She shook his hand. “I guess I owe you my career in a funny sort of way.”
He’d always been silently proud of that. “William Tell is also mine.” Marcus didn’t miss the eagerness flicker across Melody’s eyes.
She took a step closer to him. “I know writers have very little sway when it comes to casting, but perhaps you could bring up my name?”
“As it happens, I was one of the hundred and fifty people they let go last month.”
“Oh.” Melody’s frown seemed genuine. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”
* * *
Marcus knocked on the mahogany door marked 2B at the Garden Court Apartments. It opened up to reveal a girl with a broad face, thick lips, and dark eyebrows that were in desperate need of judicious plucking. No one would ever describe her as pretty, but a generous sprinkling of freckles gave her face character.
“Hello, I’m Marcus. You must be Albertina.”
The girl waved him inside. “Please call me Bertie.” She closed the front door with a hip thump. “I love intrigue!”
“So Melody’s told you the story?”
“Uh huh. We realized we needed a sign that Mayer’s pulled up out back. So, two quick knocks on this wall here followed by two slow ones is your sign to hurry out into the corridor.”
Bertie took Marcus on a tour of her huge living room. The wall-to-wall carpeting was luxuriously textured with an autumn-leaf pattern so thick it made him want to take off his shoes and dig his toes into the pile. A lustrous black baby grand piano in the corner glowed in the sunlight filtering through lace curtains, and several oak bookcases lined the walls. Oddly, though, the place smelled like a beer garden.
“So, aspiring actress?” he asked politely.
“Are you kidding? With this face?” She spread her mouth into a smile that revealed tombstone teeth with gaps wide enough to insert a dime.
“Oh, come on,” Marcus said. “Don’t put yourself down like that.”
She laughed. “Oh sure, me and Marie Dressler, right? Nah, I leave that business to the glamour girls like Miss Melody next door. They compete on a level that’s out of my reach.”
She led him to the center of the room, where two extra-long sofas in deep green velvet faced each other.
“So what do you do, Bertie?”
Bertie laughed. “Pretty much whatever I want.” She pushed him lightly, but with enough force to land him on a sofa. She jumped onto it next to him like an eager puppy. “You heard of Krueger’s canned beer, right?”
Krueger’s had been the first brewer to come out with canned beer a few years back. It had been slow to take off, but now it was everywhere. “Sure.”
“Mr. Krueger’s my dad.”
Marcus heard two quick knocks on the wall, then two slow ones. “Wasn’t that the sign?” he asked Bertie.
“Nope.”
“So what was—?”
He went to stand up but Bertie grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back down. “Beats me, cutie-patootie-pie!” She lunged toward him, her horsey mouth gaping open. Marcus tried to grab her shoulders, but his hands slid down her silk blouse and slipped onto her breasts. They were horrifically large and unrestricted by a brassiere. They felt heavy and squishy.
“Atta boy! Straight for the big guns. I like that in a fella!”
They tousled around the sofa and ended up squirming on the floor. Marcus could hear Melody loudly call out, “Well, helloo-OO!”
“Bertie!” Marcus struggled to pull himself out from under the girl, but apparently she enjoyed her father’s product. “I’ve got to get out there to see Mayer.”
“Mayer-schmayer,” Bertie said. “What I got’s more interesting.” Bertie made a dive for Marcus’ wrists, but he managed to scramble backwards like a turned-over crab, picked himself up and headed for the door. He pulled it open and charged out into the corridor. It was empty.
He felt Bertie take his right hand but he yanked it away from her. “Will you just quit it?” The top three buttons of her blouse were undone, revealing much more of her breasts than Marcus cared to see. He stared at Melody’s door. Mayer was on the other side of it, but he might as well be on the other side of the country. “It was very important I talk to Mr. Mayer. My whole job depended on it.”
“So get a different job,” she said.
Marcus spun around and faced Bertie. “Have you ever even had one?”
“Good golly, no.”
Marcus leaned against the wall. “Some jobs are about more than just getting a paycheck. I enjoyed mine and I want it back.”
Bertie swung a flabby arm. “So go in there and get it.”
“I was going to, but you jumped me.”
“I’m sorry; I thought you were giving me the go-ahead.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
Bertie let out a burp of a laugh. “Oh, I get it. Tutti-frutti, huh?”
“What?”
“Powderpuff? Sidesaddle? Nancypants?” Marcus started to blush. “Yeah, I should have known. You’re cute and you’re nice. Jeez, I’m sorry. One of these days I’ll learn to ask before I pounce. Okay, so explain to me why you’d want to go back to MGM, because apparently they don’t want you.”
Marcus rested his head against the wall. “There’s something there I need to finish.”
“Now, that I get.” She knocked three times on Melody’s door, landed an encouraging punch on his shoulder, and disappeared inside her apartment.
He heard Melody call out, “Can you get the door?” then Mayer’s footsteps. He watched the doorknob turn and reminded himself about No More Mr. Nice Guy.
“Yes?” Mayer asked, and then looked at Marcus for a beat. “Oh, it’s you.” Mayer frowned, his face turning red.
“I . . . ah . . . I’m a friend of Melody’s and I was walking past the building just now when I remembered Melody was complaining about a broken hinge. So I stopped by to see if I could fix it for her.”
Mayer sucked on his bottom teeth. “This building has a superintendent. I’m sure whatever needs fixing—”
Marcus and Mayer eyed each other like a couple of cantankerous mountain goats. Very, very slowly, Marcus raised his eyebrows.
“I value discretion pretty much above all other traits,” Mayer said. “Discretion and loyalty. They’re right up there in my book.”
“That’s something you and I have in common, Mr. Mayer.” A long pause. Marcus continued. “Especially loyalty. So you can imagine my disappointment when I found myself on the chopping block last month. Did you know I was the one who came up with William Tell?”
“You’re no longer at MGM.” Mayer said it with such deliberation that Marcus couldn’t tell if he was reiterating an inarguable fact or posing a question.
“Mr. Mayer, I don’t want to dredge up the past, but do you remember what happened during the filming of Camille?” Mayer gave Marcus an up-down-up, but didn’t say anything. “There was a situation. With Mr. Cukor.”
Mayer’s response was a memory resurfacing in his steely piggy eyes.
No More Mr. Nice Guy. “George was in a tough jam, and of all the people he could have turned to, he contacted me. I helped him out of that predicament with nobody the wiser.”
Melody, bless her cotton-pickin’ little heart, chose that moment to appear behind Mayer in a pink satin dressing gown covered with tiny black bows. She looked at them both expectantly.
“Melody, honey, could you give us a minute?” Mayer said quietly.
As Melody withdrew into the bedroom, Mayer turned to face Marcus again.
“Mr. Mayer,” Marcus said, careful not to blink. “I would greatly value the opportunity to prove my loyalty once more.”
CHAPTER 23
Gwendolyn wanted to hate Alice. She tried to work up enough loathing to conjure ways to get the bitch back for what she’d done, but try as she might, Gwendolyn didn’t have it in her. Does this mean I’m too nice to stay in Hollywood? she pondered. Probably. In the end, she dec
ided that if Alice had to go through life a mean, petty, competitive, and devious backstabber, well, that was probably revenge enough.
Now that her search for Hollywood glory was over, there hardly seemed any point in going out. What for? In the hope that she might catch the eye of a director of casting at Paramount or Fox? To be noticed by Louis Mayer or Jack Warner? Or even the brother-in-law of the neighbor of the second cousin of the guy who knows a guy who’s married to the kid sister of the girl who answers the phones for the yes man who’s third in charge of publicity at RKO? It all seemed so pointless now, and there was something to be said for sitting on the sofa and listening to The Jack Benny Show on the radio while studying a map of the Philippines. There was a lot to think about. Where would she live? What sort of work could she get there? Should she learn the local language? What did they even speak over there?
On the Friday before the July Fourth long weekend, when Kathryn insisted she come out with her, Gwendolyn’s first reaction was to say no. But she could see that Kathryn was only doing her duty as a best friend by trying to bolster her spirits, so it seemed callous to turn her down.
Kathryn walked into their bathroom for a last-minute makeup check. “Almost ready?”
Gwendolyn let go of her zipper. “Listen, I appreciate the gesture and all—”
“Let me help you out there.” Kathryn ran the zipper the rest of the way up and fastened the hooks into place. “I’m not taking no for an answer. You’ve got five minutes.”
Kathryn swept out of the room and Gwendolyn followed her. “You haven’t said where we’re going.”
Kathryn flashed a cat-with-cream smile. “No, I haven’t.” She pulled on a cashmere evening wrap and led Gwendolyn outside, down the stairs, and past the pool. She didn’t say a word as they walked into the main building and took a sharp left to the heavy wooden doors of the Sahara Room.
The Sahara Room was the Garden of Allah’s watering hole, a large, dimly lit room that had earned a reputation as the best place on Sunset Boulevard to take a potential paramour. Nobody could see you at the Sahara Room, and if they could, nobody would care. It was, after all, the Garden of Allah; morning, noon and night, the doors were always open. But not this evening.
Kathryn opened one of the doors and Gwendolyn was surprised to find every light in the place on. Chatter and laughter swamped her like a summer breeze and her gloomy mood lifted for the first time in weeks.
The first person she saw was Marcus, looking spiffy in the navy blue pinstripe she’d helped him pick out and his lucky purple tie. She was surprised to see him chatting with Donnie Ogden Stewart, who, she suspected, was the object of his professional envy. Poor Marcus hadn’t heard yet if his brave scheme to get back into MGM had worked, but she thought him awfully audacious for trying.
“Gwendolyn!” Marcus exclaimed, forgetting about the bourbon on the rocks in his hand; half of it sloshed out of the glass when he raised his arms in welcome.
Almost on cue, more than thirty familiar faces turned to Gwendolyn at the same time. Applause rippled through the gathering as Gwendolyn turned to Kathryn. “My birthday isn’t for months.”
“Yes,” Kathryn said, “but by then you’ll probably be in the Philippines.”
“So this is a—”
“Surprise!”
The deep voice to her left made her jump. Errol Flynn was striding toward her. During an outdoor marathon cribbage party in the Garden one night, someone mentioned that he and his spitfire of a wife, Lili Damita, were going through one of their rough patches and he was taking refuge at the Garden again.
“You look as delectable as ever!” he exclaimed.
And so are you, Gwendolyn thought, accepting the kiss he planted on her cheek. He turned to the crowd. “Our girl of the moment has arrived!” he exclaimed. “Please allow me to lead you all in a rousing trio of cheers.”
With arms raised like a conductor, Errol steered the crowd in a chorus of hoorays. Gwendolyn felt she had no choice but to accept them graciously, even though she had to wonder why anybody thought it appropriate to cheer a woman turning thirty.
She spotted Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker huddled in a booth with an actor friend of theirs, Charlie Butterworth, who was building a fine career playing the hero’s best friend at an ever-revolving succession of studios around town. Kathryn had disappeared—Now that she’s dragged me in here, she deserts me?—so she headed toward the booth when someone caught her by each arm. It was Marcus on her left and Errol on her right.
“Not so fast, missy!” Errol said.
“What’s next?” Gwendolyn asked. “Is Clark Gable going to come jumping out of a cake?”
She felt Marcus squeeze her elbow. “Maybe some other time,” he said with a quiet smile, “but for now . . .” He nodded his head to the right.
Gwendolyn looked across to see Kathryn walking toward her. With her was a nicely-dressed gent in his forties, greying hair neatly parted, and wearing a smile. It was Bill Brockton from Warners.
Seeing him again resurrected the flashes of memory that stabbed at her heart whenever she thought of that day. Gwendolyn scoured Kathryn with her eyes. Why on earth would you invite him?
If Kathryn caught Gwendolyn’s meaning, she ignored it. “You remember Bill, don’t you?”
Gwendolyn nodded and accepted a warm hug. He looked at her for an uncomfortably long moment, then turned to the crowd and raised his voice.
“EVERYBODY,” Bill called out. “The moment is at hand.” The Garden of Allah crowd was chatty and uncontrollable at the best of times, let alone with a few drinks under its belt. But for Brockton, it quieted down inside a couple of seconds.
“For those of you who don’t know me,” he said, “my name is Bill Brockton, and I’m over at Warners.” He raised a sheet of paper in his hand. “I have here something I would like to read out to you. It is from my boss, Max Arnow, director of casting.”
Gwendolyn felt her lungs empty of every last molecule. She pressed a hand to her cheek. Please don’t let me be the runner up. I could stand anything but that.
Brockton cleared his throat.
“Dear Miss Brick, it is my utmost pleasure to inform you that you are the winning candidate in our recent Face of the Forties competition.” The crowd broke out in a thunderclap of applause. Brockton continued, “Your charm, your candor, your personality—not to mention your disarming spunk—showed us that you were exactly the girl we were searching for to embody the Warner Brothers spirit as we move into an exciting new decade. Your prize includes a check for one thousand dollars, a six-page layout in Photoplay magazine, a full day’s shopping at Bullock’s Wilshire, and a part in a Warner movie. Congratulations! Signed, Jack Warner.”
The next fifteen minutes were a blurry mosaic of smiling faces, handshakes, kissed cheeks, hugs and cheers. Somebody handed her a handkerchief to dab away tears she was barely aware she was shedding. And somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard her own voice repeat over and over.
My moment.
My break.
It’s here.
CHAPTER 24
Marcus sat on the streetcar heading west, his eyes closed, and his head filled with long, sleek arrows. They had needle-sharp heads and fins made from dark-brown partridge feathers. He could hear them slice the air with a whooshing sound, then hit the painted target with a snapping thud.
Now that the two longest months of his life were over, ideas for William Tell avalanched out of him at such a rate that he’d taken to carrying pencil and paper with him. He couldn’t wait to get back to his old desk. He opened his eyes at the intersection of Washington and Culver. Only a couple more blocks.
At least one good thing came out of forced unemployment, he told himself. You learned you weren’t cut out for a life of leisure.
Not having something to think about, to slug his way through, had felt like drowning in Jell-O. Without a movie to occupy his thoughts, he’d spent too much time brooding over Hugo and Hugo’s motives for sayi
ng what he’d said to Ramon. Hugo still hadn’t surfaced, and until he did, there was nothing Marcus could do. But that hadn’t stopped him from chewing over every conversation they’d ever had, recalling every stitch of Hugo’s wardrobe and every thoughtless comment and random smirk he’d pulled.
Marcus knew he’d wasted too much time and drunk his way through too much bourbon over a mess he couldn’t fix, but without something else to distract him, it was hard to sit alone in his villa and not mull over it. But that was all over now. A few days ago he’d received a telegram telling him to report for work at MGM on Monday. No More Mr. Nice Guy had taken a chance, and it paid off.
Marcus’ streetcar pulled up to the studio’s main entrance on Washington Boulevard, where ten Corinthian columns were lined up along the street. He jumped off the streetcar like a fifteen-year-old and smiled at the security guard.
“Marcus Adler, reporting for work.”
The guard checked his clipboard. “You need to report to personnel first.”
“No need,” Marcus said. “I know my way around.”
The guard shook his head and held up his list of expected visitors: SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS: Direct Mr. Adler to the Personnel Department.
* * *
Marcus found himself facing a gum-chewing teenager in a henna-rinsed hairdo twenty years too old for her. “Oh, yeah.” She snapped her gum. “You’re to report to Mr. Cohn’s office.”
“Joe Cohn?” Marcus asked. “The guy who runs the B picture unit?”
The girl turned schoolmarm on him. “Mr. Mayer forbids the use of the term ‘B picture.’”
Marcus wanted to remind the girl that he’d worked at MGM since before she was in pigtails. “Why am I reporting to him?”
She shrugged. “You need directions?”
Marcus informed her that no, he did not need directions. Maybe they had a B script they needed pumping up into an A. He’d managed to do that with The Pistol from Pittsburgh and Three O’Clock in the Morning, Mayer’s pet title that Marcus turned into a mystery about a family of luckless jewel thieves. It wasn’t half bad.
Citizen Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 3) Page 17
