Tinseltown Confidential

by Martin Turnbull

  Anger shot out of Marcus like a swarm of hornets. How could he leave me like that? After everything we went through, all I got was a crappy note?

  If Marcus was still in Rome, he would have marched up to that monastery and banged on its front doors until they let him see Oliver and demand an explanation. Vows of silence be damned.

  But he wasn’t in Rome. He was standing on a Los Angeles sidewalk with his eyes glued to an oil painting that reminded him of someone who’d rejected him for the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Someone he hadn’t seen in over two years, and yet a random painting in a window could bring it all rushing back.

  He couldn’t stop himself trooping inside to ask about the portrait. The owner gushed over an artist Marcus had never heard of in a tone that told him he should. The five-hundred-dollar price tag may as well have been five million.

  Another piece caught his eye: a painting of Venice, with the dome of St. Mark’s towering over a gondolier plying his trade on a sea of absinthe green. He had hoped to get to Venice while he was in Italy, but the opportunity never presented itself.

  “And this one?”

  “That’s Jean Negulesco’s work from the twenties.”

  “Negulesco? The movie director?”

  “Yes, he was an artist in Bucharest and Paris before he moved to the States. All those are his.” He pointed to a wall featuring a couple of nudes, a portrait of a haughty gentleman holding a pipe, the Venice landscape, a still life of an apartment spilling over with books, a blue chair, a white vase and a guitar, all rendered in bold colors.

  The telephone at the back of the gallery rang. When the owner excused himself, Marcus snuck a bunch of photos of the paintings, thanked the guy and left. Only a few of them came out okay, but they were clear enough for Negulesco to recognize his own work. Marcus mailed them off to him at Fox, marking the envelope “Personal.” A secretary called him a few days later with instructions about reporting to the set of Three Coins in the Fountain.

  The director was too preoccupied corralling his cast to extend anything more than a hurried “You know what I’m looking for, yes?” The lunch break was nearly over when Marcus saw his chance to approach the director. Clifton Webb had hogged the man’s time for most of the break, but finally left.

  “You haven’t had a chance to get some lunch,” Marcus said. “I could run out and find you a sandwich.”

  “I have a Girl Friday for that,” Negulesco said. “Oh, and sorry about Webb. It’s his way of saying, ‘I’m the most sensitive one whose needs must be met, so therefore all eyes on me.’”

  “I spent enough time at MGM to know all the moves,” Marcus reassured him. “I was wondering, though, did you get those photos I sent you? The ones of your paintings.”

  “Yes! Wherever did you find them?”

  When Marcus told him about the downtown gallery, Negulesco asked if Marcus was free to take him there once they were finished for the day. This was the best of all possible outcomes. Negulesco would be his captive audience as they drove along Pico Boulevard.

  But Negulesco dominated the conversation during the drive into downtown, reminiscing about the glories of his youth in Vienna, Bucharest, and Paris.

  “Always with the ideas flowing from me like mother’s milk. What a thrill to be reunited with some of them again. And so far from where I created them.”

  Eventually Marcus found a way to ask when Three Coins would leave LA, but got only vague commitments.

  The gallery owner bubbled with declarations of how happy he was that the man himself had graced them with his presence. He escorted them to Negulesco’s paintings, and soon the two men were deep in technical art talk that exceeded Marcus’ comprehension. He wandered to the front of the gallery and stared at the FBI building across the street until a young assistant in his twenties approached him.

  Marcus had first heard the word beatnik in a New York Times magazine article called “This Is the Beat Generation.” This guy wore drainpipe trousers and a black turtleneck sweater that couldn’t have been comfortable in this August heat.

  Marcus looked at the guy’s pointed-toe winklepickers. “Do those pinch?”

  “Surprisingly, no.” He pulled back the cuff of his sweater to consult his watch. “It’s nearly show time.”

  “What show is that?”

  “For the last few days, there’s been this procession of four white vans coming up Spring. The first day they screwed up the address. They wanted 510 Spring but came to us because we’re 501. They were kinda nutty, especially the guy in charge who kept insisting they had the right address. I think they’re part of that Sheldon Voss march. Eventually, I made them see they wanted 510 across the street.”

  “What do they do when they get there?”

  “Turn around and drive back. I don’t know what they’re up to, but they come like clockwork. It’s almost six now—they should be along any second.”

  The two men stepped outside the store and onto the sidewalk just as four white vans turned off Wilshire and headed toward them. As they passed by, Marcus clipped off a bunch of shots. He peered back inside the gallery to find Negulesco still deep in conference with the gallery owner.

  “If Mr. Negulesco asks for me, tell him I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Marcus followed the procession into Harlem Place. He continued snapping as the Voss Vanguard pulled up along the lane and got out of the vans. One of them opened the back door and showed the others a paint can. The guy strained to lift it, letting out a groan that bounced off the surrounding buildings. He swung it back inside, then took it out again.

  When Marcus returned to the art gallery, Negulesco and the owner were finishing up.

  “You bought all five?” Marcus asked. “I hope he gave you a break, considering they’re your own paintings.”

  “He tried to, but I told him that I would not accept anything less than the asking price. For me it is nostalgia, but for him it is business, and business must be respected, no?” He slipped his checkbook inside his jacket. “I cannot think of anything I’d rather buy than a piece of my youth.”

  “In that case, congratulations.”

  “Ah, but this would not have happened without you!” Negulesco exclaimed. “I’m glad you will be joining us in Italy. Your knowledge of Rome will be indispensable. You’ve brushed up on your Italian, I hope.”

  The day after Negulesco told him about joining Three Coins, Marcus bought a set of records: “Speak Like an Italian in 10 Easy Lessons.” He was surprised to find that he’d retained more of Signora Scatena’s jabbering than he supposed. “I’ve been working on it every day.”

  “Mayer told me you’re conscientious that way.”

  “You know L.B.?”

  “He’d been after me to direct a Cinerama picture for him. He wants to produce a narrative film set in the South Pacific, but it was too vague. Not long after that, Zanuck offered me Titanic.”

  “How did I come up in conversation?” Marcus asked.

  “We bumped into each other at the first showing of This Is Cinerama in New York. He said you were a fine production photographer and an even better screenwriter, and with your experience on Quo Vadis, you could be invaluable. I hinted that I was surprised to hear him sing someone else’s praises so highly. He said he’d been humbled by his ousting from MGM, and that he owed you a favor.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He did.” Negulesco glanced away and pulled at his cuffs.

  “You going to make me beg?”

  A stiff pause, then, “It concerned someone who used to work for Joseph Breen.” The knowing look on the director’s face made it plain that he knew the whole story.

  “What about him?”

  “His name is Oliver, yes? Evidently, this Oliver person asked his old boss to recommend someone who could teach him Italian. I guess because Breen’s so well connected in the Church? Anyway, Breen didn’t know, so he asked Mayer, who recommended a school run by the Jesuits, which I thought was funny because M
ayer is Jewish and—” The tension on Marcus’ face cut him short. “Anyway, he feels responsible for leading your friend to the Church and leaving you out in the cold.”

  Marcus fell against the gallery’s front window. It floored him to think that conservative Mayer gave two figs about a couple of queers splitting up.

  “He didn’t say it in so many words,” Negulesco continued, “but I got the distinct feeling that he deeply regrets his cowardice with the blacklist, and that he didn’t find the courage to stand up to HUAC like you did. If you ask me, getting you off the graylist is his way of apologizing.”

  Just when you think you’ve got someone pegged. “So, I am coming with you when you leave for Italy?”

  “Of course!”

  “And what day is that?” Marcus held his breath.

  “We leave August tenth. I do hope that’s okay with you.”

  Marcus started his engine. That was three days after Voss’ tent revival. “I’ll be there.”

  CHAPTER 39

  The revival tent hulked across MacArthur Park like a dinosaur devouring bodies. Kathryn leaned against Marcus’ dashboard and counted the peaks.

  “God almighty! Six poles? You’d think it was the return of Caesar.”

  Marcus grunted. “It’s not like we weren’t warned.”

  For the past week, the Los Angeles Examiner had trumpeted Sheldon Voss’ arrival.

  Voss Vanguard reaches two hundred!

  Sheldon Voss prepares to break radio records!

  Revival to meet under largest tent constructed in California!

  The photos showed Voss at a sunset prayer service in Surprise, Arizona; conducting a baptism in the Salton Sea; giving an impromptu sermon at the Mission Inn in Riverside captioned, “Bringing God’s mission to the Mission.” In every photo, his eyes were cast heavenward, so reverent it gave Kathryn the dry heaves.

  Yesterday, when the march came within the LA city limits, she speculated that the reporters were out of superlatives and on their second go-round. Marcus reminded her that those same reporters were plugging her radio show in nearly every article.

  Kathryn hated that her name was linked to this colossal charade, especially after Marcus showed her the photos he took downtown. “But that’s your deal with the devil,” she told herself. “It’s a means to an end.” Her association with Voss delivered astronomical ratings and welcome bonuses, and was paving the way to her own television show. But now that she could see the mammoth tent, her innards were churning like a turbine.

  Just say your lines. First the sketch with Roz Russell, then a chat about faith with Loretta Young. Betty Hutton’s going to pep up the crowd singing “His Rocking Horse Ran Away” and “Stuff Like That There.” Then cross to Mike Connolly. Easy peasy.

  “HELLO!?!?”

  Marcus’ voice brought her back. “Sorry, what?”

  Francine snapped her purse shut. “I said I’ve changed my mind about coming backstage.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The last time I saw my brother, told him he was a no-account bum who wouldn’t amount to a pile of cow dung. But to see him like this? No, thank you. I’ll be plenty near enough in the audience, thank you very much.”

  They arrived at the western edge of MacArthur Park. Masses of the adoringly faithful and the agnostically curious filled the sidewalks and spilled over the curb.

  Kathryn had never seen her uncle’s followers in the flesh. They ranged from five years old to eighty, and wore everything from shabby hand-me-downs to elegant dresses.

  “I wish Gwennie was here.”

  Marcus inched his car through the trooping flood of humanity toward a sign marked PRESS PARKING ONLY. “We should be helping her prepare for the inevitable.”

  They’d all shed tears that week when she announced that she was closing Chez Gwendolyn. Nobody was hiring her to design couture; nobody was buying her perfume; nobody wanted to shop where they might encounter colored people. Confidential had wrecked everything with a headline that would be forgotten by the next issue.

  Marcus pulled his car into the slot indicated by a Voss Vanguard, and they got out. Kathryn’s heels immediately sank into the grass.

  * * *

  Marcus took in the spectacle as they crossed the park to a red-and-white-striped circus tent with six soaring poles. Its sides billowed and shifted in the brisk August breeze, and it seemed even larger on the inside—perhaps because it still smelled of freshly mowed grass and eucalyptus, even with the heat, sweat and perfume of hundreds of people filling the vast enclosure.

  After escorting Kathryn to the backstage door—really nothing more than an open flap—he and Francine crossed in front of the raised stage and stood at the front of the audience. They stared up the center aisle and watched the swarming masses slowly take their seats.

  Louella and Hedda had secured front-row seats on opposite sides. Billy Wilkerson and his wife, Tichi, were not far behind Louella, and directly behind them sat Walter Winchell. Winchell and Wilkerson were shaking hands and talking. On the other side a couple of rows behind Hedda, Mr. and Mrs. Mayer were taking their seats at the far end of the row.

  “Where are we sitting?” Marcus asked Francine.

  She showed him their tickets: Row P. He was disappointed but not surprised; she probably thought Voss wouldn’t spot her way back there. Marcus took her arm and led her up the aisle.

  “Nervous, isn’t she?” Francine said.

  In the car, Kathryn’s face had taken on the same ashen tinge it had the night she first heard Voss’ voice. “She doesn’t want to screw up in front of forty million listeners. Can’t say that I blame her.”

  Marcus eyed Mayer. Ten years ago, the man would have been surrounded by hangers-on, but now he was chatting with his wife ignored by everyone around them.

  Marcus saw Francine to their seats, then continued up the aisle, around the back of the tent, then down the side until he drew alongside the Mayers.

  “Good evening.”

  Mayer peered warily up at Marcus. “I figured I might see you.”

  “It’s a big night for Kathryn.” Marcus crouched down on his haunches so that they were face-to-face. “I’m leaving for Rome soon.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Marcus dropped his voice to a loud whisper. “I wanted to thank you. You know, Oliver Trenton and everything that happened.”

  “Thanks are not necessary.”

  “I want you to know that I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

  Mayer squirmed. “Really, there’s no need—”

  Lorena prodded him. “Would it kill you to simply say, ‘You’re welcome’?”

  Mayer pulled himself up straight. “You’re welcome, Adler.”

  “Are you going to tell him what we just heard?” Lorena pushed.

  Mayer’s smile pinched into a thin line. “Voss is going to launch that Lavender Scare today. He was watching McCarthy’s witch hunt, and you know how much mileage that bastard got.”

  The papers had been screaming for weeks about the purge in DC: hundreds of men had been fired in disgrace. And now Voss is going to call attention to all the queers in Hollywood, and how they’re intent on advancing the homosexual agenda. At the last two stops, Voss hadn’t called Hollywood the Sodom and Gomorrah of the West, or Marilyn its Jezebel. Marcus assumed that someone had told him to quit it if he wanted to win over Angelenos.

  “In front of this crowd?”

  “In front of the forty million Americans who will be tuning in.”

  “Are you sure? How reliable is your source?”

  “Last night, I met Winchell for drinks at the Beverly Wilshire. I wanted to quiz him about Howard Hughes off-loading RKO because I want him to sell it to me. Somehow the conversation deviated onto Voss.” He paused, drilling Marcus with his marble eyes. “Kathryn should know what she’s heading into.”

  Marcus nodded. “Thank you. I know she’ll appreciate it.”

  “Marcus?”

  Beside him, a
wild look wrinkled Francine’s face. Marcus stood up. “Is something wrong?”

  “I went to say hello to Louella, but on my way over to her I overheard a couple of workers say that the line is broken.”

  “What line?”

  “The radio and television lines are linked together somehow. They’re not working and nobody’s sure they’ll be able to patch things together by air time. All those sound engineers are running around like headless chickens!”

  No link to the outside world, Marcus thought, means no one outside this tent would hear Voss’ rant.

  “We should go tell Kathryn,” Francine said.

  “I’m sure she knows.”

  “I’m going backstage, Marcus.”

  He’d heard this tone before, usually from Kathryn. It wasn’t hard to guess where she got it from.

  “You might bump into someone you’d rather avoid.”

  “Are you coming with me or not?”

  * * *

  The evening breezes gusting along Wilshire shuddered the sides of the tent. Kathryn pressed her hand against the tarpaulin and felt the heat of the sun. Up close like this, the structure looked flimsy. Visions of a cross between Titanic and The Greatest Show on Earth crowded her feverish imagination.

  Her dressing room was bigger than the one at NBC, but not as well lit. There was a makeup mirror with standard lamps set up on either side, but neither of them worked. Nobody had thought to lay down a floor, leaving her heels vulnerable in the exposed grass with every step.

  The flap of striped canvas that worked as a door flew aside and Leo walked in. “Hello, darling! Ready for the big one?” The afternoon sun now hit the outside of the tent, striping the grass with bands of red and white. “I’ve had a request from Voss. He wants to meet you.”

  The enclosed space was starting to heat up. Kathryn fanned herself with a Herald-Examiner someone had left on her makeup counter. “I hope you told him no.”

  Leo indulged her with a less-than-genuine chuckle. “He feels your rapport will be greater if you meet beforehand.”

  “Isn’t that what Connolly is for?”