Oliver grunted. “From a guy who’s on his fifth marriage?”
Kathryn didn’t remember lighting another Chesterfield. “He said that marrying you was a mistake that could lead to professional ruin, and that I ought to start divorce proceedings immediately.”
Kathryn flopped onto her armchair and Marcus joined Oliver on the loveseat. She closed her eyes. If he wants to run his company like a fascist, then he can find someone else to fill his paper. “What time is it?”
“Nearly noon.”
Kathryn leaped to her feet. “Already?” She started straightening the newspapers and magazines sprawled over her dining table. “My mom’s coming over.”
Francine had called earlier that morning saying there was something she wanted to tell her. Kathryn tried to put her off, but Francine ignored her blatant hints.
She shooed the guys out of her apartment and was wiping down her kitchen counter when she heard her mother and her husband and her husband’s lover greet each other at the bottom of the stairs. She walked into the living room just as Francine let herself in the door.
“Hello, dear.” Kathryn’s mother was starting to look every inch the late-fifties matron now. She’d taken to wearing conservative dresses in somber browns and muddy yellows with lace lapels and no jewelry save for her double strand of pearls. She started pulling off her gloves. “Who was that with your husband?”
Kathryn flinched. She could never tell whether Francine was still miffed at not being invited to the wedding or just disapproved of Kathryn’s choice of spouse.
“Some new pal,” Kathryn said, crossing the room to hug her mother hello.
“A fellow writer?” There was that tone again.
“You can put your gloves back on. We’re not staying in.”
“You said you’d make us a bite of lunch.” Francine regarded the fallen wooden spoon with disapproval.
Kathryn picked it up and dropped it into the sink. “I’m not in the cooking mood.”
“A grilled cheese sandwich will be fine.”
“I need to get out of here. We’ll go to the Cock’n Bull.”
“That British place?”
“They serve Welsh rarebit. It’s like a grilled cheese sandwich, British style.” She picked up her handbag. “I’ve been fighting with my boss over—well, everything. I need sunshine, I need exercise, and I need . . .”
Francine stopped at the front door. “What else do you need?
“Either a stiff drink or a bicarbonate. Maybe both.”
* * *
Kathryn was in no particular rush to get to the Cock’n Bull—she wasn’t sure they even served Welsh rarebit—but the Saturday afternoon strollers and window shoppers crowding the Sunset Boulevard sidewalk conspired to annoy the hell out of her. All she knew was that she needed to keep moving. She half-led, half-dragged Francine around oversized baby carriages, errant dogs, and women loaded with so many shopping bags that they took up half the goddamned space.
“Gracious!” Francine panted, “if I’d known we were in training for the London Olympics, I’d have worn different shoes.”
It took some effort for Kathryn to slow down.
“Isn’t this lovely?” Francine nudged her toward an arty window display of fifty-one silk scarves arranged like flags to represent the recently convened first General Assembly of the United Nations.
Kathryn barely took it in. An overloaded shopper ahead of them had a man in tow who reminded her of Nelson. She couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss in the alley.
“You are in a mood,” Francine said. “You going to tell me what’s on your mind, or is it something you only share with your husband?”
Oh, that tone! Kathryn could normally glide over it, but today it felt like her well of patience had run Death-Valley dry. They arrived a the three-story building with a matching pair of chimneys right before Sunset curved into Beverly Hills. “Have you tried their Moscow Mule? Scott Fitzgerald introduced me to it. They call it ‘the Drink with the Velvet Kick’ and boy, do I need one of those.”
* * *
Kathryn had forgotten how dark it was inside the Cock’n Bull. The owner had tried to mock the place up as an English pub with straw scattered on the floor and antique hunting prints and brass plaques decorating the walls. Most of the seats were wooden armchairs called captain’s chairs, which Kathryn didn’t find terribly comfortable, but rumor had it that they kept the drunks from falling out.
The weekend lunchtime crowd was drinking tall glasses of a dark brown Irish beer called Guinness, which Kathryn had heard about but never tried. When the waitress warned Kathryn it was a tad strong, she ordered one, plus a Moscow Mule for her mother and a couple of Welsh rarebits.
Across from them sat a pair of nattily dressed studio executive types—fashionable suits, tasteful ties, gold pinkie rings, and jackrabbit eyes that were perpetually in motion. On their table lay a copy of yesterday’s Hollywood Reporter. Kathryn looked away. “So,” she said, “you have news?”
Francine shook her head. “No, dear, I didn’t call you because I have something to tell you. There’s something I want to ask you.”
Kathryn could feel a headache coming on, and rubbed her forehead.
“I finished that book.” Francine said, thin-lipped. “I assume Eugene Markham and Beatrice Kahn are supposed to be you and your husband?”
“It’s the general consensus.”
“Not very flattering, I must say.”
“The whole book is not very flattering.”
“I’d have thought it’s the last thing your husband needed, what with all these Communist allegations flying around town.”
“That hideous book is half the reason for all those Commie rumors.”
The waitress arrived with their drinks. Kathryn was surprised how thick and creamy her Guinness was. There was a hint of chocolate, but bitter and dark, like a cold, foggy night. She wasn’t sure she liked it, but she didn’t hate it enough to send it back. “We’re just trying to ignore the whole thing.”
“That can’t be easy,” Francine said. “Not when your boss is the one pointing his crosshairs at all those Pinkos. I do hope it’s not placing a strain on your marriage.”
“What’s with that tone you always use whenever you mention Marcus nowadays?” Francine looked at her as though she didn’t understand the question. “You said it just now. The last thing your husband needs; a strain on your marriage. Are you still miffed I didn’t ask you to the ceremony? Because I explained that to you. It was all very spur of the moment.”
“It was your ceremony, Kathryn, you’re allowed to conduct it in any way you please.”
“You didn’t miss anything. Just the four of us with a justice of the peace.”
“My beef isn’t that you didn’t invite me to your wedding.”
“But you do have a beef.” Kathryn took a third sip and decided she enjoyed the yeasty, molasses flavor. “Just come out and say it.”
“Do you think your husband is a Communist?”
“Oh, mother, if you only knew how laughable that is.”
“They’re saying the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League is a Communist Party front, and we both know that it was founded by Don Stewart and Dorothy Parker, both of whom have lived at the Garden of Allah. So it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility.”
“Marcus is no Communist, I know that for damned sure.”
“All I know is that your husband is no heterosexual.”
Kathryn gaped at her mother.
The waitress appeared with their lunch, giving Kathryn a minute to consider how to handle this curveball. It turned out that Welsh rarebit was an extra-thick slice of toast smothered with a gooey cheesy-mustardy sauce. Not quite a grilled cheese sandwich, but close enough.
Francine spoke again. “That chap he was with when he came out of your apartment, is that his special friend?”
The blood pounded Kathryn’s temple. She scrambled to formulate a response that wasn’t a lie and wouldn�
�t compromise Marcus’ private life, but the words evaporated somewhere at the base of her throat.
Francine drew herself up ramrod straight. “I’ve sat on the sidelines withholding my opinion about your marriage, but this Communist thing has brought out all the daggers. When I read your boss naming names in his column, I felt it was my duty to say what none of your friends have the courage to.”
“Which is what?”
“You’re lucky to live in Hollywood, because this is one of the few places where it’s not the worst thing in the world to get a divorce.”
“A divorce?” Kathryn nearly had to spit out the chunk of rarebit. “We’ve only been married a year!”
“In the eyes of God, you haven’t been married at all.”
“Since when do you care about the eyes of God?”
“I’ve started to attend services lately.” Francine wiped the edges of her mouth. “The Church of the Good Shepherd.”
That was the one in Beverly Hills with the most celebrity worshipers west of Central Park. Everybody from Valentino to Bing Crosby went there, some of them to be seen rather than to be pious.
“Thank you for your advice, Mother, but I’m not about to get a divorce because your vicar’s been preaching from his pulpit—”
“He’s not a vicar,” Francine cut in, “he’s a priest, and give me some credit, please. I’m telling you because this anti-Communist thing has every sign of becoming a witch hunt. Don’t forget—I hear things. Not intentionally, of course, I don’t go snooping, but I do hear things.”
Francine was the head telephone operator at the Chateau Marmont Hotel. “What sort of things?”
“Suffice it to say that if the House Un-American Activities Committee comes to Hollywood, they’re going to start digging around. If you’ve got any skeletons in your closet, now is the time to sweep them out.”
CHAPTER 23
Oliver and Kathryn peered into the mixing bowl while Marcus lit the pilot light in his oven with a kitchen match.
“Do you think it’s going to work?” Oliver frowned.
“During the war, I made this cake a ton of times.”
“I know, but—”
“Without butter, eggs or milk, it tasted just fine. It can only be better with them.”
Kathryn risked a sniff. “Without a recipe, how are you sure you’ve added the right amounts?”
Marcus elbowed the amateurs out of the way and started aerating the batter. “You just know, you know?”
“No, I don’t.” Kathryn crossed her arms. “I’m a working woman who’s next to useless in the kitchen—”
“—which is precisely why I’m divorcing you.”
Marcus waited a moment before checking to see how his zinger landed. He was relieved to see Kathryn smile. He filled the cake tin with batter and slid it into his oven.
“You ready to talk about it?” he asked Kathryn.
Marcus had been at home reworking a problematic screenplay for Lady in the Lake when he heard Kathryn arrive home from her lunch at the Cock’n Bull. He listened to her stomp around upstairs, slamming cupboards for a while until she started swearing like a longshoreman. He then mounted the stairs and asked her what in tarnation had got her all riled up. He didn’t help her mood when he hinted that perhaps Francine had a point. He left her apartment, telling her she was welcome to talk about it when she was calm.
It took a week.
However, she more than made up for it by arriving with a tray of Marcus’ favorite appetizers—crab-stuffed celery, liverwurst on rainbow rye, sliced tongue, pearl onions—and the three of them decided it was enough for dinner with Marcus’ modified War Cake for dessert.
He set his oven timer to thirty minutes and poured out three glasses of champagne. “So,” he said, “the D word.”
Kathryn tsked. “I’d feel like a failure.”
“But as your mom pointed out, this is Hollywood,” Oliver said. “Lana Turner’s got three under her belt and she’s, what, twenty-five?”
Marcus grabbed her hand and kissed her fingers. “My darling wife, if this were a real marriage, then maybe you’d be right to feel that way. We did this because it suited us. Between your FBI association and my”—he jutted his head toward Oliver— “predilections, we both have skeletons which could threaten not only our own careers, but each other’s. Perhaps we ought to quit while we’re ahead.”
Oliver drained his champagne coupe. “You could get an annulment. Technically, you’ve never actually consummated the marriage, have you?”
After a long pause, they all burst out laughing.
Marcus crossed over to the kitchen to pull out some plates. There was a knock on the door. “Could you get that?” he asked Kathryn. “I’ve already got crabmeat all over my fingers.”
The next thing he heard was Kathryn exclaiming, “Why, Mr. Mannix! What brings you here?”
Marcus and Oliver exchanged looks of panic. Go! Marcus mouthed at Oliver. Bedroom!
“Your husband at home?” Mannix asked.
Oliver dashed into the bedroom and jumped into Marcus’ closet just as the second most powerful man at MGM invited himself in.
Marcus threw his hand towel into his sink and crossed the room. “This is a surprise. Something up?”
“Don’t tell me the studio just burned to the ground” Kathryn let out a nervous twitter of a laugh.
Mannix looked at the coffee table, where three champagne coupes sat amid Kathryn’s hors d’oeuvres. He looked around for the owner of the third glass.
“Our neighbor’s moving out, so a little farewell was in order.” Kathryn said.
“I’m here about an urgent matter.” Mannix took off his hat. “However, we’re gonna need privacy.”
“Our guest has gone,” Marcus said, offering Mannix a drink that was declined.
Kathryn shot Marcus a wide-eyed look: An awful big pile of shit must have hit an awful big fan if HE has come to see YOU and doesn’t even want a drink.
“So what’s going on?” Marcus asked.
“I got some questions to ask you and didn’t want to do it at the studio.”
And apparently, Marcus thought, it’s so urgent that it can’t wait till Monday.
Mannix glanced warily at Kathryn. “We don’t mean to kick you out of your own home, but it’s confidential. Do you think you could make yourself scarce? An hour, maybe?”
“I do believe I have a strong hankering for a Schwab’s chocolate malted, so if you’ll excuse me.” Kathryn picked up her handbag and started heading out, then returned to give her husband a wifely goodbye kiss. As she bent over, she whispered into his ear, “Briefcase!”
Oliver’s light-brown leather briefcase sat against the end of the sofa nearest the bedroom. His name was stenciled in gold leaf above the clasp.
“See you soon, dear,” Marcus said, taking a seat on the far end of the sofa to draw Mannix’s eyes away from the briefcase. “What’s going on?”
“I need to know everything that happened at Konstantin Simonov’s cocktail party.”
Oh Jesus, the Simonov thing again?
Mannix pulled a pad out of his jacket. “First off, why did you go?”
Marcus poured himself some champagne. “I get invited to all sorts of things. I’d never seen a Soviet battleship before. I was curious.”
“You went because you were curious about some ship?” Mannix seemed far from convinced. “Okay, so you get on board. Was Chaplin there?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, he was.”
“How did he behave?”
“He was very cordial—”
“Cordial with who?”
“He came right over to say hello. We met the night of the William Tell premiere. He—”
“How did he seem with the Russians? What about Simonov? And the crew? Did he know them? Was he friendly with them?”
“He was friendly with everyone.”
“Okay, so who else was there?”
“His wife, Oona. And John Garfield,
and his wife—”
“Forget the wives. Chaplin and Garfield. Who else?”
“Lewis Milestone.”
The way Mannix bit into his lip and scribbled something on his little pad made Marcus uneasy. This was all leading to something.
“Was there any talk of Communism?”
Marcus wondered if Oliver could hear all of this. “Not around me,” he answered. “But then again, Simonov took me outside at one point to talk about business.”
Mannix shifted in his seat. “What business?”
“The Russian Swan. You know, that Anna Pavlova biopic we’re doing.”
“What’s that got to do with Simonov?”
“It was his idea. The outline we bought was his.”
“FUCK!” Mannix’s face deepened several shades of red. “I’ll take that drink now. Whiskey.”
As Marcus rounded the end of the sofa, he gave Oliver’s briefcase a quick kick, but only managed to get it halfway underneath. By the time he’d returned to the coffee table, Mannix had loosened his collar and was tapping his foot on the rug.
“Surely we could have had this conversation at work,” Marcus said.
“L.B. just learned that the FBI’s got all of Bugsy Siegel’s places bugged, so now he’s paranoid about the studio.”
“That’s a stretch, isn’t it?”
Mannix made a grunting sound like he agreed but wasn’t willing to say it out loud. “L.B. and I were having dinner at Romanoff’s tonight when Hedda Hopper walked in. She made a beeline for us, couldn’t wait to tell us about her piece in tomorrow’s Times about our union trouble.”
Over the past summer, the unions representing carpenters, painters, and set designers went on strike. It was settled after a few days, but not before police squads were called in and the firemen turned hoses on the picketers. Rumors had been swirling around MGM that more trouble was on its way.
“So Hedda’s now on the politics desk?” Marcus asked.
“The bitch has decided to saddle up her high horse and take us to task over our so-called heavy-handed tactics. Now she’s referring to us as Metro-Goldwyn-Moscow. Between Reds in the Beds and Billy Wilkerson’s list of Pinkos, it’s the last thing we need.” Mannix held out his empty glass for a refill. “Then she starts in about this Simonov character.”
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