Andrews shook his head in disgust, “Grandmothers don’t share stories like that with anyone. In fact, they try to bury them . . . the stories, not the kids. Let’s face facts! You’ve taken advantage of more women than you can count. You likely don’t even remember all of their faces, much less their names.”
“Dalton,” the host grinned, “I think you’re jealous.”
“Flynn, I have to look in the mirror every morning, and I want to respect the man who stares back at me. So I don’t want to be a part of that.”
“It’s so easy for you to sound noble,” Sparks chirped as he pushed his index finger into his guest’s chest, “but if you had what I have, you’d do the same thing.”
Andrews shook his head, “What do you have?”
“Women can’t resist me,” came the quick reply. “And I just give them what they want.”
“Actually,” Andrews countered, “women want the same thing men want—respect. How long are you going to keep Leslie on your string?”
“She’s not on a string,” Sparks said with a grin. “She was just a means to getting your car. And really the car means nothing to me. It was just my way of winning the bet. You see that’s what I really wanted. I wanted to watch your face when you found out I always win.”
“So you’re just cutting her loose after she spent the night here?”
“She’s boring,” Sparks laughed. “It was all I could do to stay awake during dinner. I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow you can go back to her dressing room and soothe her broken heart. I’m sure she will need a shoulder to cry on, and I’m always pleased to give you my rejects.” He chuckled, “Now, how are you getting home?”
“I’ll walk,” Andrews replied. “It’s only five miles, and I need the exercise.” He moved back into the house and to the front door. As he was about to twist the knob, Leslie Bryant, wrapped in a sheet, stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hall. When she saw Andrews, she blushed and froze.
“It’s not what it seems,” she softly announced.
“In this town it never is,” Andrews shot back, his tone cold and uncaring. After shaking his head, he opened the door and hurriedly strolled out.
11
June 15, 1936
Jacob Yates had been fuming ever since he read the story in the Los Angeles Times. He was so upset he didn’t bother touching his breakfast of coffee and toast. His biggest box office draw was in hot water again. A woman in Santa Monica was claiming Flynn Sparks was the father of her six-month old baby. Every paper in town was running with the story. Alongside the page one features, each had a picture of the woman and her child, as well as a headshot of the actor. As he frantically paced in his office, the intercom buzzed. Stomping to his desk, he pushed down a button and barked, “What is it?”
“Mr. Sparks is here to see you.”
“About time, get him in here now!”
Yates watched the door open and a seemingly carefree Sparks waltzed in. After grabbing a donut from a silver platter resting on the studio mogul’s side table, the actor plopped down into a large brown leather chair and put his feet on the desk.
“You seem happy this morning,” Yates growled.
“I had a good weekend J. Y. I hope you did as well.” He pushed his fist into the chair’s bottom cushion, “I need one of these at home. Where can I get one like it?”
“I don’t remember where I bought the chair and, to answer your other question, my weekend was fine until it was ruined by my reading this morning’s papers. Have you seen the stories that feature a Mr. Flynn Sparks and a Miss Caroline Watson?”
“Actually,” Sparks admitted between bites, “I have. I thought The Times piece was pretty well written, though I do wish they’d used a newer picture of me. I look like such a kid in that shot. By the way, do you have any coffee or juice?”
Yates’s cheeks went purple as he screamed, “You’re looking at a paternity suit and you want something to drink?”
“I’m thirsty,” the actor replied with a shrug, “and no, I’m not worried about a suit.”
“And why not?” Yates demanded.
“Because,” Sparks explained, “I don’t know this woman. I’ve never met her, much less kissed her. And, if you’d check your calendar, you’d realize that you sent me to Europe during the time she claimed we had the affair. I was making a picture in London and doing a publicity tour after that in Germany and France.”
Yates sat down at his desk and picked up his massive appointment book. Glancing back through the pages confirmed Sparks was right. At least this fire could be put out. His people could wreck this woman’s story and reputation within twenty-four hours.
“OK,” the mogul barked, “fine, this is nothing more than a woman wanting some publicity and a payoff, but your little affairs have cost us more than fifty thousand dollars in hush money over the past two years. I can’t deal with this anymore.” Yates pounded his fist on his desk, “There was a story in the Sunday Times that claims Leslie Bryant spent the night at your home on Saturday night.”
“She did,” Sparks admitted.
“So you admit it?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? After all, she’s beautiful!”
“Flynn, the government, the churches, and the fans all expect you and the others at this studio to at least give the appearances of being moral.”
“Why lie?”
“Because bad publicity can ruin you. It’s that simple.”
Like a mother scolding her child, Sparks shook his finger toward his boss. “My wild ways have done nothing but enhance my box office appeal. Every time one of those so-called lurid stories runs, it means more people come to see my pictures. In other words, I’m worth more now than I was yesterday. And the next time I embrace the role of a playboy it will mean even more box office. If you reshape my image into that of a gentleman, then I’ll become like Dalton Andrews—respectable and bland. And you have enough actors who fit that bill right now.”
“I don’t like and won’t accept that attitude,” Yates barked. “You don’t run this studio, I do. In fact, I own it lock, stock, and barrel. And that means I own you too.”
“Fine,” the actor defiantly announced, “if I’m not living up to your expectations, then tear up my contract and fire me. The other studios would have an immediate bidding war for my services, and I’d be under contract by sundown. Wouldn’t you love to watch me make the cash registers ring for Warner Brothers or MGM? And don’t think I couldn’t do it.”
Yates shook his head but didn’t answer. He couldn’t respond because Sparks was right. The debate was over, and he’d lost. Jumping up, he moved back to the window, looked out of the Galaxy lot and folded his arms over his chest. Everything he saw was his and yet he had no more control over it at this moment than he did over his wife and children. After his blood pressure dropped twenty points, and he regained a small bit of his composure, he hissed, “Get back to wardrobe. You’re late for a fitting.” He continued to study the world he’d built until he was sure Sparks was long gone. It was a voice he respected that finally put a cap on his anger.
“I’ve got a message for you.”
Yates turned and studied the woman standing in the entry to his office. His secretary, Eve Walen, was fifty-eight, plump and dressed like a schoolteacher in mourning. This mother of three and a grandmother to four never complained, was always on time, and worked late if asked. If only all the people in his world had her character.
“What is it, Eve?” His tone showed his respect and admiration.
“One of our new actresses didn’t make it to work today.”
“Did you call her at home, maybe she’s sick?”
The woman nodded, “I made the call, but there was no answer.”
“What’s her name?”
“Leslie Bryant.”
“Great,” Yates moaned. “Just wonderful. The curse of Flynn Sparks strikes again.”
“What do you mean?” Walen asked.
“Nothing. Thanks
for the information. Just please close the door on your way out and let me suffer in solitude.”
Somewhere in Los Angeles there was a young, broken-hearted woman who had been taken advantage of by his biggest star. That meant Yates was going to have to track Bryant down, tend to her wounds, and likely pay out a few thousand to make sure she never said a word about this to any member of the press.
12
June 15, 1936
Coming through the ornate gates to Galaxy Studios was overwhelming. There were buildings and people everywhere! This was a city unto itself. As Shelby’s eyes flashed from place to place, she recognized famous actors, saw huge trucks filled with props, observed countless extras dressed like everything from pioneers to gangsters to African natives and even spotted auburn-haired beauty Betty Foster wearing slacks and riding a bicycle. And while all of it looked so real, in truth, beyond the actress on the bike, it was nothing more than a grown-up version of playing make-believe. Of course, this playground cost tens of millions of dollars to keep running.
A slightly built male page escorted Shelby along narrow streets to a building housing the wardrobe department. Once inside the massive brick structure, she was taken to a large, noisy room filled with more than a hundred people working at electric sewing machines. They were making everything from ballroom gowns to Civil War uniforms.
After a brief meeting with Betsy Minser, a sixty-year-old, severe-looking woman who supervised the crew and ran everything in the three-story building, Shelby was given a dress pattern, material, thread, and told to go to work. For a half an hour, the visitor cut and stitched as she’d been taught by Maybelle, carefully making each element of the peasant dress fit together perfectly. She was just about to attach the buttons when the gray-headed supervisor stepped in.
“Miss Beckett,” Minser growled, her piercing brown eyes seemingly searing Shelby’s skin, “we are a motion picture studio, not a boutique. We don’t need these outfits to be perfect; we just need for them to look good on film. You’re putting far too much effort into things. This is a factory, we do it the tried and true American way and make it just good enough to last a scene or two and give the illusion it is complete. Do you understand?”
Shelby had always been taught to put everything she had into each task. At home, school, and the dress shop, she’d never been allowed to embrace the concept of “that will do.” Just quickly piecing something together was completely foreign to her. And yet that seemed to be exactly what Minser wanted.
“Come here,” the supervisor ordered.
A few moments later, the two stood next to a rack filled with clothes representing several different historical eras. Minser grabbed a scarlet velvet dress that, on first glance, appeared like something from a high-end New York shop.
“Look at this gown. If you just give it a casual glance it appears perfect, but when you take a closer look you see it is unlined, the minimal stitching that is there is loose and the bow is barely attached. When an extra wears this it will look perfect, but it is not. For everyone but the stars, we don’t have the time to make it perfect, we only take the time to make sure it looks that way for the camera.”
The woman hung the dress back up and pointed to the scores of people behind her working at the sewing machines. “I can already tell that you are far better than most of my crew. Right now, you’re likely good enough to work with me creating the wardrobe for the big stars. But, if you want this job, there will be times you’ll be stitching things together for extras. That doesn’t require focus, it doesn’t mean you have to pay attention to detail, it doesn’t matter if the buttons only stay on for one wearing, it just means you have to work at lightning speed. Now, can you do that?”
“Yes,” Shelby assured her.
“Good, because I will also find a way to use your real talents where needed.” She paused and glanced across the room where a powerful man dressed in a black suit was waving. “In fact,” she continued, “if you can start now, I have something for you to do and I just don’t have the time to do it myself.”
“I can start now,” Shelby eagerly explained.
“Then follow me, young woman.”
As if navigating a maze, the two walked between and behind long rows of sewing machines and tables stacked with material before coming to a door at the far back of the huge room. Minser opened it and stepped into a forty-by-forty-foot area with a half dozen more machines and several hundred costumes hanging on movable racks. Standing in the center of the room, with a small woman pulling at his suit coat, was Flynn Sparks. Once his eyes locked onto Shelby, they didn’t let go. His unrelenting stare followed her from the point she entered the room until she and Minser stopped directly in front of the actor.
“The sleeves are a bit long,” one of Minser’s assistants noted.
“Pin them where they need to be,” the supervisor ordered, “then give it to the new girl. She can fix it. You can go back outside and get on your machine there.” After taking another look at the jacket, Minser turned to Shelby, “Do this job as if you were doing it for yourself. This coat will be used several times and be subject to a slew of close-ups, so it needs to be perfect. That’s basically the rule whenever you are assigned to create something for a star, and when you are not, forget everything I just said.”
As Shelby nodded, Sparks spoke, “Betsy, who is this young woman? I’m sure I’d have remembered her if we’d met.”
“She’s new, Flynn. Her name is Miss Beckett.”
“Is there a first name that goes with it?” he jibed more than asked.
“Shelby,” Minser answered. “But you may call her Miss Beckett.”
“Well, Shelby,” the man sang out, ignoring the woman’s advice, “I’m Flynn Sparks, and I do hope to be seeing much more of you in the future.” After fully apprising himself of all of the new girl’s charms, he turned his gaze back to Minser, “See that Shelby is assigned to do all my alterations.”
The supervisor smiled, “If she proves herself capable, I can arrange that. But first, she has to prove herself. Take the coat off and give it to her.”
Sparks nodded and eased the jacket from his shoulders and down his arms. He then held it to his body forcing Shelby to step so close she could smell his cologne. As she took the jacket from his right arm, he lifted his left hand and traced the skin along her cheek forcing her to look into his smoldering eyes.
“You are beautiful,” he noted.
She nervously nodded as she turned back to Minser. The supervisor pointed to a workstation on the far side of the room and announced in an unyielding voice, “You will find all you need there.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Moving to her station, Shelby still felt Sparks’s gaze. It was almost as if he were trying to see through her dress.
“Don’t you need to be on the set?” Minser asked the star. “We don’t like loitering at this studio, not even from someone like you.”
He nodded and then smoothly ordered, “Send Shelby with the coat when it is finished.” He then turned and walked out of the room.
After Sparks was gone, Minser looked back to her new employee, “The first thing you do when you get something a star has worn and has to be mended or altered is go through the pockets. You’d be surprised what you will find.”
Shelby nodded and ran her hand into the three outside pockets. In the third one, she found a fountain pen. “Got this, what do I do with it?”
“That would have made a mess,” the supervisor griped. “If that thing had leaked we’d have had to make a whole new jacket.” She frowned, “Put it in a sack. There are a stack of them at the end of each table. Write whose jacket it is, describe it, date, and then sign it. Roll the top over and staple it. Then place it on the shelf beside the coat rack on the wall. Oh, and Shelby, on Sparks, you’ll have to deal with him, that will be part of your job, but keep it in the studio. Don’t let him take you out. He has a way of spoiling all the good stuff he touches.” She took a deep breath before adding, “Let me pu
t it another way. Flynn Sparks treats women like a newspaper. He reads them from front to back and then throws them in the nearest trashcan.”
13
June 15, 1936
As she finished the jacket sleeves, Shelby stood, stretched, and looked for her supervisor. Betsy Minser was nowhere to be seen. Unsure as to what she was to do next, she hung the coat on a wooden hanger and placed it on the rack nearest the table.
“You do really nice work.”
Startled, Shelby whipped around to find a powerfully built, smiling man standing about ten feet behind her. His face was broad, his eyes deep and brooding, and there was a scar running from just above his left eye across his forehead before it disappeared in his dark chestnut hair. He was dressed in tweed pants, a black pullover, turtleneck cotton shirt. He must have sensed he frightened her, because the first thing he did was apologize.
“I’m sorry,” his voice was a register higher than most men his size and he spoke very slowly. His words were paced much like a mule’s slow walk across a field when plowing. “I thought you knew I was organizing clothes on the racks in the corner. Getting them ready to move to stage 7. They’re doing a Western saloon scene over there today and tomorrow. My name is Willard Mace. I’m kind of the go-to guy here. That means if they need something taken someplace, they go to me.”
“I’m Shelby,” she announced as her heart fell out of her throat. “I guess I was so focused on doing a good job, that I didn’t notice anything or anyone. What should I do with the coat?”
“I’m going that direction when I fill up this rack,” he politely explained, “I can drop it off for you.”
“But Mr. Sparks told me to take it to him,” Shelby argued.
“No,” Mace corrected her, “he told Betsy to have you bring it to him. She would never send you on that errand. She protects her girls as if she was a shepherd guarding a flock.” He paused as if searching for words before adding, “And Flynn Sparks is the wolf she protects them from.”
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