Reds in the Beds

by Martin Turnbull

  Kathryn started strumming the counter. “How have I missed that?”

  “Until recently, it’s been after hours,” Cassandra said. “Every time Wilkerson expects him, he asks me to stay late in case they need someone to run out and pick up burgers or booze. But the last couple of times he’s just shown up here, like he did just now.” She glanced up the corridor. “Whatever they’re working on, it’s not going well. Last week, I could hear them—it wasn’t quite yelling. It was one notch down, which is probably sensible because the last person you should yell at is Ben Siegel, right?”

  The Kraft Music Hall news and this Siegel development made Kathryn feel hemmed in on all sides. She reached into her purse for her address book and flipped to D, then bent over the counter and picked up Cassandra’s telephone. She dialed a Brentwood number and hoped to hell someone picked up.

  * * *

  Bette Davis’ house on Carmelina Drive was refreshingly normal. Instead of an obnoxious, oversized estate that would stupefy the press and provoke her peers to jealousy, she and her new husband bought a two-story farmhouse with sky blue shutters and a brick patio.

  The maid led Kathryn into an airy living room filled with the solid-legged sort of furniture usually found in movies set in the Midwest—comfortable, practical, and free from overly fussy detail. The upholstery matched the drapes—a pattern of cabbage roses and sharp thorns dominated the room and made Kathryn think of Gwendolyn’s description of her boss’ ball gown.

  Bette was seated at the long sofa with a copy of Life in her hand, dressed in a brown velvet robe—odd for three o’clock in the afternoon. “I’d get up if I could, but the doctor told me to avoid exertion.”

  Kathryn sat down beside her. “The doctor?”

  Bette took off her reading glasses and rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell you if you can keep a secret.”

  “I’m a gossip columnist,” Kathryn reminded her. “It’s my job to keep secrets.”

  “No, it’s your job to divulge them.”

  Kathryn shook her head. “My job is to divulge the secrets I didn’t promise to keep.” That made Bette smile. “This isn’t an official visit. Nothing you say will be taken down and used against you in the court of public opinion.” Kathryn had interviewed enough movie stars to know that most of them couldn’t resist the opportunity to talk about themselves.

  “I’m not pregnant, if that’s the scoop you were hoping for.”

  “I didn’t come here looking for a scoop.”

  Bette made a show of shifting in her seat. “I had a car accident.” She shot up her hand. “Nothing catastrophic. I was driving down to our place in Laguna, but I shouldn’t have. I was too distracted by this movie I’m shooting.”

  “Deception’s not going well?”

  Bette see-sawed her hand. “It’s going fine, I guess, but it’s all a bit overblown and highbrow. Paul Henreid’s in it with me, but if moviegoers are expecting to see a retread of Now, Voyager, I fear they’ll walk out sadly disappointed. At any rate, my mind was elsewhere and I ran off the road. I’m in better shape than my car, but I’m still a bit black and blue. I was glad to get your call—I could use the distraction.”

  She rang a little silver bell and her maid came into the room within seconds. Bette asked for tea and cookies to be served, then waited until the maid had retreated to ask, “What’s going on?”

  “I was told today that Bing won’t be continuing with Kraft Music Hall, so I’d say my radio career is not long for this world. And that’s a shame because I was counting on it in case the Hollywood Reporter goes down the plughole.”

  “It’s on shaky ground?”

  “Ben Siegel has been visiting my boss at the office. During the daytime.”

  “That can’t be good.”

  “I did as you suggested, and talked to Hughes. He told me he had it on good authority that Wilkerson has borrowed a million dollars to finish his Flamingo Club.” Kathryn fluttered her hands in exasperation.

  “He must have been desperate if he turned to the mob. What do you make of it?”

  “He’s jumped into bed with the mob! At best, they’ll shove him out and he’ll lose all his dough. At worst, they’ll shove him into the nearest cement mixer.”

  The words gagged her; she felt the sting of tears collect behind her eyes. She reached into her purse and groped around for a handkerchief but found nothing. Instead, she swiped her tears away with the back of her glove.

  Bette let her gather herself together before she spoke.

  “He’s been like a father to you, hasn’t he?”

  Kathryn jerked her head up, startled that this had never occurred to her.

  “Of course you’re worried,” Bette said. “If silly Billy isn’t going to rescue himself, then somebody’s going to have to do something.”

  The maid appeared with a tray holding a dark blue Wedgwood tea set and half a dozen coconut cookies. She slid the tray onto the coffee table and withdrew without a word.

  “It’s not like I can go in with my guns blazing like I’m Jimmy Cagney,” Kathryn whispered.

  “You need to fight fire with fire.” Bette handed Kathryn a cup of steaming tea. “If you’re going to extricate your boss from the mob’s clutches—assuming, of course, you can even pull off something like that—you’re going to need someone stronger than you.”

  Kathryn almost heard the puzzle pieces snap into place. “I see where you’re going with this.”

  “You want to get off the hook with the FBI, don’t you?”

  “Can I assume that’s a rhetorical question?”

  “If you do them a big favor, maybe they’ll do one in return.” Bette clenched as she shifted into a new position. “I’m hardly an expert, but I’d imagine the FBI would be most interested in where that cool million came from.”

  Kathryn desperately wanted to be rid of this whole mess, but with Wilkerson digging an ever-deepening hole for himself, she could see it wasn’t going to fix itself.

  “Imagine the points your guy will score with his boss if he can say he’s got a way in. Just the thought of bringing down the mob will give J. Edgar Hoover a hard-on that won’t deflate for weeks.”

  Kathryn laughed in spite of the apprehension swirling inside her. The last thing she wanted to do was give Nelson Hoyt’s career a bump, but Bette had a point. She had to play the long game.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Cadillac Marcus hired for the night was a postwar limousine, midnight black, with a long chrome stripe, factory-fresh leather upholstery, and all the leg room he could possibly need. But the long, luxurious ride he’d been looking forward to would have to happen some other night. Marcus kneaded his temples.

  Why didn’t I run this past Eddie Mannix?

  Being promoted to department head the same week he got married had granted Marcus a double dose of legitimacy in the eyes of social Hollywood. These days, he received all sorts of invitations—galas, premieres, dinner-dances, charity fundraisers. So when the invitation for tonight’s reception arrived, no alarm bells went off.

  An invitation to a cocktail party aboard a Soviet battleship was unusual, but no more than the one he’d received a few weeks back to a party thrown by former members of the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League to commemorate the first anniversary of Hitler’s suicide. And yes, the absence of the words “and wife” or “plus guest” was curious, but he didn’t think too much about it when he mailed off his RSVP.

  The further south the limo sped, the more he longed for the old days during the war when everything was so clear-cut. The Allies were the good guys, the Axis were the bad guys. The heroes beat the villains and everybody knew where they stood.

  But now, the new bad guys were the Commies, and Russia was a Communist nation. During a recent speech in Missouri, Winston Churchill mentioned something he called the “Iron Curtain,” and how Eastern Europe now lay inside the Soviet sphere, implying this was not a good thing.

  Outside his window, a fog was starting to roll in, blurring
the forest of pumpjacks on Signal Hill behind a thickening haze. They made a left and passed a sign: PORT OF LONG BEACH—1 MILE.

  I should have picked up the telephone and told Mannix, “I got this invite from Konstantin Simonov. He’s the Soviet consul, so it’s legit, but I thought you ought to know . . .”

  The fog was even thicker when the car swung into a parking lot. Marcus could barely make out the battleship moored along the pier. He showed his invitation to the uniformed sailor, who waved him through wordlessly.

  I’ll stay an hour, then tell them I’m meeting Mr. Mayer at the Biltmore for a late dinner.

  It looked like any other battleship Marcus had seen during the war—about twice the length of a football field, and maybe two stories high at its peak. The whole thing was painted a dull gray, with hand-sized flakes peeling off the hull in several places.

  Marcus suddenly wished Oliver was with him. He had been waiting for Marcus at the Garden when he staggered home at eight o’clock in the morning after the Mandeville Canyon raid. They were both full of regret and apologies, and soon discovered the joys of make-up sex.

  A whitewashed wooden gangplank ran from the edge of the pier to the deck. Another taciturn deckhand checked Marcus’ invitation and swept his hand toward the ship. A line of tiny electric lights ran aft to an open doorway. The spry notes of Russian gypsy music danced across the air.

  He stepped inside to find a chamber not much bigger than his living room. It was square, carpeted, with walls painted a dark cream, and lit largely with enormous candles that were as thick as baseball bats. A dozen people were gathered into groups of three or four. The first person Marcus saw took him by surprise: Charlie Chaplin dressed in a tux, with his dark-haired wife, Oona O’Neill, by his side. They stood with a wide-faced man in his early thirties who looked like a young Jack Warner with a trim Ronald Colman moustache. Chaplin nudged the man, who looked over his shoulder and smiled. He excused himself and headed straight for Marcus.

  He shot out his hand. “Mr. Adler!” he exclaimed. “What a pleasure that you could join us tonight. I am your host, Konstantin Simonov.”

  Marcus shook his hand, surprised that this amiable Ruskie would recognize him. “Have we met before, Mr. Simonov?”

  A waiter appeared with a tray of shot glasses. Simonov took two and handed Marcus one. “Authentic Russian vodka. One swallow. Bang! Yes?”

  They threw back the drinks and waited for the euphoria to warm them. Taking him gently by the elbow, Simonov guided Marcus over to Chaplin and his wife. “Charlie tells me you’ve met before.”

  Marcus shook hands with the actor and his young wife. “I’m flattered you remember.”

  Chaplin’s vodka-infused smile widened. “Of course! That was quite a night for you.”

  It was the triumphant premiere of MGM’s William Tell, which Marcus had written. Chaplin had gone out of his way to greet Alla Nazimova, who introduced him to Marcus. He then insisted that the two of them have their photo taken in front of a striking portrait of Napoleon Bonaparte on horseback. Marcus assumed that what had been a heady experience for him was a forgettable moment for the star.

  Simonov excused himself when another guest appeared in the doorway, leaving Marcus with the Chaplins. Oona turned to her husband.

  “Isn’t that John Garfield who just walked in? What’s his wife’s name?”

  “Roberta,” Charlie replied.

  It was then that Marcus realized Chaplin was here with his wife, and John Garfield had brought his. Why then, he wondered, was my invitation not addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Adler? An innocuous oversight? Or because Kathryn was a member of the press? Marcus wondered if he was getting paranoid.

  The waiter appeared with more shots and everybody downed them as an intense man with black wavy hair approached them.

  Chaplin greeted him with a bear hug. “Lewis Milestone, may I present Marcus Adler.”

  Marcus shook the director’s hand. He’d admired Milestone’s Of Mice and Men before the war, as well as All Quiet on the Western Front. They also had a personal connection in Marcus’ sometime neighbor, Lillian Hellman, who wrote the screenplay of a pro-Soviet/anti-Nazi picture called The North Star that Milestone directed for Goldwyn.

  Milestone rolled his eyes. “Don’t look now, but that lump of horse hockey from Paramount just walked in.”

  Whereas everybody else was in a tuxedo, Clifford Wardell had shown up in a rumpled gray suit. His necktie, a noxious shade of brown, hung loosely outside his jacket, and his hair, though combed, shone greasily in the candlelight.

  “Who’s that?” Oona asked.

  “My counterpart at Paramount,” Marcus said. “Runs the writing department, though how he managed that coup is anyone’s guess.”

  “I tangled with him during The Strange Love of Martha Ivers,” Milestone said. “After every meeting, I wanted to run home and scrub myself raw.”

  The conversation drifted onto the recently opened Tokyo war trials, but Marcus kept an eye on Wardell as Simonov congenially led the guy around to various guests.

  It had been more than ten years since that day at George Cukor’s brunch when Marcus exposed Wardell as a muckraking journalist looking to dig up dirt. Marcus’ actions had cemented his friendship with George, but he never knew what became of the grubby slob until he met Quentin.

  By the time John Garfield and his wife joined them, the conversation had moved on to Walter Winchell’s report on how Howard Hughes had dared to file a lawsuit against the Motion Picture Association charging restraint of trade over his Jane Russell picture, The Outlaw. But Marcus was barely paying attention.

  He kept thinking of his post-arrest breakfast at the Nite Owl with Quentin and Trevor. When Trevor pointed out that Quentin couldn’t reveal Wardell as the author of Reds in the Beds without incriminating himself, he reminded them that Wardell was a nasty drunk, easily given to losing control. Quentin suggested that someone needed to get Wardell tanked-up and then needle him enough to push him too far. With all the vodka flowing around this second-rate tub, Marcus thought, that shouldn’t be too difficult. And if he could get Wardell to spill in front of all these Hollywood witnesses . . .

  He watched Wardell knock back shot after shot, to no effect. He stayed as rumpled and slouched as he had coming in, and eventually Marcus returned to the conversation. John Garfield’s wife was making a lengthy speech about the pitfalls of unintended consequences as illustrated by her husband’s recent movie, The Postman Always Rings Twice. She’d obviously made her speech before—she barely paused to draw breath—but it was so eloquent that Marcus lost track of Wardell altogether until a sailor tugged on his elbow, asking him if he could join Mr. Simonov out on deck.

  The sailor led him to the other side of the ship into a small space that was hemmed in with chain fence. The fog was even thicker now—Marcus couldn’t see six feet past the edge of the ship, let alone the lights of Long Beach. Simonov and Wardell were waiting for him.

  Simonov clapped his hands. “I know it’s a bit cold out here, but I wanted to talk business.” He motioned to Wardell with a gloved hand. “Marcus Adler, allow me to introduce to you Clifford Wardell.” If he caught the contempt that crossed the faces of his guests, Simonov ignored it. “Mr. Adler, I have been a fan of your work since Free Leningrad!”

  Like all studios, MGM had made a number of pro-Allies propaganda movies during the war. Free Leningrad! was MGM’s most successful effort, both critically and commercially. “Is that right?” Marcus asked Simonov.

  “Back when I was a journalist, I covered the Siege of Stalingrad during the early part of the war. I knew firsthand what it was like to live in a Russian city under siege during the wintertime. I thought you captured the Leningrad experience with great realism.”

  Wardell helped himself to a bottle of Smirnoff tucked away in the shadows nearby. “You mentioned something about business.” The words came out slightly slurred.

  “I was wondering if either of you have ever considered making a m
otion picture of the life of our great Anna Pavlova.”

  Wardell grunted. “Ballet dancer, right?”

  “She was Europe’s greatest prima ballerina!” Simonov declared.

  “But did she have a dramatic life?” Marcus asked. “Or survive through circumstances that could be dramatized?”

  “Most certainly! When she entered ballet school, they said her arches were too high, her ankles too thin, and her arms too long. What she endured to become Russia’s greatest ballerina is the stuff of dramatic motion pictures.”

  Wardell threw back another vodka shot. “We’ll be the judge of that.” He announced. “And I judge your idea to be . . .” He let out a long, spittly belch, then struck a match along the handrail and lit a bitter, cheap Cuban.

  “I disagree,” Marcus said, just to needle Wardell. “Ballet is a highly dramatic art form, and if Pavlova suffered for her art, it could make a great story.”

  Wardell swept his arms into two wide arcs. “A bunch of boney foreign hoofers prancing around on stage to some boring music? Yeah, you got yourself a winner there, Adler.” He made a dismissive wave, causing his cigar to fall between his fingers. As he stooped to pick it up, he lost his balance and fell against a wall.

  Simonov went to help, but Wardell pushed him aside. He gripped both sides of the metal doorjamb and stumbled through the opening. Marcus followed.

  “You don’t look so good.” He kept his eyes on Wardell and sensed everyone in the room turning toward them. “We don’t want you falling overboard.”

  “Your concern is inspirational,” Wardell threw over his shoulder, then blundered into a steward carrying a tray of crackers loaded with black caviar. The steward recovered quicker than Wardell, losing only a couple of hors d’oeuvres.

  “Holy mackerel!” Marcus exclaimed, just a bit louder than necessary.

  The only scene in Reds that made Marcus laugh was when someone dubbed Luther Mackerel—an obvious caricature of Louis B. Mayer—“Holy Mackerel.” Wardell spun around, his eyes flaring.

  “You better watch your step,” Marcus pressed, “lest you fall and cut yourself. Then this ship will be awash with red and someone will need to put you to bed.”