Tinseltown Confidential

by Martin Turnbull

  “Ya decent?”

  Kathryn had originally wanted Marilyn on this auspicious show, but Voss’ attack put the kibosh on that. Instead, Zanuck offered up Jane Russell. She was Marilyn’s costar in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, so the movie still got a huge plug, and she could sing her main song from the movie, “Ain’t There Anyone Here for Love?” It also helped that Jane was openly, devoutly, and unapologetically Christian.

  Jane looked breathtaking in a black cocktail dress loaded with sequins. “I’m not Marilyn, but will I do?”

  “You’ll more than do.”

  Jane checked in Kathryn’s mirror for lipstick on her teeth. “Is it true you’ve got Kate Smith on tonight?”

  That was another compromise Kathryn had made to get her tirade into print. Given that the live broadcast from Washington was the pole holding up tonight’s circus, Kathryn agreed to Leo’s suggestion that the Songbird of the South could be tonight’s musical guest.

  “Yes,” Kathryn said. “She’s singing ‘The Rosary.’”

  Satisfied with what she saw in the mirror, Jane asked, “Does that mean I won’t have to sing?”

  NBC had given Window on Hollywood an extra half hour of Dragnet’s time. Despite the successful TV version, the radio incarnation was still a winner, but the NBC execs wanted to maximize ratings for the big night. Perhaps even take her show to the very top?

  An extra half hour was a lot of airtime to fill, so Kathryn enlisted a comedy writer who’d spent three years on The Jack Benny Show to write a skit for Kathryn and Adelaide Hawley. He wrote a riot of a script about baking a cake during an earthquake that everybody loved. It had been a herculean task to fill every moment of the broadcast; Kathryn didn’t want to answer Jane’s question.

  “If you don’t sing, we’ll have a hole in the—”

  “Don’t worry about that. I have a great story about filming that number. I was surrounded by all these weight-lifting hunks, miming my ever-loving tushie off, and one of them kicks me into the pool!”

  “On purpose?”

  “Nah, but Howard Hawks got such a laugh out of it that he restaged everything. Now it ends with me getting lifted out of the water wringing wet, but still singing!” She read Kathryn’s doubt. “Don’t worry, it’ll be hilarious. Between Sheldon Voss and Kate Smith, you might need some levity.”

  Kathryn was surprised at that, given Jane’s faith, but she was grateful. On the other hand, she wondered whether a story in which the actress with the world’s most famous bosom talks about being plunged into a pool of bodybuilders was appropriate for a program featuring Kate Smith singing “The Rosary” before a tent revival meeting.

  “Trust me, hon,” Jane said. “I know the difference between show biz and God biz.”

  Leo appeared in the doorway. “Miss Russell, I wanted to introduce myself and wish you the best of luck out there.”

  “You mean break a leg, don’t you?”

  “Jane was wondering if it’s necessary for her to sing tonight,” Kathryn said.

  “I can get by in a recording studio, but in front of a band and a live audience?” Jane let out a low whistle.

  Leo nodded. “I’ve asked Kate to sing a second number. She suggested ‘It Could Happen To You,’ which the band’s bound to know.”

  “Great!” Jane exclaimed. “What a relief!”

  Although it was an easy fix to a last-minute hiccup, Kathryn felt as though her show was being hijacked.

  When she started dating her sponsor, she knew it could lead to a thorny tangle of ethical dilemmas. In the intervening three years, she and Leo had negotiated their way through one briar patch after another. It hadn’t been easy, but her anti-Voss speech had brought them closer to the brink of breaking up than ever before. Mike Connolly’s proposal brought them back, but only just. The roses Leo sent on the twelfth of each month to commemorate their first date had faded away, as had their expensive dinners at Perino’s. If she wasn’t free to express herself, he was not the man for her.

  The air in the dressing room suddenly felt dense. Luckily, Jane was nobody’s fool and told Kathryn she’d see her in the wings. Leo closed the door behind her.

  “You’re okay with that change, aren’t you?” Leo asked.

  Kathryn shrugged off her sour mood. She had a big show to prepare for and she needed to be free of distractions. “Sure.”

  He closed the space between them to a more intimate couple of inches, near enough for her to smell the musky aftershave balm she’d given him for Christmas. “Tonight’s show could push you ahead of Lux Radio Theatre, Amos ‘n’ Andy, and even Winchell.”

  She smiled up at him. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

  “You’re going to do a wonderful job tonight.”

  It sounded like the instructions of a boss until he ran his hand along her arm, across her shoulder, and up her neck until it looped around her mouth and ended at her chin. He tilted it upward and placed a tender kiss on her lips. “I’m so proud of you.”

  She thought of her father. Did the inmates at Sing Sing even have access to the outside world? It was possible the place was on lockdown. The Rosenbergs had just been executed for conspiracy—surely emotions were running high over there.

  Three raps on the door, then, “Ten minutes to air, Miss Massey.”

  Leo kissed the tips of her fingers. “Go get ’em.”

  When Kathryn arrived in the wings of Studio Two, Jane Russell and Adelaide were already standing in front of a television monitor that showed people filing into Studio One.

  “We’re under siege!” Adelaide declared, keeping her eyes on the screen. “NBC has put them into the Dragnet studio.”

  “There’s more in the foyer,” Jane added, “and they’ve even spilled out into the street. NBC is rigging up loudspeakers so the folks on the sidewalk can hear the broadcast.”

  On the other side of the stage, Mike Connolly stood alone, studying notes on a stack of index cards. He wore an ivory dinner jacket, black bow tie, black trousers, and patent leather shoes.

  He looks like he’s going to a gala at the White House.

  Connolly waved; hesitation blurred his smile.

  He’s had a couple of nips himself.

  Her producer, Wallace Reed tapped her shoulder and she strode onstage to thunderous applause. “Are you as excited as I am about tonight?”

  On this night of all nights, Kathryn wished she could take comfort in seeing Marcus and Gwendolyn’s faces. She scanned the audience, but couldn’t find them anywhere. With all those crowds outside, she wasn’t sure they were even in the building.

  The stage manager counted her down to the short electronic beep, and a red light on the back wall of the studio glowed.

  “Hello, America, this is Kathryn Massey.”

  She got through her opening monologue without a stumble. Her earthquake cake skit with Adelaide went over like Cracker Jack, and Jane managed to make her Gentlemen Prefer Blondes story sound like a swim meet with the local boy-scout troop.

  Kate Smith was brave to follow Jane’s clean-bawdy-funny story, but she sang her first song like it was the most natural thing in the world. She launched into her improvised number with such confidence that nobody could tell she and the band were flying without a net.

  As Kate hit her final note, Kathryn caught sight of Mike Connolly taking a nip from a burnished copper flask. She smiled to herself at the thought that maybe they weren’t quite so different, after all. But then he took a second nip. Then a third. Was he going to stagger out here half sauced?

  Kathryn leaned into her microphone. “Gosh, but what a wonderful way Kate Smith has with a song. And now, folks, we come to the extra special part of tonight’s broadcast. Joining me tonight, and for the next twelve weeks, is a Hollywood Reporter colleague of mine. Perhaps you’ve read his Rambling Reporter column. Please welcome Mr. Mike Connolly!”

  He ambled on stage relaxed as Bing Crosby and gripped his microphone like it was a willing partner for the mambo.

  �
�Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, this is Mike Connolly, your Sea to Shining Sea special correspondent. I’ll be joining Kathryn Massey each week, and I do hope you’ll tune in as Sheldon Voss journeys across these great United States.”

  His words flowed smoother than the Johnnie Walker in Kathryn’s flask.

  “Thank you, Mike,” Kathryn said, “and welcome to Window on Hollywood. Do you know if—”

  “Yes!” Cutting in like that was a major no-no. Kathryn flashed a frown at him, but he was playing to the studio audience. “Voss is about to commence his address standing at the top step of the Lincoln Memorial. Behind him is the nineteen-foot marble statue of Honest Abe himself, and collected around him are thousands of his followers at this auspicious beginning of what will no doubt be a memorable summer.”

  Oh, brother. Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Connolly continued, “we’re crossing now to the nation’s capital.”

  “Hello, America. My name is Sheldon Voss, and I am speaking to you not just from the Lincoln Memorial, but also from my heart.”

  Kathryn had expected the voice of some local NBC reporter, not Voss himself.

  “We had a tough time of it during the Great Depression, but we survived. We faced challenges of a different nature during the war, but we survived that, too. Since then, we have known unprecedented prosperity. The Great American Dream of owning your own home has become a reality for millions of people for whom it was only ever just that: a dream.”

  His voice! It was so warm, so kind, and so unexpectedly human.

  “And not just a home,” Voss continued, “but a car in the garage; a television in the living room; washing machine in the laundry; chickens in the deep freeze. All the conveniences of modern life are within reach of many Americans, if only on the installment plan. They’re so close we can almost touch them, smell them, feel them in our grasp.”

  Who the hell is this? I’ve been expecting fire-and-brimstone. Not this . . . this . . . fireside chat.

  “I hear you, friends. I do! I hear you ask, ‘What’s wrong with that?’ To which I say there’s nothing wrong as long as we do not allow ourselves to be seduced by our good fortune. If greed replaces obedience, if gluttony replaces compassion, and if our affluence blinds us to the teachings of the Lord, we shall soon find ourselves on a slippery slope, indeed.”

  Voss paused for a roar of enthusiasm. Kathryn went to pull out the handkerchief she tucked inside her sleeve before each show, but Jane and Leo had distracted her and she had nothing to wipe away the sweat coating her brow. She had no choice but to dab at it with the edge of her sleeve.

  Sheldon Voss had always been more of a concept to Kathryn than a human being. A character in a movie. A grainy newspaper photograph. But not a real person. And certainly not this compassionate, thoughtful gentleman, troubled by what he saw around him.

  I have an uncle and this is what he sounds like.

  Kathryn hadn’t forgotten her mother’s warning: liar, cheat, thief, chiseler, fraud. But the sound of Voss’ voice reduced her to that eight-year-old girl who had nothing for show-and-tell on “A Family Member Who Isn’t Mommy or Daddy” day.

  Through Voss’ twenty-minute speech, Kathryn tried to reconcile the portrait her mother had painted with the beguiling voice flowing through the loudspeakers, cautioning her listeners to choose spirituality over shopping on the installment plan.

  “Modern civilization might be the final civilization if we emphasize ‘modern’ over ‘civil,’ and the Cold War might be the final war if we choose to turn away from our souls,” he concluded. “Folks, the good Lord tells me that Americans need to be reminded of what will shield us from the temptations that beckon us from the true path. Join me, won’t you, as I march across this great land of ours. As Mark 3:25 tells us, ‘If a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand.’ Thank you for listening, and may God bless America.”

  A tinny marching band started playing “The Stars and Stripes Forever” over the cheers of the throng. Kathryn gestured to Connolly to start talking, because I don’t know what to say. What if my mother got it wrong and my uncle isn’t the grifter she thinks he is? What if he’s genuinely seen the error of his ways?

  Kathryn wasn’t sure what Connolly said. She caught his tone—upbeat, self-congratulatory, and enamored with Voss—and that was enough. She recited her usual closing thanks and signed off.

  The red light extinguished and the whole studio ignited into an uproar, but Kathryn felt alone. She needed time, space, and silence to sort through what had just happened, and she wasn’t going to get it in the middle of this post-show bedlam. She shouldered her way through the throng. If she’d just beaten Winchell in the ratings, it might all be worth it, but all she could think of was the sanctuary of her dressing room.

  When she got there, Marcus and Gwendolyn were waiting. “Where were you two?”

  “We fought our way to some seats in the Dragnet studio,” Marcus said.

  “ . . . where we sat next to this fine chap.”

  Gwendolyn gestured to the snappy dresser in his early thirties standing next to her.

  “I’m Army Archerd.” He thrust his hand toward her. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “From the Herald-Express?”

  Archerd widened his affable smile. “Used to be. I’m taking over for Sheilah Graham at Daily Variety.”

  Kathryn considered Sheilah’s Just for Variety column direct competition to her Window on Hollywood. If the left-leaning Archerd was now writing it, their columns might become interchangeable. But was that bad? Kathryn’s mind was too woolly to unravel that particular tangle.

  Marcus wore a brace-yourself look. “Tell Kathryn what you told us.”

  “I have a tipster at Confidential,” Archerd said. “Next month’s cover article is a little something they’re calling The Lavender Skeletons in TV’s Closet.”

  A vein in Kathryn’s temple started to throb. Wallace knocked on her doorjamb. “I have Life and Harper’s Bazaar in the foyer, plus a Look photographer.”

  “Tell them I’ll be out in a minute.” She swung back to Archerd. “Did your insider tell you anything else?”

  “He overheard one of the reporters talking to Fred Otash and the name ‘Miller’ came up.”

  “Felix Miller?”

  “That’s the weasel you encountered at Ciro’s, isn’t it?” Marcus said.

  Kathryn nodded. “Talking about what?”

  “Several times, he heard the name ‘Floss.’”

  “Floss or Voss?”

  “He said Floss, but the smart money’s on Voss,” Archerd said. “Winchell and McCarthy came up, too.”

  It really is just a cabal for the boys. “So that baloney we just heard was a crock.” And I fell for it. “My mother was right.”

  “Your mother knows Sheldon Voss?” Archerd asked.

  Kathryn faced her mirror and started patting down her hair. “My mother has a theory about everybody.”

  Reed’s face appeared in the doorway again. “Free now?”

  “Do you think I can get away with seeing all three at once?”

  Reed grinned. “After tonight, I’d say you can do anything.”

  Kathryn struggled to mount a convincing smile and longed for a shot of the scotch stashed in her pocketbook.

  CHAPTER 34

  Gwendolyn finished pinning Marilyn’s hem and accepted a hand to pull herself to her feet.

  “You really should get a little dais,” Marilyn said. “Like the one you have at your store.”

  Gwendolyn dusted off her knees. “Perhaps I should now that someone is getting too famous to appear in public.”

  “It really isn’t much fun . . . except when it is.” Marilyn let out a giggle that dwindled into a sigh. “Joe hates it.”

  The more time Gwendolyn spent with Marilyn, the more she was glad her own misguided bid for stardom hadn’t worked out. There was a lot to be said for blundering thro
ugh mistakes and enjoying triumphs without reporters and autograph hunters trailing behind.

  Marilyn had been into Chez Gwendolyn a handful of times over the past twelve months, and with each visit, a worldlier Marilyn appeared, more conscious of her effect on people and how to use it to her advantage. A guarded look shielded her eyes, along with a detachment that Gwendolyn described to Marcus as a cocoon of invisible cotton wool. “But then she steps into the back room, it’s just the two of us and all that fades away.”

  However, since the release of Niagara, shopping at Chez Gwendolyn had become problematic. Between her Photoplay “Most Popular Actress” award, the buzz over Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, and her romance with DiMaggio, the press documented every date and spending spree. So Gwendolyn offered to meet Marilyn at the Garden of Allah, where she could slip through the side entrance unobserved.

  “Joe’s been famous since before the war,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “Surely he gets how the game works.”

  “He knows what it’s like, and what it can do to a marriage.”

  “Or maybe he’s okay with fame, as long as he’s the famous one.” Gwendolyn adjusted a pin to straighten out the back hem. “Doesn’t he come from a big Italian family? Guys like that are looking for a girl just like mama. Stay at home, cook, clean, and pop out a passel of babies.”

  Marilyn said nothing after that, not even a resigned sigh or begrudging grunt. Gwendolyn wondered if she’d gone a bit too far. After all, her love life was hardly an Edna Ferber novel. “How’s the neckline now?”

  Marilyn pulled at it. “Much more comfortable. Not that comfort has got anything to do with it.”

  When Marilyn and her Gentlemen Prefer Blondes costar learned they were to be favored with a Grauman’s cement ceremony, Gwendolyn secretly wanted to create Marilyn’s dress so her handiwork would be seen around the world. But Twentieth Century-Fox told Travilla to design matching outfits for the girls to wear.