“Wait here.”
The doctor disappeared, leaving Marcus to imagine the looks on Kathryn’s and Gwendolyn’s faces when he told them of his decision to run off and join the navy. He knew that when Gwendolyn had made the suggestion, she was only being flippant. But the idea had taken seed and clawed its roots deeper and deeper into Marcus’ mind. When he woke up to yet another day with nothing to look forward to, he decided he needed to pull the rug out from under his own feet. Gwendolyn was getting on with her life and it was time he did, too. He could already see the quiet good-for-you smile on her face.
The thought of Gwendolyn at the Maltese Falcon premiere made him chuckle. After she rushed out of the theater, he and Kathryn gave her a couple of moments and followed her into the deserted foyer. They found her sitting on a bench, doubled over. They rushed over, assuming she was crying, and she was—from laughter. She soon had the pair of them hooting right along with her.
Fourteen years she’d been trying to get into a movie, and when she finally did, she discovered that she was, without a doubt, the most terrible actress to have ever polluted the screen. She was so unbelievably stilted, so dreadfully wooden, and so shockingly untalented that none of them could barely believe it was the same person up there. Thanks to the Warner Bros.’ hair, makeup, and lighting experts, she looked like a dream, but in the acting department, she was a catastrophe.
Thank heavens she saw it all as a massive joke. She declared as they left the theater that seeing herself like that was “the best possible way to leave Hollywood behind.”
Kathryn, on the other hand, wasn’t likely to be a cheerleader for the military now that Roy had run off and joined the army. And not just any random part of it, but the infantry. Roy seemed the infantry type and he’d probably enjoy it, but poor Kathryn never got to say goodbye. Marcus could already see her disapproving frown and decided maybe he should get her drunk before he told her.
Marcus heard a door slam and watched the doctor approach. “Take your shirt off.”
After a cold stethoscope and some deep breaths, Marcus was told to take off his pants and underwear. The doctor shone a flashlight into Marcus’ pubic hair and at his rear end. “Pull your pants up and turn around.” When Marcus was dressed again, the doctor said, “Look at the poster on the wall over there. Read the bottom line.”
Marcus could see the poster, but that was all. “The bottom what?”
“The letters. Left to right.”
Squinting helped him see there were letters, but there was no way he could read them. “I’d only be guessing.”
“Second to last line, then.”
“Nope.”
“Middle?”
“Mmmm.”
“For crying out loud. Second from the top.”
Marcus took a shot. “J Q L—”
“You’re not even close.”
“I can probably read the top line.”
“That would put you on par with my grandmother, and she’s eighty-two.” The doctor let out a deep sigh. “Sorry, sailor, but I can’t pass you.”
Marcus watched the doctor slash a red line across his application and stamp it REJECTED. “You don’t want me either?”
Stony-faced, the doctor said, “In order to kill the enemy, you need to be able to see the enemy. With your eyesight you’d be lucky to see the Bismarck. Get thee to a spectacle maker.”
* * *
The words Eyes Over Broadway flashed red, then green, then red again while the outline of a pair of glasses flashed green, then red, then green.
“They’re the only ones I trust with my eyesight,” Dorothy Parker had told him on more than one drunken occasion. “So when the time comes for you, as it surely and sadly must, remember the name—Eyes Over Broadway—and ask for Harry Bright. Call him Bright Eyes; everyone worth their weight in vermouth does.”
The eye exam was much like the one he had endured at the navy recruiting office, but Harry Bright, a genial guy with a shock of gray sprouting from the front of a head thatched with black, was a little more diplomatic. “I’m sure you’d have no trouble seeing a German battleship, Mr. Adler,” he reassured Marcus, but then added, “although a frigate might be a challenge.”
Dr. Bright walked him over to a wall of sample frames and left him with the advice, “Modern flapper or old-time respectable, there’s much to be said in your choice of spectacle.”
As Marcus browsed through wire and tortoiseshell frames, he heard a familiar male voice exclaim, “Bright Eyes! You’re not going to believe it, but I lost those flattering French frames you imported for me. One minute they were there, the next? Poof!”
Marcus peeked out from behind a display case of reading glasses and squinted to confirm he’d correctly identified the voice. It was Donnie Stewart, the Oscar-winning MGM screenwriter, fellow Garden of Allah resident, Algonquin Round Table member, and cohort of Hemingway’s Lost Generation. In short, he was the person Marcus most wanted to be, and the person Marcus least wanted to see. He ducked out of sight but the sudden motion caught Donnie’s attention.
“Oh, hey, Marcus, is that you?”
Marcus launched his face into a visage of surprise. “Hi there!”
“Ah,” Donnie smiled amiably. Donnie was always smiling amiably from behind a pair of round, gold glasses—which Marcus thought might suit him, too. “So you’ve come of age at last? Well, you’re in the right place. Bright Eyes will take fine care of you. And hey!” He shot a punch to Marcus’ left shoulder and landed it right in the vulnerable part. “Mucho congratuloso on the job front!”
Marcus stared at Donnie blankly. “I haven’t been at work this week. Trouble with my eyes,” he added, because “trouble with my drinking” sounded less acceptable.
“So you haven’t—?” Donnie turned toward the rear of the store. “BRIGHT EYES!” he called. “May I use your telephone?”
“If you have to make a call,” Marcus said, stepping back, “I’ll leave you to it.”
“The hell you will.” Donnie frog-marched Marcus to the rear of the store, where Bright Eyes shifted his telephone onto the counter. “I’d love to be the one to tell you the news, but best it comes from Taggert.”
Marcus watched Donnie pick up the phone and ask for the main switchboard at MGM. He did his best to quell a groundswell of hope mixed with dread. One more disappointment, he told himself, and it’ll send me over the edge.
CHAPTER 46
Kathryn didn’t relish the prospect of being indebted to Louis B. Mayer, but he was the only person she knew with connections to military brass. She stashed Roy’s letter in her handbag in case she bumped into Mayer at the Palladium or Ciro’s, but now Thanksgiving was looming and she still hadn’t encountered him. She decided she couldn’t wait any longer for fate to throw them together, and called him for a dinner-and-dance date.
She really didn’t blame Roy for running off to join the army. He’d been an officer during the Great War but never got to fight; since then, he’d served in the Reserves. Plus, he added in his carefully worded letter, it removed him from Kathryn’s life and left her free to find someone who could marry her. But the selfless louse failed to mention the name of the fort he was training at, so she had no way of telling him she wasn’t the marrying type. Mayer might know somebody who could find out where to send her letter.
When she arrived at Ciro’s, Kathryn was surprised to find Mayer already seated. Like most men in his position, he derived perverse pleasure in keeping people waiting. She was right on time, which meant he’d arrived early: a good sign. When he suggested the green turtle au sherry soup and veal scaloppini with a bottle of Chateau Lafite, she happily agreed, then let him jabber on about his worries over Greta Garbo, who didn’t seem comfortable in her latest movie, Two-Faced Woman, even though it was a financial success. On the other hand, he was pleased at the continued popularity of the Mickey Rooney/Andy Hardy movies.
She let him swig two thirds of the wine before she said, “Isn’t it about time we danc
ed?”
Freddy Martin’s orchestra plunged them into a brisk waltz and she was about to launch into asking the favor when he hijacked the conversation. “I was very glad you called, because there’s been something I’ve been wanting to thank you for.”
They had never spoken of her pro-Welles stance after the ambush in Wilkerson’s office. The collective bruising over that picture was still tender, even though Citizen Kane was deemed a financial failure and RKO took it out of circulation, leaving Kathryn to wonder what it had all been for.
“Thank me?” she asked Mayer.
Mayer kept his eyes on the constantly shifting dance floor. “I don’t know how you found out about Hilary van Hoss, but I’m grateful you never used it against me.”
Kathryn said nothing while the gears in her mind pinwheeled into motion. Hilary van Hoss. Mayer. Use it against him. Use what? Is he having an affair? With someone called Hilary van Hoss?
Mayer was like all the studio heads—torrid affairs, one-night stands, and romances pursued in apartments and hotel rooms all over town. Kathryn wondered, What’s so special about this van Hoss girl? She was just some name I made up—OH!
It was Wilkerson who’d come up with the name when he called to tell her about the secret Gone with the Wind preview. She could remember exactly what he said: “Let’s call her—oh, I don’t know—say, Hilary van Hoss.” How did I not put that particular two and two together before? Kathryn searched Mayer’s face for clues. This Hilary van Hoss actually existed, and she was someone Mayer knew. And Wilkerson knew he knew. But Kathryn found nothing on Mayer’s face that hinted at answers.
Mayer kept his voice low. “Your ability to keep your lips buttoned has not gone unnoticed, especially considering you and I sat in opposing trenches over Kane.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mayer,” Kathryn said. “Although you must admit, if only between us, Kane was a monumental achievement.”
Mayer smiled and glanced furtively around the crowd as though in fear of being overheard. “It’s the finest non-MGM motion picture I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ll never tell a soul.”
“The photography astounded me,” he admitted. “If only he hadn’t chosen to model it after Hearst. Tell me, what was he thinking?”
“My current theory is that twenty-four-year-old Orson took one look at seventy-six-year-old Hearst and decided he could win by sheer virtue of youth.”
The music changed to a foxtrot, which had never been either Kathryn or Mayer’s forté. He asked if they could sit this one out. Back at their table, she started, “I have a—”
“Oh!” Louis cut in. “I have someone I want you to meet. I need a woman’s perspective. Gene! Oh, Gene!”
Mayer called over a handsome chap who was not terribly tall but gleamed with masculinity and moved with the grace of a panther.
“Mr. Mayer!” he exclaimed, “how nice to see you again.”
They shook hands. Mayer said, “I want you to meet Kathryn Massey, of—”
“Of the Hollywood Reporter.” He shot out his hand toward Kathryn and grabbed hers with impressive strength. “Gene Kelly. So pleased to meet you.”
“Mr. Kelly here has been wowing them on Broadway recently in Pal Joey.”
“So, you’ve answered the siren call to Hollywood, Mr. Kelly?” Kathryn asked.
“I want to cast Gene in a new musical we’ve got Arthur Freed working on,” Mayer said.
“A boy can hope,” Kelly smiled. The small scar to the left side of his mouth wasn’t a typical movie-star feature, but oh boy, the rest of this guy glowed. If the cameras can capture this aura, Kathryn thought, he could really hit it big.
“But he went and signed with Selznick!” Mayer exclaimed. “So we have some negotiations ahead of us. I’ll let you get back to your party. I just wanted to say hello and introduce you two.”
After Kelly left the table, Mayer asked, “Do you think women will like him?”
“I wouldn’t let that one slip through your fingers if I were you.” Kathryn watched Kelly rejoin his group. There was something about the manliness that poured out of him that reminded her of Roy.
“But he’s only five foot seven,” Mayer pointed out.
“They don’t have to be Gary Cooper to be hubba hubba.”
Kathryn spotted a familiar starlet heading their way with rabbit-in-heat determination. Ann Miller was a hell of a dancer and was becoming fairly well known in a series of low-budget musicals at Columbia, but Kathryn heard she had her sights set on MGM. Kathryn wasn’t going to let Mayer sit there like a decoy in duck season. The orchestra struck up a tune Kathryn knew was one of Mayer’s favorites. They were quickstepping within seconds.
“I have a favor to ask you,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I’m hoping there’s someone you might be able to find for me. You have connections in the military, don’t you?”
“Are we talking about a specific branch?”
“The army.”
“Go on.”
She tossed out as many details about Roy as she felt Mayer needed to know.
“Are we talking about the stuntman?”
This town really has no secrets, Kathryn thought. Except for Hilary van Hoss. “He said one of the reasons he signed up was to leave me free to find someone else.”
“Perhaps the most intelligent thing might be to silently thank him and move on,” Mayer suggested.
“He robbed me of the chance to tell him I don’t want anyone else. And if we’re going to join the war in Europe—”
Mayer let out a dismissive grunt. “The overwhelming majority of Americans want Roosevelt to keep us out of the war.”
“If he gets shipped out before I have a chance to talk to him, I—” Miller had hoodwinked some Hollywood pretty boy into taking her onto the dance floor and she was eagle-eyeing Mayer. “We had a row and—”
“You don’t want it to be the last thing you said to him.”
“Something like that.”
“I could make a call,” Mayer said airily.
Kathryn bit her lower lip for a moment or two. “You could?”
“And no more mention of—?”
Kathryn cut him off. “Who?”
Mayer squeezed his arm around her waist, hoisted her two inches off the floor and swept her down into the smoothest dip this side of Fred Astaire.
CHAPTER 47
Marcus was deep into For Whom the Bell Tolls when three sharp knocks pulled him out of the Spanish Civil War. He was surprised to find it was nearly three a.m. He pulled open his door and found Jake the bellboy standing there.
“Sorry to wake you,” Jake whispered, his hands bunched together, “but there’s this guy insisting I bring you to the telephone.”
Marcus’ first thought was that someone from home had tracked him down. He’d heard nothing from any of his family or friends back in McKeesport all these years, but maybe something had happened. Has Mom fallen ill? Has Dad died?
He was still rifling through possible scenarios when he entered the main building. A kitschy lamp with a pyramid shade threw a dim light onto the public telephone sitting in a little nook facing the front desk. He picked up the receiver. “This is Marcus Adler.”
“It’s me.”
Hugo’s voice was ragged.
“What do you want?” Marcus groaned.
“I know it’s the middle of the night and everything. But I need you. To come over. My apartment.” He almost sounded like he was gagging.
“Right now?”
“I know I’m asking a lot. Especially after what happened. At Ramon’s. But I have something. I need to show you. Can’t bring in to work. Or the Garden of Allah.”
“Boy, Hugo, you’ve really got some nerve.”
Hugo started sobbing. It was a pathetic sound, high-pitched like a boy crying over a broken toy. “Please come. Please!” Hugo blubbered, and then he hung up.
* * *
Marcus stood at Hugo’s front door but didn’t knock
on it. He took off his glasses and polished them on the black and red flannel shirt he often wore when reading in bed.
Seeing the world through these glasses had proved to be a revelation. He’d never imagined everything could be so sharply defined, and was astonished to learn he could count individual leaves on trees and distinguish grains of sand at the beach. When people arched a subtle eyebrow in disbelief, or when they looked away while lying, he could actually discern the truth. He often found himself wondering what else he’d missed.
He knocked on Hugo’s door, but there was no answer. He tried again, a little more loudly. He was about to turn the handle when Hugo opened the door.
The guy staring back at him was hauntingly pale. His grey-green eyes, rimmed with red, were unfathomable, and his hair looked like it hadn’t been washed in a month. There was an odd smell about him, too, something distastefully metallic, like rusting chainsaws.
“You actually came.” Hugo’s mumbling carried no emotion.
The apartment was ablaze with the light of every lamp and candle in the place. Marcus stepped inside the door, but only a yard or so, and he didn’t close the door behind him. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay, I’m here. What do you want to show me?”
Hugo blinked hard, over and over. “I have an awful confession to make.”
“If this has to do with Ramon,” Marcus said, “forget it.” The words fell from his mouth like pebbles of lead; it felt good to be relieved of them. As terrible as that night was, Marcus knew it was what he needed to finally shed himself of the yoke of loving Ramon Novarro. It had taken several extra large bourbons to realize that his vivid imagination served him well in his career but hindered his ability to see his love life for what it really was: a mirage fueled by delusion and misplaced hope. But he’d come to terms with that now. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to tell Hugo, “He’s all yours.”
“It’s not about Ramon.”
Hugo walked around Marcus and slowly closed the door, as though it took an extraordinary amount of concentration. He asked Marcus to follow him to the oak rolltop secretary against the far wall. While Hugo rifled through its drawers, Marcus gazed up at a striking poster in a mahogany frame that was suspended from a dark red silk rope over the mantelpiece. It was for a movie called Forty Acres and a Mule, and emblazoned across the bottom in red letters two inches tall, read:
Citizen Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 3) Page 32
