Tinseltown Confidential

by Martin Turnbull

  Shaking her hand out, she marched toward Wallace. Roz Russell and Loretta Young smiled at her obliviously as she approached them, but Wallace’s face was a mask of thinly veiled horror. “The show’s about to begin.”

  “Boy, is it ever.” Kathryn hugged Roz and Loretta and apologized that she wasn’t there to greet them earlier. “It’s crazy as a bug house back here!”

  “There’s a problem,” the sound guy said. “We’ve been trying to fix the TV link but it’s brought down the radio link. We need four or five minutes.”

  “We’re due on the air in less than three!” Wallace said.

  “I’ve alerted the studio, but it’s the best we can do.”

  “What about the microphones?” Kathryn asked. “Are they hooked up? Will that lot out front be able to hear me?”

  The technician assured her that they were, and that when they were broadcasting live, a red light at stage left would go on.

  “That’s all I need to know.”

  The collective energy of several thousand Angelenos swamped Kathryn as she stepped into the spotlight.

  “HELLO, HOLLYWOOD!”

  Her voice bounced from loudspeaker to loudspeaker strung up at regular intervals along both sides of the tent.

  “Thank you for turning out tonight, and in such numbers! But guess what. The live radio and television feeds have gone AWOL.” She slapped her sides with exaggerated irritation. “The busy bees backstage have assured me they’re trying to get us on the air. They’re sweating bullets, so let’s give them a huge round of applause.”

  A boisterous ovation filled the tent. To the right, Wallace made the “keep talking” hand signal. To the left stood Voss and Connolly, who both looked like they were heading off heart failure. How odd, then, that they wore such different faces.

  “Ladies and gentleman, may I be candid?” Ninety percent of the people in this tent worked in an industry dedicated to being heard. They roared their approval. “As Sheldon Voss brings his trek to a close tonight, his message of sticking to traditions may be more open to interpretation than perhaps he realizes. Our nation’s capital is a very long way from—to quote Mr. Voss’ words—the Sodom and Gomorrah of the West.”

  Someone up front jeered. Kathryn raised her hand to shield her eyes from the lights and identified Orson Welles. He wasn’t the type to slip quietly into a room—even a room the size of a football field. Encouraged by Orson, a few people started booing.

  “I wasn’t sure how to take his accusation that Marilyn Monroe was the manifestation of Lucifer’s lust.”

  The boos multiplied. Someone yelled, “Marilyn’s wonderful!” and several people wolf-whistled their agreement. Scattered applause broke out.

  Bolder now, Kathryn gripped the microphone stand with both hands. “Personally, I was a little concerned with his message that the proper place for women is in the home. As a working gal who loves her job, I have to question if it’s as true as Mr. Voss would like.”

  More boos, louder this time. And applause. Somewhere in front, a woman yelled out, “You got that right!” It sounded like Judy Garland.

  “I began to wonder if Mr. Voss understood that out here, we don’t care where you come from or what your daddy does for a living. We stand on our own merits as we look to the future.”

  The booing flipped to cheers.

  “But I’m here to tell you that I was wrong to worry that perhaps the Sea to Shining Sea March may have lost its moral compass.”

  A glint of color on the far left caught Kathryn’s eye. The lamp tucked into the wing now glowed red. Marcus had tried his best, but now it was up to her.

  “I wish the folks at home could see the enormous gathering tonight in MacArthur Park. Just a few minutes ago, Mr. Voss told me of an announcement he’d like me to make on his behalf. At the end of each sermon, the Voss Vanguard disburses with the famous quarter cans. I am thrilled to announce that the entire proceedings from tonight’s collection will be donated to the National Council of Negro Women. After tonight’s sermon, Sheldon Voss himself will lead a procession down Wilshire Boulevard to the council’s offices at 510 Spring Street to present them with more quarters than they’ve probably ever seen in their lives. Isn’t that wonderful?!”

  The hair on Kathryn’s arms stood up as the audience jumped to its feet. Not everybody was applauding for the same reason. From the expressions on their faces, she could see that some people supported desegregation; some supported Voss’ capitulation to the values of the Sodom and Gomorrah of the West; some saw her announcement as jacking the middle finger to Robert Harrison and his grubby brand of muckraking. Kathryn didn’t care why they were applauding. She knew she’d blown it with NBC and blown Gwendolyn’s chance into the bargain, but at least someone was going to come out of this situation all right.

  She leaned back into her mike. “And now, let’s go on with the show!”

  CHAPTER 40

  Gwendolyn looked out across the women filling her store and tried not to be bitter. She had expected to spend the morning packing her remaining stock into crates before seeing Marcus off at Los Angeles International Airport, but at this point, she might not get out of there on time. Why was this the day everyone decided to show up?

  A wide-hipped matron held up a Chanel-style suit and asked how much it was. She had no hope of fitting into it, and the sunny yellow did her pasty complexion no favors, but a sale was a sale.

  “Fourteen ninety-five.”

  The woman wrinkled her nose. “It’s a bit high.”

  Gwendolyn thought about the hours she’d put into the gold embroidery along the lapels. “Down from twenty-nine ninety-five.”

  “Will you take twelve?”

  If you explain to me how the heck you plan on squeezing into it. “Sure. Tell Doris at the counter that we agreed on twelve.”

  Gwendolyn had only been open a couple of minutes when the first rush of customers charged through the door. Soon she was overrun and had to call on Doris and Bertie to lend a hand. Bertie helped out in the workroom that was currently a communal fitting room, and Doris was behind the cash register ringing up sale after sale.

  Gwendolyn called Doris’ name over the havoc, pointed to the suit, and held up ten fingers, then two. “Thank you for coming.”

  The customer missed the sarcasm in Gwendolyn’s response, and instead took off for Doris, clearing a path for Lena Horne, who was standing behind her with an unusually feline woman in a skintight cashmere sweater.

  “I’m sorry to hear you’re closing,” Lena said. “Ella wanted to be here but she couldn’t so I brought my friend. Gwendolyn, I want you to meet Eartha Kitt.”

  “I’m a fan of your perfume.” Eartha’s voice almost sounded like a purr. “I’m here to buy as many bottles as I can afford.”

  “You’re a singer, aren’t you?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “Singer, actress, dancer, fill-in-the-blank.”

  “Everybody’s been talking about what’s happened,” Lena confided. “Not that it matters now, I suppose, but you’ve got a sterling reputation with us.”

  “Of course it matters.” Gwendolyn started straightening a scarf display. “And thank you for telling me.”

  “You don’t deserve this treatment.”

  “There are people out there who’d argue otherwise.”

  “So what are your plans now?”

  “Get a job, I suppose. It’ll be hard after being my own boss these past five years.”

  A pair of Beverly Hills matrons started arguing over a fragile ball gown. “I better go break that up.”

  Lena pulled her into a hug. “For what it’s worth, we consider you a friend, and we won’t forget the stand you took on our behalf.”

  “Thank you.” Gwendolyn let Lena go and crossed the salon to reassure the two women that she had a number of similar gowns in the back.

  Time flew by as the cash register sang like a nightingale. It was well past one o’clock now. Gwendolyn hated the thought of missing out on saying g
oodbye to Marcus.

  “It’s nice to see you so busy, despite the circumstances.”

  Gwendolyn hadn’t seen Billy Travilla since the “Rainbow at the Garden of Eden” party. Not that she expected to. Nor did she blame him for going to ground when that horrible article came out.

  She threw her arms open. “And it’s nice to see you, even under these circumstances. If you’re shopping for something, you better have at it while you can.”

  “I brought this lovely lady along.” He half-turned to the woman behind him and nudged her by the elbow. She had the look of a woman of means who did her best with her God-given gifts while grudgingly surrendering to the inevitability of middle-age. “Gwendolyn, I want you to meet Irene Crawley.”

  Gwendolyn took the woman’s offered hand. “Pleased to meet y—” She stiffened. “Did you say Irene Crawley?”

  Billy’s smile faltered. “I did.”

  Gwendolyn had been too busy preparing her store for closure to attend the final Sea to Shining Sea revival meeting, but she’d kicked herself for missing out on Kathryn’s speech. Somewhere along the march to the National Council of Negro Women, Voss’ promise to clean up the Sodom and Gomorrah of the West lost momentum. The NCNW hadn’t finished counting all those quarters yet, but Kathryn estimated the windfall to be north of five grand.

  He said, “Irene and I have known each other since our days at the Chouinard School of Art. I’ve been talking up your wares to her for ages, and when she heard you were closing down, she insisted that I bring her here.”

  Gwendolyn took in the woman’s figure. “I have a floor-length gown in coffee-colored lace that would suit you, but only if you like off the shoulder.”

  “That’s not why I came.”

  “The perfume, then?” Gwendolyn had two hundred bottles behind her sofa at the Garden of Allah. The more she could offload today, the better.

  “I’m here about Kathryn Massey,” Irene said. “Billy told me that you two are the best of friends, and I was rather staggered by her behavior backstage. Did she tell you about it?”

  It was pretty much all Gwendolyn had heard about for the last two days. “She did mention it, yes.”

  “But then I had time to think it over, and I have to admit that I was rather impressed by it, too. I admire a woman who sticks to her guns.”

  “Did your husband have the same reaction?”

  “Oh, goodness me, no!” Mrs. Crawley pressed her fingers over her mouth. “After the sermon, Patrick and I bumped into Billy and Dona. He told me that you were closing your doors and said I ought to look at what you can do and make up my own mind.”

  “Everything you see is half price,” Gwendolyn said. “And I’d be more than happy to tailor anything.”

  Irene fluttered a hand. “I can see you’ve got what it takes. It’s just that I didn’t want to take Walter’s word for it.”

  So Winchell kept his end of the bargain, after all. “I heard you two were friends.”

  Irene scrunched her face in disgust. “I wouldn’t be caught dead talking to that reprobate unless it was essential to my husband’s business interests. What a relief to find your work marvelous.”

  Billy pointed to a tea dress in pink tulle. “Can’t you see Loretta in that?”

  “Loretta?” Gwendolyn cut in. “Young?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you saying you’d still like to recommend me to do her costumes?”

  “You are interested, I hope,” Mrs. Crawley said.

  “Of course!”

  “Good. You just leave it to me. I know how to bend my husband’s ear.”

  “Will you bend it for Kathryn, too? I understand there was a plan to transfer her radio show to television.”

  Irene shook her head. “Patrick can’t abide women who don’t act like ladies.” She patted Gwendolyn’s hand. “I’ll see to it that someone from the show is in contact. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do see a few things I’d like to investigate before some of these women snap them up.” She headed for the daywear.

  “I have you to thank for this, don’t I?” Gwendolyn asked Billy.

  “I merely sang your praises.”

  “Thank you, Billy, so very much.”

  His aw-shucks grin fell away. “You’re going to need a place to work on those gowns.”

  “I’m sure Loretta’s production company will have some place.”

  “They haven’t even rented offices yet. But regardless, wouldn’t you like to have access to every fabric under the sun? And the services of some of the best seamstresses in the business? Not to mention how you’re assuming this job will pay you enough to live on.”

  She realized he had a valid point. She’d only be required to build one dress per week. That wasn’t a full-time job. “I get the feeling you’re driving at something.”

  Billy stroked his cheek as though to coax the words out. “Marilyn’s becoming a tad difficult to work with. I’ve seen it happen over and over. Insecurities come to the fore the bigger a performer gets. She trusts me, but that’s about all. And even then . . .” He laced his fingers together and pressed his palms to his chest. “Did you see the article about her and DiMaggio in the new Confidential?”

  It was hard to avoid seeing that rag these days. Every newsstand carried it front and center. The August issue screamed the headline:

  WHY JOE DIMAGGIO IS STRIKING OUT WITH MARILYN MONROE!

  “The cover was bad enough.”

  “I told her she shouldn’t let it affect her so much, but . . .” He let out a heavy sigh. “I think it’ll help if you can be there to assist with fittings and adjustments and such. Quite frankly, your just being there will make the process of costuming Marilyn so much easier.”

  Gwendolyn hadn’t seen her since the night of the party at the Garden. She sent a card after Confidential came out, but had heard nothing back.

  “The next project is dressing her for the How to Marry a Millionaire premiere on November fourth.”

  “That’s three months away,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “Surely it won’t take that long—” Billy’s deer-in-headlights expression cut her off. “Is it that bad?”

  “She’s a very strong girl who’s overcome an appalling past. But fame has a way of magnifying flaws and insecurities so that they become the size of a zeppelin, and about as stable. The slightest disruptions have started to set her off.”

  “So what are you offering me?”

  “A full-time job in the costuming department of Twentieth Century-Fox while creating gowns for Loretta’s show. Are you in?”

  * * *

  When the taxi pulled up at the curb in front of the Pan Am terminal at LA International, Gwendolyn threw fistful of bills at the driver. “Thank you!” She raced inside and ran her eyes down the departures board.

  Flight 706—Lounge 9—Boarding at 7:15

  She darted up the stairs and into Pan Am’s cluster of lounges. Number nine was at the other end—just far enough to wish she was wearing flats.

  The tide of customers had retreated by five o’clock, when she was clean out of stock. Every last dress, gown, suit, jacket, glove, and scarf had been picked over by Beverly Hills vultures, leaving Chez Gwendolyn a bone-dry carcass.

  She spotted Marcus and Kathryn in the corner next to the window looking out across the tarmac.

  “I made it! I made it!”

  “Gwennie!” There was a trill in Kathryn’s voice. “What took you so long?”

  “Things didn’t quite pan out how I expected. But never mind, we’re all here now.” She took in Marcus’ smooth face. “You shaved off your beard.”

  “It wasn’t really me.”

  With its flecks of gray, Gwendolyn had thought it added five years and she was glad to see it gone. She grabbed both Marcus and Kathryn by the hand. “Gosh, but this feels mighty familiar. Substitute Union Station for LA International and this could be a retake of three years ago.”

  “It’s not the same at all,” Marcus said. “Back t
hen, I was skulking off into the sunset because I’d been banished from Hollywood. I had no idea what the future held and no definite plans to come back. This time, I know exactly how long I’m staying and when I return, I’ll be off the graylist and ready to work again.”

  “Well, you better not disappear like some people.” Gwendolyn pointed to a discarded copy of the Examiner. Its banner demanded: WHERE IS SHELDON VOSS?

  It now was three days after the MacArthur Park revival, and the man who’d attracted the nation’s attention all summer had dropped out of sight.

  A voice over the loudspeaker announced that Pan Am Flight 706 for New York and Rome was now boarding.

  Gwendolyn broke out into a nervous giggle. “All I know is that I’m suffering from déjà vu. Last time you didn’t know if you were ever coming home and you were back in four months. This time you say you’ll be back when Three Coins is finished, but what if you meet up with Oliver and find he’s decided not to become a monk or a priest or whatever, and convinces you to stay over there for good? Or if—”

  Marcus pressed his fingers to her lips. “You’re babbling,” he told her. “Shooting is scheduled to finish mid-September. Six weeks at the most.”

  “We’re going to hold you to that. Just be sure you don’t hammer any more cables.”

  Marcus threw up his hands in mock despair. “Hey! How was I to know it was just a backup? And anyway, things worked okay, didn’t they? I’ll be back at the Garden before you even realize I’ve gone.”

  “I doubt that very much.” Kathryn slipped an arm around Gwendolyn’s waist. “But I think we can manage six weeks, can’t we, Gwennie?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll bring you back some of Signora Scatena’s zucchini flowers,” he said. “Or at least the recipe.”

  “Because we’re such gourmet cooks?” Kathryn laughed. “People are starting to line up. You better go.”

  He embraced them both. “It’s just six weeks.” He gave them a final hug and picked up his cabin bag.

  They leaned against the window and watched him shuffle to the front of the line until the stewardess waved him through. He smiled at them and raised his fedora before disappearing through the door.