“But that’s all Nelson did—speak his mind. And yet you’ve banished him God knows where.”
“Hoyt was disloyal,” Hoover replied curtly.
Kathryn felt a sweat break out across her chest. She pictured Marcus sitting next to her, holding her hand. It was time for a judicious retreat. “So you admire the cojones it takes for me to speak my mind even though you don’t like what I think?”
“I disagree with pretty much everything you’ve written in your column, but I admire the passion with which you say it.”
What sort of backhanded—wait a minute. He’s flattering me. Does he want something? She saw an opportunity and stuck her hand through it before it closed like an elevator door.
“You engaged Gwendolyn to make your dress,” she said, “knowing she’s one of my closest friends, didn’t you?”
“My—? What in tarnation—?” Hoover dropped his supercilious tone. “You think I had that dress made for me? That I’m a—a—cross-dresser?” Hoover now seemed incredulous. Or amused? Or was he insulted? Kathryn could no longer read this brick wall beside her.
“See it from my point of view.” She gave a fluttering laugh. “That dress Gwendolyn made would fit you, the color suits you, the payment was in cash, delivery address anonymous, and you’ve never been married.” She saw a glint of surprise flare in his eyes. “I’ve seen loopier things, and you must have, too.”
He stared at her intensely as though to say, Go on. Think it through.
“You wanted Gwendolyn to make the dress . . . because . . . you wanted me to see it. You want me to . . . recognize it? At some later date?”
Hoover exhaled as though he’d been holding his breath. “You’re as astute as I hoped.”
“So you intend using it as . . .” Kathryn’s mind started racing. “As proof? Proof with which to . . . condemn someone as a cross-dresser? Character assassination. Am I close?”
“Remarkably.”
“You want me to point a finger at someone and say ‘I know that dress!’”
“Please credit me with some finesse, Miss Massey. I wanted you to see it, but you weren’t supposed to trace it back to me. Losing the first one was unfortunate, and the heads are still rolling over that debacle. But I still need you to play your part.”
“What’s in it for me?” Kathryn regretted it as soon as the words had flown out of her. The man had more power than the president, with umpteen different ways to make her life a living hell. She’d wriggled free of his tax bill mousetrap, but doubted she could pull it off a second time.
He wagged a finger at her. “If Wilkerson ever cans your ass, I want you to know that I could always find a place for you with the Bureau.”
I’d rather have my eyeballs tattooed.
“In return for recognizing the dress, I’ll bring your Nelson Hoyt in from the cold.”
Kathryn had to swallow her YIPPEE! so hard she nearly gagged on it. “My Nelson Hoyt?” she asked.
“You’re screwing him, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Saving yourself?” he asked witheringly. “Is that why you want him back?”
Kathryn did her best to resist fidgeting with cuff of her jacket.
“So do we have a deal?” Hoover asked finally. “You get your Nelson Hoyt and all you have to do is point a finger when the time comes.”
A sinking feeling told Kathryn she was getting the short end of the stick. The word deal perched on the tip of her tongue before she bit it back.
“Who will I be pointing my finger at?”
He watched the tide come in, nearly to the breakfront now. “Charlie Chaplin.”
Kathryn burst out laughing, then wished she hadn’t. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but that’s ludicrous. He’s a lady-killer, and everyone knows it, especially after the paternity suit with that Joan Barry nutcase. And then he married Oona O’Neil.”
“That damn limey is guilty of something, and probably a lot worse than his leftist politics. I want him out of the country. For good.”
“May I say, Mr. Hoover, if that’s your plan, it’s very thin.”
“Of course it’s thin,” he admitted. “It’s supposed to be.”
Kathryn had to turn away. Not far from the Cadillac, a flock of seagulls erupted into a squawking racket.
“You don’t expect anyone will believe you,” she said out loud, more to herself than to the schemer beside her. She watched the seagulls, who’d been distracted from the caviar and crabmeat by a slice of bread. “It’s camouflage, isn’t it? You’re planning something else, but you want people distracted by this outrageous charge of yours.”
Nobody’s going to believe me, and he knows it, she realized. That’s even more insidious. I should have known he’d be three jumps ahead of everybody else. But all I’ll have to do is point a finger at something everybody will dismiss, and then forget about. In return, Nelson will be back, and maybe we’ll stand a chance.
“All you need do is point to a dress,” Hoover said.
She stuck out her hand to shake his, but he merely looked at it.
“That won’t be necessary, Miss Massey. We have a deal.”
* * *
After Kathryn had disappeared into Hoover’s Cadillac, Gwendolyn did everything she could think of to attract Howard’s attention. She swanned back and forth in front of him and his cluster of engineers, lingering at the buffet, waving at imaginary people in the crowd, laughing just a little too loudly at someone’s joke. But the man was too preoccupied with congratulators and hand-shakers to notice. By the time she gave up, the wind had dropped, so she wandered out to the shoreline.
Soon, a long shadow cast across the grass in front of her.
“I’m glad you came.”
Hughes’ eyes were bleary and his body drooped like wet laundry.
“Only you could make an airplane the size of Catalina actually fly,” she told him. “You must be very pleased.”
He lifted his battered fedora to scratch his scalp. “You sure were trying hard to catch my eye.”
Gwendolyn unhooked the clasp of her handbag and reached inside. “I wanted to congratulate you, of course, but also to return this.” She presented him with his five-thousand-dollar check.
He jutted his chin toward it. “To me, this doesn’t even count as a drop in the ocean, but it could change your life.”
“I know.” Gwendolyn kept her hand outstretched. “And I appreciate the gesture. But I’ve decided to decline.”
“Can I ask why?”
“I want Chez Gwendolyn to be all mine.”
“I told you, it’s a gift, not a loan.”
“I’ve spent years watching people at the Cocoanut Grove and Bullocks Wilshire, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that everybody’s lives change, their luck sours, and their fortunes reverse. You may have millions now, but who’s to say you always will?”
He chuckled, a mite condescendingly, Gwendolyn thought. “My money ain’t going no place.”
“I’m sure that’s what Hearst said right up until the day Marion Davies sold a million bucks’ worth of her jewelry to help him out of his hole. Nothing stays the same, Howard. The last thing I want is for someone to waltz in one day and say he’s in some sort of scrape so half the store belongs to him because he put up half the money.” He went to say something but she cut him off by grabbing his hand and pressing the check into it. “The war taught us women that we can do a lot more than we thought, and we don’t need men to do it. I’d rather get that money together myself, secure in the knowledge that Chez Gwendolyn belongs solely to me.”
“Is this because I made that crack about your age?”
She shook her head and was relieved to see him push the check into his pocket.
He doffed his hat and wished her the best of luck. “Let me know when you open your store.” His eyes started to twinkle. “I might have a girl or two I can send you for a new wardrobe.”
As she watched him saunter back to h
is cadre of hangers-on, she wondered for a gut-wrenching moment if she’d done the wrong thing. That check meant no more to him than yesterday’s banana peel. She watched him pop open a magnum of champagne and pour a dozen glasses for his crew.
Kathryn appeared, looking as disheveled as Howard had.
“You could do with a drink.” Gwendolyn followed Kathryn’s eyes to the parking lot, where Hoover’s car was pulling away in a spray of gravel. “That bad, huh?”
Kathryn shrugged. “Good and bad.”
“Is Nelson the good part?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why do you look like he just ran over your dog?”
Kathryn kept her eyes on the parking lot, so Gwendolyn wrapped her arm around her and started marching them toward the bar. “Let’s make it a triple.”
CHAPTER 47
Marcus sat in his office and tried to concentrate on the script in front of him. Easter Parade was supposed to star Gene Kelly and Judy Garland, but Kelly had busted his ankle, so Mayer cajoled and entreated (and probably dangled a huge check in front of) Fred Astaire to come out of self-imposed retirement. Astaire said yes, so now the script had to go through a process Marcus called Astairification—tailoring what was a very Gene Kelly role into a better fit for Fred.
When Marcus reported back to work, he’d expected a summons to the executive floor, but it never came. Then the House of Representatives voted 346 to 17 to cite ten Hollywood screenwriters—including Dalton Trumbo—for contempt of Congress. The Hollywood Ten, as the press dubbed them, were now facing jail time. Marcus felt like his career was hanging by a translucent silk filament, and that it was only a matter of time before he was pink-slipped. But until that happened, he would drive to the studio, sit at his desk, and do the work he was paid to do.
At first, he jumped every time his phone rang or a shadow filled his office doorway. But as each week bled into the next with no word from the higher-ups, he let himself relax. Oliver suggested it was because they didn’t get him to admit he was a Commie. The evidence was circumstantial, and hadn’t added up to much, so he was okay. Kathryn thought maybe Mayer had seen through Hoover’s attempt to sabotage Marcus’ family history, and life was simply going on as it had before that subpoena landed in his hand.
So he busied himself Astairificating Easter Parade. The movie was one of MGM’s big hopes for 1948, and Marcus wanted to be sure it was in tip-top shape before he delivered it to Eddie Mannix’s office.
But he’d only managed to battle through a page and a half before his attention meandered to his parents’ front path and the look on Doris’ face when she said, “To the Garden of Allah, if there’s room.” But there wasn’t; the Garden was fully occupied. He worried that he’d led her to a rash decision, but Doris seemed happy enough on the sofa until something opened up.
His telephone rang. When he picked it up, he heard Mannix’s secretary inform him that her boss was on his way. This was unprecedented—Mohammeds were always summoned to the mountain in this industry. “You are to assemble your staff in the conference room. He has an announcement to make.” She hung up before he could dig any deeper.
He’d just managed to shepherd the last of them into the room when Mannix arrived, silencing all chatter.
“In a day or two, Eric Johnston from the Motion Picture Association of America will be making a statement that all the studio heads worked on for two days in the Waldorf-Astoria.” He held up the stack of paper in his hand. “Henceforth known as the Waldorf Statement.”
The Waldorf Statement? Marcus thought. What is this, a government decree, like the Monroe Doctrine, or the Marshall Plan? He could feel the strands of his translucent silk starting to fray.
“I’ll save us all some time and paraphrase the content for you. The studios have banded together and agreed not to employ a Communist, or any member of any party which advocates the overthrow of the US government.” He paused while a reaction unfurled across the room. “Furthermore, we will eliminate all subversives from the industry while safeguarding free speech wherever threatened.”
“Paraphrasing” and “furthermore” were five-dollar words Marcus had never heard the ex-fairground bouncer use before. He must have been practicing all morning.
Tension thickened in the air. “Mr. Mannix,” he said, “does your so-called Waldorf Statement affect anyone in this room? Personally, I mean?”
Mannix eyed him suspiciously, as though questioning whether Marcus had been given advance warning. “As a matter of fact, it does. While we’ve been in here, my secretary has been leaving envelopes on the desks of the people we’re letting go.”
Marcus shot to his feet. “You’re firing us? Some of these people have worked here for years. They’ve produced some of the finest scripts in the industry. And the best you can do is an envelope on the desk?”
“Only those staff members who have shown cause to come under suspicion—”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence, or gave up trying. People stampeded for the door.
Mannix dropped the pile of statements on the table. “Distribute these to your staff when you get a chance.” He headed for the door.
“You mean whatever staff you’ve left me with?” Marcus called out after him. Sitting alone in the deserted conference room, it occurred to him that an envelope might be sitting on his own desk. He rushed down the corridor to his office. His desk was exactly as he left it. Behind him, he heard someone clear his throat. It was Donnie Stewart, an envelope in his hand, unopened.
Donnie held it up. “Marching orders!” He looked past Marcus. “Yes or no?”
Marcus shook his head.
“Listen, a bunch of us dirty low-down ratfink Pinko bastards are convening at the Retake Room. You’ll join us, won’t you?”
“Is your plan to get good and soaked?”
“Till there’s not a drop left in the joint.”
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
In less than half an hour, everyone deemed Waldorf-guilty had left the studio. It felt like a bomb had wiped out a third of Marcus’ staff. Those still left were doing no work but were, Marcus supposed, sitting at their desks staring blankly at their sharpened pencils and balled-up pages. The only sound Marcus could hear was the clack-clack of a sole typewriter several offices down from him. That’s got to be Anson Purvis. He could write through the London Blitz.
Marcus was slingshotting a mound of rubber bands into his trash can when his telephone rang. The caller was Ida Koverman, Mayer’s long-time secretary, telling him that his immediate presence was commanded.
“Should I bring my copy of the Waldorf Statement?”
Miss Koverman hung up without dignifying his jab with a reply.
Marcus was mildly surprised to find only Mayer waiting for him behind the semicircular desk. Where was the usual phalanx of lawyers and yes-men? He motioned for Marcus to take one of the chairs in front of him.
“It’s been a rough day,” Mayer said cheerlessly.
Says the guy who still has his job.
Mayer’s fingers strummed the desk. “We need to talk about your future here.”
Marcus glanced around Mayer’s orderly desk in search of an envelope with his name on it, but there wasn’t one.
“I take it you’ve read the Waldorf Statement? You’ll see it’s quite clear with respect to who we can and cannot have working at the studio.” Mayer took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We must acknowledge the picture of you painted by the HUAC.”
“That was all circumstantial!”
Marcus didn’t mean to shout, but since he got back from Washington—or more specifically, from McKeesport—he found that the things he used to care so much about didn’t matter to him like they used to.
Mayer peered at him, unruffled. “Circumstantial or not, in the eyes of the outside world, it was not a rosy picture. However, we don’t want to lose you, Adler, so we’ve come up with a way to get around all this Waldorf business.”
“You’re one of the most skilled screenwriters I’ve ever encountered.”
The praise caught Marcus off guard. He popped open his eyes, expecting to detect a hidden agenda. He found only candor.
“Here’s what I propose,” Mayer continued. “You can no longer head up the writing department. I suspect, though, that you’d prefer to just be writing our screenplays.” He must have seen the Yes! in Marcus’ eyes, because he smiled knowingly. “How about we reassign you to the screenwriter role, and allow you to do it from home?”
The chance to work away from the bean counters who seemed to think creating screenplays was like working on a Pontiac production line was every screenwriter’s fantasy. There must be a catch.
“Is there something you’re not telling me, Mr. Mayer?”
“Just one thing.” I’ll be lucky if there’s only one thing. “We won’t be able to offer you screen credit.”
Marcus’ eyes fell onto the copy of the Waldorf Statement that was pressed under Mayer’s fingertips, onto the phrase “to safeguard free speech.”
Of course they can’t give you screen credit. That would undermine the whole arrangement.
But screen credit was currency. It was the screenwriter’s calling card; his way up the ladder of financial compensation; his social standing in the pecking order; and his way of planting a flag in the soil and proclaiming, “I created this.” It was his everything.
“But how would it work?” Marcus asked. “I’d still be on your payroll.”
Mayer gave a self-satisfied leer. “We have more than one payroll, so don’t worry about that. Think of it, Adler. You get to work from home! Get up when you want, write when you want, stop when you want, take Fridays off, sleep in Monday mornings. What a life!”
But something nagged at Marcus. “So I’d be sent my assignments from my replacement?” Mayer nodded. “Have you decided who that’ll be? Because there are a couple of candidates I’d suggest you—”
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