Citizen Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 3)

by Martin Turnbull

  Hedda blinked, and admitted she did.

  “Allow me to cut to the chase,” Orson said with a snake charmer’s smile. “My first picture will be Heart of Darkness. I assume you’ve read the novel?” Hedda nodded, but Kathryn doubted she’d even heard of it, much less read it. “As for this rumor that I’m making a movie based on Hearst, it is absolutely untrue. And, might I add, if I were to make such a picture, I would use Joseph Pulitzer as my model. Pulitzer’s life was a much deeper well of despicable malevolence from which I could draw. And he’s dead, so who’s going to sue me?” Orson let out a showy sigh. “I’m glad we’ve had this chat.”

  As she stood there watching Orson pour out the Welles charm like syrup on pancakes, it occurred to Kathryn that, out on the sidewalk when she asked him if he was making a movie about Hearst, he’d answered her question with a question. And now he was telling Hedda that this Hearst rumor was absolutely untrue. Did this mean he had no problem lying to Hedda but drew the line at lying to her? She really didn’t care what he told empty-headed Hedda, but Sheilah Graham was a whole different game of Russian roulette.

  Orson turned to Kathryn and suggested they head into the Blossom Room. He offered her his arm, doffed his hat to Hedda and Sheilah, and led her away.

  “Impressive,” she said as they wound through the crowd, “assuming you were telling the truth.”

  “Miss Massey!” Orson exclaimed. “Garters like Hedda Hopper wouldn’t know the truth if it bit them on the ass and gave them rabies.”

  “I agree,” Kathryn said. “There’s only one problem as far as I can see.”

  “Which is?”

  “Sheilah Graham writes for the North American Newspaper Alliance syndicate. She’s probably in nearly seventy newspapers by now. My dear Mr. Welles, Sheilah Graham is no garter.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Marcus directed the taxi driver to the Sunset Strip, then settled into the back seat next to Kathryn, who was fanning herself with the cardboard program from Gone with the Wind’s premiere.

  She looked gorgeous in her calf-length gown of silver silk with a black lace overlay. The corsage of tiny red baby roses he gave her seemed to make her skin glow. Then again, he thought, it’s probably not the roses.

  “I wish Gwendolyn could have joined us,” she said.

  Marcus nodded. “It’s the only thing that would’ve made this night complete.”

  Everyone from Mary Pickford to Fanny Brice, Cesar Romero to Howard Hughes was at the premiere. As Marcus escorted Kathryn along the long flower-decked canopy to the theater, he joked that his face was the only one he didn’t recognize. When the flashbulbs of the press photographers exploded like a lightning storm, they discovered they were just in front of Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, who was draped in a wrap of stippled gold. Marcus and Kathryn stood at the top of the theater’s walkway and watched the pair negotiate toward them. As they passed by, Clark slowed down long enough to tell Kathryn, “Still not buying it.” He was referring to the story she’d invented about taking a friend to the movies and discovering to her “unmitigated astonishment” that she was seated in the very theater Selznick had chosen for the surprise preview.

  Anticipation filled every corner and crack of the Carthay Circle Theater. The Riverside crowd had been enthusiastic, but it was no match for tonight’s tuxedo-and-ermine constellation. Every name on the screen inspired an eruption of applause and cheers so thunderous that hardly anybody could hear Vivien’s first lines. And at the end, the deafening acclaim seemed to go on forever.

  They were still recounting the evening’s highlights when their car pulled up outside the Trocadero. Kathryn blinked at something outside Marcus’ window and pointed toward the sidewalk. “Is that Gwendolyn?”

  Gwendolyn was standing on the sidewalk in front of the Trocadero, decked out in a billowing green and white flowered hoop dress that looked exactly like Scarlett O’Hara’s barbeque gown. She was flanked by a half dozen press photographers who were snapping pictures of her with Cesar Romero and Joan Crawford, but her face lit up when she saw Marcus and Kathryn emerge from their taxi.

  “Surprise!”

  “What’s all this?” Kathryn asked, straightening Gwendolyn’s muslin ruffles. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I wasn’t sure until this afternoon,” Gwendolyn said. “I was whining to the countess that you two were both getting to go to the premiere and the party and I was being left out in the cold. Then she said she knows the maître d’ here real well.”

  Marcus and Kathryn swapped glances. “You mean Ben Siegel?” Marcus whispered, leaning in.

  Gwendolyn shook her head. “I asked her flat out if she meant him, but she just laughed and told me to leave it to her. I got a telegram right after you left tonight telling me to be here at five o’clock, and when I did, they had this dress for me. The maître d’ assured me it’s from the movie and everything!”

  “That’s our Gwennie,” Kathryn laughed. “The Never Say Die girl. You look like a vision.”

  Gwendolyn gave a pained look. “I’d curtsey, but this corset won’t barely let me breathe.”

  Marcus took a step back to behold the green velvet sash that cinched Gwendolyn’s middle. “Look at your waist!” She looked paler than he’d ever seen her, but she was obviously thrilled she wasn’t missing out on the biggest night on Hollywood’s social calendar.

  Just then, Fanny Brice and her escort pulled up and Gwendolyn excused herself. Marcus and Kathryn made their way through the front doors of the Trocadero and into a sea of chattering faces obscured under opaque clouds of cigarette smoke. Benny Goodman and his band crowded the stage; they were playing a laidback “In the Still of the Night” that was giving way to a slow-tempo “I Got Rhythm,” but Marcus could barely hear them over the din.

  “I hope she’s okay in that corset,” Kathryn yelled into his ear.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much,” Marcus replied. “If Vivien Leigh could make an entire movie in those corsets, our plucky little Gwendolyn can hold up for a few hours. Let’s find ourselves a drink.”

  “You better skedaddle.” Kathryn’s voice turned hoarse. “Hedda Hopper is marching in our direction. She’ll either want to talk about her damned radio show or Orson. GO!”

  Marcus worked his way toward the bar, scanning the crowd for Hugo, who hadn’t been at the studio for the past few weeks. His father had come down with both influenza and pneumonia, a real concern for someone whose lungs were dramatically weakened during the Spanish Flu pandemic, not to mention a lifetime’s worth of Cuban cigars.

  Everyone was buzzing with the thrill of the premiere. The word “Oscar” was being thrown around like confetti. Marcus had just nabbed a champagne from a passing waiter when he spotted Hugo deep in conversation with Victor Fleming, a tall man with a high forehead and distinctive jaw line. He was the man of the hour: the director of Gone with the Wind.

  Victor Fleming and Hugo’s father went way back. They’d worked together at Metro before the MGM merger, and Hugo said Fleming was one of the only people who stuck by his father when it became clear Edwin Marr wasn’t cut out for talking pictures.

  When Hugo beckoned for him to join them, Marcus was tempted to look away. Tonight should have been George Cukor’s triumph, and it would have been, if Clark Gable hadn’t been so damned paranoid that Cukor would throw the picture Vivien’s way. Still, even George would agree—Fleming had done a hell of a job, then gone on to direct The Wizard of Oz. Although that hadn’t been the success MGM hoped for, Marcus thought it was a wonderful picture.

  “I was just congratulating Victor here on his achievement,” Hugo said.

  “If you have to congratulate me on anything,” Fleming said with a weary grin, “just applaud me on making it out of 1939 alive. Between Wizard and Wind, I’m just about done in. I want to leave town and sleep somewheres for a month.” He spotted something past Marcus’ shoulder and abruptly repositioned himself. “Will you boys do me a favor and tell me if Hedda spots me? I don
’t have the strength to deal with that bitch.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus spotted Taggert waving, and he tentatively waved back. Taggert nodded, then pointed to his wrist. When Marcus mouthed the word What?, Taggert pointed at his wrist more insistently.

  “Just so you know,” Hugo muttered. “Hedda at five o’clock.”

  Victor sighed. “I don’t have the energy left for that old crow. There must be a back door I can sneak out of.”

  “Right behind you,” Marcus told him. “Beyond the busboy station, there’s a door to Billy Wilkerson’s old office. Kathryn Massey told me that right past it is the kitchen, then the back alley.”

  As Fleming took off, Marcus looked over at Taggert again. Taggert pointed to his wrist once more, mouthing something over and over. It looked like “Fuck you! Fuck you!” but his face was saying, “This is unbelievable!”

  Just as Fleming sneaked away, an MGM face that Hugo knew but Marcus didn’t joined them, giving Marcus an opportunity to melt into the crowd. He shouldered his way toward Taggert, who was now talking with Cesar Romero.

  “What’s with all the finger pointing?” Marcus asked.

  Taggert rolled his eyes. “Cufflinks! I was trying to get you to see Hugo’s cufflinks.”

  Marcus eyed his boss. Since the day at Taggert’s house, there had been a change in the guy. A sort of softening around the edges, as though he’d started to find that his hard-ass drill-sergeant routine was too much bother. Taggert never brought up Hoppy’s name, so Marcus pretended that day had never happened. But he’d never seen Taggert so drunk before, and wasn’t sure where this conversation might lead. “Why?”

  Taggert pulled the sleeve of Marcus’ dress shirt down to expose the cuff. He held up Marcus’ wrist to show Cesar. Cesar inspected the cufflink and nodded. “Hugo’s are exactly the same.”

  The day Marcus received his first thousand-a-week paycheck, he headed down to Coulter’s on Wilshire and bought the pair he’d been hankering after. They were square, about the size of a nickel, with an M engraved in the middle. Marcus shook his head. “Why would Hugo have cufflinks engraved with an M?”

  “His last name starts with M,” Taggert pointed out. “I’m telling you, they’re exactly the same. These are platinum, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He came bouncing into my office, couldn’t wait to show me his.”

  “Why would he bother you with something like that?”

  Cesar Romero gave out a snort of a laugh and Taggert grinned. “In certain circles, I’m known for my collection of cufflinks.” He pulled at his sleeves and showed Marcus a pair of white gold cufflinks with three emeralds embedded across the top to form a triangle. “I had these made especially for tonight. Gentlemen, you are looking at pair number six hundred.”

  Cesar asked, “Did you know your boss is nuttier than a fruitcake?” then let out a roar of a laugh. “Not to mention fruitier than a nutcake.”

  Taggert didn’t smile. “Anyhow,” he said, “I suggest you find a way to check out Hugo’s cufflinks. I’m telling you—”

  “One pair of cufflinks doesn’t prove your theory.”

  “Tip of the iceberg,” Taggert said.

  Benny Goodman halted his band and announced that David Selznick wanted to say a few words, and would people please gather in the main room. The surge of the crowd pushed Marcus toward the dance floor as Selznick approached the microphone. He was a tall man, over six feet, but he looked drawn and pale and noticeably thinner. Producing Gone with the Wind had been a monumental undertaking that had almost annihilated his health, his marriage, and his sanity. He’d survived the marathon production, and from the beaming smile plastered on his face, felt all the sacrifice had been worth it.

  “This won’t take long,” he told the cheering crowd, “but I cannot let this night go by without some words of thanks. The Atlanta and New York premieres were exciting— however, gathered here tonight are many of the people who worked so hard on our motion picture, and I wish to thank them.”

  As Selznick spoke, Marcus surveyed the faces. Eventually he eyed Hugo to his left, about ten people in from the edge of the dance floor. He was with a blonde in a dark honey dress. Marcus inched through the crowd and as Selznick wound up his speech, Marcus hovered just behind Hugo, peering down toward his wrists. He could see Hugo’s cufflinks, but couldn’t make out any detail. Part of him knew that he and Hugo had been friends long enough for him to be able to just come out and ask Hugo what was going on with the cufflinks. But what if Taggert was right? He slipped off one of his own and put it in his pocket.

  “And one last thank you to my wife, Irene,” Selznick said, “without whom none of us would be standing here tonight, least of all me. Thank you, and enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Marcus nudged Hugo’s back.

  Hugo swiveled around. “Well, hello!” They watched the crowd disperse into knots of threes and fours again. “Fun party.”

  “It would be more fun if I could find my missing cufflink,” Marcus said.

  “What’s it look like?”

  Marcus pulled back the right sleeve of his tuxedo.

  “Well, I’ll be!” He lifted his wrist and flashed his cufflink long enough to see that they were square, silver-looking, and had a fancy M engraved on the top. But were they the same? Marcus couldn’t be sure.

  Hugo said, “My father surprised me with them just last week. A thank-you gift for looking after him. Shocked the piss out of me, I don’t mind telling you. Dear old Dad’s never been the most thoughtful person. Bastard of a patient, too; nothing’s ever good enough. And then he gives me these.”

  “But shouldn’t they have an H?” Marcus asked.

  “My great-grandfather’s name was Mervyn. He gave his son—my grandpa—a pair of cufflinks like this when Grandpa turned thirty. It sort of started a family tradition. Thirtieth birthday or wedding present, whichever comes first.” Hugo stroked the top of one of the cufflinks. “I guess he figured he might not live to see me turn thirty.”

  Marcus grabbed Hugo’s wrist and slid his cufflink alongside Hugo’s.

  * * *

  Marcus lit a fresh cigarette from the one he’d just finished. He flicked the dead stub into a potted fern a few feet away and gazed absently across the crowd. That damned cufflink was exactly the same.

  “Would you mind terribly much if I bummed one of those?”

  The voice, gentle and cultured, took Marcus by surprise. He spun back to the fern and found a pair of emerald-green eyes staring out at him.

  “Only if you have one to spare,” the voice said.

  Marcus peered into the plant. “Sure.” He heard a rustle of satin, and tried to cloak his surprise when Vivien Leigh emerged from the shadows in a sequined net veil and magenta gown that caught the light and made her twinkle like fireflies from head to toe. He offered her one of his cigarettes and wondered if she’d recognize him.

  “Thanks ever so,” she said, accepting a Chesterfield and a light. She drew in a deep breath of cigarette smoke and let it out slowly from behind her veil, which had slipped to one side. She thrust her hand out. “Hello, I’m Vivien Leigh.”

  Marcus took Vivien’s long, slim hand and shook it. “I imagine you’re the last person who needs to introduce herself tonight.”

  “I expect so,” Vivien sighed, “but it would be the height of arrogance, don’t you think?”

  “So why is the belle of the ball hiding in here?”

  Vivien grimaced. “I broke my own rule: never wear new shoes if I’m likely to be on my feet half the night. I knew I was in trouble before the Civil War even broke out.” She angled her head to a pair of discarded patent leather pumps. “I couldn’t abide wearing them one second longer.” She studied Marcus’ face. “We’ve met, haven’t we?”

  “Briefly,” Marcus admitted. “The day you shot the Atlanta railway scene. I’m the guy who had the message from George Cukor.”

  Her eyes—a magnificent shade of green, even i
n the dim light of this out-of-the-way corner of the Trocadero—flew open. “Of course! How are you? You really saved my bacon that day. I was completely at sixes and sevens until you flagged me down.” She gazed out among the chattering crowd. “I’ve thought about George several times tonight. This whole thing has been a huge triumph, but I can’t help thinking it should be George’s.”

  “Miss Leigh,” Marcus said, “I could not agree more.”

  Vivien rewarded him with one of her winning Scarlett smiles. “I’m so glad you think so. Remind me of your name.”

  “Marcus Adler.”

  “And what brings you to my secret little hideaway?”

  “It’s a long story and—”

  “The longer the story, the more time I have before I must climb back into those horrid shoes.”

  Part of Marcus didn’t want to burden her with his personal worries. But on the other hand, who was he to deny the girl who was poised to become the most famous actress in America?

  “A friend of mine is starting to duplicate my wardrobe. I didn’t believe it until I saw that we’re wearing the same cufflinks tonight. I needed a quiet corner to think about the possible implications.”

  “Seems to me it’s all rather flattering.” Vivien helped herself to another Chesterfield. “Someone thinks you’ve got extremely good taste.”

  “That’s possible.” Marcus lit up another cigarette of his own.

  “So this chap, is he a good friend? Close, are you?”

  Marcus thought about the day Hugo took him to the Friendship and risked telling him he was queer. “I guess.”

  “Then hang onto him,” Vivien said. “Good friends are a valuable commodity. Especially in this town.”

  “I suspect you might be right.”

  Vivien returned to her chair and started to squeeze back into her shoes. “Speaking of friends, I hope that lass out front has some at this party.” She stood up. “Did you see her, the one in my dress? Someone told me she fainted dead away right there on the street. Keeled over in front of all those photographers.”