Kathryn was deep in conversation with Gable and Menjou about Mayer’s recent divorce, so Marcus and Arlene stepped away.
“You’re going to be called into L.B.’s office today,” she told him.
“What for?”
“One of the typing pool gals just told me she spent the last two days working on dozens of copies of a declaration they’re going to ask employees to sign.”
Marcus swallowed hard. “Declaring what?”
“That you are not, nor have ever been, a member of the Communist Party.”
“For the love of Mike!” The soundstage suddenly felt suffocating.
“They’re taking this real serious, Marcus. But remember, you’re protected under the First Amendment. You’re free to belong to whichever political party you choose.”
“I’m not a fucking Commie!”
“They have no legal grounds to force you into signing a declaration like that. Whether you sign it or not, they can still subpoena you.”
“Subpoena? Who the hell—?” Her look of Surely you can’t be that naïve? arrested him. “The House Un-American Activities Committee?”
Arlene stared at him. “Your receptionist, the one with the red hair. Dierdre?”
He turned to see her approach him, her eyes wrinkled with trepidation. “I was told to track you down. You’ve been summoned.”
* * *
When Marcus entered his boss’ office, everyone was already seated around the table: Mayer, Eddie Mannix, and three humorless lawyer types he’d never seen before.
Marcus shook Mayer and Mannix’s hands, but Mayer didn’t bother to introduce the others.
“As you know,” Mannix said, “the HUAC have made it their business to root out subversives in any position to influence government policy or public opinion.”
“You mean Communists,” Marcus said, crossing his arms.
“Exactly so,” Mayer said.
“It seems fairly clear to us”—Mannix gestured toward the lawyers— “and our equivalents at other studios that the HUAC are planning to campaign Washington to interrogate key Hollywood contributors about the Communist influence here.”
The whole thing sounded like a rehearsed speech; Marcus wondered if he was the first audience. “If the HUAC get their hearings, it’ll be one long, tortuous succession of political grandstanding. Just because they set up their sandbox doesn’t mean any of us have to play in it.”
“Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t,” Mannix replied. “However, we feel that if we can present them with declarations of loyalty signed by everyone in the industry, they will, to use your phrase, pack up their sandbox and leave us all the hell alone.”
Marcus thought about The Hucksters and its plot about how advertising men will say anything to get their product sold. He eyed the sheet of paper on top of the stack in front of the lawyers. He could only make out a single word across the top: “DECLARATION.”
“You want me to declare, in writing, that I am not a member of the Communist Party?”
Mayer’s face brightened up. “That’s it.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose.
Marcus addressed the table. “You gentlemen have heard of the First Amendment, yes? As American citizens, we’re allowed to belong to whichever political party we choose. That’s kind of the whole point of the Constitution. I seem to recall that in among all that business about the right to freedom of religion, of speech, and of the press, there’s something about political freedom, too.”
“This is simply an evasive tactic,” Mannix said expansively. He gestured toward his bank of lawyers. “We’re looking to head the HUAC off at the pass. Nothing more.”
The stuffiest-looking lawyer in a bow tie slid the paper in front of Marcus. His pale blue watery eyes belied a hard-edged shrewdness. “If you’re not a Communist, signing this form will abrogate nothing.”
“Nothing but my constitutional rights. I shouldn’t have to sign anything, because you shouldn’t feel as though you need to ask me.” Marcus pushed the paper away.
“Look, Adler.” Mannix’s voice had grown curt. “If the HUAC hearings get up and running, and you don’t sign this form, you might be treated as an unfriendly witness. In front of cameras, and microphones, and reporters. Trust me, that is not something you want to experience.”
“Now listen here,” Mayer said, more softly now. “I admire your high-minded principles, and wish more people had them these days.”
Before Marcus could say anything, Mr. Watery Eyes pushed something else across the table toward him. “Besides,” he said, “there’s a bonus in it for you.”
The check lay just out of reach. A thousand dollars. “Why do you guys always make everything about money?”
“Don’t look at it that way,” Mayer told him. “You’re a company man, aren’t you? We’ve looked after you, haven’t we?” Except for that time when you fired me then rehired me into the B unit. “This is a ‘lesser of two evils’ type situation. Either you sign a piece of paper now and help us avoid a public nightmare, or you don’t sign it and face the all too real possibility of testifying before the HUAC in Washington. That’s what it comes down to.”
“The signing bonus is just our way of saying thank you,” Mannix added.
Marcus’ eyes darted back and forth between the loyalty oath and the check. If you’re just going to throw money at me . . . “All right,” he said.
Outside Mayer’s window, far off in the distance, a muffled boom hit the glass, rattling it for a moment. “That must be The Final Day,” Mannix said. “They’ve started shooting.”
Marcus asked the group if there was anything more. They told him there wasn’t. He held the check in his hand as he took the long walk to Mayer’s office doors, past Ida Koverman to the elevator, down the elevator to the foyer, and out into the harsh May sunshine. The first person he saw was Kathryn standing in the shade of an oak tree.
“Where’d you go?”
“To hell.” He headed for the first trashcan that came into view.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Marcus wondered if it was the opening salvo in a war he should have seen coming. He ripped the check in half, then in quarters. He kept ripping until the pieces were so small he couldn’t tear them anymore, then let them flutter from his damp palms.
CHAPTER 38
Kathryn adjusted the brim of her straw Breton after closing the taxi door. “Is this on straight?” she asked.
Gwendolyn paid the cabdriver and reassured her the hat was fine, but Kathryn didn’t believe her. “It hasn’t felt right since we left home.”
“Good gravy! How come you’re so nervous when I’m the one who’s auditioning?”
Gwendolyn had been fluttery ever since Kathryn told her Bette wanted her to make something. Only a handful of people had to ask Bette, “Wherever did you get that lovely outfit?” and she’d be on her way.
She’d gone all out with this creation: a sheath in reddish-pink moiré silk with matching ruffles in Chinese organza. She claimed it was a beast to sew, but she was thrilled with the result.
Bette had given birth eight days after her visit to the Garden. A month later, she was on the phone telling Kathryn she was antsy and begging her to come visit. When Kathryn asked if she could bring Gwendolyn, Bette had roared down the line, “Of course! Just come!”
Bette’s maid ushered them into a conservatively appointed living room—lots of fresh flowers and pastoral landscapes—and told them Miss Davis would be down in a moment. Several minutes passed before they heard footsteps on the stairs. They rose to find a slimmed-down Bette Davis in a snug wool suit. Kathryn glanced at Gwendolyn, whose eyes were on the cream ruffles at the hem, and watched her exhale in relief. She’d been unsure about ruffles on such a shoot-from-the-hip type.
Bette greeted them with hugs and thrilled exclamations over the new dress. She insisted on “taking it out for a road test” and disappeared upstairs. It only took her a minute to change and she came down with a delight
ed smile. “I didn’t think I’d lost enough baby fat, but look!” She spun on her heel and proclaimed the dress “Glorious!” Kathryn hadn’t been convinced that the deep pink suited Bette’s coloring, but she could see now that Gwendolyn’s choice was inspired.
They sat down. “How’s motherhood?” Kathryn asked.
Bette rolled her eyes. “It’s fine. No, really, it’s lovely. But I’ll be happier when the little darling can actually talk back. Our conversations are one-sided, and even I get sick of my own voice. I’ve never been holed up inside the same four walls, day in, day out. For the love of all things adult, tell me what’s been happening outside.”
Kathryn’s mind went blank. Since that horrible scene at Nelson’s place, she’d hardly been the most social butterfly.
“You know what I want to hear,” Bette said slyly. “That situation we talked about over your peanut butter crackers?”
“Things took a turn for the worse.”
“So it wasn’t your dress, after all?” Bette asked Gwendolyn.
“Oh, it was mine, all right. But something else came up that put a whole different spin on it.”
The maid walked into the room with tea and sugar cookies. Bette told her she’d pour, and waited until the woman was through the swinging kitchen door before pressing Kathryn for more information.
When Kathryn launched into her story about how a fallen statue resulted in her discovery of the hidden bug, she expected Bette to be appalled, but when Kathryn was done, Bette simply said, “Are you positive it was him?”
“He works for the FBI!” Kathryn exclaimed. “It’s what they do.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, my dear, but I got the distinct impression that the two of you had taken a shine to each other.”
“Finding a bug has a way of changing everything.”
Bette took a couple of contemplative sips, and said nothing. At least, nothing with her mouth . . . but those famous large eyes said plenty.
“What?” Kathryn demanded. “Out with it.”
Bette set her cup down on its saucer. “I’ve made a career out of exploring human relationships, both on-screen and off. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: When someone is about to betray someone else, there are signs. So indulge me, just for a moment. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, can you think of any signs he was about to do this to you?”
“I was completely blindsided!”
“So,” Bette continued patiently, “maybe he didn’t.”
Bette’s measured tone was starting to grate. Kathryn wanted shock and outrage, but was getting Spring Byington in Little Women.
“To be fair,” Gwendolyn put in, “didn’t he say that the bug you found wasn’t the sort the FBI used anymore?”
“Interesting!” Bette took a wide-eyed sip of her tea. “Another subject I’m well versed in: enemies. I have mine, and I’m sure you have yours. What if we were to draw a line and call it The Scale of People Most Likely To Wiretap Kathryn Massey? Wouldn’t the guy who is falling for you most likely rate only a one or two?”
“Don’t forget, he wants to leave the FBI,” Gwendolyn said. “I got the impression that he’s partly doing it for you.”
Kathryn had spent days upon days reliving that night. She wished they could do it over. This time, Marcus would be more gracious about Nelson saving his career; Nelson wouldn’t have said “those homos” in such a harsh tone; and she wouldn’t have let everybody’s outrage overwhelm her ability to distinguish bullshit from bombast. She stiffened as she considered for the first time in a long, dark month that maybe Nelson was telling her the truth. “Possibly,” she admitted meekly.
“If that’s the case,” Bette continued, “who hates you enough to rate an eight or nine?”
The possibility that Nelson wasn’t the culprit fogged her muddled brain so densely that she couldn’t conjure a name.
“Or perhaps hates someone you’re close to?”
Gwendolyn cracked a cookie between her teeth. “What about Wilkerson?”
Kathryn’s teacup clattered onto the coffee table. The silence that followed was so profound that Kathryn could hear the screams of young children playing in a swimming pool over the other side of Bette’s back fence.
Gwendolyn was shaking her head. “Your Billy Hothead has tangled with a lot of people over the last few years, but there’s only one person who scared him so much it sent him scuttling all the way to France.”
* * *
Before she got out of the cab, Kathryn peered into Sunset Lamps and Lighting. When she spotted Nelson’s father behind the counter, she forced herself to walk through the door before she lost her nerve.
A flash of surprise crossed Wesley Hoyt’s face.
He almost looks pleased to see me. Obviously Nelson hasn’t told him what happened.
“Are you here to see my son?”
“I need to speak with him on a matter of some urgency. Do you know where he is?”
“Not for certain.”
“Could I leave a note with you?”
“Or you could come back at seven. Since the whole Black Dahlia thing, he’s been walking me home at night. I think he’s being a bit alarmist, but that’s always been his way.”
Kathryn looked at her watch. It was only four thirty. “I’ll come back then.”
“Ever been to the Radio Room?” The barest hint of a smile curled his mouth.
“Over on Vine?”
“By the time you get there, it’ll almost be five o’clock, and today is Friday. Some men have their routines.”
* * *
The Radio Room was a small place with a bar along the southern wall, a dozen tables, no dance floor, and a tiny stage with room for a jazz trio. It was dark, with just enough lighting to help a girl find the end of her cigarette. Kathryn was two Chesterfields down when Nelson walked in.
He found a table and signaled the guy behind the bar. As the bartender prepared the biggest manhattan Kathryn had ever seen, she slid up to him. “Mind if I take that?” The bartender had the grizzled face of a grumpy walrus. He raised his eyebrows, suspicious. She dropped a ten-spot on the counter. “He’s a pal. I want to surprise him. Make me one of those, too.”
She was careful to keep to Nelson’s back until she was close enough to lead with the manhattan. His head shot up, his mouth gaping.
“I brought a fat slice of humble pie with me,” she said. “Thought we might go halves?”
Eventually, he said, “You are the most confounding woman I have ever met.”
“Does that mean I can join you? These drinks are heavy.”
He nodded at the empty chair next to him. She placed the drinks on his table and dumped her handbag on an empty chair. She felt like she was sitting on eggshells and if a single one cracked, he’d bolt. She decided to open with humor.
“How’s your forehead? Who knew I was such a good shot? Not me.”
“Did my dad send you here?”
She angled a shoulder toward him. Not close enough to spook him, but it was a move that always worked in interviews when she was trying to establish a connection with a star on high alert. “I think you’re a dear for walking him home every night.”
“And I think Wesley Hoyt talks too much.”
He lit a cigarette from the smoldering butt of his last one. “Why are you here?”
“I’ve had time to think.”
“Four weeks’ worth, by my count.”
“I had a lot to think about.”
A ghost of a smile pulled at his mouth. “Yes, you did. Are you here because you’ve come to a conclusion?”
“Maybe you weren’t the only one with a reason to eavesdrop.”
“I’m surprised that I satisfied the minimum requirements of ‘beyond reasonable doubt.’” He started tapping his cigarette rapidly so she let him finish his thought. “Glad to see it though, I must say. What about your pal? Has he seen the light, too?”
“You leave Marcus to me,” she said.
> “Gladly.” He sipped his drink. “So you were saying that you think I wasn’t lying?”
“I told someone about what happened. She pointed out who had more to gain by bugging my place than you did.”
“And who’s that?”
“Bugsy Siegel.”
She watched the name pierce the chrysalis of his professional surface. “Shit.” He killed his Viceroy. “SHIT!”
“It makes more sense, doesn’t it? After all that business about the Flamingo and the Nevada Project Corporation—”
“I’m such a fool. Why didn’t I see this before?” He faced her with a mocking smile. “You’re the girl!”
“What girl?”
He drew his face close enough to put him in kissing distance. “We’ve been listening in to Siegel’s conversations. Most of it’s been about Wilkerson and how he stabbed them in the back. They’ve been looking all over for him. For a long while they thought he was in the Poconos.”
His breath was the manliest thing she’d smelled in a long while—a heady mixture of whiskey, vermouth, and burned tobacco.
“When they came up blank, they thought maybe they could squeeze it out of ‘the girl’ and how they could use her to get to him. We thought Wilkerson had found himself a little gold-digging mistress.”
“You think I’m the girl?”
“There was talk of kidnap and ransom.”
She took a sip. A long one. And then a second, even longer. The manhattan didn’t seem near strong enough now.
“We weren’t convinced they’d take it that far, but now I’m not so sure. I can’t believe they managed to bug your place.”
“You guys did it to Bogie,” Kathryn pointed out. He clenched his hand on top of hers. It felt like a security blanket without which she’d slide under the table.
“Siegel blames Wilkerson’s meddling in the Flamingo and he’s out for blood. After we shipped him off to Paris, did you ever talk about Wilkerson’s whereabouts when you were at home?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But are you sure?
She shook her head. “I—I don’t—I can’t be sure. This has got me all rattled.”
“They snuck a bug inside your place once, they could do it again. You need to go to a hotel.”
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