“You mean you’re going to hide the truth about us?”
“In the beginning. Do you mind?”
I didn’t like her plan one bit. We were in love. I wanted the world to know, but if Laura was going to make it in this town, I had to step aside and make sure her adjustment to Hollywood went smoothly. “Of course I don’t mind.”
She climbed out of bed and kissed me. “You’re the cat’s meow.”
After getting dressed, I snapped the last of my luggage closed as the train whistle blew. I still wasn’t comfortable keeping our feelings under wraps.
The train pulled into Union Station. The air brakes hissed and belched more steam, slowing the train. The station’s familiar white Spanish architecture came into view.
Tall palms poked above the front of the building. They reminded me of everything I enjoyed about living in California during my two years as an L.A. Pinkerton—fabulous food, warm beaches, and friendly people. The station also prompted memories of things I missed about New York—Coney Island, pizza, hot dogs, and the Yankees.
At least a dozen newshawks, with flash cameras and notepads, waited on the platform.
Laura finished dressing. The simple, comfortable clothes she’d worn on the trip were safely tucked away. She applied her familiar deep red lipstick. Makeup highlighted her dark eyes. She wore a black belt cinched around her waist, accentuating the flowered dress’s broad-shouldered style. A complementary green hat, tilted to one side. She’d transformed herself into the beauty the whole nation, not just New York, would soon adore.
She finished packing with her back to the window. “Darling, are you going to be okay with…well, with the attention I might receive?”
Her Broadway fame never bothered me. With a rough childhood, an absent mother, and a drunken father who used to backhand her until Gino and Danny helped me teach him a lesson, she deserved all the adulation she had coming to her.
Ignoring the reporters, I swept my arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. I intended to enjoy every minute of her success and the attention that went with it. “I’ll attend whatever parties you want me to. I’ll be on the set whenever…”
“Oh, Jake.” Laura turned in my arms. “About you being on the set.”
“You don’t want me around?”
She straightened my tie. “It’s not that, it’s just…I might be too nervous in the beginning with experienced actors and crew. You understand, don’t you, darling?”
As much as I wanted to see her act in her first movie, I understood. “I promise I won’t come onto the set until you invite me.”
Laura squeezed my hands. “You’re making a lot of promises.”
I intended to keep every one. I set my fedora on my head and slipped a comforting arm around her waist. “Come, dear. Hollywood awaits.”
The reporters moved toward the train as it came to a stop. Laura set her hands on her hips. “Damn it, you’re being protective again. I can handle the press.”
She was right, of course, but old habits were hard to break. I opened the compartment door, and she stepped into the corridor. I flagged down our favorite porter, Willie. After tipping him to carry our suitcases and retrieve the rest of our luggage, I followed Laura toward the exit.
In the doorway, the heat of the June breeze swept over me and stirred Laura’s hair.
“Mr. Donovan!” the reporters shouted at once. “Do you have a statement to make?”
A reporter in back called me by my first name. “What gives, Jake?”
Me? A statement? What had I done to merit such attention? No one recognized me on the train, so why the third degree from these guys?
Questions drowned out questions. Laura laughed, stepped aside, and nudged me down the steps. I couldn’t believe they weren’t here to interview her.
Bulbs flashed as I helped Laura down. She appeared as surprised as I was about the interest in me.
The reporter who called me by my first name nudged his way to the front. With his suit’s coat draped over one shoulder, he wore a long-sleeve white shirt, tweed vest, and a straw hat with a red-and-black silk headband. His familiar handlebar mustache made him appear as if he was a member of a barbershop quartet.
I shook Pat Lonigan’s hand. “Pat, what’s this all about?”
“You kidding? The New York papers, that business with the banks and Roosevelt. They say there’ll be a congressional investigation into a plot against the government. Come on, Jake, give it to me straight. What role did you play in preserving our democracy?”
Even to an old pal, and especially to a reporter, I couldn’t reveal what Laura and I and a few other friends did to stop the fascist plot.
The arrival of a Broadway actress about to star in her first Hollywood picture hadn’t gone as I’d expected. Determined to stay in Laura’s shadow, I raised both hands. “Fellas, I’m afraid for once the New York papers got things wrong.”
The reporters laughed.
I decided to appear like a pompous, self-absorbed writer. I’d rubbed shoulders with enough to perform a reasonable imitation. “One day I may write a book about the details, but for now, I’ll let the authorities take all the credit. Now if you’ll excuse us.”
Most of the reporters groaned, and photographers lowered their cameras. A reporter I didn’t recognize crushed his cigarette under his shoe. “You’re holding out for a book deal? What a jerk.”
While they dispersed, Pat set his hat on his head. “Maybe these other putzes swallowed your baloney, but I know you too well.”
I introduced him to Laura as he followed us toward the entrance to the main building with the Spanish architecture.
“Charmed.” Pat tipped his hat then walked beside me. “I heard you’d given up your detective career, but when your name popped up in the papers about these bankers, I knew you were back on the street.”
“Jake’s detective days are over.” Laura slipped her arm in mine.
Pat gave her the once-over. “Jake, you always did have a flashy dame on your arm.”
Laura pulled me closer. “He’s given up dames, too.”
We stopped outside the terminal, and Pat shook my hand. “See you around—when you’re ready to spill the beans about New York.”
As he walked away, Laura groaned. “I don’t think he likes me.”
“He never liked actors.”
“He picked the wrong city to work in.”
“Pat’s a crime dog. There’s plenty of that.”
I felt relief after he and the rest of the reporters left. Laura deserved the welcome, but a quiet arrival would be perfect for my plans for the evening.
Willie, pushing a cart of our luggage, called out, “Mr. Donovan, where can I send your bags?”
I opened the door for Laura. “Why don’t you wait in the terminal, and I’ll take care of this.”
When she went inside, I grabbed the bag with her engagement ring inside. “Can you send them to the Hollywood Hotel, Willie?”
“Consider it done, sir. May I say it’s been a pleasure getting to know you both?”
“Likewise.” I handed him several bills. “Best of luck with the new baby.”
He tipped the cap of his blue uniform. “And best of luck making Miss Wilson Mrs. Donovan.”
“Thanks.” I patted the bag and waved as he pushed the cart toward the platform.
Inside I scanned the crowd and spotted Laura with a group of Hollywood types who stood out from everyone else. Two men in tailored suits stood with a stunning blonde I recognized as Laura’s costar, the infamous Christine Brody.
The sex symbol’s silver high-heeled shoes nearly matched her shimmering platinum-blond hair. A formfitting white silk dress over a tight chassis and a glistening diamond necklace made her even flashier in person than in the movies. Although the actress drew stares from men nearby, compared to Laura’s sophistication, she was a run-of-the-mill pinup girl. Naughty and bawdy? Christine Brody.
I also recognized Laura’s other costar, one of H
ollywood’s leading men and no doubt Carville Studios’s highest paid actor, Roland Harper. When I lived in L.A., we had a couple of conversations before he hit it big. While he appeared in a handful of silent movies, I knew him as a carhop at the Brown Derby, but I was sure he wouldn’t remember me, or if he did, he’d pretend not to. If the gossip columns got it right, these days he refused to get into a car that didn’t come with a driver.
It wasn’t until I moved back to New York that Harper made the leap from silent movie obscurity to leading man in talking pictures. He snagged roles with his handsome looks and sophisticated air.
Travelers stopped and stared, and several pointed to the group while a photographer circled Harper and the two gorgeous actresses. He snapped photos from various angles, complimenting them after each one.
I wasn’t certain how to handle the situation. Laura hadn’t seen me, so I set the bag beside a newspaper stand, bought a Times, and pretended to read the front page.
The photographer posed the three stars together. A man directing the shoot, no doubt a Carville Studios bigwig, was a dapper fellow in a three-piece pin-striped suit, a red carnation in his lapel, and black-and-white Italian shoes. With a Dick Tracy jaw and eyes the color of the Atlantic, everything about him screamed rich playboy, like the ones I portrayed in my novels, the kind Blackie Doyle despised.
As the photographer rearranged the actors for another group photo, the studio big shot leered at Laura’s backside.
I gripped the newspaper and nearly tore the page as I peered over the top. I disliked Mr. Big Shot more with each passing moment. I reminded myself, however, that over the years Laura had handled her share of lecherous producers and directors on Broadway. Besides, as we had discussed on the train, she didn’t need me to take care of her.
The photographer finally finished taking pictures.
Laura scanned the station and beckoned with a wave. “Jake, over here.”
I reluctantly joined them as Mr. Big Shot was telling a racy story. I detested him even more. When he finished, everyone laughed. Everyone but me.
Laura introduced me to her costars and saved Mr. Big Shot for last. “Jake, this is Eric Carville…Carville Studios.”
If possible, I had even less respect for him than before. His last name might be on the side of a studio building, but the twit wrote the substandard screenplay. I understood screenwriting basics, that was it, but I could do better than his melodrama.
The Carvilles might be important men in Hollywood, but from my travels around the country, I learned important men were usually little men with big offices, plenty of dough, and lots of people around to tell them how important they were.
Nevertheless, for Laura’s sake, I shook his hand like he was a former army buddy. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carville.”
He pumped my hand. “Jake Donovan. The mystery writer?”
“That’s right.”
“My old man is a huge Dashiell Hammett fan.”
I swallowed my resentment at his intentional insult. “So am I.”
“Did you and Miss Wilson meet on the train?”
I glanced at Laura. “Miss Wilson and I knew each other in New York but lost touch after I moved to Florida a few years ago.” I’d done far too much explaining.
Christine gave me the once-over, as I suspected she did to most men she met. She flashed a knowing grin. She spoke in a silky voice that matched her hair. “Methinks he doth protest too much.”
Laura let out a nervous chuckle. “Jake and I are old pals.”
Eric rubbed his paws together. “Laura, we have a full day planned for you. I’ll personally escort you on a studio tour, so you can get familiar with wardrobe and makeup. We’ll stop by my older brother’s, the bean counter’s, office. Of course, you already met Todd in New York.”
“He’s a very pleasant gentleman.”
Eric snickered. “If you say so. You’ll meet my father, Norman, at the kickoff party for Midnight Wedding.”
“When is that?” she asked.
“Tonight.”
Tonight? So much for the evening’s planned proposal.
“It was a pleasure meeting all of you.” I tipped my hat toward Laura, hoping she’d remember we were staying at the Hollywood Hotel. “I enjoyed seeing you again, Miss Wilson. You made what would’ve been a boring train trip quite entertaining.” That was the truth.
She smiled. “I’ll give you a ring the first chance I get.”
“If you don’t, I will.”
Christine offered a well-manicured hand. “A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Donovan.”
Without shaking my hand, Eric dismissed me with a nod while Roland tagged along as the group walked away. When they reached the exit, Laura glanced back with a helpless shrug.
I reached inside the bag and removed the ring box. I opened it, imagining the diamond on the third finger of Laura’s hand. Now I wasn’t certain when I’d be able to place it there.
Some plans play out as smooth as a freshly lacquered bowling lane. Mine was playing out as smooth as sun-weathered paint. Still, I had responsibilities to take care of—about sixty thousand words to write on the novel I’d barely started. I stuffed the ring in my pocket, grabbed the bag, and went in search of a taxi.
Outside, the familiar low-hanging haze muted the mid-morning sun. Three cabs waited for a half-dozen passengers. By the time I reached the curb, the last of the cabs drove off. “Damn.” I glanced at my watch, waiting for another ride.
The purr of a powerful engine rounding the terminal caught my attention. A sporty blue convertible with plush leather seats screeched to a stop at the curb. Christine Brody sat clutching the wheel of the Ford Roadster. Showing plenty of leg, she peered above her dark sunglasses. “I’m not sure where you’re going, Mr. Donovan, but I’d be happy to help you get there.”
Chapter 2
Never Say Yes to a Platinum Blonde
I hesitated getting into the glitzy car driven by one of Hollywood’s most notorious dames. I didn’t want to offend Laura’s costar my first day in L.A., so I stepped on the running board, tossed the bag behind the seat, and climbed in.
Christine’s short skirt was hiked above her knees, making me realize Laura would’ve preferred I wait for a cab. Silver high heels lay beside her feet on the floorboard. Driving barefoot, she popped the clutch and mashed down on the accelerator, squealing tires. Christine swerved around a black Model T belching blue acrid smoke and darted into traffic.
I clutched my fedora to my head while the warm June air swept over the sporty car and buffeted the actress’s blond hair.
“Where to, Mr. Donovan?”
“The Hollywood Hotel.”
The way her lip curled in disgust, I might as well have said a downtown flophouse. “That old dive?”
“It’s full of history.” Laura picked the hotel because of its proximity to Carville Studios, but I couldn’t admit that to Christine.
“Alone?” Her suspicion from the train station returned.
“Alone.”
The drive through the city made it clear the Great Depression hadn’t skipped Los Angeles. Shops were boarded up, others just abandoned. There seemed to be a soup kitchen on every other corner. At the Sunfax Mart, where I used to shop, two dozen men waited beside a sign reading Free Coffee and Doughnuts for the Unemployed. Yet here I was, sitting next to a rich actress in a flashy car.
On Santa Monica Boulevard, Christine described growing up in Toledo, and entering a beauty pageant in high school and coming in second. The day after graduation, she dyed her hair blond, left her family behind, and caught a train to Hollywood. She landed small roles in silent films, playing chorus girls and hookers, but she didn’t really learn to act until she appeared in a couple of plays.
By the time talking pictures came out, the theater had taught Christine to become the character or transform the character into the person she’d become. Her sultry appearance and her ability to deliver dialogue with emotion landed her a contract with
Carville Studios. In her first talkie, she played a struggling actress who survived by engaging in a long-term affair with a married man. Promiscuous-dame roles made her a lot of dough, but enforcement of the Hays Code threatened to change all that.
The more she talked, the more Christine’s glamorous-actress persona faded. She was a friendly, carefree, independent woman. Hollywood gossip columns were just that, gossip. In no time, unsubstantiated rumors about Laura might hit the papers, so I withheld judgment on Christine’s reputation with men, particularly her costars.
“Hold on.” She swerved around a delivery truck and ran a red light.
I braced both feet against the floorboard and held my hat. “You’re not joining the others at the studio?”
“Today is reserved for Laura Wilson.” She bit off the last two words; then her face relaxed, and she let out a laugh I couldn’t read.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy working with her.”
“You know that because…you and Laura are involved. I thought as much.” Her dress slid even higher up her thigh as she shifted and turned onto a palm-tree-lined highway.
The last thing I wanted was for Laura’s costar to spread rumors. “I said you’d like working with her because Laura and I’ve been friends since high school.”
“Laura must’ve been the prettiest girl in school, and you’re quite a prize yourself.”
I ignored the compliment. “We dated some but drifted apart after I left for the war. When I came home, I talked my way into a job as a Pinkerton. I moved from office to office around the country while she focused on her career.”
“Yet neither of you ever married.”
“We remained friends and kept in touch, but by the time I returned to New York, her career had taken off and she was too busy for a relationship.” Christine didn’t appear sold on my explanation. “I’m sure you can relate.”
“I’m supposed to believe two friends since high school just happened to catch the same train to Los Angeles.” Christine patted my leg. “Baby, I don’t care who Laura Wilson sleeps with…but the studio will.”
“The Carvilles control your love life?”
All That Glitters Page 2
