by George Baxt
“I desperately need a kind word.”
“What’s the word?”
“Mike Lynton’s leaning on me.”
“How much you into him for?”
Oscar mentioned a sum that brought a low whistle to Carole’s lips. “No wonder he’s leaning on you. And you can’t pay up.”
“I got him Lydia.”
Carole turned to him angrily, her eyes ablaze. “That’s filthy, low, and cheap. I’m ashamed of you and now I’m ashamed of her.”
“For crying out loud, she told me she liked him. Come on, Carol, for some girls he’s one hell of a catch. But now Mike’s sure she’s thrown him over for Groucho. So he’s making my life miserable again.”
Carole saw that Lydia was watching them, and probably suspecting she was the subject under discussion. Carole said to Oscar, “And I’m to put in the kind word that’ll get Mike off your back.”
He said earnestly and heatedly, “I’m cutting him in on the picture!”
“A cut of zero is zero.” She didn’t like the script but as a showcase for Lydia, she knew it would serve its purpose.
“Come on, Carole. Give me a break. Mike’s got me up the creek without a paddle.”
Carole studied Oscar. He was tall and broad and homely, a neanderthal who’d worked his way up from Brooklyn by way of bootleg liquor at which he’d made and soon lost a fortune. But he’d nurtured some good connections and soon was at work in Hollywood assistant-producing what were known as Poverty Row pictures, cheap features that served as the second half of the then growing practice of double features. They usually starred fading silent film names on their way down or promising young hopefuls on their way up. Carole had been in several as a teenager and she was thankful that most of them no longer existed. When she worked in the Sennett shorts, the old man was hanging by a thread himself.
While working on the Poverty Row cheapies, Oscar won the eye of Harry Cohn, whose Columbia Pictures was located in an old studio on Gower Street smack in the center of Hollywood. So many low-budget westerns were churned out there that Gower Street became known as Gower Gulch. Cohn was desperate to remove himself from this identity and so had backed a talented young director of Poverty Row comedies, Frank Capra. Capra scored big and Harry Cohn, thanks to him, was a respected name in films at last. He was equally hated. He was a cruel man, a sadist, but he certainly knew how to make good pictures. He put Oscar Levitt in charge of a unit and Levitt’s first three films garnered respectful notices, ending up on the black side of the ledger. Oscar was soon overimpressed by his success, found backers who also shared Oscar’s admiration of Oscar, and backed a handful of features for Oscar’s company. They bombed and Oscar was now scrounging around for the money to keep his company afloat. He found enough suckers to put together Darkness in Hollywood, a script he wrote himself because he couldn’t afford a writer. Carole suspected this but kept her suspicion to herself, especially when it looked like one of her girls would snare the lead.
God, but he’s huge, thought Carole. He would better serve clinging to the top of the Empire State Building swatting at airplanes. Carole finally spoke against a background of squealing and shrieking actresses who were tossing a beach ball at each other in the flimsiest swimsuits the censors would allow. “Has Mike threatened to get your legs broken unless you pay up?”
“He threatened to get a kneecap smashed.”
“Just one? I suppose he thinks you’ll need the other one to get down on when pleading for mercy. Mike can’t be all that sore. He’s a two-kneecap man.”
“If that’s supposed to be funny, I’m not laughing.”
“And if I don’t try to intervene with Mike, Lydia’s out of the picture, I suppose?”
“Of course not! Would I do anything so low and cheap?”
Carole resisted answering him in the affirmative. Oscar, like his former boss Harry Cohn, had made a fine art of things low and cheap. Oscar was now wallowing in the area of lower and cheaper and just conversing with him made Carole feel unclean. She watched Lydia as she thrust her bosom toward the camera, and thought to herself, She not only knows all the tricks, she’s inventing a few new ones.
Oscar’s insides were churning. Lydia out of the picture? God no. He’d raised most of the money by showing photographs of Lydia in which he’d convinced her to pose in the nude. Lydia didn’t object as long as he gave her the negatives. He gave her the negatives as promised, but kept a set of copies in his safe. If she truly became a major name in films, those negatives would be worth a fortune.
Somebody, reckoned Oscar, might even kill for them.
Carole said, “I assume Mike has banned you from the casino.”
Oscar said, “He doesn’t have to ban me. I’ll never set foot in there again as long as I live.” Probably the very words spoken by Julius Caesar in the Roman Forum as his assassins’ daggers sent him plunging into the nevermore.
Carole persisted. “Can’t you raise some money to give him to keep him passive for a while?”
“I’ve drained my last resource.”
If he thought she’d offer to help him with cash he was off in cloud cuckoo land. She’d buy him a meal if he was hungry—she’d do that for anybody as she had often done in the past—but contribute to the welfare of a gambling czar like Mike Lynton, not now and not ever.
Carole said, “I’ll talk to Mike.”
“Talk to Mike about what?” asked Clark.
“What?”
“You just said ‘I’ll talk to Mike.’”
“You’re crazy!” She had been so deep into her memory that she had no idea she’d spoken those words aloud. Oh God, suppose I talk in my sleep. The things I dream about! I can’t possibly talk about them, Pappy would have a conniption!
“I’m not crazy. Boys? Did you hear Mrs. Gable say ‘I’ll talk to Mike’?”
Both insisted they hadn’t. She’d spoken so low they would have had to kneel to hear her.
“Oh for crying out loud!” yelped Carole, always a fast thinker. “Hee hee hee,” she giggled. “I promised Fieldsie I’d get her husband an item in Mike Connelly’s column.” She asked the boys, “You’ve heard of Mike Connelly?” They hadn’t, they were that new to Hollywood and its mores. “He’s the publisher of the Hollywood Reporter and writes a daily column. He and it are very powerful. Compared to him Louella Parsons is Little Bo Peep. Though she doesn’t lose her sheep, she sells them. Hee hee hee. ‘I’ll talk to Mike.’ Why Pappy, I didn’t realize I said anything. Sayyy? Do I talk in my sleep?”
“You know I’m a heavy sleeper. I don’t hear anything once my head hits the pillow.”
Carole had never been sure of that, but now breathed a soft sigh of relief.
Gable asked her, “Did you talk to Mike?”
“No,” she said truthfully. “I left a message.”
She didn’t add, I didn’t speak to Mike Lynton either. He was away in San Francisco that weekend and by the time he got back, Lydia had gone missing. And when I heard that, I didn’t want to talk to anybody. “Damn it! Look at all those effing cars! Pappy! It’ll take forever to find a parking space!”
“Why don’t we drop you,” volunteered Sammy, “and we’ll find a parking space and join you at the party.”
“Oh you darlings,” gushed Carole, “you’re such treasures.”
Under his breath Clark said, “Cut the crap.”
Roy asked, “We don’t have an invitation. Will we have any trouble joining the party?”
Carole stated flatly, “With your looks and your physiques, you don’t need any invitations. If I know Miriam, you’ll be getting an invitation. I did her first movie with her. Fast and Loose. And nary truer word was ever spoken.” She and Clark left the car. The boys climbed into the front seat. Clark warned them about dents or any other damages. Sammy was behind the wheel and assured Clark they’d take good care of the Cadillac. Front doors shut, Roy whispered, “Let ’er rip!” The wheels screeched in agony as Sammy pulled away.
Gable
went white while Carole yelled with joy, “Oh, look at him go! Barney Oldfield heading down the stretch!” She took his hand and pulled him after her, “Come on, Pappy. Sounds like they’re having one hell of a swell time.” They descended a wooden staircase at the side of the house that led to the beach. There was an eight-piece orchestra on a bandstand Miriam had had constructed for the occasion. Under a huge tent, numerous tables were covered with food and drink. There was a dance floor constructed overnight by engineers on loan from the Warner Brothers studio and Carole and Clark watched jitter buggers having a hell of a time.
“It looks like such fun!” squealed Carole. “Come on, Pappy, let’s mingle. We haven’t mingled in ages. Look, there’s David and Irene! The Selznicks never look as though they’re having a good time. Yoo hoo! David! Irene!” They couldn’t hear her over the cacophony from the orchestra. “Isn’t that Johnny Davis leading the orchestra? It is!” He was under contract at Warners. “Yoo hoo! Johnny!” He couldn’t hear her either.
There were numerous waiters and women servers in proper uniforms. “I need a drink,” said Clark. He stopped a pretty server and asked for a scotch and soda and a wine spritzer for Carole. The server recognized Gable and said with underlined insinuation, “Oh Mr. Gable, you can have anything you want.”
Carole said, “He doesn’t want ‘anything.’ He wants a scotch and soda and a wine spritzer for his wife, capish?” The girl hurried off. Gable smiled at Carole.
“We better stay right here,” Gable said to Carole, “or she’ll never find us again.”
“With any luck,” said Carole grimly.
“My dahlin’s, my dahlin’s!” Miriam Hopkins was coming at them with outstretched arms. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t come! I was afraid you heard I invited Ria and I swear it was all a mistake!” Carole didn’t bat an eyelash on hearing Clark’s most recent ex-wife was on the premises. She could handle her if anything cropped up that required handling. She cast a glance at Clark and there was his professional fixed smile pasted across his lips.
Carole recognized the gamine expression on Miriam’s face, the one she used behind your back when in front of the camera and trying to steal a scene. As far as Carole was concerned, stealing a scene in a Paramount picture was petty larceny. “Now, Miriam, just you calm down. I’m not upset, Clark’s not upset, and Hollywood’s such a small town really, it’s almost unavoidable running into exes of all kinds. How are all your exes, darling? Are they all here?”
“If they are, it’s under false pretenses!” Her southern accent got thicker when she was under stress, and Carole thought she could cut the accent like she was carving a block of halvah. Their cheeks sideswiped in the usual phony show of Hollywood affection. Then Clark kissed Miriam’s cheek and she giggled and said, “Your mustache still tickles!”
Keep it up, Hopkins, Carole said to herself, and you’ll be eating a knuckle sandwich. Clark was amused. Years ago, long before Carole, he would angle for an invitation to Miriam’s. She was then “labeled” hot stuff, but she was also benefiting from the pleasures of Maurice Chevalier’s lower lip.
“I don’t see any bodyguards, Miriam. I had no idea you were that brave or self-assured in this kidnapping mess.”
“Brave? Self-assured? Me? Are you mad?”
“Only slightly,” said Clark and Carole raised a foot to kick his shin and then thought better of it.
“There are bodyguards all over the place. The men are either waiters or disguised as guests. I auditioned each and every one of them. Did I say auditioned? I meant interviewed.”
Carole said wisely, “You auditioned and I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
“Carole, you can be so wicked. That’s why we all adore you. Don’t we, Clark?” The waitress brought the Gables their drinks and then smiled her way back into the crowd.
“What quick service! That girl’s a fast worker,” said Carole.
Miriam’s tone of voice turned lethal. “So you’ve noticed. She’s been working on Darryl Zanuck but I advised her if she thought she’d bag him, she’d better affect a French accent.” She did a French accent very badly. “Monsoo Zanook he prefairs the likes of Simone Simon and Annabella, Nesseepa?”
Carole said, “I’m sorry, Miriam, but I don’t speak German.”
“Oh you are so funny!” laughed Miriam. “Oh my God, there’s Kay Francis. Warners dropped her and signed me and what do I say to her?”
“Try ‘hello’ for starters,” suggested Carole. “Kay’s a lady. She’ll take it from there. We just did a movie together. I like her.”
“Miwiam, Miwiam, Miwiam!” Kay Francis didn’t worry about her r trouble when not in front of the camera. One Warners writer once got so mad at her in a script he wrote he named her leading men Robert, Richard, Raymond, and Reginald. Unfazed, Kay referred to each of them as “dahling” and audiences went berserk trying to figure out which one she was referring to.
“Kay darling, you look ravishing!” While Kay and the Gables greeted each other, Miriam continued gushing and they let her continue gushing as there was no stopping her.
“Thank you, so do you, sweetie,” said Kay. She looked over her shoulder. “I seem to have lost my escort. He’s supposed to be my bodyguard.” She spotted what she thought was her bodyguard. “I wonder if that’s him?” asked Kay.
“You mean the tall drink of water with a ribbon in his hair?” asked Carole.
“If he’s wearing a ribbon in his hair, I suppose I should be guarding him.” Everyone laughed politely. “No, that’s not him. It doesn’t matter. What could happen to me in a crowd this huge. Miwiam, how do you afford a party this size?”
“I just had to celebrate my new deal with Warners and … oh Kay. I’m so sorry.”
“About what?”
“Warners dropped you.”
“That’s right. I’m on that list of box-office poison along with Hepburn, Dietrich, Garbo, and some eminent others. I’m in superb company, don’t you think?”
“The Warners are a bunch of shits,” said Carole. To Miriam she said, “You’ll soon agree.”
“Now really, Carole, I’ve been involved with a lot of shits in my time and I can handle them. My deal with Jack Warner isn’t life-threatening. It’s just for six pictures. One’s with Bette Davis.”
Carole exclaimed, “Well, talk about life-threatening! Whoops! Talk of the devil! Bette, sweetheart, you’re not alone, are you?”
Davis gestured with her right hand, which held the always present cigarette. “No, he’s somewhere out there picking pockets.”
“Oh Bette!” exclaimed Miriam. “You’re so unkind!”
“Oh? You think so? I just think I’m honest. It’s my Yankee upbringing. I caught the bastard going through my pocketbook when he picked me up. I should have dumped him right then and there, but it was too late to snare a substitute.”
“Hee hee hee!” giggled Carole. “I’ll bet you’re going to marry him.”
“I may as well,” said Bette, “I’m not busy next week.” She said to the Gables, “You two look positively glowing. You’re the only newlyweds in town who are still married.”
Carole said, “And we intend to stay that way.” She transferred the spritzer to her left hand and put her right around Gable’s waist. “We’re going to stay married until he throttles me to death. Hee hee hee. Sometimes I get on his nerves.”
“Enough of that. Now get on mine!” Groucho had joined them. “Miriam, this must be costing a bundle.”
Miriam leaned into the group conspiratorially, “Warners is paying for a lot of it. It’s the only way Jack could talk me into doing The Lady with Red Hair.
“Oh God, Miwiam, they’re not still flogging that chestnut!” Kay told the others, “It’s supposed to be based on the life of Mrs. Leslie Carter.” Carter had been a celebrated stage star at the turn of the century. She had blazing red hair and a fascinating personality that camouflaged a noticeable lack of talent. “Miwiam! Don’t you know how many of us turned that down—and flat
ly.”
“You’re being a bitch!” hissed Hopkins.
“Oh Miwiam. I mean you no harm!” She said to the others, “Ruth Chatterton wouldn’t do it, Bette wouldn’t do it, and I wouldn’t do it. They tried to borrow Sylvia Sidney from Paramount and even she wouldn’t do it.”
Miriam drew herself up with a splendid display of hauteur. “Well, I’m doing it and I shall do it proud! I know I have a feel for Mrs. Leslie Carter.”
“Oh yes?” asked Groucho. “I have a feel for her too. Where is she? Point her out to me.”
“Be still, my heart,” they heard Miriam whisper as she stared past them at Sammy and Roy, who were approaching them.
“Hee hee hee!” Carole was enjoying herself enormously. “They’re our bodyguards. Metro assigned them to us.”
“I should have signed with Metro,” said Miriam.
“Did they want you?” asked Clark.
“No, but I should have signed with them anyway.”
“Here’s the car keys, Mr. Gable,” said Roy as he held them out, “or should I give them to the boss?” Gable snatched the keys out of Roy’s hand while, convulsed with laughter, Carole buried her face in Clark’s chest.
“They certainly are adorable,” said Bette Davis. “I never get anything like them. All we’ve got at Warners are Humphrey Bogart and one of the Rover boys, Ronald Reagan.” Bette introduced herself and the others to Roy and Sammy, both of whom were boyishly overwhelmed facing all this celebrity.
Groucho undiplomatically asked Bette, “I thought you also had George Brent.”
Bette fixed him with a venomous look and cobra eyes. “Several times.” Bette spat both words.
“Well,” persisted Groucho, “it’s a good thing you never married him. It would look like hell on a marquee.”
“What would?” asked Kay.