Reds in the Beds

by Martin Turnbull

  Kathryn argued that Bertie needed to know what she’d done, but Gwendolyn couldn’t work up the nerve. Now that she was broke, Bertie had moved into the cheapest room at the Garden of Allah and had spent more than a month looking for a job. But with no experience, no skills, nor the slightest idea of what it took to interview well, her search was fruitless.

  So Gwendolyn decided that what’s done was done, and there was no undoing it. She resolved to put it all past her. Sewing outfits for her boss’ cross-dresser friends wasn’t lucrative enough to fund a whole store, but it commanded enough of her attention to prevent her from sinking completely into the doldrums about how LA’s postwar boom was passing her by.

  Kathryn, too, had been subdued since the night she helped ship Wilkerson off to Paris.

  “Have you heard from him?” Gwendolyn asked.

  Kathryn blinked away her preoccupation. “Heard from who?”

  “The Ile de France . . .?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’ve been awfully quiet lately.”

  Kathryn nodded as though she’d been anticipating a question Gwendolyn hadn’t asked, and led her into a corner of the room. She sat them down at a tiny cocktail table and gripped the edge.

  “Something happened. Twice. And I don’t know what to make of it.” Gwendolyn knew that when Kathryn clipped her sentences into bite-sized chunks, something big was about to come out. “That FBI agent. He made a pass at me.”

  “HE WHAT?”

  “A couple of months ago. I followed him—”

  “YOU WHAT?”

  “I met with him about what Arlene found. Afterwards, I had a hunch. So I followed him. His father has a lighting store. On Sunset, east of Highland.”

  “Is that where you bought my lamp?”

  Kathryn nodded. “And while I was there, Hoyt showed up. You should have seen his face! Dragged me out into the back alley. We had a huge argument.”

  “You had a huge argument, so he made a pass at you?”

  “No, he kissed me, so we had a huge argument.”

  “About his kissing you?”

  “About me calling him the enemy.”

  “But he kind of is.”

  “Not to his way of thinking. Remember that raid up in Mandeville Canyon? He was on the phone with the desk sergeant as they were getting hauled in. When he heard Marcus’ name, he asked the sergeant to let the three of them go.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. To demonstrate that he’s not all bad, I expect. It’s hard to discern his motives.”

  Something moved across Gwendolyn’s line of vision. Even in a crowded, smoky club, she knew one of her outfits when she saw it. And not just any outfit. It was the trickiest one so far, with alternating diamond-shaped black-and-white sequined silk panels, a scalloped neckline, and a calf-length hem. The damned thing had taken Gwendolyn and Arlene a full ten days to build, and the result was spectacular.

  Gwendolyn snapped her attention back to Kathryn. “Have you seen him since?”

  “He helped me get Wilkerson out of town. And then he kissed me again.”

  “Did you kiss him back?”

  “I did!” Self-doubt puckered Kathryn’s face. “But not for long.”

  “Bad kisser, huh?”

  “The opposite! I kissed him because it felt so good. But I put a stop to it before I started doing something I’d regret. I’m not even sure why I let him kiss me in the first place.”

  “I think that’s what they call ‘forbidden fruit.’” Gwendolyn watched Kathryn grasp the obvious.

  Kathryn fumbled to light a cigarette. After three attempts, she gave up and just waved it around. “I’m starting to wonder if he’s everything he says he is.”

  “Which is what?”

  “He maneuvered me into marriage to a guy who he then turns around and saves from professional ruin. He tells me he joined the FBI because the military wouldn’t have him and he wanted to do his bit for the war, and the next thing I know, he’s saying how he’s disillusioned with the FBI and wants out.” She tried her lighter again. This time it fired up; Kathryn took a long drag. “Is it any wonder I don’t know what to think anymore?”

  Gwendolyn slanted her head to the left. “Did you enjoy kissing him?

  While Kathryn pondered her question, Gwendolyn stole a glance around the crowd, looking for her black-and-white dress. She spotted it ducking behind Betty Hutton and Edith Head.

  Kathryn said, “I mean, let’s be honest. It’s been pretty slim pickings for me since Roy. And he was married. Then there was Orson, and we know what he’s like in the keep-it-in-his-pants department. So all in all—”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Kathryn kept up her bravado until she’d sucked the last half inch out of her cigarette, then she sheepishly admitted that she did enjoy kissing the guy back. Part of her wished they’d run inside and gotten a room.

  Gwendolyn said, “Maybe you should set up another meeting and probe him some more.”

  “Probe him?”

  “Don’t listen with your ears, or your heart, or your lips. Listen with your guts, and see what happens.”

  Kathryn made a brave attempt at a smile. Before either of them could say anything more, Bette Davis came charging at Kathryn like a runaway bulldozer.

  “We must speak!” She was practically seated at the table before she realized Gwendolyn was there. “Oh good!” she exclaimed. “You’re here too.” She flagged down a waiter and ordered a double martini. “I’ve got a scoop for you, dear Kathryn.”

  “Boy or girl?” Kathryn asked.

  A month ago, Bette announced that she and her new husband, Bill Sherry, were expecting. Kathryn didn’t admit it out loud, but Gwendolyn knew she was miffed at not being slipped the news first. But such was the pecking order among Hollywood’s gossip columnists; Jack Warner had probably insisted the news go to Louella Parsons.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.” Bette blew a long plume of smoke into the air. “Just before Christmas I had a meeting with Jack Warner about my new contract.”

  “Did you reach an agreement?”

  “After eight hundred years of indenture, I have only a year and a half left to serve, and then I’m free!”

  Kathryn squinted in a way that Gwendolyn knew meant she was memorizing every detail. “Did he play hard?”

  “It was all so shockingly civil!” Bette lifted a martini glass off the tray that appeared beside her. “I think I simply wore him down. However . . . ”

  The house band struck up a lively version of Nat King Cole’s “I Love You For Sentimental Reasons” and suddenly dancers were jostling for space.

  Gwendolyn was barely listening anymore. She couldn’t leave without being sure that was her dress. She was rubbernecking the crowd when she felt Bette touch her arm.

  “This is where you come in,” she said. “After I signed my new contract, I headed over to Costuming to see Orry-Kelly, who’s overseeing my alterations—I’m having some of my favorite clothes let out. When I walked in, he was standing at one of the tables with an assistant and they were examining a rather odd gown.”

  “Odd in what way?”

  “The shape of the thing,” Bette said. “It was made for a woman who was not exactly the slimmest girl at the ball. We measured the waist—thirty-eight inches! And there was no shape to it. The bust, the waist, the hips—all thirty-eight.”

  Kathryn cast an unblinking gaze at Gwendolyn, who tried to mask her shock with her champagne coupe.

  A month or two ago, she’d received a parcel from an anonymous customer who’d said that he’d heard about her work. Along with a generous check, he sent her the material, the measurements, and the pattern, and asked that she follow the specifications exactly. The dress itself wasn’t difficult to make, but its measurements were 38–38–38.

  “What did it look like?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “It was a dark emerald green overlaid with a sort of rainbow pattern in various shades of blu
e gathered together over the left hip.”

  That was the dress all right. But what was it doing at Warner Bros.? “Why did you think of me?”

  “When I was examining it, I noticed the tiny “G” embroidered inside the right sleeve. That’s your trademark, isn’t it?”

  The trademark was Kathryn’s idea. Gwendolyn wasn’t sure why it was necessary, but Kathryn’s instincts were astute, and she went along with it.

  She nodded. “But why would Orry-Kelly have it?”

  “They decided it was a mistake. The parcel had simply been addressed to ‘Jack.’ Even though his name is really Orry George Kelly, he’s known around the studio as Jack. Nobody had any idea who it belonged to, but then I saw your little ‘G.’ I just thought you might like to know.”

  When the conversation drifted on to Bette’s first post-pregnancy movie, Gwendolyn saw her chance to seek out her black-and-white diamond dress. The crowd was well on the way to being liquored up by now, and the din boomed across the club. Betty Hutton and Edith Head had lassoed Cesar Romero and Peter Lawford onto the dance floor, where they were attempting the jitterbug under the influence of several rounds of scotch. They were only somewhat successful.

  Gwendolyn honed in on every scrap of glistening fabric until she caught sight of her handiwork behind a series of Roman busts along the wrought-iron balustrade leading to a mezzanine level. She carved her way through the crowd, straining to catch a glimpse of the wearer, who looked like a heavy-browed hood from an early Cagney picture. Surely he wouldn’t be wearing it here? She followed it to the bar and positioned herself for a better view.

  It was a woman, but her face was turned away.

  Then she heard her name shooting across the music.

  “Goodness gracious!” Leilah O’Roarke said. “You’ve been scuttling all over this place like a crab. Who is that woman in the black and white dress?”

  “I made that outfit,” Gwendolyn said, “but her husband still hasn’t paid up.”

  During the war, Leilah had been her biggest nylons customer, and Gwendolyn had grown to admire her. But now that she knew Leilah was one of LA’s most successful madams, the woman’s matronly maternal swell had taken on a shabbier air. It was almost as though the tawdry nature of her business had seeped into the veneer she presented to the world.

  “I’ve been thinking of you lately,” Leilah said. “We both have.”

  “You and Clem?”

  “Me and Dorothy di Frasso.” Leilah craned her head around the room. “She’s here somewhere. At any rate, she told me she’d heard on the grapevine that Linc had been spotted somewhere down south. Argentina, I think. And I was wondering if you’d tracked him down and cleared up that mess about his making off with all your dough.”

  Leilah’s dark brown eyes seemed clear of collusion but Gwendolyn couldn’t be sure. Was she fishing for information? Gwendolyn decided it was best to stick vaguely to the truth.

  “Linc and I have cleared up that misunderstanding,” Gwendolyn said.

  “You found him?” Leilah managed to look pleased for her. “That must have been a relief. Where in heaven’s name did he decamp to?”

  “His letter arrived with no return address.” She scanned the revelers for her dress, but it had disappeared.

  “I always liked that boy. But weren’t you counting on that money to open your store?”

  “I’ve put that dream on hold for the time being.”

  “Oh, but you mustn’t! We should never let something as easy as money stop us from realizing our dreams. I’m a big believer in putting one’s money where one’s mouth is. If it’s a backer you need, then here I am.”

  Gwendolyn felt the air in her lungs escape in a silent whoosh.

  “What do you need?” Leilah asked. “Five thousand? Ten? Just say the number and it’s yours.”

  For the briefest of moments, Gwendolyn was tempted to say yes. But it was brothel money, and she’d heard enough of Arlene’s stories to know that the only hookers with a heart of gold were the ones in the movies.

  “Are you as surprised as I am that Siegel managed to get his Flamingo up and running?” Gwendolyn asked. “From what I’ve heard, the East Coast cut him off and he magically came up with the money to finish the job.” When a sly smile blossomed across Leilah’s face, Gwendolyn thought about what Linc told her in Mazatlán and added, “I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

  Leilah’s eyes bulged, making her look like a girl with a schoolyard secret. She looked around to ensure nobody could hear.

  “A while ago, Ben came to Clem and me and told us he was aware that the FBI had bugged all his telephones, so Clem offered our place for his meetings. I had my hesitations, but it’s Ben Siegel so . . . you know. And of course Dorothy is over at the house simply all the time, so I should have seen it coming.”

  “Seen what coming?”

  “Dorothy and Benjamin rekindling their romance! Right there in our guesthouse!”

  Any remnants of temptation to accept Leilah’s offer flushed away. “Did Clem know about this?”

  “He encouraged it. Although Ben was doing a terrible job building that place, Clem could see that once it was up and running properly, it’d rake in cash, even if the East Coast couldn’t see it. So he bided his time until Ben was at the end of his financial rope and stepped in.”

  “You lent Siegel the money? But that was a million dollars!”

  Leilah let fly an unguarded double take. “How did you know it was a million?”

  Gwendolyn flagged down a passing waitress and ordered another champagne. “Remember Howard Hughes’ TWA flight? That inaugural nonstop coast-to-coast? I heard that Bugsy was bragging about the fact that Wilkerson went to Mayer Lansky, but Lansky knocked him back, so he got the money together himself.” It was a bald-faced lie, but nothing on Leilah’s face told Gwendolyn she was way off the mark, so she plowed on. “A cool million was the amount that got floated around.”

  When Leilah told Gwendolyn yes, it was a million, Gwendolyn pressed further. “What did you do, sell all that land you bought around there?”

  Leilah’s cagey eyes stopped a whisker short of suspicious. “Did Linc tell you about that?”

  “It was more of a read-between-the-lines sort of thing.”

  “Yes,” Leilah admitted after a long pause, “that’s exactly what happened.”

  Kathryn emerged from the dance floor, pointing to her watch and then pressing her hands against her face to show she was tired and heading home.

  It wasn’t until she’d made her excuses to Leilah and started weaving her way back to her ex-roommate that Gwendolyn realized she’d just gotten what Kathryn needed to extricate herself from the FBI.

  CHAPTER 33

  Marcus got his hands on the manuscript for Deadly Bedfellows in the middle of January. He spent all day Saturday plowing through it, and by Sunday morning he was finished. He slammed it shut with a thud and tossed the piece of crap against the bedroom wall.

  Oliver bent his LA Times along the fold. “That bad?”

  “He drowns Mathias Addison in a vat of red ink used for printing the Communist Party newspaper.”

  “Wardell’s use of symbolism is remarkable,” Oliver said drily.

  Marcus glanced at Oliver’s paper. “Tell me some news that doesn’t involve death by cliché.” Then he saw the headline.

  BLACK DAHLIA’S LOVE LIFE TRACED IN SEARCH FOR HER FIENDISH MURDERER

  The appalling discovery of the surgically dissected body of a two-bit wannabe had shocked a jaded Los Angeles. Taking its cue from the victim’s dyed hair, the press had dubbed her the Black Dahlia, transmuting Elizabeth Short from a talentless nobody into a film noir femme fatale whose unspeakable fate now obsessed everybody in a two-hundred-mile radius of the grisly murder scene. Each day that passed without a suspect or arrest meant a field day for newspapers who overlooked no opportunity to remind the populace that a monstrous butcher roamed the streets unfettered to strike again.

&n
bsp; Directly below was an article heralding the House Un-American Activities Committee promising that a “top priority” of the new Congress would be an investigation of Communist influence in Hollywood. Marcus dropped the paper and ran his hand down Oliver’s arm. “Because this town isn’t paranoid enough.”

  “There’s champagne and orange juice in the ice box.” Oliver threw back the covers and headed for the kitchen. “Go to the Vehicles for Sale section. The head of MGM’s writing department shouldn’t be taking streetcars.”

  Marcus heard Oliver flip on the radio; a light waltz filtered through the doorway.

  “We’ve got the greatest public transportation network of any city in the world,” Marcus called back. “I can get anywhere I want and get work done while I’m at it.” He received no answer save the pop of a champagne cork. “Did you see Kathryn’s column yesterday? For the first time ever, Paramount, Warner, and Fox have all started to out-gross us.”

  Oliver returned to the bedroom with a tray holding two filled flutes, a half-empty bottle of French champagne, and a pitcher of orange juice. He slid it onto the bedside table, handed one of the flutes to Marcus, and rejoined him in bed. They clinked glasses.

  “Be that as it may,” Oliver continued, “you work for a prestigious company and I doubt that it would look good for their writing head to arrive for work on the same streetcar as the kewpie dolls from the typing pool.” He grabbed the Times. “Did you know there’s a massive surplus of Jeep Willys and they’re selling them off for a song?”

  Oliver’s mimosa was exactly what his funk needed. Who did Clifford Wardell think he was fooling?

  Anson Purvis professed to be no fan of Wardell either, but did he know about Deadly Bedfellows? Marcus decided to call him into his office first thing Monday. The guy was a man of high principles and didn’t strike Marcus as being the type to take character assassination lightly. With Paramount, Warner, and Fox now starting to outgun MGM, Marcus needed every one of his writers to be firing with both pistols fully loaded, and Anson Purvis was proving to be his secret weapon. He’d just handed in his detailed treatment for Pacific Broadcast, about the downed navy pilot whose speech gets replayed across the country. It was a humdinger.