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

by Martin Turnbull

  “I don’t want to lie to her,” he said. “But how do I explain why I left town so abruptly? She doesn’t need to know that our father railroaded me in the middle of the night because he caught me with the mayor’s son. Or that I never married because I prefer to be with other men. She’ll have a hundred questions and I’ll have no answers.” He watched as Benchley and Butterworth tried to coax Errol out of his chair, but they were waved away.

  Nazimova pointed to the last onion bulb she’d just planted. He watered it, then followed her to seats on the edge of the victory garden where they accepted cups of punch from Alla’s lover, Glesca. She was around Marcus’ age and possessed a wide-open face and an infectious laugh and could match any Gardenite drink for drink. She and Alla had been together for more than a dozen years now; Marcus liked her a lot.

  “Look at him,” Alla commanded Marcus.

  Errol was on his feet now. David Niven had succeeded where Benchley and his cohorts had failed. Errol and Niven had been notorious rascals, checking in and out of the Garden over the past decade while in between girlfriends, wives, affairs, houses, or contracts. Marcus was surprised to see Niven here now that he was married, but he seemed to have cheered Errol up. Errol was telling an animated story, something about Norway, the setting of his next movie.

  “I like Errol,” Alla said. “He’s handsome, talented, generous, very good-natured. However, he lives his life with too much dissipation. Burning the candle from both of the ends with no thought for tomorrow. No thought for consequences. These accusations he now must face, these are the consequences for a man who confuses love with sex.”

  Dorothy Parker’s punch was mainly vodka, infused with some sort of berry. Blueberry? Blackberry? Marcus wasn’t sure. “What does Errol have to do with me?”

  Nazimova tipped the rest of her punch into his cup. “You are not like him. You have a deep well of love inside you. You tried to give it to Ramon, but Hugo thwarted it for his own sad reasons. You are a kind, loving person. It would be a criminal shame if you did not share everything you are with your sister.”

  Marcus could feel a sheen of tears building up. “Even the nance bits?”

  She smiled slyly and took his hand in hers. “You are entitled to keep your private life private. You are not entitled to keep a loving sister from her brother. This you may not do.”

  Her eyes were filled with such playful mischief—Madame has spoken!—that Marcus couldn’t help but laugh. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and felt the bones beneath her shirt. When did she get so thin?

  “I have recently come to a conclusion,” she told him. “Life and love are the same thing, and we must say yes to both. Always.”

  CHAPTER 16

  When the Andrews Sisters launched into the opening notes of “Bei Mir Bist Du Schön,” Kathryn leaned into Marcus’ ear. “At a fundraiser for the USO, do you think maybe they could have opened with a song whose title wasn’t in German?”

  Marcus snorted into his martini.

  “I just think,” she continued, “maybe ‘Beat Me Daddy, Eight To The Bar’ may have been a better choice.”

  She lit a cigarette and looked around the nightclub Preston Sturges built next to the Chateau Marmont for entertaining his pals. He called it The Players and despite the gentleman’s club décor—dark blue-and-brown-checked wallpaper, green velvet drapes, models of sailing ships in glass-framed shadow boxes—it was the sort of joint a guy could take a girl on their first date. Classy enough to impress, but relaxed enough for having a good time without worrying about fancy manners.

  When Kathryn’s boss came up with the idea to hold a USO fundraiser, she cajoled her downstairs neighbor into soft-soaping his boss to donate The Players for the night. The arrangements were made within a week, and two weeks after that, there they all were. But Kathryn couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a hidden agenda at work somewhere in the crowded room.

  Earlier that week, Wilkerson’s wiry accountant, Ira Chalke, flagged her into his office like he was a member of the French Resistance and she’d just parachuted in behind enemy lines. She’d scoffed when he told her Wilkerson was going to make a fool of himself the night of the fundraiser and that she needed to thwart him, but she stopped scoffing when Chalke confided that Wilkerson’s expenses were already at $230,000, and it was only the third week of January. By “expenses,” Chalke meant “gambling,” and by “make a fool of himself,” he meant that the $50,000 check Wilkerson planned to present at the party would bounce. “The USO is a government entity,” Chalke reminded Kathryn, “and you don’t renege on Uncle Sam—especially not during wartime.”

  Kathryn spied the gold clock over the nightclub’s bar and realized it wouldn’t be long before Wilkerson made his speech, which was really just a prelude to the song-and-dance he intended to perform when presenting his whopper of a check. As the Andrews Sisters segued into “I’ll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time,” Kathryn scanned the room for her boss.

  “You’ve got your working face on,” Marcus commented. He’d pushed his glasses onto the top of his head, and now blinked drowsily at her.

  “You might want to slow down on the martinis,” she replied. “Aren’t you supposed to be writing up this clambake for the USO newspaper?”

  Frustrated at his being knocked back by the navy for poor eyesight, she’d been glad to see Marcus jump at the chance to do his bit for the war by joining a new organization, the Hollywood Writers Mobilization. Their job was to craft articles, pamphlets, and speeches that would bolster America’s efforts with the most flowery and overblown language they could muster. The group’s chairman, a Twentieth Century-Fox screenwriter named John Lawson Howard, had tasked Marcus with writing up glowing accounts of the USO’s efforts to heighten morale among the military. Kathryn thought much of it bordered on propaganda, but she could see that it satisfied her friend’s need to contribute. And besides, she told herself during her more jaded moments, what I do can be considered Hollywood propaganda, so who am I to judge?

  Kathryn watched Lana Turner make a big entrance amid a flurry of white fur. On one side was her new husband, Stephen Crane, and on the other stood Leo Presnell. Kathryn hadn’t seen him since that night at the Hollywood Canteen when he’d hinted she might be right for a role in a restructured Pepsodent Show. They’d gone ahead with the new format, but brought in a syndicated columnist from New York whose scratchy voice sounded like an out-of-tune violin. She was hardly God’s gift to radio.

  “Oh, for crying out loud, go find your boss! There’s Quentin Luckett,” Marcus said, jabbing the air with his Camel. “He’s with Trevor Bergin and Melody Hope, and if that blonde with her back to me is Veronica Lake, so much the better. I’ll be with them if you need me. Apparently there’s another bar thataway.” He jabbed the air in the opposite direction. “I’ll lay you twenty to one your Mr. Checkbook is in there.”

  * * *

  The bar at The Players was decorated with forest green curtains and crowded with leather sofas arranged for large parties of eight or more. Kathryn walked into it just as Greg Bautzer was leaving. Bautzer was Wilkerson’s lawyer, and as suave and savvy as Hollywood lawyers got.

  Kathryn nodded hello. “Have you seen my boss?”

  Bautzer pointed to a lone figure at the end of the bar.

  She drew alongside Wilkerson just as he was throwing back the last belt of his scotch. “Got a moment?”

  “Let’s talk after I’ve—”

  “I’ll walk with you.” She held her tongue for a few steps before she pounced. “Listen, boss, would I be right in guessing you plan on making an impressive donation tonight?” He eyed her as he pulled a sheet of paper from inside his tuxedo. “I’m here, as your most devoted staff member, to tell you I think that would be a mistake.”

  Wilkerson’s raised eyebrow told her to get the hell away.

  They were in the main room of the club now, skirting the perimeter toward the stage. She made a playful grab for his elbow. “Look at this place!
Lana Turner . . . Harry Cohn . . . I’m surprised there’s enough room for all these egos. And I’m sure they’ve come with their checkbooks ready to write out some big fat ones so people like me can report it in tomorrow’s edition.”

  “I’m sure they have, and I’m sure you will.” His face had taken on a steely look.

  “Let these big egos make their big public donations to the big worthy cause,” she said. “You don’t need to—”

  Wilkerson looked away from her. “I wouldn’t let any of my wives tell me what I can and cannot do with my money. What makes you think I’ll let you?” He’d never spoken to her so coldly before.

  “I’m sorry. You pay me to stick my nose into other people’s business. I guess I just assumed—”

  “OTHER people’s business.”

  Yeah, and now you pay me twenty percent less to do it. Kathryn wouldn’t have minded if the pay cuts were for the war effort, but now she felt like she was helping fund her boss’ gambling habit.

  Wilkerson sent her a withering sideways glance. “Now if you’re done telling me what I ought to be doing, I have a speech to give.”

  She watched him mount the stage, but couldn’t bear to watch her boss put his whole livelihood—not to mention hers—into such dire circumstances. She looked around for an escape.

  The south wall of The Players’ second floor was an enclosed balcony with waist-to-ceiling windows overlooking Sunset. Kathryn leaned against the glass pane, an unlit cigarette in hand, and watched the daisy chain of red taillights heading west. For ten o’clock on a Saturday night, traffic was light. Gasoline rationing made getting around town easier for those with enough coupons.

  She’d never seen her boss so defensive before. He had the desperate look of a bank robber who’d gone too far to turn back. The gun was in the air and everyone was facedown on the floor. She tapped the end of her cigarette against the glass with a steady beat. He’s entitled to detonate his own career—but not mine.

  A roar of applause and exclamations of “Bravo!” surged from the main room onto the balcony. Clearly, Ol’ Moneybags had just made his announcement. She puckered up her lips and kissed her career goodbye.

  “It’s not going to light itself.” Leo Presnell held up a gold lighter, his thumb on the trigger.

  “Oh, hello.” Kathryn tried to cover her embarrassment—Did he see me do that?—by holding out her cigarette toward him. “I caught your big entrance with Lana.”

  He cracked a smile that showed off his teeth, baking-soda white against a Palm Springs tennis tan. “You’re the only one who did. When you walk in with Lana Turner, you’re rendered invisible.” He lit both their cigarettes and pocketed the lighter. Together, they watched the traffic below them. “Last time we talked, I asked if you’d be interested in a slot on The Pepsodent Show.”

  “You were called away to the telephone before I could give you my answer.”

  “What would it have been?”

  “That’s a moot point, isn’t it?” She kept her eyes on the traffic. “You went out and found what’s-her-name from New York.”

  He groaned. “She was a mistake.”

  “But only if you want to put her on the radio.” She faked a sympathetic shudder. “That voice of hers. Ouch!”

  “I won’t be making that mistake again.”

  “But aren’t you stuck with her?”

  “Fortunately, no. We only signed her to a three-month provisional contract.”

  “And when is that up?”

  “End of this month.” The glossy smile was gone now; a slicker version was in its place. Less teeth, more oil. “So? Interested? Available? Should I be speaking with your boss?”

  “No!” Kathryn blurted out. That was the last thing she wanted. “I’m quite capable of making my own decisions.”

  “Glad to hear it. Did I mention the pay is a hundred?”

  “Per week?” With an extra hundred bucks in her pocket, Kathryn would barely notice the pay cut she’d been forced to take. A cluster of three couples burst onto the balcony, mid laugh. They lined up along the window overlooking the Strip while one of the men filled their glasses from a magnum of champagne. Kathryn wished she had one of those glasses; she licked her dry lips.

  Presnell lowered his face until his mouth was close enough for her to feel his warm breath. “Did you know there is a secret passageway from this place over to the Chateau Marmont?”

  “No, I did not.” I should have, though. Her closed-lipped mother was the head telephone operator at the Marmont.

  “Sturges had it built so his guests could come and go without prying public eyes.”

  “How very cloak-and-dagger of him.”

  “I was thinking we might use it. I booked a suite over there.”

  As Presnell’s meaning sank in, Kathryn pulled back, looking at him from the corner of her eyes. She’d have found his knowing smile attractive in a different set of circumstances.

  “We’re both adults, aren’t we?” he said. “Unattached. Capable of making our own decisions.”

  It was the way he threw her own words up at her that made Kathryn’s stomach lurch. She wanted to laugh out loud. First Marcus, and now me? Since when does the casting couch extend to screenwriters and columnists?

  For a fleeting moment, Kathryn might have said yes. After all, this Presnell guy was really quite debonair in a way that held a considerable measure of appeal. He certainly looked like he knew his way around a hotel bed. She told herself she ought to be flattered—and hell, a hundred bucks was a hundred bucks. But then she thought of Marcus, what he’d been through with William Tell and that unctuous casting director, Floyd Forrester, and how he had to deal with a reputation he hadn’t earned. Suddenly, Mr. Pepsodent didn’t look quite so appealing.

  “Thank you for the light.” She left him standing in his expensive tux and slick smile and went back inside.

  Marcus was sitting by himself at their table nursing a fresh drink. “What happened to Veronica Lake?”

  “They had some Paramount soirée to go to. Billy Wilder’s birthday or something.”

  She dropped into her seat and stole a mouthful of his martini. “Did you know there’s a secret tunnel between here and the Marmont?”

  “No. Is that where you’ve been?”

  “I just found out about it. I’m surprised my mother never mentioned it.”

  “There are a lot of things your mother never mentioned.” He turned toward the doorway out to the balcony to see what Kathryn was eyeing. “What is it?”

  “Tell me. Were you ever tempted to say yes to that guy from casting?”

  Marcus nearly choked on his martini. “You wouldn’t be asking me that if you met him. Why? Jesus, don’t tell me Floyd Forrester’s out there on the balcony!”

  “No, but I suspect a Floyd Forrester by any other name is still a Floyd Forrester.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Charles Laughton couldn’t croon like Bing Crosby or dance like Fred Astaire, nor could he clown like Donald O’Connor, but he wanted desperately to entertain the servicemen at the Hollywood Canteen. “How about I recite the Gettysburg Address?”

  Bette doubted it was enough to hold the attention of the Canteen’s raucous crowd, but she hadn’t counted on Laughton’s ability to fill a room with the majesty of his voice. Every time he took the stage and recited Lincoln’s speech, the attention of three hundred servicemen turned to him, and him alone. He never failed to bring down the house.

  By the beginning of 1943, Gwendolyn had heard Laughton perform it enough times to know when to slip her shoes back on.

  She wasn’t supposed to take them off at all. On their first night, the volunteers were handed a copy of the Canteen Hostess Rulebook. None of the rules were unreasonable, and all were geared toward leaving the servicemen with a perfect memory of an unforgettable night; pretty girls without their shoes on was not what management had in mind.

  But her shoes—black leather pumps with a Cuban heel—were brand new, and after two un
interrupted hours of dancing were no longer as comfy as they’d been at the May Company shoe department. She nudged the hostess next to her, a petite redhead from Paramount Gwendolyn thought was cute enough to be on camera instead of stuck in the typing pool.

  “This is our shoe cue.”

  The redhead ducked behind Gwendolyn and reshod her swollen feet. “I’m happy to dance to dawn for these boys,” she said, “but gosh, oh my, it’d be easier on the tootsies if we could get decent nylons. I suppose you get yours at Bullocks?”

  Gwendolyn had three pairs of stockings in her purse, but she’d just met this girl and Gwendolyn couldn’t remember her name. Arlene? Doreen? Maureen? You’re not always going to be as lucky as you were with Mrs. O’Roarke.

  It turned out the customer who’d handed Gwendolyn that note was married to Clem O’Roarke, head of security at Warners, which meant she wasn’t breaking Lester’s golden rule: Never sell to someone you can’t track down. It also didn’t hurt that Mrs. O’Roarke ordered twelve pairs at four dollars each without balking at the price tag. Then Mrs. O’Roarke started volunteering at the Canteen, making things as convenient as they were lucrative.

  When Gwendolyn declared to Kathryn that making money this way was so easy it was criminal, Kathryn reminded her that it was criminal. If it had been tougher to pull off, Gwendolyn might not have stayed in business, but a 325% markup was too hard to walk away from.

  Gwendolyn nodded to Arlene-Doreen-Maureen and let her think she got her nylons at work. Technically, it was true—she just didn’t buy them there.

  When the house band jumped into a lively version of “He’s 1-A In The Army And He’s A-1 In My Heart,” Gwendolyn hunted through the throng. She was still getting used to the integrated crowd at the Canteen. On the day it opened, Bette declared that if colored men were good enough to fight for Uncle Sam, they were certainly welcome at the Hollywood Canteen—no separate doors, no separate bathrooms or drinking fountains. It was the first time in Los Angeles that a prominent gathering spot had declared a policy of complete racial integration. It caused a small wave at the time, but people had come to accept it as part of the Canteen’s charm.