“I don’t care what any of you want!” Ruby snapped. “I’ve got plans.” She faced Kathryn. “Your job, for starters.”
Otis must be a fine piece of work—his chip off the old block is a real pip. “And how do you plan on getting that?”
“Because I’m going to have the goods on every mover and shaker in this town. Gwendolyn here is going to give me Leilah O’Roarke’s cards. All of them.”
“And why would she do that?” Kathryn asked.
“Don’t push your luck, Ruby,” Winchell broke in. “You know the damage I can trigger with a few calls.”
Ruby turned on Winchell with scorn. “Just you try it, and I’ll dial J. Edgar Hoover so damn fast. I know his direct number off by heart.”
“Bullshit.”
“National 6—”
Winchell took a step closer. “You’ll call him and say what?”
“I’ll tell Hoover how Senator Joseph McCarthy has a new list of suspected Commies and degenerates, and it’s going to blow his Wheeling speech to kingdom come.”
“Why would I care about that?”
“My dad and Senator Joe went to the same college—Marquette in Wisconsin. They’re old pals, and Hoover knows it. I’m going to tell him your name is on the list.”
“It won’t take long to establish McCarthy has no list,” Winchell said.
“There’s a list all right, but by the time Hoover gets his hands on it, most of America will know about it. I’ll make sure of that.”
Kathryn, Gwendolyn, Presnell, and Winchell looked at each other. This little schemer has covered all her bases.
Without warning, Winchell lunged at Gwendolyn, trying to snatch the cards out of her hand. Ruby blocked him with her shoulder and rammed him hard enough to send him staggering. Quick as a whip, she grabbed the cards and ripped off the ribbon. She glanced at the top one. “Walter Winchell! Just as I suspected.”
Winchell turned on Gwendolyn. “If that’s my card, then what the hell did you give me back at Plunkett’s?”
Gwendolyn looked at him with the best poker face Kathryn had ever seen.
Ruby started to laugh—a cynical, mean-spirited noise. She leaned backward and extended her arm so the stack in her hand hovered over the audience. “Don’t push your luck, any of you.”
“Half the people in those cards are probably sitting down there,” Kathryn whispered. “Including our boss. You drop those and you’ll be throwing away your career. You might even bring about the end of the Hollywood Reporter.”
“And I had you down as one of the sharp ones,” Ruby said. “The Reporter is just a stepping stone. I don’t care if it lives or dies.”
Winchell dove again, this time for Ruby, his hands flailing like a drowning man. She raised her left foot and planted it dead center in his stomach. She grunted as she thrust her leg forward, sending Winchell sprawling onto the steps.
“Last warning,” she panted, “I will not hesitate to drop these overboard.”
Kathryn glanced from face to face. They were each frozen with uncertainty. Nobody on the balcony doubted for a second that this devious bitch would let those cards go. She had them over a barrel, and she knew it. Kathryn glanced at her watch. The show would be starting in fifteen minutes.
The crowd below burst into applause. “Bette! Miss Davis! Bravo!”
Kathryn swore under her breath. Crowning achievements for actresses over forty were scarce, and she wanted to be around when Bette made her big entrance. She was about to ask Ruby what she wanted when Gwendolyn spoke.
“You ain’t nothin’ but a conniving little coward!” Kathryn wasn’t aware Gwennie possessed such malice. “You don’t have the guts. Cowards never do. You have no morals, no scruples, and worst of all, no friends. You couldn’t even drag up a date for the biggest premiere of the year. You don’t care what happens if you toss those cards over the edge, because nobody you care about will be the slightest bit affected. And that’s because the only person you care about is yourself.”
Ruby held up a hand; the other hovered over the crowd. “I’m warning you! One more word!”
Gwennie! Stop! We’ll figure out some other way!
“Just one?” Gwendolyn jeered. “Bitch! Tramp! Whore! There’s three. Take your pick.”
Ruby flicked her wrist and pitched Leilah’s cards into the air. They shuddered like snowflakes caught in an expected updraft, then wafted down onto the unsuspecting crowd below.
Winchell turned on Gwendolyn. “YOU IMBECILE!”
In response, Gwendolyn produced another card, just like the ones Ruby had dispersed into the glittering audience. Kathryn saw Gwendolyn’s quiet smile and breathed for the first time in what felt like a month.
“That’s because,” Gwendolyn said, “what Ruby just pitched into the crowd were all exactly like this one.” She handed it to Kathryn. “It’ll sound better coming from you.”
Kathryn held the card up to the light. “Hello, everyone!” she read out loud. “My name is Ruby Courtland, and I would like to take this opportunity to declare that I am a devious little slut who spreads venereal disease wherever I go. You can trust nothing I say, and nothing I do. I am, in fact, a real-life Eve Harrington, and if you don’t know what that means, you will by the time you finish watching All About Eve.”
People below started to laugh. Someone gasped, then someone else, too.
Gwendolyn wore a perky smile as she leaned over the balcony and cupped one hand to her ear and the other to the base of her throat. “Never underestimate the power of a lucky scarf.”
The lights dimmed for a moment, then an announcer came over the PA. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight’s motion picture will commence shortly. Please take your seats.”
Kathryn stepped up to confront Ruby square in the face. “I suggest you go home and start packing.”
CHAPTER 45
Marcus pulled the two suitcases from the trunk of his Buick and set them next to Oliver on the sidewalk out front of Union Station. He was proud of himself that he hadn’t started with the waterworks, but he could feel them coming.
Kathryn and Gwendolyn stared at him—Please don’t go. PLEASE.—and was glad for the distraction when a porter appeared.
“We’re on the Super Chief,” he said. “Palm Star sleeper, roomette number five.” He handed the guy a quarter. “Thank you.”
He turned to the girls. Kathryn used the wide brim of her hat to shield her eyes as Gwendolyn dabbed her cheeks with a handkerchief.
The four of them had barely said a word during the drive downtown. Marcus wasn’t sure he could speak without crying, but the train would be leaving soon. He watched the porter cart his life away.
“Not taking your Remington?” Kathryn still wasn’t looking at him.
“They have typewriters in Italy.”
Oliver took the car keys from Marcus. “I’ll go park it in the lot over there and be right back.” He eyed Kathryn and Gwendolyn. “On second thought, I want to get a newspaper and gum for the trip. I’ll meet you on the platform.”
Thank you for reading my mind. “And cigarettes. Four packs of Camels, filtered if they have it.”
Marcus watched Oliver drive away into the chaos of the railway station parking lot. For a fleeting second, panic gripped him. What if he doesn’t show up on the platform? What if he bails on me at the last moment?
Kathryn took his right elbow and Gwendolyn hooked his left. Through the double doors that opened onto the main concourse was an information booth, and beyond that, a sea of waiting chairs.
“I’m only going to ask this once,” Kathryn said, her eyes dead ahead. “But I need to say it out loud, if only for my own piece of mind.”
“Shoot.”
“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? I mean, really sure? This is such a drastic step.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
Marcus wanted to gather the three of them into a quiet nook, but somehow their forward motion was keeping the emotions at bay. Maybe
it was because they couldn’t look into each other’s eyes if they were all heading in the same direction. Or maybe they weren’t ready to face this awful moment.
“I ran out of options the day Red Channels came out. At least here in LA.”
Kathryn tightened her grasp. “Maybe you could—perhaps there’s—I don’t know, somebody who’d . . .”
He let her arrive at the same conclusion he’d been forced to face after days of thinking about nothing else.
The wide corridor leading to the train platforms stretched ahead of them. He could feel Gwendolyn slowing down, pulling at his arm. He laid his hand on top of hers and hauled her forward.
“I’m one of the Invisible Men now,” he said. “I’ve got three choices. Stay in LA and do what? Pump gas or sling hash? Or I could run away to Mexico and sell screenplays to guys who haven’t been blacklisted.”
“I know that’s not a great option,” Kathryn said, “but at least we can drive to Mexico!”
“We can’t drive to Rome,” Gwendolyn put in.
The writers who’d migrated south of the border were working, but for a fraction of the salary they used to command.
“Or I can go with LeRoy, do the work I love, and get paid decently. I won’t receive screen credit, but two out of three ain’t bad, and I get to see some of Europe.”
The sign for the Super Chief came into view. They stopped in front of it, staring at the arrow pointing up a walkway to the platform where the train would whisk him away from the last twenty years.
“Is this where we say our goodbyes?” he asked.
“The hell it is!” Kathryn tugged them up the ramp. “We’re spending every second we can with you.”
“I’m going to Europe, not Jupiter! It’s not that far away.”
“Any place that takes a week to reach is what I call far away.”
The train almost filled the entire platform. The front of the engine glowed fire-truck red; a gold stripe ran down its center with the name of the railway line—SANTA FE—spelled out in black.
They pulled alongside the sleeper car Marcus had booked. They only had a few minutes left. He pulled the girls close so he could smell their hair and feel their tears against his cheeks.
He spotted Oliver at the top of the ramp, heading toward them. As he drew closer, Marcus realized he was with a girl in a low-brimmed hat and sunglasses. She pulled the glasses off. “Surprise!”
Oliver laughed. “Look who I found wandering the concourse like a lost little lamb.”
Marcus pulled his sister into a tight embrace and inhaled Gwendolyn’s Sunset Boulevard. “You said you weren’t going to come.”
“And then I came to my senses.”
“I’m glad,” he told her. “Our goodbye this morning at the Garden didn’t seem right.”
“Why do you think I’m here?” She slapped his shoulder playfully, but he could tell it was just camouflage.
Oliver tapped his wristwatch. He hugged each of the girls goodbye, then handed Marcus his car keys. “I’m going to make sure our luggage is there and see if I can book a table for dinner.”
He climbed up the stairs and disappeared.
Marcus took Gwendolyn’s hand and dropped his keys into her palm. She’d resisted earlier when he said, “It’s time you had a car of your own.” But now she just nodded silently and wrapped her fingers around them. “Is it too late to stage a kidnapping? Because now I have a trunk to stuff you into.”
“I’m not just doing this for me,” he said quietly. “Oliver needs a fresh start just as much as I do.”
“He can’t do that here?” Gwendolyn asked.
“It’s the dope pushers. He said they have ESP when it comes to sniffing out addicts. I need to go where I’ll be respected, and he needs to go where he can’t be tempted.”
“Of course you do.” Kathryn was looking him in the eye now. She pressed her hand to her mouth. He read her thoughts: It all makes perfect sense, but don’t expect me to like it.
“He needs me,” Marcus added. “And I’ve discovered it’s nice to be needed.”
“We need you, too!” Gwendolyn blubbered.
Kathryn gripped her shoulder. “But not like Oliver does.”
Gwendolyn sighed. “I know. I’m just being a selfish so-and-so. Listen, I need you to do me a favor.” She pulled a brown paper bag out of her purse and handed it to him.
“What’s this?”
“Somewhere between here and New York, I want you to dump the contents out of your window.”
Marcus opened the bag; it contained a mound of ashes. “Is this what I think it is?”
“We may or may not have gotten drunk last night,” Doris said, “and had a little bonfire, like Macbeth’s three witches.”
Gwendolyn resealed the bag. “Leilah’s in jail, Clem’s dead. Let everybody else deal with their own karma.”
“ALL ABOARD!”
“And you?” Marcus asked Kathryn.
“What about me?”
“Winchell knows about your dad. What are you going to do about him?”
She lifted a shoulder. “What can any of us do about Walter Winchell? Try not to piss him off? Cross that bridge if I come to it? Try and forget I ever found that goddamned photo? All of the above?”
Marcus pulled each of them into a tight hug before tearing himself away and jumping onto the steps. As the sliding door closed behind him, the commotion on the platform receded, leaving him alone with his doubts.
Outside, a sharp whistle sounded and the train shunted to life. As it started to chug along the track, he rushed to the window. The girls were still there, arms linked in a chain. He pulled the window down and reached out as a shot of steam gushed from under the carriage. “I LOVE YOU!”
Kathryn was the first to burst into tears; the other two followed suit.
The train inched away from them, then caught momentum. The figures along the platform started to blur. He groped his pockets for a handkerchief and found he’d neglected to pack one, and had to make do with the back of his hand.
As Los Angeles slipped past, he thought of the day he first arrived at the Garden of Allah. He’d had no way of knowing he was walking into a pair of friendships that would mean more to him than he ever suspected possible. And now he was walking away from everything he knew.
He looked up to find Oliver a couple of feet away. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know you were having second thoughts.”
Marcus wiped his eyes again. “Nonsense.”
Oliver looked at Gwendolyn’s paper bag. “What’s that?”
“History.”
They watched the edges of downtown disperse.
“We can get out at Pasadena,” Oliver said quietly. “Or San Bernardino. There’s bound to be a bus back to LA.”
“So what if there is?”
“I feel like I’m taking you away from everybody who loves you.”
Marcus looked down the corridor to make sure it was empty. He grasped Oliver’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze, hard as he could, before letting go. “We’re not leaving a place behind so much as heading toward somewhere we can start over. We’ve both been dealt a shitty hand. But it’s how you play your shitty hand that counts.”
Under their feet, the train chugged over an unending expanse of track.
Marcus turned back to the window. Suburban Los Angeles started to give way to the leafy outskirts of Pasadena. He could already feel the Garden wrenching him back, and knew that his rousing speech about heading toward a new place with fresh starts and poker hands wasn’t just directed at Oliver.
Oliver joined him, standing close enough for their shoulders to touch. It was a comforting feeling, like putting on a favorite sweater.
Oliver prodded him. “Do you even know where the Trevi fountain is?”
“It’s Europe. I don’t know where anything is.”
Chugga-chugga.
Chugga-chugga.
Chugga-chugga.
<
br /> “In that case, we’ll need this.” Oliver produced a foldout map of Rome. “The kiosk where they sell papers and candy, who knew they have a whole shelf of maps?”
They kept their eyes on the passing vista.
“So no Pasadena?” Oliver asked.
“Nope.”
“San Berdoo?”
“God, no! It’s Rome or bust.”
The connecting door behind them slid open and a pair of businessmen in bowler hats squeezed past. Marcus waited until they disappeared into their roomette, then breathed against the window, fogging it up. He drew a heart onto the cold glass. Oliver pressed his pinkie finger and made three little dots.
Their secret code. Dot, dot, dot. I love you.
Chugga-chugga.
Chugga-chugga.
Chugga-chugga.
The Super Chief let out a long blast.
Marcus pushed himself away from the window. “We better get settled in. It’s going to be a long ride.”
THE END
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Scroll down for a preview of Chapter 1 of Book 7: TINSELTOWN CONFIDENTIAL
ALSO BY MARTIN TURNBULL
Book One in the Hollywood’s Garden of Allah novels
The Garden on Sunset
Right before talking pictures slug Tinsel Town in the jaw, a luminous silent screen star converts her private estate into the Garden of Allah Hotel. The lush grounds soon become a haven for Hollywood hopefuls to meet, drink, and revel through the night. George Cukor is in the pool, Tallulah Bankhead is at the bar, and Scott Fitzgerald is sneaking off to a bungalow with Sheilah Graham while Madame Alla Nazimova keeps watch behind her lace curtains. But the real story of the Garden of Allah begins with its first few residents, three kids on the brink of something big. They learn that nobody gets a free pass in Hollywood, but a room at the Garden on Sunset can get your foot in the door.
Twisted Boulevard: A Novel of Golden-Era Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 6) Page 32