“Damn, but you’re good at this radio stuff, Massey,” he declared. “Real smooth and professional, but not all high society like Sheilah Graham—or like Hedda wishes she was.” He popped an encouraging punch on her knee.
She managed to nod her acknowledgment and let him yammer on about the effect D-Day had on newspaper circulation—even the Reporter had seen a marked increase.
Kathryn watched the Crossroads of the World’s neon globe pass by. It made her think of Gwendolyn and how happy she seemed with Lincoln. And why not? He’s a nice guy. So was Oliver, even if he did work for the Breen Office.
And I had Roy. Part-time had him, at any rate. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Roy in his military uniform. I bet you looked marvelous, she told him. You must have had all those WAC girls falling over themselves, dreaming of marrying you one day, just like I did. She mentally slapped herself across the face. Married? You’re not sure you even want to get married. Kathryn had often reflected on how disposable Hollywood marriages were—an endless carousel of I-like-him-I-want-him-I-love-him-I-marry-him-I-hate-him-I-divorce-him-I-like-someone-new.
“Did you hear me?”
Wilkerson’s question pulled her back inside the limo. “What?”
“I was confiding something to you.” His mouth was a thin pout. “Forget it.”
“I’m sorry. I just got the wind knocked out—never mind.” She angled her body toward him. “I’m listening.”
Ordinarily, Wilkerson wasn’t one for slouching in his seat, but he was now, his head resting against the back and his eyes on the padded ceiling. “I’m in debt. It’s bad, Massey. More than six hundred grand.”
Kathryn bit down on her lips to stop herself from making the same mistake she made at The Players. Don’t play the substitute wife. Be the good listening pal.
She thought about how Wilkerson had been more and more absent over the past few months, handing over much of the daily running of the paper to the managing editor. “Maybe you should spend more time in the office. A big ship needs a strong captain.”
“At Zanuck’s last week, I was up four hundred grand at one point.”
Kathryn wanted to tell him he was entitled to do whatever he wanted with his own newspaper—including run it into the ground—but dozens of people relied on him to make their living. But that’s what a nagging wife would say, so she asked instead, “What’s your plan?”
He rubbed his hands together like a villain out of The Perils Of Pauline. “I do have a plan, and it’s a doozy.”
“At the rate you’re going, it’ll have to be.”
“I’m going to open a casino!”
That’s like putting a dipsomaniac in charge of the distillery. Kathryn struggled to keep her voice on an even keel. “Gambling isn’t even legal in California, so why complicate your life by opening a casino? Is that what you’re going to do with Ciro’s? Resurrect it as—”
“Nah! Forget Ciro’s and forget California. I’ve got my eye on a town called Las Vegas.”
“Where’s that?”
“Nevada. I’ve been out there a few times lately. It’s the perfect place to open a casino. Gambling’s legal there, it’s out in the middle of the desert where nobody will—”
“That’s your plan?” She could see the Reporter folding within a year and her job evaporating in the desert heat. Her determination not to scold melted away. “A casino? In the middle of nowhere?”
“The middle of nowhere puts it beyond the long arms and beady eyes of the mob. You’ve got to think big, Massey. Places like Ciro’s are chickenfeed compared to casinos. Those things are goldmines.”
Kathryn’s temples began to throb with exasperation. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just stop playing high-stakes poker?”
Wilkerson let his head fall into his hands. “If it was easy as all that, don’t you think I would?”
“Just don’t go! Stay home and read a book instead. Why is it so hard—”
“Okay,” Wilkerson cut her off, “I’ll agree to stop gambling if you agree to stop breathing. Deal?”
She glared at him. Then it hit her; saying no to a poker game was quite a different thing for her than it was for him. “Oh,” she said softly. “I see.” Although she really didn’t see at all.
They passed four or five blocks in a dense, suffocating silence until Wilkerson said, “Every place I’ve set up—Vendome, the Trocadero, Sunset House, the Arrowhead Springs Hotel, Ciro’s—they’ve all been smashing successes. A casino is the next logical step.” He was starting to breathe more heavily now. “This is what I’m good at.”
Yeah, Kathryn thought, that’s exactly what Roy said to me in his telegram. She’d read it so often she knew it by heart.
KATEY-POTATEY STOP I’VE SIGNED UP FOR THE ARMY STOP SHIPPED OUT YESTERDAY TO TRAINING BASE IN MAINE STOP WAR IS COMING AND I WANT TO DO MY BIT STOP BE HAPPY FOR ME STOP THIS IS WHAT I’M GOOD AT STOP
And look what happened to him.
Wilkerson’s driver pulled onto St. Pierre Road, where Cole’s ornate mansion was lit up like a movie set. Kathryn realized this was the very last place she wanted to be. She needed space and time. Time to think about how gambling could possibly be as fundamental as breathing. And Roy—she needed time to mourn him. She thought she’d expelled him from her system when she learned he was still sleeping with his wife, but it was clear now how ridiculous that was. I’ll go out of my way to say hello to everybody as quickly as possible, then sneak out.
And maybe while she was at it, grab a champagne or two, because even if the world was at war, Cole Porter could always be counted on to serve the best.
* * *
Cole’s house was the sort of faux chateau Kathryn didn’t go for much: witch’s hat turrets, sixteen-foot vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows, tapestries the size of a Duesenberg, and statues of lions and griffins dotting the yard. His parties were always loaded with fabulously dressed people whose conversation sparkled with the cleverest bon mots because they’d read everything, met everyone, and been everywhere. Three steps inside the door, Kathryn could see that this one was no different.
What a shame, she told herself. I’m hardly in the mood for any of this.
She shanghaied a waiter and relieved him of a pair of champagne coupes, then realized Wilkerson had already melted into the crowd.
“Kathryn, my sweet! You have a spare? How divine.”
Kay Thompson was only five foot five, but with her pencil-thin body sheathed in a formfitting dress, she seemed much taller. She grabbed one of Kathryn’s coupes and emptied half its contents before coming up for air. “Cole was just asking about you. A bunch of us sat around listening to your show tonight.” She squeezed Kathryn’s hand. “Spectacular!”
Kathryn was relieved she’d bumped into Kay. Laying claim to the position of chattiest person at the Garden of Allah was no small thing, but Kay Thompson was the current titleholder. Kathryn knew all she’d have to do is insert the odd syllable into the conversation and Kay would do the rest.
The champagne was crisp and chilled to exactly the right temperature. Kathryn let it bubble down her throat like a desert spring while Kay prattled on about her vocal arrangements for the new June Allyson-Van Johnson picture, Two Girls And A Sailor. When she could take no more, she asked Kay, “Where’s Cole now?”
A congregation of gold bracelets clinked together when Kay pointed toward the piano room. “Last I saw him, he was being cornered by that Ann Miller dancer. Do you know her?”
“I know of her.”
“Judy told me the other day that Mayer’s about to dump that suicidal wife of his and he’s already started in with Ann. Don’t be surprised if she scores a nifty contract at MGM. I’d tell you to mark my words, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
The piano room was lit with lamps tactfully placed to soften and flatter. The shrieking laughter, glittering jewelry, and sharp-edged party-talk crowded the room, leaving Kathryn feeling besieged. She glimpsed Cole in his wheelchair, sleekly
tuxedoed and pretending to smile. Ann Miller still hovered nearby but a couple of Marx brothers had shunted her aside. Kathryn caught Porter’s eye and lifted a glass. His forged smile ripened into a genuine one.
A pair of wise-cracking Broadway chorus girls in overly-spangled getups of silver and red stepped between Kathryn and Cole, breaking their eye contact. By the time they’d moved on, Zeppo Marx had reclaimed Cole’s attention.
Kay had inserted herself in some other conversation, leaving Kathryn free to show her face in the piano room, the Louis XVI dining room, and the glass-paneled conservatory before retreating toward the back.
As she headed for the kitchen, Kathryn encountered a spectacle she never thought she’d see in a thousand lifetimes: Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper marching shoulder to shoulder like a set of Siamese twins. As the rival gossip queens of Hollywood, they rarely allowed themselves to be in the same room together; the sight of them glued Kathryn to the tiled floor.
“Kathryn,” Hedda purred, “we’ve been waiting for you.”
“You have?”
“Indeed,” Louella said. She presented Kathryn with a hollow smile. This was the first time Louella had spoken to Kathryn in three years. “Let’s find a quiet corner.”
The two most hated women in Hollywood hustled her through the kitchen and into the maid’s room. It was a small square holding only a single bed and table, and was devoid of personal effects save for a matching pair of cream Bakelite frames holding photographs of a couple of Negro children. As soon as Louella closed the door, the room felt stifling. Kathryn braced herself for a barrage about the Parsons piñata party.
“We want to know about Humphrey Bogart,” Louella said.
Bogart? What the—?
“We know all about how the two of you became great pals on that USO tour,” Hedda added, “so don’t give us the runaround.”
It didn’t take much gray matter for Kathryn to figure out what this was about. That day on the airplane when Bogie talked to her about his young costar, she could tell he was falling for her. When she spotted Bacall at the Hollywood Canteen a few weeks later, she could see why: the girl was striking. Kathryn’s contacts at Warners started to report a gag flying around the studio. If Bogie’s wife called, she got the same answer: “He’s out with the cast.” On the To Have Or Have Not set, the crew referred to Bacall as “the cast.”
“You must tell us what you know about the Book of the Day,” Louella commanded.
Kathryn stared at the women. “Book of the what?”
“Oh please, Kathryn,” Hedda said, “you’re much too smart for silly games. You must tell us about Bogart’s connection to the Book of the Day.”
“You mean the bookstore on Hollywood?” Kathryn asked.
Louella snorted. “We can stay locked in here all night if that’s the way you want to play it.”
“Humphrey has a finer appreciation for art and literature than most people give him credit for.” Kathryn could have sworn the walls had inched inward. “Other than that, ladies, I really don’t know what to tell you.” She brushed past them and reached for the doorknob.
“You mean to say nobody’s brought this up with you?” Hedda asked, her tone withering. “Not even Nelson Hoyt?”
Kathryn’s hand lay on the doorknob. Somebody had mentioned that name to her, but she couldn’t place it.
The way Louella shook her head reminded Kathryn of a condescending governess. “It’s just us, Kathryn. Nobody else can hear you.”
“Describe this Hoyt guy,” Kathryn said evenly.
“The charming Southern Gentleman accent? The deep cleft in his chin?” Hedda started to tap her shoe. “You know very well who Nelson Hoyt is.”
The name came back to Kathryn in a rush. Anita Wyndham mentioned him that night at the Canteen when she said that Louella was the least of her worries. But then the one millionth serviceman came through the doors and their conversation had broken off.
“See?” Hedda said to Louella. “I knew the FBI had gotten to her too. What was his approach?” she asked Kathryn. “Just show up at your desk? Or did he send a telegram?”
The word triggered the voice of Roy’s wife. They don’t waste any time sending that telegram. Had it only been an hour ago? ROY IS DEAD! It was like Mrs. Quinn was in the room with them, screaming in her ear.
Just then, the door swung open and a young black woman dressed in a plain blue uniform with a white apron stood gaping at them. A couple of rooms away, Kay Thompson’s voice javelined over the hubbub. “Three cheers for the birthday boy!”
As the gathering erupted, Kathryn pushed past the maid and bolted from the room. The kitchen was deserted and she had a clear path to the back door. She rushed out into the twilight.
Roy is dead and I’ll never see him again.
The back fence of Cole Porter’s mansion was an eight-foot hedge. Near the northern end, a dark wooden gate lay between her and freedom. If it was locked, she was prepared to scale it like an escaped con.
Nelson Hoyt is with the FBI.
She closed her fingers around the iron ring and yanked at the gate. It opened without protest onto a service lane that curved to the right. Overhanging branches of oaks and elms stippled the lane with shadow. She laid her hand against the hedge, but it was rough and scratchy and offered no support. She realized she’d left without her handbag and gloves. Panicked, Kathryn knew she couldn’t go back, so she stumbled over the cobblestones until she could no longer hear the laughter and music. There were no taxis in sight, but she needed the time it would take to walk all the way home.
She had a lot to think about.
CHAPTER 32
Linc turned his silver Packard onto Linden Drive. “Have you been here before?” he asked Gwendolyn.
She shook her head. “We either did our business at the Canteen or she sent someone to pick up her merchandise.”
Eight hundred and two North Linden was nothing like the house Gwendolyn had envisioned for Leilah O’Roarke. She was expecting an elegant French Provincial with tapering columns and pristine topiaries, but Linc pulled up in front of a white Spanish Mission revival. It had two separate balconies on the second story and a very tall chimney reaching for the sky. A driveway stretched along the right-hand side, and on the left a trio of palm trees swayed as one in the June breeze.
“Remember what we agreed.” Linc had his business voice on. Low and husky.
“I know, I know.” She laid a hand on his leg to placate the jitters she’d put up with on the drive over. “We drop off the merchandise. Collect the dough. Leave. Minimum chitchat. We’re in, we’re out.”
It’d been two months since they’d decided to get out of the black market at Trevor and Melody’s wedding at the Biltmore. The timing wasn’t ideal as far as Gwendolyn was concerned. She was still short the minimum needed to open Chez Gwendolyn, but quitting the game was better than working for the mob.
Then Leilah’s telegram arrived announcing she was head of the Hollywood Victory Committee, whose eighty entertainment units toured the country and overseas. They were mounting a huge undertaking to England and needed a hundred pairs of nylons, regardless of cost. Between them, Linc and Gwendolyn had ninety-four pairs left in their stockpile. Ten bucks a pop meant Gwendolyn would net around four hundred dollars for what they were calling their “grand goodbye.”
They got out of Linc’s car and approached the front door. It was made of oak and curved to snugly fit the stone archway. Inside the house they could hear a doorbell chime, then a voice call out, “I’ll get it, Mimi!”
The door swung open to reveal Leilah in a black skirt several sizes too small and a silk blouse as glaringly white as the outside of her house.
Leilah saw the large boxes in their hands. “My lifesavers! What I would’ve had to do without you doesn’t bear thinking about.”
She bustled them inside and told them to set their boxes down. “I’ll pop upstairs and get your money. You’ve got time for a drink, haven’t you?”
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“As a matter of fact,” Gwendolyn said, “we’ve got another stop—”
“One quick sherry!” She disappeared up the stairs.
They stepped into the living room. Like most Spanish Revival homes, it was built to keep the rooms cool; the walls were thick and the windows were small, letting in little light. A matching pair of standard lamps in opposite corners were placed more for mood than function. It took Gwendolyn a moment to realize someone else was there.
“I thought I knew that voice,” the figure said.
Countess Dorothy di Frasso had been at the center of the city’s social scene since before Gwendolyn moved to town. They first met outside Jean Harlow’s funeral—Gwendolyn didn’t have an invitation, and the countess arrived too late to get inside the crowded chapel—and became good friends for a while. They hadn’t seen much of each other since the war started, so Gwendolyn was pleased—if surprised—to see her.
When they embraced, Gwendolyn could smell the custom-made rose-and-lily perfume that the countess commissioned for her sole use. “I wasn’t aware you and Leilah knew each other,” Gwendolyn said.
“We go all the way back to the New York speakeasies.” The countess tsked. “Prohibition. It seems so long ago, doesn’t it?”
Gwendolyn guessed the countess was in her fifties now, but she didn’t look it. Gwendolyn took in the dark hair, the squarish face tipped with a pointed chin, and those lively dark blue eyes. She was glad to see her friend hadn’t changed.
“Are you on the Victory Committee with Leilah?” Gwendolyn asked.
“My checkbook is,” she said with a laugh. “Does that count?” She looked at Linc and extended her hand toward him.
“Linc,” Gwendolyn said, “this is Countess Dorothy di Frasso. Dorothy, this is Lincoln Tattler.”
Dorothy shook his hand. “Ah, so you’re the Tattler boy? Leilah has—” She spun around and gaped at Gwendolyn. “You’re Leilah’s girl?” She clapped her hands together. “How priceless! I’ve been getting my stockings through Leilah, but if I’d known, I’d have shopped direct!”
Searchlights and Shadows (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 4) Page 23
