“Exactly.”
“I tip my hat to you, Mr. Trenton. What you’re doing is gloriously subversive.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Oliver responded.
“I would!” Orson stepped forward to slap Oliver on the back. He executed it with such oomph that Oliver had to catch himself from staggering forward. “All the more reason to celebrate with my Hemingway daiquiri punch!”
Marcus pointed Welles toward his mirrored cocktail cart, then started to pull glassware from his kitchen cabinet. He felt Kathryn slink to his side and nudge him with her hip.
“You little dark horse, you.” They watched Agnes Moorhead and Nazimova lead Oliver out to the courtyard outside Marcus’ front door, where Orson had pulled the cocktail cart. “Are you happy?” Kathryn asked. “Is he treating you well?”
“Very and very,” Marcus replied. He handed her six glasses and said he’d follow her in a moment.
As she left, Oliver poked his head through the doorway. “I told them about your cake and they want to know how long it’ll be.”
Marcus curled a finger, commanding Oliver to join him in the kitchen. The light outside had faded into a deep dusk; shadows now fell across the sharp angles of his face. “How long have you been rehearsing that speech?”
“Since that day at the Atlanta railway station.”
Marcus frowned. “I’ve never been to Atlanta.”
“The one they built for Gone With The Wind.”
Two years ago, Marcus volunteered as an extra on the day they shot the scene where Scarlett O’Hara picks her way through hundreds of wounded Civil War soldiers outside the Atlanta railway station. “You were there?”
“A buddy of mine was supposed to do it but he fell ill. He really needed the cash, so I did it for him. That was the first time I ever saw you. I know how screenwriters feel about the Breen Office, so I figured I’d better have my argument in my back pocket.”
Marcus wasn’t sure how he felt about this revelation. Flattered? Wary? “The Voltaire touch was very good.”
Oliver started playing with the strings on Marcus’ swimming trunks. “I hope your friends like me.”
Marcus brushed his fingers up Oliver’s arms. “You took a risk, but I think you’ve pulled it off.”
“I’d hate to be the cause of any rift between you and—”
Marcus pressed his thumb against Oliver’s lips. “How about we save the drama for the screen? I say let’s cross bridges when we come to them. For now, all I’m really concerned about is that dubious bowl of gelatinous muck fermenting in my oven.”
The air smelled of burning raisins. “You want me to take a gander?”
“No. My war cake, my responsibility.”
“How about we chance it together?”
“I’m warning you, Mr. Trenton, this could get scary.”
Oliver grabbed Marcus’ hand. “I’ll take my chances.”
CHAPTER 22
From her center aisle seat halfway to the stage of NBC Radio’s Studio D, Kathryn looked across a sea of hats awaiting the Kraft Music Hall broadcast to commence. “It’s seven thirty,” she muttered. “Cutting it a bit fine, aren’t they?”
Marcus shrugged. “This is my first time at a broadcast.”
“They’re usually on stage by now,” Francine said. “Except for the stars.”
After Kathryn decided her mother’s opium story was too hard to swallow, she’d hired a private eye to go through the society columns of old Boston newspapers for mention of a Francine Caldecott making her debut in 1908. He did find a listing, which punched a hole in Kathryn’s baloney theory, but not a big one. She decided to include Francine in her life more, and hoped to spot opportunities to dig a little deeper.
Four microphones were evenly spaced at the front of the stage and the orchestra’s seats were arranged at the rear. The sound effects guy’s assortment of contraptions was laid out on a table to the right: brass triangle, coconut shells, miniature slamming door, kazoo.
Francine pointed out a trio of men huddled at the far left, talking over one another in forced whispers. “They don’t look happy.”
A teenage usher in a gold and purple uniform strolled past Kathryn and she flagged him down, betting that he was so wet behind the ears that he didn’t know the rules yet. “I’m Kathryn Massey of the Hollywood Reporter. I’m here to cover Melody Hope’s radio debut for a series of articles I’m writing on radio’s contribution to the war effort.” She let her credentials sink in. “I can’t help noticing that nobody’s on stage yet except for those three gentlemen.” She could feel hesitation radiating off him. The series was still only an idea, and Melody’s radio debut was just a cover story; her real motive was to see Anita Wyndham. “Is something amiss?” she pressed.
The usher’s ambivalence endured only a few seconds longer. “We go live to air in thirty minutes, but half the musicians haven’t arrived yet. And there ain’t no sign of Miss Hope. There was talk of opening with Anita Wyndham’s gossip spot, but she hasn’t turned up, either.”
When Kathryn turned down Presnell’s shady offer, it was because she had a keen sense that it would come back to bite her on the behind. Why risk something like that leaking out when there were so many other radio shows?
Anita Wyndham was a nationally syndicated columnist in magazines like Ladies’ Home Journal and Collier’s. She’d scaled the mountain Kathryn was only just starting to tackle, so Kathryn had decided she needed to see Wyndham in action for herself.
The situation at work lately had been less than encouraging. The layoffs and pay cuts had made Kathryn realize she’d put all her professional eggs in a basket that was showing signs of breaking. She had no intention of leaving the Reporter, but what if the Reporter collapsed under the weight of Wilkerson’s colossal gambling debts? She needed a backup plan, and a regular radio spot was the perfect solution.
“Why is everybody so late?” she asked the usher.
“There’s a fire at Ciro’s.”
Kathryn pinched the boy’s lapel and pulled him closer so nobody else would hear. “Did you say Ciro’s?”
“It just came over the wire. Miss Wyndham lives in Brentwood, which puts the fire between her house and here.”
Kathryn let his lapel go and read his nameplate. “Thank you, Sonny.” The boy tugged at his cap and retreated down the aisle. Kathryn turned to Marcus and kept her voice low while she pulled on her gloves. “Ciro’s is on fire.”
“Literally?!”
“I should hightail it down there on the double.”
“You could. Or . . .”
Kathryn took stock of Marcus’ crafty smile. “Or what?”
“Or we could talk our way backstage, where you could find a telephone and call Gwennie.”
“You cunning little so-and-so.” She leaned across to Francine. “Mother, could you mind our seats?”
* * *
When Kathryn instructed the security guard to tell the show’s producer that she had a solution to his crisis, the doors flew open like she was Ali Baba. A harried man with an intense scowl came running toward her. “I’m Wallace Reed, the producer,” he said.
Within moments, Reed was pulling her along a corridor lined with photos of NBC radio stars that flew past her in a blur. He ushered her into his office and pointed out the telephone. Kathryn called the Garden of Allah and asked the operator to put her through.
Like most attractive, single women living in Los Angeles during wartime, Gwendolyn had more dates than she knew what to do with. Servicemen were constantly stopping her—on the street, at the movies, in stores. She said yes more often than not, so it was no sure thing she’d be home. Kathryn was relieved when Gwendolyn picked up.
In very few words, Kathryn told her friend to dash up Sunset, see what was going on, and call her from the apartments across the street. She hung up and turned to Marcus. “If it takes her four minutes to run to Ciro’s, three minutes to take stock of the situation, two minutes to find a phone in the Sunset To
wer’s foyer, that’s eight minutes, which gives us six minutes to spare.”
That was an awful lot of ifs. At the very least, she’d come to the attention of the Kraft Music Hall’s producer, and that was no small thing.
“Gangway! Gangway! She’s here!”
“That sounded like Bertie Kreuger,” Marcus said.
They peered into the corridor to see Bertie and Melody dodging personnel and equipment. Bertie was in her usual getup: an ill-fitting dress that highlighted her wide hips and bulky arms. Beside her was Melody, awash in black chiffon. Bertie spotted them and waved with the anguish of a drowning person.
When they drew up alongside them, Bertie gasped, “Where can I hide her?”
Melody’s head slumped onto Kathryn’s shoulder and she let out a ferocious belch. “’Skuze me.”
Kathryn guided them into chairs along a wall in Reed’s office while Marcus scurried away in search of coffee.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Bertie, gesturing toward the chair, “I give you America’s wartime sweetheart.”
As a way to compete with Betty Grable’s skyrocketing pinup fame, MGM’s publicity machine had labeled Melody “America’s Wartime Sweetheart” after she scored a huge hit with a musical called Singing On The Swing Shift, in which she played an aircraft factory worker who falls for Gene Kelly’s ace pilot.
“Why is America’s wartime sweetheart smashed to the gills?” Kathryn asked.
“Because she’s a mess,” Bertie retorted, “and getting messier by the day.”
Slumped in her chair like a sack of soggy potatoes, Melody peered at Kathryn through eyes hazy with booze. “She’s right. Just call me Messy Bessie.”
Kathryn glanced at the clock above the wartime sweetheart’s head. Nearly six minutes had passed since she hung up on Gwendolyn. She pulled Bertie closer to the door. “What gives?”
“She’s a nervous wreck. She’s never performed live before; they haven’t even rehearsed the number together. Not to mention the fact that Bing Crosby is a perfectionist. A sip or two of Dutch courage led to several shots, and here we are.”
Marcus burst into the room holding a tray. “COFFEE!” He handed one to each of the girls, then sat down beside Melody and guided her hands around the cup.
The telephone jangled. Kathryn reached it in two paces. “Gwennie?”
“Oh my goodness, it’s pandemonium!” Gwendolyn’s voice was shaky and out of breath. “Traffic is blocked in all directions.”
“What about Ciro’s? Is it bad?”
“Bad enough for four fire trucks and at least nine police cars. The smoke is awful!”
Kathryn rustled through the producer’s desk drawers until she had enough paper and pencils to make all the notes she needed. She thanked Gwendolyn and hung up, then turned to Bertie. “What song are they singing tonight?”
“That lovey-dovey duet from Oklahoma.”
Marcus looked up. “‘People Will Say We’re In Love’?”
“Yeah,” Bertie said, “that’s the one.”
“How well do you know it?” Kathryn asked Marcus.
“I pretty much know it backwards.”
Kathryn cupped Melody’s chin with her left hand and lifted her face up. “Honey,” she said softly, “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“This.” Kathryn walloped the side of Melody’s face with the most brutal smack she could muster.
“WHAT THE—?” Melody’s big brown eyes snapped into focus.
Kathryn would have preferred that the producer not choose that particular moment to march into his office, but suddenly he was standing next to her.
“Miss Hope!” Reed exclaimed. “Nobody told me you’d arrived—” He caught sight of the wild look on Melody’s face. “Is everything all right? We’re five minutes to air—”
“Mr. Reed,” Kathryn said, picking up her notes. “I have all the information I need to give your show a breaking-news-as-it-happens report on the fire at Ciro’s. Perhaps if I throw in some Hollywood tidbits from tomorrow’s column, more musicians will have arrived to give Mr. Crosby and Miss Hope enough of an orchestra to get by.”
The producer shifted his gaze from Kathryn to Melody and hesitated, knowing he’d walked into something, but they were mere minutes to air.
“Miss Hope, please remain here until I send an usher to collect you.” He turned to Kathryn. “The orchestra is going to do an extra-long introduction, then Bing and the bandleader will do some shtick they’re working up about his new movie, Dixie. I need you on stage and ready to go in one minute.”
When Reed left the room, Marcus followed him to the doorway and signaled to the women when he was out of earshot.
“Melody, I—” Kathryn started, but the girl stopped her.
“I’m close enough to sober to get the job done. Let’s hope so, anyway. Marcus, could you hunt around for the sheet music?”
Kathryn picked up her handbag. She’d spent months thinking about how she might bring about her radio debut, but hadn’t put much thought into how she would feel when it actually arrived. She squeezed her kid gloves until her knuckles were white.
“Anita Wyndham’s here,” Marcus cut in from the doorway.
Kathryn threw her gloves onto the desk. “Just when I—OOOO!”
“Anita Wyndham?” Bertie asked. “What’s she got to do with any of this?”
“She’s the resident gossip columnist on this show,” Marcus explained. “We’re here because she hadn’t shown up and we saw a chance for Kathryn to show what she can do on the air.”
Bertie smirked. “You need me to head her off at the pass?”
“That wouldn’t be ethical.”
“It’s not what I asked. We’re both on the committee for this big fundraising shindig we’re organizing for the Women’s Army Corps. We locked horns, and I ended up battering her with my pocketbook.”
“She’s sixty feet away,” Marcus reported.
“The minute she spots me,” Bertie said, “that bitch will take a powder so goddamn fast you’ll be tasting Max Factor clear through to next week.” She marched into the corridor. “ANITA WYNDHAM! I WANT TO TALK TO YOU!”
“Move it,” Marcus said. “She’s got you covered.”
Kathryn wished Melody luck, grabbed her notes, and headed for a doorway marked STAGE. She shouldered it open to find Wallace Reed and Bing Crosby in the wings. Crosby saw her first and stepped forward, offering his hand.
“Dottie Lamour says nothing but good things about you. I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re helping us out like this.”
Kathryn wondered if he’d be so effusive if he knew Bertie Kreuger was cornering his resident gossipmonger like some poison-spewing Hydra. She nodded modestly and asked where she should stand.
Reed led her to the microphone on stage left. Crosby followed her amid a thunderous round of applause. The bandleader tapped his baton and a voice came over the loudspeaker. “Stand by. And five, four, three, two . . . ”
A large red ON AIR sign at the back of the auditorium lit up, and the band started playing the Kraft Music Hall theme, a jaunty mix of sprightly violins and trumpets.
“Good evening, listeners.” Crosby’s voice was buttery smooth. “Welcome to what’s become a night of drama and mayhem on the streets of Hollywood.” Kathryn could hear the adrenaline pounding her eardrums. Don’t screw up! Don’t screw up! “And to tell us about it—” I’m on? RIGHT NOW? What the hell happened to the shtick Bing and the bandleader were going to do? “—is Kathryn Massey of the Hollywood Reporter giving us an up-to-the-minute bulletin.”
Kathryn peered at her notes. Her scrawl was now just a blur of indecipherable scratches. Instinctively, she let the pages in her hand float to the floor and looked into the sea of expectant faces until she found her mother’s. Francine was silently clapping her hands and mouthing the word “Smile.”
“That’s right, Bing,” she improvised. “World-famous nightclub Ciro’s on the Sunset Strip usually
confines its excitement to the musical variety, but tonight it was at the center of its own pandemonium.”
CHAPTER 23
Gwendolyn almost felt guilty going to a place like the Mocambo, whose Brazilian-themed décor was like nothing else in LA. Mounted on the walls and hanging from the ceiling was the craziest stuff: papier-mâché lambs holding pink and white parasols while balancing on trapeze wires, Siamese cats dressed as ringmasters in tall skinny hats of gray satin and orange silk sashes, lanky silhouettes of dark-skinned women in headdresses exploding with pink feathers and draped in gold mesh. All of this madness played out against walls painted cherry red and booths of olive green upholstery. Walking into the nightclub was like encountering a Mardi Gras parade every night of the week.
At any other time, Gwendolyn would have adored spending a gay night at a place that served extravagant, fruity cocktails that looked like something off Carmen Miranda’s head. But this was wartime, and it seemed insensitive to have such fun while the boys overseas were fighting for their lives in unthinkably ghastly conditions. And, of course, she had one particular overseas boy in mind.
The last time she saw her brother was the night Lincoln Tattler turned up on her doorstep. The next day, Monty shipped out for some far-flung corner of the Pacific whose location he was not at liberty to reveal.
It was tough reading the newspaper reports about Japan’s rampage through the Pacific. They were now in New Guinea and the Solomon Islands, virtually on Australia’s doorstep. Gwendolyn couldn’t decide what was worse: knowing where Monty was, or knowing nothing. The only thing she knew for sure was that she’d have no rest until the war was over.
A crash of cymbals from the Mocambo’s band heralded a samba, and two dozen couples on the dance floor hurled themselves into a frenzy of bouncing hips and jabbing kicks. Overhead, mini spotlights raked the dancers in shafts of blues and greens.
Gwendolyn felt Linc’s arm slide around her waist and his warm breath in her ear. “We can leave if you’d prefer.”
Searchlights and Shadows (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 4) Page 16