The Garden on Sunset

by Martin Turnbull

  He stopped himself and looked away, fixing his gaze on the woman in the fawn bathing suit. “So last week when I left town, there was only one address I could think of.” He sighed. “I’m embarrassed to say that I’d expected Nazimova herself to be standing at the front gate beckoning me. ‘Come in! I have been expecting you!’” He forced a smile. “What about you? From back east, too?”

  “Sort of. About nine blocks east of here.”

  “Nine blocks? Why even bother?”

  Oh lord, Kathryn thought. Where do I start? She pictured her mother perched like a gargoyle on the letterbox, waiting to hear where she’d gone. “I suspect that I left home like you left town.” She watched Marcus’ smile wilt.

  “In that case, you have my condolences.” His gaze drifted back to the window in villa twenty-four, but the woman had disappeared.

  Kathryn decided this conversation needed a change of topic. “Have you seen the Pacific yet?”

  “No, I haven’t. Is it far?”

  “Not at all. We can take the Red Car down to Santa Monica.”

  “You have your own automobile?”

  “No, no, the streetcar. Takes about forty-five minutes. Want to go now?”

  Marcus hesitated.

  “You got something better to do? I’ll even pay the nickel fare for you. It’s the least I can do.” Kathryn smiled. “Look,” she said, “you’re in a town full of strangers now. You’re going to have to start trusting some of us sooner or later.”

  “It’s not that. I was thinking that maybe we should invite her along.”

  He pointed to a girl who stood at the hotel’s double doors. She couldn’t have been over seventeen, but she was tall and held herself like a doe: all eyes and skittish alertness. Kathryn let out a silent sigh. There was always going to be another girl more beautiful than the last, wasn’t there? But this one needed help.

  The girl’s eyes darted around the Garden while three men lingered around her like buzzards, each twice her age, three times her waist size, and sporting four-day growths.

  Kathryn got to her feet. “Come on,” she said to Marcus. “The trick is to never stop talking.”

  They jammed on their damp shoes and strode up to the girl. “There you are!” Kathryn exclaimed. Up close she was even more striking. Look at that skin, Kathryn thought. It’s really quite perfect, isn’t it? And I bet that rose in your cheeks isn’t even rouge. The girl’s jaw would have been mannishly square had it not reached a pixie-point chin and culminated in the subtlest of dimples. Her hair was a light honey in a messy flapper bob that she may have done herself.

  The girl looked at Kathryn with wide eyes the color of holly leaves and allowed her to grab hold of her hands. “I thought we arranged to meet in the foyer,” Kathryn continued. “Or are we late? I put my wristwatch down someplace, but do you think I can remember where?” The creeps pulled back a step. Kathryn turned to Marcus and nodded toward the girl. “You two know each other, don’t you? Oh, of course you do. You must have met a hundred times by now. Well, we’re off to a bit of a late start now, but at this point we’ll only be fashionably late.”

  She pulled the girl through the front door of the Garden of Allah and didn’t stop moving until they reached the rose bushes.

  “Who are — do I know you?” the girl stammered.

  “You looked like you needed rescuing. I’m Marcus and this here is Kathryn.”

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Kathryn asked the girl.

  “Oh, heavens no, I’m so terribly grateful. Those three men pert near stuck to me like cotton candy in August. I could not get rid of them.”

  The girl had the comeliest southern accent Kathryn had ever heard. Of course you do, Kathryn thought. Because you’re just not charming enough. Kathryn decided she was going to have to do something about that because the men in this town would eat her alive once they got an earful of it.

  “My name is Miss Gwendolyn Brick,” the girl said, offering her hand. “But it’s just the most awful name, so I’m going to change it. So pleased to meet you both. Grateful to meet you both, in fact. I’ve just arrived. Checked in this very morning.”

  “From where?” Marcus asked.

  “Hollywood.”

  “What a coincidence,” Marcus said. “Kathryn’s just come nine blocks, too.”

  “Oh, no,” Gwendolyn laughed a musical, tinkling sort of laugh. “I’m from the other Hollywood.”

  “There are two?”

  “Hollywood, Florida. Took me a streetcar, then two buses, then two trains and another streetcar to get here, but I made it.”

  “We’re heading out to Santa Monica Beach. You want to come along?”

  Gwendolyn bit into a pair of plump lips. “I’d love to, but I have something here in my purse that I probably shouldn’t take to the beach.”

  “What is it?”

  When Gwendolyn hesitated, Marcus said, “You’re in a town full of strangers now. You’re going to have to start trusting some of us sooner or later.” He flickered a smile over to Kathryn.

  Gwendolyn opened her purse. It was a dark cherry red that almost matched the brick-red stripes of her dress. She pulled out a brown leather wallet with stitching that was starting to come loose. “A fella who sat next to me out of Dallas left it behind,” she said.

  “It looks awfully thick. What’s in it?”

  “Four thousand dollars.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Gwendolyn stood at the front gate of 1239½ Fountain Ave and wondered if her cockamamie idea of coming to the other Hollywood to become a movie star had been such a smart idea. Maybe I should just keep the four grand in my purse and call it a day, she thought. For pert near my whole life I’ve been hankering to come to Hollywood, California so bad I’ve been fixin’ to be–

  Gwendolyn mentally slapped herself in the face. Kathryn had patiently explained that to the men in this town, a southern belle accent like hers was like a lame muskrat to an alligator. ‘If you want to be taken seriously in this town, and not just taken advantage of, my advice is to lose the southern fried accent.’

  She took a moment to study the little bungalow in front of her. She thought it was a dear little place, in a “we just got married and this is all we can afford for now” sort of way, and a fresh coat of paint would perk it up to no end. The clumps of geraniums and pansies wilting in the flower beds looked like they’d not been watered since before Valentino died, but it was all easily fixable. Clearly, Mr. Eugene Hammerschmidt was a bachelor.

  Gwendolyn reached into the genuine leather handbag that Kathryn had lent her and pulled out the ratty wallet. Four thousand dollars was enough to live on for at least a couple of years. More than enough time for a movie studio to discover her. Do I really have to give it back? she wondered.

  “With any luck, he won’t be home. Or it’ll be the wrong address,” Marcus said. He and Kathryn stood behind her. “You’re here to do the right thing because you’re a good person. And if he’s not home, or nobody here has heard of him, then you can walk away with a clear conscience.”

  Gwendolyn knew Marcus was right. She had to at least try and return the money. Her mama hadn’t done much of a job bringing up her children, but she did teach them what was right and what wasn’t.

  “We’ll be sitting in that park across the street watching you,” Kathryn said. “So if anything happens, we’re close by.”

  Gwendolyn stepped onto the front porch and banged on the front door with a hand-shaped brass doorknocker that could have done with a good scrubbing. She let a minute crawl by before she knocked a second time. Still nothing. Okay, she thought, I’ll give it one more —

  The door swung open and Gwendolyn’s heart fell a little. It was the guy from the train, all right; she’d know those mudflap ears anywhere.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “Mr. Hammerschmidt,” Gwendolyn ventured, “You probably won’t remem–

  “You’re that girl from the train with all the questions about the stu
dios. Look, honey, now isn’t a good time.”

  Gwendolyn held up the wallet. “You left this on the train. There’s an awful lot of money in it, and so I thought —”

  “Keep it.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” Hammerschmidt slammed the door shut.

  Gwendolyn gasped. Who could afford to give away four thousand dollars just like that? Maybe the streets of Hollywood, California really were paved with gold.

  She turned around and met Marcus and Kathryn halfway down the gravel path. “What did he say?” Marcus asked.

  “I showed him his wallet and he told me to get lost.”

  “He didn’t want the money?”

  Gwendolyn shook her head.

  Something caught Kathryn’s attention and her eyes darted behind Gwendolyn. “Look out,” she murmured.

  Hammerschmidt stood at the top of his porch steps, his hairy-knuckled hands on his hips and his face pressed into a grimace. “Where the hell did you two come from?”

  “We’re with her,” Kathryn said.

  He sized the three of them up. “Get in here,” he said, and jutted his head toward his open front door.

  They followed him into a living room that smelled like it had never been opened. “You working for Zwillman?” the guy asked when the door was shut behind them. He swiped a porthole in the filthy window and peered into the street.

  “We don’t know any Zwillman,” Gwendolyn told him. She opened up the wallet and pulled out a yellow slip of paper. “You left your laundry receipt in your wallet. Wong’s All Nite Laundry.”

  That made him turn around. His brown eyes widened when he saw the receipt. “So you came here of your own accord? Just to give me back my four grand?”

  “You’re not making it easy, I must say.”

  Gwendolyn placed the wallet on a small table by the door. Hammerschmidt stared at it like a hungry dog at a suspicious bone, but he didn’t touch it. Behind him stood a cardboard suitcase, the kind Woolworth’s sold for a buck fifty. Tied around it was a brown belt as used and frayed as his wallet.

  Hammerschmidt started pacing back and forth, chewing the inside of his cheek. Gwendolyn winced as he cracked his knuckles.

  “I meant for you to find the wallet and keep the cash,” he said. “You were going to Hollywood to try your luck. Figured you could do with it more than me.”

  Gwendolyn peered around the shadowy room. “Looks to me like you could do with four thousand dollars. For starters, you could paint your house.”

  “When I left that money on my seat, I wasn’t going for no drink. Was gonna throw myself off the train when we crossed the river at the New Mexico border. Only my timing was screwy. I missed the goddamned bridge and fell onto a hillside covered with the softest goddamned green grass you ever saw. I walked away without a scratch, if you can believe that.”

  “So you’re in trouble . . . ?” It was Kathryn. She stepped closer to him.

  “That four thousand there,” Hammerschmidt said, “used to be eight. It wasn’t mine to play with, but I like the track too much. The boss won’t be happy to learn that his eight grand’s been on a reducing diet.” He turned back to the window. “God damn it.” Hammerschmidt began to pace. “I’m dead meat. I’m dead meat.” He stopped and squinted at Gwendolyn. “Are you really an actress? Or just a pretty girl?”

  Gwendolyn looked at the front door, then back at Hammerschmidt. “What do y’all have in mind?”

  He hurried to a grimy desk in the corner and pulled a small white card out of a drawer. He gave it to Gwendolyn. It was a business card, embossed with the Warner Brothers logo, Bill Brockton, Casting Department, and an address on Sunset Boulevard. Gwendolyn’s heart started beating.

  “Make like you’re my girlfriend to whoever knocks on that door. You’re mad as blazes because you haven’t heard from me in a week.” There was a rat-a-tat-tat of sharp knocks on the door. “You call Bill. He’s a way in to Warner that ten thousand girls just like you would give their last square meal for.” Hammerschmidt swiped the wallet off the table, grabbed his suitcase, and disappeared through the kitchen door. “Thanks, toots.”

  Gwendolyn looked at Kathryn, her eyes pleading.

  Kathryn glanced toward the kitchen and looked at Gwendolyn. “Remember when we met at the Garden of Allah? You go on the defensive and you don’t stop talking.”

  Another three knocks pounded the musty air.

  Gwendolyn felt like there was no air left in her lungs. “But I . . . I just . . .”

  Kathryn lay her hand on the tarnished door knob. “Sweetie, if you want to make it here in Hollywood, this is how it’s done,” she said, and yanked open the door. A couple of guys, dark suits, dark ties, and dark hair filled the doorway. A somber blue Packard waited in the street behind them, its engine running.

  “Where the hell is he?” Kathryn snapped. They lurched back a couple of inches. “So help me, sweet Jesus, you two had better have come here to tell me that Mr. Eugene Hammerschmidt has gone to meet his maker. Because I swear to God, boys, if he’s still drawing breath it’s only because he hasn’t got the guts to come back here and face me like a man. A whole lousy week and I ain’t heard a peep out of that bum? So?” She crossed her arms and glared at them. “Where is he?”

  The guy on the right with the tennis court tan held out his hand. “Whoa, sister. Calm down, will ya? We came to find out where The Hammer is.”

  The Hammer? Gwendolyn thought. Oh, that’s cute. He’s a big puffball, if anything.

  “You mean you’ve lost him?” Kathryn demanded. “You people just slay me. So even Zwillman doesn’t know? I thought he knew everything.”

  The men frowned and looked at each other. Gwendolyn’s heart leapt. Had Kathryn gone too far? The way Hammerschmidt talked, Zwillman was the number one guy. Did Kathryn know something she didn’t?

  “What’s The Hammer said about Zwillman?”

  “It’s just a name I’ve heard mentioned around here quite a lot lately.” Kathryn made a big Pola Negri shrug. “All you lugheads need to do is tell The Hammer he’s blown it and I won’t be here when he gets back.”

  Kathryn stepped back into the gloom like Norma Talmadge in Secrets and slammed the door shut.

  The three of them listened as the footsteps receded down the gravel path. Gwendolyn waited a few moments then called out to Eugene. When there was no reply, they picked their way through the shadows and opened the door onto a bright kitchen. It was all yellows and greens and looked like it had barely been used. On the kitchen table was a scrawled note.

  Don’t forget! We need more cookies!

  Gwendolyn picked it up. “What in the name of Satan’s pantry is this supposed to mean?”

  Marcus looked around the kitchen and spotted a cookie jar in the shape of a bunch of carrots. “Cookies,” he said. He went over to it and pulled the top off. Inside was another note, which Marcus extracted and read out loud. “When you call Bill Brockton at WB, tell him I said ‘TARNISH.’ He’ll know you’re legit. Good luck — and thanks.”

  Marcus looked inside the cookie jar again and pulled out Hammer’s wallet, still stuffed with cash. He handed it to Gwendolyn. When she was done counting, she leaned against the counter and let out a long, slow whistle.

  CHAPTER 5

  Marcus hunted around for the men’s room but couldn’t see it.

  Gwendolyn and Kathryn pulled up beside him. “I don’t know,” Gwendolyn said. “It wasn’t as though he was talking through the whole picture.”

  “But when he did, didn’t you think it was impressive?” Kathryn asked. “We really heard him talking. That was Al Jolson’s actual voice. I don’t think pictures will ever be the same again.”

  Gwendolyn shrugged and pulled on her velvet cloche. “But it’s not like he’s any great shakes as a singer. It’s called The Jazz Singer — shouldn’t they have cast someone who can sing? I cannot believe Al Jolson is the biggest thing in vaudeville.”

  A couple of girls in cheap fox
furs pushed past them, their cigar-smoking boyfriends trailing them. One of the men sang out, “Mammy! Mammy! How I love you, how I love you!” in a voice that grated down Marcus’ back. The girls erupted into giggles. “I ain’t your Mammy!” one of them said over her shoulder.

  “Is something wrong?” Kathryn asked. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “I need the men’s room,” Marcus said as a woman in a ridiculous hat moved aside. The explosion of baby pink feathers arching over its brim had hidden the men’s room sign. “I’ll be right back.”

  He barreled through the crowd, shouldered open the door, and dashed across the black and white tiles, and into the first cubicle he came to. He shot the bolt across. When metal slammed into metal, it sounded like the air gun the boys back home shot owls with. Marcus threw his fedora onto the hook, yanked off a couple of feet of toilet paper, and bunched the whole thing into a wad. He pressed it to his face as the first groan bubbled up from his throat and burst out of his mouth.

  He held his breath, but a second groan, as deep and painful as the first, welled up from the pit of his stomach. He felt it rise and push against the sides of his chest, then squeeze up through his throat, and force its way into his mouth. It tasted like old cabbage. Marcus pressed the wad of toilet paper against his mouth and screwed his eyes so tight it hurt, then released the groan. He could see the words exactly as they had appeared on the screen.

  Remember, Jakie, a son is a son, no matter if his papa throws him out a hundred times.

  It felt like a brick to the chest — unforgiving and brutal. Another bubble of pain started to rise like toxic porridge from deep in his chest. He pressed his forehead against the cool metal partition of the cubicle. It was soothing. The first tears seeped between his lids and trickled down his cheeks into the tissue. He took as deep a breath as he could muster, but it wobbled and the tears started to flow again.