Searchlights and Shadows (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 4)

by Martin Turnbull

  Kathryn sat down at the table and stared at Hoyt’s note. “Meanwhile, I’ve been sneaking around with a married man. No dinner and dancing, no movie premieres. As far as the world is concerned, I might as well be dating Marcus.”

  Gwendolyn joined her at the table. “This Hoyt guy sounds like a smart cookie. I’m sure he doesn’t think you’re some sort of skirt chaser.”

  “Evidently, my living with the same woman for eighteen years is of particular interest to J. Edgar Hoover.”

  Gwendolyn grimaced as she pulled on her white glacé kid pumps.

  “Hoyt promised me they only want me until the end of the war.”

  Gwendolyn let out a scornful “Pffft!” and then added, “We both know what those ‘until the end of the war’ promises are worth.”

  When Gwendolyn arrived home late on V-E Day, she hyperventilated herself into a fluster telling Kathryn what she’d done to get out of her obligation to Siegel. As far as Kathryn was concerned, even Wilkerson couldn’t fend off the mob if they wanted to muscle in on his casino project. Gwendolyn had done Wilkerson—and by extension, Kathryn—the biggest favor possible.

  “So what now?” Gwendolyn asked.

  Kathryn shrugged. When she reported what Howard Hughes told her about Bogie being on the first day’s shooting of To Have And Have Not, Hoyt pointed out that filming finished at six p.m. and the Book of the Day meeting started at eight.

  “Japan can’t hold out much longer,” Kathryn said. “The whole thing might be over before Humphrey and Betty get back to LA. I don’t want to risk the F-B-goddamned-I saying to me, ‘Well, Miss Massey, our agreement was to bring us the proof we need before the end of the war. You didn’t do that, so . . . ’”

  She got to her feet and picked up the platter of bacon rolls she’d spent a month’s meat rations on. “I need to speak to Bogie before they leave.”

  * * *

  When Humphrey and Betty stepped outside, the two dozen neighbors gathered at the pool burst into applause as “How Little We Know” floated over their heads. When Bacall heard it, her hands flew to her face in horror, but then she burst out laughing. “If I never hear that song again, I’ll be one happy girl!”

  No wonder Bogie fell for you, Kathryn thought. As arresting as she was on screen, Betty Bacall was even more in real life. Her hair was a warm chestnut brown; she kept it parted at the side and let it fall loosely to her shoulders.

  Dorothy Parker—back in town for the summer with her husband, Alan—handed them each a drink and proposed a toast:

  Here’s to Bogie and Bacall,

  Eastward ho their asses haul,

  Leave us here? What cursed gall,

  Quel dommage she’s so damned tall!

  A raucous cheer went up. Ever since V-E Day, Kathryn had noticed how buoyant everyone was. With hopeful eyes now turning toward Japan, ear-splitting cheers had become a daily event. Combine that with a marriage between a major movie star and his exquisite ingénue, and optimism was running through the Garden at feverish levels.

  Dottie sidled up to Kathryn. “Those two glow with so much love, it’s enough to inspire even us steadfast misanthropes.”

  “I’m not a misanthrope when it comes to love,” Kathryn rejoined, aware of how defensive she sounded. Dottie lobbed her a skeptical eye. “Really, I’m not.” Nobody would accuse Kathryn Danford of being a misanthrope. A second thought assailed her. But you’re not Kathryn Danford, are you? “I’m a career girl, whose priorities may differ from the standard—” Kathryn broke off when Dottie started to laugh. She’d been had. “Please tell me you brought your Pineapple Surprise punch.”

  Kathryn was at the punchbowl when she sensed Humphrey by her side. He wore the wily grin he usually reserved for double-crossing gangsters.

  “You’ve been on my mind,” he said earnestly. “I never apologized to you. Not properly, at any rate.”

  She handed him a cup of punch. “Apologized for what?”

  “That day down at NBC when I called you a miserable bitch.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Kathryn told him. “That’s all water long under the bridge. I haven’t given that day a thought since—”

  “I’m heading into a whole new life tomorrow, and I want to leave a clean slate behind me, so just shut up and let me do this.” A smile surfaced. “I want to apologize. I don’t think you’re a miserable bitch at all. Whatever the opposite of ‘miserable bitch’ is, that’s you in my book.”

  He was looking at her with those droopy hound-dog eyes of his. The camera never picked up the depth of them, not even in close-ups.

  Jesus Christ, Kathryn thought, I just can’t do it. “You and I need to talk,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “I’m listening.”

  “It needs to be in private.” Robert Benchley, Charlie Butterworth, and Kay Thompson let out a volley of laughter boisterous enough to wake Sleeping Beauty. “Tonight.”

  Humphrey looked around to see his bride-to-be trapped mid conversation with Dorothy Gish and John Carradine. He caught her eye, and mouthed, I’ll be right back. Kathryn followed him into the villa he shared with Betty and closed the door. Their apartment was laid out differently from hers and Gwendolyn’s—their living room was bigger but their kitchen looked like it’d been jammed into a tight corner. There also seemed to be less light. When Bogie shut the door, it threw the place into a deep murkiness leavened only by the smell of fresh-cut gardenias.

  Hoyt’s voice filled Kathryn’s ears. Tip Bogart off and this lesbian thing will only be the start. Now that she finally had him in front of her, sober and ready to listen, her courage faltered.

  “The FBI!” Kathryn pushed the words out. “They approached me a while ago. I thought it was to be an informer, like Louella and Hedda.”

  “Louella and Hedda are FBI informers?” He let out a long whistle.

  Kathryn started pacing the floor toward shelves loaded with books on sailing and yachts. “Turns out they had me in mind for a special assignment. They want to know where you were the night of the Book of the Day meeting.”

  “What meeting? And why do they think I was there?”

  “It was a Communist Party powwow, and apparently every big Hollywood name who’s a member of the party was there that night.”

  He pounded a fist against a dark wooden lowboy. “Jesus goddamned Christ. Is this the whole Dies Committee thing again?”

  “I suspect their plan is to make you name the names of everyone else who was there.”

  “Otherwise what?”

  “Otherwise they’ll drag you through the mud, just like they’ve threatened to drag me if I didn’t.”

  “They’re not fooling around, huh? So when was this meeting?

  “Last year. February twenty-ninth—Leap Day.”

  “The day we started filming To Have And Have Not.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Our director had the commissary bake us a cake. It had this black frosting with white lettering that said, ‘Once every four years. To Have And Have Not.’” Relief washed over Humphrey’s face. “That’s it, then. I’m in the clear. We were filming all day.”

  “You finished at six and the meeting started at eight.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette with enough force to choke a seagull. “So I’m screwed.”

  “Not necessarily.” Kathryn pulled him onto the sofa. “You just need to account for your time from six till midnight.”

  “Like I said, I’m screwed.”

  “Why?”

  “That was the first night I took Betty to go see the Sluggy. The marina’s deserted at night. We took separate cars off the lot, but met up down the street, a few blocks away in North Hollywood.”

  “So you have a corroborating witness!” She caught the dark look on his face. “No?”

  “There’s a clause in my divorce agreement. I had to swear my relationship with Betty didn’t start until later. Any admission that we got together earlier, it gives Mayo grounds to renegotiate. I can’t go t
hrough that again.”

  “It looks to me like the FBI is looking to hold something over you, so I doubt—”

  “I will not take that chance, you hear me?”

  “Okay,” Kathryn said, thinking fast, “so what did Betty do with the car she drove that night after she jumped into yours?”

  Bogie snapped his fingers. “Peter Lorre. I drove us down to the Sluggy, and Lorre drove her car to where she was staying with her mom.”

  “So he didn’t tag along too?”

  He threw her a pained look. “The point was to be alone with her.”

  “What I’m getting at is, would he be willing to swear that he was with you on the Sluggy that night?”

  “Peter Lorre is the best pal a guy could ask for.”

  “I’m talking about swearing to the FBI.” She let him think about what she was proposing.

  “Yeah,” he decided, “I think so. But we’ve gotta keep Betty out of this.”

  “Okay, so here’s the story: You finished shooting at six, swung past the soundstage where Peter Lorre was working. Then the two of you motored to the Sluggy and did whatever it is guys like you do when you’re sitting around a boat.”

  Bogie grinned. “Drinking, mainly. Maybe some poker.”

  “Get specific; get your stories straight.”

  Bogie nodded just as Artie Shaw and the three-man version of his orchestra started playing “Moonglow” a notch or two louder than they had been. Benchley yelled, “Where the hell did Bogie get to?”

  Bogie took Kathryn by the hand and kissed it. Kathryn wondered if that was the tactic he’d used with his fiancée; it was dizzyingly effective. “I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing,” he said.

  “Thank me by going out there and make Betty Bacall bless the day she met you.”

  He escorted her through the door, and then broke into a jog as he approached the crowd. They let out a cheer when he appeared.

  Kathryn hung back, content to watch the good will envelop Bogart. Her eyes sought out Marcus’ face in the crowd, but couldn’t locate him. Instinctively, they went to his kitchen window where she could see the light of his reading lamp. He’d been putting on a brave face since Oliver packed his things, but she knew he missed him terribly. He’d handed in the new version of Free Leningrad! and the MGM executives flipped their toupees over it, reigniting talk of an Oscar nomination. But even that failed to put a genuine smile on his face.

  When he spotted her at his door, he said, “Not tonight, Josephine.”

  She stepped inside anyway. “You know what this place needs? Fresh flowers. I was just over at Bogart’s place and Betty’s got it filled with gardenias. It smells divine.”

  “You were at Bogart’s?”

  “Pour us some whiskeys,” she told him, and pulled Nelson Hoyt’s note from inside her bra strap. “There’s somebody you need to meet.”

  CHAPTER 43

  It had been three days since Free Leningrad! had had its big, shiny premiere at Grauman’s Chinese. The thunderous ovation still rang in Marcus’ ears; the shock of Mayer acknowledging Marcus’ contribution still thrilled him: “And I want to mention a member of our staff whose contribution to this motion picture was essential. I refer to our screenwriter, Mr. Marcus Adler.”

  Moreover, at the post-premiere party, Mayer took him aside and practically guaranteed him an Oscar nomination. Guarantees like that were as cheap as confetti in Hollywood, so Marcus took Mayer’s promise as a “possible maybe, subject to change.”

  Marcus’ one regret was that Oliver wasn’t there to share it with him. But that was okay, because Oliver and Marcus had become pen pals over the past three months.

  Not long after he packed his things, the Breen Office sent Oliver (or perhaps he volunteered) on a nationwide fact-finding mission to take the nation’s temperature on the job they were doing to secure the country’s morals. His assignment took in twenty cities in four months, his days filled with civic leaders, church groups, and women’s associations, with names like the High Plains Coalition for the Preservation of Public Morality, New England Mothers’ Intemperance League, and—Marcus’ favorite—Teachers of Religion Against Motion Pictures, whose acronym spelled TRAMP, but nobody seemed to notice.

  The first time Marcus heard from Oliver was a picture postcard of the Lambert Gardens in Portland, Oregon. His message was brief and included no address. Similarly ambiguous cards from Seattle and Boise followed. But then came one from Omaha, telling Marcus he’d be staying at the Curtis Hotel in Minneapolis the second week of May, and hinted that if Marcus wanted to write him, he’d welcome it. Marcus knew a white flag when he saw one, and mailed back a picture postcard of Hollywood and Vine.

  Their correspondence evolved into one- and two-page letters, which soon grew to four and five pages as Oliver journeyed from Chicago to Boston to St. Louis, then all points south. Their second courtship, tentative and hesitant at first, bloomed into a love that Marcus feared had died. Oliver wasn’t sure when he’d land back in Los Angeles, but Marcus didn’t mind so much. It gave him something to look forward to.

  The Monday after Free Leningrad!’s triumphant premiere, Marcus walked into the writers’ department. Even in his euphoric state, he could feel the tension in the air. He stopped at the front desk and asked the receptionist what was going on.

  “Rumors are flying around like buzzards,” Dierdre told him. “Jim Taggert—we think he’s gone.”

  “You mean fired?”

  She curled a finger to draw him closer. “Word is that Mayer caught him screwing someone on his desk.”

  Hoppy and Taggert had been together longer than anybody Marcus knew. Taggert had a number of qualities Marcus wouldn’t want in a partner, but Marcus never figured infidelity would be one of them. “But the mountain never comes to Mohammed, so what was Mayer doing in Taggert’s office?”

  “No!” Dierdre’s pale green eyes bugged as though the four horsemen of the apocalypse had just come out the elevator. “Not on Taggert’s desk. ON MAYER’S!”

  * * *

  The summons from Ida Koverman, Mayer’s chief secretary, came about an hour later.

  When Marcus started the long walk toward the mogul’s raised desk, Mayer got to his feet and greeted him with a handshake heartier than Marcus would have credited him capable of.

  Marcus looked around for Eddie Mannix, but Mayer’s ever-present second-in-command was nowhere in sight. He took the chair offered him.

  Mayer sat down again and arranged his face into a serious veneer, and clasped his hands together. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the thing is, I’ve had to give Jim Taggert his marching papers.”

  “I see.”

  “There was a situation, and his dismissal was the only course of action.”

  “I’m sure you did what you thought best.”

  “Your department is left without a rudder. We need to fix that—pronto—so I’ve decided to promote you.”

  “Me?” The word popped out like a Ping-Pong ball.

  “Your work on William Tell and Free Leningrad! made it clear that you know how to tell a story for the screen better than anyone else here. Congratulations.”

  The air around Marcus seemed suddenly thin, like he was flying at 20,000 feet. He ducked his head in a vague half-nod. “Thank you, sir.” Then Mayer’s eyes hardened.

  “It is important you behave like a model employee. You are an example to your staff. You represent MGM everywhere you go.”

  * * *

  What was Jim thinking? And who had he been screwing? And why on Mayer’s desk? Marcus had been aware of friction between the mogul and his top script guy, but had it gotten so bad that he deemed it necessary to execute a revenge hump on the lord and master’s desk?

  Marcus stood in the shadow of the writers’ building and looked up at the window of what was now his office. The war had seen a regrettable departure of talented writers—not only from MGM, but from studios all across town—whose replacements were wiseass wun
derkinds who were impressed with their knack for snappy dialogue and couldn’t understand why they weren’t pulling in a grand a week already.

  Marcus took the stairs to the first floor and strode into the foyer like MacArthur walking onto Palo Beach. Dierdre leapt to her feet. “So? Is it true?”

  “Give me five minutes,” Marcus told her, “and then tell the staff to assemble in the conference room.”

  He headed into Jim’s office. This is MY office now. He pulled open one drawer after another until he found a bottle of Kentucky Tavern bourbon at the bottom of the filing cabinet. There were, however, no glasses. He could’ve just slurped from the bottle, but Mayer’s instructions to be an example to his staff came back to him. He headed for the break room and was only a couple of steps away when he heard one of the guys say, “What’s the bet Adler gets the top job?”

  “What’s the bet Taggert was screwing Adler on the big guy’s desk.”

  Marcus stepped back.

  A third voice spoke up. “I heard Adler’s a Commie. And that he blackmailed someone at the Breen Office to sneak some pinko speech into William Tell.”

  “Pinko faggots, the lot of them.”

  “Ever hear of a guy called Hugo Marr?” the first guy asked. “He was another one of those queer-ass writers. The pissant shot himself before the war, and the way I hear it, Adler was in the room. No charges or anything, but it makes you wonder. My ol’ pa always said it’s the quiet ones you gotta watch.”

  “Maybe Adler set Taggert up knowing Mayer would walk in,” the second guy said. “Talk about your coitus interruptus.”

  “More like coitus interrupt-ASS.”

  They erupted into hard-edged laughter. Marcus had never said much more than “Good morning” or “Nice weekend?” to the new guys, so he couldn’t positively identify the voices. He was still leaning against the wall when Dierdre appeared, frowning.

  “Kathryn Massey from the Hollywood Reporter, she’s a friend of yours, right?”

  “If she’s on the line, tell her I’ll call her back.”