Tinseltown Confidential: A Novel of Golden-Era Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 7)

by Martin Turnbull

  Kathryn pulled her eyebrows together. “Oh, honey, I’ve been awake for nine thousand hours. You need to spell things out for me.”

  Marcus knew he’d have to explain what had happened to Kathryn and Gwendolyn sooner or later, but he hadn’t figured on doing it in person. He sat her back down on the bench.

  “Moving over here gave us a whole fresh start. It drew us together again, and removed him from those dope pushers and their temptations. Stitching together the Quo Vadis script turned out to be an all-consuming beast, but once that was done, Mervyn asked me to be the on-set photographer. This has been a monumental undertaking and he wanted it chronicled. Turns out I’ve got quite a feel for it. Between the script and the photography, I was very preoccupied.”

  “Where did that leave Oliver?”

  “He needed to keep busy, so he decided to learn Italian. I was around it all the time so I managed to pick it up, almost by osmosis. But he wanted to learn it properly, so he enrolled in a language school run by the Jesuits to teach Italian and Latin to Catholics who are coming to the Vatican.”

  “If you’re going to learn Latin, learn it from the Jesuits.”

  “That’s what I thought. I was busy with my work on set, so I was happy he found something that absorbed him so much, especially after everything he’d been through. As production went on, I started taking on extra duties that Mervyn’s assistant director couldn’t tackle. I got so busy that I just didn’t notice what was going on with him.” Marcus let out a muted groan. “He had a religious awakening. Leastways, that’s how he described it in the letter he wrote telling me that he’d enrolled to become a novice.”

  “A novice what?”

  “That’s the word for people who want to join the Jesuit order.”

  “HE’S A PRIEST?!”

  Kathryn’s voice echoed off the concrete, startling a pair of doves nesting atop a gigantic column. They squawked as they shot into the sky.

  “Not yet. Technically, I think he’s a postulant. Or is that just for nuns? You wouldn’t believe how complex Church hierarchy is. At any rate, he’ll soon be taking the Jesuit vows of poverty and obedience to Christ and the Pope. In there somewhere is also a vow of chastity, so that lets me out.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Literally.”

  “Did you try and talk him out of it?”

  “He didn’t give me the chance. I came home from work one night real late, so I snuck around in the dark, trying not to wake him, until I realized he wasn’t even there. He’d left a letter on the table saying how he’d had a powerful epiphany and that he was joining the Church.”

  “He ran off to join a monastery and told you about it in a note?”

  “He’d been trying to find a time to tell me, but I left for the studio before dawn and rarely got home before ten.”

  “You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”

  “Looking back, there were signs that I could have picked up on. He said the path he’d chosen was free of indecision and brought him a depth of serenity he hadn’t felt for a long time—if ever. Besides, getting the news over a glass of Chianti or in a Dear John letter, does it really matter in the long run?”

  “I think it does.”

  “Not when you’re competing with God.”

  That shut her up.

  They sat in silence, listening to the wind whip around the statues dotting the piazza. She squeezed his hand. “I hate that you had to go through that alone.”

  Marcus had kept Oliver’s letter for a week, rereading it several times a day, until it became too painful and he set his cigarette lighter to it in the bathtub. “I’ve had better weeks.”

  “So he’s reverted to form.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Isn’t his father some sort of preacher? And his granddad, too?”

  Marcus stared vacantly at the pagan gods and marveled at how he could have forgotten that Oliver came from a long line of Bible thumpers. Since the Quo Vadis company departed Rome, he’d come to regard the statues as his companions and confidants, but now he saw them for what they were: plaster and wood parading as marble and gold.

  “I’ve been moping around here like such a sad sack, but you’re right,” he told Kathryn. “It’s in his blood.”

  “So there’s nothing to keep you here?” Kathryn asked.

  “There’s plenty to keep me here.”

  “Like?”

  Marcus counted off his reasons, one finger at a time. “Spaghetti alla carbonara, fettuccine alfredo, saltimbocca alla Romana, bruschetta, limoncello, and I’m telling you, Signora Scatena’s zucchini flowers!”

  “I’m serious.” She whacked him on the arm. “I had a meeting with Mayer. He told me to bring you back.”

  “But what did he say, exactly?”

  “That you were one of his few writers capable of seeing a script through from start to finish. Most screenwriters are specialists, good with structure, or dialogue, or endings, but you can do it all. He said, ‘A chap like that is precious to the industry. We can’t afford to lose him. Especially now.’”

  Praise from Caesar is praise indeed. “What did he mean, ‘especially now’?”

  Kathryn got to her feet, pulling Marcus up with her. Hooking her arm through his, she told him to take her on a tour of the Roman Forum. She felt woozy, and someone had told her if she could stay awake until sundown, she’d recover faster.

  He led her down the palace steps and around temples and through piazzas as she related Nick Schenck’s conspiracy to bring Mayer down, and how Senator McCarthy was hatching a Lavender Scare to lasso all the homos who hadn’t already been branded Commies.

  Kathryn was finishing up her speech when they strolled into a gargantuan colosseum. Or at least half of one—the half needed for shooting. Even a partial colosseum with thirty rows of seats for thousands of extras was an impressive sight.

  “Do you know what we filmed here?” Marcus asked.

  “Chariot race?”

  “It’s Quo Vadis, not Ben-Hur. This is where Nero throws the Christians to the lions.”

  “Did they use real lions during filming?”

  “Lots, and boy were they hungry.”

  “Sounds horrible.”

  “Not as horrible as being thrown to McCarthy, Winchell, Hoover, and Breen.”

  “I know,” Kathryn conceded, “it’s just that—”

  Marcus dug the edge of his wingtip into the floor of the stadium where a fist-sized stain of fake blood tinged the dirt. “It was bad enough being branded Red, but lavender too? No thanks.”

  “But you see—”

  “So I come back to LA . . . and do what? I’m still blacklisted, so I hardly see the point of—”

  “Will you let me speak?”

  Marcus made a gesture: The colosseum is yours.

  “Mayer can get you off the blacklist.”

  “How? Wave a wand?”

  “There’s a catch.”

  “It wouldn’t be Hollywood without one.”

  As Kathryn explained what the graylist was, it began to dawn on Marcus that maybe the landscape back home really had changed.

  “So how do I get off this so-called graylist?” he asked.

  “We have to figure that out ourselves. But you can’t do it from all the way over here.” She stuck out that determined little chin he’d missed so much. “Gwennie’s last words to me were ‘If you come home alone, I’ll kill you both.’ And you know how she is with scissors.”

  He glided a hand around her shoulders. “I need to think about this.”

  “I know.” She paused. “Meanwhile, how’s about you show me Rome?”

  “Sure. But first we need to stop at la pensione della Scatena.”

  “What for?”

  “Did I not mention the zucchini flowers?”

  CHAPTER 5

  It was coming up on closing time on Friday night—nine o’clock—when the telephone rang at Chez Gwendolyn. It wasn’t unusual for someone to call so late. Gwendol
yn figured it must be Kathryn or Marcus with last-minute dinner plans. Al Levy’s Tavern, Bit of Sweden, the Cock’n Bull, Little Hungary, Bublichki’s—they’d been to nearly all their old haunts since Kathryn fetched Marcus back from Italy.

  The only places they avoided were the Italian joints. “Once you’ve had Mama Scatena’s,” Marcus declared, “it’s hard to go back.”

  Gwendolyn picked up the phone and heard a high-pitched, breathy giggle that could only belong to one person.

  “Marilyn?”

  The giggle became a squeal. “He did it! That son of a bitch actually put his money where his mouth is.”

  Gwendolyn clenched the receiver. “Zanuck?”

  “Full contract. Seven years. Annual pay increases. It’s everything I’ve ever hoped for. I can scarcely believe it!”

  “Tell me you’ve signed the contract and it’s a done deal.”

  From what Gwendolyn had seen over the years, contracts were works in progress that changed according to box office receipts, gossip-column innuendo, and the physical charms of the focus-pulling chorine third from the end.

  “At four o’clock this afternoon. Photographers from the Times, the Examiner, and Life were there. The guy from Life even said he might be able to swing me a cover. Can you imagine? Me? On the cover of Life?”

  Gwendolyn thought of the snowy gown sprinkled with diamantes that she’d just finished. “I don’t find that so hard to imagine.” Even if—or when—Marilyn got that cover, she’d probably wear a Travilla original. But if not, what a coup that would be.

  “Listen, the reason why I’m calling,” Marilyn said, “is that a bunch of us are going out to celebrate and I want you to join us.”

  “Just tell me when and where.”

  “Ten o’clock at the Crescendo. But don’t be late—Louis Armstrong is playing at eleven, so it’ll be packed.”

  The Crescendo was a pocket-sized nightclub next to Mocambo, which would give her time to cherry-pick a sensational dress before dashing home to the Garden to freshen up.

  “I’ll meet you at the bar.”

  She was pulling out a knee-length chiffon cocktail number in deep apricot—not quite right for a late-night club, but the low neckline more than made up for it—when the phone rang again.

  “Sorry, Marcus,” she said into the receiver, “but you’re too late.”

  A worried voice she didn’t recognize made a grunting sound. “I was told you’re open till nine. It’s only ten to.”

  Gwendolyn laid the apricot number across her counter. “Sorry, I was expecting—never mind. How can I help you?”

  “This is Raymond Bourke.” The guy said his name as though Gwendolyn should recognize it.

  “Have we met, Mr. Bourke?”

  “Billy Travilla said I could call on you if need be. I do wardrobe for Dragnet, and I’m in trouble.”

  “Of course! How may I help?”

  “We’re about to start shooting a new episode and the murdered secretary got re-cast twenty minutes ago. Republic’s wardrobe is mostly moth-eaten cowgirls and Wild West hookers. Can I send this girl over?”

  “You mean right now?”

  “Call is at seven a.m. She’s a secretary so it don’t gotta be nothing fancy. I’m working with a real tight budget here, Miss Brick. I can afford twenty bucks and not a penny more. You got anything to fit the bill?”

  Gwendolyn pulled her apricot dress off the counter and told the guy yes, she had several things that should work.

  “Great, because she’s on her way. Her name’s Hannah. Mail me the receipt.”

  Six minutes later, a plump, middle-aged woman with a henna rinse and a grim frown burst through the door. She slapped her generously curved sides. “Never in all my days have I witnessed such a collection of amateurs as that Dragnet bunch. Have you been over there? Don’t bother, not if you prefer your sanity intact. Jumpin’ Jehosaphat on a pogo stick, it’s like the Keystone Kops.” She held up a meaty index finger. “They didn’t have anything bigger than a size twelve. Now, of course, I’m the first to admit that I’m no size six, but I ask you!”

  Gwendolyn rattled through a quick mental stock. “What size would you say you are?”

  “Sixteen on a good day. Otherwise, eighteen.”

  That usually meant twenty, which narrowed the options considerably. Gwendolyn’s usual clientele were ex-model types who subsisted largely on pep pills to get through arduous days of shopping and art galleries.

  Hannah opened her purse and pulled out a ragged twenty. “That Bourke schlemiel said as long as this covers the bill, tax included, I can pick whatever I want.”

  Gwendolyn glanced at the clock. “Is this your first job?”

  “I’ve been a radio actress for years, but of course appearance is less of an issue. This is my first television role, so I’m hoping it’ll open the door to new kinds of work.” Hannah picked out a dress that was at least two sizes too small for her. “How much is this?”

  “Twenty-four ninety-five.”

  “Pity.”

  In the end, she picked a brown suit with dark blue lapels that was a little snug across the back, but a fortified corset would fix that.

  Two minutes after ten, Gwendolyn saw the woman through the door.

  Fortunately the apricot number wasn’t tricky to get into—side zippers were dress designers’ gift to the single woman. Gwendolyn pulled a brush through her hair and touched up her makeup, then hurried to the nightclub.

  Like most of the joints that dotted LA’s social scene, the Crescendo featured a pretty hat check girl inside the front door and a maître d’ podium where a tuxedoed gent stood with a ready smile. The walls of the Crescendo’s squarish interior were swathed in deep purple drapes. A pall of cigarette smoke already shrouded the improvisational jazz trio in the corner.

  Marilyn’s eight-top table had one empty seat. “There you are!” She was radiant in shimmering blue.

  “I had a last-minute customer.”

  Marilyn rattled off a bunch of names as she introduced the table. Gwendolyn caught only the last two on the end. “That’s Ben Nye, my makeup maestro on Love Nest. What this man can’t do with foundation and blush just isn’t worth knowing. And next to him is Jack Paar. He’s an actor, but don’t hold that against him.” She pointed at the empty seat next to Jack. “That’s yours, honey. And of course you know Billy.”

  An unattached hand waved away a dense cloud of cigar smoke, revealing Billy Travilla. “Nice to see you again.” His eyes ran down Gwendolyn’s dress; approval hoisted an eyebrow. “If that color looks as good on you in the daytime as it does under this dim lighting, you should wear it more often.”

  She thanked him and slid onto the seat.

  Marilyn heaved a magnum out of a chrome ice bucket and announced, “We have champagne!”

  “No, sweetie,” Ben told her, “I think you’ll find that one’s empty.”

  Marilyn flipped it and pouted when only a few drips trickled out. “We’ve finished two already?”

  “We’re a thirsty bunch.” Billy faced Gwendolyn. “It’s been quite a day, as you can imagine.”

  The maître d’ arrived with a fresh bottle, lined up eight flutes, and filled them in a well-practiced swoop twelve inches above the table.

  Gwendolyn grabbed her glass and took a deep swig.

  “Quite a day for you, too?” Billy asked.

  “I have you to thank. Or blame. I’m not sure which.”

  The jazz trio launched into a meandering interpretation of “Heebie Jeebies,” an early hit for Louis Armstrong from back in his Hot Five days that Gwendolyn knew because Tallulah Bankhead insisted on playing it at every Garden party she crashed.

  “I got an SOS from your Dragnet pal,” Gwendolyn told him.

  “Raymond still has that job?”

  “He called me ten minutes before closing, all worked up into a lather because he had to costume an actress for an episode tomorrow and they had nothing for her.”

  “You were abl
e to help him out?”

  “And for less than twenty bucks.”

  He leaned back and rubbed a finger along his jawline thoughtfully.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You just impressed the right person.”

  “I hardly think he’s the right man for that job.”

  “God, no. He shouldn’t be there at all, but he’s the producer’s brother-in-law. Michael Meshekoff is quite the big cheese over at Republic because of that show. My guess is you just made your mark on a nice chunk of Gouda.”

  A smooth voice came over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Crescendo is proud to welcome the incomparable Mr. Louis Armstrong.”

  The house lights dimmed and footlights rimming the stage glowed as the most skilled trumpeter in America stepped forward. Marilyn released a howl and her costar, Jack, let out a two-fingered whistle.

  From the corner of her eye, Gwendolyn could see Billy Travilla sizing her up. It wasn’t sexual—she knew when a come-on was looming—but she wasn’t sure what he had on his mind. All she knew was that Armstrong was nearly halfway through “C’est Si Bon” before Travilla took his eyes off her.

  CHAPTER 6

  Marcus read the sign at Villa Nova. “Here?”

  “We’re sick of everything else,” Kathryn told him.

  “And I miss the osso buco,” Gwendolyn added.

  “And the crepe suzettes,” Doris put in.

  “Crepe suzettes are French,” Marcus said. “Signora Scatena wouldn’t serve—”

  Kathryn prodded him in his shoulder, right at the soft part where she knew it would hurt. “But most of all, we’re sick of hearing about Signora Scatena. You don’t give up wine just because you can no longer drink Chateau Lafitte.”

  Marcus was aware that he’d become a bit of a snob about Italian food, and that he viewed his time in Europe through golden lenses that made California feel like a pallid imitation. Everything back there was infused with centuries of tradition: food, wine, architecture, churches. LA felt as flimsy as the MGM back lot now.

  It had only recently dawned on him that he was bound to return to the States eventually, and the longer he stayed over there, the harder it would have been to readjust. Although he’d been back for nearly four weeks now, he was still easing himself into a pace he’d once taken for granted. In the time he was away, even his barber had gone out of business. Was nothing forever in this town?