Reds in the Beds

by Martin Turnbull

  “Won’t be necessary, Adler. That’s all been sorted out.”

  “You already know who the new department head is?” Jesus Christ, the seat back at my desk is still warm. “Who is it?”

  DON’T SAY IT! DON’T SAY IT! DON’T SAY IT!

  “Anson Purvis will be the new head.”

  Of course he is. And you’ve got nobody to blame but yourself. You brought Purvis on board even though you knew which slime pond he crawled out of.

  “Have you read Deadly Bedfellows?” Marcus asked.

  “Why would I bother with trash like that?”

  He stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you for your offer, Mr. Mayer, but I won’t be able to accept.”

  Mayer gaped up at him, thunderstruck. “At your current salary, of course.”

  “It doesn’t always come down to the money, sir.”

  Mayer was now on his feet. “This is no time to be an idealist, Adler. After your fiasco in Washington—”

  “I am not a Commie!”

  “WHO FUCKING CARES?” Mayer picked up the Waldorf Statement and tossed it into the air. “This is all just for show. It’s PR to keep Congress and the unwashed masses happy. Take the offer, get paid generously for doing what you do best, and keep your head down until it all blows over.”

  Marcus knew he might come to regret what he was about to do, but for now, he knew he’d loathe himself if he didn’t. And if there was one thing he’d learned this year, it was that hating was a waste of time. He straightened his spine to give him a full three inches over the little man in front of him.

  “Each of us must live with our conscience, Mr. Mayer. And if your shitty Waldorf Statement is what you have to do to sleep at night, then sweet dreams.”

  He walked the long white carpet to the walnut doors leading onto Mayer’s outer office, and didn’t break his stride until he hit the elevator button. To his right, a window overlooked the MGM lot. There was, as always, a throng of activity: racks of Victorian costumes, a line of hurrying chorus girls in Esther Williams bathing suits, a trio of clowns juggling in a side alley, violinists walking into the scoring stage.

  They all have somewhere to go, he mused. Surely I do, too.

  CHAPTER 48

  Gwendolyn hoisted her pot. “Everyone having coffee?”

  Marcus tried to stifle a yawn, but gave up halfway through. “Gwennie, honey, we’ve been up all night. I can’t imagine anyone will be saying no.”

  Oliver caught Marcus’ yawn. “If I’d known we were going to pull an all-nighter, I’d have had a nap beforehand.” He slumped his head on Marcus’ shoulder and pointed a wobbly finger at Doris. “And as for you. Doing the splits on the diving board.”

  “In heels,” Kathryn added. “That was impressive as hell.”

  As Doris giggled, Gwendolyn counted off seven heads and walked into her kitchen. This crowd was going to need the strong stuff. She was wondering if she had the energy to duck over to Schwab’s and pick up some donuts when she felt Marcus’ hand on her shoulder.

  “That was a hell of a party you put together,” he told her.

  “You’re welcome, but it wasn’t just me. Kay made the sign.”

  When Marcus arrived home from work that awful day last week, Gwendolyn decided he needed a better send-off than getting soused at the Retake Room with the other pink-slipped writers. With the help of Kathryn and Doris, she pulled together a party around the Garden pool and invited everyone they could think of.

  The party itself didn’t have an official name until Kay Thompson arrived with a cardboard banner she’d painted in a color she called “Irony Red.”

  THE MARCUS ADLER FREEDOM FROM TYRANNY AND TREACHERY PARTY.

  Oliver and Trevor took it upon themselves to hang it from a pair of tree branches. Though somewhat crooked, it looked pretty good when Arlene lit some tiki torches beneath the sign. The “Pinko Pink” cardboard stars Kay glued around the border twinkled in the flickering light, winking as though they were in on the joke.

  Marcus nodded. “That sign was classic Kay. I hope someone took a picture.”

  “She didn’t seem to mind when it ended up in the pool.” Gwendolyn made a mental note to fish it out before she went to bed.

  “At any rate,” Marcus said, “thank you.”

  Gwendolyn couldn’t tell if Marcus was tearing up or his eyes were just bloodshot from drinking. She pushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. “Are you really as okay as you seem?” She was relieved to see him smile.

  “The day after it all happened, I went to Alla’s grave to think things over. I got to wondering what she thought as she lay on her deathbed. I hope she was happy with the choices she’d made.”

  “Me too.”

  “I decided that I want to get to my own deathbed secure in the knowledge that I made more good choices than poor ones. Isn’t that all any of us can do? You look at the pros and cons, go with your gut, make a decision, and hope it’s the right one in the long run. That offer from MGM, it’s not the way I want to live my life.”

  She kissed him on his cheek. “Good for you.”

  He gave a gentle shrug. We’ll see. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Gwendolyn was about to ask if he could jump over to Schwab’s when she saw the way his whole body seemed to sway. She grabbed him by the shoulders and prodded him in the direction of her sofa. She scooped up her purse and told the crowd she’d be back before the coffee was ready.

  She was halfway around the pool when she encountered a gentle-faced stranger in his sixties. “Are you lost?” she asked him.

  “I’m looking for Miss Massey. She lives here, right?”

  “She does, but we’re coming down off an all-nighter. A big party, you see. None of us are in the best of shape—”

  “Mr. Hoyt!”

  Gwendolyn was surprised Kathryn had the wherewithal to rush along the gravel path toward them.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked the stranger. Before he had a chance to respond, Kathryn threaded her arm through Gwendolyn’s. “This is Wesley Hoyt. The father.”

  Kathryn had once described Nelson’s dad as being the kind of guy Central Casting would send over if the director needed a sympathetic uncle or understanding judge. Gwendolyn could see what she meant.

  “I’m here about my son,” the old man said.

  Gwendolyn felt Kathryn squeeze her arm as her whole body tensed. “He’s not coming back, is he.”

  Hoyt pulled the scruffy old derby off his head. “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “But we made a deal,” Kathryn said weakly.

  Yeah, Gwendolyn thought, with J. Edgar Hoover. And he’s about as trustworthy as an Everglades alligator. “I don’t suppose you can tell us anything,” she said.

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Kathryn’s head shot up. “You can?”

  “A few years back, Nelson used to have a partner. They worked cases together. I only met him once, by chance at the Bimini Baths down on Third Street. He came to see me at my store last night.”

  Kathryn let out a groan so faint that Gwendolyn doubted Mr. Hoyt could have heard.

  “Go on,” Kathryn said.

  “Two nights ago he and a bunch of guys were working back at the office—the Black Dahlia case, it’s got ’em all working overtime like crazy. Hoover’s right-hand man came in.”

  “Clyde Tolson.”

  “Yeah, him. They were surprised because he’s always with Hoover, but he was by himself. And all agitated, which is mighty unusual, because he’s normally so stitched up and buttoned down. Then they realized he was kinda tipsy. Nelson’s old partner sensed something was afoot, so he poured Tolson a drink and jiggered him for the lowdown. Turns out, Hoover’s got the knives out for Charlie Chaplin but his efforts to have him branded a subversive have been stymied. Then he saw Monsieur Verdoux, and apparently he’s got it all figured out.”

  “But Chaplin’s picture was released months ago,” Kathryn pointed out.
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  “Apparently Hoover only just got around to seeing it. He came out of that showing with notes written on every scrap of paper he could find, including his popcorn box. Tolson said he was just about frothing at the mouth with glee, giggling over the fact that they don’t need to go ahead with some cockamamie cross-dressing scheme he’d cooked up, which meant he didn’t need that—skuze my French—‘smart alec Massey bitch’ no more.”

  Gwendolyn felt Kathryn slump a little as she let loose a groan.

  “I take it you tried to get Nelson back?” he ventured.

  Kathryn nodded. “Nearly worked, too.”

  Mr. Hoyt stepped forward. “I’d like to thank you for trying.” He reached out to shake her hand. She took it limply, and tried to make up for it with a feeble smile. “It’s been a sincere pleasure.” He released Kathryn’s hand, gave Gwendolyn a polite nod, then retreated up the path and vanished into the main house.

  “I gave it my best shot.” Kathryn pressed the side of her head to Gwendolyn’s. “But I’ve been outfoxed.”

  “At least you’ve been outfoxed by the master.”

  “Oh, Gwennie.” A deep sigh followed. “I actually let myself think maybe Nelson was my turn at the swings. I should have known better. First a married man, and then an FBI agent. I seem to have a knack for choosing wildly inappropriate men. Why do you think that is?”

  “Are you really turning to me for boyfriend advice?” Gwendolyn asked. “Me? With my history?”

  “I really liked him, Gwennie.”

  “I know you did.”

  “I mean really, really liked him.”

  “But he came with a box of dynamite. And you know what your mama told you about playing with fire.”

  Kathryn closed her eyes. “Bette was right.”

  “About what?”

  “About she and I not being the white-picket-fence type.”

  Gwendolyn giggled, hoping it would leaven her friend’s spirits. “Oh, sugar-pie, ain’t nobody at the Garden of Allah is the white picket fence type. It’s how come we end up here and why most of us stay. And besides, I think white picket fences are overrated.”

  Kathryn lifted her head and swiped at her eyes. “Christ, Gwennie, I’m nearly forty!”

  “So?”

  “What if he really was my last chance?”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous.” Gwendolyn pushed her away. “That’s all the boo-hoo I’m going to listen to.”

  “Don’t forget what Howard said, you’re too old. That must have hurt.”

  “Sure it did,” Gwendolyn admitted, “but then I went out and proved him wrong.”

  Kathryn did a double take. “What did you do?”

  “After that incident at the store when Bugsy came in with a gun, Mr. Dewberry put on extra security. One of the guys—a tall, horsey type with big hands—he kept giving me the goo-goo eyes. So the day after Howard said I was too old for him, I wore a particularly low-cut dress. Worked like a charm.”

  “Oh, Gwennie!” Kathryn started to laugh. “How was he?”

  “So enthusiastic he broke out into sweat. To hell with Howard Moneybags. I’m not about to let him or any man decide when I’m over the hill.”

  They heard a set of footsteps click against the path behind her. Kathryn braced herself. “Don’t tell me he’s come back?”

  Even first thing on a Saturday morning, Edith Head looked like she was ready to step into a magazine photo shoot. She held a brown paper sack. “Did I come at a bad time?”

  Gwendolyn shook her head. “You know Kathryn Massey, don’t you?”

  Edith nodded, and pulled Gwendolyn’s tangerine scarf from her suit pocket. “It’s been a month, and I feel wretched for having taken so long to get it back to you.”

  “That’s quite all right—”

  “No, it’s not. I detest it when people take forever to return things. So, by way of an apology”—she lifted the paper bag— “I brought breakfast. There are some Danishes, muffins, biscuits—I didn’t know what you like so I bought a whole bunch. And I finally found bagels on the West Coast!”

  “Thank you,” Gwendolyn said. “We’ve got a lot of hungry mouths to feed.”

  Arlene nearly had a conniption fit when she saw Edith walk into Gwendolyn’s villa, and straightaway started to babble her adoration for Edith’s work on a recent Betty Hutton movie, The Stork Club. Edith listened politely, then asked which studio she worked at. When Arlene meekly admitted that she was in MGM’s legal department, Edith lost interest. By the time Gwendolyn entered her living room with Edith’s contributions piled onto her biggest platter, she found her standing before the huge portrait.

  “This is remarkable,” Edith said, tapping a finger against her chin.

  “A bit big for this place,” Gwendolyn admitted.”

  “I could swear this is a—” She bent down to study the signature at the bottom, and let out a cry. “This is an Alistair Dunne!”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  Edith kept her eyes on Alistair’s portrait. “I presume you don’t keep up with the New York art scene? Oh, my sweet girl, Alistair Dunne is one of the most important contributors to the postwar American art movement.”

  “He is?”

  “And you’ve got a pre-war Dunne!” Edith slapped her thighs for emphasis. “Do you know how much this is worth?”

  Marcus and Kathryn joined Gwendolyn. “Could you give us a rough idea?” he asked.

  Edith stepped back from the painting. “I’m no expert, you understand, but a painting this size?” She shook her head and tsked.

  Gwendolyn fumbled for Kathryn’s hand. It was no longer cold, but damp with hope.

  “This is from his California period,” Edith said, “so I’d say fifteen on the conservative side.” Gwendolyn felt lightheaded as Marcus grabbed her other hand. “Put it up at auction and you could see twenty. Those New Yorkers are simply mad for him!”

  * * *

  It was nearly noon before everybody had cleared out of Gwendolyn’s apartment; only Marcus and Kathryn stayed behind. They stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Alistair’s portrait, champagne in their hands.

  Gwendolyn raised her glass. “Here’s to the New York It Boy!”

  “Here’s to Edith Head,” Marcus said, “without whom we might never have known.”

  They clinked glasses.

  “Here’s to Gwennie’s scarf, without which Edith might never have come to the Garden.”

  Another clink. Another sip. In the last couple of hours, Alistair’s portrait had taken on a hypnotic golden glow.

  “If it comes to that,” Gwendolyn added, “here’s to Howard Hughes and his ridiculously overweening ego, without which there would have never been a Spruce Goose that he needed to prove at Long Beach, whose winds messed Edith’s hair so badly she needed a scarf.”

  There was a pause.

  “I’m sorry,” Kathryn said, “what are we toasting now? Howard’s ego?”

  Marcus placed his coupe on the coffee table. “I’m too done in to figure that one out. It’s been a long night so I’m off.” He kissed the girls goodbye and reminded them of a dinner date they’d made with Lucius Beebe and his lover before the two men headed back East for Christmas.

  His footsteps retreated down the path while Gwendolyn and Kathryn kept their eyes on the painting.

  “I’ve walked past this thing I don’t know how many times,” Kathryn said, “but now I can’t take my eyes off it.”

  “Isn’t it amazing how one tidbit of information can change everything? It just goes to show, doesn’t it?”

  Kathryn threw her a baleful look. “It does?”

  Gwendolyn could already see her store coming together in her mind. “I’m just saying that the direction of our lives can change at any time. Nothing stays the same for very long.”

  “Especially not in this wacky town.” Kathryn nudged her, shoulder to shoulder. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

  “What for?”

  “Showerin
g me with little petals of hope, just when I need it.”

  Gwendolyn breathed deeply, taking in the stillness of the room as though to preserve it. She raised her glass. “One more toast.”

  “To what?”

  “To white picket fences. May they never fence us in.”

  THE END

  Did you enjoy this novel? If you did, could I ask you to take the time to write a review on whichever website you found this book? Each review helps boost the profile of both book and author so I'd really appreciate it. Just give it the number of stars you think it deserves and perhaps mention a few of the things you liked about it. That’d be great, thanks! Martin Turnbull

  ALSO BY MARTIN TURNBULL

  Book One in the Hollywood’s Garden of Allah novels

  The Garden on Sunset

  Right before talking pictures slug Tinsel Town in the jaw, a luminous silent screen star converts her private estate into the Garden of Allah Hotel. The lush grounds soon become a haven for Hollywood hopefuls to meet, drink, and revel through the night. George Cukor is in the pool, Tallulah Bankhead is at the bar, and Scott Fitzgerald is sneaking off to a bungalow with Sheilah Graham while Madame Alla Nazimova keeps watch behind her lace curtains. But the real story of the Garden of Allah begins with its first few residents, three kids on the brink of something big. They learn that nobody gets a free pass in Hollywood, but a room at the Garden on Sunset can get your foot in the door.

  Book Two in the Hollywood’s Garden of Allah novels

  The Trouble with Scarlett

  It’s 1936 – Gone with the Wind is released by first-time author Margaret Mitchell and becomes an international sensation. Everyone in Hollywood knows that Civil War pictures don’t make a dime but renegade movie producer David O. Selznick snaps up the movie rights and suddenly the whole country is obsessed with answering just one question: Who will win the role of Scarlett O’Hara?