If Kathryn hadn’t been in such a fragile state, Gwendolyn would have swatted her. And if Marilyn hadn’t been in an equally fragile state for a whole different reason, Gwendolyn might have swatted her as well.
“His name is Darryl. What other name would I call him?”
“Most people call him Mr. Zanuck,” Kathryn said.
“Even I call him Mr. Zanuck.” Marilyn added. “The only people who call him Darryl are his wife and—his—” The white button rolled off the edge of the table.
“I know what they think of me,” Bella announced. “All these gossips with big mouths and empty heads.”
“Say!” Kathryn straightened up. “I resent that.”
Bella ignored her. “I am not stupid. People say ‘She wants to be a movie star so she takes the short cut. She sleeps with the boss and bingo! She has a part in a picture. An expensive wardrobe. She flies to Europe for the premiere. First class. Parties. Interviews.’ PAH!”
It was the longest speech the woman had said in days.
Kathryn propped her elbows onto Gwendolyn’s workbench. “You are sleeping with him, right?”
Bella gave a blasé shrug. “Of course I am.”
The matter-of-fact tone made Gwendolyn wonder if Zanuck had given her this assignment to see if there was any reason why he couldn’t trust this woman. “Gee, Bella,” she said, “I give you points for honesty.”
The woman’s eyes crinkled at the edges, her chin puckering as she strained to preserve her poise. Tears glazed her eyes. “I was flattered at first,” she blurted out, “but his attentions, they are overwhelming. I feel trapped.”
“Did he force himself on you?” Gwendolyn asked.
“No.” She wiped away an escaped tear. “Perhaps a little, but I didn’t mind. I found him attractive. He has the charisma, you know? And very determined.”
“I hope it was worth it,” Kathryn said.
“The sex is very—what is that English expression?” Bella asked. “He gives it his all?”
Kathryn started giggling. “Yep, that’s the expression.”
“Are you faithful to him?” Gwendolyn asked.
“No.”
“Good for you!” Marilyn chimed in.
“I am not married. I date other men and women.”
A hush blanketed the group. Gwendolyn looked at Kathryn, who looked at Marilyn, who looked at Gwendolyn.
Kathryn asked. “Does Darryl know about your predilections?”
“What does it mean, predilections?”
“Does Mr. Zanuck know that you date other people?”
“It is none of his business what I do in other beds.”
Everything is Zanuck’s business. “Have you told anyone else?” Gwendolyn asked. “Friends, for instance?”
Bella frowned. “What friends? Nobody in this town gives their friendship. They don’t want to be near me in case they say the wrong thing and I tell Darryl.”
Or, Gwendolyn mused, because you’re so aloof and detached.
“Well,” Marilyn said, clapping her hands together, “now you do. And in fact, next week, Ella Fitzgerald is playing at the Tiffany Club. Who’s up for a girls-only outing?”
* * *
The Tiffany Club at the corner of Eighth and Normandie was shaped like a slice of pizza. The small stage stood at the narrow end, with twenty-two tables fanned out in concentric rows. The wallpaper was patterned with piano keyboards slanted on 45-degree angles and peppered with musical notes and shiny 78s. The foyer wasn’t much bigger than a telephone booth.
“I feel positively scandalous!” Doris exclaimed.
“Why?” Kathryn asked. “This is a respectable club.”
At the last minute, Kathryn had tried to bail. It seemed to Gwendolyn that she had turned a corner that day at Fox, but she should have known better. Grief doesn’t dissipate in one neatly composed movie scene. It was a progression. One day you’re asking a mogul’s mistress about her penchant for women, and the next you find yourself heating chicken soup that you have no intention of eating. Gwendolyn managed to coerce her into coming only ten minutes before they were due to leave.
“We’ve got no men, no escorts, no chaperones,” Doris exclaimed. “We look like a bunch of scarlet women!”
The room was only half-filled, but buzzy with anticipation. Gwendolyn caught sight of a table toward the back. Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner sat alone. Gwendolyn alerted Kathryn with a discreet nudge.
After Marcus’s photos of Ava and his Italian boyfriend, Sinatra had taken no pains to hide his displeasure, in private and public. During a particularly ugly spectacle at The Luau on Rodeo Drive, he demolished several bamboo bar stools and shattered an astonishing seven full bottles of high-class rum onto the floor behind the bar. A week later, Mike Connolly’s Rambling Reporter column reported that the “Sparring Sinatras” had attended a press preview for The Barefoot Contessa, where Frank had gone out of his way to play nicey-nice.
Tonight, however, Frank contemplated the cocktail menu while Ava drew on a cigarette inserted into a long black holder; she looked bored as hell.
As the maître d’ escorted them to a line of three tables pushed together, Gwendolyn scanned the place, though it was hardly necessary. Marilyn was easy to spot on a packed football field, let alone in a jazz joint not much bigger than the Garden of Allah’s pool.
“You think she’s going to show?” Kathryn asked.
Since that violent rant on the streets of New York, Gwendolyn had sensed that Marilyn and Joe’s marriage was breaking down. Marilyn was getting to the Seven Year Itch set later and later each day, and when she did, she needed longer in the makeup chair. And that was when she showed up at all.
A commotion erupted in the foyer. Someone called out “Hello! Hello!” The flash bulb of the club’s souvenir photographer glinted past the maître d’ podium.
Marilyn broke free and entered the room. It was like the air suddenly blossomed with the perfume of night-blooming jasmine and tiny pixie-sprinkled flecks of tinsel that floated like golden dust motes. She wiggled down the aisle in a modest two-piece suit of dark brown without a trace of attention-grabbing sizzle. But even dressed in nutmeg, the girl sparkled.
She took one of the end chairs and smoothed her hair. “What a marvelous table!”
“Look at that one.” It was the first time Bella had spoken tonight.
She indicated a table that was more likely to set tongues wagging than a group of women with no men. An older white woman sat with a well-dressed, much younger black one who, from the stiff-backed dancer’s way she held herself, was clearly not the maid.
“That’s Eartha Kitt,” Gwendolyn said. “I think she’s wearing one of my gowns.”
“Who’s that with her?” Marilyn asked.
“Charlie Morrison’s wife.”
“The guy who owns the Mocambo? Why would she be here? To see what Ella’s like?”
“Surely everybody in America knows how talented Ella is,” Gwendolyn said.
Marilyn waved to the bartender, who was heading toward them with champagne in a pewter bucket. “My vocal coach told me to study Ella’s method of interpreting a song. She’s the absolute master and why she hasn’t played Mocambo is beyond me.”
“It’s because she’s not glamorous enough,” Arlene said. “If Charlie Morrison’s going to book a black singer, he’ll get someone like Eartha. She performed at Mocambo last year so I’m betting she’s nagged Mrs. Morrison into coming so that she can convince her husband to book Ella.”
As the bartender set up the champagne, Marilyn turned to Gwendolyn. “Let’s go over and say hello. I’d love to meet her.”
Kathryn reached over and plucked the champagne bottle out of the bucket. “Meanwhile, we’ll make a start.”
As Gwendolyn and Marilyn drew closer, Mrs. Morrison’s mouth fell open.
“Hello!” Gwendolyn pointed to Eartha’s slinky emerald taffeta creation. “Looks familiar!”
“It’s still one of my favorites.�
�� Eartha laid a brief hand on her companion’s forearm. “This is the gal I told you about who used to own the boutique up on the Strip.”
“And this,” Gwendolyn pulled Marilyn forward, “is Miss Monroe.”
“Gosh!” Marilyn gushed, “Miss Kitt, I’ve been a fan of yours since I saw you in New Faces of 1952.” The girl let out a giggle that seemed to take even her by surprise.
“I’m flattered. It was hard to be noticed behind Paul Lynde, Carol Lawrence, and Alice Ghostley.”
“Your song was a highlight.”
“I’m heading back to Broadway in Mrs. Patterson. We’ll be at the National Theater so please come see us.”
“I’ll certainly try.” Marilyn turned her blue-eyed attention to Mrs. Morrison. “Have you ever seen Ella Fitzgerald perform live?”
“No, I haven’t, I’m sorry to say.”
“You’re in for a real treat. Guaranteed!”
“Mrs. Morrison’s husband runs Mocambo.”
“He does?” Those golden motes seemed to hover around Marilyn’s blonde halo—a sure sign that she was switching on the charm. She gripped Gwendolyn’s arm with both hands. “Ella Fitzgerald at Mocambo? Can you imagine? I’d go every night!”
“You would?” Mrs. Morrison asked.
“Try and keep me away.”
It dawned on Gwendolyn that Eartha had been on the Fox lot filming a thinly plotted version of New Faces of 1952 late last year. Getting Ella Fitzgerald booked at a place like Mocambo would be a significant step toward acceptance of black performers playing mainstream venues.
This has all been a huge con.
Gwendolyn’s gaze settled on the Sinatra/Gardner table. They were watching this performance play out like it was a Hitchcock movie. Gwendolyn waved at Ava but received a pinched smile in return. She might have crossed the room to investigate, but the house lights dimmed, sending them back to their seats.
When Ella stepped out onto the stage, Gwendolyn hoped she might be wearing a Chez Gwendolyn original and was mildly crestfallen when she wasn’t. But her disappointment lasted only until Ella sang the first line of “Stardust.” Everything but the soulful voice struggling with regret and remorse melted away.
Two hours later, her hands aching from applause, Gwendolyn looked up to see Eartha and Mrs. Morrison heading for their table. From the other corner, Ava and Frank were, too.
Dropping his porkpie hat onto his head, Sinatra switched on his own brand of celebrated charm as he greeted “Mrs. Mocambo” with a kiss to the cheek. Ava broke away from him and circled the group until she came to Gwendolyn and Kathryn. She wavered in her high heels, her eyes dulled from too many whiskeys.
Ava hid her mouth behind her hand. “Frank and me are here as spies for DiMaggio!”
Gwendolyn didn’t dare look at Marilyn. “Why?”
“Frankie and Joe have gotten chummy lately, especially since Marilyn filmed that subway scene. Ol’ Joltin’ Joe’s got it into his wooden-headed noggin that she’s cheating on him with her vocal coach.”
Hal Schaefer often came up in Marilyn’s conversation, especially after his attempted overdose of Benzedrine and Nembutal, washed down with typewriter cleaning fluid. Marilyn had been devastated and flew at once to Schaefer’s hospital bed.
“Men and their jealousies,” Gwendolyn sighed. “And people wonder why I’m single.”
Ava huddled closer. “I don’t suppose you know anyone who lives at 8122 Waring Avenue? It’s a small apartment block on the corner of Kilkea Drive.”
“That’s six blocks from where we live,” Gwendolyn said.
Frank jutted his head. Ava gave them each a parting hug. “It’s been getting a lot of play in telephone calls that I may have been eavesdropping on. I suggest you ask Marilyn.”
* * *
Halfway to Marilyn’s latest address at the Brandon Arms Apartments six blocks east of the Garden, Gwendolyn asked her, “Do you know anybody on Waring Avenue?”
Marilyn rolled the window down to let the cool September air whip through her hair. “Sheila Stuart lives on the corner of Kilkea.”
“Sheila’s a contract player at Fox, isn’t she?”
“She studies singing with Hal—or at least did until Hal tried—you know. Why are you asking? What’s with all the funny looks?”
“Marilyn, honey, did you know that Joe’s having you followed?”
The silence lasted until Gwendolyn turned onto Sunset.
“We’re separating.” Marilyn sounded like a ten-year-old.
The gossip columnist in Kathryn gurgled up from the murky depths she’d been wallowing in. “Really?”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Gwendolyn said.
“That night over the New York subway showed me I’ve been fooling myself for too long.”
“Do you need anything?” Gwendolyn asked.
Kathryn turned around to face Marilyn in the back seat. “Anything at all? And I’m not asking as a reporter.”
Gwendolyn wanted to reach over and give Marilyn’s hand an encouraging squeeze, but she had to keep her eyes on the road. Although it was fairly late, traffic was getting crazier and crazier. These new freeways were supposed to alleviate street congestion, but they didn’t seem to be doing much good. “Do you know when you’ll make the announcement?”
“Sooner than he thinks.” Ten-year-old Marilyn was gone. Movie Star Marilyn was back.
Gwendolyn pulled up at the red light on the Vine Street corner. She turned to the back seat. “Reached the point of no return?”
“I reached it the night we filmed the subway scene. Joe got so mad that I took my time going back to the hotel, figuring that he needed time to cool off. But he was still steaming mad, and I mean steaming. It was bad.”
The lights changed and Gwendolyn had to face the front again. “How bad?”
“Things got—physical.”
“He hit you?” Kathryn asked.
“We’ve had arguments. I mean, who hasn’t?” Ten-year-old Marilyn had returned. “But for the first time since we got married, I was afraid of him. I didn’t leave the hotel for days afterward.”
“That bastard!” Kathryn thumped the top of the front seat. “I’d like to Yankee Clipper him!” Although perhaps under not quite the most ideal circumstances, Gwendolyn was glad to see the old Kathryn come roaring back.
CHAPTER 26
As far as Kathryn was concerned, the summer of 1954 had been the Summer From Hell—and not because the newspapers were always saying how LA’s smog was trapping heat in ever-increasing numbers. It was because a bank of dark, thick smog had descended over Sunset Boulevard between the Garden of Allah and the Chateau Marmont, obscuring Kathryn’s vision and clouding her judgment.
She avoided the Chateau now. If she had an appointment west of the Strip, she took the long way around. She wouldn’t go to Ciro’s again if it meant walking past the place where Francine had lived and worked for nearly twenty years.
Dorothy Parker had come to town for the opening of Judy Garland’s A Star is Born. Moss Hart had based his screenplay on Dorothy’s 1937 version, and George Cukor had arranged to fly her in for the premiere. She insisted Kathryn meet her for drinks at her hotel before they started rerouting traffic outside the Pantages Theatre. Kathryn had agreed, but when she’d learned that Dorothy was staying at the Marmont, she’d backed out at the last minute. Miss Parker had been none too pleased.
Kathryn had reneged on most of her engagements. Sometimes she’d get as far as putting on her lipstick, but when she saw herself in the bathroom mirror, she found that she didn’t have it in her.
She was spending too much time alone. She knew that. But in the weeks following Francine’s death, she didn’t think of herself as being alone. Not when she had a bottle of Four Roses bourbon with her.
In the muddied backwaters of her mind, she equated Four Roses with being near Marcus. Since that day at the veterans’ hospital, his absence felt like a hunting knife slicing across her chest, leaving her heart to flop out onto
the floor.
She kept his cable – WOULD JUMP ON NEXT FLIGHT HOME IF STILL HAD PASSPORT – taped to the wall behind her typewriter, where she banged out the bare minimum required to keep her job. If Marcus couldn’t be here to comfort her, his favorite booze was the next best thing.
And she might have gone right on fooling herself if Gwendolyn hadn’t coaxed her into the Tiffany Club.
Kathryn was glad she’d given in to Gwennie’s cajoling. She would have missed Ella’s tingling performance; she wouldn’t have heard about DiMaggio hiring a private eye to tail Marilyn, and she would also have lost out on nabbing the scoop of the year: Marilyn Monroe was ending her marriage.
“You’re in the business of scoop-getting,” she told her reflection that night. “It’s time to get your head back in the game.”
And she was getting better. Slowly. She slept more soundly. A little. Every day she longed for a Four Roses later in the afternoon.
But going to the Chateau Marmont was unthinkable until she received a call from the hotel’s manager. He started genially, offering his condolences at Francine’s passing. But niceties gave way to a polite-but-firm reminder that they were unable to hold Francine’s personal effects indefinitely.
It took Kathryn several days to work up the courage to reenter the grounds. When she was ready, she recruited Gwendolyn, Doris, and Arlene for support.
She led them around the side of the main building. When her mother’s bungalow came into view, she looked the other way until they’d passed it. The path curved around to the right and up the hillside, ending at the hotel’s storage facility. It was just a large garden shed with electric lighting. Over the brick fence that bordered the hotel’s perimeter, Kathryn could see the top half of the Garden of Allah Hotel sign on Sunset.
“You know what’s ironic?” she asked the girls. “My mother and I were always at war with each other. And where did she die? At a military hospital. Isn’t that funny? Well, not funny-ha-ha, but—” She stared at three blank, patient faces. “I’m procrastinating, aren’t I?”
“If you don’t want to do this,” Gwendolyn said, “we can do it for you.”
City of Myths Page 21
