Marcus skimmed the rest of the article until a particular word caught his eye: “columnist.”
“And don’t think all the fruitcakes are on the screen,” the article harped. “Somebody writes those tough-guy lines. And we have it from a Confidential confidante that too many of those scribblers have closets full of taffeta themselves. One of them is an ex-studio-but-not-ex-Commie powder puff who married a prominent Hollywood columnist to cover up his twisted inclinations. But fret not for the poor unsuspecting damsel—she was in on the charade. The gal in question can bake a mean cake so you can be sure she knows how to apply the right frosting to put people off the scent. All we need to say is: Point your sniffer down Sunset Boulevard.”
This shitty little rag had managed to implicate Marcus, Kathryn, and Gwendolyn in one overwrought paragraph.
“Did you hear?” The bartender pointed to the radio behind him.
Marcus shook his head.
“That Joe McCarthy prick just held a press conference in DC yammering about high security risks within the government.”
Marcus casually turned the page away from Confidential’s so-called exposé. “Risks from who?”
“The homos, on account of they’re open to being blackmailed. He made it sound like all three branches of the government are teeming with them.”
“Just like Hollywood’s teeming with Commies?”
“Yeah, just like that.” The bartender jutted his chin toward Marcus’ empty tumbler. “Another mule?”
Marcus said yes and mindlessly turned the pages in front of him.
The timing was impeccable. For the first few stops on his Sea to Shining Sea March, Sheldon Voss had been careful to deliver his sermons in that just-us-folks voice he’d used the night of the kickoff.
But in Cincinnati, he introduced the words “vigilance” and “Lucifer” and expressions like “fire-roasted souls” and “the greed of Solomon.” He uttered them with the same kindly-uncle tone, so if listeners weren’t paying attention, they might not catch them.
His next stop was St. Louis, the night after Gwendolyn called him.
Gone were benevolent Uncle Sheldon and his gentle admonishments against getting caught up in wickedness. The St. Louis speech marked his return to Sodom and Gomorrah, the dangers of becoming Lot’s wife, and the accusations that Marilyn Monroe was “the outrageous manifestation of Lucifer’s lust.”
The most recent broadcast was from Memphis; its theme was temptation.
“America has been called a modern-day Garden of Eden!” he thundered. “And with good reason. This is a land of plenty! Of riches! Of opportunity and choices! It is a garden of temptations such as Eve faced. Let us not fail to take heed.”
Across the second-to-last pages of Confidential, a headline banner proclaimed:
A RAINBOW OF COLORS DANCING IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN
Beneath it lay a photo spread taken the night Marilyn was at the Garden with Ella Fitzgerald and Billy Travilla.
The center photograph showed Marilyn and Ella grappling each other by the elbows. Ella was bursting with laughter and Marilyn was bent at the waist, looking scandalized. Her bosom caught the light and looked enormous, casting Ella’s face into half-shadow. It looked as though Ella was enticing Marilyn into a tryst amid the murkiness behind her.
Ten photos captured everybody either in full light or seductive silhouette as they “gamboled and guzzled, teased and tempted.” Travilla, Dona, Kathryn, Marcus, and Gwendolyn were labeled by name and place of work. In the bottom corner was a shot of Gwendolyn pouring champagne directly into Marcus’ mouth. It had been a silly dare by Bertie, who’d challenged Gwendolyn not to spill a drop. The photo presented the tawdriest idea of what middle America assumed Hollywood parties were like.
And worse: the caption referred to Gwendolyn’s reputation as the premiere modiste to LA’s crossdressers.
Half the photos included Hollywood’s hottest blonde, and yet Confidential buried the spread in the second half of the magazine. It wasn’t like them to be so coy.
Marcus swallowed the rest of his Moscow mule and rushed out into the June heat.
When he ran into the Hollywood Reporter’s raucous newsroom, he was dripping with sweat. Kathryn’s mouth hung open, her copy of Confidential trembling in her grip.
“I see you’ve already . . .” He gestured at the magazine in her hand.
“I knew this Harrison guy was a skunk, but—” She rattled the magazine like it was stuck to her fingertips.
“Did you hear McCarthy’s press conference?”
She stared at him.
He told her about being at the Formosa when the station made a live cross to Washington DC. “Does Wilkerson know about the Confidential piece yet?”
“I was just about to go in and face the lion’s mouth. Come with me?” She tapped the Garden of Eden spread. “You were there, which means you can corroborate.” She grabbed his sleeve and yanked him along with her. “The more outraged we are, the better. He responds to that.”
Billy Wilkerson was from the litter of titans that nascent Hollywood spawned in one big, bloody mess. Like Mayer, Zanuck, Goldwyn, and Selznick, he was a big talker, big spender, and big gambler who lived life on an outsized scale. He was the one who instigated the blacklist that decimated the film industry, so he was hardly going to let a vicious little scrap of nothing like Confidential bring down the industry he loved.
Kathryn barged into her boss’ office, announcing, “The new issue of Confidential hit the stands this morning.”
“I’ve got enough toilet paper, thanks all the same.”
“There’s an article you need to see.”
Kathryn opened the magazine to the Garden of Eden spread and laid it out in front of him. The lull lasted three seconds.
“JESUS GODDAMNED FUCKING CHRIST ON BASTARD BALLS OF FIRE! You need to find out who took these photos.”
“A jackass named Felix Miller. We caught him in the act and broke his camera and ditched it into the pool.”
The full flush of anger blotching Wilkerson’s face abated. “Clearly, it wasn’t the only roll he’d taken.”
“Marilyn’s in three of those shots, and they’re not flattering,” Marcus said. “You might want to warn Zanuck.”
Wilkerson picked up the phone. “You two stay right where you are; he might want additional intel.” He dialed Zanuck’s number from memory and flipped the switch to speakerphone when a secretary answered the line.
“Monica, it’s Billy Wilkerson here. I need Darryl, pronto.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilkerson, but he’s in conference with Mr. Preminger right now. He left word not to be disturbed.”
“You need to disturb him, Monica.”
“It’s a final production conference for the next Marilyn Monroe movie. Mr. Zanuck—”
“River of No Return? There’s irony for you. I’ll take full responsibility. Do it. NOW.”
Silence, followed by several clicks. “What the hell, Bill? I’m in conference here.”
“I’ve got you on speaker with Kathryn Massey and Marcus Adler. They’ve brought me the new issue of Confidential—”
“Who gives a cranberry-colored crap what—”
“There’s a two-page photo spread of a party at the Garden of Allah. Marilyn’s in three of the photos.” Wilkerson ogled her bust. “You might call them compromising.”
“How bad?”
“Drinking and dancing with coloreds, namely Ella Fitzgerald, and I think this other guy is Ella’s husband.”
Zanuck let out a long breathy groan. “Screw me drunk and shoot me up the ass. Okay, well, thanks for the warning.”
“You also need to know about Senator McCarthy.”
“What about him?”
“He held a press conference today. Adler’s the only one who heard it, so I’m going to hand things over to him.”
Marcus repeated what the bartender said, then added, “This is the shot across the bow that I warned you about last December.”<
br />
The insistent tapping of Zanuck’s pen against his desktop thudded through the speakerphone.
“That theory of mine about Robert Harrison being in league with Breen?” Marcus persisted. “Expand it to Sheldon Voss. Have you noticed how he’s boosted the rhetoric?”
“Get to your point, Adler.”
“It looks to me like McCarthy and Breen and Voss have put their heads together. They’re no dummies; they can see what TV is doing. Looks to me like they plan to kick the picture business while it’s down. Their weapons of choice are morality and abstinence, and they’re using your biggest star to do it.”
“Like I don’t have enough problems with that blonde bitch.”
“That blonde bitch is your most valuable asset,” Kathryn put in.
“Don’t remind me.”
“McCarthy, Breen, and Voss are the unholy trinity.” Marcus leaned closer to the speakerphone. “If you break one, you might be able to bring them all down.”
“How do you figure on doing that?” Wilkerson asked.
“Mr. Preminger? Are you still there?”
“I am.”
“Tell them your plans for The Moon Is Blue.”
Preminger had barely finished explaining his plan to release the movie without approval when Zanuck burst out, “You gotta be shitting me!”
“If Mr. Preminger pulls it off, it means approval from the PCA will become irrelevant,” Marcus pointed out. “Meanwhile, Voss is only halfway through his march. He’s already talking hellfire and damnation, and he’s still got six weeks to go.”
“He needs to be stopped,” Zanuck said.
“He has enormous momentum,” Kathryn added, “but if you ask me, not everything’s kosher with that march of his.”
“You got something to back that up?”
“My gut tells me the financials are mighty fishy. Although how we prove that, I’m not sure.”
“We should call Hoover,” Zanuck said. “He’s bound to have a file as thick as my d—” He cut himself off, but recovered quickly. “—as my dictionary. I’ll call him once Otto and I are done. I’ll get back to you if there’s anything new. Oh, and Adler? Thanks for bringing this to us so fast. I owe you one.”
“I’d like to cash that IOU in immediately.”
Kathryn shot him a look of astonishment.
Zanuck snorted. “Go on.”
“Push back the departure of the Three Coins in the Fountain company by a few days.”
Longer pause. “I assume you’ve got your reasons.”
Marcus ignored Kathryn’s puzzled expression. “Uh-huh.”
Even longer pause. “I’ll see what I can do.”
When Marcus and Kathryn got back to her desk, she scooped up her bag. “We should swing by Gwennie’s store. That article isn’t exactly great PR.”
* * *
They pulled into the parking lot behind Chez Gwendolyn around four o’clock. The back door was unlocked and they let themselves in.
“Knock, knock!”
“We’re out here.”
Gwendolyn sounded like someone had just run over her grandma.
Marcus and Kathryn walked into the main salon where only a couple of lights were burning; the rest of the store was cloaked in gloom. Gwendolyn sat behind the counter, her elbow leaning on the glass and her face resting against her fist. Next to her, Doris and Bertie looked every bit as morose.
“So you’ve seen it?” Marcus asked.
“It’s a little hard to miss,” Bertie said.
“Oh, Gwennie,” Kathryn said. “That photo of you with the champagne bottle!”
Gwendolyn lifted her head off her hand. “What?”
Marcus waved the magazine. He hopped from blank face to blank face. “Why are the lights out?”
“A little matter of . . .” Gwendolyn tilted her chin toward the Strip.
Someone had splashed paint across Chez Gwendolyn’s front window. Marcus squinted. “What’s that?”
Gwendolyn unlocked the front door and brought Marcus and Kathryn out onto the sidewalk. “You’ll get a better view if you step back a little.” She pulled them to the curb.
A large painted N with a bold slash through it took up virtually the entire front window.
“I don’t get it,” Marcus said.
“I’ve been vandalized!” Gwennie cried out.
“Yes, but what does it mean?”
“You dumb ass.” Kathryn punched him in the shoulder, right where it hurt the most. “The N is for nigger.”
“So the slash through it means—oh! No niggers.”
CHAPTER 36
Kathryn stepped out of the heat baking Pershing Square and into the Biltmore Hotel’s air-conditioned tranquility. The honking bustle outside melted away. “Do you see my mom?” she asked Leo.
He fanned himself with his white straw panama. “Nope. Maybe she’s already in the tearoom.” He took a step toward a baroque staircase carved with fruits and angels, but Kathryn pulled him back.
“Thanks for doing this,” she said. “I know how busy your days can get.”
He winked. “And yours don’t?”
As she scrubbed the paint off Gwendolyn’s front window, Kathryn realized she was featured in Confidential’s two most explosive articles: lavender marriages and Garden of Eden parties. There would be fallout.
Although Louella Parsons had her faults, Kathryn suspected she didn’t really care if Kathryn had married a homosexual for professional preservation, or that she threw a party where white people danced with Negroes.
By contrast, Hedda lost no time in slingshotting barbed accusations in Kathryn’s direction.
One of the Confidential photos showed Kathryn attempting a Valentino-esque tango with Ella’s husband. And there was hardly any point in denying her lavender marriage. Inside the walls of Hollywood, they were as common as divorces, and Hedda knew it. But Hedda’s readers didn’t, and her columns made it as clear as she could without putting Kathryn’s name in print.
Consequently, twenty-two radio stations, all of them in Bible Belt states, dropped Kathryn’s show. Hedda made a big deal of it in a follow-up column, but Kathryn had the last laugh when seventeen of them were back two weeks later after being deluged with listeners who wanted to follow Sheldon Voss’ progress.
But what warmed Kathryn’s heart was that Leo hadn’t lost his faith in her. If the higher-ups at Sunbeam, Betty Crocker, or NBC were on his case to cut her loose, he never let on. The few times she asked, he told her, “The flak I’m getting is nothing to lose sleep over.” She doubted the flak was inconsequential, but his willingness to shield her from it was deeply touching.
Between her schedule and his, they usually got together only two or three evenings a week, but now he’d upped it to four, sometimes five.
The night of Gwendolyn’s window incident, he arrived with extra paint thinner, as well as takeout sandwiches and coffee from Schwab’s. When Hedda started in with her no-names tirade, Leo reminded Kathryn, “Hedda’s not the Supreme Court. You don’t have to respond to anything she says. Take the high road and say nothing.”
They mounted the Biltmore’s ornate stairwell, passed the elevators, and stepped into the hotel’s elaborately decorated passageway.
“Do we have time for a quick shoe shine?” Leo asked. He held out his foot to show her how scuffed his shoes were from crossing Pershing Square. The city had recently decided to build a parking lot beneath the square, which was a practical idea, but it meant pulling out all the shade trees. The square was now a wasteland of dirt and concrete. “I wouldn’t want to show up looking like a lost Rat of Tubruk.”
Kathryn spotted a bootblack sitting at his station at the end of the hall. “Let’s make it quick.”
They were only a few yards away when she realized it was the shoeshine from the Ambassador who had been one of her best tipsters.
“Delmar!”
“Miss Kathryn!” He tipped the patent leather brim of his cap.
“You wo
rk here now?”
“Have you been to the Ambassador lately?” His lopsided grin revealed a couple of freshly lost teeth.
“Not in a while.”
He directed Leo to take a seat up on his stand, pulled out his brush, and set to work. “Traffic’s gotten so poorly that I couldn’t make no decent living. So when the bootblack here dropped dead of a bad ticker, I called ’em up and told them I could start straightaway. An’ here I is.”
“You make a better living here?” Kathryn asked.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Traffic at the Biltmore don’t know no end, especially with that march heading this way. The leader and his entourage are staying here when he comes to LA. Lord have mercy, but you’d think it was Jesus himself come riding into Jerusalem.”
“Voss?” Leo said. “At the Biltmore?”
The Biltmore was one of the classiest hotels west of Chicago, so it struck Kathryn as an expensive choice for Voss’ increasingly pious march. As he stormed through Dallas, Oklahoma City, Denver, and Albuquerque, his sanctimoniousness had become insufferable.
With each speech, Voss escalated his bombast, peppering his homilies with vitriolic attacks against a litany of “enemies of good, clean, God-fearing living.”
In Albuquerque, he found time to denounce homosexuals, Communists, subversives, “loose-living entertainers who ignore the laws of the land, of nature, and of God,” miscegenationists, unwed mothers, reefer-smoking beatniks, spineless alcoholics, shameless divorcees, and any non-Christian un-Americans. In other words, anyone who didn’t fit into pretty-picture, white-bread, Eisenhower America.
During the Albuquerque broadcast, he referred to Hollywood as “the Sodom and Gomorrah of the West” four times. Listening to this hateful diatribe from NBC’s Studio Two, Kathryn kept her sweet smile in place by reminding herself of the dressing-room advice Leo gave her: “You only have to put up with this hogwash for another couple of weeks and then we can start negotiating with NBC about a TV show.”
The only person who enjoyed himself was Mike Connolly, which was ironic considering he fit into at least three of those categories. Whatever nerves he may have experienced on that first show were gone by the third week. The night of the Memphis broadcast, he walked into Kathryn’s dressing room with such a glow that Kathryn was tempted to shove a light bulb in his mouth just to see if it would light up.
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