Tinseltown Confidential

by Martin Turnbull

  “Try it on,” Gwendolyn told her, ignoring the triplets. “It’s too large for you, but it’ll give us an idea of how to fix it.”

  One of the triplets cleared her throat like the narrator in a French farce.

  “And Hattie, there’s a light woolen suit near where you found the first one, more of a paprika red. The workroom’s got tons of space to try everything. I’ll be back to check on you.”

  She approached the three bottle blondes. “Ladies?” she said sweetly.

  The one with the big boobs lowered her voice to a genteel but firm whisper. “Surely you can see how inappropriate it is for you to be attending this sort of clientele.”

  Gwendolyn had hoped she might be able to negotiate a middle ground. She took a half-step back and whispered, “You think they don’t have enough money?”

  “That’s not what we mean,” Triplet Number Two said, “and I’m pretty sure you know it.”

  Gwendolyn shook her head slowly and smiled, sweet as cotton candy. “I really don’t.”

  “We’re only looking out for your best interests.”

  “Trust us, Gwendolyn, you wouldn’t want word to get out about this.”

  “About what?”

  “Don’t force us to say it out loud.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to.”

  “Your regular clientele? You’ll see none of them here once it gets out that you’re catering to the colored element.”

  “You make them sound like crayons.”

  “You’re a businesswoman and you need to be practical.” Triplet Number Three finally found her voice. “If you plan on selling to Negroes in this part of town, you might as well just close your doors right now.”

  “And that would be a shame,” Number One said, tempering her voice. “You have a delightful store and your perfume is divine. It would be awfully shortsighted of you to go against the grain of popular opinion—”

  “Honestly, ladies, I’m surprised at you!” Gwendolyn exclaimed. “You’ve got all the class and breeding and social advantages that money can buy.” Hundreds of “women’s pictures” had taught Gwendolyn that in order to clobber fools like these, a girl must flatter them first. “I know at least one of you went to Bryn Mawr.”

  “Sarah Lawrence,” Big Boobs said. “I fail to see—”

  “It frankly disappoints me that of all people, you three—” flatter, guilt, shame “—would come in here to my store—” remind them who rules the roost “—and stop dead in your tracks because you can’t see past the color of someone’s skin.”

  “Don’t label us Jim Crow!”

  “Yeah!” Number Two agreed. “This is California, not Kentucky.”

  “Ladies,” Gwendolyn said, more placatingly now, “surely we can act like responsible, forward-thinking adults, and concern ourselves more with doing the right thing than the done thing.”

  Gwendolyn heard a noise behind her. Hattie and Dorothy stood a few feet away. “Thank you,” Dorothy said, “but we’ll be going.”

  “You stay right there,” Number One told her, then faced Gwendolyn. “My husband is head of casting at Universal, and he personally saw to it that—” she aimed a lacquered nail at Dorothy— “this girl was cast in a picture with Una Munson. He raved about her audition and insisted she was cast.”

  “That picture was called Drums of the Congo,” Dorothy said. “I played Princess Malimi.”

  “You see? My husband is progressive, and so am I.”

  Gwendolyn wasn’t sure how casting a Negro actress in the role of a Congolese princess qualified as progressive.

  “But that means we all agree!” Gwendolyn exclaimed. “Your husband casts colored actresses—at least he didn’t put Maria Montez in blackface, right? Meanwhile, you shop where that same actress is looking at buying an outfit or two. It’s all the same!”

  Gwendolyn had meant to win the woman over, Number One started shaking her head.

  “You’re being pigheaded!”

  “Perhaps we all are,” Gwendolyn countered.

  “No!” Number Three insisted. “We are being realistic. Are you really prepared to sacrifice your living for—for—”

  “For the sake of doing the right thing?” Gwendolyn prompted.

  As though by some prearranged signal, the Tinseltown Triplets in their matching hair and twenty-inch waists that probably hadn’t seen solid food since their high school proms spun around and stormed out of the store.

  Gwendolyn kept her eyes on the window and tried to beat back her doubts. She felt a presence over her shoulder.

  “They’re right, you know,” Hattie said. “You’ll pay a price.”

  “I prefer to think this world is changing,” Gwendolyn said.

  “Perhaps, but if my experience is anything to go by, change comes mighty slow.”

  “Well,” Gwendolyn exclaimed, spinning around, “fiddle-dee-dee!” Immediately, she wished she hadn’t.

  Hattie’s face lit up, her round eyes bulging with recognition. “Lord have mercy! My screen test! With the fire, and the hoop skirt! I knew that I knew your face! Once they hauled you off to hose you down, they grabbed some poor script girl to stand in your place. Ten minutes later, I was back in front of them cameras. The next thing I know, our screen test is being bandied about town like you were some freak exhibit at the zoo. Every time I heard about it, I shook my head and thought to myself, ‘That poor girl. The humiliation!’” Hattie raised a hand and cast around the store. “You’ve landed on your feet, though.”

  “Yeah,” Dorothy said, “but for how long?”

  CHAPTER 20

  Marcus pulled into the parking lot of the Riviera Country Club in the Pacific Palisades. The place had an eighteen-hole golf course and a sprawling four-story clubhouse with five wings, which meant George Cukor could be anywhere.

  The previous week, when Marcus received George’s note to meet him there, he couldn’t have been more delighted. The two of them had been close friends throughout the thirties and into the war years, but life had led them down separate paths. Marcus had always made a point of going to see a new Cukor picture, even the ones with tarnished reputations, like Two-Faced Woman, which Marcus didn’t think deserved to kill Garbo’s career. But now George was helming his third Tracy-and-Hepburn flick, so evidently life for him was on the upswing again.

  But why had George summoned him? Did he have news? Had he waited until he was away from the studio to present him with an opportunity to lift him off the graylist? Did George even know of the graylist? He was a deliberate man, not given to whim or time wasting, and always had a carefully considered purpose for everything he did.

  True to her word, Lucille Ball had set up full access for Marcus to shoot the writing, rehearsing, and filming of what had now become a runaway hit. Somehow, Mr. and Mrs. Arnaz had conceived a show that everybody in America wanted to watch.

  Marcus admired Lucille’s foresight and pondered the irony that television had brought her the astonishing fame that eluded her as she toiled away as a featured player and starred in B-list movies.

  But it wasn’t full-time work. It was enough to cover rent and gas, but barely, and Marcus couldn’t live on it indefinitely.

  From the parking lot, Marcus glimpsed a sparkle of the blue Pacific past the vast expanses of lush, green lawns. But nowhere could he spot the movie location trucks and vehicles that were the usual giveaway.

  In his note, George said to meet him at the Riviera Country Club at noon on January 20. But where?

  Inside the clubhouse’s hushed marbled foyer, he asked the girl behind the desk if she could direct him to where MGM was shooting. Soon, a caddy appeared, escorted him to a golf buggy, and drove him to the farthest link tucked away in the foothills of the Palisades. An armada of identical cars was lined up with military precision along a grove of cypress pines, in front of which lay a boot camp of tents and equipment.

  A young man in his twenties, sporting a bow tie and clipboard, came running. “You must be Mr. Adle
r?”

  “I am.”

  “Mr. Cukor asked me to bring you to him.”

  He led Marcus to a large, square canopy of white canvas, under which George was seated at a café table with room for two chairs. A glass pitcher had already been set up. When George caught sight of Marcus, he brightened. “May the martinis begin!”

  He rose to his feet and enclosed Marcus in a tight hug. “It’s so very good to see you, dear boy!”

  When he and George became friends, Marcus was already in his late twenties and felt he scarcely deserved the “dear boy” moniker, but figured if MGM’s best director wanted to call him that, who was he to say no?

  George started pouring the drinks. “I caught up with Garson the other day. He mentioned you were back from Europe.”

  Even now, all roads led to the Garden of Allah. Garson Kanin and his wife, Ruth Gordon, had been regular faces, either in residence or at parties. They wrote four of Cukor’s last six movies.

  “It was nice to hear from you,” Marcus said.

  “How long have you been back?”

  In some ways, the past ten months had flown by; in other ways they’d crawled. In his more despondent indulgences, Marcus wished Oliver had taken the time to tell him face-to-face, but in perkier moments, he thought Screw it.

  Marcus clinked George’s glass. “Not quite a year.”

  The tiniest sip of martini took him back to Sunday brunches at George’s house above the Strip where some of the brightest and smartest men in Hollywood gathered to dish the dirt and sample the gourmet fare that their host laid out in generous amounts. That life felt a million years ago, back when nobody had heard of Hitler, McCarthy, or the Black Dahlia.

  “I had lunch with Mervyn the other day,” George said. “He told me about the excellent job you did on Quo Vadis. You’ve become quite the photographer, it seems.”

  “I’m glad he was pleased.”

  “More than pleased!” He gestured to a lackey who was hovering outside the tent. “Evidently, you’ve got a cinematic eye, and you know how to tell a story with both a typewriter and a camera. He went on about it for quite some time.” He waited until the lackey had served them a small Caesar salad and retreated to the shade of the cypress pines. “And what’s this I hear about I Love Lucy?”

  “I caught a lucky break.”

  George chewed his salad and nodded thoughtfully as Marcus described life inside the eye of the I Love Lucy storm. Not that it compared to directing Gone with the Wind or Camille, but still, the television show was now the talk of water coolers and coffee klatches all over the country.

  George wiped his mouth. “You need to find steadier work than that.”

  “I know,” Marcus said. “A guy can’t live on beans and rice forever. But at least I’m working, thanks to Mayer.”

  “Mayer got you that job?”

  “No, he got me off the blacklist and onto the gray one.”

  George nodded slowly. “So there is such a thing. Mervyn alluded to it, but he got uncharacteristically vague when I pressed him for details.”

  “It means I can work, but I won’t get a decent job with decent pay until I’m off the list altogether. If you’ve got an idea or suggestion, I’m all ears.”

  “You need to align yourself with someone in power. The trouble is—” George gouged out a chunk of romaine lettuce from between his front teeth “—the power players are waning. Mayer’s gone. Pat and Mike is Hepburn’s farewell to MGM. My next movie is an adaption of a Ruth Gordon play, but after that, I think MGM and I will have reached the end of the road.”

  An afternoon breeze chilled by the Pacific swept through the tent. “An MGM without George Cukor is almost as unthinkable as an MGM without L.B. Mayer.”

  “Thank you, dear boy, but that’s the reality we now live in. I fear we’re on the far side of Hollywood’s peak. At least, the Hollywood we know.”

  “Finding someone who can help me off the graylist is going to be tricky, isn’t it?”

  George sat up in alarm. “I was talking about stopping you from sliding back onto the blacklist.”

  The appearance of poached salmon and sliced tomatoes gave Marcus time to ponder an outcome he hadn’t considered. The smell of the fish wafted up, nauseating him. He forced himself to pick up his fork and jab at the salmon as though he couldn’t decide which part to eat first. Back on the blacklist? Back in limbo? Back on the roll call of Hollywood’s personae non gratae?

  George said, “Have you heard of this new evangelist?”

  Marcus was unprepared for this abrupt change in conversation. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “The one getting so much press lately. Sheldon Voss.”

  It was hard to avoid the onslaught of coverage Voss’ proposed Sea to Shining Sea March had garnered. Newspaper editorials posited the theory that the rise of Billy Graham and Sheldon Voss heralded a swing toward a more conservative national outlook. The postwar economy was booming and nobody wanted to mess with it.

  “Yes,” Marcus said, “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Did you know that Voss and Joseph Breen are college pals?”

  “That’s a scary thought.”

  “They went to the same college in Philadelphia.” George lowered his voice. “I’ve been following this Voss character, and it’s become nauseatingly clear that both those bastards detest fairies. Don’t kid yourself—they’re coming for us.”

  This was the first time Marcus had heard someone else talk about this Lavender Scare. He gave up all pretense of eating and slid his fork beside the china plate. “Go on.”

  “I have a friend who lives in DC. He’s well connected politically, and he said that Voss courted Hoover and McCarthy. Voss views homosexuals as perverted deviants, and thinks the ones who have married are subverting the American way. In his opinion, that’s unforgivable, which is why he considers Los Angeles a cesspit of sin and debauchery.”

  “What’s the bet he’s never even been out here?”

  “Listen to me, Marcus. I’ve read everything I can get my hands on about this Voss character, and I think he’s got Kathryn in his sights.”

  “You think or you know?”

  “It’s more of an educated guess. Voss has gone out of his way to curry favor with Hoover, and Hoover is pals with Winchell, who is top of the ratings. But who’s creeping up close enough to nip him in the butt?”

  “Kathryn.”

  “And who did she marry at the end of the war?”

  “Me.”

  “Which means yours was a lavender marriage, and Hoover knows that. So does Winchell. It would behoove you, therefore, to assume Voss does too. Cesspits of sin and debauchery are too abstract for regular Mr. and Mrs. Joe Public. They need a face to match all that self-righteousness.”

  “But Kathryn’s practically Betty Crocker’s sister these days.”

  “If I were Voss, I’d be looking to see how those HUAC vipers did it. They accused famous people. The more wholesome the face, the greater the shock, the bigger the headline.”

  A new lackey approached the tent. “Mr. Cukor? Miss Hepburn wants to know when we’ll begin shooting.”

  “Tell her fifteen minutes.”

  Marcus waited until they were alone again. “So you think Voss is starting to connect the dots that will lead him to a big fish.”

  “That guy is plenty cunning. It won’t take him long. You need to get off the graylist, pronto, before you find yourself on the blacklist. Or worse.”

  “There’s worse than the blacklist?”

  “There’s always worse.”

  Cukor laid his linen napkin beside his plate and stood up. “You’ve barely touched your salmon,” he noted. “There’s no rush just because I’ve got to go. I ordered chocolate mousse for dessert. It’s been lovely seeing you again. Sorry I’ve got to go, but this glorious sun won’t shine forever. Take all the time you need.”

  The tang of the poached salmon drifted up to Marcus again. He pushed the plate away until he could no longer
smell it.

  CHAPTER 21

  Kathryn sat in Joseph Breen’s reception area and thought Ugh, and double ugh! She had never imagined she’d be sitting outside the office of the Hollywood censor who enforced a code of behavior that went out with Queen Victoria, gas lighting, and chastity belts.

  “You’ve got a job to do,” Marcus had told her over banana splits at Wil Wright’s. “Plus, it’ll put you inside the enemy camp where you can sniff around like Rin Tin Tin.”

  Kathryn would have preferred a Nancy Drew comparison, but she took his point.

  When he came home to the Garden to detail his lunch with Cukor, she felt as sick as Marcus had. Of all the people Sheldon Voss could target, he just happened to choose his niece? An unlikely coincidence, but as Marcus pointed out, “Thomas Danford didn’t know he was your father and Francine hasn’t spoken to her brother in forty years.”

  The irony was the sort of unexpected development around which a Hollywood movie would turn. And if this were just some Lubitsch farce or a bittersweet Wilder allegory, she knew she could distance herself enough to figure out her best move. But this was her own life poised to unravel and she only had her instincts to see her through.

  Kathryn shifted in the uncomfortable chair. She pulled off her gloves and withdrew a notepad from her purse to look over a list of questions she and Marcus had dreamed up over port wine.

  Liberal-minded Hollywood had always seen Breen as a disapproving meddler who reveled in hindering creative expression. Kathryn’s transcontinental cake-baking trek had reminded her how easy it was to forget that people outside of Hollywood were more traditional in their outlook.

  “What if,” she’d speculated to Marcus, “I give him a chance to air his side? Ask him what he thinks and what he feels? After all, we’ve always seen him as the enemy.”

  “Which he is.”

  “I bet he doesn’t see it that way.”

  Breen’s secretary, a surprisingly relaxed woman of thirty, capable and efficient, announced that he would see her now.

  The guy resembled L.B. Mayer closely enough that they could be brothers. They had the same small wire-framed glasses and harsh eyes peering back at her.