Hollywood Lost

by Collins, Ace;

  “We are here, ma’am,” the driver announced.

  An impatient Rains didn’t wait for her chauffeur to get out of the driver’s seat, rush around, and open her door. For the first time in weeks, she pulled the handle herself, put her size eights on the running board, took a deep breath of the night air and stepped out in a world reflected in neon and street lights. Not pausing to take in the unique sights and sounds of a Hollywood evening, she raced across the walk and rushed into the building where she leased four rooms and employed a staff of five. Her girl Friday, Susan Chontos, met her at the door. Her face displayed her shock at seeing her boss.

  “I thought you were going to the police station and then heading home?” The twenty-five year old brunette didn’t have to wait long for the older woman’s answer.

  “I was,” an obviously stressed Rains shot back, “but there is something I need to see or I won’t sleep a wink.” As she shuffled her legs, the gossip columnist seemed bent on setting a speed record to her lair, but that didn’t keep her from firing out questions. “What happened to those pictures Jack shot last night outside Musso and Frank’s?”

  “You mean from that set you used to get the Cary Grant photo?” Chontos asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got them in my office,” the assistant quickly assured Rains. “But the photos are only fair at best. You picked about the only shot we could use.”

  Rains snapped, “I don’t care about quality, just bring them to me. I need to look through them again. If I’m right, we have our hands on the biggest story this town’s ever seen.”

  As Chontos turned and ran down the hall, Rains continued to her private office, opened the bar, grabbed a bottle of Scotch and a glass. After pouring, she briefly studied the liquid before downing it in one swallow. The woman’s throat was still burning when her short, excited assistant strolled in with at least two dozen eight by tens.

  “I’ll take them,” the woman barked, “You get back to work. And close the door behind you.”

  After setting them in the middle of her desk and turning on a brass lamp, the columnist hurried through the black and white images. Tossing shots of Bette Davis, Dalton Andrews, and Humphrey Bogart to the side, she stopped when she came to one that featured a smiling man and his petite companion. It didn’t matter the shot was slightly out of focus and there was a shadow hiding a part of the man’s face, the picture was dynamite. She dropped the shot on her desk, ran a finger over her lips and picked up her phone. She dialed a seven-digit number known only to a handful of people on the planet. She listened as it rang three times before a man answered.

  “Jacob, we need to meet, and I don’t mean tomorrow.”

  “Is this you, Ellen? And this better be good for you to bother me at home.”

  “It is not just good, it’s the hottest rock you and I’ve ever played with, and what I’ve got to tell you can’t wait until tomorrow. Where can we meet?”

  “How about the all-night café on Ventura?” he suggested.

  “The one that’s about a mile east of the country club?”

  “Yeah,” he assured her. “I can meet you there at eleven. I have a party here and I have to at least stay long enough that it appears I care about our guest. After all, he is England’s ambassador to the United States.”

  “I’ll be there,” she answered and hung up. Taking a final look at the photo, Rains got up from her desk, walked back to the cabinet, and poured herself another drink. Defusing this bomb was not going to be a job for amateurs.

  36

  June 25, 1936

  Yates was waiting for Rains when her chauffeur dropped her off at Ralph’s. The small, out-of-the-way eatery was not the sort of place that the woman usually frequented; it was too dingy and cheap, the food too common, but tonight it was just where she wanted to be. Unlike the nightclubs and top restaurants, those who rolled into Ralph’s as it neared the bewitching hour would have no idea who she was, and it was the anonymity she needed at this moment.

  The woman slid into a booth near the back of the dive. Across the table, Yates, dressed in a dinner jacket, was already working on a cup of coffee.

  “How was your party?” she asked.

  “Bland, boring, and costly,” he grumbled. “Now, what’s so important?”

  Rains opened up her huge pink purse and retrieved a folder. Only after carefully studying the half dozen patrons and locating the waitress did she pull a photo from the oversized envelope and slide it across the tabletop to the movie mogul. He casually glanced at the image and shrugged.

  “So what?”

  “Who’s in that picture?” she whispered.

  “Give me a break,” Yates hissed, “I’m not some hick on a quiz show, and I’m not blind either.”

  “Then who is it?” she shot back.

  “OK, I’ll play it your way. It’s Flynn Sparks.”

  She shook her head, “I’m well aware of that.” From the corner of her eye, she saw a young, skinny, gum-chewing woman heading their way. Reaching across the table, Rains grabbed the photo, turned it over and placed it on her lap.

  “Can I get you something?” the waitress asked.

  “I’ll take a cup of coffee,” Rains replied. “Make it black.”

  “That’s the only color we offer, lady,” the woman teased. “Anything else?”

  “What kind of pie do you have?” Yates inquired.

  “Cherry, peach, and chocolate.”

  “I’ll take the chocolate.”

  “You got it.”

  As the waitress walked away, Rains slid the picture back toward the man.

  He didn’t bother looking at the shot before bellowing, “I told you it was Sparks.”

  Rains frowned, shook her head, and demanded, “Who’s the dame?”

  Yates nonchalantly glanced at the shot a second time before pushing it back to the woman. “It’s some new girl we have under contract. Her name is Ann or Anita or something. I know it starts with an A. She is eye candy, nothing more. My directors tell us she has no talent. So you won’t be writing about her.”

  “Actually,” the woman cut in, “I will.”

  Rains didn’t get a chance to explain what she meant before the waitress waltzed back to the table carrying the pie and coffee. After setting them down, she asked, “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “That’s it for now,” Yates assured her. He was already chewing on his initial bite before the waitress sauntered back toward the main counter. He smiled as the flavor filled his mouth, “You should try this, Ellen; this is good. It reminds me of that place just off Broadway. What was the name if it?”

  “Use your napkin,” she suggested, “you’ve got chocolate on your lip. And I thought we agreed we wouldn’t talk about our days in New York.”

  As the man wiped his mouth, she again spoke in hushed tones. “Listen Jacob, the girl you’re writing off as being nothing became something last night.”

  “How did she do that?” he asked as his fork cut another portion of the tasty dessert.

  Rains eyes were almost as cold as her tone, “She was murdered.”

  Yates froze, halfway through his second bite. Realizing he couldn’t answer with his mouth full, he forced the pie down his throat without chewing. “No!”

  “Yeah,” she assured him, “and the last person to see her alive was Sparks. Do you see a pattern developing? If you don’t, I do.”

  He leaned over the table until their faces were just inches apart, “Do you know what you’re suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” she answered as their eyes met. “I’m just pointing out the facts.”

  “So the cops know?” the suddenly rattled mogul asked.

  “They showed me the body,” she explained. “They thought I’d be able to identify the girl.”

  “Ellen, did you tell them who she was?”

  “No, how could I Jacob? I’d never met her. But as I looked at the body, I did remember seeing this picture in my off
ice earlier in the day. My photographer was at Musso and Frank’s shooting shots of the stars last night.”

  He nodded, “So the cops don’t know who she is.”

  “Not yet,” Rains assured him. “And the photo didn’t run with my story; I didn’t mention that Sparks was there, and I’ve already destroyed the negative. Things are covered on my end, but you will need to do some work on yours. You’d better put some space between the dead girl and Galaxy before Barrister finally figures out who she is and who she was with.”

  As Rains slipped the photo back into her purse, Yates drummed his fingers on the table. “OK, I’m remembering now. Sally Glenn brought the girl to my office.”

  “Ah,” the woman solemnly jested, “nothing like a murder to clear the fog. So she was a friend of Glenn’s?”

  “No,” Yates smiled, “she wasn’t. But Sally spotted her at a movie theater, the girl was an usher, and thought she had the right look for film work. Sally does that all the time. She couldn’t tell you the names of half the kids she’s tried to help get into show business.” He snapped his fingers, “Her name was Agnes Sharp. She just moved out here from the Midwest . . . I think it was Iowa or maybe Nebraska. I remember her telling me she came to California by herself.”

  “That works in our favor,” Rains suggested. “It will take the cops a long time to trace her, if at all. If you spread a little money around, it might delay them even more.”

  Yates nodded, “I’ll get my security people to find out where she lived and clean it out. If it takes it, we can pay the landlord off and a roommate, if she has one. We can make up a cover story about the girl needing to go back home.”

  “Now you’re acting like the Jacob I know,” Rains smiled. “Based on what you’ve told me, it won’t take a very big broom to sweep this under the rug.”

  The studio mogul reached into his pocket and tossed a couple of dollars in change on the table. Without a word, he grabbed his hat off the bench, got up, and hurried outside to his car. Through the glass, Rains watched him speed away into the night.

  “Your friend left in a hurry,” the waitress noted as she wandered back to the table.

  “He remembered some work he had to do,” Rains explained. “Now, could you bring me a piece of that pie? I have suddenly found my appetite.”

  37

  June 26, 1936

  With a full hour to herself, Shelby opted to read rather than go with Minser and Mace to the commissary. Wandering out in the bright sunlight, she glanced in both directions before turning right. As nothing was being shot on New York Street that day, she strolled to the iconic set, grabbed a spot on an empty bench, and opened a copy of the just released-novel, Gone with the Wind. She was finishing the second chapter when she realized she was no longer alone.

  “So you’re reading it too?” Flynn Sparks noted.

  Shelby pulled her nose from the book and frowned. What had been a good day had just taken a U-turn.

  “It seems everyone is reading that novel,” the actor suggested. “There’s even talk of the studio buying the film rights to it.”

  Shelby bent the corner of a page to mark her spot before setting the book in her lap. She then watched her uninvited guest sit down on the curb.

  “Of all the places on this huge lot,” she snapped, “you had to pick the one corner I thought was my own.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” he shot back, “I wasn’t looking for you. I was out taking a walk.”

  She frowned and glanced across the vacant street to a movie theater. Like everything else on this outdoor set, it was nothing more than a false front. In that way, it was pretty much like the man who’d just graced her with his presence. Sensing he wasn’t going to leave, she opted to at least attempt conversation. She figured she should lead with something he loved to talk about . . . his life.

  “Did you enjoy your date last night?” she quizzed.

  “I know she did,” he chuckled. “Nice girl. Had good taste too. She appreciates compliments and takes them to heart. You know, she spent a couple of hours just looking through scrapbooks in my living room.”

  “So nice for her,” Shelby replied.

  He turned his head and his eyes caught hers before landing his first verbal volley. “What about you, did you and Dalton light up the night? What am I saying, that guy doesn’t have enough wattage to illuminate a closet. Well, at least this time he took you some place with style. But did he introduce you to any of the famous people who were there? I would have.”

  “We had a nice dinner, and then we went to a Gary Cooper movie.”

  “Your story and Dalton’s match,” Sparks noted.

  “I forgot you two are working on the same movie,” she admitted. “I’m guessing you trade war stories during breaks.”

  “We talk when we’re forced to,” he explained. “In truth, we don’t have all that much in common. For starters, he’s dull and I’m not. But why discuss him, when we can talk about me?”

  She shook her head and sighed, “It’s likely the only subject you know very much about.”

  Sparks stood, put his left foot on the bench beside her and rested his elbows on his knee. “There are a lot of places in this town you haven’t seen. I can show them to you. So why don’t you let me take you out to eat and dancing and then compare my charms to Dalton’s.”

  “I’m not going out with you,” Shelby flatly replied.

  “But . . .”

  “But nothing,” she finished his thought for him. “I’m not dating you. There is an old saying back home about dogs and fleas. It seems if you hang around dogs too much, you end up with some things you don’t want. Your reputation is something I don’t want or need attached to me. When Flynn Sparks takes a woman out everyone always thinks the worst of her. I don’t even know the blonde who admired your scrapbooks last night, but I’m already judging her. I don’t want people to think of me the way I’m thinking of her right now.”

  He laughed, “You’re missing the point. You think having people think those thoughts is a bad thing. It’s not. They only point fingers because they want to be doing what you’re doing but don’t have the guts. I’m not taking advantage of the women who go out with me; I’m setting them free to really experience life.” Sparks chuckled. “You’re clinging to the old-fashioned concepts that are a part of Oklahoma. They will hold you back and ultimately fill you with regrets. Someday you will look to the past wishing you’d given in to your desires. The invitation stands: go out with me and see life the way it should be lived. And don’t fool yourself, you’d like it.”

  Sparks pulled his foot from the bench and slowly ambled down the empty street toward the soundstages. Her eyes followed him until he rounded a corner and disappeared.

  What if he was right? What if forty years from now she did look back at her life and wish for the things she hadn’t tried and the things she hadn’t done? She grimaced. He’d done it. He’d made her begin to doubt herself.

  38

  June 26, 1936

  I need you to do me a favor.”

  Shelby looked up from sewing lace onto a 1860s party dress and into the eyes of Betty Minser. Her normally relaxed boss seemed agitated.

  “Just set that to one side,” Minser advised as she held up a blue gown, “and run this to the hotel set on stage 6. At the last minute, they change the shooting order on a film and one of the actresses there will need this number for a couple of scenes today rather than tomorrow. Oh, and take this tuxedo as well. Some new actor is actually playing Flynn Sparks in the same scene.”

  “What?”

  “Makes no sense to me either,” Minser assured her. “It’s just weird. Sparks is playing in the film, so he can’t actually play himself. So Hunter Nelson is playing Flynn. At least he looks a bit like him.”

  “Why can’t Willie take them?” Shelby asked.

  “Because,” Minster explained, “I don’t know where he is. He took off about an hour ago on an errand and didn’t come back.”


  “Betsy, it seems he does that a lot. Why do you put up with it?”

  The older woman sighed, “Because I have to. Now hustle these over to the set.”

  With no further explanation, Shelby grabbed the two items and hurried out the door, down the street and to stage 6. A guard stopped her at the door and asked the reason for the visit before allowing her to pass. As she stepped toward the lighted staging area, she was amazed. It was as if she was walking into an actual hotel ballroom. Her mouth agape, she studied the detail in the three walls that had been created for the scene then turned her gaze to the furnishings and people filling the room. How was it possible for a crew to put this together so quickly? Just last week, this same stage had been a pirate ship. As she pondered the marvels of movie magic, she spotted a waving Willard Mace standing beside a camera on the far side.

  As she hurried over to warn Mace to get back to work, a balding man in a suit stopped her and asked, “Are you the young woman who is working for Betsy?”

  “Yes, sir,” Shelby quickly replied.

  “I’ve heard good things about you,” he explained. “But Betsy failed to tell me how beautiful you were. Rather than carrying costumes you should be wearing them. And believe me I can make that happen.”

  She frowned before angrily saying, “Why is it that every man feels they have to use that line? I’m not dreaming of being an actress. So I’m not buying what you’re selling. Besides,” she chided, “you’re too old for me.”

  He chuckled, “Aren’t you the fresh one?”

  “No,” she shot back, “I think you are. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a job to do.”

  “And I’m paying you to do it,” he informed her.

  “What?” Shelby’s blue eyes were aflame. She’d had to put up with Flynn Sparks at lunch: she didn’t need to go a second round with someone else.

  “I’m Jacob Yates, the head of this studio.”