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

by Martin Turnbull

  Gwendolyn swung her arms up. “You have Marcus to thank for the lights.”

  Billy and Dona Travilla emerged behind Marilyn armed with four bottles of champagne.

  Marilyn carried two large platters. “I made cocktail knishes, chicken-salad cream puffs, and broiled mushroom caps.”

  “All that and she cooks, too!” Dona exclaimed.

  Marilyn set them on the buffet. “Joe is Italian, and you know how they are about food. Admit you’re serving store-bought and you might as well say you stole it.”

  Gwendolyn hoped Billy had made it onto Marilyn’s guest list. She’d only just learned that, technically, Dona was colored. But she was so light-skinned that she passed for white, which meant far more roles were open to her. It also explained why she knew Ella Fitzgerald well enough to go backstage.

  Gwendolyn hoped to find a moment to steer Dona into a quiet corner and ask why none of her Negro clientele had returned since the day Zanuck was in the store three months earlier—not Ella, nor Lena, Hattie, or Dorothy. Hadn’t she made it clear how welcome they were? Had she offended them? Or had Zanuck scared them off?

  Dishes of food, bottles of booze, and gifts for the birthday girl started arriving. The party kicked up a notch when Bertie arrived with her latest toy: a new-fangled Japanese transistor radio. Gwendolyn wasn’t sure what transistors were, but it meant manufacturers could now shrink radios down to a portable size. Bertie switched it on and the smooth voice of Rosemary Clooney singing “Come On-a My House” floated among Marcus’ twinkling lights.

  Gwendolyn knew a few faces, but many were new. How refreshing to find they weren’t the usual raft of hopefully-famous-one-day neophytes: self-consciously good-looking men and women unable to maintain eye contact in case they missed a once-over from a casting director or producer.

  Instead, Marilyn’s friends came across as people who actually read books. Gwendolyn was willing to bet that the cadaverously tall man in thick black glasses could read Dostoyevsky and Proust in the original. And behind him, two women in their early twenties dressed in identical tight black slacks and turtlenecks were discussing the black beret one of them wore.

  She’d heard about these postwar teenagers who rejected marriage and motherhood in favor of avant-garde poetry and Sartre. Gwendolyn thought the somber garb and existential angst of these so-called beatniks was more suited to Greenwich Village than Griffith Park, but they were a welcome change from the usual polished baubles.

  “Come with me,” Marcus told Gwendolyn, coming up behind her. “You need to hear this.”

  He steered her toward a gray-haired man in the type of conventional suit usually found on a board member of a multinational corporation. “This is Charles Brackett.”

  Gwendolyn told him how pleased she was to meet the writer of Sunset Boulevard, which she’d loved so much she saw it twice. Brackett gallantly bowed his head, but not before Gwendolyn detected a discreet eye-roll.

  Marcus explained, “Charles no longer writes with Billy Wilder. He’s moved from Paramount to Fox.” He placed subtle emphasis on the word “Fox,” which Gwendolyn took to mean “Darryl Zanuck, who I’m desperate to meet.”

  Marcus continued, “He was just telling me that he wrote Niagara, which Marilyn starts filming tomorrow. And he’s now working on Titanic.”

  “That must be interesting.” Gwendolyn wondered why she needed to know any of this. She searched around for Dona.

  Brackett nodded toward the beatnik girls. “As our friends over there might say, it’s a gas.”

  “Gas is good, right?”

  He nodded. “The sets really are a sight to behold. You might say they’re titanic.”

  “But Charles,” Marcus said, “tell Gwendolyn what you were saying about your recent trip back East.”

  Brackett pulled out a pipe and took his time lighting it. Off to the far right, Gwendolyn spotted Dona near the huge daisy bush next to Kathryn’s villa, chatting with Bertie and Doris, Marcus’ sister.

  “I went to New York for a reunion of sorts. I once worked at the New York Evening Graphic. It was the most god-awful rag—the PornoGraphic, we used to call it—but a great bunch of fellows, nevertheless. For years now, we’ve caught up with each other on a regular basis. Over time, it’s become just once a year, but the numbers swelled to include anyone who wrote for New York papers in the twenties and thirties, some of whom have gone on to national prominence, like Ed Sullivan—”

  “And Walter Winchell,” Marcus interjected. “Another regular is Robert Harrison.”

  The name rang a bell with Gwendolyn. “Remind me who he is.”

  “Magazine publisher,” Marcus said.

  “You’re being too charitable,” Charles said. “He’s a low-level skunk who spits out prurient cheesecake rags called Eyeful and Beauty Pageant. Evidently, he’s launching a new one, and plans to fling mud using the lowest common denominators.”

  “I dread to ask what they are.”

  “Commies, Pinkos, celebrities with criminal backgrounds, homos, mixed-race couples. But it’s the homos he’s really got it in for. You should have heard his rant. I started thinking perhaps the lady doth protest too much. I don’t think he’s that-way inclined, but he does know how to write a headline. People love to be appalled. And he kept on bringing up Sheldon Voss.”

  Marcus shot Gwendolyn an eyeful of This is news to me and brought two fingers to his lips. He emitted two short blasts, one higher than the other, followed by a third. It brought Kathryn into the group, with Leo trailing.

  “What’s going on?”

  Marcus gave Kathryn and Leo a recap of what Charles had related so far. Kathryn let out a grunt when she heard Voss’ name.

  “Harrison and Voss, they’re cut from the same cloth,” Charles continued. “They just love to provoke controversy. I guess they figure queers are an easy target because they’ve got so much to lose, and the stigma attached to them is like the stink of being accused a Commie—it doesn’t wash off easily. Mark my words: If Voss gets his march on the road, Harrison is going to be riding it for all it’s worth.”

  “That’s what George Cukor told you, isn’t it?” Kathryn said.

  Marcus nodded. “It sounded a bit alarmist at the time, but now . . .”

  Leo stood off to Kathryn’s right and behind her far enough for Kathryn to miss the look on his face. Gwendolyn could see the gears churning as they calculated the probability that Sheldon Voss would take his blasted march as far as Los Angeles, and if he did, would he really start a campaign-by-insinuation? Or would it be a full-frontal attack with Kathryn in the bull’s-eye?

  “Tell Gwendolyn what you told me about Zanuck,” Marcus said.

  “Harrison knew about the day Zanuck came to your store.”

  “What exactly did he know?”

  “He knew some coloreds were shopping there.”

  “Ella Fitzgerald and Lena Horne are hardly ‘some coloreds.’”

  “Any time blacks and whites mix in a nonsubservient context is going to cause trouble. Harrison boasted about how that’s exactly the sort of story he intends to cover in Confidential. An intentionally ironic title I assume, considering once Harrison gets going, nothing in Hollywood will be confidential for long.”

  The sharp sound of a spoon hitting the side of an empty champagne bottle cut through the hubbub. “Ladies and gentlemen?”

  Billy Travilla stood on the diving board with Marilyn standing next to it, fidgeting with her gold necklace.

  “We are gathered here today—oh my goodness, that sounds like a funeral! Let me start over. This is a celebration, but not just of our friend’s birthday. She’s just shared with me some wonderful news.” He nudged her arm with his knee. “Little Miss Keep-It-Quiet here was informed this afternoon that she’s been cast as Lorelei Lee in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  He led everyone into a trio of hip-hip-hoorays.

  Charles said, “That movie’s got a huge budget. If Niagara does as well as we hope
, and she follows it up with Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, she could be the biggest thing since Harlow.”

  Gwendolyn leaned her chin onto Kathryn’s shoulder and whispered, “Best you elbow your way over to Marilyn—Sidney Skolsky just walked in.”

  Short, dark, and chatty Skolsky wrote for the New York Post and had a monthly column in Photoplay called “From a Stool at Schwab’s,” which helped make Schwab’s famous, and him along with it. He had been an early and vocal champion of Marilyn’s.

  As Kathryn approached her, Gwendolyn circled the perimeter of the group, keeping tabs on Skolsky. He, too, was heading for the birthday girl, but Jack Paar rerouted him into a conversation with the beatniks.

  Gwendolyn caught Dona standing alone. “Isn’t it wonderful news for Marilyn?”

  “There’ll be no stopping her now.”

  “I have a question I’d like to ask you.”

  Dona ran her hands down her front. “It’s a Schiaparelli knockoff, but don’t tell anyone.”

  “Have you spoken to Ella Fitzgerald lately?”

  “I saw her the other night when she played at Jazzland. Why?”

  “It’s just that I haven’t seen her at my store lately. Nor any of the others.”

  “What others?”

  “Lena Horne, Hattie McDaniel, Dorothy Dandridge. I was wondering if they’re staying away on purpose.”

  “Of course they are.”

  “Was it something I said? Or did?”

  “Miss Ella and Miss Lena, they think you’re lovely, and they adore your clothes.” Dona gently shook her head. “But they’re not blind or stupid.”

  “I never said they were.”

  “But weren’t they at your store the day that whole ruckus erupted about Marilyn’s calendar? They saw the way Zanuck pulled you out into the street and gave you a talking-to. Ella said it was plain as day.”

  “But I don’t have a problem with any of those ladies.”

  “They know that, but they don’t want to be the cause of any trouble for you.”

  Gwendolyn wanted to tell Dona to let Ella and Lena and everyone else know that her invitation still stood, but the news of this Robert Harrison guy ate at her resolve.

  Dona pointed to her husband. “Billy’s just tugged at his right ear—that’s his signal. Sorry, but I must rescue him.”

  She hurried away leaving Gwendolyn alone until Marcus appeared at her side.

  “All those New York guys seem to be in cahoots.”

  Somewhere at the store, Gwendolyn had the number of Ella Fitzgerald’s West Coast manager. Should I ask him to pass on a message? “New York guys?”

  “East Coast, anyway. Winchell, Hoover, McCarthy, Breen. And now this Robert Harrison. The way I see it, they’re a right-wing cabal linking up to squash the liberal agenda. And it looks like Sheldon Voss has wormed his way into their good graces.”

  Or maybe the smart move would be to call the day Zanuck came in a close shave and just leave things be.

  “What’s a cabal?” she asked.

  “It’s a secret ring of conspirators, like in some film noir about Nazi spies, only this gang is even more dangerous because they’re out in the open.”

  “How do you fight someone like that?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Sounds like they’re coming after Kathryn.”

  Marcus slung his arm around Gwendolyn’s shoulder. “And maybe you, too, my sweet.”

  CHAPTER 26

  By the summer of 1952, the bloom was off the rose in Hollywood. Gleeful reports of double-digit growth in aviation, automobiles, manufacturing, and oil signaled an economic spree the country hadn’t seen since the twenties, but as Kathryn reported in her column, cinema admissions had dipped below sixty million—down from the hundred-million postwar high of 1947—causing three thousand movie houses to switch off their neon lights. Even more depressing was her follow-up report that Americans were spending more money on fishing tackle and ten-pin bowling than movies.

  From the sidelines, Marcus could see he’d chosen a dicey time to shove his foot back in the door. So he was surprised and a little mystified when Sam Dodds, the photographer Marcus met at Fox came knocking at the Garden of Allah one morning, catching Marcus swimming his regular fifty laps.

  “Is this a social call?” he asked Dodds as he toweled himself dry.

  “Did you see Daily Variety this morning?”

  “I’m more of a Hollywood Reporter guy.”

  “Fox has announced pay cuts of twenty-five to fifty percent.”

  Fox was the box office champ, so if it was hurting, surely the other studios would follow its lead.

  “Sounds like the Depression all over again.”

  “For some, maybe.” Dodds broke out into a leering grin that gave Marcus pause. “I saw this coming when the studios let their still photographers go. Not the glamour portrait guys, but the on-set shutterbugs. Poof! Gone.” He squatted down on the diving board. “I’ve got more work than I know what to do with.”

  Dodds’ skin stretched taut across his face, giving him an almost translucent quality that reminded Marcus of Cary Grant in Topper. An ability to remain unobtrusive was quite possibly the prime skill necessary for a production photographer trying to capture authentic, candid shots.

  “I want to know if you could take some of it off my hands.”

  “Sure,” Marcus said. “What’ve you got?”

  Dodds pulled three index cards out of his jacket pocket. “The Jazz Singer remake at Warner Brothers. Danny Thomas is starring, with Michael Curtiz directing.”

  Curtiz had one of the shortest tempers in the business and an almost impenetrable Hungarian accent. “What else?”

  “The Bad and the Beautiful. Lana Turner, Kirk Douglas, Walter Pidgeon, and Dick Powell, with Minnelli directing.” He held up the card. “It’s a class production.”

  Marcus had worked closely with Vincente Minnelli on Till the Clouds Roll By and The Pirate and had found him an unflappable and erudite gentleman, but it meant returning to MGM. He nodded toward Dodds’ third card. “And that one?”

  “You don’t want it.”

  “Try me.”

  “The Star. It’s about a washed-up actress who’s intent on making a comeback and is offered the role of a has-been who can’t face the fact that it’s all over.”

  “Who’s the lead?”

  “And the Oscar does not go to . . .” Dodds drummed his hands on the diving board, “Miss Bette Davis. Yeesh! Talk about art imitating life.”

  “Who’s doing it?”

  “Twentieth Century-F—”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “I’m offering you the Jazz Singer remake or the new Minnelli, but you’re choosing the one where Bette Davis will be grumpier than a constipated camel because she’s taking a role that’s a sad reflection of her own life? Why would you do that?”

  “Do you want it?” Marcus bluffed.

  “Hell, no!”

  “I’ve met Bette a few times. She’s a good friend of a good friend.” He plucked the index card out of Dodds’ hand. “When do I start?”

  * * *

  The set was cheerlessly mundane. Beige walls bare of decoration. A battered Franklin stove sat against the right-hand wall next to a cabinet filled with second-rate kitchenware. The only piece of furniture was a scruffy rocking chair. In the middle of the floor sat a bucket filled with sudsy water and a scrubbing brush.

  Marcus took some shots. God almighty, Bette, you’re as far from The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex as I am from Zanuck.

  If Marcus had taken the time to properly read Dodds’ index card, he’d have seen that The Star was only being distributed by Fox. Like so many movies these days, Bette’s new project was an independent production filmed at a studio for hire called the Motion Picture Center on Cahuenga Boulevard, a million miles from Zanuck’s studio. Marcus’ disappointment cut deep, but a job was a job.

  He hadn’t seen Bette before she left to film Another Man’s Poison
in Britain with her husband, Gary Merrill. Despite being helmed by her Now, Voyager director, Irving Rapper, the picture had been a monumental disaster and, Marcus imagined, a sobering come-down from All About Eve.

  And now this.

  Dodds’ comment about Bette being grumpier than a constipated camel replayed in Marcus’ mind as he wandered around the dreary set.

  It was now eleven o’clock, but still no sign of the leading actress. There were only so many interesting photos he could take of unremarkable kitchens without Bette’s luminescence to brighten things up. He asked one of the key grips, “Have you seen Miss Davis yet?”

  “None of us have. I hear she’s in her dressing room.” He took in Marcus’ camera. “If you’re thinking of heading over there, you better proceed with extreme caution.” He let out a long, low whistle.

  Undaunted, Marcus knocked on Bette’s dressing room door.

  “Who is it?” came Bette’s unmistakable rasp.

  “A friendly face.”

  Bette jerked open the door; her scowl melted with palpable relief. “Thank Christ! Get in here!”

  Her dressing room was freshly painted in light green with white trim. The smell still hung in the air, lending the place a surprising crispness. Photos of her mother and sister, and a cute one of Merrill and their daughter, B.D. lined the edges of her makeup mirror. But otherwise the room was as sparse as the set.

  Two years ago in All About Eve, Bette played a handsome woman two years past the dreaded forty but still more than capable of holding her own—especially with the full powers of a top studio’s makeup, hair, lighting, and cinematography departments behind her.

  But seeing her now, it seemed like ten years had passed. Gone were the reliable technicians to create her mask. Gone, too, was the huge salary, most of the trappings of movie stardom, the custom-designed clothes, and the legions of fans who couldn’t get enough. What was left? A tough, middle-aged broad who still had fight left in her, whose family completely relied on her, and who didn’t regret a single cigarette or single-malt whiskey or inappropriate affair.