus scanned the store but Doris was nowhere in sight.
“I haven’t seen you at the beach lately,” Reuben said.
“I got a job. In television, as a matter of fact.”
“Really? It was my impression that you weren’t overly enthralled with that idea.”
He nodded as Marcus took him through the events surrounding his foray into chronicling the adventures of heroes on horseback and how Red Channels cut it short.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I know several of our brethren whose lives have been ruined by that nasty piece of trash. What are you doing now?”
“Back to napping on square one.”
“So you have time to inspect my latest commission.”
He led Marcus through the labyrinth of furniture to the back room. It was three times the size of Gwendolyn’s and smelled of raw wood and fresh lacquer. Near the far wall stood a six-foot mahogany chiffonier. The left side featured four deep drawers; the right side was an unfinished space.
Marcus ran his finger down it. The wood was so smooth it almost felt like vicuña. He pointed to the empty space. “What’s this for?”
“I’m trying to convince my client it’d be more useful as a dresser for hanging suits, but he want
s a place to display his Oscar. Say, you were at MGM, right?”
The LA Times had recently announced that Los Angeles was fast approaching two million residents, but it always surprised Marcus how often he’d bump into someone he knew.
“I’m building this for Mervyn LeRoy,” Reuben said. LeRoy was one of MGM’s leading directors, and had directed some of Marcus’ favorite pictures, including Waterloo Bridge and Madame Curie. “He’s coming over to check on the progress.”
“Here? This morning?”
“You should stick around and say hello.”
Marcus grew hot with panic. They’d had a number of crises during the production of Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo. Although it was based on a true story, it was filmed after the attack on Pearl Harbor, which made it pro-war propaganda, much like Marcus’ Free Leningrad! Dalton Trumbo, the most prominent of the recently imprisoned Hollywood Ten, wrote the screenplay, and yet somehow, LeRoy glided through the HUAC quagmire unscathed while Marcus’ career crash-landed into quicksand.
“I must find my sister.”
Marcus hurried into the showroom; Doris stood near the street entrance. He headed toward her but swerved off course when he saw LeRoy’s handsome face appear at the front door. He kept his back to him, pretending to inspect a dinette set in pale wood while Reuben greeted his customer and steered him into the back room.
Doris sidled up beside Marcus. “I really can’t see this at your place.”
“What?”
She pointed to the dining table.
“Let’s go.”
Marcus hustled his sister onto Third Street, where Saturday afternoon shoppers strolled the sidewalk. Marcus turned right.
“But you parked thataway,” Doris reminded him, pointing toward the pier. She stopped walking and planted her hands on her hips. “You okay?”
“My past was about to catch up with me and—”
“Adler! ADLER!”
Marcus put on a who’s-that-calling-me face.
LeRoy pulled him into a firm handshake as Marcus introduced his sister. “I’ve been searching for you,” he said.
“Looks to me like you two have business to discuss,” Doris broke in. “When you’re done, you’ll find me at JC Penney’s.” She merged into the crowd, leaving Marcus to face his past.
“Searching for me, why?” he asked.
“I’m hoping you might be free to take a job.”
“I’m available, but I’m not exactly employable.”
“The hell you’re not.”
Marcus tugged LeRoy into the shade of the awning over Reuben’s store. “Have you seen Red Channels?”
“Of course.”
“My name was the second one listed. So you must know that—”
“That it’s all bullshit?”
“—that I’m now one of the scary red lepers.”
“I don’t care. Neither does L.B. And if he doesn’t, you shouldn’t, either.”
Marcus blinked. “L.B.? As in Mayer?”
LeRoy’s face crinkled into a dry grin. “Now do you want to hear about this job?”
“L.B. knows you’re talking to me?”
“L.B. could stand for all sorts of people. Lucille Ball. Leonard Bernstein. Lauren Bacall.”
Marcus was confused. Then he saw LeRoy’s delicate lift of an eyebrow, and realized of course Mayer knew, but only on the QT, and who knew whose ears were listening.
“I’m currently prepping Quo Vadis,” LeRoy said. “Have you read the book?”
“Years ago.”
“I’d like you to read it again.”
“Screenplay not progressing well?”
LeRoy winced. “The guys I’ve got working on it, they’ve got tons of experience, but they have two very different approaches. That can work well when they complement each other, but it’s just not . . .”
“Meshing?”
“Exactly. I need someone who can take each of their versions and turn them into a filmable picture. That Red Channels pile of horse manure has decimated the screenwriting talent pool. There’s nobody left at the studio with enough experience to grapple with such a huge project. I’ve got over twenty-five speaking parts. Some scenes will need a thousand extras.”
This made Marcus’ heart beat faster in a way the Lone Friggin’ Ranger never had. “We passed a used bookstore a couple of blocks back.”
“I’ve got a bunch of copies at home. Where do you live?”
“The Garden of Allah.”
“Someone told me you’d moved out.”
“Nope, still there.”
LeRoy sighed. “I wish I’d known. I’ll get it to you later this afternoon if I have to drive it there myself.”
A dreamlike veil dropped around Marcus, throwing the shoppers and strollers around him into soft focus. “I want to be clear. All this has the okay of L.B.?”
“He just bought my house on Benedict Canyon. We’re like this.” LeRoy crossed his fingers. “He’s the one who told me to track you down.”
Marcus pressed his hand against the warm brickwork as this astonishing morsel of information sunk in. That crusty old son of a gun, he’s got a heart, after all.
“However,” LeRoy said, “there’s just one wrinkle.”
Isn’t there always?
“Preproduction—costumes, sets, casting—it’s almost done. I’m leaving in two weeks.”
“Two? Mervyn, there isn’t enough Benzedrine in the state of California—”
“I need you to come with me on location.”
“You’re not filming on the back lot?”
LeRoy let out a barking laugh. “We had to build the Roman forum—and I mean the whole damn thing. My budget is seven and half million. This picture makes Gone with the Wind look like an Molière drawing-room comedy.”
“Where are you filming this monster?”
“Cinecittà. No other place could accommodate us. I’m leaving on the tenth and I need you with me. We’ll be able to work on the screenplay together. We don’t have a day to lose. And I mean literally not one day. Please tell me you’re on board, because if not, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do. I’m running out of options. I need an answer, Adler, and I need it right now.”
* * *
Doris and Marcus were passing Malibu, heading north on Route 1, when Doris spoke up.
“Are you sure about this?”
“You think I’m on a fool’s errand, don’t you?”
“I think you should do whatever’s right for you. Pursuit of happiness and all that.” Doris fidgeted with the map they’d purchased at a filling station. “I just don’t want to see you disappointed if your big romantic gesture doesn’t come off the way it would in the movies. Chances are, this might not be Love Affair.”
Marcus mustered a smile. “Does that make me Charles Boyer or Irene Dunne?”
“You’ve got your sense of humor. That’s good to hear.”
He tapped her knee. “Don’t worry, sis, I know the chances are slim that this will work out the way I want.”
“He might not even be there anymore.”
Anything could have happened in the six months since that private eye tracked down Oliver. Marcus eased off the gas a touch while he tempered hope with reality.
Several miles down the highway, Doris said, “I have some news. Columbia’s getting into the television business.”
“Everyone else is pretending like it doesn’t exist, but Harry Cohn’s going after it? That bastard always did have the biggest balls in town.”
“He says television’s only going to get bigger, and any studio that thinks otherwise is a bunch of ostriches. He’s formed this new production company called Screen Gems. I’m going to be in charge of juggling soundstage and personnel logistics between feature production and television shows.”
“Sounds like a big job.”
“It is, and they’ve given it to a woman. I’ve heard there’s been rumblings from malcontents in the men’s room.”
“Do you care
?”
“I probably should, but I can’t come up with one good reason why.”
“Then don’t,” Marcus told her. “I’ve wasted so much time trying to convince myself that I’m happy not working; happy not being challenged; happy to be single again.”
“We could see you weren’t.”
Marcus figured he could guess who “we” were. “When LeRoy told me he wanted me to help him fix Quo Vadis, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. I’ve missed that feeling.”
“So you really are going? Regardless of what happens in the next couple of hours?”
The sign for Oxnard flashed past them; they were halfway there.
“Let’s just take this one grand gesture at a time.”
* * *
Cloverleaf Sanatorium sat at the end of a winding, dusty road behind a chain-link fence. The guard looked like a wizened forty-niner from straight out of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. He treated Marcus’ request to “see whoever’s in charge” with respectful disinterest and directed them to an office inside the main building.
Marcus parked in front of the two-story lump of whitewashed stucco and told Doris he preferred to go in alone. She pulled a paperback of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn from her beach bag. “Go get him, tiger.”
The Whoever’s In Charge turned out to be a middle-aged woman with a wide-open midwestern face and gray overtaking what had once been white-blonde hair.
“Oliver?” She seemed shocked to hear his name. “Of course you may see him. How delightful!” After what that private eye had said, Marcus was expecting a wholly different response. When he asked her where he might find Oliver, she pointed through her office window to a rose garden.
The beds were laid out in the careful arrangement of a formal English garden: three concentric semicircular rows bordered with chunks of brick, eight rosebushes per bed, all of them devoid of petals. Oliver was squatting over the outmost bed, churning the earth with a small garden fork.
“I guess I’m too late in the season.”
Oliver shuddered when he recognized Marcus’ voice. He pressed his shoulders down as he gathered himself. After a long pause, he rose to his feet.
His collarbone poked through the loose white t-shirt that hung off him like worn-out bed linen; his face and arms were tanned to a deep brown. His jaw hung loose. “How did you . . .? Where have you . . .?”
Twisted Boulevard: A Novel of Golden-Era Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 6) Page 30