One time, he said, “I know you were sleeping with someone while I was cooped up.” Marcus was unsure how to respond. Oliver took his silence as an admission. “Who was it? Someone I know? Don’t tell me. I don’t want it shoved in my face.”
It took Oliver five days to apologize for that one.
The tuna casserole in Marcus’ hands had been Doris’ suggestion. “Fill him with his favorite dinner, then confront him.” The recipe was hers, too. Oliver loved Doris’ tuna casserole, although the extra cheese and potato chips sprinkled in for crunch were Marcus’ idea. He used their secret knock: two quick raps, pause, then one more, then he turned the doorknob.
Oliver was sprawled out in his easy chair, snoring softly, his head lolling to one side. On a small wooden side table, a shot glass sat next to an empty bottle of Old Forester. A copy of Raintree County had fallen from his hand to the rug, its pages crumpled and its dust jacket half off. On the radio, some silly soap opera was playing.
Marcus pulled off his jacket and slung it over the back of the sofa. He picked up the book, as well as the shot glass and whiskey bottle, and deposited them on the kitchen counter. The sink had days’ worth of dirty dishes. As he started to scrub them, Oliver stirred in his chair. Marcus called his name, but he didn’t respond.
I’ll give him until I’ve finished clearing up.
When he was done, Oliver was still asleep.
I’ll give him until dinner is nearly ready.
He lit the oven and inserted the casserole dish, then opened the refrigerator to look for ice cubes, but the inside smelled like a can of three-bean mix open since last Thanksgiving.
The source of the stench was in a dessert dish looking like melted Velveeta coagulating beneath a carpet of blue mold dotted with orange heads. When Marcus returned from the trash cans out back, he opened every window in the place.
Although Oliver could get around, his legs still gave him trouble. Anything that involved bending at the knees or hips crippled him with pain. Marcus set about straightening the messy bedclothes, pulling the sheets tight, and fluffing the pillows. As he did, a trio of pill bottles on the nightstand caught his eye. He picked one up.
Dr. J. Kramer—Specialist in pain relief and ease of mind. The contents of this bottle are a proprietary blend of ingredients and medications.
“Are you snooping on me?”
Oliver stood in the doorway gripping his walking canes in both hands, his mouth set in a grim line.
“I was making your bed—” Marcus wished he didn’t come off sounding so defensive. He held up the bottle. “What’s in these?”
“How should I know?” Oliver shuffled into the room and swiped it from Marcus’ hand. “I’m in real bad pain. All the time. One of the orderlies at the hospital told me to go see this guy. He was very sympathetic. Told me, ‘I’ve got just the thing.’”
“But—”
“They work, Marcus. That’s all I care about.” He tipped the last of the pills into his mouth and forced them down.
Marcus said nothing more. He didn’t want to risk triggering another outburst. Especially not tonight.
The aroma of the casserole reached them. “Dinner’s probably fifteen minutes away. You need to wash up?”
Oliver nodded. “Smells good.” He threw one of his canes onto the bed and reached out for Marcus’ hand. When Marcus took it, his boyfriend’s skin was dry as three-day-old bread.
He helped Oliver into the bathroom and stayed there until Oliver closed the door.
“You’ll find some wine in the Frigidaire,” Oliver called out. “It’s not very expensive but the guy said it’s halfway decent.”
Marcus opened the nightstand drawer; ten more pill bottles were inside. He closed it and returned to the kitchen.
He was pulling the casserole out of the oven as Oliver made his way to the small round dining table. “I’m starving!”
Marcus’ worries about the contents of those pill bottles melted away. A healthy appetite was a very good sign.
They’d downed several forkfuls when Oliver said, “Did I tell you Mister Breen has been paying my salary this whole time?”
The accident was back in September of 1948; it was now January. That was a long time to pay the salary of someone too sick to work.
“He’s been like a father to me. I’d be on skid row without him.”
Marcus wanted to tell Oliver that was ridiculous. Even after buying the new Buick, he still had tons of his MGM money. He would have been happy to support Oliver until he got back on his feet—financially and literally.
“He called me today.” Oliver pushed his half-empty plate away. “Specifically to talk about that day at the hospital. It was a tense conversation.”
“I can imagine.”
“He wanted to know what you were doing there. And how I knew you. And how long. He asked me if you’ve ever talked to me about Communism. And if you’ve ever tried to seduce me.”
Marcus suppressed a laugh. “Into bed?”
“I got the impression he meant seduced me into Communism as a route to your bed.”
“That’s ironic,” Marcus laughed into his wine glass. “Considering it was you who pursued me in the beginning.”
He winked conspiratorially, but got a steely look in return.
“I told you—he’s been like a father to me.”
“He’s been very generous, continuing to pay your salary the way he has.”
“Don’t think I can’t hear the ‘but’ in your voice.”
Marcus debated how best to voice his concern. “I’ve been thinking. Back when I was at MGM, you working for the Breen Office meant we were political enemies.”
“We found a middle road.”
“We did. But I no longer have to play by MGM’s rules and if you left the Breen Office, you wouldn’t have to play by theirs. We could do what we liked. Nobody at the Garden of Allah looks sideways at anybody’s living arrangements. We could live there. Together. Wouldn’t that be great?”
Oliver thumped the table. “Breen has been more than generous with me—not just in financial terms, but with his encouragement and interest in my progress and recovery.”
Joseph Breen was one of the most dour-faced, judgmental, morally buttoned-down killjoys Marcus had ever encountered. The idea that he’d been a bleeding-heart sob sister struck Marcus as stretching all bounds of plausibility.
“Oh, come on, Ollie,” he said. “You can’t possibly think that Breen has your best interests at heart more than I do. Okay, so he’s continued to pay your—”
“He told me that he looks upon me as a son.”
“He’s already got six kids. I hardly think—”
“He said I must end my association with you.”
Marcus dropped his fork onto the table. “And what did you say?”
“I didn’t say much of anything.”
“In other words, you didn’t say no.”
“He’s my boss, Marcus. I have to tread carefully.”
“Yes, but only for as long as he’s your boss.”
“How can I quit now that he’s paid my salary for so long?”
“Are you sending me away?” Marcus’ voice was shaking. “Like you’re Humphrey Bogart and I’m Ingrid fucking Bergman and we’re standing at the Casablanca airport with the fog rolling in? Is that what’s happening here?”
Oliver hurled his plate against the kitchen wall.
Marcus jumped to his feet. He reached his jacket in four strides, then took a sharp turn into the bedroom. He pulled open the bedside table and grabbed one of Dr. Kramer’s pill bottles and pushed it into his pocket, then returned to the living room. “This isn’t over!”
“I never said it was!”
“Good!”
Marcus slammed the door and took the stairs two by two. When he got to his car, he was too worked up to sit behind the wheel, so he kept walking, and didn’t cool off until he’d reached Hollywood High. By then, he was closer to home than he was to his car, so
he kept heading west until he saw the twelve-foot sign: GARDEN OF ALLAH HOTEL AND VILLAS.
He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the bottle. He read the label on the back. The exact ratio of components is confidential.
“We’ll see about that.”
CHAPTER 16
When Kathryn slipped on the dark maroon jacket with the black side panels, she knew she’d found the perfect ensemble. She stepped back from the mirror. “That’s more like it.”
Gwendolyn tugged at the hem to straighten out the lines. “This is the sixth one you’ve tried on. They all suited you, otherwise I wouldn’t have suggested them.” She held up a crème blouse but decided it was too light. “I know this luncheon at MGM is a big deal and all, but I can’t remember the last time I saw you this agitated over a meal.”
Kathryn’s appointment wasn’t just any old meal—it was MGM’s silver jubilee: five hundred guests with fifty-eight stars, a twenty-piece orchestra, and every significant name on the payroll.
She’d dilly-dallied for so long that she’d have to drive straight from Chez Gwendolyn to MGM. “You’re right,” she admitted, “I’m at sixes and sevens.”
“But you’ll know everyone there.” Gwendolyn held up the clothes Kathryn had walked in wearing. “Shall I take these home for you?”
Kathryn nodded. “It’s because I’ll know everyone there that I’m in such a state.”
“It’s about this radio show, isn’t it?”
The black silk blouse Gwendolyn proposed was a tad frilly for Kathryn’s liking, but it was nearly eleven thirty. If she didn’t leave soon, she’d be late. She took off the jacket and started putting on the blouse. “Max Factor will have to find a way to reduce their shortlist to a single name, and some heavy hitters will be there.”
“You haven’t embarrassed yourself in front of any of them,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “You haven’t hurled drinks in their faces, or thrown up on their laps, or slept with any of them, have you?”
Kathryn followed Gwendolyn into the main salon and pulled out her checkbook. “I just wish I could walk in on somebody’s arm. Marcus should be there today. He’s done as much as anyone to keep MGM where it is.”
“That might be true,” Gwendolyn said, “but our dear boy is in no shape to go anywhere. Have you seen him lately?”
“I took him out for coffee and Danish at Schwab’s, but I could tell it was an effort.” Kathryn thought he looked like he was fresh off a three-day binge, which might well have been true. “He can’t win with Oliver these days.”
“They’ll work it all out, I’m sure.”
Kathryn wished she could share Gwennie’s confidence, but Marcus looked like a wreck and didn’t care who knew it.
Gwendolyn tapped her watch. “You should be halfway to Culver City by now.”
* * *
Soundstage Fifteen was the largest in the world, and MGM needed every square foot of it to accommodate the hoards it had invited to celebrate its twenty-fifth anniversary. And they had good reason. Since Dory Schary took charge of production, profits were steaming toward a twenty-two-year high.
Along the far left wall, three tiers of dining tables sat twenty-five each, like the world’s most elegant bleachers. It was where the upper echelon of management and movie stars would sit. They faced six trestle tables, each a hundred feet long, where lower management, high-earning cinema owners, and members of the press would sit.
Towering over them was a paddle steamer painted bright pink with white trim and twin smokestacks that rose twenty feet into the air. The perky blonde greeter at the door who found Kathryn’s position on the seating chart enthusiastically told her that the set was for Esther Williams’ new picture, Neptune’s Daughter, which meant they were all standing over a swimming tank deep enough to drown in. “Isn’t that fun?”
At the far end, perched on a temporary three-level stage, the studio orchestra played a string of MGM’s greatest hits. As they transitioned from “Meet Me in St. Louis” into “Fascinating Rhythm,” Kathryn surveyed the crowd milling around her. It was as she expected: ninety-five percent of the booze-bloated faces belonged to chumps over fifty hoping to catch an eyeful of high-spirited ingénue types like the Tootsie Roll at the front door.
Still, any of those stuffed shirts could be the exact exhibitor or advertising exec whose opinion Max Factor might enlist. In this town, one never knew who was sleeping with whom. Backscratching was as popular a pastime as beach volleyball. Kathryn searched for a familiar face and exhaled in relief when she spotted Ginger Rogers.
Ginger had been a resident of the Garden of Allah when she and her indomitable mother, Lela, first came to Hollywood in the early thirties. Ginger was a fervent tennis player Kathryn could barely keep up with. They had remained friends as they ascended their respective ladders, but it had been a while since they’d had a chance to chat.
It took a few waves of Kathryn’s purse to attract Ginger’s attention. She broke off her conversation with a pot-bellied Midwesterner with a crew cut and hurried away. “How are you?” Ginger’s sapphire eyes widened with joy. “And what are you wearing? That perfume!”
Kathryn had run out the door that morning without applying her usual dab of Tabu. It took her a moment to realize what Ginger could smell. “It’s Gwendolyn’s.”
“She has her own fragrance?”
“Just some concoction she makes up. Tell me, what are you doing here?”
Ginger smiled tentatively. “I’m a last-minute ringer for Judy in You Made Me Love You. It seems she’s not up to the rigors of filming a musical right now.”
The stories of Judy Garland’s escalating unreliability had been grist for the gossipmongers ever since The Pirate. That picture’s screenwriters, Albert Hackett and Frances Goodrich, were frequent Garden residents and had given everyone a blow-by-blow of the on-set troubles and delays. The film bombed at the box office and Judy’s troubles reeled from bad to worse.
“You and Fred will be back on-screen together? That will be worth seeing.”
Ginger nodded. “But not in a movie called You Made Me Love You. That title is all Judy’s. I’ll be livid if they don’t change it.” She ducked behind Kathryn and held up her purse to cover her face. “As discreetly as you can, look over your left shoulder and tell me if Eddie Mannix is still talking to the man-eater.”
L.B. Mayer’s right-hand man was fifty feet away, talking to a slim woman in a tight sheath of striking pink overlaid with a bold black leaf pattern. She wore a matching pink Robin Hood cap with a long feather that wobbled as she gabbed at Mannix.
“Who are you hiding from?” Kathryn asked. “Mannix or Pinky McPink-eye?”
“Mannix I can handle,” Ginger whispered back. “It’s Pinky that makes me break out in hives. Can we move away? But slowly. I don’t want to catch her attention.”
“I hate to tell you,” Kathryn laughed, “but you were built to attract attention.”
“You’re not helping!”
The two of them slipped down the aisle between two of the long trestle tables until they were hidden behind a knot of exhibitors from Chicago.
“Who did we just sneak away from?” Kathryn asked.
Ginger rolled her eyes. “Howard’s been calling me lately.”
“Are you and he—?”
“We’re just good friends now. But he needed a date for the Joan of Arc premiere and he asked me.”
“Because Janet Leigh, Cyd Charisse, Kathryn Grayson, and Ava Gardner were all busy?”
“Or made out like they were. Anyway, we were in the foyer chatting about his latest airplane—so what else is new?—when suddenly he darted into the crowd, leaving me stranded. Ol’ Pinkie over there descended on me, started barraging me with all kinds of questions, mostly about Howard’s love life and his plans for RKO.”
“Who is she?”
“Some columnist with Variety.”
Kathryn craned her neck around the cluster of Chicagoan movie-house owners. “You mean Ruby
Courtland?”
“You met her?”
“Twice.”
“What’s your take?”
“Bit of an eager beaver and a touch naïve, but weren’t we all at that age?”
The perky blonde hostess appeared beside them. “Miss Rogers, it’s time to make your way backstage. The Parade of Stars will commence soon.”
Ginger nodded, then turned to Kathryn. “This is all such a madhouse. Promise me you’ll call and we’ll have lunch.”
* * *
The colossal effort by Mayer and his team impressed the bejesus out of Kathryn. They hired George Murphy as MC and planted him on the Neptune’s Daughter set, where he introduced the fifty-eight movie stars currently working at the studio. The line-up was a moviegoer’s dream. They were all there: Clark, Judy, Ava, Katharine, Greer, Lena—forced to march across the stage like a pageant of oddities.
Even Errol Flynn, who was currently filming That Forsyte Woman, made an appearance. Kathryn hadn’t seen him since his last stint at the Garden and was a little shocked at how puffy he looked.
A sumptuous meal followed the parade of stars. Kathryn was seated in the second row between the foreign correspondent for a London newspaper she had never heard of and the owner of the largest chain of MGM-affiliated movie houses in the Dakotas. His conversation consisted of one topic: the Supreme Court’s decision declaring studio-owned theaters a monopoly. The Justice Department had announced that all five majors must give up their interests in 1400 movie theaters.
Kathryn listened to the man’s woes with half an ear. She had a direct sightline to Ruby, who was one row closer to the stars. Kathryn couldn’t see Ruby’s immediate neighbors, but there was a great deal of conspiratorial whispering.
As the cherries jubilee was served, Mayer approached the microphone at the executive table and addressed the crowd with a flowery soliloquy about the glory of the studio’s past, and how their roster of coming films promised an exciting twelve months. But everyone there knew MGM’s crown had slipped; Paramount, Warner, and Twentieth Century-Fox were starting to out-gross them.
Still, it was a superb display designed to dominate countless inches of newspaper columns over the coming days. They were generous with the wine, too, so by three o’clock, Stage Fifteen was abuzz with tanked-up guests. The London correspondent and the theater tycoon from Fargo stumbled away in the direction of the movie-star tables, which suited Kathryn fine. She wanted to sneak a closer peek at this new version of Ruby. The dolled-up femme fatale with the misguided chignon at Hughes’ press conference was bad enough, but what was Ruby shooting for with this pink-and-black concoction?
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