Searchlights and Shadows (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 4)

by Martin Turnbull

Marcus took a step toward Trevor. “Hey,” he said, “how’s about you and I go back to my place. We can make some coffee, I could probably scrounge up some donuts—”

  “I didn’t come here for coffee!”

  “Then why are you here?” Alla was on her feet now, a Russian scowl wrinkling her forehead.

  “You got me into this, Adler, you gotta get me out of it.” Trevor’s words escaped from him like air from a punctured balloon. His hands curled into fists.

  “What was it you said to me that day?” Marcus asked. “You don’t get to be the US champion without being prepared to do whatever’s necessary.”

  “That’s what Quentin told me to say.”

  “You don’t want to be in the movies?” Bertie asked. “With your looks? Are you nuts?”

  Trevor regarded Bertie sadly. “It all happened so fast, got my head all turned around. I don’t know what I want anymore.”

  Benchley struggled to his feet with a filled tumbler in his hand. “This is half lemonade, half vodka. I think you need it more than I.” Benchley’s red face and extended belly were the consequences of several decades of heavy drinking. His own hand shook as he pushed the glass into Bergin’s and gently prodded it toward his mouth.

  Trevor took a couple of heavy swigs and braced himself as the vodka hit his system. “And then there’s Melody Hope.”

  Marcus looked at Kathryn, who shrugged, then at Bertie. Melody Hope had quickly become one of MGM’s more popular—and valuable—performers. For a few years, she’d been Bertie’s neighbor at the Garden Court Apartments. Bertie shrugged, too.

  Marcus strode forward, grabbed Trevor by the arm and started frog-marching him away. The guy reeked of days-old booze. Over his shoulder, Marcus jutted his head at Kathryn and Bertie. Nobody said anything until they were all inside his living room.

  With little effort, Marcus prodded Trevor onto the sofa. “What’s Melody Hope got to do with any of this?”

  “Maureen O’Hara is out.”

  “Since when?” Kathryn was in the kitchen making coffee, but had ears the size of megaphones when a scoop loomed on her horizon. She was desperate for an exclusive now that her boss had announced a twenty percent pay cut for all Hollywood Reporter staff at the start of summer. And they were the lucky ones—twenty-three more staff members had been let go that week. Now more than ever, Kathryn needed to prove her worth.

  “Since Fox decided to keep her for Tyron’s new pirate movie.”

  Marcus could easily picture Melody as the virginal Lady Gwendolyn in a romantic clinch with Bergin. He sat beside Trevor. “And why is Melody a problem?” Hesitation filled Trevor’s eyes as they lingered on Kathryn and Bertie. “It’s okay,” Marcus assured him. “You can trust them.”

  “Melody was the last girl I was with before I faced the fact that girls don’t—that they’re not what I’m looking for. The last time we were together, I couldn’t—perform.”

  Kathryn crossed into the living room with oatmeal molasses cookies and four cups of strong coffee. “How did she take it?”

  “Somehow, I gave her the impression that she was the one responsible for turning me into a fag.”

  Bertie grimaced. “Ouch.”

  Trevor nodded. “She started throwing things and screaming at me like a longshoreman.”

  “Sounds a bit extreme,” Kathryn observed, “especially for Melody.”

  “I’m guessing it’s been a while since you talked to her?” Bertie snapped off a chunk of cookie. “There’s a reason I no longer live next door to Miss Melody Hope.” She turned to Trevor. “I was at home, sitting on the other side of Mel’s living room wall, the night you two had that fight. When she threw that lamp—”

  “Damn near busted my fist!”

  “I decided she’d become too much of a handful. You’re lucky to be rid of her.”

  “But I’m not rid of her!” Trevor protested, his face reddening with frustration. “I’m supposed to be acting with her—in love scenes!—knowing she hates my guts and would gladly slide a knife between my ribs given half a chance.”

  “I’m sure she’s calmed down since then.”

  “She hasn’t,” Trevor insisted. “I stopped by her dressing room last week.”

  “And?”

  “She threw a vase at me.” He started patting his pockets for cigarettes. Marcus leaned over the coffee table and opened a black lacquered box George Cukor had brought back for him from Hong Kong. He offered it to Trevor, who gratefully took a Chesterfield and lit it. “And anyway, that’s only half of it. The studio’s got a fortune riding on this movie. I’ve never acted before. What if I completely blow it?”

  Marcus lit up a cigarette of his own. Is there a point at which a project becomes too damned difficult? And if there is, did I just pass it? He thought of Cukor’s cigarette box; his head shot up.

  “What if I convince George Cukor to coach you?”

  Trevor seemed to sober up a notch. “You can do that?”

  “I can try.”

  “But didn’t I read somewhere that he joined the army?” Bertie asked.

  “There’s Regular Joe enlisting in the army, and then there’s George Cukor,” Marcus said. “He’s going to be directing training films and probably won’t be going any farther than Redondo Beach.” He turned back to Trevor. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll only ask him if you promise you’ll give it your all.”

  Trevor nodded. “But what about Melody?”

  “You leave Melody to me.”

  * * *

  Melody Hope opened her front door and immediately slurred, “Come on in . . . close the door behind you . . . join me in a lil drinkie . . . they’re so refreshing on a lonely Sunday afternoon.”

  When Marcus telephoned her, Melody had spoken with the softly rounded vowels and dropped g’s she’d used in her most recent movie, Sutter’s Hill, about the start of the Californian gold rush. She’d portrayed a displaced Southern belle with such warmth and humor that the movie was an instant hit. But by the time Marcus got to Melody’s front door, her vowels had the same hard edge as her mouth. “What’s up? Like I can’t guess.” She flopped onto her Chinese silk sofa.

  Marcus joined her. “It’s about William Tell.”

  “No,” she corrected him. “It’s about Trevor Bergin.”

  Years ago, Marcus wrote a movie called The Pistol From Pittsburgh that gave Melody her big break, and she’d always been grateful. He was counting on that now. “You know I only have your best interests at heart, right?”

  She yawned. “I know this is Hollywood.”

  He positioned himself on the sofa so that their shoulders were touching. “Lady Gwendolyn is a great part, and a big opportunity for you.”

  “And for you,” she taunted him. “I’ve heard what Mayer promised if it turns out great.”

  Marcus maintained his indulgent smile. “It’s time to be professional,” he told her gently, “even if you still resent the guy.”

  She grabbed up her tumbler of gin. “Okay,” she said from inside the glass. “I’ll play nice.”

  Marcus resisted the urge to squint. I’m here ten minutes and she’s already rolling over? She finished her drink and held out the glass for a refill.

  Marcus took it and approached the chrome and mirrored wet bar against the wall. There were brown blotches the size of half-dollars on the white carpet at his feet. That’s a lot of booze over a long time, he thought as he fixed weaker drinks than Melody was probably expecting. He joined her on the sofa. “What’s going on with you?”

  She pulled back. “What do you mean?”

  “When we met, you were a sweet young preacher’s daughter, a teetotaler, and—I presume—a virgin.”

  Her smirk looked jarringly out of place on her rosy-cheeked ingénue face. “But look at me now, boozing it up in the middle of the afternoon.”

  “Your affair with Mayer.” Marcus caught the harrumph flashing through her eyes. “It was the worst-kept secret at the studio.”

>   “What about Mannix?” she asked. “Did you all hear about that one?”

  “You had an affair with Eddie Mannix, too?”

  “Not so much ‘had an affair’ as ‘had an affair thrust on me.’ Let’s just say that if I wanted my career to really take off, I wasn’t offered a range of choices.” Melody shrugged like none of it mattered. “I’ll tell you this for nothing: what Mister Eddie Mannix lacks in movie-star handsome, he makes up for in enthusiasm. Boy, can that guy go.”

  No wonder you’re sitting here socking it away. Marcus laid a hand on her arm. “Melody, you should have said—”

  She yanked her arm away. “If you think that’s why I’m drinking all on my lonesome on a Sunday afternoon, you’re way off the bull’s-eye. I’m here because my father’s disowned me.”

  “He’s what?”

  She raised her glass as though in salute. “Yep, dear old Dad, the God-fearing preacher man, no longer recognizes me as his daughter because I’m a—let’s see if I can get this word-perfect—a ‘sinful, lascivious succubus willing to stop at nothing in order to become queen of the Hollywood Jezebels.’ How do you like them apples?”

  “What about your mom?” Marcus said. “Have you tried asking her to intervene—?”

  “My mother is the daughter of a Methodist pastor married to a Methodist pastor. How do you think she feels about lascivious Jezebels?”

  “But you’re her daughter—”

  “I can’t do anything about what my parents think, but I can do this.” Melody raised her glass again. The ice tinkled in the still of the room. “Which brings us to the end of this well-intentioned discussion of my private life. Let’s get back to the matter at hand.” She crossed her chest. “I hereby solemnly promise that I shall be the epitome of the professional Hollywood actress during the production of MGM’s greatly anticipated William Tell.”

  Marcus searched the girl’s face for signs of mockery or insincerity, but saw only unblemished candor. “You will?”

  “For you? Sure.” She paused, then added, “For a favor.”

  Marcus closed his eyes and pictured himself standing in a grave deeper than Hugo’s. “What sort of favor?”

  “Now that your Pearl From Pearl Harbor’s got the ol’ heave-ho, they’re talking about putting Judy Garland into something called For Me And My Gal.”

  Marcus couldn’t bear to look at her. He focused instead on a still-life hanging on the wall opposite them. “I heard that, too.”

  “The rumor is they’re going to be casting this new up-and-comer. Some hot stuff Broadway dancer, Gene Kelly. I want that role, Marcus. I want it real bad. Floyd Forrester is casting For Me And My Gal, so all I need you to do is go see him and . . . do what you do.”

  “Melody, honey, I didn’t write that picture. And even if I did, you know that writers have no say in casting.”

  “You got Trevor Bergin cast in William Tell, didn’t you?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. I tried, I failed, he got cast anyway.”

  A smirk spread across Melody’s face like a rash. “That’s not what I heard.”

  “What exactly did you hear?”

  She posed like a coquette. “That you approached Floyd at the Retake Room. You got him drunk on French booze and made it clear you’d do anything—ANYTHING—to help Trevor win the role. So don’t go pulling the Virgin Mary act with me. We’ve all done it.” She was stage-whispering now. “It’s no big deal. Really, it isn’t.”

  “But that’s not the way it happened.”

  A shrug so slight it barely registered. “If you say so.”

  “Floyd said if I wanted Trevor cast, then I was the one who had to put out.”

  “And did you?”

  “No!”

  “Well, then,” Melody said with saucer eyes, “you need to know that the rumors flying around the studio say you’re willing to do anything with anyone to get ahead. You’ve got yourself a reputation, buster, and it’s not the sort that would make your mama proud.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Kathryn looked up over a mountain of provolone and ham sandwiches and surveyed the barn. “I’m surprised it’s not busier.”

  Bette Davis gave a snort. “Don’t speak too soon. Every night it’s been the same since we opened. One minute we’re barely a third full, the next they’re hanging from the rafters and we’re all drowning in testosterone!” She surveyed their handiwork. “This should hold the boys until the next shipment of bread arrives. Oh, and thank you.” Bette touched Kathryn’s forearm lightly. “I know you’re a busy girl with a busy job.”

  “It’s not like yours is any kind of slouch,” Kathryn insisted.

  When Bette Davis and John Garfield came up with the idea of opening a place to give military personnel on shore leave somewhere to go, they’d recruited battalions of entertainers, musicians, set decorators, publicists, and all manner of studio craftsmen to volunteer their time to build the Hollywood Canteen into something special. It hadn’t taken long for word to spread among military personnel that if they were on leave in Los Angeles, they ought to hitch a ride to the Hollywood Canteen on Cahuenga Boulevard. Not only would they be made to feel welcome, but if they ever wanted to meet a movie star, it might be their only chance.

  The Hollywood Canteen was a large, squarish room done out in roughly hewn wood. Along the eastern and western walls were murals depicting Hollywood’s version of what life on the farm probably looked like. The refreshment counter ran along the southern wall and overlooked bunches of circular tables where guys could eat their sandwiches and donuts and drink coffee. Along the northern wall was a stage with space for five or six musicians and a couple of singers. From the ceiling hung several chandeliers made of hurricane lamps suspended from wagon wheels.

  “I hear Now, Voyager is your best work yet,” Kathryn said.

  The two women had encountered each other at movie premieres and award ceremonies over the years, but had never spoken. Bette offered up an unassuming smile Kathryn had never seen her use on screen. “If I send you tickets to the premiere, will you promise to attend?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Terrific! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to spruce up before the NBC guys get here.”

  Kathryn’s ears prickled. “NBC?”

  “They’re broadcasting The Pepsodent Show from here tonight.”

  Errol’s advice to attract the attention of Pepsodent’s Leo Presnell had proved tricky to execute. Over the past months, Kathryn had been to several Pepsodent Show broadcasts but was rebuffed every time by security guards. She’d requested an interview with Bob Hope, but between his movies, radio show, and gigs entertaining the troops, Kathryn couldn’t get anywhere. She’d approached Presnell’s office and pitched an idea for an article about the life of a hit radio show sponsor, but never heard back.

  It was nearly four o’clock when Kathryn finished arranging sandwiches, and the next time she checked her watch, it was twenty to five and she was serving food as fast as the kitchen supervisor, Mary Ford, could replace it.

  With Monty’s help, Kathryn was learning how to distinguish navy from army, captain from colonel, ensign from admiral. But what hit home that first night at the Canteen was the forlorn look in the faces of the men she encountered there. They were lonesome for their hometowns and regular lives, but excited to see Los Angeles with its Pacific Ocean, wide boulevards, and palm trees. The possibility of seeing a movie star—and maybe even getting to dance with one—was suddenly and thrillingly real. But she could also see their anticipation and fear. They were about to ship out into a theater of war to fight an inscrutable enemy, and they might not come back.

  She tried her best to welcome them with a jovial “How ya doin’, fella?” Maybe she’d help assuage the uncertainties clouding their futures, or maybe nothing she did would make a dent, but she tried nonetheless.

  It was after six when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Mary told her she’d earned a break, and that there was sherry in the office if she wante
d a reviving sip.

  Kathryn pointed to a team of technicians crowding the stage. “Are they from The Pepsodent Show?”

  Mary nodded. “After tonight, everybody in America will know about the Hollywood Canteen.”

  “I don’t suppose you know who is in charge?”

  “Leo Presnell?” Mary giggled.

  “Why is that funny?”

  Mary pressed her fingers to her mouth. “I shouldn’t laugh; it’s really quite a serious matter. My husband just made a short military film called Sex Hygiene.” Mary’s husband was director John Ford. “It’s a cautionary tale about fellows who visit prostitutes and catch venereal disease. Before production commenced, Mr. Presnell came over to the house several times. Somebody enlisted the help of Unilever because they make all sorts of hygiene products, as well as Pepsodent toothpaste.”

  “Is he here tonight?”

  She pointed to someone standing on the side of the stage watching a pair of men connect wires to a microphone.

  Kathryn picked her way along the side of the crowded dance floor and approached Presnell with the stealth of a deer hunter.

  Leo Presnell carried himself with a confidence harvested from uninterrupted generations of old money. His midnight-blue suit hugged his shoulders and draped his torso so effortlessly that it had to be tailor-made. His barbershop shave and slickly manicured nails were just as Errol had described. He reached for Kathryn’s outstretched hand.

  “I wanted to introduce myself,” she told him. “I’m Kathryn Massey with the Hollywood Reporter.” She waited to see a flicker of recognition, but got only a practiced veneer of gloss. “You’re not an easy person to reach.”

  “I’m not?”

  She’d been expecting a dodge and a quick escape, but was confronted with a six-foot-two wall of overwhelming masculinity. She thought of Bette’s comment about drowning in testosterone. Maybe that’s what she was feeling—the escalating urges of the three hundred males behind her whose pent-up cravings saw no imminent release.

  No, she decided, it’s got nothing to do with the guys on the dance floor. “I’ve been to a number of broadcasts and tried to talk to you, but didn’t get very far.”