Code Redhead - A Serial Novel

by Sharon Kleve

  “Let me pay you for the cigarettes,” Mark said.

  “Don’t be silly. Enjoy the visit. Nice meeting you sir.” Art waved them through the security gate.

  Mark parked in front of Stage 7. He helped Ron out of the SUV and the two went into the studio.

  “Vivianne,” Mark called out as they entered the sound stage. “Her booth is this way.” He led Ron to the right and a glass windowed room with a large electronic board covered toggles and buttons. Sitting behind it with headphones on was a woman in her late twenties with dark brown hair pulled in to a ponytail. Focused on the board and her task, she didn’t see Mark or Ron when they entered the room.

  “Vivianne.” Mark gave her waist a squeeze.

  Vivianne jumped and shot back in her wheeled chair hard enough to tug the plug of her headphones out from the board. “God, you scared me to death.”

  “Sorry. I did call out. Viv, this is my great grandfather. I told you we’d come by before lunch. I wanted him to see the set and to listen to some of what you’ve put together already.”

  She stood and took Ron’s hand in hers and held it as she spoke. “How nice to meet you at last. Mark has told me so much about you and all the battles you fought in. I’d love to hear your opinion about the soundtrack.”

  Tall, with a full mouth and big glasses that made her large brown eyes look even bigger, she reminded Ron of Rosalind Russell, if Russell had worn a ponytail. He couldn’t remember her doing so but the studio heads in those days were sticks in the mud for glamour. Ponytails weren’t for adult actresses. “I can’t wait to hear it. Can I see the set now?”

  “Certainly. It’s this way.” Mark led and Vivianne followed behind.

  Ron stood at the edge instantly taken back to the Aragon Ballroom. Chicago’s famous nightclub had been decorated in the Moorish style of Aragon Spain. The set reflected the same feel. Two-top tables covered with white linen cloths and padded red leather chairs surrounded the oval dance floor. At the front of the room was an old fashioned microphone and stand. Behind it was set up for a typical big band with the chairs and music stands and drum set. An ornate bar had been built at the rear of the room with a gold-veined mirror on the wall and glass shelves in front. On the shelves were all kinds of liquor bottles that bore the same labels as they did seventy-five years ago.

  “The only thing your designer missed was the Aragon’s sparkling ceiling,” Ron said, looking up, seeing the tracks of special lights for different camera angles. “The Aragon’s was painted like the sky and the lights were rigged to appear like stars crossing the night sky.”

  Vivianne winked and said, “The designer’s family is from Chicago. He talked to his older relatives who remember how it was during the war. He also looked at old photographs. We need our overhead lights, obviously but he improvised to give the effect you talk about. Watch.”

  Mark had moved to a large wall panel, which he opened. When Vivianne nodded, he flipped a row of switches and star-shaped lens covers dropped over the ceiling lights. “The lights are mobile. We can move them so it looks like stars crossing the sky.”

  “It’s all so real,” Ron said, impressed more than he expected to be. In his heart of hearts, he hadn’t believed any modern studio could capture the feel of his time, not truly. He tapped his good foot and bobbed his head to Glenn Miller’s String of Pearls. Miller’s trombone and great brass section playing loud and clear in his head. “The ladies loved to dance on that star covered floor. I was a good dancer too.”

  Mark slipped his arm around Vivianne. “I think he’s ready to hear your soundtrack.”

  “On it.”

  “Do you have Moonlight Serenade on there?” Ron asked. It was Charmaine’s song...his song...their song, how could they not? “You must.”

  “Of course. It’s a classic. I’m going to tell you a secret. Working on the soundtrack, I’ve heard it a dozen times but every time I hear it, I tear up a little. Silly, I suppose.”

  “Not silly. It tells me my grandson has chosen well. I’d like to sit down to listen to your music, if you don’t mind.”

  Vivianne told Mark to roll out my chair from the sound room. “It’s more comfortable.”

  “Thanks, I was going to ask.”

  Ron sat with a sigh. He appreciated the difference. Vivianne’s chair had heavier padded seats that was easier on his bony butt and it had padded arms, which the cocktail table chairs didn’t.

  The soundtrack opened with Artie Shaw’s Begin the Beguine. “You’re a girl after my own heart, Vivianne,” Ron told her. “Can I beg a favor from you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have an ashtray or saucer, something I can use as an ashtray? I’ve found myself in lucky possession of a cigarette.”

  “There’s no smoking on the set, Ron.” Vivianne’s brows dipped and she extended her hand as though she thought he’d turn over his treasure.

  “I can read. I’ll be careful. Be a sport Viv. You and Mark invited me here to have a swell time. I know how to handle a cigarette.”

  “Oh, all right. I’ll get a saucer from the breakroom.”

  “I need a match too,” Ron called out after her.

  Vivianne returned a minute later with a plain white dish and a book of matches. “Here.”

  Ron took them and lit the cigarette. “One more thing. Do either of you happen to know if there’s a beer handy anywhere? Whiskey is even better?”

  “Grandpa, enough already.”

  “What? I’m not asking for a lot. I just want a little drink with my smoke. Jeez.”

  “You’re really pushing my buttons,” Mark said.

  Ron giggled.

  “The director keeps a bottle of Glen Livet in his desk. I’ll pour you one shot. Then no more ridiculous requests,” Mark warned as he walked away.

  “Make it a good, stiff shot, if you’re going to be hard-nosed about it.”

  Mark brought him the drink. Ron relaxed back and sipped the whiskey, watching the fake stars cross the fake Aragon ballroom’s sky. The music moved to Benny Goodman’s Stompin’ at the Savoy. The last time Ron danced to both songs, he was on leave from the Marines. He’d just finished boot camp and was about to ship out to the South Pacific.

  “When you finish your drink, we’ll go to lunch,” Mark said.

  “You kids go. I’d rather stay and listen to the music. I’m enjoying sitting here in the Aragon again. You can bring me back a pastrami on rye and a scoop of potato salad from Jerry’s Deli. One more thing.”

  “Yes. What do you need Grandpa?”

  “Is there a way for me to cue up different songs? If I wanted to replay some, for instance?”

  Mark looked to Vivianne. “Is the director’s remote available?”

  Vivianne went into the sound booth and returned with a remote twice the size of a standard television one. “This is fast forward, this is replay, this is pause. When you hear a song you especially like, hit this button, and you’ll get a digital readout of where it is on the track so you can return to that place when you’re ready,” she explained. “Do you understand, Ron?”

  He nodded. “I’m not totally dithery, getting there, but not completely there.” He smiled up and winked.

  “All right, see you in a bit.”

  Mark and Vivianne left.

  Ron stubbed out the cigarette after another puff. Much as he wanted to finish it, he couldn’t. The menthol was like smoking a lifesaver. He never liked peppermint or lifesavers.

  Taking a sip of the whiskey, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Vera Lynn began her version of We’ll Meet Again. His mind wasn’t on the British Lynn though. The song stirred memories of a green-eyed Aussie redhead crooning out the melody in a Melbourne nightclub back in ‘45.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Melbourne, Australia

  February, 1945

  Ron and Johnny Jardine, his best friend and foxhole buddy walked to the end of the dock where their troop ship was anchored.

  “While I waited for y
ou, I asked an old time stevedore on the dock for suggestions on fun joints.” Johnnie flicked his cigarette to the curb. “He said, he’d never been to the place, but he heard a joint called Cyril’s is a jumping spot. They’re supposed to have a singer who’s a real dish.”

  Ron wasn’t sure. “I don’t know. Sounds too lofty if you ask me. It doesn’t sound like a place that the women will welcome a couple of jarheads with open arms. And since the Japs are dead set on killing my ass, I want to spend my three days of leave in the warm arms of a free-spirited, welcoming woman.”

  “Come on, let’s try it. One beer. If it’s a dud, we’ll move on.”

  Ron shrugged. “All right.”

  They walked toward Queen Street where the dock worker told Johnnie the club was located. “Do you think the next stop will be Okinawa?”

  “We’ve pushed them back as far as they can go. They have to hold Okinawa to hold off invasion. They’ll throw everything they’ve got at us.”

  “I was under the impression they’d been throwing everything they had at us all along.”

  “It’s going be worse,” Ron said, convinced it would be. He and Johnnie had been in four of the worst battles of the South Pacific over the course of the war. Ron had been wounded twice already, awarded two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star. His gut told him, Okinawa would be worse than any of the other beachheads, which was hard to imagine. “What do you think this dish of singer looks like? Did the old man say?” Ron asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “No. I’m picturing a Betty Grable lookalike or Lana Turner. What about you?”

  “I’m thinking Ann Sheridan or Maureen O’Hara, Rita Hayworth is in there. I like women who project they have good sense without being a pain in the ass. Katherine Hepburn is one who projects good sense but looks like an irritant extraordinaire, a full bore pain in the ass. I don’t care for weepy ones either. Greer Garson is a pretty thing, but she always needed attending to. Know what I mean?”

  “It’s not her fault. They give her weepy roles.”

  Ron grunted.

  They arrived at Cyril’s a few minutes later. From the appearance, Ron guessed they’d be gone after one beer. Cyril’s looked like a place for officers with prices to match. Not a joint for enlisted guys like him and Johnnie. The marquee top was done to replicate a gold crown using a swirling mass of colored lights. The club name was done in bright blue script with an enormous C and the rest written out in letters half the size on the marquee. Posters of the band and entertainers were under glass on the sides beneath the marquee and along the entry and lit with footlights. The entry doors were embossed brass and had to have cost a fortune to install. Pretty fancy compared to the places they usually went.

  A lively version of Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree leaked out through the entrance as a man working a velvet rope line checked booklets. Ron recognized them as ration books. He’d look from the info listed to the face of the person who presented it and either wave them through or send them away.

  Had to be sending the underage ones packing.

  Women to suit every man’s dream dominated the waiting group. The abundance of women didn’t surprise him. Most every able-bodied man in the country was away fighting. Clubs with rope lines and men at the door were generally out of their league. It hurt to walk away from the lovely line of ladies but his meager pay had to last three days.

  “Come on, Johnnie. Let’s find a cheaper club.”

  “Too bad, this looked to be a nice joint.”

  They turned to go when the man on the rope line called out, “Hey Marines, come back.”

  They returned.

  “Marines are always welcome at Cyril’s.” He acknowledged Ron’s First Division uniform Patch bearing the red “1” with Guadalcanal written down the numeral with a single nod. “If it wasn’t for you boys at Guadalcanal, the Japs would’ve been marching down Queen Street. With our lads gone, we couldn’t have held off an invasion. I fought at Gallipoli in the Great War but there aren’t many of us veterans left. It’d be up to our ladies to fight. Couldn’t have that.”

  “Gallipoli. What a slaughterhouse.” Ron had read about the battle in history class. The Aussies were little more than cannon fodder.

  “That it was. So why do you boys want to leave?”

  “I have to be honest. We appreciate the offer to go in but frankly I don’t think we can afford the club. It looks pretty chichi. With all the lovely ladies lined up here, it hurts to say no but—” Ron shrugged.

  The man slapped him on the back. “The name’s Bill. You and your buddy have no worries friend. I think you’ll find drinks inside very reasonable for a man in your uniform. Judging from the ogling these lonely ladies are giving you, you’re a fool not to go inside.”

  Ron extended his hand. “Names Ron Day.”

  Johnnie did the same. “Johnnie Jardine.”

  “Go on in, we’ve a great orchestra and fine line up of singers.” Bill waved them through.

  Inside, the club wasn’t particularly special. Red leather booths lined one wall and linen covered tables for two formed a horseshoe around the black tile dance floor. Numerous chandeliers provided adequate lighting, which was augmented by individual lamps on each table. There was a clam-shaped stage where the band currently played for three female singers. The women were doing a melody of Andrew Sister’s songs. A long bar and cloak room took up the third wall. The dance floor and stage were the only areas that didn’t have a smoky haze.

  Ron and Johnnie found a free table at the far side of the stage. The trio of Aussie Andrew Sisters finished and went off stage and the grey-haired band leader introduced another singer named Charmaine Sturgis. A redhead who’d make Rita Hayworth and Ann Sheridan weep with envy came out. She wore a red satin gown that clung to her in all the right places, red shoes with ribbons that tied around her ankles and peeked out from a slit in the gown, and blood red lipstick that he’d give a year’s pay to smear. If he ever questioned what he was fighting for before, one look at her reminded him.

  She opened with Street of Dreams, then went into one of Ron’s favorite songs, Fools Rush In. She stood behind the microphone as she sang but she looked out over the audience, making eye contact with different people. It never crossed Ron’s mind that she’d be able to see him off to the side and with the lighting casting a shadow near that end of the stage. She sang a few more songs some by Glenn Miller, some by Tommy Dorsey. To his delight she looked right at him and closed with We’ll Meet Again.

  The audience demanded an encore and she returned. The orchestra struck up the first few bars of Moonlight Serenade. She picked up the microphone stand and came to the edge of the stage, standing right in front of him. Never taking her eyes from him, she sang that love song to him the way he’d only seen happen to lucky guys in movies.

  “I think the lady likes you,” Johnnie said and punched him in the arm.

  “Could’ve been part of her act.” Ron didn’t want to get his hopes up too much in spite of the fact it was too late. His hopes were already sky high.

  “Nah, except for me, you’re the best looking guy in the room. She wanted to sing to you.”

  “You? The best looking in the room? I see jungle fever has finally reached your brain.”

  They shared a laugh as the band began to play a variety of dance numbers. A leggy blonde from the table next to them had struck up a conversation with Johnnie and they’d gone off to dance. Ron raised his hand to get the waitress’s attention for another beer when a whiff of flowery perfume enveloped him. He turned and Charmaine Sturgis smiled down. “May I join you? Your friend is busy jitterbugging his heart out.”

  He nearly knocked the table over standing to be polite. “Yes, please do.”

  On stage she appeared statuesque, inches taller than most women. She’d changed clothes now and wore a regular dress like women on the street. She’d changed shoes as well into shorter heels. He’d overestimated her height by several inches. The top of her head barely came to hi
s nose. Up close her eyes were bright green and she had a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. To his delight she still had on the blood red lipstick and he hoped with all his heart to have a chance to smear the devil out of it.

  Ron sat after she took her seat. “I gotta say I was shocked you could see me from the stage. I thought the lights would blind you to the view of most of the audience.”

  “The lights aren’t bright enough. Some stage lighting is but not here. I can see the whole audience. I couldn’t miss you. I saw you grin when I sang Fools Rush in and what a thousand watt smile it was. Those dimples. I could bury a pirate’s treasure trove in them. I knew I had to sing to you.”

  Ron fumbled for what to say. He never learned how to be charming or smooth when it came to the ladies. With the war on, he’d gone from high school graduation straight to the Marines. He hadn’t time to socialize. Most of the women he’d dated the few times he got leave weren’t inclined to charm him. For lack of anything else to say, he said, “Thank you.”

  He moved to safer territory where he could keep the talk simpler. “Are you done for the night?” he asked, fingers metaphorically crossed.

  “I am. We singers only do one set apiece. The band works their fannies off. They play from seven to midnight with just a couple of breaks.”

  “Can I get you a drink? What would you like?”

  “Yes.”

  “Beer is fine.”

  He caught the waitress’s eye and held up his bottle and two fingers. “I love your accent. It’s kind of Limey sounding but not really.”

  “Where’d you hear a Brit speak?”

  “I was wounded a while back and in a field hospital with a few wounded Brits from an Allied company. Is the way you speak what they call Cockney?”

  She narrowed her eyes and cocked a brow. “No.” She stretched the word out. “They,” she smiled in a feline way and stretched that out too, “like to insinuate that but we don’t consider our accent a cheesy Cockney lilt in any way. It’s ours alone.”