The Garden on Sunset

by Martin Turnbull

  “What did you just say?” Errol asked with a smile. “That I’m a moth?”

  “A mo . . . a mo . . .” Gwendolyn stammered and stared, trying to cover her faux pas. She looked down at his patent leather shoes and knew they must have cost a bundle. Then she threw up on them.

  CHAPTER 33

  It wasn’t far from the Garden of Allah to the Sunset Strip, but in her new three-inch patent leather pumps, Kathryn felt like she was walking to Cincinnati. She couldn’t go wrong in Gwendolyn’s tight violet-black silk and miles of tulle tarting up a deep, wide neckline. Her cleavage had never seen this much moonlight. She wasn’t comfortable, but she was fetching, and that’s what mattered.

  Billy Wilkerson was opening yet another place on the Sunset Strip. The Vendome Café’s success had inspired him to venture into nightclubs, and tonight was the Trocadero’s debut. She’d been telling herself for months that she needed a new dream; the old one didn’t seem to want her. But when she opened Tallulah’s invitation, her heart beat hard at the thought of speaking with Wilkerson again. Give it one last shot, she told herself. She slipped it into her purse and never mentioned it to her boss.

  A rowdy group of press photographers stood out front of the Trocadero, a long, red-roofed building whose fresh, white paint gleamed in the streetlamps. She approached the door as William Powell and Jean Harlow stepped out of a limousine. Jean’s platinum curls caught the flare of the flashbulbs and Powell raised his hand, calling, “Fred! Fred! Wait up!” Kathryn turned to see Fred Astaire and his wife at the door. Flying Down to Rio had been a smash hit, and RKO was talking about giving Fred and Ginger their own film. Ginger often hung around the Garden of Allah, playing tennis with anyone who was game. Kathryn thought herself a halfway decent player until she’d faced Ginger Rogers on the court. Kathryn hoped like hell she’d see her inside; she could do with a friendly face tonight.

  Kathryn waited until the Astaires walked in with Powell and Harlow before she approached the doorman and waved her invitation as nonchalantly as possible. She went to pass right by him but he put out his hand. “Your invitation, please.” She handed it over.

  “You’re not Tallulah Bankhead,” he growled.

  Kathryn dropped her voice into Tallulah’s throaty register. “I’m her sister, Evelyn,” she told him. Tallulah did have a sister named Evelyn, but Kathryn had no idea if Evelyn was older, younger, or even still alive, so she figured that the bouncer wouldn’t know either.

  “I’ve got strict instructions from the boss. The name on the invite has to match the person holding it. Otherwise, no deal.”

  “But my sister —”

  “I don’t care if you’re Eleanor Roosevelt’s sister. You’re not Tallulah Bankhead.”

  Kathryn snatched the invitation out of the bouncer’s hand and marched back down the red carpet. She knew she couldn’t just stand there like some store window dummy, so she started down the hill, looking for another way in. She stopped at a wooden door painted blood red. Roy had told her about this; the bootleg delivery boys called it the Blood Door.

  Kathryn tried the handle — it was unlocked. She walked right into the Trocadero’s kitchen. A waiter in a monkey suit called out, “No, ma’am, you’re supposed to use the front door, around the corner on Sunset.”

  “Have you ever worn three-inch heels?” Kathryn asked him.

  He smiled. “No, ma’am, I never have.”

  She pointed her shiny shoe his way. “I’ve walked up that hill twice now. Once when I realized I forgot my invitation —” she waved the blank side of her invitation at him, “and again when I — well, I won’t bore you. The last thing I want to have to do is climb that hill a third time in these heels. Would it be such a terrible thing if I came in the back way?”

  The kid cocked his head, thinking, then grinned and pointed to a swinging door. It opened onto a long corridor which led out onto the stage where a band was setting up behind a royal blue curtain. Dick Powell was singing an impromptu version of “You're Getting to Be a Habit with Me” when she appeared beside him. He shot her a where-did-you-come-from double take. She blew him a kiss for an answer and climbed down from the stage with as much ladylike daintiness as she could manage in a too-tight dress and too-high heels.

  Wilkerson was standing at a long, black-tiled bar, watching Ginger Rogers make a scooping motion with her right hand. This is perfect, Kathryn thought, she’s giving him a tennis lesson. They didn’t see Kathryn until she was practically close enough to poke her eye out with his imaginary racquet. Ginger’s bright blue eyes lit up. “Kathryn!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms out in welcome. “What a gorgeous ensemble! Bill, this is Kathryn Massey.”

  Wilkerson extended his hand. He clearly had no memory of their last encounter. “We met a few years ago,” Kathryn prompted him. “Remember when the Graf Zeppelin landed at Mine’s Field?”

  “You were there?”

  “We were chatting when they missed the anchoring mast and the zeppelin swung around over the crowd and everybody started to scatter.”

  “Excuse my French, but I nearly pissed my pants when that happened. I thought to myself, There’s two million tons of hydrogen right above me, and I’m dying for a cigarette. This is not a place I want to be anymore.”

  It didn’t take Kathryn long to realize that chatting with Billy Wilkerson was like scanning the headlines from a newspaper. The three of them chitchatted through a rapid progression of topics: Howard Hughes’ thirty-six-hour transcontinental air service, Fox’s new star Shirley Temple, and Babe Ruth’s recent seven hundredth home run.

  Kathryn was still looking for a break where she could insert a reasonably intelligent question when Fred Astaire came up and tweaked Ginger’s elbow. She hugged him, then introduced Wilkerson and Kathryn.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” Fred apologized, “but everybody is asking us to do a number.”

  Ginger looked pained. “In these shoes?” She looked down; they were even higher than Kathryn’s.

  “The Carioca, no less.” It was the big dance number in Flying Down to Rio that everyone had either loved or hated because they danced with their foreheads pressed together. The scandal had only fanned the flames of fame.

  Ginger asked, “I don’t suppose the band doesn’t know it?” Fred shook his head. “I’ll be lucky not to break an ankle in these things. Kathryn, hold my handbag?”

  Kathryn watched as Fred and Ginger made their way to the dance floor amid walloping applause. “Miss Rogers,” Fred announced, “would like you to know that she’ll be passing the hat around to pay for the hospital bill, should she break an ankle tonight.”

  The band struck the opening chords and the dancers spun into action.

  Kathryn spotted her opening. She leaned toward Wilkerson, her eyes still on the dancers. “I’ve been reading your editorials, and I have to say that I can’t agree more about the Catholic Legion of Decency.” Hollywood had been under siege recently, censored heavily by the Hays office and prissy busybodies fighting for what they proclaimed to be the purification of cinema. Wilkerson was a vocal opponent. “They’re going to ruin film if they get their way.”

  But she’d lost her chance. Sam Goldwyn had hijacked him. Her eyes followed them across the room, where they greeted a tall guy with broad shoulders and a tennis tan, who had two yes men in tow. They slid around a booth and Wilkerson was locked in. Damn and double damn.

  Kathryn hovered for hours hoping for another chance at Wilkerson, but it never came. He was the man of the moment and always surrounded. By eleven o’clock she was tired and her feet were killing her. She squeezed around the curtain at the side of the stage and made her way through the kitchen toward the blood door.

  Her hand was on the doorknob when she saw an open door into an office opposite the kitchen. The light was on and she could see an enormous desk, on which a brass nameplate mounted on a block of mahogany read BILLY WILKERSON. A briefcase was open next to it.

  Kathryn opened her handbag and pulled out
the papers pressed against the middle pocket. She hurried into the office and tried the latches to Wilkerson’s briefcase. They flipped open with a click. She unfolded her papers and re-read the headline of her article.

  Revolution in Hollywood: Drive-In Movies and How They Will Change America’s Movie-Night Rituals.

  She smoothed the crease flat and picked up Mr. Wilkerson’s chrome-barreled pen. Next to her name and address at the Garden of Allah, she added Graf Zeppelin.

  CHAPTER 34

  Marcus had just changed into street clothes when his boss called out, “Adler! I’ve got a telegram for you.” Marcus let out a groan. Technically, he wasn’t off duty until he had left the Western Union building. “Adler!” the boss called out again. “I can see your shadow. Get in here.”

  Marcus grabbed his hat, hoping it would say “I was just out the door” for him. He poked his head around the doorway. The boss pushed an envelope toward him.

  “Aw, come on, boss. I know what the rule is, but I’ve got my hat on.”

  Marcus’ boss snorted and smiled. “I didn’t mean I’ve got a telegram for you to deliver. I meant I’ve got a telegram for you.”

  Marcus murmured a thank you and retreated to the locker room with his telegram.

  He was well into his first bourbon when he heard Kathryn’s voice through his door. “Are you there? It’s me. I got your note and came straight over!”

  He yanked open the door and thrust his telegram in her face. “I got a telegram!”

  “Me too!” she told him.

  He let her in and poured her a bourbon. “Ladies first,” he said.

  She held up her crumpled telegram. “From Billy Wilkerson! He finally got around to reading my article on drive-in movies.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s asked me to call his secretary to make an appointment!”

  Marcus grabbed his friend by the shoulders and pulled her into a hug. “Kathryn, that’s just swell! I couldn’t be happier for you.”

  “Thank you! Damn well took long enough, huh? But what about you? Who’s your telegram from?”

  Marcus pulled it out of his pocket and read it to her.

  RECEIVED YOUR STORY SUBWAY PEOPLE STOP

  OFFERING SIXTY-FIVE DOLLARS FOR PUBLICATION STOP

  PLEASE SEND ACCEPTANCE OF OFFER BY RETURN TELEGRAM STOP

  SIGNED SUBMISSIONS EDITOR SATURDAY EVENING POST

  She squealed and raised her drink. “Here’s to changing fortunes!” They clinked glasses. “Takes the sting out of losing to Hugo, huh?”

  “A little,” Marcus admitted. That business about the MGM competition still rankled Marcus, but he tried not to feel jealous. He knew his submission would have been better if he’d had more notice but, try as he might, he couldn’t hold Hugo completely to blame. He asked himself for the twentieth time, How did you not know that MGM was holding a nationwide screenplay competition? What a numbskull. Maybe that’s what Father had said: And don’t come home until you’ve stopped being such a numbskull. But there wasn’t much he could do about it, and he was pleased for Hugo. At least Bob Benchley was right when he told Marcus one night. “Marcus my boy, I assure you, there’s nothing like that thrill which goes down your spine when you receive word that your first story has been accepted for publication.” And he was right. This was a moment to savor.

  Kathryn asked, “So, ‘Subway People.’ Which one is that?”

  “The one I wrote after I got trapped under Fifth Street.”

  Kathryn recoiled. “You were trapped under Fifth Street? Downtown? When did that happen?”

  Marcus looked at his feet, and wished he could eat his words. “The day of the Long Beach earthquake. I was in the Subway Terminal when it hit.”

  “The Subway Terminal? But don’t those trains go out to Pasadena?”

  This is getting worse. Think! Think! “I had a special-delivery telegram, and I couldn’t very well ride my bicycle all the way to Pasadena.”

  “But couldn’t they just re-route it over to the Pasadena office?”

  “There was some nutty reason or other. I can’t remember.” He was getting short of breath. “So I was in the terminal waiting for the train to Pasadena when the earthquake hit. When it finally stopped and the dust started to settle, we found that the doors to the street were blocked, so I went searching for another route. I kept trying doors until I found one that wasn’t locked, and it opened onto this rabbit warren of corridors and hidden passages. Dozens of them, in all directions. Later I got to thinking there could be a whole community of people living under the city, and none of us would know they were there. That was my starting point. I thought it was a pretty good idea.”

  “Apparently, so does the Saturday Evening Post.”

  “To the Post and the Hollywood Reporter!” he toasted. They clinked their second glasses. The raw edge of the cheap bourbon seemed to have blunted a little.

  Kathryn refilled her glass and sat back on his sofa with a thud. “How well do you know Ramon Novarro?” She rubbed a finger around the rim of her glass and arranged her face into a nonchalant smile, but her eyes were unblinking.

  Marcus felt his jaw drop and he tried to cover it up by licking his lips. “What makes you think I know him at all?”

  “I’m pretty sure I saw you playing blackjack with him on the Montfalcone.”

  That night on the Montfalcone was years ago. Marcus didn’t like this line of questioning. As far as he could figure, his tendencies belonged behind the midnight bushes of Pershing Square and Griffith Park. Conversations like this led to forced confessions, and confessions like that led to personal rejection, social ostracizing, jail sentences and career death. The last thing he wanted to be was one of those guys whose lives dried up when the rumor mill started about unthinkable bedroom activities. Especially now that he’d just got started. Losing Nazimova was bad enough; he doubted that he could bear to lose Kathryn too. If that happened, he’d have to move out of the Garden of Allah. Where would he go? He pushed a harsh swallow down his throat to calm the panic starting to rise up from somewhere south of his stomach. “I think I was playing blackjack next to him, if that’s what you mean.”

  Kathryn sighed. “I don’t know what I mean.” She drained the last of her booze. They sat in silence for a few moments. Just as Marcus felt his panic subside, Kathryn sat forward again. “It was something he said to me when we were doing the tango at the threes party.”

  Marcus forced out an “Oh?”

  “He asked me if you were my boyfriend. I told him no, you weren’t. Then he asked me if you were anyone’s boyfriend. And I said, ‘No, not to my knowledge.’”

  Marcus nodded, but decided that until he knew where Kathryn was going with all this, the best option to say was nothing.

  “He’s queer, y’ know.” Her words were starting to slur, but not her gaze.

  Marcus stared down into his glass. After the earthquake, Marcus and Ramon scrambled over broken concrete, wrenched girders and shattered glass, and joined the bewildered commuters wondering how they were going to get home. Marcus was still in a daze when Ramon said, “Goodbye and good luck,” and disappeared into the crowd. Marcus hadn’t heard from him since.

  For a year, Marcus had told himself Ramon disappeared because he’d caught his prey; his appetite was sated, and there was nothing else between them. He’d learned to live with the yearning, most of the time, but Kathryn’s questions cleaved him down the middle. He let his head flop back onto his headboard and ran through a host of topics to reroute the conversation.

  He said, “You should ask Gwendolyn to make you something new for your interview. Something flattering. Green looks good on you. But it needs to be businesslike. Maybe your mother’s got something, now that she’s practically running the Marmont.”

  The months Francine had spent in Kathryn and Gwendolyn’s villa hadn’t been the gunfight at the O.K. Corral Kathryn had predicted. She even admitted that her mother had been a surprisingly considerate houseguest who pitche
d in with the cooking and cleaning. Apparently there had been tiffs and tenseness, but nothing they couldn’t get past, and it turned out that Francine played a hell of a game of cribbage. Then one day, Robert Benchley mentioned that he knew the bartender at the Chateau Marmont Hotel who’d told him they were looking for a telephone operator; Kathryn suggested to her mother that she apply. In exchange for working twelve hour shifts, the management gave her a tiny bungalow out the back to live in at a vastly reduced rate. Francine moved out the next day and Kathryn almost came close to missing her. The hotel was just a little further up Sunset Boulevard from the Garden of Allah so everything worked out wonderfully well. It was nice to see Kathryn getting along so well with her mom. He was a little envious of it, too.

  “Marcus, honey,” Kathryn blurted out, “I only wanted you to know that I really don’t care —”

  His ruse hadn’t worked, damnit. “I thought this was going to be a happy day,” he shot back. Hot shame stung his cheeks.

  Kathryn got up and grabbed his glass. “Tell me more about your story.” She went to his dresser and refreshed their drinks.

  Words charged up his throat and he didn’t have it in him to hold them down. “I haven’t seen him since the earthquake.” The words sounded like they came out of someone else’s mouth. The vein in his right temple pounded like a tom-tom.

  Kathryn went still. “No?” She didn’t turn around.

  “We climbed over the rubble and out of the subway and he just took off. I don’t even know how to contact him.”

  The last words caught in his throat like thistles. A year’s worth of fat, blubbery tears started down his cheeks. Kathryn wrapped her arms around him and he pressed his head into the nape of her neck. Her perfume made him think of something long and sleek, like calla lilies. She made little tsking noises like he used to make when his baby sister, Doris, fell and scraped her knees. The hurt and disappointment flowed out of him from a well deeper than he’d suspected. “I didn’t . . . I just wanted . . .”