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

by Martin Turnbull

  Bette pushed Marcus into the chair next to her mirror and tapped the top of his camera with an unvarnished nail. “You’re our photographer? How wonderful! I wish I’d known. Now I won’t have to endure this cinematic masterpiece all by myself.”

  “I saw the set.”

  Bette shrugged as though to say, It’s work, isn’t it? “I decided the best way to tackle this job was to ignore the obvious parallels and try to enjoy myself.”

  “And are you?”

  “My goodness, yes! I’m basing my characterization on Joan.”

  “Crawford?”

  A wicked smile slithered free. “I’ve even convinced the hair stylist to copy Joan’s ’do from Harriet Craig.”

  “Would you be offended if I called you a bitch?”

  “As a matter of fact, the hairdo rather suits me, which is as frightening as it is hilarious.” She tugged at the sleeves of her housecoat and fiddled with the limp collar drooping around her neck. “But I think I shall scream if I have to talk about this picture any more. Tell me about yourself. Is it really true that you’re taking pictures on I Love Lucy? And how was Italy? I was always too busy making pictures to travel as much as I’d have liked. You must tell me everything.”

  Marcus launched into an abbreviated version of how he came to be documenting the biggest television show in America. He stopped when someone knocked on the door and told Bette they’d be ready for her in two minutes.

  “We can pick this up after you’re done,” Marcus said.

  “Did you see that bucket out there?” Bette lit a cigarette. “If they want me down on my hands and knees scrubbing floors, they can damn well wait for the privilege. So, what were you saying about Zanuck?”

  “I’m trying to meet him. Kathryn thought she could pull it off, but he’s not great at returning calls. Do you know him? I thought maybe for this picture . . .?”

  She pulled a very Margo-Channing pout and jabbed the cigarette butt like it was a tiny dagger. “We had negotiations during All About Eve.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Tough as tacks, but fair. You can’t ask for much more than that.”

  Another, louder knock on the door.

  “I’LL BE THERE WHEN I’M READY!” She cleared her throat and turned back to Marcus. “Why are you so keen to meet him?”

  “I was blacklisted, but Mayer arranged to have me taken off it.”

  “Why, that’s marvelous news! Congrat—”

  “And put onto the graylist.”

  “There’s a gray one?” She faced herself in the mirror, picking at her hair, disheveling it lock by lock. “This world is insane.”

  “I’m stuck in No Man’s Land and I don’t see how I can break free without help.”

  “I can tell you that he won’t agree to see you just because you ask. Even I had a devil of a time getting in to see him.” She stood to tie a shabby apron around her waist and examined herself in the mirror. “God, this is awful. Tell you what, though. Some of the people Fox have let go, they’re bound to pop up in independent places like these.”

  Bette made a good point. More and more lately, independent producers packaging scripts with freelance stars and directors were the ones putting movies together. The old studio system of signing everyone to long-term contracts was showing signs of stress.

  “But I’ll only be around until December,” Bette added. “Gary and I are getting the hell out of this insidious hellhole. We’re moving to Cape Elizabeth, halfway up the coast of Maine.”

  “Maine?!” Marcus couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d said Mars.

  “I’m sticking around until the premiere, then getting the hell out of Dodge. I can’t wait.”

  Marcus held open the door for her, and Bette stomped toward her bucket of soapsuds. He pulled the cover off his lens and peered through the viewfinder, framing a great shot that took in the huge camera, the glaring lights, and the patient crew on the periphery of a set that reeked of desperation and despair.

  CHAPTER 27

  The day of Ava Gardner’s ceremony outside Grauman’s Chinese started with a typical October chill, so Kathryn dressed in a snug cream suit. But by midmorning, the sun had crept into the theater’s forecourt raising the temperature into the eighties. Kathryn felt sweat collecting under her bra and knew Ava must have been feeling worse, dressed in a heat-soaking dark blue woolen ensemble.

  As the workmen lowered the carpeted platform into place, Kathryn studied the fans clustered along Hollywood Boulevard for a fan club president, some press, or a past costar who needed fresh publicity. She could usually unearth somebody whose story could give her article some oomph, and readers liked oomph. They always let her know after her radio show or when they saw her in public at Perino’s or Mocambo.

  But the face she was surprised to see belonged to Walter Winchell. She studied it, wondering why she was so startled, considering his infuriating knack for popping up in unexpected places.

  Winchell usually announced in his column when he was going to LA, which was often for a specific reason, like the Oscars. But the only noteworthy event he’d mentioned was—Oh, wait. Bingo.

  Earlier in the year, when Hedda Hopper declared that she was writing her autobiography, she’d been met with jaded indifference. Divulging the real secrets in her files would leave her open to libel. That left watered-down versions tattled through rose-colored glasses. Yawn.

  Kathryn forgot about Hedda’s book until the week it became a national bestseller. Knowing that she couldn’t not read From Under My Hat, Kathryn bought a copy and found with some satisfaction that she knew enough of Hedda’s stories to know that most of it was sheer invention. The book virtually qualified as fiction and was clearly intended for a public that’d been trained to swallow whatever the studios’ publicity departments were churning out that week.

  Still, a bestseller was a bestseller, which was no mean feat, so Kathryn sent a congratulatory notecard to Hedda, and received an invitation to a party at Lucey’s Restaurant opposite Paramount. The prospect of watching Hedda crow about her success held all the appeal of a pelvic exam, so she declined.

  None of Kathryn’s tipsters forewarned her of Winchell’s arrival, which meant he’d slipped into town on the Q.T.

  When Winchell spotted her, he gave his hat a token tug. With anyone else she would have returned the gesture, but that smile of his, so smug, so acidic . . . it was enough to give a girl trench mouth.

  She guessed he was feeling superior about his recent stunt: He’d become the first person to broadcast his radio show simultaneously on television. To ensure maximum exposure, he’d secured Betty Grable and Arlene Dahl as his guests, but it probably hadn’t been necessary. The whole setup garnered him inches of press.

  Ava laughed when Grauman’s manager almost lost his grip as a second chap guided her foot. The manager, a genial lookalike of David Selznick, would have been horrified if a star ended up face first in wet concrete. But that sort of mishap made a lively story and Kathryn almost wished the guy’s reflexes had been a little slower. Ava would have been the first person to shriek with laughter at such a calamity.

  But Ava dutifully squished her feet and hands into the cement and inscribed the date without tumbling ass over dumplings. Meanwhile, Kathryn edged her way to Ava’s elbow and offered her a handkerchief to dab away the sweat collecting on her face and neck. In return, she got a great quote about getting fresh cement out of cracks where the sun don’t shine.

  Kathryn spotted a woman who, despite looking twenty years older, resembled Ava in that confident, boobs-out posture, despite her threadbare five-and-dime outfit. She was the sort of person Kathryn knew would have a story to tell concerning the star du jour.

  Winchell stepped into her path.

  “Hello,” she said flatly. That pompous smile still filled his face, but whatever he was dangling, she wasn’t buying. “If you’ll excuse me, I have someone I want to talk to—”

  “I’m surprised you weren’t at He
dda’s bash. She told me she invited you.”

  “I’d already RSVP’d to a charity dinner at the Ambassa—”

  “It was quite the swell affair. You’ve read her book, I presume? What did you think?”

  Kathryn watched the woman with the interesting face dissolve into the tide of humanity emptying the sidewalk. Winchell had an agenda, and it probably involved her.

  “I think people like you and me are fortunate to be able to read between the lines.”

  “That’s exactly what I told Felix Miller last night.”

  “Is that one of your tipsters?”

  “He is, but surely you know that.”

  “I do?”

  “You’ve met him at least twice.”

  She searched her memory for a Felix Miller, but drew a blank.

  Winchell asked, “Are you in the habit of handing over wads of cash to strangers whose names you don’t even know?” He brought a lit cigarette to his mouth. “Really, Kathryn, I’m surprised. You’ve always struck me as such an inquisitive girl.” Somehow, he managed to make it sound like being inquisitive was outlawed in nineteen states.

  “If we’re playing Twenty Questions, what number am I up to?”

  “Felix Miller is the guy you encountered at Ciro’s, and again at Romanoff’s.”

  The creep with the notebook and those goddamned asterisks.

  In retrospect, Kathryn wondered why it took so long to recognize what the names in that notebook had in common: they were all homosexuals, or rumored to be, or had married one to deflect suspicion. Hollywood queers and dykes had been marrying each other so long it had become a way of life that nobody questioned. Nobody in Hollywood, anyway.

  He crushed his cigarette butt out on Shirley Temple’s hands. “He mentioned meeting your mother.”

  That night at Romanoff’s was six months ago. “Is that right?”

  “Specifically, how closely she resembles Sheldon Voss.”

  SHIT! “Have you met my mother?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, no.”

  “If you had, you’d understand why people are always telling her that she looks like someone, or reminds them of someone. It’s happened her whole life.”

  “I suppose I should tell Hoover not to bother looking into it.”

  Kathryn faked a laugh. It almost sounded real. Maybe he bought it. “So you get the head of the FBI to spend tax dollars on looking into the resemblance between a bag of hot air and a switchboard operator based on the say-so of some jerk whose loyalty is open to the highest bidder?”

  Winchell didn’t miss a beat. “Quite the coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “You have a far more elastic interpretation of the word ‘coincidence’ than I do.”

  “So it’s just a coincidence that the sponsor of your radio show has also signed on as one of the sponsors of Voss’ Sea to Shining Sea March?”

  That explained the smile, even if it was baloney. “If either Sunbeam or Betty Crocker is sponsoring that march, I’d know about it.”

  “So my information is inaccurate?”

  It’d damn well better be. “It is.”

  “In that case, I should call New York to change my column. I’d hate to say anything that I knew wasn’t true.”

  He tugged his hat again and headed for the curb to hail a taxi. By the time it whisked him away, Mike Connolly was approaching her.

  Kathryn no longer feared that Connolly was any sort of threat to her status as the paper’s key columnist. He seemed content to splash around in the shallows, filling his column with celebrity pairings and unpairings, movie-star casting announcements, and far more blind items than Kathryn would ever dream of. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that she was one thoughtless stumble away from him pole-vaulting over her.

  “What did he want?” Connolly asked, casual as a schoolboy.

  Kathryn didn’t even want to consider the possibility that Winchell could be right about this new Sunbeam sponsorship; to have Connolly rub it in her face was almost as bad.

  “The usual insertion of knives between ribs.”

  “My money was on this rumor I’ve heard that Sunbeam is sponsoring the Voss march. I was hoping to get your reaction but you’ve been out of the office all morning.”

  How could Leo make such a decision without consulting me?

  “What is your reaction?” Connolly pushed.

  The fans were now thinning out.

  “What do you think my reaction is?”

  “Hard to say,” Mike replied, “but ‘mixed emotions’ would be my guess.” He suddenly yanked his hands out of his pockets and hung them from his hips. “Tell you what, though, I’m royally pissed about it.”

  “What have you got to be pissed at?”

  “I’ve mentioned Voss and his march at least twice a week since his announcement. And I’m Catholic, for chrissakes. You’ve barely mentioned him at all, but it’s your sponsor that’s pledged to help fund the march. Then again, your sponsor is also your boyfriend.”

  Kathryn itched to point out that Connolly was only a lip-service Catholic, and everybody knew that he was a lush and a homo, and that he had no radio show to sponsor, so what the hell was he getting so hot under the collar for? But they were in public and she could see a quartet of frumpy housewives marshaling the courage to approach her for an autograph. And anyway, she realized, Mike Connolly was not the villain here.

  The villain was in a sleek office on Wilshire Boulevard. If she hurried, she could catch him before he went to lunch.

  * * *

  Driving south on La Brea Avenue, Kathryn spotted a payphone and pulled over. She called the Reporter’s offices and asked Cassandra on reception if there had been a press release announcing Sunbeam’s sponsorship of the Voss march.

  Yes, there was.

  Yes, they had.

  No, there were no messages from Leo.

  It took effort, but by the time she’d parked outside the Sunbeam building, Kathryn had recouped her poise. Leo’s secretary wasn’t at her desk, but his office door was open, so she strode straight in. He looked up from the papers in front of him. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”

  “I was at Grauman’s for Ava Gardner.”

  “You haven’t been into the office yet?”

  She stood quite still as she watched the pen tremble between his fingers.

  Eventually, he pulled out one of his visitor chairs. “In that case, I’ve got news.”

  Instead of taking a seat, Kathryn kicked Leo’s office door shut and dropped her handbag onto his desk. “You know where I learned about your lousy sponsorship deal? In the middle of Grauman’s forecourt. From Winchell. Do you need a moment to picture the sanctimonious look on his face? It was the exact same look I got from Mike Connolly when he confirmed it.”

  She started tugging at the fingers of her gloves. She didn’t like wearing them but in moments like these, they were useful for underscoring her points.

  “You might have picked up the phone and said, ‘Hello, my darling, just thought you’d like to know . . . ’” She slapped her gloves against the palm of her hand. “Jesus, Leo, there are plenty of events you can sponsor. If you’re so hot for marches, what about the March of Dimes? But Voss’? Really? You know who he is. You know how I feel. And yet you go right ahead and sponsor a dishonest, manipulative phony who’s only motive is to—to . . .”

  He took advantage of the break in her salvo.

  “Shut up! Shut up! Just shut UP!”

  Open-mouthed, she dropped into a chair.

  “Sorry,” he said, looking at his clasped hands.

  “You think I don’t have a point?” she asked.

  “Of course you do. But hear me out.”

  “This had better be good.”

  “None of this was run past me. It all happened with my boss and my boss’ boss.”

  “You’re Mister Public Relations, Advertising, and Marketing. How could they not include you?”

  “Don’t th
ink that wasn’t the first question out of my mouth. I told them that I had good reason to suspect Voss was doing this march for unscrupulous motives, and that Kathryn Massey will most definitely not be okay with this.”

  “So they just ignored you?”

  “It was already done. Voss himself went directly to the head of the company. At any rate, there was nothing I could do. We just have to accept the deal.”

  “What is the deal?”

  “We’re now one of three sponsors for the Sea to Shining Sea March, and you’re required to mention it on each of your weekly radio shows.”

  “Required?”

  Outside Leo’s office window stretched a picture-postcard vista of Hollywood from Culver City in the west across to the downtown skyline. It was hard to see the buildings through the smog.

  “It’s been a long while since I’ve read my contract,” she said, “but there must be some loophole or other.”

  Leo pointed to the papers on his desk. “I was looking for exactly that, but darling, I’m afraid there isn’t.”

  She got to her feet and gathered up her handbag and gloves. “I feel betrayed. Maybe not by you specifically, but certainly by the company you represent.”

  This was the first time she wasn’t confident that Leo’s loyalties lay wholly with her. She needed time to sort that out and decide what she could do.

  “So for now,” she said, standing, “I think it’s best that we separate our personal lives from our professional ones.”

  He pulled her back into the chair and took the one next to her, their knees brushing together. “Business Theory 101: Turn a negative into an opportunity.”

  A voice in Kathryn’s head that sounded suspiciously like Gwennie’s told her that he deserved a chance to speak. “Go on.”

  “Your show is no longer in the top ten. Two weeks ago it came in at number eighteen, and once it crashes out of the top twenty-five, Sunbeam-Betty Crocker can cancel our sponsorship with no advance warning.”

  “I would rather lose my show than endorse that shyster—oh! You’re telling me that all I need to do is put out a bunch of rotten shows, and let Window on Hollywood fall out of the top twenty-five. Problem solved. I love Business Theory 101!”