by George Baxt
The Chevrolet was back in traffic, headed for her modest house in Beverly Hills. Her modest house. Her modest Chevrolet. Her modest savings account. She’d never been good with money. She knew how to make it but she didn’t know how to keep it. Money took precedence in her thoughts. Money. How to get more money in the short time allowed her. She spotted an M.G.M. van pulling into Rodeo Drive and parking at the comer as she paused for a red light. Probably doing a shoot. Rodeo was all decked out in its Christmas finery, almost as lovely and as pretentious as the ornaments on Wilshire. The department stores had outdone themselves in lavishness, and it was so goddamned hot. A horn tooted anxiously behind her. She wasn’t aware the light had changed. She was aware only of Christmas decorations and a need for money. Money, she reminded herself, is the root of all evil. Well, she needed money and if need be she’d use a little evil to get it and bugger the consequences. She wouldn’t be around to suffer them.
Claire’s house was on North Alpine, a bit south of Sunset Boulevard. There were some movie star houses on the street, mostly married couples. Some of the men knew which house was Claire’s. They had crossed her threshold often enough, but rarely remained longer than to have a drink and select a girl, Claire usually arranging for several to be on hand for inspection. Once a pair had been settled on, client and the lucky lady repaired to a hotel or a motel room or to the young lady’s apartment if she had one. Claire didn’t let her clients “buy blind,” that is, have her send over a girl and pray she’d be something they wanted. They came to the house and chose for themselves. She prided herself that a few romances had blossomed and several had led to marriage, and a few times Claire had been invited to dinner or Sunday brunch out of gratitude.
She pulled into her driveway. She recognized the blue Buick in front of her. It belonged to her assistant and best friend, Fern Arnold. Fern had been at Metro when Claire was there and they had struck up a friendship that lasted until now, because Fern had stood by her during all the unpleasantness. Fern left Metro to dance in some Busby Berkeley musicals and then left those to work with Claire.
Fern Arnold had a pair of legs that made strong men swoon and women go sick with envy. In a comer of the beautifully furnished living room, Fern stood on a small ladder decorating a Christmas Tree. She was wondering what to do with a cherub ornament and was glad there was no one about to give her a suggestion. She heard the front door open and called out, “Claire?”
Claire answered unenthusiastically, “Yes, it’s me.”
“I don’t like the way ‘me’ sounds.”
Claire came into the room and removed her hat listlessly, throwing it on a chair. Fern held the cherub ornament against her right car. “Does this do anything for me?” Her voice was warm and loving. Her eyelids fluttered as she waited for Claire’s opinion.
Claire sank onto the overstuffed sofa, reaching for a cigarette in the box on the end table. She finally answered Fern while applying a table lighter to the cigarette. “It won’t start a fad.”
Fern had come down from the ladder. “You’ve got news for me and I can tell it’s not good.” She stood with hands on hips, staring down at Claire.
“No, it’s not good. Stop staring at me like that or I’ll start blubbering. It’s inoperable.”
“That’s conclusive?”
“As conclusive as it can get. Park somewhere, honey, you’re obscuring my view of the tree.”
“It’s just a Christmas tree like any other Christmas tree.”
“It’s a special Christmas tree.” She took a long drag on the cigarette. “It’s my last Christmas tree.”
Fern stifled a sob. She sat next to Claire and hugged her. “What’ll I do without you?”
“You’ll have plenty to do. As executor of my estate, you’ll be up to your hips in paperwork. You’ll be okay. You could take over the service. The girls like you. They trust you. You've been with me long enough to know how to run it.”
“I’ll think about it.” She sniffled and reached across Claire to a box of tissues. “Damn it, I had a feeling today was going to be a bummer.”
Claire put her cigarette in a tray and then said straight out, “I need a lot of money. Fern.”
“I’ll give you what I’ve got, which is very sweet of me considering I don’t have very much.”
“I don’t want your money, I want their money.” She retrieved the cigarette, got to her feet, and took a puff.
“Who you talking about?”
“You know who I mean. The Johns. The clients. You still friendly with that Whatsername, the one who sells gossip to the columnists?”
“You mean Hazel Dickson?”
“That’s the one.”
Fern studied Claire. “What do you want with Hazel Dickson?”
“I want you to feed her some stuff that’ll knock her on her backside.”
“Hazel’s got quite a backside.”
“I want you to tell Hazel you hear tell I’m thinking of exposing the contents of my private diary. My little black book. In the form of a memoir.”
“You wouldn’t do that!”
“That’s right, I wouldn’t. But it ought to bring me a lot of Christmas checks. You know. Hush money. You’ve heard about hush money.”
“I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never earned any.” She said sadly, “There’s never been any reason to hush me up.” And then it hit her. “Claire, it’s blackmail!”
Claire’s hands were outstretched in supplication. “What do you want me to do?” she pleaded. “I’ve got no other assets. I’ve got no other means of raising money.” She waved an arm over her head.
“This place is mortgaged up to the hilt. I’m not winning any popularity contests at the bank.”
“Don’t you know someone special with lots of money?”
“Fern, I know a lot of someone specials with lots of money. They’ve all been in this room at one time or another. And I expect these someone specials to do me something special.”
Fern got to her feet, still clutching the ornamental cherub. “Oh God. You’re putting your life on the line.”
“For God’s sake, it’s already on the line. Now you listen to me and put all sentimentality aside. Just remember what my dear old granny on my mother’s side told me in one of her rare moments of sobriety. ‘Sentimentality and loyalty can be very expensive.’ Now listen …” Claire was working on a fresh cigarette. “Tell your Hazel something like this. Claire’s got a little black book. It’s got names and dates. It could blow the lid off this town.” She suddenly remembered. “You know. I’ve told very few people about the book. I told Myrna Loy.”
Fern was startled. She dreaded to think why Myrna Loy had been privy to such exclusive information. Claire told her about Myrna researching the role of a call girl. Fern sighed with relief. “I thought you were going to tell me something awful about her. She’s such a lady. She’s one of my favorites. She has such good taste.”
“There was a lapse in it when she married that horse’s ass Hornblow.”
Fern remonstrated. “He’s such a gentleman, honey. He’s so meticulous when he’s selecting a girl for himself.”
“And I’m tired of his asking, ‘Is she vintage?’ Pretentious son of a bitch. The hell with him, let’s get back to Hazel.” She embraced herself, feeling a sudden chill.
Fern asked, “You’re sure you want to go through with this?”
“Come up with some other options, and I’ll be grateful. But there aren’t any.” Another drag on the cigarette. She slipped her hand in a pocket of her jacket. The prescription. She wouldn’t tell Fern about it. She’d given Fern enough to worry about. Then her thoughts switched to Myrna Loy. A really sweet woman. The perfect wife. The perfect wife to an imperfect husband. She said to Fern, “I hear Myrna’s walked out on Hornblow.”
“I hope it’s going to be a very long walkout. I wish she’d marry William Powell. They go so well together.”
“Fern, you’re not dialing. Come on, honey, get going on Hazel
Dickson.”
Hazel Dickson was sitting at her kitchen table listening to the uproar caused by a glass of Bromo-Seltzer. Damn Herb Villon for letting her drink those Brandy Bombshells at the Brown Derby last night. Herb Villon, detective first class, boyfriend second class, lover third class. She wondered if he had spent the night. She was too wrecked to go back to the bedroom and see if he was still there. She looked at the wall clock. It was after ten. If he’d spent the night, he’d have been long gone to his precinct downtown. She stared at the Bromo-Seltzer. She hoped there was enough strength in her hand to raise the glass to her mouth. There was. She downed the Bromo in one long gulp followed by one long unladylike belch. She screamed as the phone rang, startling her. “Steady, girl,” she said to herself. “Steady. Just answer the phone. It’s on the wall next to the stove. That’s right. Hazel. One foot in front of the other one. You can make it, kid.” She lifted the receiver. “Hello.” Her voice was very faint.
“Hazel?” Fern’s voice was strong and forthright.
“Hazel,” said Hazel, wondering if she was the Hazel in question.
“Hazel, are you all right?”
“Hazel all wrong.”
“Hazel! It’s me! Fern Arnold!”
“Edward Arnold?”
Fern said to Claire, “I suspect a monumental hangover.” She returned to Hazel. “Fern Arnold, Hazel, Fern Arnold. I’ve got a hot scoop for you.”
Hazel’s eyes widened. The words “hot scoop” always sobered her up when she needed sobering up. “Yes, it’s me. I’m Hazel. How are you, Fern ?’’
Fern said, “This is an exclusive. Hazel. It’s yours and yours alone.”
“I love you, Fern. Right now you’re the marines and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police come to the rescue. Listen, I’m in the kitchen. Let me get to my desk in the living room. There’s something to write on there.”
“Go ahead.”
“Don’t hang up!” She let the receiver dangle. Living room. Where’s the living room. She blinked her eyelids rapidly to Force her eyes to focus. Straight ahead. Living room. She drew her blue dressing gown with the marabou trim tightly around her and then staggered to the living room. She made it to the desk and lifted the receiver. “You there, Eddie?”
“Fern !”
“Fern ! Fern ! Right. Okay, shoot.” She picked up a pencil and drew a stenographic pad closer to her.
What she heard sobered her up.
“Fern, is this for real?”
“So help me God.”
“This could turn Hollywood into a ghost town. They’ll be making all-girl movies. Oh Fern, this is worth a fortune to me.” She thought for a moment. “It could be worth a bigger fortune if I could have a look at the book.”
“Maybe later.”
“There’s really a book, Fern ?”
“As real as Claire Young.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and asked Claire, “Do I tell her about you-know-what?”
“Don’t you dare!”
Fern spoke into the phone, “Hazel, you’ll get this to the right people?”
“In this town, all the right people are the wrong people but I predict it’s going to make me a bundle. And you’ll get your finder’s fee, honey. Thanks, Fern, from the bottom of my heart, my genuine thanks. I’ve been having a really rough time.”
“This ought to smooth things out. If you need me. I’m at Claire’s.”
Within the next ten minutes. Hazel Dickson had racked up over ten thousand dollars, feeding the little-black-book hot potato to a variety of gossip columnists, beginning of course with the queen of them all, Louella Parsons. Hazel knew how to make the item even hotter. She got on the phone to several of her spies, especially Regan, the waitress who worked in the M.G.M. executive dining room, who soon spread the gossip through the room.
While Hazel worked her telephone overtime. Fern prepared a pot of coffee in the kitchen to where she and Claire had repaired.
“Okay, Claire,” said Fern, as she also consigned some slices of bread to the toaster, “the fat’s in the fire. Prepare yourself for the flak.”
“I’m all prepared. My will is with my lawyer. He knows how to reach you. You know how to reach him. He knows how to get to my Aunt Maidie.”
“How is it over at Maidie’s?”
“It’s fine. Soon it’ll be better.” The coffee was perking. “I’ll be right back.”
Claire went to the phone in the living room and dialed. She snapped her fingers impatiently. Soon she heard, “Amelia Hubbard.”
“It’s Claire. You free for some dictation?”
“Hallelujah, am I ever. When do you want me?”
“Five minutes ago.”
“I’m on my way.”
Claire returned to the kitchen, where Fern was buttering the toast. “Amelia Hubbard’s on her way here.”
“What’s up?”
“Why, Fern honey, I’m going to prepare another bombshell. I’m going to dictate my memoirs. The black book is for names. The memoirs are for real.” She looked at Fern. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”
Fern shrugged. “Why not? Just make sure you spell my name right.”
“I’ll make sure I’ll spell everybody’s name right. Especially Louis B. Mayer’s.”
THREE
After lunch, Powell and Myrna went to her suite in the building that housed the stars’ dressing rooms. Myrna rated something special along with Garbo, Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, and Jean Harlow. She sat at her dressing table, fussing with her hair, while Powell paced back and forth behind her.
“Bill?”
He was preoccupied.
“Bill!”
“What?”
“Do you think my ears stick out?”
He stared at her ears.
“Well, do they?”
“I’m giving them my undivided attention. Hmm. Who told you your ears stick out?”
“Photographers have been telling me that ever since I started in films back in the dark ages. Albert Garber said it this morning when he was photographing me for that Vogue spread.”
Powell said, “I never get asked to do any spreads.”
“You were in National Geographic fly-fishing. How many actors get to be in National Geographic?”
“Along with the baboons and orangutans.”
“Well? Do my ears stick out?”
“Nothing like Gable’s.”
“Well, I should hope not.” She examined her reflection in the dressing table mirror. She said firmly and with much conviction, “Well, I think my ears are adorable.”
“Your ears are priceless. And there’s a knock at your door. Probably Baby. She’s always hoping to find us in a compromising position.”
Myrna said as she walked to the front door, “Shall I act all flustered and embarrassed?”
“Don’t you dare! 1 don’t need you adding to my problems.” Myrna opened the door and Harlow walked in wearing a bathing suit Adrian, the M.G.M. designer, had created especially for her. She walked past Loy and then past Powell with arms outstretched, as though on display on a runway. She asked, “What do you think this does for me?”
“Too much,” said Powell.
“That’s what I told Adrian. Of course he disagreed with me. At the top of his voice. Myrna? This thing do anything for you?”
“I certainly don’t have a body like yours.”
“Well, I hate it. Myrna, can I borrow a robe?”
“In the closet. Help yourself.” The closet was behind a lovely Chinese screen where one could change clothes discreetly if there were others in the room.
While she struggled out of the bathing suit, Harlow said with rare wickedness, “Popsy? Have you heard about a little black book?”
Without missing a beat, Powell said, “Of course. It’s called the Bible.”
“I heard this was some other kind of bible with some other kinds of Philistines, the Hollywood sort.”
Myrna marveled at Powell’s lack of discomfort. In films he had
raised poise to an admirable position as a rare form of art. “Baby, you shouldn't waste your valuable time thinking about little black books.”
“These days I've got precious little else to think about.” Harlow selected an emerald green dressing gown and came out from behind the screen while tying the sash.
Powell said. “How dare you sashay across the lot in that bathing suit?”
“Would you prefer I sashayed naked? I only came over to get your opinions. I’ve got to go back for some more fittings. I wash to hell I was qualified for something other than the movies”
“You could sell blouses in a department store.” suggested Powell.
“For the land of money that pays? That wouldn’t buy Mama Jean a pair of stockings.”
Powell said to Myrna. “Don't you get the feeling Mama Jean's stockings are spun from gold fiber?”
“Well they ain't” snapped Harlow.
Powell persisted. “Perhaps your Mama could step into your shoes and sell blouses.”
Harlow said. “She wouldn't know where to begin. She's never worked a day in her life.”
“Pity” said Powell.
“Now what about the little black book'“
Myrna inquired winsomely. “Isn’t there a nursery rhyme about a little black book?”
“Not one that I ever learned.” said Harlow. “Now listen. you two. I got it all from Woody Van Dyke and what he left out that waitress Regan filled in. Now come on. you two. stop giving me a hard time. I've got to know if my stepfather's in it and how much it’s going to cost me.”
“Have you been told he's in it?” asked Powell.
“Well, if he ain’t” said Harlow. “It’d be a first to celebrate. He’s scratched at the door of every cathouse in Los Angeles. 1 can’t believe Claire Young is a blackmailer.”
“You’d be hard put to make that accusation stick.” said Myrna.
“How so?” asked Powell.