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

by Martin Turnbull

  Marcus relented and held the door open for his friends. It was Friday night, but well after nine thirty, so Gwendolyn could close the store; the evening rush had passed and the room was busy but not packed. They were seated near the rear and opened their oversized menus. As the others debated the merits of the piccione and the baccala, or maybe the bistecca rusticana, Marcus began to see that, sweet though it was, his time wandering Cinecittà’s Roman Forum photographing farmers’ sons in scratchy togas wasn’t real life. Nobody picks up and moves to Europe any more than they pick up and move into a storybook. It was time to get his life back on track.

  He’d have to determine what this graylist was so he could figure out how to get off it. He kept asking around, but so far had nothing.

  Kathryn closed her menu. “I need fortification after that preview this afternoon. Just the title alone should have given me a clue: The Thing from Another World. Ugh!”

  This was another development during Marcus’ absence: the semi-underground genre of science fiction had wormed its way onto the screen. “I wouldn’t have thought that was your kind of movie,” he said.

  “It’s not, but word around town is that Howard Hawks directed it.”

  Marcus couldn’t imagine that someone who guided His Girl Friday, To Have and Have Not, and Bringing Up Baby to the screen would bother with a story about a plant-based alien found frozen in the Arctic.

  A waiter swept past with four plates of chicken cacciatore loaded with garlic, and Marcus remembered the little place down at the end of Via Giuseppe Salvioli whose chicken cacciatora surpassed even the culinary wizardry of Signora Scatena. It was where he went pretty much every night after he found Oliver’s letter. Two days before he left Rome, he dropped a note at the seminary telling Oliver of his plans, but heard nothing back. He wished now he’d left his address with the signora, just in case.

  “I’m glad you chose this place,” he announced. “That chicken cacciatora smelled good; I think I’ll order it.”

  Kathryn followed the progress of a couple heading toward the back corner. “Don’t look now, but L.B. and Lorena Mayer just appeared.”

  “Is that so strange?”

  “Since those rumors started, I never see him anywhere.” She drummed her fingernails on the tabletop. “I wonder what this means.”

  “That he’s hungry?” Doris suggested.

  “He’s more of a Romanoff’s kind of guy. And look at the way they’ve buried themselves behind their menus, acting like a couple of Garbos.”

  The waiter arrived. Marcus watched the Mayers as they placed their orders. As soon as the waiter departed, he told the girls to whistle when his chicken cacciatora arrived.

  He was only halfway around the thicket of tables when Mayer caught sight of him. He looked like a mallard on opening day. His second wife, a pleasant woman in her mid-forties, lay a placating hand on her husband’s forearm.

  “Hello, L.B.,” Marcus said as he approached their table. “I just wanted to give you my appreciation for what you did.”

  Mayer nodded silently, keeping his eyes on the glass ashtray in front of him.

  “You’re Marcus Adler, aren’t you?” Lorena asked. “Why don’t you join us?”

  Mayer’s flash of anger at his wife was hard to miss.

  “No, no,” Marcus said. “I only wanted to make a quick stop to say thank you.”

  “Nonsense,” Lorena said. “Please join us. If only for a moment.”

  Marcus sat down slowly.

  “You’re just back from Italy, aren’t you?”

  Marcus had never seen Lorena up close before, and he was surprised to find her a younger, prettier, more appealing version of Louella Parsons. She was also nobody’s fool if she knew who Marcus was and where he’d been.

  “I am,” Marcus said.

  She sipped her rosé. “I’ve heard Rome is still recovering from the war.”

  “There’s lots of building and restoration going on, which gives it a real vitality. You can almost taste the liveliness in the air. And they’re mad about movies. Cinecittà must be seen to be believed. My whole time there was quite an experience, and I have your husband to thank for it.”

  The three of them sat in awkward silence until Marcus couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “So this graylist. Nobody’s got any advice for me. About how to get off it, I mean.”

  “It’s only the top brass who know about it,” Mayer replied.

  “I’ve got a few ideas for movies and thought perhaps I could pitch them around town.”

  Mayer shook his head as though he couldn’t bear to hear another word. “You’ll have to find some other way.” He drained his whiskey and motioned the waiter for a refill. “I got you onto the graylist, but you’re still blacklisted as a writer. You need to acquire a new skill.”

  “Is a job at MGM out of the question? Perhaps I could learn a new trade, such as lighting, or—”

  Lorena stiffened.

  Mayer picked up a book of Villa Nova matches and started turning it over and over. “You want my advice, Adler? Here it is: Trust nobody. They’re all bastards and will pick you over like vultures first chance they get. HUAC and their supporters have crushed the Commies, so they need a new boogieman. They know it, and this McCarthy bastard knows it, too. Do not underestimate him.”

  “I hear he’s intent on creating a Lavender Scare. Seeing as how HUAC has practically decimated the creative side of the industry, perhaps you and your counterparts—”

  “I don’t have any counterparts,” Mayer snapped. “Or at least won’t, soon enough.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  Mayer set his mouth to a surly frown. “I’m being forced to resign.”

  “But MGM without you is unimaginable. Surely they—”

  “They’ve got him right where they want him,” Lorena said. “Louis is right, Mr. Adler. Trust nobody.”

  “They’re trying to control how the news gets out. Well, screw that, and screw them.” Mayer lit a Havana and pointed it toward Kathryn. “Tell her I’ll be in touch. Real soon. Meanwhile, good luck to you, Adler. From here on in, you’re on your own.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Kathryn burst through the front doors of the Zephyr Room, pulling off her gloves like she was plucking a chicken, each finger marking a fresh irritation.

  That little shit!

  No, he’s a big shit!

  What a nerve!

  After sixteen years!

  And HE questions MY loyalty?

  With its all-white décor and intricately sculpted ornamentation around the curved bar, the Zephyr Room was a picture of understated elegance. But Kathryn could have been at some grimy dive down the seedy end of Sunset for all she cared.

  She found Leo at a corner table.

  “I ordered you a manhattan,” he said, “although maybe I ought to have made it a double.”

  “Wait till you hear this!” She sank into her chair as the bartender delivered a pair of manhattans. “Give us five minutes,” she told the guy, “then bring over another round.”

  Leo clinked his glass against Kathryn’s. “What’s happened?”

  A pianist started tinkling a Rosemary Clooney tune in the opposite corner. It was the first quiet moment she’d had all afternoon. “I’m sure you had a busy day, too. Dealing with bosses and their unmitigating egos, and how they question your loyalty after sixteen years.”

  “As a matter of fact, I had a pretty good day.”

  Leo was a decent guy, good-looking, great taste, successful, and hot stuff in the sack. He didn’t deserve to sit through a long-winded rant, but if she didn’t get this off her chest, it would smolder.

  “Get this: Wilkerson’s wife is pregnant. At sixty-one, he’s going to have a kid. You know what he told me? The day the kid pops out, he’s going to give up gambling. Said he had an epiphany.” She raised her empty cocktail glass and jiggled it to catch the bartender’s attention. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

 
; “Seeing is believing.”

  “So he calls me in. Tells me about the baby. Goo-goo, ga-ga, baby-baby-baby, blah-blah, fine. Then he says, ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’ ‘About what?’ I ask him. Suddenly, he’s all beady little raccoon eyes. ‘About the big announcement on your show last Friday,’ he says.”

  The morning after that evening at the Villa Nova, Kathryn got a five-star telegram at the Garden of Allah requesting her presence at the Mayers’ home in the canyons behind the Hotel Bel-Air. She drove through the deserted Sunday streets and pulled into the driveway on St. Cloud Road with clammy palms.

  Lorena served coffee and sweet rolls in their sunny living room, where a radio played wispy minuets and nimble waltzes. Kathryn was tempted to blow the whistle on the blatant stagecraft, but she could see how tough it was for this man who’d plowed every waking moment into keeping his dominion at the forefront of American culture. If he wanted to pretend that he was perfectly at ease with being dethroned, she could play along—especially if it meant she would walk out with the biggest scoop of her career.

  Which she did.

  By some sort of miracle, the news remained locked up until days later when she stood in front of the NBC mike and tried to steady the papers shaking in her hand. Her announcement sent shockwaves through the industry, prompting a landslide of phone calls, notes, and telegrams. She was still riding high when Wilkerson’s secretary announced that she’d been summoned.

  All job-well-done expectations flew from her mind when Wilkerson planted his palms on the mahogany desk, his face pale with fury. “EXPLAIN YOURSELF!”

  “I thought you’d be pleased.” She sat down in one of the chairs facing his desk, hoping he’d do the same. He didn’t. “I’ve been hearing from people all over the country. We scooped Louella, Hedda, Winchell, and Variety.”

  Wilkerson thumped the desk. “You didn’t even tell me! That story belonged on a two-inch banner headline in the Hollywood Reporter.”

  “But you got your headline.”

  “A day later!”

  “It wasn’t even twelve hours between my show and us going to print.”

  “The point is you didn’t confide in me. Remember that time you learned Vivien Leigh got Scarlett? Who was the first person you came running to?”

  That was hardly the same situation. At the time, Kathryn was miserable working at Life magazine and used the news as leverage to return to the Reporter. But Wilkerson was in no mood for logic.

  “Mayer gave me his exclusive on the condition that I break the news on my radio show.”

  Wilkerson opened his mouth, then closed it again. He returned to his chair, but perched on the edge. “My beef with you,” he clipped every word with a calibrated snap, “is that you didn’t trust me with the story of the decade.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” she conceded. “I didn’t trust you with it because I didn’t trust anyone with it. Not my friends. Not my producer. Not even my boss. I couldn’t take that sort of risk.”

  “WHERE’S YOUR LOYALTY?” The question exploded out of him like a Chinese firecracker. “I thought I could at least count on you. This galls me, Kathryn. It absolutely galls me.”

  “And it galls me that you’re even questioning my loyalty.”

  “After the way you have turned your back on the Reporter, I do!”

  Kathryn shot to her feet. “The whole point of the radio show was to raise the profile of the Reporter to a national level. The whole country is talking about us!”

  “You need to start thinking about what’s more important to you: your column or your radio show. Now get out of my office. I’ve got a paper to run.”

  Kathryn signaled the Zephyr Room bartender for a third round. “Thank you for listening,” she said, stroking the hair on the back of Leo’s knuckles.

  He smiled, but said nothing. To prove that she had gotten it all off her chest, she said nothing as well.

  “Did I ever tell you I have two younger brothers?” he asked.

  “Twins, right?”

  “They came along fourteen years after I was born, which means I have experience dealing with little boys. Wilkerson is stamping his foot because he didn’t get the shiny prize first.”

  Kathryn pictured her six-foot boss in a sailor suit with short trousers and a hat with a white ribbon. “You’re plenty smart, Mr. Presnell.”

  “How about I take him out for a round of golf at the LA Country Club for some man-to-man time?”

  She leaned over and kissed his lips.

  “I’ve got some news that will cheer you up,” he said.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I met with NBC today, and boy, were they ever busting out the smiles. They said your bombshell virtually guarantees this Friday’s show will leap back into the top ten, possibly even top five, which puts you within striking distance of Winchell.”

  The tension headache that had been pounding Kathryn’s temples started to recede.

  “So,” Leo continued, “I have pitched to my boss an idea I’ve been incubating.” He shifted in his seat, a little apprehensively, it struck Kathryn—unusual for a guy who rarely showed his nerves. “Remember that cake demonstration—where you had those housewives eating out of your hand? Well, me and my counterpart at Betty Crocker want to sponsor a nationwide tour replicating that demo.”

  Kathryn had been nervous as hell that day at the May Company and managed to pull it off only by the sheerest of flukes.

  He watched her face. “Hear me out. Ten cities in fifteen days. Two of them Fridays, so you’ll be broadcasting from Denver and Pittsburgh, and we’ll fly in some big movie star. The tour will culminate in a special program, which NBC will promote the living daylights out of, and it’ll take place at Rockefeller Center.”

  “In New York?!” It could have been the three manhattans she’d downed in rash succession, but Kathryn felt her heart skip a beat.

  Leo lay his right hand over her left. “I’m already in talks with Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman as guests.”

  “Both of them?”

  “I haven’t come to the best part yet.”

  Kathryn wondered if a fourth manhattan was too much.

  “NBC is putting together a stunt they’re calling Golden Aerial Day. They want to broadcast your show on both radio and television, in New York and Los Angeles simultaneously. It’ll be a first. Kathryn Massey of the Hollywood Reporter baking a Betty Crocker cake using a Sunbeam Mixmaster on NBC radio and television. Everybody wins. Which is how I will pitch it to Baby Boy Wilkerson when I take him out for golf.”

  Kathryn’s “Holy mackerel!” came out so softly that she doubted Leo even heard it. Suddenly, the place felt cramped and hot. “I need fresh air.”

  * * *

  As they strolled along Wilshire toward the Town House Hotel, visions of Central Park, Bergdorf Goodman, Radio City Music Hall, and the Rainbow Room jostled in Kathryn’s imagination.

  She grabbed Leo’s arm and squeezed it. “Can we stay at the Plaza?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “And Rumpelmayer’s!” She loved how that name rolled off the tongue. “Do you know where it is?”

  He laughed gently. “The St. Moritz Hotel.”

  “I don’t even care if the ice cream is second-rate.”

  “I can assure you it’s not.”

  They walked in contented silence until Kathryn said, “Is it strange I’ve never seen New York? I’ve always been so busy here with some crisis or celebration, a hit that’s hit or a flop that’s flopped.”

  “You got away from it long enough to go to Rome.”

  “I had extra incentive to bring Marcus back. Plus, before I left, I was up to midnight every night writing as many columns as I could. But it won’t be like that this time. I could do my column on the road, and when we get to New York—”

  A realization dropped on Kathryn from what felt like a great height.

  “Do you know where Sing Sing is?” she asked as lightly as she cou
ld.

  “Near Tarrytown. Maybe forty miles.” He pulled his arm from her grip. “Oh no,” he warned, waving a finger at her. “No, no, no. Don’t even think of it.”

  “But he’s my father. This might be my only chance to meet him.”

  Leo bunched his hands into fists and shoved them into his pockets. “I don’t want you spending one second contemplating anything like that.”

  She stepped ahead and blocked his path. “I don’t know that it’s up to you.”

  He looked like he wanted to punch a hole in the brick wall beside them. “You have no idea how long and how hard I’ve been working to stitch this deal together. It’s the most ambitious project I’ve ever done, and I did it for you.”

  Under different circumstances, she’d have told him not to kid himself about that. “It just means slipping up to Tarrytown. An hour to get there, an hour with him, and an hour back. Nobody’ll know.”

  “By the time you get to New York, you’ll be even more famous across the country than you already are. What if you get recognized?” Spittle was starting to collect in the corners of his mouth. “I’m surprised your illegitimacy has stayed secret. But on top of that, you want to risk the revelation that your father is in prison? Let’s not forget he was convicted of selling secrets to goddamned Nazis.”

  “My mom thinks he’s innocent.”

  He inched forward. “Do you want him to be the next Julius Rosenberg?”

  “How did the Rosenbergs come into this?”

  “They’re housed on death row at Sing Sing.” He started with the finger waving again. “I forbid it. There’s too much at stake and I will not let you sabotage it just because you want to visit your long-lost daddy.”

  He went to add more, but Kathryn’s handbag to the side of his shoulder stopped him cold.

  * * *

  It was well past eleven by the time Kathryn returned home. A few lights were on in villas scattered throughout the Garden, but Marcus’ was dark. She was still contemplating the sort of reception she’d get if she woke him up when the light in his kitchen went on. She knocked on his door.