by George Baxt
Powell lowered his martini. “What about Claire Young?”
“Well,” said the waitress, basking in her brief spotlight, “I got the word today that Hollywood’s busiest madam is sick and hurting for money.”
“Claire’s got the first buck she ever earned,” said Powell.
“Yours?” asked Myrna innocently.
“Minnie, you must control that evil streak of yours.” He asked the waitress, “Where’d you get this story?”
She straightened up and turned coy. “Well, Mr. Powell, that’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Just for that, there’ll be no tip.”
“Honest, I can’t tell you. I was just told to spread it, that’s all.”
Myrna said, “Spread it? Like an infectious disease?”
The waitress shrugged. “What do you want to eat, Mr. Powell?”
“Is there Virginia ham?”
“There’s ham, but I’m not sure where they got it.”
Powell and Myrna exchanged a look. Powell said, “I don’t care where they got it as long as it’s fresh.”
“I heard tell it was so fresh, it talks back to you.”
Powell put a hand over Myrna’s. “We must not laugh. We must not encourage this tray bearer.”
“Don’t be mean. Bill. I’ve known her since I came to the studio four years ago, isn’t that so, Cordelia?”
Powell flashed Myrna a look. “You mean she has a name?”
“Of course she has a name,” insisted Myrna.
“Except it ain’t Cordelia,” said the waitress. “But you’re close. It’s Regan. My mother adores Shakespeare. Thank God my aunt Bertha talked her out of naming me Titania. Can you imagine what I’d have gone through in school with all the kids calling me Titty?” She decided this was a good exit line and headed for the kitchen to place their orders.
“Poor girl,” said Myrna. “So underpaid.” Powell’s face was a study. “Is that dour look on your face due to Regan or Claire Young?”
“It’s due to the thought of blackmail.”
Myrna folded her hands on the table as she watched Powell drain his martini and then hers and signal for refills. “Claire Young has a reputation as a square shooter,” said Myrna. “I can’t believe she’d resort to blackmail.”
‘I’ve known a lot of people to do a lot of strange things under adverse circumstances. Maybe Claire doesn’t have the kind of money I always suspect madams are supposed to have.”
“Really, Bill. A madam is as human as the rest of us girls. She likes to spend money freely.”
“How do you know how a madam feels?” Powell regarded her sternly.
“I happen to have a pretty darned good imagination. I mean can you imagine what kind of a life a madam leads?”
“Very organizational, I should think.”
“Do you realize a madam is on call twenty-four hours a day?”
“You mean like a doctor?”
“Well, in their way they minister to the sick and needy. Claire told me Wally Beery thinks nothing of phoning and bellowing for service at all hours of the night.”
“Why, Minnie, I’m about to go into shock, and then into a steam bath. You know Claire Young?”
“One of my minor accomplishments.”
“How the hell did you get to meet Claire Young? And don’t you dare shock or disillusion me. You may be Myrna Loy to the world and Minnie to your friends but you’re my beloved Nora Charles to me and my Nora can do no wrong.”
“I was doing right when I met Claire Young.”
“Don’t tell me you go the same church?”
“I don’t go to church. I sleep late on Sunday, it’s the only day of the week that I can.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I didn’t, you oaf. You did. I met Claire Young about three years ago. I was assigned Penthouse opposite your pal Warner Baxter. Although the script never came right out and said so, I played a call girl.”
“Shame!”
“It was a damned good part. Anyway, I decided the part needed some research. So I asked Warner if he knew any call girls.”
Powell was amused. “Did he?”
“First he had a coughing fit. I thought it was apoplexy but thank God it wasn’t.” The fresh martinis arrived, served by the bartender himself, an occasional privilege afforded the studio’s biggest stars, and Powell and Loy were among the biggest. They thanked the bartender and then returned with alacrity to call girls. “Warner and I were lunching right at this table. We hadn’t seen each other since we did Renegades for Fox back in ’31.”
“So Warner told you about Claire Young.”
“Boy, did he tell me about Claire Young. Surely you know.”
“Surely I know what?”
“She was once under contract here.”
“She wasn’t!”
“She was! I read her file and don’t ask me how I got my hands on it, but I got my hands on it.” She sipped her martini. “She was being groomed for stardom but she made one fatal misstep.”
“Aha!”
“She had an affair with a very important producer.”
“The name, Minnie, the name.”
“It wasn’t in the file.”
“You’re making all this up just to kill time until our food arrives.”
“I am not! The studio nailed her on the morals clause we all have in our contracts and she was finished.”
“The beasts.”
“Indeed,” said Myrna. “There was an inference that Mrs. Important Producer knew about the hanky-panky and got our Louis to lower the boom, which he did presumably to avoid any scandal. Despite the awful setback, Claire was obviously made of sterner stuff. From here on in I’m telling you what Claire told me.”
“Why, Scheherazade, you have me hypnotized!”
She said jauntily, “I’m telling it beautifully, aren’t I?”
“Why, you egotistical little snip.”
“I’m too old to be a snip. Now drink your martini and let me get on with the story. Another producer offered to set her up in the prostitution business. Not as the madam, mind you, but as one of the girls. But Claire’s got a lot going for her between her cars. This producer absolutely loathed Louis B. Mayer or so Claire said. So Claire said, ‘Set me up in business as the madam and I’ll recruit a lot of my girls from the Metro lot. That’ll fix Louis B.’”
“No!”
“Yes, and close your mouth, you look very unbecoming.”
“I probably need a facial. So go on, go on!”
“That’s it. He set her up, she got her girls from here and certainly some of the other studios and she thrived, and how she thrived.”
“My hat’s off to her.”
“When it’s not your trousers.” He laughed. She sipped her drink. Then she asked, “Do you believe what Regan told us?”
He thought for a moment. “I don’t want to, but someone seems awfully anxious to spread those words.”
“Bill, I listened between the lines.”
“And my precious Minnie, what awful thing did you hear?”
“You heard the same thing, my sweetheart.”
“I’m feeling very dense. What did we hear?”
She tweaked his nose. “We heard a very nasty threat of blackmail.”
TWO
Powell reared back. “That’s what I said a few minutes ago.”
“You didn’t sound sure of yourself.”
“Well, I may have sounded a bit tentative. I always do when I’m not too sure of my suspicions.” He looked about the room to give himself a moment’s pause. “Why do Christmas decorations seem so out of place in this room?”
“Because we don’t get any Christmas bonuses,” retorted Myrna smartly. “Oh look! Woody’s headed our way.” W. S. Van Dyke II, Woody to his friends and co-workers, had directed The Thin Man and given Myrna her chance to prove herself as a comedienne despite strong studio opposition.
“I’m not asking you for an invitat
ion to join you,” said Van Dyke as he pulled out a chair and sat. “You look glowing, Minnie.”
Myrna indicated her drink. “Second martini.”
“Two at lunch? That’s not like you.”
“There may be a third. By which time Christmas might have disappeared.”
Van Dyke feigned shock. “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
“I don’t have any. I’ve every kind of spirit except Christmas. I’ve even got the spirit of’76. Want some?” She cocked her head to one side waiting for his reply, but she knew he wasn’t interested in their frequent banter. “Woody, I think you’re nursing a bad case of worrisome gossip.”
“You’ve heard” — he leaned forward and whispered — “the Claire Young news?”
“Oh yes,” said Myrna cheerily. “I prefer that to Christmas.”
Van Dyke said to Powell. “What do you think? Do you think it’s true?”
Powell replied matter-of-factly, “Why don’t we phone and ask her?”
“Oh, I like that idea,” said Myrna, still cheerily. “‘Hello, Claire. This is half of Hollywood’s male stars calling you. Are you planning to blackmail us?’”
Powell said nothing. He was not amused. Van Dyke said, “I would never think that of Claire.”
“You’re thinking it now,” said Myrna.
“Keep it up, Minnie, and I might belt you one,” said Powell.
“No you won’t, because I’m the only logical thinker at this table. She wouldn’t dare blackmail anybody openly. She’d be sealing her doom.” The men stared at her. “There’d be a contract for her and I don’t mean for a featured role.” She smiled at a writer who passed the table and winked at her. Myrna lowered her voice. “We know there’s a certain someone in this room who’s a past master at arranging to eliminate obstacles, human or otherwise. If Claire is doing anything at all, she’s waiting for unsolicited contributions. I know I would if I were in her position.”
“Well, you’re not in her position,” said Powell.
“Someday I might be.”
Powell snorted. Van Dyke chuckled while wondering if he could borrow a sip of martini from either one of them. “Besides, how do you know it’s true? What you got was a piece of gossip from a waitress who makes no bones about being vastly underpaid. It’s quite possible Claire doesn’t even know what’s going on. This could be the work of someone being malicious and spiteful and God knows this town is overpopulated with that kind of monster.” She paused while seething. Then she remembered something. “Of course, there’s her little black book.” A little black book was news to the men. Myrna’s bombshell detonated quietly. She looked from one to the other while silently damning Van Dyke for sipping her martini.
“Exactly what little black book are you referring to, Minnie?” Powell fought hard to sound suave and self-assured, to keep his voice from wavering. Myrna took the opportunity to fill Van Dyke in on the circumstances that had led to her acquaintance with Claire Young. “Minnie.” Powell bore down on the name. “You’re not answering me.” Before she could say anything, the waitress arrived with their food.
She asked Van Dyke, “Can I get you anything?”
“A good lawyer.” He winced as Myrna kicked him under the table.
Said Regan, “We’re fresh out. How’s for some chicken soup?”
“Nothing for me,” said the director, “I’m lunching at another table.”
“All he’s doing here is sip my martini. Bring me another and one for Mr. Powell too, because he’s looking underprivileged.”
Regan left, flashing them a look over her shoulder.
“Minnie, 1 hope I’m sounding sufficiently ominous to frighten the hell out of you.” Powell’s eyes narrowed but it only succeeded in making him look bilious. “The little black book.”
Myrna said innocendy, “It’s Claire’s. I don’t have it.”
“You know what’s in it,” Powell persisted.
“I know what Claire told me. She didn’t show me it, she simply said she kept one.” She looked from one to the other. They were not happy. “She said she kept a daily log of who availed themselves of her services.”
Van Dyke groaned. Powell stared at the ceiling. Then he spoke, very softly, enunciating each word clearly and succinctly. “We’ll be condemned from pulpits across the country. The Vatican will hurl thunderbolts at us. There’ll be a display of hellfire and brimstone that will blind us and destroy us.”
“Oh now really,” scoffed Myrna.
“Minnie, must you be reminded of the morality clause in our contracts? There’ll be no excuses accepted.”
“I’ve used up most of mine,” said Van Dyke.
“Why Woody Van Dyke, you devil you.”
Powell said, “We will be ruined. We’ll lose our homes, our careers, our women, and our friends in no particular order.”
“You won’t lose me,” said Myrna staunchly. “And Baby will stand by you. Eat your ham. It’ll get cold.” She tasted her chili. “Not bad.” She asked Van Dyke, “Want a bite of my chili?” Woody said gallantly, “Anything but your chili.” He moved to leave.
“If that’s a double entendre, I choose to ignore it. Who’re you lunching with?”
“Unfortunately, and under the circumstances, a very very young new actress. I’ll stay in touch,” with which he departed.
“Bill, eat your food. The brown sauce is beginning to congeal.” Regan brought the third round of martinis. “Will there be anything else?”
“Sanctuary,” said Powell as he sliced himself some ham.
At eight that morning Claire Young, smartly dressed in a Chanel suit, had been sitting with her legs crossed, staring at Dr. Mitchell Carewe, who sat behind his desk toying with a letter opener. He was a handsome man in his early forties and Claire was thinking he resembled a mannequin in a department store window. Claire’s earlier ingenue beauty had matured into early middle-aged good looks though she was not yet forty. Her face was carefully made up with the aid of a chart prepared for her by Perc Westmore, of the Westmore family of makeup wizards.
“Is that it?” Claire’s voice was husky. She always saw the doctor at eight in the morning, before his nurse arrived, before other patients would be there to stare at her with curiosity and wonder who she was, if they didn’t already know. Only her clientele and her staff knew her; the outside world recognized the name, but had no idea what she looked like. A few knew she’d been a Metro actress under another name, and pictures of her did exist, but they’d be hard put to match the face of the starlet of yesteryear to the Claire Young of today.
“I’m sorry, Claire. You told me to lay it on the line and that’s where I’ve laid it. It’s on the line. It’s inoperable.”
She opened her alligator handbag, found a cigarette case and lighter, and was soon lighting up. “How much time do I have?”
“If you’ll stop smoking, you might have more than I predict.”
“How much time?”
“It’s not easy prognosticating these things.”
“Try a wild guess. How much time do I have to put my house in order?” She smiled. “No pun intended.”
He set the letter opener aside and folded his hands on the desk. Claire stared at his hands. Those beautiful fingers. Those long, slender fingers.
“I admire your guts,” he said.
“You’ve always admired my guts. Come on, Mitch, stop horsing around. How much time?”
“Somewhere between six months and a year, give or take any sudden setback.”
“Well, what do you know?” She blew a perfect smoke ring. “My last Christmas. Well well well.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t know if I can stand the pain. What will you do for the pain?”
“You can depend on me.” He cleared his throat and then asked, “Are you having trouble sleeping?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll prescribe pills.”
“I didn’t ask for any.”
“I’ll prescribe them just the same.”
“Wh
y, Doctor.” She feigned shock. “How unethical.”
“Why unethical? Sleeping pills are always prescribed for patients who are having trouble sleeping.”
“I didn’t say I was having trouble.”
He said intensely, “I love you. I’ll always love you.”
“Now, Doctor, that’s no way to speak to a patient,” she chided. “Don’t love me, Mitch. Just be my friend and be my doctor.”
The phone rang. Carewe lifted it to his ear. “Dr. Carewe.” His face hardened. “You’re a little early, aren’t you?”
Claire stubbed out the cigarette. She could guess who was at the other end of the call. The doctor’s gambling debts were legendary. He was a familiar figure at the illicit gambling clubs in Hollywood. She heard him say something rude and then slam the phone down. Claire asked, “Still against the ropes?”
He said nothing, but busied himself writing a prescription. He tore the slip of paper from the pad and held it out to her. She took it and looked at the hieroglyphics he had scrawled.
“Christ! How do pharmacists decipher these things?”
“Claire.”
“Yes?” She folded the slip of paper and tucked it in a pocket. “The book.”
“What book?”
He knew she knew what he was talking about. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I haven’t given it much thought. I might take it with me.” She laughed. “You want to buy it?” He said nothing. “In the right hands, it’s worth a fortune.” She had the door to the outer office open.
He stood up. “I know it’s worth a fortune.”
Claire stared at him. “You’re not looking too good, Mitch. ‘Physician, heal thyself.’”
Five minutes later she was behind the wheel of her modest Chevrolet. She guided it out of the garage under the building onto Wilshire Boulevard. Traffic wasn’t as heavy as she expected it to be. Then she knew she had to pull over and park. My last Christmas. Her eyes were misting with tears. She fumbled in her handbag for a tissue. No tissues. She dug deeper and found a dainty handkerchief embroidered with lace. It looked so delicate it seemed a shame to use it, but she needed to use it. She dabbed at her eyes and, after a while, examined herself in the rear-view mirror. Still a good-looking broad. A good-looking broad who had just been handed a stiff sentence. She wondered if there really were such things as miracles. If there are, they’re for other people, never for sinners. Never for a sinner like Claire Young.