Reds in the Beds

by Martin Turnbull

  Wardell let out a low grunt and stomped toward the exit. Marcus followed. By the time he got to the door, his prey was staggering along the gangplank toward a green pre-war Nash at the edge of the pier. Marcus caught up with Wardell near the car.

  “What’s the matter, Wardell? Seeing red yet?”

  Wardell considered Marcus through a heavily lidded eye. “What the hell are you talking—” He raised a hand as though to swipe away a bug. “You know what? I don’t give a crap.”

  Marcus stepped forward. “Blood. Henna. Poinsettia. Paprika. Ketchup.”

  “Shut ya trap, Adler, before I shut it for you.”

  “Maraschino. Cranberry. Tomato.”

  Wardell swung faster than Marcus expected. Marcus ducked as the fist swished through the air several inches off its mark. “Apples. Mars. Rhubarb.”

  Wardell yanked at his tie, pulling it away from his collar. “What’re you yapping about?”

  Marcus cut a wide arc around Wardell, hoping to get between him and his car before Wardell caught on. “Answer me this, Clifford: How exactly do you find fifty-five flatfoots from Farmington Falls?”

  The two men faced each other. Realization didn’t drop onto Wardell as Marcus expected; it was more of a slow burn, like an unrushed sunrise. He knew his taunting had taken hold when Wardell bunched his right fist.

  “We both know it was you,” Marcus jeered. “I just want to hear you admit it.”

  Wardell wiped a glob of spit from the edge of his mottled lips. “Yes, it was me. Okay? The best-selling book of 1946 was written by Clifford Wardell from Farmington Fucking Falls. Happy now, you pansy-assed faggot?”

  “But why?” Marcus lowered the heat from his voice to catch Wardell off-guard. “You’ve made this whole industry paranoid. You know we’re not all Commies.”

  “An expert on what I do and do not know, are you?”

  “Come on, Clifford,” Marcus said quietly. “What were you hoping to achieve?”

  Wardell shoved him aside. Marcus’ grabbed the edge of Wardell’s jacket and they tumbled to the pier, clenched like a pair of pugnacious lobsters. They rolled over, and then over once more, ending with Marcus on top as they gripped each other’s arms. Marcus felt his sleeve rip—then suddenly, they stopped. Their heads jerked in the same direction as they realized they’d reached the edge. One more rotation and they’d plunge into the freezing Pacific.

  “Let’s quit now,” Marcus panted, “before both of us end up—”

  “FUCK YOU!”

  Clifford Wardell let out an almighty grunt as he heaved himself over the side of the pier, taking Marcus down with him.

  CHAPTER 13

  Gwendolyn stood with Marcus and Kathryn at the corner where Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards intersected. It was eleven o’clock at night; hardly any traffic in any direction. They said nothing until the Vista Theatre’s yellow-green neon lighting switched off, cloaking them in shadow.

  “That’s our cue,” Gwendolyn said.

  Sewing a gown for a man had turned out to be far more straightforward than she expected. Her favorite fabric store carried exactly the shade of pale rose quartz silk Mr. Dewberry liked. Stenciling the ivy pattern was tricky to begin with, but she got the hang of it, and the end result was exactly as she’d envisioned. Dewberry’s chest, waist, and hips were the same measurement, which eliminated the trickiest part of a formal outfit, so the whole thing was ready within a week. Mr. Dewberry cried when he saw his reflection in the mirror.

  A week later he reported that he’d caused a sensation at the bar, and that his pals wanted to meet her. As happy as she was to make the gown for her boss, Gwendolyn wasn’t sure she wanted to march into a cross-dresser bar by herself, so she asked him if she could bring a couple of friends. She saw the hesitation in his eyes, but then it faded, and he gave her the address.

  The Midnight Frolics was located a couple of buildings behind the Vista Theatre. He told her to wait until the lights were switched off, then go around the rear where she’d see a black door with a gold handle. She was to knock on it three times, and when the little window in the door opened, tell the guy, “The widow sent me.”

  The door handle glowed in the light of a shoe store across the street. When Gwendolyn knocked three times, a picture-postcard-sized window opened to reveal a pair of overly mascara’d eyes. When Gwendolyn gave the pass code, the eyes looked each of them up and down, then slid the window shut. A moment or two later, the door opened.

  Gwendolyn, Kathryn, and Marcus squeezed into a small foyer whose walls were all painted black. A bright orange poster featuring a line drawing of a nude fan dancer advertised a San Francisco nightclub called The Music Box.

  The six-foot doorman was in a knee-length cotton sundress, dark brown with bursts of bright yellow California poppies. Unlike Mr. Dewberry, this guy knew what he was doing. It sat across his chest in a way that accentuated his shoulders, making his waist look slimmer than it probably was. The color suited his Mediterranean complexion, too. He prodded them through the arched doorway.

  The nightclub was larger than the Sahara Room back at the Garden. Its walls, too, were painted black, with gold silhouettes of voluptuous women in burlesque poses. Four-top tables were set around a T-shaped stage that jutted out into the square room. A trio of musicians—piano, drums, saxophone—played softly at the end closest to the bar. A third of the tables were occupied.

  “You ever been to one of these places?” Kathryn asked Marcus.

  “I didn’t even know they existed. Reminds me of the old speakeasies.”

  Gwendolyn grabbed the first table they came to. “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.” She picked up a black cardboard coaster with the letters “TMF” stenciled in white and threaded it through her fingers. “Everyone’s staring.”

  “Dewberry said his friends wanted to meet you,” Marcus murmured. “He wouldn’t have invited you if we weren’t welcome.”

  A gaggle of eight men arrived, all gussied up in the sort of dresses usually seen on showgirls in the saloons of Westerns, their bright satin ruffles layered in purple, pink, and blue. They beelined for a pair of tables closest to the runway and didn’t notice the three new patrons until they were seated.

  “I thought Mr. Dewberry would be here already,” Gwendolyn said.

  An elfin waiter appeared, tall as the doorman, wearing a tawny poplin dress with an empire waist. With narrow eyes holding more than a smidge of suspicion, he ignored the women and looked at Marcus. “What’ll it be?”

  “Manhattan, straight up, hold the cherry.”

  The waiter took in the girls’ outfits before raising his eyebrows at them. They ordered the same.

  “Do you know Herman?” Gwendolyn asked.

  Suspicion ratcheted up a notch. “I don’t believe so.” He left before Gwendolyn could form a second question.

  “I wish Oliver could be here,” Marcus sighed, “but when Bertie came knocking, he felt he should volunteer.”

  The petty thefts around the Garden of Allah had continued unabated through the spring of 1946—scarves, booze, magazines; there appeared to be no rhyme or reason to it—so Bertie had organized a night watch. “Speaking of blowing the whistle.” Marcus motioned for them to lean in closer. “I heard from Arlene today.”

  Gwendolyn eyed the arrival of four redheads dressed in identical black silk gowns that would look stunning on Hedy Lamarr. The guys’ lumberjack shoulders spoiled the effect they were probably going for, though. “Who’s Arlene?”

  “The girl from Leilah O’Roarke’s house of ill repute,” Marcus whispered. “She called to tell me about a screaming match Leilah and Clem had in the back alley. She only caught the odd phrase, but Leilah was throwing things at him. Arlene waited until she was off duty to sneak outside.”

  “Did she find anything?”

  “A piece of paper caught up in some weeds.”

  “What was it?”

  “She didn’t say, but she thinks it’s incriminating.”

&n
bsp; Gwendolyn and Marcus agreed with Bette Davis: If Kathryn could help Hoyt connect the O’Roarkes’ laundered brothel money to the land they bought around Vegas, the FBI could make some high-profile arrests. And then maybe Hoyt would let Kathryn go.

  “She promised to get it to me,” Marcus continued, “but then got panicky and hung up.”

  Kathryn went to say something, but it got stuck in her throat because three of the saloon showgirls were approaching. They all looked like bouncers from a rough part of town. The one in front with the Mediterranean complexion was not tall, but was impressively wide. He pulled his straps back onto his hairy shoulders. “We don’t mean to be inhospitable, but perhaps you three are in the wrong place?”

  The guy behind him was less swarthy, less hairy, and looked more at home in his pink-and-black-striped can-can dress. He planted his hands on his corseted hips. “Maybe you’re looking for the Midnight Moon. Coupla miles down Sunset.” He pointed east.

  Feeling herself go pale, Gwendolyn beseeched Marcus and Kathryn. Let’s just go?

  Marcus got to his feet and held up his palms. “Look, fellas,” he said placatingly, “I understand your qualms, but—”

  “I doubt it,” said the one in the can-can outfit.

  “Did you read about that vice squad raid up in Mandeville Canyon?”

  “Hermit’s Hideaway?” the first one asked.

  Marcus nodded. “I was there that night. Got caught up in their net and only just managed to get off scot-free. So I know all about the chances guys like us take to come to places like these—”

  “Stop right there.” Mr. Mediterranean tipped forward. “You think this is a faggot club?”

  Marcus’ jaw dropped an inch. “I—er, kinda assumed—”

  “You can take your assumptions and shove them up your ass.” He gripped his petticoats with hairy-knuckled fingers and rustled them. “Just because we enjoy getting into these, don’t mean we’re a bunch of queers.”

  “My mistake, fellas,” Marcus said, leaning back. “I jumped to a conclusion I shouldn’t have.”

  The waiter approached their table with the doorman in the poppy dress trailing behind him. The waiter pointed to Marcus, Kathryn, and Gwendolyn and addressed the doorman. “They asked about Herman. Clearly, they ain’t never heard the rule.”

  “They knew about the widow,” the doorman put in.

  “Gentlemen.” Gwendolyn stood up. “We were invited, but it seems our presence here is causing anxiety.” The band had stopped playing and everybody in the bar was now rubbernecking at them. She pulled Kathryn to her feet. “We’ll be going now. Please accept our apologies.” She picked up her handbag.

  “Gwendolyn,” Marcus said, “perhaps you should leave a message? He’s going to wonder—”

  “No,” she said, “I’ll talk to him on Monday.”

  They went to step around the growing crush of patrons when the can-can guy held up an accusing finger. “Are you Miss Gwendolyn?”

  She eyed him. “I could be.”

  Mr. Can-Can’s taut lips melted into the first hint of a smile she’d seen since walking into the place. “Miss Gwendolyn who made Hermione’s ivy dress?”

  Hermione? Hermione! “Yes,” she smiled, “that was me.”

  The guy with the hairy shoulders intertwined his fingers as though in prayer. “That dress! We all drooled with envy when he walked in.”

  “I’ll say!” One of the redheads in the black cocktail dresses sidled up behind her and pointed to the runway in the middle of the room. “We made him walk the walk three times.”

  Gwendolyn found herself surrounded by men of every size, coloring, and body shape, but not many of them wore a dress that did them any favors. The redheads should have been in emerald green; Mr. Hairy Shoulders needed sleeves.

  The group suddenly directed its attention to what Gwendolyn was wearing: a full-skirted shirtwaist dress in periwinkle blue with tiny polka dots that she’d adapted from an outfit in Bullocks’ casualwear department.

  An older gent in too much blue eye shadow pinched the hem of her skirt and ran the fabric between his fingers. “Crêpe de chine?”

  “Close,” Gwendolyn replied. “It’s georgette, but heavier than they used to make before the war.”

  He was transfixed by the fabric. “I’d love something like this, but in large polka dots. Huge ones, the size of plates.”

  The crowd purred in approval, but Gwendolyn threw up her hands. “No! No! No! Very few people can get away with large polka dots.” The crowd gaped at her as though she’d just revealed the location of the fountain of youth. “Tall people shouldn’t wear vertical stripes because it only makes them look even taller. By the same token, short or wide-hipped people shouldn’t wear horizontals. You want to camouflage your flaws, not emphasize them.”

  “Like when we were in Bataan,” one of the redheads piped up. “Remember? The wrong shade of green and you were done for.”

  Several heads nodded in comprehension, so Gwendolyn did too. “You must think about color,” she told them. “What color are your eyes, your skin, your hair?”

  “But I like yellow.” The doorman bunched his skirt in his fist.

  “The question isn’t ‘Do I like yellow?’” Gwendolyn told him. “But ‘Does yellow like me?’”

  “For instance,” Kathryn put in, “with my brown hair and hazel eyes, yellow loves me, and so does green. But blue? Especially light blue?” She tsked. “Not good. I stick to either very dark blues, or skip it altogether.”

  “And your doorman,” Gwendolyn added, “see how the puffy sleeves give him a Crawford look. They create a V-shape, which conjures the illusion of a slender waist.”

  She watched comprehension sift through the crowd. By now, even the band had joined them, and they were the worst offenders of all. One of them had the pale complexion of a Scandinavian but had chosen to wear a blouse whose horrible shade of apricot drained away all his remaining color. She was about to launch into another lesson when one of the Western showgirls pointed at Kathryn.

  “Say,” he said, his gravelly voice thick with hostility, “ain’t you Kathryn Massey? From the radio and the Hollywood Reporter?”

  Gwendolyn sensed the tide of suspicion turning against them.

  “You’re with the press?” The doorman seemed to grow three inches in every direction. “That’s a rule we do not break.” He started to squeeze his hands into fists just as Gwendolyn heard Mr. Dewberry’s voice bellow from somewhere in back.

  “All right, everybody, you can put away your knives!”

  The Midnight Frolic’s patrons moved aside to reveal Herbert Dewberry, resplendent in his rose-quartz silk gown with the delicate ivy print. He’d added matching gloves and a necklace of paste sapphires. He raised his arms like Aimee Semple McPherson. “Or at least stick them in my back.”

  “She brought a member of the press,” someone growled.

  “I told Miss Gwendolyn it would be okay,” Mr. Dewberry declared. “Anyone who is a friend of hers is a friend of mine, and is therefore a friend of ours.”

  Gwendolyn took a purposeful stride toward him. “Look at this ivy print.” She ran her fingers along Mr. Dewberry’s torso. “He wanted a bold pattern, with leaves the size of his hand. But I convinced him to go with a smaller leaf and stencil it in pale green. You’ll do well to remember three little words: LESS IS MORE!”

  The room was so quiet Gwendolyn heard a truck rumble along the street outside. The first person to speak was one of the redheads.

  “I was on my way to work the other day and I passed a fabric store on Wilshire.”

  “Famous Fabrics?” Gwendolyn asked. “I go there all the time.”

  “In the window I noticed a bolt of—I don’t know what it was. Velvet, maybe? Real dark pistachio color with stars in gold thread. Embroidered, like. I’ve always wanted a dress with stars on it, but I pictured royal blue with silver stars. Now I think green and gold is more my coloring.” The guy stepped into a light. “What do you thi
nk?”

  Gwendolyn had never seen so many freckles on one face before. They were packed in so densely they almost made for a new shade of complexion. “I think it sounds perfect for you.”

  He looked at her shyly, like a teenager. “If I bought a whole bunch of it, would you make me something?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  A current of excitement shot through the crowd.

  “Me too?” shouted a lumberjack in an atrociously misshapen gown of cheap satin.

  You need me most of all, Gwendolyn thought.

  Mr. Dewberry stepped in front of her and waved his arms. “As you can see, Miss Gwendolyn does superb work, but I have to warn you, she doesn’t come cheap. If you want an outfit as lovely as mine, you’d better be prepared to pay for it.”

  He spun around, sweeping the hem of his dress behind him with such panache that she knew he’d practiced it. He looked her in the eye unblinkingly, a knowing smile on his lips. Go get ’em!

  CHAPTER 14

  Kathryn planted her hands on her hips, arranged her lips in an exaggerated pout, and winked at the radio audience. “Really, Edward! Any more cracks like that, and I’m going to get the folks at Kraft to take away your cheese allowance.”

  The audience hooted as Edward Everett Horton pulled his trademark shocked expression. He wagged a finger at her. “Nobody gets between me and my Velveeta!”

  “You better watch out,” Kathryn volleyed back, “or I’ll have to use my Miracle Whip.”

  The audience broke out into applause as the red light on the back wall of Studio 2 lit up.

  “And that brings us to the end of the all-new Kraft Music Hall,” Edward announced.

  “A big thank you to the ladies and gentlemen of our wonderful studio audience,” Kathryn said. “To our radio audience wherever you are, thanks for tuning in, and as we here in California say, see you at the beach. Goodnight!”

  The audience was still cheering as Edward escorted Kathryn off stage.