For such a well-put-together man about town, Presnell’s lopsided smile was unexpected. “I do have an overprotective secretary,” he admitted, “with whom I shall have a stern word.”
“I wrote to you, too, but didn’t get a response.”
“Did you know we moved offices recently?” he asked. “It was a rough transition, and a number of things—” He cut himself off. “You have my full attention, Miss Massey. How may I help you?”
The earthy combination of sailor sweat and sawdust blew across Kathryn like a Santa Ana wind, and she strained to recall her pitch. “Well, you see, Mr. Presnell—”
“Please, call me Leo.” He took an almost imperceptible step closer to her.
“The thing is—Leo, your show is in its fourth year now, and it strikes me that it could do with some revamping.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course, this is just my opinion, but I think you need to break things up, not just with a song or two, but perhaps a five-minute Hollywood report from someone in the know.”
“Like what Louella Parsons used to do on Hollywood Hotel?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“But preferably someone with a bit more class?”
She nodded.
“This is really quite remarkable,” he said. “Just the other day, I had a meeting with my marketing guys. Evidently, their research agrees with your assessment. They came up with a list of suggestions, and the one I liked the most was to include more Hollywood content.”
It was too much of a coincidence. Kathryn suspected he was just telling her what she wanted to hear for reasons she couldn’t yet fathom.
“Is that something you’d be interested in doing?” he asked.
Kathryn fought the urge to yip, but before she could form a response, a technician approached them. “Mr. Presnell, there’s a call for you in the office. Something about Mr. Hope stuck at the studio. Sounds kinda urgent.”
Presnell thanked him, told Kathryn he’d be in touch, and rushed offstage toward the Canteen’s back office.
Kathryn bounded down the stairs and headed for the ladies’ room, realizing rather belatedly that she ought to have performed a makeup check after working the sandwich line. It was a bit late for that now, but she began to fix her hair anyway. She was still at the mirror when Greer Garson walked in.
Kathryn had met Greer over the summer at a press screening for Mrs. Miniver. Kathryn thought the movie was superb and had praised it at length in her column. It had gone on to become an enormous hit, propelling Greer to stardom. The woman exuded every bit of the warmth and compassion in person that she evoked on the screen.
“I don’t know why we bother,” Greer said with a laugh. “Those boys are all so cross-eyed with excitement, I doubt they’d notice if we had rotten tomatoes dripping from our heads, bless their dear little faces.”
Kathryn pulled out her hairbrush. “Did I hear right? You’re doing that Madame Curie movie next?”
“If they offer it to me.”
Kathryn started running the brush through her hair. “Poor woman. Who knows what she could have accomplished if not for all that radiation. What a shame we’re not blessed with hindsight.”
“Oh, but risk-taking makes life worth living. Haven’t you noticed that since the war started, it’s a way of life? I see people making decisions in moments that they would have thought about for months.” She pointed through the doorway. “Any of those boys out there could be dead a month from now.”
“So you’ll take the role?”
“Abso-damn-lutely. My mother said, Never knock back a death scene. I’ll get that role if I have to sleep with Mayer to do it!” Her mascara hovered in midair. “Oh God, can you imagine?”
Kathryn thought about what Marcus was going through with William Tell and the trouble it’d caused him. Fortunately, he’d managed to work things out to everybody’s satisfaction. He convinced Cukor to coach Trevor, and talked Melody into slowing down on the booze in exchange for having a word with Floyd Forrester. Even more impressively, he somehow managed to get Floyd to stop telling people Marcus was a good-time Charlie. The idea that Marcus was some sort of floozy made Kathryn laugh every time she thought of it.
“The casting-couch option must be one hell of a hurdle,” Kathryn said.
“I only wish I knew how that felt!” Greer declared. “It’d mean someone saw me as a woman, not their saintly mother—or worse, their respectable aunt. Mind you, I truly doubt there’ll be much casting-couch cha-cha going on in the near future.” She dropped her mascara and lipstick into her purse. “Not with what’s happened to Errol.”
A jolt of panic mule-kicked Kathryn in the chest. “Errol? Flynn? Why, what’s happened?”
“Haven’t you heard? He’s been charged with rape.”
CHAPTER 13
As Melody Hope lifted the veil from her face, a key light was positioned to make her brown saucer eyes glisten with Technicolored adoration. “Oh, William,” she said breathlessly, “let’s turn our back on the past. From this day forward, we shall keep our eyes on the horizon of our future.”
Trevor Bergin beamed a loving smile that was guaranteed to melt a thousand hearts every night for the next three months—maybe longer, in larger cities. “With you, my Lady Gwendolyn, the future is a place where all is possible.”
As the camera pulled back to reveal a dusky orange sun setting behind chocolate-box-perfect Swiss Alps, the words THE END filled the screen, and the audience erupted into applause so loud Marcus could feel the vibrations ripple the floor beneath his shoes.
It had all been worth it—sleeping with Quentin, cajoling Cukor to become a drama coach, promising Melody she’d get a shot at For Me And My Gal—or at least a chance to get into Forrester’s good books.
Next to him, Nazimova almost had to shout to be heard. “Wonderful, my boy! WONDERFUL! You are so talented! I am so proud!”
As they made their way up the aisle, Marcus felt a strong hand clamp his shoulder. The scent of popcorn still lingered on Jim Taggert’s fingers. “I think it’s safe to say Mayer liked what he saw. It might be a wise career move to remind him of his promise tonight.”
Though the prospect of an Academy Award nomination had been the gleaming reason Marcus put himself through all that maneuvering, he hadn’t allowed himself to believe Mayer would make good on his promise. But now that his script had resulted in such a beautifully realized motion picture that was every bit as worthy as Mrs. Miniver and Ziegfeld Girl, Marcus permitted himself a flurry of excitement.
Taggert murmured, “Follow my lead,” and strode ahead.
As a nod to wartime restraint, MGM had foregone the lavish celebration that typically followed a big premiere for a less formal party at the theater. The round, teak-paneled lounge was decorated with Corinthian columns, and at its center was a bronze Roman god plucking a lyre. Around its base tonight were tables loaded with desserts, including an ambitious display of donut holes dipped in bright red frosting to look like William Tell’s apples, each skewered with a peppermint candy stick shaped like an arrow.
Marcus and Taggert had just joined Hoppy, Kathryn, Gwendolyn, and Nazimova in front of a huge painting of Napoleon Bonaparte on horseback when Charlie Chaplin came striding toward them with his arms outstretched.
“My darling Madame!” He beamed and enfolded Nazimova in his arms. Chaplin was still on a high since his latest movie, The Great Dictator, had been topping the box office for most of the previous year. Now in his fifties, the man was still charismatically handsome in spite of—or perhaps due to—his graying temples. Although he’d lived in America for decades, his British accent was still pronounced. “How are you, my dear? So delightful to see you here! And how wonderful you were in Blood And Sand! I’m sure the offers are pouring in now!”
Nazimova kept opening her mouth to speak, then closing it again as Chaplin continued to hog the spotlight. When she managed to get a word in, Nazimova explained that she was here because Marcus had
written the movie he’d just seen.
Chaplin’s face lit up as he told Marcus how impressed he was. When a roaming studio photographer happened by, he made a grand fuss about clearing everybody from the Napoleon portrait. “It makes for such an interesting backdrop, and it’s always best to pose in front of an engaging setting in case the photograph doesn’t turn out so flattering. You can at least deflect attention to what’s behind you.” He insisted the photographer take several shots of him with Marcus, declaring, “More takes, less worry!”
The fact that William Tell was remarkable was reward enough for Marcus, but being fussed over by such a titan of the industry left him almost giddy.
Chaplin moved on and Taggert pulled Marcus aside and pointed out L.B. Mayer. As per usual, L.B. was at the center of a Gordian knot of yes-men, hangers-on, and sycophants. Tonight’s orbiting cluster included his right-hand man, Eddie Mannix. Not usually much of a smiler, Mannix was grinning wider than a shore-leave sailor at a whorehouse on someone else’s dime.
“Walk past Mayer, but don’t approach him,” Taggert whispered. “You want your face to register. He’ll see you, he’ll recognize you, he’ll remember that you wrote this picture, then he’ll remember his promise. That’s not to say he’ll keep it, but the goal here is to connect your face with tonight’s success. Just walk past him a couple of times. Make it look like you’re going to fetch some of those apple donuts.” Marcus felt Taggert’s hands press against his back. “Ready, setty, GO!”
Marcus did his best to amble around some bejeweled and bedecked movie folk en route to the dessert table. When he spotted Mickey Rooney and Ava Gardner huddled near the Mayer brigade with Trevor and Melody, he headed for them.
It was Melody who saw him first, and she introduced him to Rooney and Gardner, then slapped him on the back with the strength of a Canadian lumberjack. Her eyes were already bloodshot. “Here’s the man we have to thank!”
During the shoot, Trevor had kept Marcus abreast of Melody’s on-set conduct. She’d started out well and managed to stay professional for most of the shoot. But toward the end, she’d started to blow lines and miss cues. It got so bad that the director, Mervyn LeRoy, elected to take a calming walk around the soundstage rather than blow up in front of the crew.
“That was one heck of a screenplay you wrote, mister,” Rooney exclaimed. “Wasn’t it, honey?”
Gardner nodded agreeably. “Not that I know much about that.”
Marcus hadn’t yet seen Rooney’s new wife in anything on the screen, but it was obvious that if she photographed as beautifully as she appeared in person, she could have a huge career ahead of her. In her strapless black silk gown, she was the most striking woman in the room. She flashed a mischievous grin. “But it’s not my opinion that matters. There’s only one person here whose approval means anything, and it looks like our illustrious Grand Poobah is trying to catch someone’s attention.”
When Marcus pointed to himself, Mannix nodded. Marcus arranged his face into a supplicatory smile.
“Adler, isn’t it?” Mannix asked as Marcus approached.
He nodded. “That’s right. Marcus Adler.”
Mayer extended his hand. “Congratulations on a job well done. You crafted a fine motion picture.”
It was a thorn in the paw of every screenwriter that Hollywood hierarchy pegged them to the bottom echelon of the studio food chain. It was almost as though they wanted to believe actors stood in front of the cameras and made up their lines as they went along, and the screenwriters simply took dictation. For someone like Mayer to go out of his way to publicly congratulate a lowly screenwriter was noteworthy.
“Thank you, sir.” Marcus could feel the eyes of every person in the room drilling his back. He scoured his mind for something clever to say, but Jim’s words came back to him: He’ll remember that you wrote this picture, then he’ll remember his promise. He bowed his head and took a few backward steps, then turned toward the Napoleon painting. His eyes landed on Alla, Kathryn, and Gwendolyn.
They were smiling and nodding. Jim stood next to them mouthing the word perfect, but then his smile dropped from his face like a trapdoor. Kathryn leaned closer to Gwendolyn, asking her a question. Before Marcus could do anything, a deep voice, gravelly and shaky, cut through the chatter.
“MURDERER!”
The hubbub in the room withered to a hush.
Edwin Marr, Hugo’s father, stood ten feet inside the theater’s front doors, glaring at Marcus like Lucifer himself. He was dressed in a tuxedo, but the fraying cuffs and faded satin lapels had seen cheerier days, and his walking stick, polished ebony with a golden grip, quivered under most of his weight. The man took another step or two and pointed with a finger gnarled with arthritis. “I know who you are,” he croaked, “and we both know what you did.”
The bystanders caught in Edwin’s crosshairs cleared a path between them.
“Mr. Marr, I don’t—”
“My son!” Edwin thundered. “My poor Hugo!”
Marcus risked a step or two closer to the old man, hoping to placate him. “I don’t know what it is you think I’ve done, but Hugo was my friend. I was with him that night—”
Every wrinkle etched into the man’s face deepened. “YOU DROVE HIM TO IT! I KNOW YOU DID!”
If anyone drove Hugo to suicide, it was you, Marcus thought. Edwin had made his own son feel he wasn’t good enough. And it was Edwin who got himself so badly in debt he was forced to spy on MGM. There may come a time and place to air that sort of dirty laundry, Marcus decided, but this isn’t it.
“Mr. Marr, I tried to stop Hugo.”
Marr raised his ebony cane. “BAH! You tried to turn my son against me. I know what you’re all about. I know what your type is like.”
My type? Marcus felt the heat of a blush spread across his face.
“Edwin.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Mayer break away from his pack. A whisper pulsed through the crowd.
“Edwin,” Mayer said again, now pointing a thumb toward Marcus, “at lunch the other day, is this who you were talking about?”
Edwin pressed his lips together as though breathing in through his mouth might cause his head to explode.
Mayer didn’t turn his head to look at Marcus, but instead slid his eyes to the right and studied him coolly.
Marcus sought out Kathryn’s face. She and Mayer had been dance partners for years. It was quite possible she knew him better than most of the people now gawking at them. Marcus threw her a What the hell is going on? look, but she shrugged helplessly.
“I may be an old has-been,” Edwin announced sourly, “but I know what I know.”
Marcus wanted to reach out and grab Hugo’s father by his shabby lapels and shake him until he confessed what he’d told Mayer, and then keep on shaking him until his scrawny old bones fell apart. But he stood nailed to the carpet, barely breathing, as he watched Nazimova march toward him with the dignified poise of a czarina.
She reached out and took his arm. “Clearly, the time for departure is at hand.” A creature of the theater, Alla Nazimova knew how to launch her voice so that it projected to all corners of the room. She used it now to ensure that every onlooker knew Marcus Adler was not alone. “Let us continue tonight’s celebrations elsewhere.”
The individual people around him had all melded into a single amorphous haze punctuated with diamonds and black bowties but no longer distinguishable from each other. The murmuring Rorschach inkblots parted, and Nazimova led Marcus toward the front doors. He didn’t blink until the biting October air slapped him in the face.
CHAPTER 14
Before Bullocks Wilshire opened for business each morning, the store filled with the chatter of its sales staff as they caught up with each other before stepping into their poised persona for the day. Every morning was a convivial review of their adventures among the cafés and nightclubs of a city flooded with dashing military uniforms, but when Gwendolyn clocked in on the first Monday in D
ecember, she sensed a solemn air. An entire year had passed since the attack on Pearl Harbor.
Once-complacent Americans now sat horrified in theaters watching March Of Time newsreels showing that the war in Europe wasn’t going well. The initial declarations of “Now that we’re in the fight, those Nazi bastards will be licked before you can say sauerkraut!” had been eaten away by nagging doubts. What if the British couldn’t hold out? Would the war jump from the Continent to Britain, then to Ireland? What if it crossed the Atlantic to Canada? What if we can’t fight off the Nazis like we bragged? People were starting to ask out loud the most horrifying conjecture of all: What if the Nazis win?
Monty had healed from his wounds, and was now back in Hawaii doing God only knew what. Gwendolyn posted a service star in her window to tell the world that she had a loved one fighting the enemy, but his letters were few, the details sparse. She decided she preferred it that way.
Meanwhile, she could barely believe she was selling nylon stockings on the black market. Nor could she believe the money she was making. Hocking Errol’s diamond choker produced the cash she needed to launch her clandestine side career and begin amassing seed money for her Chez Gwendolyn fund, which was really an old pillowcase she kept hidden away.
She sold two pairs from her first shipment to Kathryn, two more to someone who worked with Kathryn, a pair to Bertie Krueger, and two pairs to Mary Ford at the Hollywood Canteen, where Gwendolyn now volunteered twice a week. For an outlay of twelve dollars she’d made a sixteen-dollar profit and still had one pair left. It was the easiest money in the world!
But it also made her jumpy, especially at work. One whiff of her black-market dealings and she’d be shown the door. So when Mr. Dewberry called her name, Gwendolyn gaped at him with what she suspected were guilty eyes.
“Yes, sir?”
“You’ve done some modeling, haven’t you?”
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
He frowned, as though he was not entirely sure he believed her. “One of our VIPs wants to see some beachwear and has specifically requested you.”
Searchlights and Shadows (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 4) Page 9