“Ben! What happened to you?” Frederick pulled his friend up by the shoulders from his bed of soggy newspaper. Ben groaned and tried to push him away.
“Can’t . . . breathe.”
Frederick eased him back gently, and Ben sucked in a shallow, wheezing gasp.
“See your ribs are healing all right, youngster,” Ben whispered. “Wish I could say the same for mine. Busted ’em when that copper tossed me. Ain’t been the same since.”
“One of the ribs might have punctured your lung,” Frederick said. He felt Ben’s forehead. It was burning hot. “You might have pneumonia. We have to get you to a doctor!”
“Can’t locomote, I’m afeard.”
“I’ll carry you, then.” But when Frederick tried to pick him up, Ben gave a thin, terrible wail of pain.
“Just leave me here, youngster. No good beating a dead horse. My days in the traces are done.”
“No! You can’t just give up, Ben. I’ll find you a doctor. Wait right here!”
Ben managed a pathetic chuckle. “Don’t aim to leave.”
Ten minutes later, Frederick was pounding on a doctor’s door. “Please, you have to come help my friend. He’s dying!”
The doctor looked him over and started to shut the door. Frederick shoved his foot in the crack before it could close.
“Sorry,” the doctor said, not unkindly. “I have five kids to support and the bank’s getting antsy about my office mortgage. I can only take paying customers. You’ll have to get him to the hospital in the next town. That’s . . .”
“I know where it is.” It was right across the street from the jail. “That’s too far, and he can’t walk. Can’t you come look at him?”
“Do I have to call the sheriff?”
“Didn’t you take an oath, Doctor? To help people?”
The doctor shoved the door harder, pinching Frederick’s foot.
No, I can’t do it, Frederick thought. Not even for this.
But it’s Ben. Ben who helped me onto my first train. Ben who shared his mulligan. Ben who understood how I couldn’t kill a chicken.
“I have money!” he blurted out. “A lot of money.”
The doctor looked at him skeptically. “Show me,” he demanded.
“I . . . I don’t have it on me.”
“Get out of here, boy.”
“I can send all of your kids to college. I swear—anything you want. Just please help my friend.”
“Did you escape from the asylum? Scram!” The doctor managed to push Frederick’s foot out of the way and slammed the door shut.
Frederick pounded with both hands. “I’m rich, do you hear me?” He was screaming like a lunatic. People on the street stopped to watch. “I’m Frederick Preston Aloysius van der Waals, son of Jacob van der Waals, and I can buy this whole stinking town! Open up, damn you! I can make you a millionaire—just help my friend!” He kicked at the door.
“What are you looking at?” he screamed to the gaping pedestrians. “Someone better help my friend, or I’ll buy every single one of your houses and turn them into manure farms!” He raged on, cursing and screaming at everyone he saw. Tears were running down his face as he turned and raced back to Ben.
His friend was near the end. He was still breathing, barely, but his fever was gone, and his body was growing unnaturally cold. Fleas that had been living in his beard began to hop off, believing him already dead.
“I told them who I am, Ben,” Frederick wept, clutching his friend’s hand. “No one believed me.”
“Who are you, then?” Ben asked softly, his eyes cracking open with mild curiosity, showing a glint of his old self.
“I’m rich. I’m a billionaire. I told the doctor, but he wouldn’t believe me. He wouldn’t come help you. I could buy an entire hospital! But I can’t save you.” Frederick buried his face in his hands.
After a moment he felt Ben touch him on the shoulder. “Don’t need . . . savin’,” he gasped out. “Just need . . . a friend . . . on the journey.”
His hand fell away, and his last breath escaped in a sigh.
“Ben,” Frederick whispered. “Oh, Ben . . .”
PART THREE
HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA
1932
THIRTEEN
Lulu! Hey, baby face! Turn that blond head of yours toward the camera,” the director, Ira Sassoon, shouted into his bullhorn.
For a moment the pretty young girl in the middle of the set didn’t respond. Even after a year in Hollywood, she still wasn’t completely used to being either Lulu Kelly or something as exotic as a platinum blonde. At her core she was still a child of a Lower East Side tenement, a gangly girl mocked for being all elbows and knees. Back then, her silvery corn-silk hair was called “towhead,” and it wasn’t considered an asset. Now her coltish form had rounded in all the right places, and they called her fair hair platinum blond. If she hadn’t been born with it, Hollywood would have given it to her in a bottle.
Lulu, she reminded herself. I’m Lulu Kelly.
The director had to yell her name again before she snapped out of her daze. “You look a little peaked,” Sassoon said. “Do you need Docky to give you a little pick-me-up?”
Docky was Dr. Martin, the studio physician.
“No thanks,” she said, shuddering inwardly. She’d heard stories about Docky and his pick-me-up pills. She flashed the director her megawatt smile and turned her heart-shaped face with its alluring dark blue eyes toward the camera.
Then the Hollywood machine began to whir.
Lois, her favorite makeup assistant, dabbed away the shine caused by the sweltering studio lights. A nervous new stylist named Stanley smoothed the Marcelled waves of her bobbed hair. An impatient wardrobe assistant twitched the hem of her silvery Schiaparelli gown until it hung perfectly. Then, after they’d done their work and been shooed away by the assistant director, Sassoon barked, “Action!” and the familiar hush fell over the set as Lulu transformed herself.
It took only an instant, but the change was perceptible to everyone watching. One moment she was just a girl playing dress-up. The next she was someone else. With a subtle shift somewhere inside her that reflected plainly on her face, she’d become Jezebel March, the wild society flapper tamed by the love of a good man in the film adaptation of the scandalous hit novel Girl About Town.
Never mind that her leading man stank like an ashtray and wore more makeup than she did. Never mind that her high heels hurt and she’d barely eaten or slept and she’d be expected to shine at a studio party that night until the wee morning hours. When filming began, she entered another world. It was a kind of ecstasy, she thought, a sort of wild abandon and ultimate control all at the same time. She became another person and in doing so became utterly herself, because she was the one making it happen. Lulu threw her entire soul, every ounce of her passion, into playing Jezebel.
Mostly because she loved it. But also because if Girl About Town wasn’t a hit, Lux Studios might cancel her contract. Then—even though she’d had her picture in Photoplay nine times so far—she feared she’d be quickly kicked to the curb and forgotten. Veronica hadn’t minced words when describing the fates of the many girls who had come (and mostly gone) before her. The astonishing amount of early publicity Lulu had been given had earned her the animosity of many of her peers, mostly the other young contract actresses, and they would ensure that if she ever fell, she’d fall hard. Every budding starlet was only one bomb away from oblivion.
A year ago everyone had assumed that she had a rich, influential backer pushing her to stardom. It had certainly looked like that. Sure, the girl had chops, they said, but doors open that fast only when there’s funny business going on behind closed doors. But no sugar daddy had ever emerged; no benefactor had stepped forward to share her limelight. She’d been given a good push at the start, but now she was on her own.
At least, Lulu desperately hoped she was. The alternative would be too terrible. She hadn’t heard a word from Salvatore Benedett
o since her train pulled into LA, and that’s the way she wanted to keep it. He was the reason she could send five hundred dollars to her mother every month. He was the reason her name was on everyone’s lips as the next It Girl. But he was also the reason she still slept with nightmares and woke up with a gnawing sense of guilt and apprehension every morning. It was no wonder she cherished every opportunity to inhabit someone else’s life, if only under the camera lens.
The character Lulu played had picked up a mangy mutt from a trash heap on a dare and was going to make a pet of it. Every film had a dog or a baby—they both really brought in the crowds. In this scene she was blind drunk and braying to her costar that “life was for living!” With fire in her eyes and ice in her heart, she swore she’d live hers any way she liked. In the current script, faithfully adapted from the novel, her costar was supposed to stalk away, leaving her alone with her mangy dog and a bottle of gin, collapsing in an angry puddle of tears. Later, after the dog bit her on the face and ruined her good looks, he would ask her, “You need someone to take care of you?” Cue earnest, manly look. “You’re my angel!” Then he’d take the reformed jazz baby into his arms, her eyes full of grateful tears, his full of strength and resolve. Fade-out. The End.
What a bunch of hooey. Why did everyone think that all a woman needed was a strong man to take care of her? It was just another great Hollywood lie. But it sold tickets, so the lie would be told over and over again as long as it was profitable.
Except the scene wasn’t working. Oh, Lulu was spot-on, her tears unfeigned, her anger real, despite her problems with the script. Even her costar’s overacting and annoying mannerisms didn’t ruin the scene. No, the problem was that the dog was just too cute.
The audience was supposed to understand why the hero saw it as an ugly metaphor for Jezebel’s compulsions and predict the dreadful consequences awaiting the distraught heroine. But every dog they tried stole the show, and though they were excellent actors, enthusiastically shaking hands or playing dead, none of them could muster up the necessary menace.
They’d auditioned all sorts of dogs, sending out a universal canine casting call. They thought a bull terrier might work, but unfortunately, he had a floppy ear that made him well-nigh irresistible. A huge German shepherd with gleaming teeth had a snarl that looked like a grin in a toothpaste commercial and was impossibly noble. The chow’s blue tongue lolled as if he were tipsy, and the Samoyed resembled a fashionable muff.
Today they went for small and mean. A raffish wire-haired terrier had been rolled in the mud until he looked sufficiently disreputable. Lulu was sure he would work. The dog had this disconcerting way of cocking his head and narrowing his eyes, as if he could see into her soul and wasn’t quite sure he liked what he found there.
But just as she was really getting into the part, Sassoon yelled, “Cut!” and she let the dog slither out of her arms. He nosed at her ankles hopefully but was dragged off by his handler.
Lulu heard feverish discussion around the director’s chair. Sassoon was red-faced and scowling. She caught snatches of muttered conversation: “supposed to be a mangy mutt” . . . “smart aleck” . . . “those eyes.”
Lulu walked over. “What’s wrong this time?” she asked.
“The damned dog’s a ham,” Sassoon said, exasperated. “He has eyebrows. Are dogs supposed to have eyebrows? The whole time you’re delivering your passionate speech about how no one can put a leash on you, he’s waggling his eyebrows like a dirty old man lurking outside the schoolyard. He stole the scene. All of the takes are useless. Can the dog! Can all dogs. Harry!” A frazzled assistant rushed to the director’s side. “Get the script doctors, pronto.”
Lulu rubbed her temples. A rewrite. That could mean an extra week of filming, maybe more. Lulu was frustrated because a plum role was being cast this week, set to begin filming in three weeks, and if Girl About Town wasn’t wrapped by then, Lulu didn’t have a chance. And that wasn’t going to happen.
Girl About Town was her biggest role so far. Hers was the lead name on the marquee. After her first lucky break, she had won a measure of fame playing little sisters. She’d died prettily twice. In her latest film, in quite a big role but still second fiddle, she played a coquette just out of finishing school who sets her cap at the man her sister is secretly engaged to.
Now, finally, she was the lead, a spoiled rich girl behaving badly, a million miles away from her true background. It was a good role, a fun frolic that would probably do well and give Lulu’s career the boost it needed. When she first came to Hollywood, that was all she cared about—getting a good part that would pay well and lead to the next good role. But now that she’d been bitten by the acting bug, now that she knew she had real talent, good wasn’t good enough anymore. She wanted great.
The House of Mirth was that once-in-a-lifetime part that would showcase her talent and put her on top. She felt it in her bones. Even though the country was in the terrible grip of the Depression and unemployment was at an all-time high, seventy million people each week were still willing to hand over their fifteen precious cents to escape reality in a darkened movie theater. The House of Mirth had it all: tortuous choices between love and money, between honor and position. It had adultery, betrayal, and tragic death—the dramatic trifecta.
When Lulu played a wealthy good-time girl, she was acting. But if she could play a girl torn between a poor but good life and filthy lucre, she wouldn’t have to act. She would be the part. Lulu knew all about that ultimate test of morals.
The well-oiled efficiency of the set dissolved as soon as the director left. Grips rolled the lights away, and extras retreated to the corners to smoke and gossip.
Lulu’s costar, Blake Tanner, sidled up to her. He was nice enough, if a bit vapid—a big man in his early twenties, with a square chin and a smooth voice, who gave good face to the movie rags. He had a habit of delivering all of his lines with an earnest wrinkle between his eyebrows, which some people mistook for good acting.
“Heard a tasty little tidbit on the rumor mill,” Blake said.
“That mill never stops turning, does it?” Lulu said with annoyance.
“My dear, that’s what fame is. When the rumors end, you’re no longer famous. You can only keep your secrets when no one cares about them anymore.”
Lulu gave a little shudder. No one would ever discover what she’d done . . . would they? No, it was impossible. Only one other person knew the truth, and there was no way he was talking.
“Who’s it about?” she asked.
“You, baby face. Word is you’re going to be developing a passionate romantic interest in the near future. Here’s hoping it’s with me. Dolly’s due for a sleep cure, so she’ll be in a coma for two weeks waiting for the pounds to melt off. I’ll be a free agent.” He winked at her. Dolly was a dancer on the Lux payroll, and Blake’s official tabloid girlfriend at the moment. “If you like, I’ll have a word with Sassoon and Niederman and see if we can swing it. It would be great publicity.”
“No thanks. I prefer to make my own mistakes.” And since she said it with a sweet smile, she was long gone before he figured out she might have insulted him.
Like I’d let that off-the-cob clown so much as pitch the woo in my direction, she thought, furious. But that was the Hollywood way—it was what she’d signed on for.
For a while they had let her be the ingénue, a wide-eyed innocent. Her fresh face had stood alone. But now, a year later—an eternity by Hollywood standards—they were ready to pair her off to add to her allure. She wasn’t expected to love whomever they chose. She hardly had to see him, outside of photo opportunities. But she had to accept it or have her contract torn up. If that happened, she’d go from making a small fortune each month to living with her folks again. Despite her best efforts, the lavish lifestyle Hollywood demanded of her seemed to eat up her money. If she were to fail . . . she hoped she’d be brave enough to sink low again. But she was afraid she might have gotten too used to luxury.
Her corner wasn’t quiet for long.
A girl with big green eyes and a tip-tilted nose walked up to Lulu with feline elegance. “I don’t think the problem is the dog,” she said. “It’s you, extra.” In the acting world, that was a serious insult.
“Ruby Godfrey, you wouldn’t know good acting if it socked you in the snoot.” Lulu balled up her slender little hand. “And it’s just about to.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing Ruby back up a pace. She and Ruby had both been up for the starring role in Girl About Town. But all Ruby got was the part of one of Lulu’s friends, one of a gaggle of flighty, gay society frails. Lulu had to admit that Ruby was a good actress. She just had a habit of getting on the wrong side of people. And, Lulu thought grimly, of seducing the wrong men.
Lulu hadn’t breathed a word about certain things she’d witnessed, but word had gotten out anyway, and Ruby considered her a sworn enemy. It seemed like losing the part was the last straw in their relationship. Now Ruby was furious, and she harassed Lulu on the set with constant digs.
“You’ve got a big mouth, tootsie,” Ruby spat. Then the girl’s eyes narrowed maliciously. “In fact, I heard your big mouth is what got you the part.” She sniggered. “Everyone knows you’re a casting-couch girl.”
“Why you . . . ,” Lulu fumed.
“Check your lipstick, toots,” Ruby sneered, and walked off with a wiggle.
The slum child within Lulu longed to grab her rival by the hair and pull it out by the roots. But I’m better than that, she told herself, and took a deep breath, then another. At least, I am now. A couple of the extras had heard the exchange. Peachy, she thought. Now the magazines will report that we’re feuding. Gossip columnist Lolly was still firmly on her side, but other tabloids would take whatever their sources gave them. What clever headline would they use? “Starlets Start Spiteful Spat?”
She watched Ruby perch on a chair, checking her face in the mirror of her ever-present compact. She’d never seen someone so in love with her own face. And in this town, that was saying something.
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