Tinseltown Confidential

by Martin Turnbull

  Severe laryngitis was the official excuse, but Kathryn suspected “severe boozing-itis” was a more likely cause. She hadn’t seen him enter the auditorium, but she would have bet her last dollar that Connolly wouldn’t miss this night.

  A glimpse of white flashed among the tuxedo forest. Of course he’s wearing white linen to a formal premiere. God forbid anybody should miss him.

  She was maneuvering toward Connolly when Leo stepped in front of her. “Can I get you a drink?”

  She told him she’d love a sidecar. “You’ll need to give me a minute, though. Mike Connolly and I have business to discuss.”

  Leo knitted his brows. “Isn’t that what offices are for?”

  She told him Hollywood was a twenty-four-hour town and zigzagged until she could position herself in Connolly’s line of sight. She summoned him toward her.

  “You look . . . intense,” he said.

  She smelled brandy on his breath. “I have a problem!”

  “And you’re coming to me? Why, Miss Massey, I’m flattered.”

  No, you’re not. But you’re curious as hell. “It’s this march. I’m in over my head.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “You know how Sunbeam and Betty Crocker are sponsors? Well, they want me to report each week on their progress across the country.”

  The guy’s smile curdled. “We talked about that.”

  “The trouble is, I don’t know Jesus from Jerusalem. I’m scared to death that I’m going to either offend people or come across like an ignoramus.”

  “Or both.”

  Yes, you brandy-soaked turd, or both. “Exactly!”

  “So what do you want from me? Bible classes?”

  “I was thinking along the lines of a crash course.”

  “Aren’t there plenty of priests you could ask?”

  “I can’t imagine there are many priests who are as savvy with the media as you are.” Bait and hook. “To be honest, I wish you could take the whole thing off my hands.”

  “What whole thing?”

  “Reporting on the march each week on my show.”

  And reel him in.

  “Why don’t I?”

  “Why don’t you what?”

  “Handle the march.”

  “But how would something like that work? Unless you mean—like a special segment?”

  Connolly deposited his drink on the shelf next to them. It clanged on the marble. “I could be your special correspondent!”

  Kathryn shook her head. “You heard Wilkerson when you came on board. I handle the broad issues; you stick to the juicy gossip. It’s worked well so far—”

  “Lookit, I’m the perfect choice. I’m very publicly pro-religion and pro-Catholic.” You left out pro-personal publicity. “You just convince your Mister Sunbeam boyfriend, and leave Wilkerson to me. I’ll talk him around.”

  That wouldn’t be hard. Yesterday afternoon, in the middle of a discussion about how to tactfully report on Rita Hayworth’s upcoming divorce from Prince Aly Khan, Kathryn dropped in a couple of comments about how well she and Connolly were working together. “Honestly,” she told Gwennie and Doris later, “men can be so gullible, it’s almost no fun at all.”

  “Do you think you can?” Kathryn asked. “In my experience, Wilkerson prefers to come up with his own ideas.”

  “Or thinks he does.”

  She nudged his shoulder. “Oh, you are a sly one.”

  “Much can be accomplished with a good old-fashioned man-to-man chat.”

  Marilyn entered the foyer, dazzling in a chic concoction of purple lace supported by ten black petticoats. She spotted Kathryn and waved.

  “We should congratulate her,” Kathryn said, just as a thicket of admirers besieged the girl of the moment and Kathryn saw she wouldn’t get close.

  Across the room, a hand held a bright orange cocktail in a martini glass above the heads. It was Leo—she recognized the wristwatch.

  “Say, wait a minute. What’s your angle?” Cagey mistrust now etched Connolly’s face. “You’ve always been the face and voice of the Hollywood Reporter and now you’re being selfless. I don’t get it.”

  “I’m being the opposite of selfless, if you want to know the truth.” A trio of reporters elbowed past Kathryn and Connolly en route to Marilyn. She waited until they were past. “When it comes to all that religious stuff, I’m a fish out of water. I do not relish the prospect of flopping around on the deck gasping for my last breath while I’m live on the air with twenty million people listening. The whole Jesus thing is more up your alley than mine. I’m happy for you to do the Voss stuff and save me any possible humiliation.” Kathryn counted slowly to five. “Of course, if you’ve changed your mind . . .”

  She watched panic replace the suspicion in his eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Do you need time to think about whether or not you’re up for the job?”

  “No,” he shot back. “I’d love to.”

  Leo was still holding Kathryn’s sidecar above the heads of the crowd. One of the reporters bumped him, moving the cocktail into the light cast by a fixture over the bar. It looked like a beacon now. Come to me . . . come to me . . .

  CHAPTER 31

  Lauren Bacall burst into Chez Gwendolyn amid a flurry of apologies for being so late. “Leslie’s just started teething. Bogie and I were up all night with her, so none of us got much sleep. I finally conked out around five this morning.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re here now.” Gwendolyn led her into the workroom. “I just read Kathryn’s column. Congrats on the new contract.”

  This morning, Kathryn broke the news that Lauren signed a contract with Twentieth Century-Fox that required only one picture a year. Despite her rough night, the woman burned with the vitality of a star at the top of her game.

  When Lauren asked for a dress for the Academy Awards, Gwendolyn was very flattered. Although neither Lauren nor Bogie nor any movie they were in had been nominated, it was the first time the ceremony would be televised, and everybody would be on show. A number of industry stalwarts sniffed that it was like allowing the lunatics to run the asylum for a day, but Gwendolyn agreed with Marcus—television was the way of the future. Why pretend otherwise?

  At a wholesaler in downtown LA, Gwendolyn had recently come across a bolt of silk the same shade of Lauren’s eyes and snapped it up. “I hear your first movie will be How to Marry a Millionaire.”

  Zanuck lost no time following through with Marcus’ suggestion to film The Greeks Had a Word for It for a third time, and in a matter of only days word at the studio got around that Nunnally Johnson was already at work on the screenplay.

  “We start filming next week.” Lauren ran her hands down the material and hummed her approval. “And with Marilyn Monroe, no less. She’s a client of yours, isn’t she?”

  Gwendolyn pulled out her sketch. Cut low across the chest, tight around the bodice, and made of interlocking triangles. “She is, yes, but how do you know that?”

  “For the same reason I wondered if you thought I wouldn’t show up.”

  Lauren Bacall was one of the most punctual people Gwendolyn knew. “Why would I think that?”

  “The new issue of Confidential.”

  Gwendolyn held the silk up to Lauren’s face. Now that she could compare the material to her eyes, she saw the shade didn’t quite match. It was darker, but it suited her complexion. “I saw the first one, but it was so tacky. Honestly, I’m surprised you bother with trash like that.”

  “You really haven’t seen it?” Lauren’s tone had turned serious.

  “Are you saying I should?”

  Lauren retrieved a copy of Confidential from her bag and flipped to a sycophantic article about Walter Winchell. It trumpeted the bravery he displayed on a weekly basis by reporting on mobster mayhem, police bungling, celebrity marital shenanigans, and dubious political maneuverings. It ended with a florid declaration that the publishers of Confidential looked forward to working
alongside such a proud and bold patriot.

  “A bit over the top,” Gwendolyn commented.

  “No, no, the other page.” Lauren pointed to an article halfway down.

  Here’s a cautionary tale of sartorial suspicion if ever we’ve heard one. It concerns a Sunset Strip boutique with the oo-la-la Frenchy sobriquet—

  “What’s a sobriquet?” Even as Gwendolyn asked the question, she already knew she didn’t want to hear the answer.

  “Just a fancy word for nickname,” Lauren said, “but this magazine likes to think it’s up there with Steinbeck and Hemingway.”

  —which caters to the Noir trade. La Madame-in-charge used to sell under the cover of darkness—pun most assuredly intended—but now conducts business openly as though the whole world approves. And it doesn’t stop with the selling of frocks. Evidently, La Madame holds mixed-race cocktail parties in the spacious back room where guests have been known to swap cocktails as readily as they swap clothes.

  “WHAT?!” If this had been her own copy, Gwendolyn would have hurled it into the alley. “Mixed parties where people swap clothes? How in the name of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph can they be allowed to print such tripe?”

  “Nobody appears to be stopping them. Keep reading.”

  But don’t assume they confine themselves to sticking with their gender when it comes to petticoats and garters, neckties and tuxedos. All you need to know is the password. It’s “Licketysplitter”—but don’t even ask what that refers to!

  Gwendolyn slammed the magazine onto her workbench. She was too shocked to even whip up a cuss word.

  “Have you sold merchandise to colored women?” Lauren asked.

  “Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne, Hattie McDaniel, Dorothy Dandridge.”

  “What about the cocktail parties?”

  “That is a complete fabrication!”

  Lauren pointed to the last sentence. “What do they mean by Licketysplitter?”

  Not long after the war, Gwendolyn discovered her boss at Bullocks Wilshire was a cross-dresser. Gwendolyn sewed him a flattering gown that made him the belle of the ball at a cross-dresser bar called The Midnight Frolics. The regulars referred to it as “The Licks,” and called themselves “Licketysplitters.” Soon, Gwendolyn was making dresses for most the patrons, who hailed her Queen of the Licketysplitters.

  All this led to Gwendolyn opening her store, which was ironic because soon after, the Licketysplitters defected to a dressmaker who worked for half the price.

  “Licketysplitter is just an old private joke.”

  “Not so private, apparently. Let’s forget about this.” Lauren slung the magazine back into her bag. “If the Academy Awards are going to be televised, we’ll need to come up with something that looks good from all angles.”

  * * *

  As Gwendolyn cut wedge-shaped panels of moss green silk, Herman Dewberry’s face popped into her mind. Or more specifically, that odd look on his face that night of the Bwana Devil preview.

  She got busy with the Christmas and New Year rush and didn’t worry too much that she didn’t hear back from him about extending the Sunset Boulevard line. January came and went. By the time February rolled around, she figured maybe his boss had put the kibosh on the whole idea.

  But that was before Confidential.

  Noir trade.

  Madame-in-charge.

  Cover of darkness.

  Mixed-race cocktail parties.

  The more she thought about it, the madder she got. Questions that wouldn’t have plagued her now popped up like groundhogs. Had Confidential suckered Herman into being a source? But what sense did that make? Why would he tell them about the Licketysplitters?

  It took significant willpower to stop herself from jumping on the phone, but touchy matters like these were better handled once the initial blast of fury had subsided. She waited forty-eight hours, but when she called his office, he wasn’t available and she had to leave a message.

  When he failed to return her call, disappointment became annoyance, which mutated into suspicion. She resented how a no-good pile of hogwash could force her to doubt a gentleman like Herman Dewberry. But after a week of unreturned calls, Gwendolyn decided there was nothing left but to confront the man face-to-face.

  Fortunately, he was a creature of habit. He took his lunch at the same time each day, at the same table in the Bullocks Wilshire Tea Room.

  As an employee, Gwendolyn never ate at the store’s restaurant, but she liked its calming spearmint green and earthy terra cotta Southwest color scheme. A few freshly coiffed ladies of leisure sat at scattered tables, but none were within eavesdropping distance of Herman.

  He didn’t look up from his fruit cup until she was close enough to clobber him. His face paled. She sat down without an invitation. “I’ve left five messages for you over the past week. Did you not receive them?”

  He wiped a linen napkin across his mouth with exaggerated care. “I’ve received them.”

  “That night of the Bwana Devil preview, you said you were going to set to work about extending the Sunset Boulevard line. That was months ago, Herman. If you’ve changed your mind, all you had to do was say so. There was no need to leave me dangling.”

  “First of all, I want you to know that I did exactly as I promised. I worked up a presentation to my boss. As per usual, he took his sweet time getting back to me, but when he finally did, he wanted a comparison of rival products.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Not at all. I expected it. But it’s a lot of work—facts, figures, graphs, pages of statistics. Everything pointed to exactly what I hoped, so I sent the report upstairs to be rubber-stamped.”

  “So why didn’t you make the offer?”

  “Because nothing happened. After a couple of weeks, I cornered him and asked him what gives? That’s when I learned my boss goes to the same church as Joseph Breen, and it’s a big supporter of this Sea to Shining Sea March. You know how that is—it’s all one big boys’ club.”

  Gwendolyn thought of Marcus’ comment the night of Marilyn’s birthday. “It’s a cabal,” she said, “but what does any of this have to do with extending my line?”

  Herman gave a theatrical sigh. “I would have clued you in if I’d known what was going on, but they’ve kept me in the dark.”

  “What do you know?”

  “Nothing for sure. But from what I’ve been able to piece together, Voss is chummy with Winchell, who is chummy with Breen, who is chummy with my boss, who is now very proud of the fact he’s become chummy with Winchell.” Herman ran his hand over his thinning hair and started chewing his lips. “Have you read the latest Confidential?”

  “Why do you think I’m here?”

  “According to the girl who runs the executive typing pool, Winchell sent my boss an advance copy of that article.”

  “I can guess the rest,” she said. “Just be straight with me. Is it too late? Is the deal off? Because if the answer’s yes—”

  “It’s not officially off, so that’s good. I think it can be saved, but only if you swear that nothing in that blind item is true.”

  “The guff about the back-room after-hours parties is completely made up.”

  “How do you explain” —he lowered his voice to a whisper— “the Licketysplitter reference?”

  “Truthfully? I wondered if it came from you.”

  “ME?” He drew back like a dowager in an Oscar Wilde comedy.

  “I couldn’t think of any other way. But Confidential has Fred Otash on the payroll, so with that lowlife snooping around, anything’s possible.”

  “But what about this business of catering to the Negro trade? That’s what it comes down to.”

  His face remained neutral as she took him through the same list she’d told Bacall.

  “Chez Gwendolyn is your business,” he said, “so you get to run it however you see fit. But if you continue with the Negro trade, you can forget about Bullocks extending your line of cosmetics. Furthermore, if you
fail to convince the higher-ups that the whole article is a sham I wouldn’t be surprised if they dropped your perfume altogether.”

  It wasn’t like Gwendolyn had come to depend on her perfume. Chez Gwendolyn was doing okay without the Bullocks royalties. But larger profits meant she could expand her business. She wanted to advertise more, and to work her connections with people like Lauren and Marilyn and Travilla. That would lead to employing dressmakers and leave her free to work toward opening up a chain of stores. Anyone who thought her plans began and ended with just one boutique gravely underestimated her.

  “My dear,” he said, “it’s time to make a decision.”

  He was right. Sooner or later, she was going to have to choose. She realized that she didn’t resent Herman, or his boss, or Winchell, or the publishers of Confidential nearly as much as she resented being made to choose between being an ambitious businesswoman or a modern woman of the world who only saw skin tones in terms of which hues of silk and chiffon they matched best.

  Why can’t I be both?

  CHAPTER 32

  Marcus wondered how he was going to fit the entire penthouse into a single shot. The production team on How to Marry a Millionaire had obeyed Zanuck’s decree—“We’re going wide, boys. As wide as we can!”—and built a set that filled the longest soundstage on the Fox lot. And now that it was jammed with dress extras playing guests at the wedding of Lauren Bacall’s character, it was Marcus’ job to capture the vast pandemonium of it all.

  The twinkling New York skyline wasn’t going to fool anyone in the theaters, but it was still a spectacular feature. They only had a few more takes to do before everybody would be let go for the day, so time—as it always did on a movie set—was speeding by.

  What he needed was a ladder.

  The gaffer would know where to find one, but Marcus couldn’t see him. He asked a couple of crew members, but they didn’t know. The key grip was up on the camera crane and beyond shouting distance.

  He’d have to improvise.