Last week at the Garden of Allah, Robert Benchley had thrown a dinner party for Dorothy Parker, who was returning to Hollywood with her husband for the summer. Naturally, the only topic of conversation was Citizen Kane, and it turned into a parlor game of naming the people after whom Orson could have modeled various characters in the movie.
“Speaking as someone who’s actually seen this picture we’re getting all hot under the collar over, I can tell you that the lives of each of the men I just mentioned all have parallels in the story of Charles Foster Kane. And, in fact, isn’t it entirely possible that Orson Welles and Herman Mankiewicz—let’s not forget, Orson didn’t make this picture all by himself—perhaps they drew on the lives of all these men to create the character of Kane?”
Pairs of women seated around the table began to glance at each other and swap what Kathryn interpreted as looks of She’s got a point there. Louella remained silent.
“And much has been made of Orson’s depiction of Marion Davies,” Kathryn persisted. “But what about Ganna Walska? She was a singer who married into the Chicago Tribune family. Her husband spent a fortune promoting her and even bought her an opera house, where she bombed.” Kathryn silently thanked Benchley for that particular gem. “For the benefit of those of you who haven’t seen Citizen Kane, my description of Ganna Walska almost exactly matches the character played by Dorothy Comingore.”
Kathryn grabbed her gloves, handbag, and hat. “Mark my words, ladies, it will be a very long time before anyone creates a film to rival Citizen Kane. It is the most breathtaking achievement in motion pictures I have ever seen. If you want my two cents’ worth, I suggest you examine your conscience before you criticize a masterpiece you’ve not even seen.”
* * *
When Kathryn marched back into the Hollywood Reporter’s offices, the receptionist started to tell her something, but Kathryn cut her off with “Not now!” She was standing at her desk yanking off her gloves one finger at a time when the intercom buzzed.
“Massey!” It was Wilkerson. “My office. NOW!”
It’s possible he’s already heard, she told herself. You’re still upset, and the last thing you need to do is show up flustered.
She took a moment to run a brush through her hair—the bristles soothed her as they grazed along her scalp—then trekked up the corridor to her boss’ expansive office. “You rang?”
Wilkerson took his time getting to his feet. She hoped it meant he was relaxed, but his clenched fists suggested otherwise. “What the hell happened to Switzerland?” His voice was raw, straining from the control.
“Are we talking about the luncheon I’ve just come fr—?”
“After I expressly told you to be the neutral one.”
Kathryn perched her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry, boss, I couldn’t help it. But I can explain.”
“That’s an explanation we’d all like to hear.” With an exaggerated sweep of his hand, Wilkerson indicated that she should look behind her. The top dogs of both MGM and Twentieth Century Fox sat behind her like a pair of disapproving uncles.
This isn’t a meeting, she decided, it’s an ambush.
Mayer crossed his arms. “Did you know what Kane was about the night of the Palladium opening?” he asked. “Is that why you wanted to speak with Welles?” He no longer looked like the foxtrotting charmer with the manicured nails.
“Mr. Mayer, I wanted to speak with Orson because I’d heard rumors he was making a movie based on Hearst. I wanted to hear it from him.”
“And did you?”
Kathryn tilted her head. “Have you ever tried to get a straight answer out of Orson Welles?”
“What I want to know is whose side is she on.” Zanuck punctuated the word with a jab of his lit cigar, but addressed his question to Wilkerson.
Kathryn didn’t wait for her boss to reply. “Hollywood should be rushing to Orson’s side, not deserting him like he’s got the pox.”
“How do you figure?” Zanuck demanded.
“What Orson is doing with Citizen Kane is demonstrating the pointlessness of amassing more and more stuff just for the sake of it. At the end of his life, Kane’s most precious possession was his simple childhood snow sled.”
“Which he called Rosebud,” Mayer thundered, “and we all know what that refers to.”
“Yes,” Kathryn conceded quietly. “Orson was cruel to overstep the line there. But the point is, Citizen Kane is an inspired picture.” Kathryn eyed Mayer and Zanuck. “And you both know it. You get to make whatever the hell movies you want, because here in America we have the right to say what we think. That’s all Orson’s done, and yet you want to shut him down.”
“Kathryn,” Wilkerson said, “don’t be so naïve.”
Kathryn turned to her boss. “You think the Nazis let German filmmakers say what they want? Not only has Orson made a picture the entire film industry should be proud of, but he’s standing up for his right to make the movie he wanted to make.” She sucked in a deep breath of courage. “You all should be standing shoulder to shoulder with him, instead of cowering under Hearst and Louella and their threats to expose all your transgressions.”
Why am I even bothering? she wondered to herself. They don’t care about free speech, or elevating the art of motion pictures, or fighting ruthless newspaper monopolies. They just want to keep their well-padded asses in their expensive chairs. This isn’t the fight of Welles versus Hearst; this is the creatives versus the goddamned bean counters. Maybe Wilkerson’s right, she told herself. You are naïve.
“Can we just call a spade a fucking spade here?” Zanuck poked the lighted end of his cigar at Kathryn again. “When it comes to this whole shitstorm, your little fling with the Boy Wonder doesn’t exactly make you an impeccable source of information, does it?”
Zanuck’s words stung like a wasp. How had she not seen what she was doing the day she let herself succumb to Welles’ tsunamic charms?
“Darryl?” Wilkerson’s voice was softer than it had been in a while. “If I may? Kathryn, after Schafer rejected the offer to burn Kane, we knew the Hearst camp was going to change tactics from attacking the movie to attacking the man. They’ve already started a whisper campaign about him being a member of the Communist Party.”
“Orson?” Kathryn scoffed. “A Commie?”
“It isn’t the truth itself that matters, but the perception. And then there’s his private life.”
Kathryn could feel the whoosh of the bullet as it sliced through the air a little closer to home.
“You know how America feels about unhitched couples bunking together,” Mayer said. “Just ask Gable and Lombard.”
“You talking about Delores del Río?” Kathryn was proud that she could report on Orson’s consecutive romances without any jealousy. It made her feel terribly mature.
Mayer raised his eyebrows. “She was still married to Cedric Gibbons when she took up with Welles.” He shook his head sadly. “I warned her that Hearst mud is hard to wash out.”
“But this is hardly news,” Kathryn said. “And anyway, Cedric and Delores are divorced now, so who cares—”
“Delores isn’t the only girl Orson has stepped out with,” Wilkerson jabbed, “but only one of them writes for the Hollywood Reporter.”
CHAPTER 33
Gwendolyn wasn’t at all sure she wanted to move to the Far East or that it was the right thing to do. The indecision overwhelmed her. Some days she missed Monty terribly, and other days she knew she’d miss Kathryn and Marcus just as much. At times, she even wondered why not just stay put and get a job at the makeup counter at Robinson’s or the May Company? And on others, Gwendolyn pictured herself wandering the streets of Manila like Hedy Lamarr, the sheerest scarf in the whitest white curled loosely around her head, strolling past vendors who would stare as she ambled by. On days like those, living the life of the mysterious ex-patriot in the exotic Orient held ample appeal. But was it really like that? She wondered.
Calling long distance al
l the way to the Philippines was unthinkably expensive, and so she let the matter simmer until a Western Union messenger delivered a telegram. Monty would be arriving at Union Station on the last Saturday in April on an eight-hour shore leave. When Marcus volunteered Alla Nazimova’s silver Pierce-Arrow to pick him up, Kathryn invited herself along, too. Gwendolyn was thrilled. The four of them would be together to help her make her most important decision since Mama died and she’d trekked cross-country from Hollywood, Florida, to Hollywood, California.
As Marcus swung the sedan onto Union Station’s curved driveway, Gwendolyn spotted her baby brother straightaway. Monty cut a head-turning figure in his dark-blue uniform with all the silver trimmings. He was a seasoned navy man—fourteen years now—and carried himself like an admiral.
She gave him a moment to drink in the Pierce-Arrow, watching his eyebrows rise high on his face. Marcus had spent the morning buffing the car to an almost blinding gleam. Gwendolyn stepped out of the automobile and wrapped her arms around her big lug of a brother.
“Holy mackerel, Googie!” he exclaimed. “Did you become a big ol’ movie star without telling me?”
She laughed and turned to her friends. “You remember my roommate, Kathryn, don’t you? And this is our good friend Marcus.”
Monty shook their hands and told them how often Gwendolyn talked of them in her letters. They climbed back inside Alla’s car and Marcus pulled out of the parking lot.
“So, my little Mo-Mo,” Gwendolyn said, “we have our own transport and all of LA to explore. What do you want to see?”
Monty thought for a moment. “I want to go somewhere typically Hollywood.”
“If you want a really good hamburger, we could go to Brewer’s Café,” Gwendolyn suggested. “It’s near Columbia Studios, so we might spot Rita Hayworth.”
“Or,” Marcus added, “if it’s scantily clad women you’re after, we could go to the Florentine Gardens. Or Chasen’s—they have terrific chili, and you’re bound to spot a movie star or two.”
Monty brushed off their suggestions with a shake of his head. “In the Philippines, they wouldn’t know how to make decent ice cream if their lives depended on it. All I need to make me happy is the best hot fudge sundae in town.”
Gwendolyn and Kathryn looked at each other. “C.C. Brown’s!”
“C.C. Brown’s,” Gwendolyn explained, “is a soda fountain on Hollywood Boulevard. It’s where they invented the hot fudge sundae, and nobody’s ever made them better.”
Monty’s smile was a hundred miles wide. “As long as you have me back at Union Station by five with a belly full of hot fudge sundae, I’m a happy sailor.”
* * *
C.C. Brown’s was always busy, no matter the time or day. Brown-and-caramel-striped leather booths lined the east and west walls and floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over Hollywood Boulevard.
When Monty, Gwendolyn, and her friends arrived, they took a booth and ordered a round of sundaes. Gwendolyn let the small talk make a couple of laps around the table before she took charge. “So,” she said, “I’ve got something I want to talk about.”
“Me too,” Monty replied.
“You getting married?” Gwendolyn asked straightaway.
Monty laughed and shook his head. “God, no, Googie. I’m married to the navy. Tell me, what’s your news?”
“I’m starting to seriously consider your offer!” Gwendolyn waited for a smile to bust out on her brother’s face, but Monty just frowned like a night court judge.
“What offer?” he asked.
Gwendolyn put her hand on Monty’s. “I’m through with Hollywood! I want out.” Monty’s face was as animated as a dead palm tree. “I thought you’d be excited.”
“It’s not such a great idea anymore,” Monty said.
This was the very opposite of what she’d bargained for. “After all your speechifying?”
“You never did anything about it, so I assumed you weren’t interested.”
She picked up her paper napkin and began to tear at its edges. “Things change.”
Monty went to say something, but the waitress appeared with their sundaes. He waited until after she’d departed before he leaned forward. “We have good reason to believe the Japs are planning an invasion of Indochina,” he whispered.
Gwendolyn had no idea where Indochina was. She looked to Kathryn and Marcus for help, but they stared blankly at her. “Is that near the Philippines?”
“Right next door.”
“So you could be called into battle?” Marcus asked.
Gwendolyn felt her face go pale but then Monty suddenly leaned back and smiled. “Which brings us to my news. Come this November, I’m being transferred to Honolulu.”
Gwendolyn realized how appealing being a statuesque foreigner in an exotic locale had become. Hawaii wasn’t without its appeal, but it wasn’t the Far East. She couldn’t mask her disappointment.
Monty swallowed a loaded spoon of sundae, then said, “If you were willing to come to the Philippines, wouldn’t Hawaii be a whole lot better?”
“I guess it would,” Gwendolyn conceded. “But who’s to say in twelve months you won’t be transferred to someplace else? And where would that leave me? Stranded on my ass, even if it is paradise.”
“This is different. It’s a guaranteed five-year minimum. Could even be permanent.”
For a moment, Monty’s sky-blue eyes were full of anticipation. Then a different look flickered over his face and Gwendolyn followed it to Marcus, who had frozen. “What’s wrong?”
“Stay calm,” he said behind a spoon piled high with banana and whipped cream. “A certain someone has just walked in with his cronies. West wall. Facing you.”
Gwendolyn peered across the diner. She immediately found the face of Bugsy Siegel sitting with three dark-suited hoods. He didn’t appear to have seen Gwendolyn, but she could tell Kathryn and Marcus were wondering the same thing: was this just a coincidence?
“Who’s he?” Monty asked.
Gwendolyn thought about the way Monty spoke to those studio suits at the Cocoanut Grove; the last thing she needed was for him to get all heroic with Bugsy Siegel.
“He’s just some bozo who’s been trying to impress me.” Gwendolyn tried to sound breezy and unconcerned.
“Is this somebody you’re interested in?”
Gwendolyn threw her head back in horror. “God, no!”
“Quite the opposite,” Kathryn said.
Monty glowered. “Some guys are a bit thick when it comes to news they don’t want to hear.”
“Trust me, I’ve been crystal clear,” Gwendolyn assured him. “He’s no dummy. He’ll take the hint eventually—what are you doing?!”
Monty shot to his feet, ignoring Gwendolyn’s hoarse “NO!” She made a grab for his sleeve but missed.
“I can’t watch,” she told Marcus. “What’s he doing?”
“Siegel’s taking in all six foot four of your brother,” Marcus reported. “Monty’s leaning over him now. Oh, boy. There’s a whole lot of finger-pointing going on.”
“Does Siegel look angry?”
“He’s pressing his lips together like he’s waiting for Monty to finish talking. Oh, crap! He’s looking over here now.”
“I get the impression Siegel doesn’t take too kindly to someone standing up to him,” Kathryn put in.
Gwendolyn snorted. “It’s easy to stand up to a killer when you don’t know who the heck he is.”
She didn’t want to seem paranoid, but an avalanche of questions piled up in her mind. An ice cream parlor seemed an odd place for the alleged head of Murder, Inc., to visit. She’d seen the way Siegel’s eyes lingered on her like she was fair game, ripe for the bagging. Was this just a coincidence? Was he following her? He’d gone out of his way to alert Warner Bros. that they owed her a movie role, but nothing had come of it. Did he feel cheated that she didn’t owe him anything?
“The cronies are all squirming in their seats. They want to have a go
at Monty.”
Gwendolyn pressed her hands against her forehead. “What’s Bugsy doing?”
“He’s keeping his cool. Uh oh! Bugsy tried to stand up, but Monty shoved him back down into his seat. We need to get out of here.” Marcus looked around. “There’s no way we can leave without Siegel not seeing us, but there’s no back exit.”
Gwendolyn scooped up her purse. “When Monty looks like he’s finished talking, let’s just put our heads down and make a run for it.”
Marcus left money on the table and they beelined for the front door, making eye contact with nobody. They collected Monty on the way out, and burst onto Hollywood Boulevard; it was after five o’clock now, and office workers filled the sidewalk. The four of them hustled east, heading for Grauman’s Chinese.
Gwendolyn grabbed her brother by the arm. “Oh, Monty!” she cried out, “you have no idea what you’ve just done!”
“I don’t care who he is,” Monty said. “A gentleman doesn’t pursue a lady when the lady’s made it clear—”
“He isn’t any sort of gentleman,” Kathryn said. “He’s mafia. Probably one of the most dangerous men on the whole West Coast. He’s going to be standing trial for first-degree murder, which puts him at the top of everyone’s list of people you don’t want mad at you.”
“Hah!” Monty scoffed. “A guy like that wouldn’t last a week living my life.”
“It’s all right for you.” Marcus’ cheeks were drained of color; he stood in stark contrast to the full flush of Monty’s square-cut face. “You don’t live here.”
They were now in front of Grauman’s and looked back toward the ice cream parlor, but neither Siegel nor any of his gang had appeared. They stared up at the movie poster out front: MGM’s Ziegfeld Girl starring Lana Turner, Hedy Lamarr, and Judy Garland.
But Gwendolyn only pretended to look at the poster. In her mind, she was picturing the way Siegel had examined her from across the café. It was the same way he always did: hard-edged like a cleaver. “So, Monty,” she said out loud, “this Honolulu place, it’s not some backwater dump, is it?”
Citizen Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 3) Page 23
