City of Myths

by Martin Turnbull

  “I am a lawyer by training.”

  “My goodness! Aren’t you a man of many talents?”

  Kathryn’s eye started to wander. At places like these, she often spotted someone with someone who was married to someone else.

  A striking woman entered the dining room. It wasn’t her looks that caught Kathryn’s interest—statuesque though she was; it was the way she made her entrance.

  A beauty entering a prominent Hollywood restaurant like Perino’s usually paused at the doorway, radiant smile in place and bosom on display, waved to some unseen acquaintance across the room, then walked to her table with swaying hips enfolded in a dress designed to highlight every asset.

  But this woman didn’t do any of that.

  Her fitted suit of aubergine poplin showed her impressive measurements without drawing attention to them. Except for a silver starfish brooch on her left lapel, she eschewed the usual payload of glitter and sparkle.

  Kathryn followed the woman’s progress as she trailed the maître d’ to an empty corner table without making eye contact. She sat down, pulled off her gloves, placed a drink order, and surveyed the menu with a world-weariness that made Kathryn wonder whether she was going to spend her entire lunch alone.

  She didn’t have to wonder for very long.

  Darryl Zanuck charged into the room, followed by a man in his late sixties, his near-bald head shining in the lights of the crystal chandeliers. After both men greeted the woman with European kisses, Zanuck snapped his fingers to attract a waiter and ordered champagne.

  “Who’s the stunner?”

  Hepburn’s question brought Kathryn back to the table.

  “It’s Bella Darvi,” Gwendolyn said.

  “That’s Michael Curtiz with them.” George raised his eyebrows at Kathryn as high as they would go.

  Two plus two started adding up.

  Curtiz had directed The Egyptian for Zanuck. A recent letter from Marcus had detailed Zanuck’s affair with the girl playing Nefer.

  Zanuck is using Curtiz as camouflage exactly like I’m using Cukor! Kathryn tried to mask her unintentional giggle by sending it down her wine glass, but Hepburn wasn’t fooled.

  “I feel like I’m the only chump who doesn’t get what’s going on here.”

  “I suspect we’re seeing a romantic rendezvous,” Kathryn whispered, “and Zanuck is using Curtiz as cover. Whether or not Curtiz knows it is hard to say.”

  “He would have to be very foolish to still be in the dark,” Brazzi said. When George asked him why, he replied, “Our Barefoot Contessa cinematographer, Milton, said they think they’re getting away with nobody knowing, but we all knew.”

  “It’s only a matter of time before all of Hollywood does, too, if that’s how they’re going to carry on in public.” Hepburn pressed a light hand to Brazzi’s arm. “Tell me, Rossano, do you have a hotel in Venice you can recommend for me during the Summertime shoot?”

  Zanuck patted down his pockets and winced when he found himself out of cigarettes. He interrupted Curtiz’s monolog to bum one, but the director merely pointed to the cigarette vending machine in the foyer. Zanuck looked around for a waiter, but every one of them was busy elsewhere. He pushed his chair away from the table in a juvenile huff and stomped out of the room.

  “Excuse me,” Kathryn told the group, “but business calls.”

  Zanuck didn’t see her until she slid an arm along the top of the vending machine. “That’s quite a table you’ve got there,” he said, grim as an undertaker. “I was planning to drop by when I had a chance, but I—uh—”

  “—didn’t want to leave Curtiz too long with your new discovery?”

  Zanuck mulled over her sly smile. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve come to do you a favor.”

  “Why? Do you need one in return?”

  “It’s more like a warning.” A pack of Camels fell to the tray at the bottom of the machine, but Zanuck left it there. “You’re fooling yourself if you think nobody knows what’s going on between you and your protégé.”

  Zanuck closed his eyes as he pressed his chest against the machine.

  “It was the talk of the Contessa shoot. You might want to try and be a bit discreet.”

  “Thank you.” A silent nod, a guarded eye. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch.”

  “Why do I feel like I’m being cornered?”

  “Okay, so maybe there’s one little thing.”

  “Here it comes.”

  Kathryn bent down and retrieved Zanuck’s pack of Camels and dropped it on the top of the machine. “It’s about Marcus Adler.”

  Zanuck needed a moment to place the name. “Is he back in town?”

  “No, but when he returns, he’ll need a job.”

  “He’s got a great eye. Those shots he took of Rome? Exactly what we needed.”

  “I meant more along the lines of a screenplay.”

  Zanuck took his cigarette pack and started to turn it over in his hand. “We’ll see.”

  Kathryn wasn’t sure if she was meddling where she shouldn’t, but the longer Marcus was away, the harder it would be for him to jump-start his career.

  “You ever been to a place called Amagansett?” he asked.

  Kathryn wasn’t sure what to make of this non-sequitur. “Never heard of it.”

  “I was in New York last week. Had dinner with Winchell.”

  “I bet that was fun.”

  “I arrived late, which didn’t impress him. He was already three Tom Collins in.”

  “Pissed and drunk?”

  “He’s usually so focused and articulate, everything thought out and deliberate. But that night his conversation was scattered, like he was having trouble sticking to one idea at a time. He also mentioned someone called Pastorius.”

  “Sounds like a Roman general.”

  “He brought your name up several times. His whole tone was ‘I know a secret.’”

  “Should I have heard of this Pastorius guy?”

  Zanuck eyeballed his table. Curtiz had inched closer to Darvi. “I got the idea that you should.” He tossed his Camels into the air and caught them again. “I better get back to my table before Bella drowns in drool.”

  Kathryn scooted into the ladies’ room and sat down at the last vanity. It was now over a month since Gable’s party and Kathryn hadn’t heard a word from Winchell. She wasn’t worried about it, though. She figured it took time to suck up to Hoover and convince him to gain access to FBI files. But now his silence gnawed at her.

  What if he’s already tracked down my father’s file and has gone through it himself?

  She dropped her lipstick into her purse, left a quarter in the tip dish for the attendant, and walked slowly back toward the dining room.

  What were those names again? Agamasetts? Amagansett? Pretorius? Pasteurize? Jesus, I’ve already forgotten. I bet Winchell’s got them written down in a little notebook. I bet he’s sitting at the Stork Club right now, congratulating himself because he thinks he holds all the cards.

  Katharine Hepburn’s voice cut through the air. “Oh, Rossano! You devil!”

  Problem is, if Winchell’s gone and pawed through my father’s FBI file, he really does hold all the cards.

  CHAPTER 20

  Gwendolyn knocked on the portable dressing room parked in a darkened corner of the soundstage. “Marilyn, honey, it’s me. I got your note.”

  When a messenger from Stage Nine had arrived with a summons to the There’s No Business Like Show Business set, Gwendolyn wasn’t surprised. There were murmurs on the lot that filming had been problematic. Dan Dailey was dating Donald O’Connor’s ex-wife, which made shooting awkward. Marilyn was upset over being forced into a supporting role after Niagara, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, How to Marry a Millionaire, and River of No Return had been such huge hits. Meanwhile, Ethel Merman was furious at Marilyn for stealing the “Heat Wave” number away from her, even though the decision had been Zanuck’s.

 
; If anything, Gwendolyn was surprised that she hadn’t been summoned before now, so when she’d read Marilyn’s note, she’d hurried right over.

  The bolt on the other side snapped. Gwendolyn turned the silver handle and cracked open the door. Catching a glimpse of leg, she pushed it wider.

  Marilyn sat at her makeup mirror dressed in the costume Gwendolyn had spent two weeks working on. The huge white straw hat that went with it lay on the sofa opposite.

  Gwendolyn closed the door. “Nervous about the number?”

  Marilyn played with the black and white bangles hanging from her wrist. “The front gate called to tell me Joe’s arrived with one of his pals. They’ve come to watch the filming but look at what I’m wearing!”

  Marilyn jumped to her feet. Her torso was bare and her chest was lashed into a black-and-pink strapless bra. Fuchsia silk lined her voluminous skirt, which featured a bold pattern of large black leaves on a white background. The ends met two inches above her crotch. It weighed a ton and Gwendolyn didn’t envy how Marilyn had to dance in it.

  “Joe’s going to have a fit when he sees me!” Marilyn cried.

  Gwendolyn pressed an arm around her shoulders. “Not in public, he won’t.”

  “He knew I was filming ‘Heat Wave’ today. He saw Billy’s sketches. It’s like he’s come here to torture himself—and me.”

  Outside the dressing room, the volume of chatter increased until someone exclaimed, “Say, ain’t that DiMaggio?” Marilyn’s doe eyes glazed over.

  “How about I go out there and distract them, keep them happy?” Gwendolyn suggested.

  “Would you? Could you?”

  Back in the costuming department, Billy Travilla’s designs for Marilyn’s next picture filled Gwendolyn’s work desk. The Seven Year Itch was to be directed by Billy Wilder, who had very specific ideas about costuming. Wilder had rejected all of Travilla’s designs, so they were starting to fall behind schedule. Meanwhile, the second season of The Loretta Young Show was starting in August, which gave Gwendolyn only two months to work up a slew of ideas. Gwendolyn didn’t have the time to sit on a set all day, but nor did she have the heart to desert Marilyn when she needed her so desperately.

  A knock on the door told Marilyn that they were ready.

  “What’s the name of Joe’s pal?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “George Solotaire. He’s one of those hanger-on types, but very nice. He grew up in an orphanage just like I did.”

  Gwendolyn took Marilyn’s hands. “Your job isn’t to humor your husband. You’ve worked very hard on ‘Heat Wave.’ Focus on Jack Cole. He’ll help get you through this, and leave Joe to me.”

  The set for the “Heat Wave” number was a nightclub stage, thirty feet across, draped with huge bolts of red velvet and studded with leafless papier-mâché trees. On the left sat a wagon constructed out of weathered poles painted pink and white, and held together with twine and ribbons. DiMaggio, face grim and eyes darting, paced along its periphery near a line of eight visitors’ chairs.

  “Mr. DiMaggio, I’m Gwendolyn Brick. Why don’t you take a seat? Filming requires interminable stretches of time so you might as well make yourself comfortable.”

  The Yankee Clipper chewed a wad of Juicy Fruit like it was his final meal.

  “C’mon, Joe, sit down, why doncha?” Solotaire was a round-faced guy with prominent ears and a drinker’s belly, who was resigned to his role of playing circus clown to a volatile friend.

  Gwendolyn eyed the six empty chairs next to Solotaire. “You expecting more people?”

  “I think they’re meant for us.”

  Sidney Skolsky stood behind Gwendolyn with drama teacher Paula Strasberg and her teenage daughter, Susan. With them was Marilyn’s ubiquitous acting coach, Natasha Lytess, a plain woman on whom Marilyn depended to an unhealthy degree and whom nobody at Fox liked.

  Marilyn was nervous enough having to appear in such a skimpy outfit, but to perform in front of her angry husband, astringent coach, a serious acting teacher, and a columnist? Gwendolyn feared it would send Marilyn back into her dressing room.

  “Is she wearing that costume?” DiMaggio growled. “The one where you can damn well see nearly everything?”

  “She—uh—” Gwendolyn cast around for support from Jack, who had choreographed this entire number and who was in charge today.

  “Gwendolyn!” Dorothy Dandridge walked through the soundstage door waving a large white purse. “What a lovely surprise.”

  Gwendolyn knew Dorothy from her Chez Gwendolyn days and was the perfect distraction. Relieved, she greeted Dorothy with a kiss. “I want you to meet Joe DiMaggio. Mr. DiMaggio, I’d like to present Miss Dorothy Dandridge.”

  Dorothy’s eyes widened, her smile bright as meringue. “Mr. DiMaggio!”

  The guy looked at her as though she was a tree stump.

  “Dorothy is about to start filming Carmen Jones,” Gwendolyn persevered. “Her director is Otto Preminger.”

  That got a rise out of DiMaggio, which was why Gwendolyn had brought it up. Marilyn’s feuds with Preminger had become grist for the gossip mill.

  “Good luck with that Hungarian ham.”

  “Otto’s so magnetic!” Dorothy gushed like a sophomore. “So charismatic! So hypnotic!”

  Gwendolyn had heard this sort of effusive praise before and knew that Dorothy would soon be sleeping with her director—if she wasn’t already.

  “Jesus Christ! Look at her!”

  DiMaggio charged toward Marilyn, who was practicing her climb out of the rickety wagon with as much grace as she could muster. “Joe,” she pleaded. “Don’t. Please.”

  “Did you even stop to think how it looks with my wife parading around with her dress cut up to there?” He pointed below the belt designed to hide her navel. “And what the hell are you wearing around your chest? Sneeze and it could fly off.” He waved his hands around and squealed in a patronizing falsetto, “We’re having a tropical heat wave that’s so hot I’ll have to take off my top!”

  Jack Cole stepped forward. “Mr. DiMaggio, please, we’re trying to work here.”

  Marilyn had once confided to Gwendolyn that Cole was one of the few studio people whom she trusted explicitly. He had an elfin nimbleness about him coupled with the stamina of a dancer.

  DiMaggio wheeled around. “And as for you, you goddamned fairy. I suppose you’re the one getting her to do all those high kicks and pelvic thrusts.”

  “JOE! PLEASE! NOT HERE!”

  “I want to see you in that dressing room!”

  A stealthy movement to the right caught Gwendolyn’s attention. Ever since Marcus had found work as a production photographer, Gwendolyn had become aware of the consequences of behaving badly on set. She watched the guy take shot after shot. Nobody was going to come out looking good—not Marilyn pleading with her husband, not Joe DiMaggio screaming at everybody, and not Jack Cole being called a goddamned fairy.

  Gwendolyn inserted herself between Joe and Marilyn, with her back to the rickety wagon built for Marilyn’s entrance. “Could I remind you—”

  “AND I MEAN RIGHT NOW!” DiMaggio thrust his hand out toward Marilyn’s dressing room, but his fist connected with the side of Gwendolyn’s face. The brute force sent her staggering backward into the wooden cart, filling her head with blurry images and slivers of blinding light. She felt a sharp pain crack her skull. Her feet skidded outwards and she crashed to the concrete floor. As she did, the cart toppled onto her.

  Dazed, she heard muffled yelling. An excruciating pain shot through her ankle. More yelling. One of them was Marilyn, all traces of her baby-doll voice now gone. But there were others—male, deep, angry. The pain in her ankle was agony. Sharp needles of torture, shooting like fireworks. The weight of the cart grew heavier and heavier and heavier.

  * * *

  Gwendolyn let her head fall back onto the hospital pillow. She closed her eyes against the clinical glare and listened to the regular beeping from a room on the other side of the corridor. />
  Joe DiMaggio thwacked me so hard that I landed on Marilyn’s entrance wagon and then . . .

  The subsequent details became lost in fuzzy confusion.

  All she knew now was that broken or sprained, her ankle had blown up like a beach ball and screamed every time she moved.

  “There you are!” It was Kathryn’s voice, but from the heavy footfall on the linoleum, Gwendolyn could tell she wasn’t alone.

  Please don’t tell me Joe DiMaggio is with her.

  “Maybe she’s asleep? Should we come back later?”

  It was a man’s voice but it didn’t belong to DiMaggio. Gwendolyn opened her eyes. “MONTY?!”

  His face was more weathered now, but his eyes were still the color of the Pacific. The first hints of gray were creeping in at his temples, but he stood with the erect posture of a career military man.

  “I came to the studio to surprise you, but when I walked into the soundstage I saw some guy sock you in the jaw.”

  “It was an accident,” she told him.

  “All I saw was this big bruiser deck you, and I thought, Not with my sister you don’t, so I clocked him.”

  “You popped Joe DiMaggio in the face?” Gwendolyn started to laugh but it sent needles of pain up her leg.

  “How was I supposed to know it was him?”

  “Because he’s the most famous baseball player in the world?” Kathryn suggested.

  Gwendolyn squeezed her brother’s thumb. “My hero.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “But why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”

  He grinned, deepening the gash that carved a line from under his right ear, across his cheek, to the middle of his chin. “Because I wanted to tell you my news in person.”

  Gwendolyn noticed Monty’s plain gray Brooks Brothers suit. “Why aren’t you wearing your uniform? Monty! Have you left the service?”

  He patted her hand reassuringly. “I’m a navy man, through and through. They’ve got me till I curl up my toes.”

  “What’s with the civvies?”

  “I’ve been transferred to LA to be a landlubber, if you can believe that.”