But Marilyn called to say she’d need an outfit for the after party—she was sure she was going to get wet cement on Travilla’s dress. When she came in for her fitting six days before the ceremony, Gwendolyn hoped she’d be happy—if she wasn’t, they didn’t have much time to start over.
Marilyn stood before Gwendolyn’s full-length mirror and scrutinized her reflection. She rotated left and jutted out her derrière. “Perfect.”
Marilyn pulled down the side zipper and stepped out of the dress. “Mind if I mooch around here for a while?”
It was a Sunday afternoon, so Marcus or Kathryn or Doris or Bertie were likely to come knocking with plans for cocktails in the bar, a cribbage game around the pool, or dinner at Ah Fong’s.
“Don’t you have plans with Joe?” Gwendolyn asked.
Marilyn started pulling her street clothes on. “He’s been back East and flew into LA this afternoon. Billy and Dona said they’d pick me up at seven. We’re double-dating at Villa Nova.”
“But don’t the two of you want to be alone?”
“The last time Joe and I saw each other, it wasn’t so great.”
Gwendolyn wondered if Billy and Dona had been recruited unknowingly. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. How about I put on some coffee?”
A knock on the door cut off Marilyn’s reply. Her eyes flew open.
“Don’t worry,” Gwendolyn said, “it’s probably just Kathryn. Or maybe Marcus. You remember him, don’t you?”
“The photographer, right?”
“Yes, but not in his off hours.”
She opened her front door to find neither Kathryn nor Marcus, but Ella Fitzgerald accompanied by a guy Gwendolyn suspected was her husband, the bass player for Dizzy Gillespie.
“This is a surprise!”
“Dammit!” Ella groaned. “I’ve got the wrong day, haven’t I? You were right,” she told her husband. “It was Monday.”
“As a matter of fact, we agreed on Monday next week.”
“I don’t even have the right week?” Ella slapped her cheek. “Well, aren’t I a dummy? Listen, I got a last-minute five-nighter at Club Flamingo in San Francisco. I was thinking-hoping-praying that seeing as how we’re here . . .?”
Marilyn Monroe wasn’t the only person Gwendolyn had to meet at the Garden instead of the store now.
She took inspiration from the middle road Kathryn found by using Mike Connolly as special correspondent. The Hollywood Reporter’s circulation was up; Connolly got onto the radio; sales of Mixmasters and cake mixes had increased; the march got nationwide coverage; Window on Hollywood shot to number one; and Kathryn received her promised bonus. Everybody won.
Gwendolyn called Herman and reassured him that she was no longer actively pursuing the colored trade, which resulted in Herman resubmitting the proposal to the higher-ups. Three weeks later, she received a letter spelling out their offer to add eau de toilette, cold cream, face powder, and eye shadow. If sales were encouraging, they would consider a line of lipsticks.
Meanwhile, Gwendolyn told Ella, Lena, Dorothy and their friends that pressure had been brought to bear, and proposed that if she went to their homes instead, nobody would be the wiser.
Ella told her that where she usually stayed in LA wouldn’t be safe for a white woman, so Gwendolyn suggested she come to the Garden instead. It was the perfect solution.
Gwendolyn was still hesitating at her front door—she wasn’t sure Marilyn would be comfortable with unexpected visitors—when she smelled a cloud of her own perfume behind her.
“Hello!” Marilyn cooed. “It sure is wonderful to see you again.”
“Well, now, look who’s here,” Ella exclaimed. “We didn’t have much of a chance to chat last time.”
Gwendolyn shepherded everybody into her living room, where she presented Ella with swatches of material.
They were debating the last design when Marcus and Kathryn showed up with ingredients for champagne cocktails. Leo was with them, and so was the eccentric old lady friend of Marcus’. Gwendolyn had never met Regina, but she lived up to her reputation in a black lace dress that Gwendolyn would have killed for twenty-five years ago. When Gwendolyn asked what they were celebrating, Regina piped up, “I’ve just been cast in a recurring role on Dragnet, and I believe it’s all thanks to your friend Mr. Tattler and the flattering dress he lent me.”
Bringing up the rear was Quentin Luckett, who always appeared to be at a loose end now that his ex-boyfriend Trevor Bergin showed no sign of returning to the States.
Someone pulled out Dinah Shore Sings the Blues and suddenly the villa was filled with “Lover Come Back to Me.” Arlene, Doris, and Bertie heard the commotion and appeared with more bubbly.
When Billy and Dona arrived early to pick up Marilyn and agreed to “a quick one or two for the road,” everybody relocated to the pool area, where Marcus’ lights were still rigged up in the trees. He switched them on, making the leaves glow like crème de menthe.
Dinah Shore became Dean Martin, and several bags of potato chips materialized. Gwendolyn could see that half of them might soon end up in the pool if she didn’t fetch a bowl. She’d barely taken a few steps when she caught a silhouette lurking behind a hydrangea bush outside Villa Eight.
She heard the distinct click of a camera shutter.
“Did you catch that?” she hissed to Marcus and Ella’s husband, Ray. She subtly jutted her jaw toward the hydrangea. “Someone’s taking photos of us.” Gwendolyn watched Marilyn giggling with Arlene and Bertie. Shots of her were worth major cabbage these days.
Marcus casually placed his highball glass on the diving board and lifted a foot to make out like he was tying his shoelace. “I don’t like the look of this.”
“I was a sprinter in college,” Ray said.
Marcus muttered, “On the count of three, you go for his legs and I’ll go for his neck.”
“He doesn’t have a clear shot to the street,” Gwendolyn said, “but if he reaches Hayvenhurst there might be no catching him.”
“Three. Two. One. GO!”
Ray shot forward as Marcus propelled himself over the diving board. The intruder darted across the gravel path and reached Bungalow Nine as Ray hurled himself at the guy’s legs. He grabbed a handful of trouser and held on when the guy started kicking. Marcus hooked his fingers in the guy’s jacket pocket. It ripped away easily, but he managed to wrench the jacket off a shoulder, pushing the trespasser face down in the dirt. They hauled him back into the light around the pool.
Kathryn slammed her drink on the table. “YOU AGAIN!”
“You know this Peeping Tom?” Ray panted.
“This is Felix Miller. He’s a professional snooper to the highest bidder.” She faced Miller. “So whose business are you meddling in tonight? Or can we just go ahead and assume it’s Marilyn? Because God knows the girl doesn’t deserve five minutes of peace.”
Miller’s jacket and pants were ripped and stained like a hobo’s. His hair was a mess, and gravel had grated the left side of his face. He made a halfhearted attempt to struggle out of Marcus and Ray’s grips, and when that didn’t work, he started laughing.
“I was sent to take photos of you,” he told Kathryn.
“For Winchell, I presume? Trying to get dirt on me because I finally beat him in the ratings? Well, you can just tell him from me—”
“As much as my client hates fags, he hates coloreds mixing with whites more. Especially famous ones who—”
Ray slammed his fist into Miller’s flank, causing him to double over.
Kathryn yanked the camera out of Marcus’ hand, cleaved open the back, and pulled out the film. When she tossed it into the pool, Miller watched it sink as though he didn’t give two hoots.
“I’m glad that wasn’t my camera.” He watched it hit the bottom of the pool. “I know where I’m not wanted.” He turned to leave, but Ray blocked his path.
“What’re you gonna do?” Miller demanded. “Hit me some more? I’ll have you
up on assault charges before the clock strikes midnight. And I got me a whole bunch of witnesses. Granted, they may not be my greatest fans, but none of them are gonna perjure themselves. And I can count on at least three of them who’d rather not be dragged into the papers.”
The only sound in the whole Garden was Dean Martin warbling how when you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you.
Miller stepped around Gwendolyn and headed toward Hayvenhurst Drive, limping slightly.
Kathryn waited until he was out of sight. “I doubt that’s the last we’ve heard of that son of a bitch.”
“But who was he taking photos for?” Ella asked.
“Next month, Confidential is running a story called ‘The Lavender Skeletons in TV’s Closet.’”
“At least they won’t have photos.”
Marilyn pointed to a dark patch on the lawn behind Gwendolyn. “What’s that? Is it a wallet?”
Gwendolyn scooped it up and brought it back to the center of the patio where the light was brightest. She pulled out Miller’s driver’s license.
“Where does that little weasel live?” The question was Kathryn’s.
“Silver Lake.”
“Good to know. What else is in there?”
There wasn’t much cash, but it did contain a stack of business cards. She started flipping through them. “You’re not going to like this,” she told Kathryn. “There’s Walter Winchell, Senator McCarthy’s Washington office, and the New York office of Robert Harrison.”
“The creep who publishes Confidential?” Ray asked.
“Yes, but who was he working for tonight?”
Kathryn polished off the last of her drink. “Quite possibly, all three.”
At the bottom of the stack was a slip of paper. Someone with particularly neat handwriting had printed Hotel Majestic, June 17 to 20, Room 314, and a telephone number.
Arlene said, “There’s a Hotel Majestic in St. Louis.”
“There must be a Hotel Majestic in every city across the country.”
“But you know who’s currently visiting St. Louis, don’t you?” Everybody drew a blank. “Sheldon Voss.”
Gwendolyn flicked the paper back and forth across her fingernail. She spun on her heel and marched back to her apartment. “If Sheldon Voss thinks he can invade my home and my friends, he can think again.”
Three chimes rang. When she asked for room 314, the operator asked her to hold.
A moment later, “Hello, this is Sheldon Voss.”
He sounded just like he had on Kathryn’s show—a kind uncle you hated to disappoint.
Gwendolyn grabbed Kathryn’s hand for support. “Mr. Voss, I’m calling to see if the name Felix Miller means anything to you.”
The silence at the other end of the line lasted an agonizing three seconds. “Who is this?”
“I’m calling from Los Angeles,” Gwendolyn hedged. “I found his wallet.”
“I see.” The circumspection in his voice softened. “How considerate of you to report its loss.”
“I’m calling to ask if you sent him to take photographs of people he has no business taking photographs of.”
“You still haven’t told me your name, my dear girl.”
“I’m not your dear anything.”
“Who, pray tell, are you?”
“My name is Gwendolyn Brick.”
Another heavy silence.
“You haven’t answered my question,” she told him. More silence. “Felix Miller didn’t just lose his wallet tonight, he also lost his camera. I’m calling to ask you if you sent him to the Garden of Allah Hotel on Sunset Boulevard to take clandestine pictures of the residents. You might want to tell him that I have his camera, and his film. However, I feel it only fair to warn you that if I find anything untoward on his negatives, I plan on suing for invasion of privacy. I cannot imagine that’ll do your self-righteous cause any good.”
“And what makes you think this underhanded monkey business is connected to me?”
“Because in his wallet was a slip of paper with your stay in St. Louis. I must say, Mr. Voss, you have very neat handwriting.” That last part was a gamble. “If Mr. Miller would like his wallet back, tell him he can collect it at my store.” Her tank now drained, Gwendolyn slammed down the phone. She raised her face to see a dozen people gaping at her. “Is there any champagne cocktail left? I think I need a double.”
CHAPTER 35
It didn’t occur to Marcus that he should be nervous until he saw the name PREMINGER on a brass plaque with an arrow pointing to the end of the corridor.
It wasn’t like he’d had a terrible experience on The Moon is Blue, so why was he jumpy?
When Marcus was taking stills on The Star, Otto Preminger approached him to do the same for his next movie, which was about to start production at the same studios in the new year. He was shooting English and German versions simultaneously and he wanted Marcus to document the different approaches he’d be taking to accommodate American and European sensibilities.
The job was a mini reunion with David Niven, who’d been a neighbor at the Garden of Allah back in the thirties. He was playing one of two aging playboys vying for the affections of the same young woman, so he was perfectly cast.
Pretty soon, though, Marcus could tell this wasn’t going to be a run-of-the-mill romantic comedy.
The dialogue shuttlecocked between Niven and Bill Holden included the Breen Office’s three biggest Don’ts. The first time Niven said the word “virgin,” Marcus nearly ruined a take. He was better prepared when another exchange included both “seduce” and “mistress.”
It was times like these that Marcus longed to rush to a pay phone and call Oliver. “Get a load of what Preminger’s doing!”
But the only sort of virgin Oliver concerned himself with these days was the Virgin Mary, and worrying about Joe Breen was no longer Marcus’ job. So he stood back, took photos, and marveled at Preminger’s chutzpah.
Marcus stared for a moment at the sign etched into the frosted glass—OTTO PREMINGER FILMS. He removed his fedora and let himself into the airy reception. Posters from earlier Preminger movies filled its walls: Laura, The Fan, Daisy Kenyon, Forever Amber. A fortyish secretary in plain brown tweed said, “It’s noon, so you must be Mr. Adler.” She knocked on the office door and announced, “Your twelve o’clock is here.”
Hailing from prewar Austria, the balding Otto Preminger was Central Casting’s idea of a German commandant. It was little wonder that Billy Wilder had cast him as a Nazi in Stalag 17. But in person, the man was on the convivial side of gruff. He was leaning over a table blanketed with photographs when Marcus entered his office.
“Ah!” Preminger beckoned Marcus to join him. “Thank you for coming in. Your timing is as striking as your work. I’m putting together the Moon is Blue press kit.” He indicated a row of Marcus’ production stills lined up along the edge. “I’ve narrowed it down to ten but only four are necessary. Help me choose.”
Laying his hat on the end of the table, Marcus confessed, “I never expected that you’d get PCA approval.”
“I didn’t.”
“So how did you get it past the Breen Office?”
“We are releasing the picture without their endorsement.”
Marcus had ordered dinner at the Pig ’n Whistle with greater drama than the way this man dropped this bombshell. “But the PCA requires all films to be submitted.”
“They rejected it, so screw them. We’re releasing it anyway.”
“That takes guts.”
“Not really.” He indicated a photo Marcus had taken of Niven on the Empire State Building observation deck. “I like this very much.”
“What do you mean, ‘not really’? When I was at MGM, I dealt with the Breen Office constantly. Don’t you think you’re asking for a whole mess of trouble—”
“It’s time to take a stand against such ridiculously old-fashioned restrictions. Between the Hays Code and the blacklist, the right wing has take
n over Hollywood filmmaking. It is time to take it back. Have you seen this moronic Confidential magazine? A new one came out this morning.” He threw up his hands in despair. “What a piece of Scheisse.”
That night a few weeks ago when they discovered Felix Miller in the hibiscus bush, Marcus couldn’t have been more proud of Gwennie’s nerve calling Sheldon Voss like that. If they’d been sober, she might not have pulled it off, and everyone might not have cheered her on quite so loudly. Later, when their heads cleared, they saw what a dicey move it had been, but Miller never called for his wallet, and no photos had appeared in any of the second-rate magazines.
But still, lurking in the back of Marcus’ mind was this rumor of an article about lavender skeletons, and every new issue of Confidential struck fear into the heart of every Hollywood denizen. He picked out the four stills he thought belonged in the press kit and explained why. Collecting his hat, he wished Preminger the best of luck and escaped into the street.
The Formosa Café was just around the corner on Santa Monica Boulevard, with a newsstand only half a block away.
* * *
The only person in the Formosa was the laconic bartender with skin as pale as those creatures shown in National Geographic’s article about the recently discovered Mariana Trench. Marcus ordered a Moscow mule and installed himself on the furthermost bar stool. Confidential’s cover featured the usual snapshots of shocked celebrities and sports stars above headlines hinting at all-night sexcapades or drinking parties gone awry. The article Marcus had been dreading was on page six.
THE LAVENDER SKELETONS IN TV’S CLOSET
He scanned the introductory paragraph in which Confidential “bravely” aimed to “expose homosexuals in key positions as directors, producers and leading men,” and went on to declare in its usual florid style how “vivid violets were giving the television industry a black eye.”
Its first “case in point” was a popular comic who was the “shy sweetheart to one of Hollywood’s tough guys.” Example number two was a “rough and ready TV detective” so delicate in real life that writers were forbidden to include women’s panties because he couldn’t “control his compulsion to don the stuff.” The third example was a hero of a “kiddie space drama” who loved to attend Greenwich Village parties “with taffeta skirts swishing at his ankles.”
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