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

by Martin Turnbull

  Marcus nodded. “It’s just that I’ve seen your report on my script and I don’t—that is, it came as a shock to—what I came here to say—”

  “You really shouldn’t be here.” Trenton’s voice was firm, but his eyes were smiling. “We ought not be having this conversation at all, especially not four doors down from where I work.”

  “I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Trenton. But it’s important—”

  “How about we discuss this over drinks?”

  “You mean—now?

  “I know this place, a bar. Low lighting, very private. Perfect for—” he looked Marcus up and down, “—our purposes.”

  “Sure,” Marcus replied, more wary now. “Does it have a name?”

  A smirk emerged, subtle but unambiguous, canny but not hostile. “It’s called the Garden of Allah.”

  * * *

  As Marcus approached the bar in the Sahara Room, he noticed two of Seamus’ Glenfiddich bottles were missing. “Tell me it’s good news.”

  Seamus shook his head. “Tunisia and Guadalcanal.”

  For the last couple of months, the war department had been touring a group of Guadalcanal survivors. At the Hollywood Writers Mobilization, Marcus had been asked to write a speech aimed at keeping up morale and reminding a wearying public that the need for war bonds was greater than ever. “I hear Guadalcanal was hell.”

  Seamus picked up an empty bottle of Glenfiddich. “Gone but not forgotten. What can I get you?”

  “I’m meeting someone here, so I should probably—”

  Seamus jutted his chin toward the door.

  Oliver Trenton was making his way around the empty tables toward Marcus, that knowing smile still etched on his face.

  “Four Roses okay?” Marcus asked. Trenton nodded.

  Drinks in hand, they retreated to Marcus’ favorite circular booth in the far corner where the murky light barely reached. Trenton slid in next to Marcus, closer than Marcus would have liked.

  “I find it very interesting that you should pick this particular bar,” he said.

  Trenton nodded but said nothing.

  Marcus swirled the liquor in his glass without breaking Trenton’s stare. “You know I live here, don’t you.” What started out as a question ended up a statement.

  Trenton blinked a slow, deliberate blink, as though to prove a point. “You have issues with my notes on your movie?”

  Now that he had a couple of belts of Four Roses in him and was out of the bitter wind in a softly lit bar with a not-unattractive guy, Marcus felt suddenly self-conscious about the point he wanted to make. “I know this is going to sound ridiculously irrelevant now that the movie’s out, but I saw your notes and they got me all bent out of shape.”

  Trenton seemed to take Marcus quite seriously. “And why is that?”

  “All that business about my script being full of un-American influences. I assume it was the word proletariat that tied you up in knots? Well, it isn’t the sole domain of Bolsheviks, you know. It means any working-class people.”

  “I know what proletariat means,” Trenton said. “But here’s the thing: We’re not allowed to pass a script—any script from any studio—with no notes. Breen has decreed that we must find something wrong, declare something needs to be fixed.”

  Marcus had long suspected that the sort of censorship the Breen Office exercised over the studios was a game. A high-stakes game, but just a game, nonetheless. “Every single script, huh?”

  Trenton’s smile turned self-deprecating. “How else could we justify our existence?”

  Marcus gestured to Seamus for another round and pulled a fresh pack of Chesterfields out of his jacket pocket. He offered one to Trenton, who declined. He lit up. “Yeah, well, the reason this whole thing sent me into a spin is that Mr. Mayer now thinks I’m a pinko. Not just from your notes on William Tell, but you didn’t help.”

  “It’s not illegal to be a Communist,” Trenton said calmly.

  “No, but we’re fighting a world war against the forces of Fascism and Socialism, and in the minds of the powers that be, Communists are their kissing cousins. There are those who say the next war we fight will be against Communism. Who knows if that’s true or not, but—”

  “I hope you don’t think I deliberately set out to sabotage your career.”

  Trenton’s sincerity momentarily derailed Marcus’ rant. For a long moment, the two men stared into each other’s eyes. “No, I guess I don’t,” Marcus hedged, “but nevertheless, the hot water your notes got me into—”

  “I had to write something.” Trenton started drumming the wooden table top with a fingernail.

  “You—what?”

  The nervous tapping continued for a few seconds, then stopped abruptly. “You wrote one of the best scripts ever to come across my desk. The action, the love story, the triumph over the villain—it was all there. But I have rules to follow. I had to return your script with something. While we’re at war, Hollywood movies need to wave the flag and beat the drum. They need to ignite patriotism. I was hard pressed to pick out any faults so I simply went with the obvious. We give our bosses what they want to see. I added those notes and sent it down the pipeline. But,” he added with a smile and pointed finger, “it was tough to find fault with what you’d written. I mean that as a huge compliment.”

  The guy’s smile was so disarming that Marcus found it impossible to dismiss.

  “In case there are any lingering doubts,” Trenton continued, “allow me to reiterate: if I had any idea my notes would land you in a jam, I’d have tried harder to come up with something else. However, I freely admit that I’m glad they got you so indignant that you came after me.”

  In the fifteen years Marcus had lived in Hollywood, he’d heard, witnessed, and used all sorts of pickup lines, but this was a first. “You are?”

  “The studios provide us with a list of every writer who contributed to a script, no matter how slight their involvement. It’s gotten so I can tell when a Marcus Adler lands on my desk; I don’t even need to consult the submission. You are very good at what you do, Mr. Adler, so I got curious about you.”

  “What’ve you been doing? Following me around?” Marcus tried to laugh off his question. He feared he only partially succeeded.

  “I was there at Ciro’s the night Judy Garland made her debut. You were at the bar talking with George Cukor.”

  That was the night the inspiration for Pearl From Pearl Harbor hit Marcus like a battering ram. Roy Rogers could have been four feet away sitting atop Trigger and Marcus wouldn’t have noticed.

  “Ciro’s was just a coincidence,” Trenton went on, “but I hoped you’d be at The Wizard Of Oz premiere, so I wrangled a ticket. I was rather disappointed when you and Ramon Novarro snuck out after the movie started.”

  “You saw that, huh?”

  “You and Ramon still have a thing going on?”

  “Mr. Trenton—”

  “Call me Oliver. May I call you Marcus?”

  Marcus doubted the propriety of being on first-name terms with someone from the Breen Office—otherwise known as ‘the enemy’ to all studio personnel. But we passed the point of propriety the moment he asked me to meet him for a drink. Marcus stubbed out his cigarette. “That white elephant has been dead for quite some time.”

  “Ah!” Oliver clasped his hands together like a contemplative monk in prayer. A brief silence settled over them until he asked, “Does Mayer really think you’re a pinko?”

  “Evidently, but you’re only partially responsible, so don’t beat yourself up too much.”

  “Nevertheless, I’d like to make it up to you.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  Oliver cocked his head to one side. “I was thinking we could start with going back to your place.”

  Under the table, Marcus felt the heat of Oliver’s hand sliding onto his thigh.

  The day of Hugo’s funeral, Kathryn told Marcus that he looked “different somehow, more open.” He didn�
�t pay her much attention at the time. When he described the encounter with Quentin Luckett, her only comment was “See what I mean?” He’d shrugged that off, too, and thought no more about it. But now this guy was making his feelings very clear, and Marcus knew it was time he conceded her point.

  “It’s taking all of my will power not to lean over and kiss the cotton-pickin’ dickens out of you,” Oliver whispered. “You make my hands clammy, my knees weak, and my heart palpitate.”

  Until that moment, Marcus hadn’t noticed what was playing on Seamus’ radio. It was The Abbott And Costello Show, and just as Oliver finished his speech, the audience burst into applause. Thunderous, enthusiastic, unrestrained applause.

  CHAPTER 20

  Gwendolyn walked into the living room. “Zip me?”

  Kathryn blew on her fresh nail polish. “Not till these babies are dry.” She pointed to the newspaper on their kitchen table. “Did you see this?”

  The Times screamed the same headline every newspaper in the country carried that day: ROOSEVELT FREEZES ALL WAGES, SALARIES AND PRICES FOR DURATION OF WAR.

  Gwendolyn nodded. “It’s not like a salary increase was in my future.” She’d been supervisor at Bullocks for a couple of months now. It was a shame that a raise hadn’t come with the promotion, but it would have been nice to get a little something in before Roosevelt froze everything like a New England snowstorm.

  Kathryn tilted her nails toward the kitchen light to see if they were dry, then motioned for Gwendolyn to turn around. “I don’t think the president’s power extends to the black market.”

  “Yes. About that.” Gwendolyn slipped on her shoes, whose soles were appallingly scuffed from dancing at the Hollywood Canteen.

  “About what?” Kathryn stood up to thread a narrow black belt through the fancy version of a shirtwaist dress Gwendolyn made for her.

  “The guy who supplies me, his number came up. Hello, army, goodbye, Lester.”

  “So that’s the end of that, huh?”

  “Unless you know a supplier.”

  “I have to say, I’ve been very impressed how you’ve handled it all.”

  “Turns out I have a head for numbers,” Gwendolyn declared with a laugh. She started straightening up the mess of newspapers on the table.

  “Do you have enough to open Chez Gwendolyn?”

  Gwendolyn looked out the kitchen window for Monty, who would be coming down the path from the main building. To the left, she could see Marcus and Nazimova kneeling in the victory garden, pulling weeds and making each other laugh. The latest crop of cabbages, carrots, and string beans were starting to ripen, and it would be tomato-planting season soon.

  Marcus had been so happy lately—almost glowing. Gwendolyn asked him about it during a particularly raucous farewell party for Dorothy Parker, who was heading back East with her husband. Gwendolyn hoped Marcus would confess, but he just shrugged.

  “I’m not even close,” she told Kathryn. “Maybe half of what I’ll need.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  She shrugged. “Beats me. I do hope Monty isn’t late. Last week I saw Bette Davis bawl out that sweet little blonde from Technicolor. The poor thing left in tears.”

  Gwendolyn tried not to think of what lay ahead for her brother now that the navy doctors had deemed him fit for combat. Time with him was more precious than diamonds now, and she was determined that his last night in Los Angeles would be fun—even if they had to start it at the Hollywood Canteen.

  Kathryn and Gwendolyn were rarely rostered for duty on the same night, and it was a shame it had to be Monty’s final one. Failing to show up was a big no-no, but they figured they’d take Monty along, do their shift, then head out to a lively nightspot and give him an evening to remember.

  When a knock sounded on the door, Gwendolyn pulled it open. “You ready for a—?”

  The man standing in front of her was not Monty.

  He was in his mid to late thirties, and dark where Monty was fair. With black hair, pale skin, and blue eyes set deep under thick eyebrows, he had a narrow face that ended in a dimpled chin. He was as tall as Monty, but slimmer in the hips and more slightly built.

  He looked past her to Kathryn, then back to Gwendolyn. “I’m Lincoln Tattler.” He announced his name with such authority that Gwendolyn felt a little foolish for staring at him so blankly. “This is villa number twelve, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m here for Gwendolyn Brick.”

  Gwendolyn peered over her shoulder to Kathryn, who shrugged. She turned back for a second assessment. In his expensive tuxedo and air of assured confidence, the handsome man didn’t give off the air of a con artist.

  “That’s me. But—”

  “I’m here to pick you up? For our date? Today’s Thursday, right?”

  “Mister—?”

  “Tattler. Lincoln Tattler.”

  “Mister Tattler, I fear you’re the victim of a practical joke. I can assure you we’ve never made any arrangement for a date.”

  “We didn’t,” he agreed. “It was set up through Leilah O’Roarke.”

  “Leilah O’Roarke?” The outburst came from Kathryn.

  Tattler glanced down at his patent leather shoes that were polished to such a high sheen that they reflected the purple dusk of the sky. “This is awkward.” He looked up. “She assured me she’d fix everything and all I had to do was knock on your door at the appointed hour.” He looked Gwendolyn up and down, taking in her outfit with appreciation. “Seeing as how you’re already dressed, perhaps we shouldn’t waste a perfectly lovely evening?”

  Monty’s face appeared over Tattler’s right shoulder, frowning but bemused.

  Gwendolyn turned to the stranger. “Lincoln Tattler, this is Montgomery Brick.”

  Tattler’s eyebrows bunched together. “Brick? You’re married?”

  “Monty’s my brother. He’s shipping out tomorrow.”

  Monty took in the expensive tux. “You Kathryn’s date tonight?”

  Tattler shook his head. “You obviously have a night planned, so I’ll bid you all good evening.” He stepped back to leave.

  “We could do with a fourth,” Monty said. “Why not join us?”

  If Gwendolyn could have pulled Monty aside discreetly and told him, Because we don’t know who the blazes this guy is, she would have. Instead, she explained that they were off to a shift at the Hollywood Canteen before moving on to one of the nightclubs, and pointed out that only servicemen in uniform were allowed in.

  “What if I volunteer?” Tattler suggested.

  “You’d be bussing tables and washing glasses,” Gwendolyn told him. “In a monkey suit like that? I don’t think so.”

  “If I take off the jacket and tie, I’ll just be a monkey in a white shirt and black pants.”

  Gwendolyn doubted this Ivy Leaguer would know how to bus a table if his sanity depended on it. She could tell Kathryn was thinking the same thing. “It can be messy work,” she warned.

  “They give you an apron, don’t they?”

  * * *

  Backed by the Benny Goodman orchestra, June Allyson and Gloria DeHaven were bringing their rendition of “Is You Is Or Is You Ain’t My Baby” to an energetic close when Kathryn and Gwendolyn walked in the Canteen’s volunteer entrance. The audience whooped and hollered until the electrified hurricane lamps dangling from the wagon wheels overhead shook.

  “Is it always like this?” Tattler shouted into Gwendolyn’s ear.

  “Sometimes it gets crazy.”

  The supervisor was relieved to see a new busser. “It’s a good thing you’re tall, fella. You’ll need all that height to lift trays over everybody’s heads.”

  “Not quite the night you had planned, huh?” Gwendolyn said.

  When Tattler smiled, he looked like Tyrone Power. “I’m only sorry I didn’t think to volunteer here sooner. I assumed they only needed pretty girls to dance with starstruck boys. I was thinking we might all go to the Mocambo, but if
you’re about to spend the next hours dancing, perhaps—”

  “How come you’re not in uniform?” Gwendolyn hadn’t intended the question to pop out of her like a torpedo—she knew how sensitive Marcus was about it—but it had been on her mind the whole drive over.

  He tied the strings of the apron around his waist. “I would like nothing more than to do my bit, but—to quote the army doctor verbatim—I have ‘the flattest feet this side of a flat-footed Boobie bird.’ I told them I was willing to take the risk, but they showed me the door.”

  He hadn’t looked her in the eye the whole time he was telling her this. It was time to change the subject.

  “How do you know Mrs. O’Roarke?”

  “Leilah?” The Tyrone Power smile was back. “My dad and her husband have been pals since college. Even before he became a cop.”

  “A COP?” Gwendolyn knew Leilah’s husband headed up security at Warners, but this cop business was news to her. She felt her armpits go damp.

  Tattler hoisted a tray onto his shoulder. “I can see the plates and cups piling up.”

  Gwendolyn watched him plunge into the churning sea of eager servicemen and smiling girls as she mulled over this new nugget. Surely Mrs. O’Roarke knew Gwendolyn’s merchandise was black market. But had she told her husband?

  It wasn’t until Gwendolyn was halfway through a dance with a beanpole sailor from Racine, Wisconsin, that it occurred to her that whether or not Leilah O’Roarke had told her husband about Gwendolyn, she hadn’t been arrested. Still, she’d been closer to the law than she realized, so maybe it wasn’t an altogether bad thing that she was getting out of the black-market game.

  * * *

  It was ten o’clock before Gwendolyn took a break. By that time, she’d danced for two straight hours with every type of serviceman, from the terminally clumsy to the Astairean graceful. Whatever their skill level, these brave boys did their best and Gwendolyn loved them for it.

  But there was a limit, and she needed a few minutes off her feet. Before another hopeful private or midshipman could catch her eye, she sneaked down the back and into the Canteen’s office, which had a little space to the side where girls could take a break.