“You’re all the same!” whack!
“You!” whack!
“DiMaggio!” whack!
“Zanuck!” whack!
“Winchell!” whack!
“Voss! whack!
“Hoyt!” whack!
“Enough already!” He wrestled the bludgeon away from her and flung it across the room. “Who the hell is Hoyt and what the hell’s his crime?”
She pressed her forehead against the wall. It was still cool from the previous night. “Never mind. Not your problem.”
“Is he a problem I can help with?”
She opened her eyes and mustered a droll look. “Your sort of help, I can do without.”
He pulled his chin away as though she’d punched him in the jaw. “I deserved that.”
“Count yourself lucky I wasn’t holding a hammer.”
“How do I make amends?”
Frank sounded sincere but he’d had years of practice putting across mushy ballads. He’s got that movie coming out, she warned herself. He needs a hit.
Kathryn headed for the Chesterfields on her kitchen counter. I can’t believe Hoyt popped out of my mouth like that. “Marcus has been through so much,” she said, lighting up. “Why did you have to kick him while he was—”
“Tell me how I can fix it.” Frank helped himself to one of Kathryn’s Chesterfields and started tapping it against the back of his left hand. “And don’t tell me to call whoever I called in the first place. The—guy’s—dead.” His admission came out in strangled syllables.
“What did he die of?”
“Don’t ask.”
Kathryn dropped onto a chair and rested her head on her palms. The surprise attack with Winchell on the Seven Year Itch set this afternoon was more than enough to deal with; she didn’t need this crap, too. “Are we talking about the Italian Mafioso? Because I’ve been hearing rumors.”
“Remember three seconds ago when I said don’t ask?”
Kathryn had had enough gangland dealings with Bugsy Siegel, and wasn’t prepared to go another round.
“So you can’t set things right for Marcus?”
“I’m saying it’s not as easy as making a phone call.”
“You better go to Plan B.”
“There isn’t one.”
“You need to make one.”
“And if I do, will you plug Young at Heart?”
Everybody’s always selling. “Let’s see: my best friend’s future versus a plug for your movie. Yeah. Sounds fair.”
The chair scraped across the tile as Frank lumbered to his feet. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Kathryn waited for a full two minutes before she opened her front door. Feeling slightly paranoid, she wanted to be sure Frank really had left. The November night chill still lingered in the air as the Garden of Allah stirred to life. She waved to Marcus’s sister, who was walking past Gwendolyn’s tulip bed. That girl must be doing well at Columbia—it seemed like she left for the studio earlier and earlier these days. And those tulips! They’d taken their time to appear and had been pretty to have around, and would soon be pushing up a fresh crop.
The vision of The New York Times headline jumped into her head. February was only four months away.
* * *
Kathryn walked into Stage Ten on the Fox lot and onto an exact replica of the corner of Lexington and 52nd Street where the world’s most famous subway grate ran along the sidewalk. She scraped her heel on the grit that Wilder’s art department had strewn over the phony concrete.
“Realistic, isn’t it?”
Marilyn was dressed in a pair of nondescript brown slacks and a loose-fitting cream cashmere sweater. She had wiped her face clear of the heavy filming makeup that would have hidden the puffiness around her eyes and the pasty hue of her skin. The ensemble struck Kathryn as surprisingly casual for someone who had an interview with America’s most influential columnist.
“Aren’t you a little early?” Marilyn asked.
“Tomorrow’s column wrote itself, so here I am.”
In truth, Kathryn had arrived at the office too distracted to work, so she’d slogged out her column like Livingston through the jungle, cobbling together a bunch of emergency items, and called it a day.
“Did Gwendolyn tell you what happened?” Marilyn asked.
“Must have been awful.”
“The worst.”
“I had Sinatra on my doorstep this morning.”
“What a rat.”
“Claimed he was trying to talk Joe out of it. For what it’s worth, he seemed contrite.”
“Okay, so he’s a contrite rat, but he’s still a rat.”
Marilyn stepped onto the subway grate and looked down through the gaps to where wind machines would blow her white dress around her waist. “There are some good ones, I suppose.”
“You mean men?”
She dug the tip of her shoe into one of the slits in the grate. “Leo’s one of the good guys, isn’t he?”
“He is.” But The One Who Got Away has come back and now I don’t know what I want.
“It gives a girl hope to know there are some around.”
“Speaking of rats, are you ready for Winchell?”
“Is anybody ever ready for the king of the rats?” Marilyn let out a mournful sigh. “This interview is a three-way pact between Wilder, Zanuck, and Winchell. Filming that scene in New York was a great boost for the movie, so Wilder benefits. Winchell inserted himself into the drama by egging Joe on until he blew a gasket, so Winchell benefits. Meanwhile, Zanuck scores maximum publicity for his star, his director, his picture, and his studio, so he benefits. But what about me?”
Marilyn sauntered over to the shop window, where an elaborate display of paste jewels shone in the lights.
“Those were my panties on show,” she declared. “My marriage falling apart. What do I get out of it?” She thought for a moment. “If Winchell wants to use me, he gets the bare minimum.”
“Good for you. Don’t let the rats get you down.” Kathryn joined her at the window. “But what are you going to say if Winchell asks you about last night?”
Marilyn let out a breathless squeak. “Do you think Joe would’ve blabbed?”
“Stiff drinks loosen lips.”
Marilyn bunched her hands together. “I don’t know that I can do this. He’s too intimidating.”
“Miss Monroe?” A security guard stood at the entryway into the soundstage. “You wanted to know when Mr. Winchell drove on to the lot.”
Marilyn’s eyes turned wild with panic.
“Where is he now?” Kathryn asked the guard.
“I can see him from here, walking in this direction.”
Kathryn thanked the guy and shooed him away.
“What if he brings up last night?” Marilyn’s voice was now a hoarse whisper. “I’ll fall apart.”
“No, you won’t,” Kathryn said, soothingly. “You’re an actress; you know how to fake it. Tell him that your personal life needs to stay personal. You—”
“I can’t have this conversation right now. I’m still shaking like an earthquake from last night.” Marilyn started to back away. “You came here to confront him; he’s all yours.” She disappeared behind the liquor store.
Kathryn’s plan was to lurk behind the Seven Year Itch set until Marilyn gave a pre-arranged signal. Every time she’d stood up to Hoover or Wilkerson or Hearst it was for a high-flying principle, but this time it was about as personal as it could get and she felt her determination wilt around the edges.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Winchell barked. “Zanuck promised me Monroe. Is this an ambush?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I wouldn’t be here if you’d returned any of my messages, but instead you give me the silent treatment. I need to hear what you’ve tracked down about my father. I know about Amagansett and Operation Pastorius, and I know that his FBI file is missing. I assume you have it?”
Winchell started fanning himself with a battered Homburg. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”
Until now, Kathryn had pinned her hopes onto a slippery handful of ifs and maybes. But now she knew there really was a file, and everything she needed to help set her father free was inside it, and it was in the hands of someone she trusted less than Jack the Ripper.
Winchell ushered her into the recessed doorway of the liquor store even though nobody was around to overhear them.
“I have a contact at the FBI.”
“The disgruntled employee with a grudge to bear?”
“I don’t know how you know that, but yes. And he told me that I’m not the only one asking about Danford. I didn’t want the information I saw in the file to get into anyone else’s hands, and I knew you wouldn’t, either, so I took it.”
Kathryn had always prided herself on her ability to distinguish between authenticity and bullshit, but today it failed her. She wasn’t sure what to make of this version of Walter Winchell: kind, considerate, selfless. Was he putting one over on her? What was the end game? Expose her as the illegitimate daughter of a convicted felon? Or was this the real deal?
“Did the disgruntled FBI guy say who’s been snooping around?”
Winchell nodded until the caution in his eyes capitulated into resignation. “Robert Harrison.”
The last name Kathryn wanted to hear right now was Harrison’s—he was the notorious owner of Confidential, the smutty rag that ignored truth in favor of giving the insatiable public more of what they thought they wanted, regardless of how it destroyed careers and reputations.
Winchell continued, “That odious little turd is not someone you want sniffing around your private business.”
“I thought the two of you were the best of pals.”
“He likes to think we are, and that suits me. For now.”
“Why not just tell me that? I already said you could have the credit.”
“Because Harrison isn’t above tapping my telephone, or intercepting my letters and telegrams.”
Kathryn’s first instinct was to write him off as paranoid, but the guy wasn’t without enemies.
“Harrison knows I’ve been working on a big story. He keeps badgering me about it.”
“It must be killing him.”
“I need to put him off the scent.”
Whatever had strained their friendship must have been serious if Winchell wanted to distract Harrison from a big story. Kathryn saw that keeping those two apart was to her advantage.
“I want you to give me something,” he said. “And it needs to be big.”
Kathryn wanted to laugh in his face. “Stories like that don’t fall into your lap like oranges off a tree.”
“But you’re Kathryn Massey.” His tone had turned supercilious—more like the Walter Winchell she hated. “You’ve always got an orange or two.”
She looked at him blankly. “Is that what you think?”
“Don’t insult me with this Rebecca of Sunnypuke Farm act.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t—”
“What happened last night?”
“This is LA. Something happens every night.”
Winchell ripped off his eyeglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “DiMaggio and I had plans for a drink at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He arrived two hours late, completely at sixes and sevens. Could barely keep the conversation going. I asked him what was wrong but he kept changing the subject.”
“I’m not a sports writer,” Kathryn replied. “I wouldn’t know the first thing—”
“He’s separating from Monroe, who I was supposed to meet here, but instead I find you looking distraught. I want you to tell me what happened—and don’t leave out a single detail.”
Winchell was too astute to fool for very long. “It’s not my story to tell,” she said.
“Yes it is.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Since when has that stopped either of us?” He bored into her with his pitiless eyes. “Isn’t your father’s freedom worth more than some lover’s tiff?”
“It was more than a tiff!” Kathryn looked down at her shoes. They were scuffed from the dirt and grime that the art department had applied to their Lexington Avenue reproduction.
Please forgive me, Marilyn. It’s for my father.
* * *
Leo already had a double Four Roses waiting for Kathryn when she arrived at Musso and Frank Grill.
She slipped into the red-upholstered booth. “How did you know I’d need one of these?”
“I read The New York Times.” They clinked glasses. “I’d have called, but I had so much to deal with after the show last night.”
Standing on the stage of the Pasadena Playhouse seemed like eons ago. “Not my favorite newspaper headline.” She took another whiskey slug and tried to catch the eye of a passing waiter.
“I told him to line up another one as soon as you sat down.”
It’s like Marilyn said—you’re one of the good guys.
He crinkled his nose. “You look like you have something to share.”
The waiter set down her second Four Roses and removed the empty glass.
I’ve betrayed Marilyn so that someone as heinous as Robert Harrison can be put off the scent. Maybe someday I’ll tell you, but not today.
Leo lifted his martini. “Here’s to us.”
Their glasses clinked gently over the gypsy violin music. Kathryn tipped the glass to her lips. Something touched them. She held it up. A twinkle caught the overhead light.
“What the hell—” Kathryn dipped her finger into the whiskey and fished out a gold ring topped with a marquise-cut diamond ring.
Leo took it from her and rubbed it dry with his napkin, then held it between his fingers. “Will you marry me?”
Kathryn thought of her mother. She’d only had one love, and circumstances had driven her clear across the country, where she’d spent the rest of her life alone.
Don’t be like her. Don’t turn away when happiness is right in front of you, holding an engagement ring. Nelson Hoyt was yesterday. He was a lost opportunity. And he’s too late. Look at that brave smile. If Leo can take a leap of faith, you can, too.
Kathryn smiled. “Yes,” she said. “I will.”
CHAPTER 31
Gwendolyn drove up the main gate of the Fox lot and waved to the security guard.
“Got a message for you, Miss Brick.” He passed a slip of paper through her window. “Marked URGENT.” She thanked him and headed toward the executive tower.
Her “Assistant in Charge of Special Projects” title sounded grand, and her increased salary was helping to shrink the hefty sum she owed the bank, but Zanuck’s idea of a special project was somewhat elastic. Mostly it was organizing outfits for stars like June Allyson, Lauren Bacall, and Arlene Dahl to wear at premieres, or shepherding visiting VIPs around the lot.
Sometimes he called on her to drive a top-secret script to the home of an actor or agent so they could read it while she waited. During the filming of Désirée, Zanuck had ordered Gwendolyn to look after Merle Oberon after she’d dozed off under a sunlamp, forcing her director to redesign her close-ups until the sunburn healed.
When Zanuck had nothing for her, she helped Billy Travilla or Charles LeMaire, or the woman who now did Loretta Young’s wardrobe, which gave her a chance to catch up with Judy, who was still drifting around the studio.
What made today’s directive different was Zanuck’s own scrawl. That was a first.
She exited the elevator, flicking the message across the tops of her fingernails. When Zanuck’s secretary, Irma, spotted her, she motioned for Gwendolyn to go right in.
The first rule of seeing Zanuck inside his domain was: Don’t sit down unless specifically invited. She stood on the lush carpet, breathing lightly, until he was ready to address her.
Behind him stood mockups of forthcoming posters for There’s No Business Like Show Business, Prince of Players, and The Racers. The last
movie wouldn’t be coming out until well into 1955, but it starred Bella Darvi, who was about to jet off to Rome for the opening of The Egyptian.
Whenever she saw Bella’s name, Gwendolyn thought of Marcus. As the autumn leaves began to fall across Los Angeles, his letters had subsided to a trickle.
“So,” Zanuck closed a script with a sharp slap, “today’s the day.” He turned around to see what had caught Gwendolyn’s attention. “You don’t like the poster?”
Gwendolyn presented what she called her “Zanuck smile”: bland, sweet, detached. “Today is what day?”
“What were you thinking just now?”
“Bella’s all set for her trip to Europe.”
“Great job on managing her wardrobe. She’s going to make the biggest splash Rome has seen since Cleopatra.”
“Are you sending her there by herself?”
“If you’re angling for a free trip, forget it.”
“I was thinking about my friend Marcus Adler,” Gwendolyn replied. “He knows the lay of the land pretty well.”
Zanuck frowned. “Adler’s still there?”
“He could escort Bella around town. Look out for her. Look after her.”
Zanuck nodded thoughtfully, tapping his blue pencil on the Carousel script in front of him. “That’s a good idea. Set it up as soon as you can.”
“Will do.” Gwendolyn waved the note. “You sent for me?”
“Today’s the day Gable starts work on Soldier of Fortune.”
“That’s quite a coup,” Gwendolyn said. It was the sort of ego-stroking she’d learned men—even astute ones like Zanuck—found irresistible. “Dory Schary must be steaming mad.”
He emerged from his vast desk and planted his butt on the edge.
“Back in 1947 when we out-grossed MGM for the first time, Mayer gave me such a pile of shit about it being a blip on the radar, and that they would be back on top. I vowed I’d do whatever it took to steal the King of Hollywood from them. I knew I had to play the long game. I had my strategies and I put them in place like a trail of candy, luring him onto the Fox lot. And here we are.”
“Edward Dmytryk, too,” Gwendolyn said. The director of Soldier of Fortune was one of the Hollywood Ten, but he had rehabilitated his career by testifying to HUAC. So this movie was also Zanuck’s “Screw you!” to the blacklist, which was another reason why Gwendolyn had brought up Marcus’s name. “It’s a big day.”
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