Gwendolyn squeezed harder on his arm. “A guy needs to look out for his own best interests.”
Linc gazed out across the deserted pool. “Clem O’Roarke has a side business. Real estate.”
“They say after the war ends, LA is going to experience a boom—”
“But it’s way out past the Mojave Desert. Why would anybody buy land in the middle of Nevada? Primm Valley Realty.” It was as though Linc was talking to himself now. “That’s the name of O’Roarke’s company. It comes up on the books over and over. Primm Valley Realty and Tattler’s Tuxedos keep lending and borrowing money to and from each other. Back and forth, over and over. Now this brothel business comes up.”
“You think Clem O’Roarke’s running those places?”
“There must be some reason why Bugsy thinks it’s me. It must be a pretty good reason to go to all this trouble to drag me into his net.”
“So you think your dad’s helping O’Roarke launder brothel money? We need to figure out what we’re going to—”
Linc grabbed Gwendolyn by her arms, his eyes darting back and forth. “This whole thing stinks, and I don’t want any part of it. I’m going while the getting’s good.”
“Oh, God, Linc, you’re going to try and sign up again?”
He scoffed away her fears. “After they knocked me back on account of my flat feet, I appealed. That’s when they found out Dad’s three factories were converted for making uniforms and suddenly I found myself officially deemed vital for the war effort, and was permanently excused. I’m so sick of him interfering in my life.”
“Where are you going? Do you even have a plan?”
“There’s this place in Mexico, on the coast, about halfway to Costa Rica. I saw an article on it in the Saturday Evening Post. It looks like a slice of heaven. Come with me.”
That last sentence knocked the wind out of Gwendolyn. She began to pull away, but he jerked her closer to him. “It’s so cheap down there. With what we’ve socked away, we could live for fifteen years, maybe twenty. I love you, Gwendolyn. I truly do. You’re the most wonderful girl I’ve ever met, but I can’t stay here. Not anymore. Come with me, Gwendolyn. Come with me to Mexico.”
CHAPTER 37
The opening notes of “Moonlight Becomes You” floated out of Mickey Rooney’s house, greeting Kathryn as she walked up the brick path.
Beside her, Kay Thompson cocked an ear. “He’s got someone playing live. Judy’s going to love that.”
Kay seemed to exist entirely on cigarettes, cocktails, and black coffee, which explained how she remained so thin. Always dressed in bright colors, white, gold, orange, highlighted with beads or diamantes, and always in ridiculously high heels. At five foot five, she was barely an inch taller than Kathryn, but she often made Kathryn feel short, plump, and dowdy. Kathryn was very pleased Kay was her neighbor, but today the last thing she wanted to feel was short, plump, and dowdy.
The aroma of roses engulfed them as soon as they stepped inside. A matching pair of enormous crystal vases sat on a table in the vestibule, holding two dozen blood-red roses. “It smells like the fucking Rose Parade in here!” Kay declared.
“It is St. Valentine’s Day,” Kathryn pointed out. The memories of past St. Valentine’s Days she’d spent with Roy had been haunting her all day.
To their right, Mickey’s living room stretched long enough to hold four large sofas, several coffee tables, a sideboard and a wet bar, and a piano surrounded by a dozen people. On every available surface were bouquets of roses, some red, some white, some pink, all in vases identical to the ones in the vestibule. The fragrance was overwhelming.
Kay picked up two champagne coupes from a tray sitting on the hall table and handed one to Kathryn. “Judy won’t be able to breathe, let alone sing,” she tut-tutted.
It was generally acknowledged that Judy Garland’s success at MGM was thanks in large part to Kay Thompson’s ability to dream up superlative vocal arrangements that brought out a singer’s best qualities. When Mickey Rooney announced he was throwing a St. Valentine’s Day party to celebrate the success of his latest picture, National Velvet, he asked Judy if she’d come along and sing a few songs. Judy was still riding high on Meet Me In St. Louis, and knew that every decision-maker at MGM would be at Mickey’s party. Wowing the crowd would help consolidate her position as their biggest female star.
“I better go find her.” Kay plunged into the crowd, blowing air kisses at every other person she came to. Kathryn watched Kay work the room, scrutinizing everyone she greeted.
You’re obsessed, she told herself, and it’s starting to drive you batty.
Since the visit from Nelson Hoyt last December, Kathryn found herself looking around tree trunks, double-checking waiters and cab drivers, and eavesdropping on conversations at restaurants. Everywhere she went, she searched for signs the FBI was watching.
Kathryn drained her champagne and dipped into a zebra-striped ceramic bowl for a heart-shaped chocolate. The first one was filled with creamy strawberry fondant that made her think of Marcus and how happy he was these days. Oliver’s declaration that he wanted to move in was sweet, but unrealistic. There was no way the Breen Office would approve of one of their staff moving into a place as louche as the Garden of Allah, so he rented a cheap studio apartment as his official address and shifted all his clothes, books, and records into Marcus’ home. The sweetest pair of lovebirds in all creation couldn’t be happier than those two.
And then there was Gwendolyn. Kathryn gnawed into another chocolate and let bitter orange spill over her tongue. Linc hadn’t made good on his Mexican getaway, but Gwendolyn wasn’t sure how much longer he’d stick around.
Kathryn spotted a familiar figure across the far side of the living room. Her boss’ meticulously groomed lawyer, Greg Bautzer, had been in the Reporter’s office more often lately. She decided it was time for a fishing expedition.
From the way his eyes darted around the room, it was obvious he would welcome the distraction from small talk with Ann Rutherford and Roger Edens. She was about to make her move when a fresh glass of champagne appeared in front of her face. She turned to thank her savior, but froze mid word when she saw the deep cleft in his chin.
She was reluctant to accept the champagne, but her mouth had gone dry. She grabbed the glass. “How did you talk your way into this party?”
His smile widened. “I’m with the New York Times, remember?”
She hit him with her haughtiest expression, and turned back to Bautzer, catching his eye and raising her glass. He did the same, mouthing the word Help!
“I was hoping I’d bump into you here,” Hoyt said.
Kathryn kept her eyes on Bautzer. “I’m so flattered.” She felt his hand on her arm and looked at him expectantly.
“We need to talk about my offer.”
“Here’s what I think about your offer. You get someone to snoop on her friends, and I get—hmmm. What do I get out of it? Oh, yes, that’s right: nothing.” She wanted to cold-shoulder him, but decided an unblinking glare might serve her purpose better.
To his credit, he didn’t blink either. “I agree. You deserve more out of this than the chance to serve your country.” He smiled at her withering pout. “How would you like to know the name of your father?”
It took her several heartbeats to grasp the implications of his question. “You’ve seen my birth certificate?”
“We do a background check on everyone we’re thinking of approaching. Not only did yours turn up an unnamed father, but also a recent request for a copy of the birth certificate. Return address: the Garden of Allah Hotel.”
And did your background check include the fights I’ve had with my mother?
What Francine failed to acknowledge was Kathryn’s greatest fear. She was on the air now all over the country. There wasn’t anything she could do about the circumstances of her birth, but if there was a skeleton lurking in the back of her closet, she wanted to know.
In a succession of care
fully spaced intervals, Kathryn had initiated a series of casual conversations with her mother. They never started on the subject of her conception, but Kathryn found ways to maneuver them around to the subject, approaching it from different angles. Francine always saw through Kathryn’s tactics, but it didn’t stop Kathryn from trying again to dig deeper into a story she found difficult to swallow. The most recent attempt was when she treated Francine to a snazzy birthday luncheon at the Town House Hotel’s Zebra Room on Wilshire.
She should have known better than to keep pushing her mother—especially in a public place. But something inside her drove her to hurl one last hammer against the thick pane of glass Francine had put up. Francine got defensive, Kathryn got strident, the Bordeaux got knocked over, the fellow diners got a terrific story to tell their friends, and the waiter got a monumental tip. It would be a while before Kathryn Massey could show her face at the Zebra Room again.
And now, after all that, the person Kathryn liked the least was offering what she longed for most.
The hoards of people around her broke into enthusiastic applause, giving her an excuse to look away. Mickey Rooney stood with Judy Garland on a pair of footstools, which raised them over the heads of everybody in the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a treat!” He grabbed Judy’s hand and kissed it. “We’re the luckiest bunch of so-and-sos because our own Judy has agreed to sing for us!” The crowd cheered while Roger Edens slid onto the piano seat and played the opening chords of “I’ll Be Seeing You.”
As Judy started to sing, Kathryn could smell Hoyt’s aftershave. It had a metallic scent, rather like a smoking gun, she imagined; it contrasted sharply with the cloying roses. It was remarkably masculine and on anyone else, she might have found it appealing, but not on an FBI agent who thought he was entitled to stand this close to her.
She left the party the way she came, through the front door and right onto the brick-paved patio, leaving Hoyt to follow her. The streetlights dotting the sidewalk were all out. After three years of wartime dim-outs, Kathryn had gotten used to darkened streets, but now they gave her a sinking feeling. “You’re a real piece of work,” she told him.
“Aren’t you curious about who your father is?”
“Of course I am! But I’m not sure I want to hear it from you.”
“I didn’t say I knew his name, I just asked if you’d like to learn it.” His voice had turned softer now. “I’m willing to make inquiries on your behalf.” She didn’t know what to say. The two of them stood in the half shadows of Mickey’s porch, listening to Judy wind her voice around the song.
“I was talking to Mr. Hoover about you, expressing your reluctance.”
“I bet he didn’t take it very well.”
“He asked to see your file.”
The FBI has a file on me? Kathryn recomposed her poker face. Happy now, Little Miss Smartypants? See what you get for being ambitious? “Did he find anything of interest?”
“He was very interested in the fact that you’ve lived with the same woman for eighteen years.”
“That’s it?” She felt relief drain away. “The fact I have a roommate? That’s hardly—”
“There’s a word for two women who live together, and it isn’t roommate.” He said that last word with unsettling deliberation.
“Hoover thinks I’m a dyke? Just because I’ve—oh, for crying out loud!”
She turned away and leaned on a wrought iron pillar for support. It was times like this that she really missed Roy, and that stalwart and dependable way he had about him. When they were together, more than once she’d woken in the middle of the night and watched him breathing his long, slow deep breaths—even the way he breathed was reassuring. If Roy were here now, he’d be punching this clown in the face and tossing him into Mickey Rooney’s daisy bushes. But if Roy were here, she realized, she wouldn’t even be having this conversation with the FBI.
She spun back to face him. “Tell me, Mr. Hoyt, what do you think?”
An evening breeze wafted across them, blowing his smoking-gun aftershave toward her. “It’s what Hoover thinks that matters, and more importantly what he can do with information like that.”
She opened her handbag and fished out a cigarette; it was a delaying tactic to consider her options. Within the protective walls of the studios—and places like the Garden of Allah—people were generally left free to live as they pleased. But being publicly branded a homosexual was as devastating to one’s career as being branded a Communist, a bigamist, or a rapist. As far as the world at large was concerned, homosexuals were degenerates on the level of child molesters, and their acts considered prison-worthy.
They’ve got me, she thought, lighting up. Right where they want me. Cornered like a goddamned rat.
“Would you like some good news?” Hoyt asked.
She blew cigarette smoke in his face. “Got any?”
“We only want you until the end of the war.”
The newspapers were full of conjecture about how long it might take the US Pacific forces to capture an island called Iwo Jima. It was only 750 miles from Tokyo and, once secured, they’d have Japan within the reach of medium-range bombers. Meanwhile in Europe, the Allies were converging on Germany’s borders.
He risked a step closer. “We have our eye on a particular person of interest, and we need someone to do a little digging.”
“Who?”
“Humphrey Bogart.”
“You guys must have your wires crossed. I like to think I know Bogie reasonably well—”
“Why do you think we’ve approached you?”
The crowd inside erupted into applause for Judy, who responded with “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Then Roger started playing “They Can’t Take That Away From Me.”
“We suspect he’s a member of the Communist Party.”
“Are we back on the Anti-Nazi League? Because let me tell you, it was a frequent topic of conversation around the Garden before the war, and I do not recall anybody mentioning his name.”
“He wasn’t a member, not as far as we know.”
“Please tell me you’re not referring to that ridiculous dust-up Bogie had with the Dies Committee,” Kathryn demanded. “That whole thing was a load of bunk. Humphrey Bogart is as American as Betsy Ross’ recipe for apple pie.”
“It’s not our only evidence.”
She stubbed her cigarette out on the brickwork. “What else you got, mister, because so far it seems to me you got bupkis.”
“Last February, there was a meeting in the Book of the Day bookstore in Hollywood. We know it was a Communist Party meeting, and it’s been alleged that Humphrey Bogart attended.”
Kathryn thought about that confrontation in the maid’s room at Cole’s party. “Alleged by who?”
“All we need you to do is establish his whereabouts on the last day of February.”
“A year ago? You expect me to find out where Bogie was—”
“You interview people for a living.”
“These people are actors. They’re in the business of making things up.”
“I’m confident you know bullshit when you smell it. This is all we’re asking of you, Kathryn.”
“It’s Miss Massey to you.”
“If you can confirm where Bogart was that night, you’ll have been of great service to your country . . . Miss Massey.”
Speaking of smelling bullshit. “You go to this trouble to recruit me, and yet all you want is this one thing. There must be a lot at stake.”
A lone car rounded a curve in the road, momentarily filling Hoyt’s face with light, but he’d retreated behind a mask of professional detachment. “I need an answer, Miss Massey.”
“To what?”
“Are you willing to work with us?”
She thought about the folder sitting in some FBI filing cabinet with her name neatly printed across the top. It probably sat next to the ones for Ginger, Joan, Bette, and George. We only want you until the end of the war. She nodded, c
urtly, silently, hoping to telegraph her resentment.
“Thank you,” Hoyt said, then melted into the darkness beyond the porch light, leaving the racket of the party to fill the space he left behind.
CHAPTER 38
Yesterday’s LA Times lay on Gwendolyn and Kathryn’s dining table with a sobering headline in three-inch capitals:
ROOSEVELT DEAD!
CEREBRAL HEMORRHAGE PROVES FATAL;
PRESIDENT TRUMAN SWORN IN OFFICE
A cello played a slow dirge while a commentator described Roosevelt’s hearse threading through Washington, DC.
“Does anybody know that tune?” Bertie asked.
Alla sipped the last of her tea. “‘Adagio For Strings’ by Samuel Barber.’”
“Apparently the troops are just outside of Berlin now,” Bertie said. “Gosh, but it’s a crying shame he won’t be around to witness those last fifty miles.”
“Gwennie,” Marcus said, “where’s Linc? He’s not sitting at home alone, is he?”
The kettle on the stove next to Gwendolyn started whistling. She turned off the gas and poured boiling water into the teapot. “He had to run up to San Francisco for a problem with their satin supplier. He took off on Monday saying he’d only be gone a couple of days, but now it’s Friday so I guess it turned into a crisis.”
She set the full teapot on the table while they listened to the commentator.
“The crowds are lining Constitution Avenue from here to the White House, where this procession ends. The sound alone can describe the solemnity of this occasion. Let’s listen.”
As the mournful music filled the villa, Gwendolyn thought about how Linc would hate being stuck in a hotel room with nobody to share this awful moment.
She was so glad he’d decided not to go to Mexico, and liked to think that her refusal to run away had something to do with it. “Stick around,” she’d urged him. “Study your father’s books more closely. If you can get to the bottom of what’s going on, maybe you can find a way to protect his reputation.” Thankfully, he listened to reason and there had been no more talk of Mexico.
Searchlights and Shadows (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 4) Page 27
