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

by Martin Turnbull

Bertie emerged from the crowd and reached her arms around Kathryn and Gwendolyn. “Oh, sweet Jesus!” Her breath was already ripe with the tang of beer. “Our boys are coming home. Our boys are co-o-o-ming ho-o-o-me!”

  Kathryn hugged her. “Is Marcus around?”

  “Uh-huh.” Bertie broke away, wiping her eyes. “Last I saw, he and Oliver were fixing themselves something at the bar.”

  When Kathryn shouldered her way to Marcus, he was holding an unopened bottle of Glenfiddich.

  “Is that from Seamus?” she asked. “The last one from his family made it, huh? I’m so glad.”

  Marcus shook his head. “His youngest son was in Okinawa, a gunner on the USS Bunker Hill. Kamikazes got him.” He cracked open the bottle. “Poor Seamus wasn’t up to being here, but left word to drink it in good health.” He poured out four shots and handed one each to Kathryn and Oliver. “Where’s Gwennie?”

  They spied her in a shadowy tête-à-tête with Errol Flynn.

  Seamus’ Glenfiddich was a buttery smooth mouthful, but it was only a mouthful. Kathryn pointed to an unopened bottle of Gordon’s Orange Gin. “Make me a gin-and-something,” she told Marcus. “I don’t care what, just as long as there’s a lot of it.” Artie and his band started playing an up-tempo version of an old Irving Berlin ditty, “I’m Putting All My Eggs In One Basket.”

  “Dance with me!” she commanded Marcus.

  She handed him the tumbler of bourbon he’d just poured himself and led him into the thicket of dancers tangled around the pool. Robert Benchley was dancing with Lillian Hellman while Dorothy Parker allowed Louis Calhern to twirl her around like a music box dancer. Dorothy Gish was there too, with Kay Thompson’s husband, Bill, while Kay was standing with Artie’s band belting out the lyrics.

  Kathryn took a deep swallow from her drink—Marcus had made sure he’d added only a splash of pineapple juice and seltzer to her orange gin—and pressed her head against Marcus’ chest. “It’s like waking up from a nightmare, isn’t it?”

  “Mmm.”

  She lifted her head to look at him. “Well, isn’t it?”

  His eyes were on Oliver, but he shifted his gaze to her. “Absolutely. I was just thinking about tomorrow morning.”

  “What’s happening tomorrow morning?”

  He pressed her head back against his chest. “Oh, you know, life goes on.”

  She thought of Nelson Hoyt and the way his lips disappeared when he said, Remember that lesbian thing we talked about? “Let’s leave tomorrow for tomorrow.”

  Marcus grabbed her left hand, twisted it around the back of her waist, and pivoted her into a spin so fast it sent half her drink flying onto Dottie Parker.

  Dorothy ran a finger along her wet arm and tasted it. “At last, my prayers are answered! It’s raining gin! There is a God!”

  The crowd roared and soon everybody was dipping fingertips in drinks—their own and their neighbors’—baptizing each other with booze and tonic and juice and soda and ice cubes and pool water and paper umbrellas and anything else that came to hand.

  In the middle of this ritualistic shower, Kathryn grabbed Marcus by the chin. “Happy peacetime to you,” she said.

  “And to you,” he replied. “To all of us.” He paused. “Including those no longer here.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Marcus sat on the diving board and watched Kathryn perform the Dance of the Seven Veils for Errol Flynn, Charlie Butterworth, Arthur Sheekman, and some guy in an army uniform nobody seemed to know. Instead of seven veils, Kathryn was making do with a mismatched pair of silk opera gloves and three wilted calla lilies.

  The party to celebrate the declaration of peace was six hours in now; Marcus guessed it was past two a.m.

  He felt Oliver nudge his shoulder. “Having second thoughts?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Oliver glanced down to the paper cocktail napkin in Marcus’ hand. He’d reduced it to shreds.

  Marcus balled up the paper and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “You are okay with our plan, aren’t you?” He twisted around so he could see Oliver’s face. “She’ll probably say no, and she probably should. But once I’ve asked her . . . ” He let the rest of the sentence float away on the night air.

  “I’ve already told you what I think,” Oliver said. He called out to Kathryn, who’d finished her dance of the gloves and lilies. “OVER HERE!” As she picked her way among the revelers, Oliver said, “She doesn’t look too drunk. The time has come. I’ll find Gwendolyn.”

  Marcus scrambled off the diving board and took Kathryn by the hand. “I need you to come with me.”

  She squinted. “What’s going on?”

  Marcus said nothing, but led her around the periphery of the partygoers and into his living room. He switched on the corner lamp, but it made the place seem murky. He was aiming for a romantic tone, so he lit the two candles he kept on his bookshelf and moved them to the side table by the sofa.

  She sat down just as Oliver and Gwendolyn appeared at the door. Marcus pointed them to the two chairs on the other side of his coffee table, and sat down beside Kathryn. “Gwendolyn told me what happened tonight outside NBC with that FBI guy.”

  Kathryn blinked but said nothing.

  “And about the whisper campaign he threatened you with.”

  “Ah.” She nodded. “Did she tell you about the conversation I had with Bette?”

  “About how everyone thinks you’re a dyke?”

  She rolled her eyes and strained for a smile. “I guess I’m going to have to find myself a very public beau.”

  Marcus wished he’d had the chance to slug some bourbon before they sat down. “I think I’ve got a solution to both our problems.”

  “What problem have you got?” Gwendolyn asked.

  In the time he’d headed up the writing department, Marcus had pushed through a number of pet projects: a love story set in a London air-raid shelter; a reworked version of his Pearl From Pearl Harbor, now renamed Hannah From Havana; and a Jerome Kern biopic called Till The Clouds Roll By. It would all be going swimmingly, but the comments from his junior screenwriters were becoming more vocal and more public, and he needed to do something drastic.

  “Certain members of my staff don’t respect me because I’m a homo,” Marcus told Kathryn. “People do respect you, but if the FBI follows through with their threat, that might change.”

  “You think this is news to me?” Kathryn set her elbows on her knees and her chin on her palms. “But what can I do about it?”

  Marcus took the deepest possible breath and let it out slowly. “You could marry me.”

  Gwendolyn let out a yip and clapped her hands together.

  Kathryn’s face didn’t register the surprise Marcus expected. Instead, he saw all the implications and possible outcomes spinning through her mind like reels in a slot machine. With restrained deliberation, she lifted her head from her hands. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve put a lot of thought into this. Let’s be honest, it wouldn’t exactly be the first lavender marriage that ever took place in Hollywood.”

  “Or at the Garden of Allah, for that matter,” Gwendolyn added.

  Kathryn reached out and took him by the hand. “Are you sure about this? I mean, are you sure you’re sure?”

  “It’d solve some problems,” he pointed out. “The war’s over now, which means we get to start our lives again. I’d like to start it minus the biggest difficulties facing us both.” He paused for a few moments to give her the space to think, then slowly slid off the sofa and onto one knee. “Miss Massey, or Miss Danford, or whoever the heck you are, will you do me the honor—”

  “YES!” Kathryn threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, but only for a moment. Abruptly, she pulled them apart. “That was a proposal, wasn’t it?” She turned to Gwendolyn. “He did just ask me to marry him, right?” Gwendolyn nodded. She pulled him back into a bear hug. “In that case, my answer stands.”

  “You’re not drunk, a
re you?” he whispered.

  She laughed and released him. “At about eleven o’clock, I realized I was going to have to write about tonight in the morning, so I’ve been pacing myself.” She jutted her head to one side. “So when do you want to do this, dearest husband-to-be?”

  Oliver cleared his throat. “There’s a twenty-four-hour justice of the peace on the corner of Sunset and Fairfax. We could be there in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes?” Gwendolyn asked. “Isn’t there something about blood tests . . . ?”

  “Not in the state of California,” Oliver said. “We checked already.”

  “Let’s do it,” Kathryn said. “I just need to fix my face and change my shoes.” She grabbed Gwendolyn. “We’ll meet you boys out front.” They were gone before either man could say anything.

  “I was laying fifty-fifty odds she’d say no,” Marcus said to Oliver. He rapped his knuckles on the coffee table three times. “Of course, I’d rather be marrying you.”

  Oliver gave him a me-too smile. “So you do what’s practical.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I’ve got the rings. Who knows if they’ll fit, but we can deal with that later. Anything else before we go?”

  Marcus walked up to his bookshelf and picked up an old wooden toy rocking horse, ten inches tall, its paint job peeling away.

  “I’ve often wondered about that,” Oliver said.

  He blew the dust off its head and ran a finger down its spine. “It belonged to Alla.” He nestled the horse into the crook of his arm. “Since she can’t be here tonight, this will stand in for her.”

  He picked up the latest letter he’d received from Doris: I told them EVERYTHING about my trip, she wrote, and guess what. The sky didn’t fall in. They even asked questions. It wasn’t until the letter arrived that he’d realized Doris’ visit had pierced what he had assumed to be dead tissue of the past and revealed it to be very much alive. He slipped her letter into his back pocket.

  The girls were waiting on the sidewalk outside the Garden of Allah. They linked arms—girl, boy, girl, boy, rocking horse—and headed east toward Fairfax Avenue.

  The celebrations along Sunset were still in full swing. Streamers and confetti littered the boulevard. Stray hats and mislaid neckties sat atop streetlights, and underneath, a line of partygoers—too drunk to even conga—snaked their way through a jumble of cars parked haphazardly across the sidewalk. A couple of chorus girls dressed in layers of white chiffon were Charlestoning on the roof of a red Duesenberg.

  The neon sign was about two feet square, with amber letters blinking:

  JUSTICE OF THE PEACE

  OPEN 24 HOURS

  NO APPOINTMENT NECESSARY

  “How come I’ve never noticed this?” Kathryn asked.

  “Maybe because you’ve never been in the market for a husband before.”

  Marcus faced Oliver and Gwendolyn. “We’ll be there in a moment.” He waited for them to disappear inside before turning to his bride.

  He was still afraid she’d say no—there were a heap of reasons they shouldn’t head through the door in front of them. But instead, she reached up and stroked his cheek. A carful of drunken sailors hooted and hollered as they roared past, screeching around the corner on two wheels.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind,” he said.

  Her smile dropped away. “I can’t think of anybody else in this world I’d rather marry.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

  “As far as the honeymoon night goes,” Marcus said, “you might want to lower your expectations.”

  “And as far as the whole cooking, cleaning, mending, and white-picket-fence-wifey situation goes, you might want to lower yours.”

  “Duly noted, and officially lowered.” He swept his hand in front of them. “Ladies first.”

  Kathryn ran her manicured finger along the back of the toy rocking horse, her brown eyes brimming with emotion. She grabbed his left arm and hugged it closely against her body. “Let’s do this side by side.”

  They stepped through the open door and into an office the size of Marcus’ living room, the lights dimmed to a suitably solemn level. Two large sprays of artificial roses in white wicker baskets banked the back wall.

  In front of them, a bushy-browed justice of the peace in a dark blue suit, matching bowtie, and benevolent smile waited patiently. Oliver stood to his left, Gwendolyn to his right.

  The justice appraised the couple in front of him. “Are the bride and bridegroom ready?”

  Marcus passed Nazimova’s rocking horse to Gwendolyn and took Kathryn’s hands in his. For a long, silent moment, he stared directly into her eyes, searching for signs of hesitation or doubt. Then he shook his head.

  “No, sir, we are not.” He let go of Kathryn’s hands.

  “Oh?” Her lips trembled in surprise.

  Marcus glanced over his shoulder at the open front door, then pivoted and marched toward it. He wrapped his fingers around the black wrought iron handle and pulled the door closed with a thud, leaving the rowdy chaos on Sunset Boulevard behind them. Returning to his place, he took Kathryn’s hand again and flashed her a knowing wink.

  “Now we’re ready.”

  THE END

  Did you enjoy this novel? If you did, could I ask you to take the time to write a review? Each review helps boost the profile of both book and author so I'd really appreciate it. Just give it the number of stars you think it deserves and perhaps mention a few of the things you liked about it. That’d be great, thanks! Martin Turnbull

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  ALSO BY MARTIN TURNBULL

  Book One in the Garden of Allah novels

  The Garden on Sunset

  Right before talking pictures slug Tinsel Town in the jaw, a luminous silent screen star converts her private estate into the Garden of Allah Hotel. The lush grounds soon become a haven for Hollywood hopefuls to meet, drink, and revel through the night. George Cukor is in the pool, Tallulah Bankhead is at the bar, and Scott Fitzgerald is sneaking off to a bungalow with Sheilah Graham while Madame Alla Nazimova keeps watch behind her lace curtains. But the real story of the Garden of Allah begins with its first few residents, three kids on the brink of something big. They learn that nobody gets a free pass in Hollywood, but a room at the Garden on Sunset can get your foot in the door.

  Book Two in the Garden of Allah novels

  The Trouble with Scarlett

  It’s 1936 – Gone with the Wind is released by first-time author Margaret Mitchell and becomes an international sensation. Everyone in Hollywood knows that Civil War pictures don’t make a dime but renegade movie producer David O. Selznick snaps up the movie rights and suddenly the whole country is obsessed with answering just one question: Who will win the role of Scarlett O’Hara?

  Book Three in the Garden of Allah novels

  Citizen Hollywood

  It’s 1939 – Orson Welles, the enfant terrible of New York, is coming to Hollywood to make his first movie. Tinsel City is agog! Can he even direct a movie? What will it be about? Will he scandalize the West Coast the way he’s shocked the East Coast? And, more importantly, who will he bed first and does he kiss-and-tell? When William Randolph Hearst realizes Citizen Kane is based on him, he won’t be happy—and when Hearst isn’t happy, nobody’s safe. Marcus, Kathryn, and Gwendolyn need to go for broke, and the clock is ticking.

  Hollywood’s Garden of Allah trilogy

  "The Garden on Sunset"

  "The Trouble with Scarlett"

  "Citizen Hollywood"

  is also available in one ebook. Get all three together and save 20% off the individual titles!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Heartfelt thanks to the following, who helped
shape this book:

  My editor, Meghan Pinson, for her dedication, perseverance, guidance, and professional nitpickery.

  My cover designer, Dan Yeager at Nu-Image Design who thinks in images the way I think in words.

  Bruce Torrence at HollywoodPhotographs.com for the Hollywood Canteen image used on the cover of this book.

  My advance readers: Jerry McCall, Matthew Kennedy, Vince Hans, Royce Sciortino, Allen Crowe, and Gene Strange for their invaluable time, insight, feedback, and advice in shaping this novel.

  My proofreader, Bob Molinari whose keen eyes never miss a trick.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  From an early age, Martin was enchanted with old movies from Hollywood’s golden era – from the dawn of the talkies in the late 1920s to the close of the studio system in the late 1950s – and has spent many a happy hour watching the likes of Garland, Gable, Crawford, Garbo, Grant, Miller, Kelly, Astaire, Rogers, Turner, and Welles go through their paces. It feels inevitable that he would someday end up writing about them. Originally from Melbourne, Australia, Martin moved to Los Angeles in the mid-90s where he now works as a writer, blogger, webmaster, and tour guide.

  VISIT MARTIN TURNBULL ONLINE AT:

  www.MartinTurnbull.com

  Be sure to check out the PHOTO BLOG for old photos of Los Angeles and Hollywood,

  including many of the places you’re read about in this book, as well as the

  GARDEN OF ALLAH COMPANION MAP.

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  Table of Contents

  SEARCHLIGHTS AND SHADOWS

  SEARCHLIGHTS AND SHADOWS

  SEARCHLIGHTS AND SHADOWS