“Well, leave my goddamn hair alone and go find out who she is.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it. And don’t let on that I want to know. Be sneaky.”
He looked confused. “All right.”
Sylvia forced herself to look over her lines as Arthur slipped through the crew and began to chat with Violet and her admirer. He returned just as Leo was calling everyone to places.
“Well?” Sylvia asked.
“I was right,” Arthur said conspiratorially. “She is an actress for the studio.”
“What’s her name?”
“Genny Finklestein.”
“Good Lord.” Sylvia rose and straightened her skirt. She looked up and saw both women looking at her, smiling and waving. So much for not letting on who was asking. “Well, someone should tell her that she’ll need to change that.” She smiled to herself at the power of this newfound knowledge.
*
“Absolutely not,” Cotton spat.
Moxie crossed her arms defiantly. “Why not?”
“Because the studio will never approve, that’s why.” He nodded his thanks to Peter, who appeared and handed him a drink before disappearing back into the crowd gathered in his bungalow. “A woman cannot accompany another woman to a film premiere.”
Violet raised an eyebrow. “I would think it would cause a real buzz. Isn’t that what you’re always talking about?”
Cotton appeared irritated by this line of logic. “Buzz is having people talk about your dress, or how beautiful they think you are, not trying to imagine which one of you is the man.”
Violet huffed, indignant. “No doubt if I took you to the premiere as my escort, Mr. McCann, they might wonder the same thing.”
“No,” he replied, ignoring the barb. “And I’m sure T. Z. Walter would agree. Moxie’s Hollywood career is just getting started. I won’t have her labeled a lesbian. Her public needs to see her as young, glamorous, available, and profoundly heterosexual.”
Wil poked her head over Cotton’s shoulder. “Did someone call me?”
Cotton scowled. “No, I would have said gin-soaked, abusive, foul-mouthed, and sexually indiscriminate if I had been referring to you.”
Moxie turned to Violet. “He’s starting to fit right in, isn’t he?”
“It brings a tear to my eye,” Violet said.
Wil scowled. “It makes my ass twitch.”
“It does what?” Cotton asked.
“Relax,” Violet assured him. “That just means that Wil has now moved you into a category heretofore only occupied by mimes, panhandlers, and carnies.”
Wil inhaled deeply through her cigarette holder before expelling the smoke dramatically. “Don’t forget Apache dancers, darling. I can’t stand those fuckers.”
“With any luck, Mr. McCann, Wil might soon elevate you to the equivalent of, oh, say, a pimp or a pederast.” Violet took a sip of her drink.
“Or an agent, ” Wil said, her tone rife with denunciation.
“I’m all atwitter in anticipation.”
“Cotton,” Moxie began, “what if Violet and I were sisters?”
Wil’s face contorted as though she had just smelled something rancid. “Just how small a town are you from, sister?”
“No, I mean if we told people we were sisters. Then we could socialize together and no one would care, like Lillian and Dorothy Gish.”
“You realize that if we want to go to the premiere together badly enough, we’ll somehow make it happen, don’t you?” Violet said casually. “I would think that if you’ve learned anything about us by now, Mr. McCann, it’s that we are not easily dissuaded.”
Cotton stroked his pencil-thin mustache with his thumb and forefinger while he considered her point. “Look, if you each take a date, a male date, then I suppose there’s no reason why you can’t go together. But you’ll need to make some kind of an effort to appear to be attracted to whichever man you bring. Walk on his arm. Pose for pictures with him.” He paused and looked directly at Moxie. “Moxie, if you wish, I will be your escort for the evening.”
Moxie looked at him blankly. “I thought I was supposed to seem attracted to my date.”
Violet laughed. “She’s got you there, mon oncle. ”
Cotton appeared only mildly hurt. “Then let me see what I can do. I’m sure I can get you both very prominent, masculine bachelors.”
“That sounds horrible,” Violet said.
“Speak for yourself,” Wil replied, shoving Violet behind her. “I want one. Can I give you a list of what I’m looking for in a man while you’re at it?”
Cotton looked stunned. “Wealthy and breathing?”
“Oh, good.” Wil breathed in relief and patted his shoulder. “You’ve already got it. Don’t forget me, darling.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Men who don’t know me just love me,” Wil added.
“And speaking of men who don’t know you, did you talk to Mr. Dickover yet?” Violet asked.
“I started to, but I just couldn’t get past how funny his name is.”
“Wil, Mr. Dickover is interested in being your new agent. This is hardly the time to be so juvenile.”
“Did you know he goes by Ace ?” Wil asked the group, clearly amused.
“Ace Dickover?” Cotton asked.
Moxie turned to Violet, biting her lower lip to keep from laughing. “You want Wil to sign a contract with Ace Dickover ?”
Violet seemed to acquiesce. “Do you think it’s a sign?”
“A sign?” Wil asked. “It’s a fucking billboard, darling.”
Irene approached the group, looking more cheerful than she had for several days. “Hey, kids,” she said with a wave. “Can anybody vouch for that fella over there in the corner?”
Moxie peered through the crowd and saw a gangly, fair-haired man with a mustache and Vandyke beard, propped leisurely against the wall. “I don’t think I know him.”
“Me either,” Violet said. “Hey, Peter. C’mere.”
After handing out freshly mixed drinks to the two women in front of him, Peter made his way over from his bar. “Yes?”
“Do you know that guy over there?” Violet tried to gesture nonchalantly with her head.
“Who, Joe?”
“The blond fella in the pinstripe suit,” Irene explained.
Peter smiled. “Yes, that’s Joe Kilkenney. He’s a screenwriter. Not doing too badly either.”
“How’s that?” Irene asked.
“He just adapted one of his own novels for MGM. So he’s no slouch.”
Moxie spoke softly to Irene. “Why do you ask?”
“He’s a tall drink of water—the eel’s hips,” Irene replied loudly. “I just wanted to make sure he was on the up-and-up, you know? That he wasn’t just some drugstore cowboy.”
“What do you think of him now?” Violet asked.
Irene smiled. “Well, now I can go back and answer his question.”
Moxie eyed her carefully. “What question?”
“He asked me my name. I told him I’d get back to him.”
Violet’s hand moved to her mouth, perhaps to hide her amusement. “Hopefully he doesn’t think you didn’t know the answer and had to go find out.”
“You should have said Ace Dickover.” Wil snorted.
Irene laughed too. “Wil, what a horrible joke.”
“That’s what I thought. Wait until you meet him,” Wil added.
Chapter Seventeen
“Wil, are you decent?” Violet walked into Wil and Irene’s bungalow trying to make as much noise as possible, in case she unwittingly interrupted anything embarrassing. She had already learned that lesson the hard way.
“You know the answer to that question,” came a depressed murmur from Violet’s left.
“Wil?” Violet asked again, perplexed that the voice apparently had come from an empty couch.
“I’m down here.”
Violet approached the phantom voice hesit
antly, relieved to see that Wil was lying behind the couch on the floor, wearing only her stockings, brassiere, and slip. “Dare I ask?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. ” Wil ran her hand over her face.
Violet extended her arm and pulled Wil unceremoniously to her feet. “I need you to pull yourself together.”
“What time is it?” Wil rasped, opening her mouth several times and grimacing, as though trying to identify some familiar taste.
“Noon.”
“Good Lord, it’s early.” She rubbed her eyes miserably.
“For Bela Lugosi perhaps. For us humans, it’s the shank of the day.”
Wil’s brow furrowed. “Did you and I have sex last night?”
“Not last night, or ever.”
“Because my mouth tastes suspiciously like snatch.” Wil stuck her tongue out as though contemplating the flavor further.
Violet sighed in irritation. “If you like, I’ll try and help you piece together your last twenty-four hours, but that will need to wait.”
“For what?”
“I have an audition for you,” Violet replied, her eagerness returning.
“Really?” Wil looked shocked.
“Really. It seems Miss Sylvia King got herself fired from my picture today for mouthing off to the director while everyone and their brother was watching.”
“Ooh, what did she say to him?”
“Something about demanding that he grab his ankles and jump up her ass, though I think she called it her puckered brown grotto, or some such nonsense.”
Wil’s eyebrows rose, but she said nothing.
“Anyway, as we were less than a week into filming, they want to immediately recast her part—try and cut their losses. I told them I knew the perfect undiscovered ingénue.”
“And who would that be?”
Violet looked at her incredulously. “You, you silly bitch.”
“Me, an ingénue?” Wil held her arms out to her side and turned her palms upward. “Have you not been paying attention?”
“That’s why they call it acting, ” Violet explained. “So now, you have a choice. You can either continue to sleep through your life in this bungalow, trying to reconcile the shadowy taste of one stranger’s genitalia as it blends into the next, or you can get in the shower, clean yourself up, and start doing what you came here to do.”
“Hmm, but what if I actually came here for the genitalia?”
Violet glared. “Get in the damn shower.”
Wil tried to keep a straight face, though quickly gave up. “Thanks, Vi.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It will only take me a few minutes to get ready.”
“Good. Fitzy’s outside waiting to take us to the studio. We can go over the scene in the car.”
*
Louella Parsons sat in a booth at the Hollywood Brown Derby, doodling on her notepad and staring at the second hand on her watch.
It seemed as though she had been sitting there forever when the waiter came back for what was easily the tenth time. “Would you like to go ahead and order now, Miss Parsons?”
She sighed. “I suppose so. Bring me the club sandwich, will you?”
The waiter took the menu, nodded, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Louella was muttering to herself in irritation when she looked back to the front door and saw Sylvia King striding confidently in. She seemed to possess no sense of urgency as she sauntered over to Louella and sat across from her.
“Do you have any idea how long you’ve kept me waiting, Sylvia?” She made no attempt to hide her annoyance as she drummed her fingers on the table.
As Sylvia’s face split into a sinister grin, Louella was instantly unsettled by the sudden transformation of America’s darling into this arcane nucleus of villainy.
“Trust me, Louella, this scoop will be worth it.”
*
Moxie dug through her handbag looking for the bungalow key, squinting to see in the moonlight. From behind her, Violet’s hands provocatively roamed her waist, abdomen, and breasts.
“You’re not helping my concentration,” Moxie said softly, closing her eyes as Violet’s mouth descended on her exposed shoulder.
“You did little for mine all evening, love. I couldn’t stop staring at your curvy deliciousness.”
Moxie chuckled, then with surprising dexterity, she found the key and put it in the lock before turning around in Violet’s arms, putting her hands around Violet’s neck, and kissing her back. “I didn’t really enjoy watching you on the arm of that preening ass all evening,” she murmured against Violet’s mouth.
The brush of Violet’s tongue instantly aroused Moxie, and their kiss deepened as Violet pinned her to the door.
“I want you,” Violet groaned. Her palm caressed Moxie’s left breast as it moved slowly down to turn the doorknob. As the door swung inward, both of them rode it without their mouths breaking contact.
Violet turned her head slightly when something in her peripheral vision triggered an alarm. Not only were their lights on, but inside sat Wil, Irene, Irene’s date Joe, Fitzhugh, and Peter. “Oh, fuck.”
“Mmm, yes,” Moxie replied eagerly.
“No,” Violet whispered, gesturing toward their company with her head.
“Hmm?” Moxie turned, her back still against the door, and tried to feign delight. “Oh, hello, everyone. Look at all of you…here in our bungalow. How—”
“Ill-timed,” Violet said.
“Yes.” Moxie stepped all the way inside.
Irene seemed oblivious to the comment. “How was the premiere? Were there just gobs of stars there?”
Moxie took a seat beside Irene on the sofa. “I suppose so.”
“And where are your virile escorts?” Wil lit a cigarette.
Violet shut the door and sighed. “Judging by how they were eyeing each other, I’m guessing they’re somewhere ejaculating.”
Wil smiled. “It’s never a party until someone does.”
Violet crossed her arms. “Would it be impolite to ask how you all got in here?”
“We bribed Captain Napkin,” Wil replied. “He let us in, in exchange for a small token.”
Moxie grimaced. “Do I want to know what?”
“Probably, since it was a pair of your underpants,” Wil said casually.
“What?” Moxie was unable to verbalize anything else.
“Relax,” Wil said. “It’s nothing perverted. They’re for him to wear on his head. I made sure to pick a pair I thought would flatter him.”
“You’re such a good friend,” Violet said.
“If only that were true,” Wil replied.
Fitzhugh cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, there’s a reason we’re here, Vi.”
Violet’s eyebrow arched. “A reason beyond rifling through our underwear?”
“Sadly, yes,” Peter said.
“What is it?” Moxie asked. “What’s wrong?”
Fitzhugh handed over a copy of the Los Angeles Examiner, folded over to a particular page. “You need to read Louella Parson’s column from this morning.”
Violet took the newspaper, sat on the arm of the sofa, and began to read aloud. “What glamorous, dark-haired, newcomer of Manhattan Rhapsody has been seen indulging her depraved Sapphic fancies with an up-and-coming Jewish contract actress for Pinnacle?”
A hush fell over the group before Wil finally turned to Moxie. “You’re Jewish?”
“No,” Moxie replied, her chest tightening. “But I know just who might think I am.”
Violet gritted her teeth. “Sylvia King, that disease-ridden, worm-eaten bag of spume.”
“I’m sure she’s just angry about Wil replacing her in September Moon, ” Moxie said, her mind still reeling.
“Just as angry as I am that she is a vengeful, poisonous succubus,” Violet said.
Moxie took the newspaper from Violet’s hand. “I wonder if Cotton has seen this yet.”
Violet exhaled loudly. “The fact
that I’m still alive implies that he hasn’t.”
Peter leaned forward, stroking his mustache. “Vi, you’d better call your agent and figure out a way to deny this before it ruins you.”
“I’m not going to deny it, Peter.”
He seemed incredulous. “What? An item like this could end you in this town.”
Violet stood and began to pace. “But it’s true. It’s not as though it’s libelous.”
“But Vi,” Irene said, “you’re not going to let Sylvia King destroy your career, are you?”
Violet looked at the floor for a moment, as though she was considering the question. “I hope not. But the last thing I’m going to do is pretend that I’m something that I’m not, career be damned.”
“What are you saying?” Moxie asked.
“What I’ve said my whole life—that I’m not some moral degenerate or sideshow attraction to be trotted out to the masses so strangers can either be titillated or denounce what I do in my own bedroom.”
“Or baggage car,” Wil added.
Violet continued without missing a beat. “Acting is my livelihood, not my lifestyle, and who I choose to share my time or my bed with should be immaterial to how well people think I do my job.”
Joe finally spoke, the cadence of his voice soft and metered. “Well, yes. It should be immaterial, but it isn’t. When people hear you’re a lesbian, that will be all they need to decide that you’re wanton and depraved.”
“They’ll run you out of town on a rail, Vi,” Peter said.
“Then so be it,” Violet declared glibly. “But this is who I am and how I live my life, and I refuse to apologize for it. I intend to report to the set first thing Monday morning, just like any other workday. It’s possible that this will just blow over, unnoticed.”
Irene’s brow furrowed. “But what about Moxie?”
Violet’s expression took on a grave, pensive quality. “She’s unidentified and in the clear, for now.” She turned to address Moxie directly. “If you don’t want to be seen publicly with me, I’ll understand.”
Moxie was stunned. “What?”
“I can only speak for myself,” Violet explained. “I’m not going to tell you what you should do. Your career is just starting to take off, and you don’t want to put yourself in a position to regret anything later on. Now if you all don’t mind, I’m going to bed. You’re welcome to stay as long as you please, but I think I’m quite tired. Good night.”
Seduction of Moxie Page 22