Marcus was glad to keep her tucked away in his villa, where there was less chance that they’d be invited to the party on the west side of the pool. He turned to go but felt Kathryn tug him at the elbow. “Oh, and while I think of it, you asked me to remind you about the Bublichki photos . . . ?”
Oh, no.
A couple of weeks before, Alla and Glesca landed on Marcus’ doorstep with the news that the two-year Siege of Leningrad had finally come to an end. When Kathryn suggested they celebrate it at the Bublichki Russian Restaurant up on the Strip, Alla proposed asking Oliver along.
It was Alla who’d advocated Marcus recruit Oliver into the Hollywood Writers Mobilization. “It will give you both the perfect cover if anyone questions you being seen together. You can say, ‘Wartime makes such odd bedfellows, doesn’t it?’ and then change the subject.” Oliver joined the Mobilization the next day, but that evening at Bublichki was the first time they tested Nazimova’s theory. As it turned out, nobody batted a drunken eyelash.
At the last minute, Marcus grabbed his Brownie camera and snapped everybody in spiraling stages of sobriety. On the vodka-saturated stagger home, Kathryn took photos of the two men draped over each other in intimate ways not often exhibited by guys their age. Those photos were spread all over Marcus’ dining table and were—quite literally—the last thing Marcus wanted his sister to see.
As he inserted his key, he explained that he wasn’t expecting visitors, so his place was a typical bachelor mess. He swung the door open and directed Doris to the kitchen window. He pointed out the view with one hand—“Those are the Hollywood Hills!”—and with the other, he indicated that someone needed to shove the photos into the first drawer she found.
“So you’ll be here a week, is that right?” Kathryn asked.
“And we’ve got a full week planned,” Marcus said.
“As a matter of fact,” Doris said, plucking her white gloves off finger by finger, “I might need some time to myself.”
Kathryn glanced at Marcus. “Oh?”
“Back home, I work at a factory. Before the war, we made furniture. I ran the office, and that was fine. But the war came along and all the men left. Then the government ordered us to start manufacturing pilot seats. Within six months I was running the whole factory floor.”
“You must be good at your job.” Kathryn set out a plate of war cake on the coffee table.
Doris bit into a slice and chewed on it for a moment. “We got a commendation from the War Production Board, and so now I’m thinking ahead. When this war ends, the boys will return home and expect their jobs back.”
“You can’t blame them for that,” Gwendolyn said.
“I don’t, but at the same time, I reckon I’m better at their job than they ever were.” Doris’ face took on a serious expression that looked so much like Marcus’ father that he had to lean back. “We make the cockpit seats for the aircraft our boys fly over the Pacific. Most of them go into the P-38s. Over at Lockheed, they think I’m the bee’s knees. More than once they’ve said to me, ‘If you’re ever in Los Angeles and need a job . . . ’”
Marcus found himself running short of breath. He gulped at the air until he could speak without his voice failing him. “I suspect they were just being polite.”
Doris laughed. “Oh, I know. But then I started to wonder. What if they really meant it? I looked up Burbank on a map and saw it wasn’t too far from where you live. So then I thought, seeing as how I’m out there, two birds, one stone. You never know. So I took two weeks off and here I am.”
“Two?”
Doris caught the alarm on Marcus’ face. “I’m not in the way, am I?”
“It’s just that two weeks at the Chapman is going to run up quite a bill,” Kathryn said. “If we’d known you were going to be here that long, we’d have found you a cheaper place.”
Bertie snapped her fingers. “I’ve got the perfect solution! I live up at the big house in a two-bedroom. I’ve got plenty of space. Why don’t you stay with me?”
Doris’ eyes grew bright. “Are you sure I wouldn’t be an imposition?”
“I’ve never had a roommate,” Bertie beamed. “I’d love it! And hey! If you’re going to be around for two weeks, you’ll be here for the Academy Awards ceremony! Marcus, you’re going this year, aren’t you? You could take your sister!”
Marcus looked at Kathryn who looked at Gwendolyn who looked at Marcus. His carefully laid plans were unfurling like a ball of string.
CHAPTER 29
Gwendolyn held open the back door to the Hollywood Canteen and let Kathryn, Bertie, and Doris step into the night.
“Hot diggedy dog!” Doris exclaimed. “You certainly gave me a night to remember!”
Kathryn chuckled. “All we did was put you to work.”
Doris jammed her little black velvet pillbox on her head and inserted a hatpin to keep it in place. “When that makeup guy turned Mickey Rooney into a miniature Clark Gable, I thought I’d die laughing! And besides, it’s not work when you get to meet Eve Arden and Lucille Ball and Barbara Stanwyck and Red Skelton and Boris Karloff and—oh, my heavens, I’m going to have to write down all those names so I can tell everyone back home.” She let out a high-pitched yelp. “I nearly passed out when Bette Davis thanked me—ME!—for helping out.”
“It takes a small army to run a place like that,” Gwendolyn said, reaching into her purse. “Bette told me personally how pleased she was to see what a hard worker you were.” She handed Doris a flat package, wishing she’d hoarded prettier wrapping paper. The Herald Examiner would have to do.
“What’s this?” Doris tilted the package toward a coming streetlight.
“A thank-you gift.”
The contents of the package rendered Doris all but speechless. “Are—? These—? Real—?”
Gwendolyn nodded. “You’re going to the Academy Awards, aren’t you? I thought you could use a pair.”
“I haven’t had real nylons since I don’t know when,” Doris said, almost to herself. “How did you get your hands on these?”
Bertie saved Gwendolyn by hooking arms with Doris, pulling her into a huddle, and asking her what other stars she’d met. Kathryn and Gwendolyn fell a few steps behind.
“You and Bette were having quite the tête-à-tête in the office,” Kathryn said. “What was all that about?”
Gwendolyn was still trying to figure it out.
It was Leilah O’Roarke who’d suggested approaching Bette Davis. Linc’s black-market nylons were a step up from the ones Gwendolyn had been peddling. When she showed them to Leilah, the woman insisted on a standing order of ten pairs per month. From Leilah alone, Gwendolyn was making forty dollars a month. Between her other customers, plus the Miramar perfume, some South American lipsticks, and silk scarves, she was pulling in nearly two hundred smackers.
Like everyone else, she wished the war would end next week, but most theories suggested that both the Germans and the Japanese were prepared to fight to the death, so the war could easily last another year. If it did, Gwendolyn figured she’d have enough to open Chez Gwendolyn.
But four dollars per pair was a lot, even for nylons as heavenly as Linc’s, and finding customers like Leilah O’Roarke wasn’t easy. When Leilah suggested approaching Bette Davis, Gwendolyn was doubtful. Even though Davis was the highest-paid woman in America, Linc’s supply to Warners meant she could get her hands on as many as she wanted. But Leilah explained that she gave them to her makeup guy and her cinematographer to give to their wives as a way of keeping in sweet with the men who made her look good on the screen.
When Gwendolyn summoned the courage to make her offer, the star was delighted, but her face darkened when Gwendolyn mentioned Leilah’s name.
Bette waved a finger at Gwendolyn. “Power behind the throne, that one.”
Gwendolyn had always taken Leilah as a professional Hollywood wife who knew how to use her husband’s connections, but didn’t throw her influence around like a grenade. And after
all, it was Leilah who introduced her to Linc. “How do you figure?”
“Clem O’Roarke was just a barking drill sergeant when he came out of the army,” Bette said. “He joined the police department after the Great War and was a beat-walking flatfoot until he nabbed the Warners job. There’s no mystery how that happened. He served in the Fourteenth Field Artillery with Fletcher Bowron.”
“The mayor? Of Los Angeles?”
“Trust me, those O’Roarkes are very well connected, and they put themselves first every time.”
When Bette told Gwendolyn she’d take six pairs as long as they didn’t cost more than five dollars each, Gwendolyn said the price was four. Bette was impressed and upped her order to ten.
It was nearly midnight when the four girls reached Sunset. They crossed to the north side and peered east in the hope they hadn’t missed the last streetcar. There was hardly any traffic in sight—and certainly no streetcars—so they headed home on foot. For a bunch of girls still hopped up by a lively night at the Canteen, the Garden didn’t seem so far.
Doris looked back at Gwendolyn. “Thanks again for the stockings. I’ve almost forgotten how they feel.”
“Do you need a garter belt to go with them?”
Doris’ mouth dropped open. “I didn’t even pack one!”
Gwendolyn liked Marcus’ sister very much. She had such spunk and was up for anything: a picnic on the beach, a rumba competition at the Cocoanut Grove, a game of charades with Dorothy Parker and Donnie Stewart. Gwendolyn had helped spread the word around the Garden that Doris was not privy to Marcus’ private life, and—miracle of miracles—nobody had spilled any drunken beans.
Abruptly, Doris pulled them into a huddle. “There’s this guy who’s been following us since we left the Canteen. Right now he’s standing about a block behind us, kind of just loitering there. You think he’s a masher?”
They were at the Crossroads of the World shopping mall now. Towering over them was a quartet of white pillars topped by a globe of the world lit up in red, white, and blue neon. Although it was a busy shopping plaza by day, it was deserted at night.
“I don’t see any cops around,” Doris fretted.
Bertie sniggered. “I bet he doesn’t even weigh one twenty.”
A hundred-and-twenty-pound masher? Gwendolyn turned to take stock of him. “Oh, for gosh sake.” She nudged Kathryn. “It’s Ritchie!”
Ritchie Pugh was loitering just outside the circle of light cast by the neighboring streetlamp. When Gwendolyn called out his name, he approached them with an almost-sheepish reluctance. He was only a few feet away when it occurred to her that Siegel himself might be lurking in some parked car.
“Can we have a word?” Ritchie studied Bertie’s and Doris’ faces. “In private?”
Bertie took the cue and led Doris into a lap of the Crossroads of the World’s quaint collection of European-style stores.
“I was driving home just now when I saw you walking,” Ritchie said, “so I thought it was as safe a time as any.”
“Safe for what?” Kathryn asked.
“To ask you if the name Valentina de la Veracruz means anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s a name that’s come up lately between Siegel and Cohen. They mention her a lot.”
“In connection with what?”
“Your boyfriend.”
Gwendolyn thought of that night at the Mocambo when they encountered Bugsy Siegel and Mickey Cohen. “What do they say?”
“It’s financial stuff I don’t glom onto so good. But the way they talk, I reckon Linc knows who she is.”
“How do they talk about this Valentina woman?”
“Like they’re in on some big state secret.” He looked at Gwendolyn again. “Whoever this gal is, I think your Mr. Tattler would want to know that they know about her.”
* * *
The ceiling over Gwendolyn’s head stretched a good thirty feet and featured hand-painted scenes in the style of a Renaissance tableau. A pair of vast chandeliers radiated a soft shade of candlelight, transforming the Biltmore Hotel’s Crystal Ballroom into a dreamland of love. What a shame, Gwendolyn sighed, that it’s all a load of baloney. She knew everybody around her thought the same thing, but professional smiles were fixed on flawless faces and would be for the duration of the spectacle.
She felt Marcus draw alongside her. “This room has enough star power to catch fire before they serve the charlotte russe.”
Every MGM luminary worth their weight in glitter had shown up. Judy Garland, Gene Kelly, Esther Williams, Fred Astaire, Katharine Hepburn—they were all there. And not just the stars, but even the producers like Arthur Freed and directors like George Cukor had been recruited.
“Talk about turning on the works,” Gwendolyn said. “They must have conscripted everybody’s ration coupons to throw this clambake.” She noticed Kathryn had already darted off in search of some scoop or other. “Come on.” She hooked her arm through Marcus’. “Let’s see whose table they’ve thrown us on.”
When George Cukor saw them approach, he broke away from his conversation with Adrian and his wife, Janet Gaynor. “Where’s that handsome boyfriend of yours, Gwendolyn?” George asked.
“He’ll be along. Some sort of necktie crisis.” Earlier that evening, Linc called saying he’d have to meet her at the hotel. She wondered what sort of calamity could befall a necktie department at six o’clock on a Saturday night, but she’d said nothing, mainly because she had trouble believing it. This whole Valentina business made her edgy, and she knew she couldn’t relax until she could ask him about her. A wedding reception for two hundred wasn’t ideal, but she hadn’t seen him all week.
A couple of champagne rounds later, a blast of trumpet fanfare filled the room and the newly wedded couple made a spotlit entrance to a hollow round of applause. Trevor Bergin seemed unable to summon even a bogus smile and his not-so-blushing bride, Melody Hope, looked as good as Hollywood’s best makeup artist could manage, considering the toll that booze was starting to take on her. But photos could be cropped and airbrushed, and that’s all that mattered.
Everybody was halfway through their seafood cocktails by the time Linc rushed in. “There was a fire in the storage room. Looks like we’ve lost forty percent of our neckties.”
Gwendolyn waited until Linc had finished the last shrimp before she pulled him off his seat. She threaded them through the maze of tables, out through the ballroom’s doors and into the Biltmore’s ornate main corridor. But it too was filled with people; photographers, reporters, movie fans, and hangers-on. She spied a staircase leading up to the second floor and headed for it, hauling Linc in her wake.
The stairs led to a line of Juliet balconies that overlooked the wonderland of sparkling jewelry, forced smiles, and miniature rose centerpieces MGM’s art department had concocted. Linc fell onto one of the seats in the first balcony he spotted. He was more than two champagnes’ worth of drunk.
“Was there really a fire at your store?”
“Nope.” He belched. “My dad and I haven’t been getting along too well lately. I went to clear the air but things didn’t go so great. Nothing you need to worry about.” He waved away any more questions while Xavier Cugat’s band started a waltz. “You want to tell me what we’re doing up here?”
“I brought you up here to discuss Valentina de la Veracruz.”
In the seventeen years Gwendolyn Brick had lived at the Garden of Allah, she’d never seen anyone sober up as fast as Lincoln Tattler did at that moment. He yanked her down to join her at the tiny table. “How do you know about her?”
Gwendolyn flattened her palms onto the tabletop to steady her nerves. “Who is she?”
“TELL ME—” He paused to collect himself. “How do you know about Valentina?”
“I have a friend who is close to Ben Siegel.”
“You mean that beanpole we saw at the Mocambo?”
“He told me that the name Valentina de la Veracruz h
as been cropping up in conversations between Siegel and Mickey Cohen. He said that you know who she is and that you’d appreciate learning that Siegel and Cohen know of her too.”
Linc ran his hands over his pomaded hair. “Got any cigarettes?”
“Linc, honey—” She struggled to push the words out. “Is this someone you’re involved with?”
Linc sandwiched her hands between his. “No, my darling heart. You’re the only girl in my life.”
Gwendolyn wanted to believe him. “Then tell me who this Valentina is.”
“She’s a person I invented,” he said. “In fact, she’s not even that. She’s a bank account. All the stuff we sell on the black market, it comes from South America—Argentina, Brazil, and Uruguay. I deal with one supplier in each country, and we transmit funds back and forth using a bank account in Buenos Aires under the name Valentina de la Veracruz. As far as I knew, only the four of us were aware of it.”
“Apparently Siegel and Cohen know about it, too.”
Linc slammed his hand against the table. “Dammit!”
“Nothing good can come from being someone Ben Siegel and Mickey Cohen are watching. Linc, what do you think all this means?”
“It means we’ve done our job so well that we’ve attracted the attention of the mob. They have to have done some mighty deep digging to find out about Val.”
“So what now?”
Linc took Gwendolyn’s hands again and squeezed them gently. “Baby, it’s time you and I got out of the black-market business.”
CHAPTER 30
Marcus and Oliver had a secret code. It was so simple and so innocuous that nobody ever noticed it. He hadn’t even shared it with Kathryn or Gwendolyn.
Sometimes it was three knocks on a door or a table; sometimes it was replying “Yep” three times to a question; sometimes it was pretending to scratch an itch using three fingers.
Tap, tap, tap = I love you.
Yep, yep, yep = I love you.
Scratch, scratch, scratch = I love you.
Being a guy in love with another guy, opportunities for public displays of affection were scarcer than hookers in a nunnery. From the moment Oliver made his “collective American dream” speech, nobody at the Garden cared where Oliver worked. The Garden of Allah was Marcus and Oliver’s sanctuary. But outside the walls was a different story.
Searchlights and Shadows (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 4) Page 21
