“What work? You said I need work.”
“Hair, makeup, jewelry. And clothes. Miss Head’s office tomorrow afternoon, three thirty. She’s going to comment on your eyebrows, so be prepared. You sure you don’t want a drink?”
“Gin fizz.”
Granny circled his hand in the air, and a waiter bent, took his order, and was gone.
“That’ll put you back here by seven, and you’ll need to rush to put on the horns, but thank God, your makeup will look good.”
“But you said I wasn’t the bull girl.”
“Weren’t you listening? Of course you’re the bull. Mr. Zukor didn’t like his new property fronting a Warners project, but I’ve changed his mind. Plus if you’re gone, that puts us two short. I’m down a picador as well. Lorraine’s sick.”
Lorraine. A waiter handed me my gin fizz, and I drank. “Granny, if a girl needs an abortion, where does she go?”
“Quiet,” he said. “Dear God, do you want people to hear? What are you saying, Penny? Are you in trouble?”
He’d called me Penny.
“If I were, if I were in trouble, who would I see?”
Granny scooted his chair and leaned across the table. “Wait. Don’t get into trouble. No need to go into that now. Did you adjust that strap on the bull hat?”
“Yes. If I were in trouble, I wouldn’t know who to see. Madge knew, though. She knew who to see because she told Lorraine, didn’t she? Did you know Lorraine had an abortion? That’s why she’s sick. She’s still bleeding.”
“Dear God. Why can’t you just worry about your hair?”
“I want to know. I need to understand. I think Madge worked for Abbott or Zukor. She kept lookout for when girls needed help, then told them to see Abbott. I understand that, because Abbott’s a publicity man. He makes the studio look good. I also think I know where Abbott sent them. Dr. Ostrander, right? It’s Dr. Ostrander. Maybe there are others, but he’s one of them. I figure it’s him because the studio hired him to give my brother his physical, and also Dr. Ostrander was the one who came running out and got Spencer Tracy after Joe hit him.”
“You’re reaching here,” Granny said. “And Madge is gone.”
“Dr. Ostrander was in his office even though he was supposed to be next door, in the emergency room. He must have been in his office working on something important, because the emergency room was full, and he didn’t show up for work. But then he came out and got Spencer Tracy. He helped a movie star, but not those people next door. Did Madge know Dr. Ostrander? No, I know that one. I don’t think so. We met Dr. Ostrander, and I would have known if Madge recognized him. The only thing connecting Madge to Dr. Ostrander is Abbott.”
“Poor Madge. A sad accident.”
“Right. We’ve got an accident and a suicide. Madge and Rosemary. And what does Rosemary have in common with Madge and Dr. Ostrander? Madge finds the girls, and Dr. Ostrander does the surgery. Then there’s Rose. She cut her hand and went to the hospital where Dr. Ostrander worked. She saw Dr. Ostrander. What do you think it means?”
“Hollywood is a place where anything happens,” Granny said. “A magical place.”
“Right. Dr. Ostrander’s nurse saw Rosemary leave the hospital, and that’s the last we know.”
“Do you want to be Sheryl or not? What are you saying?”
“Granny, Madge is dead because she knew something or saw something. I don’t believe she fell, and there’s no other reason to kill her. Why kill her unless she was a threat? She didn’t have money, she wasn’t a star. She wasn’t threatening. Unless she knew something important that made her a threat. Her parents are lost in Paris, and she didn’t know anything about them, either. The only thing she’d know is . . . who was pregnant? Who had an abortion? Besides Lorraine. Don’t give me your mean look. Bedroom One is full of ex-nieces, and none of them hate you. That proves you’re not mean. You know what I’m thinking.”
“I have no idea. I don’t want to know. My advice is to be Sheryl and shut up.”
“Well, if Lorraine can get pregnant, anyone can. Big names. That happens, doesn’t it? You don’t have to say. I know I’m right. What if a big star is in trouble and Abbott arranges for Dr. Ostrander to help her? He’d keep it private, right? A private patient important enough to be treated on Halloween. The busiest night of the year. What if she’s leaving the hospital late at night so nobody sees her? What if Dr. Ostrander gives abortions in his office next to the emergency room, and he’s got a big star in there, and he waits until late at night for her to go home, so nobody sees her? But here’s Rosemary, she’s leaving the hospital, too, and she sees Dr. Ostrander with this star, and now Rosemary is a threat. Madge hears about it. What do you think?”
“Penny, you need to keep your thoughts to yourself. We tell one story until it’s the only one that counts. In six months your name really will be Sheryl. Madge died in a fall. Don’t you see?”
“Rosemary was a threat, so she committed suicide. What do you think? Who was the star? Has to be someone on contract at Paramount. Dietrich? Mae West is too old, otherwise I’d say it’s her. Dietrich, Lombard, Claudette Colbert, Ann Sheridan—”
“Girls used to do what they’re told,” he said. He swished his drink with a finger and wouldn’t look at me. “Ten years ago, five, a girl would shut up and go with the story. Most of them still do. You’re going to make a scene, aren’t you? In that case, you should have signed with Louis Mayer.”
He sucked booze off his finger. “You want to know what I think? If your friend saw something she shouldn’t have, I’m saying if, then the studio would pay her off. That’s what they do. All over town there are people counting money a studio’s paid out. Studios don’t kill, Penny. They fix. They make phone calls, they tap other guys to take the fall for a star, they do what they want. They give anonymous girls like you a contract. But nobody here kills. Not even Warners, and they’re too cheap to pay out. That’s what I think. You’re dreaming up an abortion ring to explain your friend’s death.”
“You’re saying Paramount doesn’t arrange for movie stars in trouble?”
Granny swallowed the rest of his cocktail and chewed the ice. I sipped my gin fizz. The whole Zanzibar seemed thoughtful, like we’d all paused to remember a sad day. The orchestra played “I Surrender Dear.”
“I love the Gardens,” Granny said. “I belong in Hollywood. In New York I stank, so I came here. Did you know that? New York hated me. Not the people, the city.”
“Granny, what can you tell me?”
“You want to know how many abortions Dietrich’s had? I don’t know. Whenever she’s not around for a few days, we say, Marlene’s taking a rest, and when she pops back we forget there were days in between. Does Paramount arrange her ‘rest’? I suppose they do. You’ve got to believe in the story, Penny, not the truth. There’s no glamour in truth. Count on the story. This whole city exists because of it.”
“I want to,” I said. “I always believed when I was younger. I still do.”
“You should get new shoes,” Granny said. “High wedgies, with a nice strap. Did Madge wear your shoe size?”
* * *
I climbed the dorm stairs. Down the hall my bedroom door was half-open. I wasn’t worried, because Lorraine was there and the other Career Girl, too, probably. Girls walked in and out of their dorm rooms, to the toilet, to the kitchen. I heard laughter and shouts in the hall. Other girls shut themselves in bedrooms and pretended they’d gone out. Not many of us wanted to admit we stayed home on Friday night.
I didn’t notice the mess at first. In my bedroom I kicked at clothes on the floor, turned on a table lamp, and unbuttoned the black jacket. I would have hung it up except when I reached in the closet, I couldn’t find a hanger. Nothing hung on the rod. No hangers or gowns. They all lay on the floor and on my bed, and my dresser drawers were pulled out. One drawer was tipped upside down on the bed. I hadn’t made my bed that morning, but now all the sheets were stripped off and wadded in a corner.
My hairbrush, hairpins, hair receiver, all hair stuff, a couple pots of rouge, all of it was on the floor. My stuff and Madge’s. On the other side of the room, the Career Girl dresser and armoire stood like they always did. Only my side was tossed.
“Lorraine, what happened?”
Lorraine was in her own bed, asleep.
“Lorraine?” I stepped across clothes to her bed. “Did you do this?”
“Shut up.” She pulled covers over her head and disappeared.
“Did you mess with my stuff?” I tugged a quilt from her face. “Take a look.”
She saw the room with one eye. “No. Didn’t you do it?”
“Why would I wreck my own stuff?” I kicked a foot, and one of Madge’s hooch bottles rolled on the floor, empty. “Did you see anyone?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Someone walks through the dorm, comes to our room, not to the nieces’ room but to our room, ours, and messes my stuff. You didn’t notice?”
“I didn’t hear a thing,” Lorraine said. “I didn’t see a thing. I was asleep.”
Sure she was asleep. Of course. She’d drunk the rest of Madge’s gin.
CHAPTER 37
Joan Crawford hasn’t been so happy in years as she’s appeared introducing her friends to her newly adopted daughter, Christina.
—Photoplay, November 1940
All over the dorm I asked, “Did you see anyone?” I knocked on doors, and when girls didn’t answer, I yelled through the keyholes, “Did you see anyone strange in the halls?” I wasted ten minutes. Another girl wouldn’t be noticed, and a guy could sneak through the dorm because guys snuck through all the time. Some girls made money that way.
At the end of my search I leaned against a sink counter and hit myself, fists on thighs. Hitting through black silk feels just like hitting the normal way: It hurts. I’m the stupidest person I know. I sat with Granny half an hour and didn’t ask why he “tested” me. Granny told me about tomorrow’s signing time, but he could have told me that in the greenroom. I didn’t have to meet him. He lured me—is that the right word? He said, someone you need to meet, and I ran to change clothes. My bedroom was fine then. It was a mess, but my mess, my bed unmade and dirty clothes in a pile. I’d piled them. Then I sat with Granny for a while, and what news did I get? Marlene Dietrich had abortions. I could have figured that on my own. Everyone knew she’d fuck a toothpick. Plus you can’t be pregnant and wear trousers. Nobody can.
Granny set me up, then. He knew my room would be searched, and he didn’t care.
I kept hitting my thighs. Then I climbed the stairs to get my handbag and found it dumped as well, on top of the clothes that were dumped on top of my bed. My money hadn’t been taken. Only five dollars, but it was still there. Whoever searched my room wasn’t looking for money. I shoved the five bucks, lipstick, a dime or two back in my handbag. On the clean half of the room, Lorraine snored and bled, with the quilt over her face to block the light. I turned off the table lamp.
In the dark, in my mind, I crossed off the people I’d normally go to for help. Will rode on a two-day train to the army. Rose allegedly cut her own throat. Madge allegedly got drunk and fell. Granny was alive and in town, but I couldn’t trust him. Conejos had helped Granny fix me the night Joe beat Spencer Tracy, so I wasn’t sure I could trust him, either. Joe, but I wouldn’t call Joe. My arm still hurt where he’d twisted. Stany, I could call Stany, but where would I get her number? She’d never given it to me, and no operator would hand out a star’s number. And then there was Marty. He was sneaky. Okay, he was beyond sneaky, but he’d kept me out of jail. I switched on the table lamp and found Marty’s card in the jumble of pocketbook stuff. I called him from the telephone on the dorm’s third floor: FItzroy 5212.
* * *
Ring ring. Ring ring. Click.
“Yeah? Yes?”
“Marty, it’s Penny Harp.”
“Oh.”
“I need to talk. Can we meet somewhere? I’ll buy you coffee.”
“Penny? What time is it?”
“A little past midnight. Not that late.”
“You woke me.”
“But it’s Friday night.”
“Some people sleep on Fridays. Penny, right?”
“Yeah. Do you have a party line? Isn’t this your office number? What am I hearing?”
“That’s me preparing to hang up.”
“Marty, wait. Wait. Someone just searched my room. What do I do?”
“Anything worth stealing? Do you have drugs, diamonds? Any plot treatments? Scripts?”
“No.”
“Then who cares? Missy called me today. She says you’re cleared, and I’m off her payroll. Aw, hell. I’m awake now, thanks to you. Go to bed, Penny. Or go anywhere. Just go.”
Click. Buzzzzz.
* * *
Stany did a picture a few years back where she played a rich, single woman who finds a corpse. She screams, takes police to the scene, and—oh no!—the corpse is gone!
But I saw it, she says. Right here on the floor.
Nobody believes her. She calls all her rich girlfriends to help her search, and for a while all you see on screen are fur coats and ruffles.
And guess who plays a handsome detective? Hank Fonda.
It’s a good picture, except for the girlfriends. They get in the way, and one keeps stopping to eat. They aren’t very good at detecting. Lucky me, my girlfriends were dead. No Rose, no Madge, no fur coats. Just me, no girlfriends to get in the way. No crazy Joe. Not even a handsome detective. Both Joe and my handsome detective worked the Hollywood Division night shift.
I didn’t need Marty Martin. He didn’t hurt me by hanging up. I didn’t squat by the telephone desk and hug my arms to my knees.
“Why are you here?” a girl asked me. “Don’t sit on the cord. I can’t use the phone when you sit like that.”
I didn’t stand and straighten the black silk skirt. I didn’t smack the girl, either, so when she fell I can honestly say that I have no clue what happened.
I took a cab to Paramount.
* * *
At the Bronson Gate, I walked past the guardhouse. One security guard sat in the guardhouse: blond, scruffy face, flat nose. Security guards at Paramount are used to girls trying to sneak onto the lot. That’s why the Bronson Gate is so high, because girls used to climb the original gate to reach Valentino. Those girls ruined it for all of us. The guard looked down at some papers, but every noise made him look up. A car drove by, and he looked up. I kicked a rock toward the gutter, and he looked up. A worker on a bicycle called from inside to open the gate, and the guard questioned him before letting him leave. If a real worker couldn’t even go home without a security check, the unknown Sheryl Lane, who’d been told to stay off the lot, couldn’t sneak by this guard, coming or going.
The air was chilly now, with a little wind. My silk jacket was stunning but thin, and I rubbed my arms. Claudette Colbert would have a nice, thick Irene wool to wrap around her for when she broke into movie studios in winter.
I crossed Marathon Street to the Gold Palms Apartments. The building was a horseshoe curve that faced away from Marathon, across the street from Paramount admin. The front door hid in the horseshoe’s middle, and that’s where I went, where guards seated in the Paramount guardhouse couldn’t see me. The door to the Gold Palms was locked. I waited. A guy opened the door to leave, and he held the door for me, a gentleman, and I walked into the lobby. That’s what a good silk suit can do.
I’ve been in a few apartment buildings, and the staircases are easy to find. This one sat right in front of me and the stairs curved up, without a door, so I could stand underneath and see the landing on all four levels. I didn’t need those four levels. I needed a basement. The only door in the lobby read LAUNDRY, so I opened it and climbed downstairs. I searched the basement walls for a tunnel that might let the studio heads meet their girlfriends for lunch.
I listen to rumors. Most rumors are true, at least in
the beginning before people muck them up with their own stories. Madge had told me a secret tunnel ran under Marathon Street. A tunnel between here and Paramount had to be true, because who would make it up? Who would walk by the Gold Palms and think, Oh, I wonder if there’s a secret tunnel where high-paid studio guys cross over and visit a mistress? Nobody thinks like that. The rumors I didn’t believe were the add-ons: I hear Zukor meets Edith Head at the Gold Palms each Tuesday. Watch, next Tuesday you’ll see how her glasses are steamed. You’ve got to be smarter than the added-on rumors. Go to the original rumor, trace it back, and that’s where you’ll find the truth.
The laundry, then. Washing machine, wringer, laundry press, two deep sinks. My dorm had the same setup. A clothesline stretched down the room: a few shirts, trousers, starch in the air. I rubbed my hand over the cement walls to find secret cracks and doors. I scooted the washing machine to see behind it. A girl came downstairs with a tub of clothes and a new issue of Photoplay.
“You won’t find it,” she said.
I ignored her.
“I said, you’re not going to find the entrance.” She ran water in the washing machine.
“Where is it?” In one corner, dusty wood pallets stacked four or five high. I rubbed the walls behind the pallets.
“Ten bucks.”
“I’ve got four,” I said.
“Deal. And the suit.”
“This suit?”
“Do you want the entrance?”
“Deal,” I said.
“Move those pallets. No, they’re heavy, we’ll both push. I hear Valentino used this tunnel to meet Mary Pickford. She was fifteen.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Maybe fourteen. Push on that side. I hear her own mother set it up.”
“Her mother?”
“Mary Pickford’s. How’s that for a stage mom? Meet The Sheik at the end of this tunnel, honey. I wouldn’t mind a mom like that. Here, you see? Lift the lid, and you’re in. Everyone looks for a secret door in the wall. They don’t notice the floor.”
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