Kathryn pulled a pair of leather pumps out of the box and laid them on the carpet. She extended a hand to help Lili slip into them. “Let me see what I can find out.”
Kathryn stepped out from behind the Oriental screen. Sutton made a gesture with his thumb, indicating that she should scram.
Three times as many lookie-loos now filled the spacious area outside Lili’s dressing room.
Kathryn recognized three different press agents, several reporters including Florabel Muir from the Los Angeles Mirror, some freelance photographers, and half a dozen members of the Beverly Hills police department. The whole thing reeked of a setup. Kathryn was sure that Lili believed any publicity is good publicity, but the shock in her eyes was hard to fake. Either way, this was the sort of bitchy gossip Wilkerson now wanted to leave to Mike Connolly.
The hell with that.
As Captain Sutton and his cohort escorted Lili out of the dressing room, Kathryn spotted the skinny creep. He was leaning against the far wall, one leg cocked up against the brickwork, flipping a used matchstick around the tips of his fingers.
Sutton escorted Lili from the building amid a cacophony of reporters’ questions and flashing lightbulbs. Kathryn expected the guy to follow the spectacle, but his gaze remained on the tumult, his matchstick in constant motion.
“Do you know anything about this?” Kathryn asked him.
He dropped his matchstick and blinked in slow motion. “Can’t help you there.”
“I noticed you before the show.”
His mouth curved into a smirk. “I was warned about your powers of observation.”
Behind Kathryn, the stage door to the street slammed shut, leaving them alone. “Warned? By who?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.” He tipped his hat and went to step around her, but she grabbed his elbow.
“I’ll pay you double.”
“Double what?”
She couldn’t tell if he didn’t know what she meant or was well-versed in bluffing someone’s bluff. “Double whatever you’re being paid to observe me.” She knew she sounded paranoid and might have caved but for the greedy sneer on his face.
He lifted a shoulder as though to say, Your money’s as good as anyone’s. “Thirty an hour. Been here four hours. You gonna fork out two hundred and forty bucks for a name?”
Am I? It’s not like I have that sort of cash sitting at the bottom of my purse, and this isn’t the sort of thing that a lady writes a check for.
“I didn’t think so.” He pushed himself away from the wall.
She panicked. “I’m heading out of town tomorrow. What if I leave an envelope for you at the reception desk?”
“Hollywood Reporter or NBC?”
Kathryn realized too late that the banks were closed and wouldn’t reopen before she left for Union Station tomorrow. If she did a whip around the table out front, she was sure she could come up with two hundred and forty, no questions asked. “The Reporter.”
“If there’s no dough waiting for me, it’ll go into the report.”
Kathryn felt like she’d walked into an Ida Lupino movie. “Fair enough.”
“Winchell,” he said. “First name: Walter.”
CHAPTER 13
The butterflies in Gwendolyn’s stomach slugged each other as she and Marcus entered the Dunbar Hotel. Even though Billy Travilla had assured her that a party of six white folks in a Negro nightclub wouldn’t be a problem, she wasn’t convinced.
A quartet of two-story arched windows dominated the hotel’s foyer where groups of people waited for friends or stopped for a smoke.
“Do you see them?” Marcus asked.
Gwendolyn tried to ignore the shooting stares. “No. Maybe we should all have come down together so that you and I could avoid sticking out like a couple of pasty thumbs.”
A barrel-chested bouncer in a dark maroon suit and matching tie ran a fingernail along his silver tiepin as he watched Gwendolyn and Marcus try to blend in. Not that that was likely, considering Gwendolyn’s sunflower yellow cocktail dress.
The bouncer in maroon headed toward them like a slow-motion locomotive. He was still several yards away when he tilted his head. “You two with the Travilla party?” Gwendolyn said they were. “Mr. Travilla told me to keep an eye out for you. He’s been delayed at the studio and asked that I escort you inside.”
The main showroom was bigger than she expected, and packed with cocktail tables.
Gwendolyn felt the heat of every eyeball in the place as she and Marcus followed the guy down a central aisle. He stood aside and gestured toward a front table for six with a hand-lettered sign: Reserved.
“You want me to send over a waiter or wait until—”
“Now would be great, thanks,” Marcus jumped in.
He offered Gwendolyn a Camel. She’d recently switched from Luckies to Pall Mall, but a Camel would do in a pinch. Being the only white people in a Central Avenue jazz club qualified as “a pinch.”
A whiff of Sunset Boulevard perfume drifted past Gwendolyn, and she did what she always did whenever she encountered it in public: tried to guess who might be wearing it.
She sorted through the Sunday-best suits and fascinator hats until she landed on a woman around her age, swathed in sable.
A waiter appeared; Marcus ordered manhattans.
The woman in the sable studied Gwendolyn like an amateur birdwatcher: I’ve heard of such creatures, but I’ve never actually seen one in the wild.
Her escort muttered into her ear. She told him no and went to pull at his arm, but he was too quick for her. He squeezed past their neighbors and sat down on the stage’s edge.
“You two sure you’re in the” —he made a circular motion with his hand, indicating the rest of the room— “right place?”
“Are we not welcome?” Gwendolyn looked at the front doors hoping to see Travilla or Marilyn, but found only the maroon Sherman tank.
“I didn’t say that.”
“We just came to hear Ella Fitzgerald sing, that’s all,” Marcus said.
“Funny how you got front-row seats, and all.”
“We weren’t expecting that,” Gwendolyn put in. “Our friends—”
“This ain’t the bus,” he snapped. “You white folks can’t be expecting to get shown to the front any old time you want. Some of us, we been following Miss Ella’s career since she sang at the Harlem Opera House. If you want to watch her from the front row, why don’t you see her at your fancy Cocoanut Grove?”
“We didn’t ask for a front-row table,” Marcus said. “Our friends made the booking—”
“Always some other cracker, huh?”
“Is that your wife you’re with?” Gwendolyn asked. The guy’s eyes narrowed. She motioned for her to join them.
Hesitant at first, the woman obliged, and was soon standing next to her husband.
“My name is Gwendolyn,” she told the couple, “and this is my good friend, Marcus. Perhaps you’d like to watch the show with us?”
Marcus stared at her with a slow eyebrow raise.
“Sit? With you?” the woman said. “Together? At the same table? Well, that just wouldn’t be right.”
“It’s okay by us if it’s okay by you.”
The couple swapped looks. Gwendolyn took advantage of their hesitation. “Are you wearing Sunset Boulevard?”
The woman blinked several times.
“It smells wonderful on you.” Sable or no sable, Bullocks Wilshire was not a progressive environment. “May I ask where you got it?”
Suspicion clouded the woman’s face. She stared back at Gwendolyn until she snapped out of her reverie and plunked herself down next to her husband.
“Well!” She hunched forward conspiratorially. “My friend Bessie, she worked at the main Bullocks store, downtown. Accounts receivable, or some such. I’m not even sure what that means; all I know is that it qualifies her for the staff discount. So I got her to get me a bottle. But now I’m in a pickle because that damned
Bessie, she switched to the May Company, and now I’m nearly out of my favorite perfume!”
Gwendolyn reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. She slid it across the table. “Why don’t you come see me?”
The woman studied the card. When she peered up again, admiration had shoved aside the hostility. “Y’all’re Miss Gwendolyn? The Miss Gwendolyn?” She faced Marcus as though she wasn’t prepared to believe anything more out of Gwendolyn’s mouth.
Marcus nodded. “The one and only.”
“Well, if that don’t beat the chickens from the coop.”
Her eyes flared wide and her mouth dropped open again. A wave of agitation rippled through the audience. “Land sakes! Who is that?”
Gwendolyn breathed out in relief. Please, please, please.
Marilyn Monroe floated down the middle aisle in an off-the-shoulder cocktail dress of blood-red silk overlaid with black mesh, and opera gloves in black satin. She spotted Gwendolyn and waved a handkerchief of matching lace, pretending not to notice how every head in the room had turned in her direction.
The woman in sable nudged her husband. “Jeremiah, these good people’s friends have arrived so it’s time we headed back to our table.”
“But you said—”
“Never mind what I said. Now, git.”
“My goodness!” Marilyn exclaimed. “Parking was such a problem.” She cheek-pressed Gwendolyn, then stepped aside. “You remember Jack, don’t you?”
The chap with the cute cleft in his chin appeared from behind. “Jack Paar. Nice to see you again.” He wedged himself between tables and sat down next to Marcus to allow Billy and Dona Travilla easier access to the last two seats.
“I didn’t expect to stand out quite so—distinctly.” Billy motioned for the waiter.
“We were nearly shown the exit,” Marcus said, “but thankfully Gwennie here had the presence of mind to head off a scene.”
Marilyn nudged Gwendolyn. “I always suspected you’d be a cool head in a crisis.”
It had been just a couple of months since the perfume launch at Bullocks, but the changes in Marilyn were plainly evident. She carried herself with greater poise. The pronounced wiggle in her walk had given way to a graceful sway. Every movement declared, This is me. Look or ignore. Like me or don’t.
A slight frown shot across her radiant face. “What?” she asked Gwendolyn.
“Looks like someone’s been getting full marks at charm school.”
Marilyn lifted her blue eyes toward the smoky ceiling. “When they put you under contract, they get their money’s worth. Acting lessons, singing coach, voice teacher, dance class, deportment, publicity photos, costume fittings.”
“You mean you don’t just stand there and emote?”
“That’s the ever-loving least of it.” She stared at the empty stage in contemplation. “Well, maybe not the least, but what it takes to get in front of a camera, it’s like Niagara Falls—it never ends!”
The waiter was depositing a round of drinks onto the cramped table when the house lights dimmed and Ella Fitzgerald made her entrance amid a barrage of applause and whistles. She’d swept her hair into an updo and crowned her head with curls. The style flattered her full face, and so did the rhinestones encircling her neck. But as Gwendolyn’s eyes lowered to take in the dress, her mouth dropped open.
* * *
They begged Ella for a fourth encore, but three was her limit. The Dunbar’s house lights came up, leaving Gwendolyn wrung out. The woman could turn a note by putting an extra puff of air behind it and spin it like a billiard ball as she broke your heart while you weren’t looking.
Gwendolyn turned to Dona. “Is she always that breathtaking?
“Always.”
“How many times have you seen her?”
“Oh, tons! Ella and I are good friends. In fact, we’re heading backstage now to say hello. Would you like to come?” Dona rose to her feet and pointed to a side door. “She’s right through there.”
The backstage area wasn’t the tumult Gwendolyn expected. Two crewmembers were stowing away lights and ropes, and the drummer shared a cigarette with the pianist, but otherwise it was deserted.
A red door stood slightly ajar. Dona knocked and pushed it open. “I hope you’re decent!” She stepped into the dressing room, motioning for everyone to follow her.
There was just enough space for a vanity and basin, a loveseat, and a chipped wooden changing screen. Ella stood in the middle with her arms outstretched, still in that awful dress. Broad pink and orange horizontal stripes sprinkled with green sequins? And a V-shaped neckline that wasn’t even centered properly? There was nothing in Ella’s outfit that did her the slightest favor.
She enveloped Dona in her arms and kissed her, continental style, before doing the same with Billy.
Dona introduced Marilyn and Jack, Marcus and Gwendolyn.
“I’ve been wanting to see you perform for such a long time!” Gwendolyn didn’t care that she sounded like a teenager with a crush.
“I hope I was worth the wait.” Ella slung her hands on her hips. “But don’t think I missed that look on your face when I walked onstage.”
Oh, dear. “My face?”
“Uh-huh. You looked like someone just puked up on your wedding dress.”
“I don’t know why you’d think . . .” She let the end of her sentence drift away.
“You don’t like my gown, do you?”
Gwendolyn looked to Billy for guidance. He crossed his eyes as though to say, “It’s horrible,” then mouthed the words, “Be honest.”
“I feel,” Gwendolyn started gingerly, “that you deserve better.”
“FINALLY!” Ella threw her hands up toward the dusty chandelier. “Lay it on me.”
Marilyn started to giggle; so did Jack Parr. Billy Travilla could no longer contain himself. “Who on earth makes these monstrosities for you? Helen Keller?”
Ella shook her head sadly. “An old friend of the family. It was supposed to be a one-off, but she keeps making ’em. Damn if they don’t get uglier and uglier.”
“You have to make her stop,” Billy said. “You want people to hear your voice, not your dress.”
Gwendolyn stepped forward. “First of all, these horizontal stripes? No, no, no.”
“They make me look like a goddamned whale!” Ella hollered.
“Only Charlotte Greenwood can get away with horizontals. And if you’re going with sequins, do it on solid colors. Maroon, maybe, like what the bouncer out front is wearing, with a black lace décolletage. Like Marilyn’s. But for Pete’s sake, get someone who knows how to center a neckline. This is off by half an inch.”
“It never did feel right.”
Gwendolyn fished another card from out of her purse and placed it in Ella’s hands. “I have at least seven pieces in my store that would suit you. And if you don’t fancy them, I’ll make you something. Any style, any color, any fabric.” She ran her finger down the pink and orange stripes. “Anything but that.”
CHAPTER 14
The set of I Love Lucy took Marcus by surprise. He was used to the gargantuan masterpieces built for feature films, where a single home could take up to two or three soundstages. The sets needed for a film often required half a dozen or more. But everything for I Love Lucy was designed to fit into a single soundstage at General Services Studios. They were laid out in a long line so that the live studio audience could see what was going on and, hopefully, laugh its ass off.
As it turned out, Regina couldn’t get Marcus onto the show as an extra because they only did scenes that required no more than six actors. As a consolation prize, however, Regina got him a seat in the audience.
“At the very least you’ll get to see how a TV show is filmed,” she told him. “You’ll be amazed how fast they work. And keep an eye out for Jess.”
Lucille Ball and her husband, Desi Arnaz, may have been the public faces of I Love Lucy, but it was the lead writer, Jess Oppenheimer, who captained
the ship. Regina had worked with him on The Lifebuoy Show when she was scraping up work on radio.
“I Love Lucy has been a hit right out of the gate,” Regina said to Marcus, “and hit shows need ancillary writing, like ad copy, radio promos. You could do that, couldn’t you?”
Marcus didn’t share with her how bleak his finances were. Beans-and-rice-for-lunch-and-dinner bleak. Move-out-of-the-Garden-of-Allah-and-find-someplace-cheaper bleak. He wasn’t sure that writing ad copy and promos could get him off the graylist, but he had no doubt he could do it in his sleep.
The day before filming, he sat at his bedside table and banged out a few examples. He had them in his jacket pocket just in case an opportunity presented itself.
The bleachers filled up with a hundred members of the public, all of them twittering with excitement. Production companies hadn’t offered the chance to watch filming since the silent days.
Regina described Jess as “in his late thirties, but he’s going bald so he looks like he’s already hit forty, especially with those big, round eyeglasses. He’s got a sympathetic face, but don’t be fooled. He’s Charlie-in-charge, and everybody jumps to the general.”
A guy resembling that description walked onto the living room set to confer with the director. He held a book with the word NUMEROLOGY printed in large letters across the front.
Marcus leaned over the rail. “Say, buddy,” he said to one of the cameramen, “the guy in the checked jacket, that’s Mr. Oppenheimer, right?”
The cameraman nodded.
“Excuse me, sir.” A security guard, almost as broad as he was tall, tapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Please remain in your seat. The crew must be free from distraction.”
Marcus began to pull his ad copy from his jacket. “I was just trying to—”
“I know, I know. It’s real exciting seeing this stuff up close, but everybody here has a job to do, and you don’t make it any easier by interrupting ’em.”
Marcus showed the guy his papers. “Mr. Oppenheimer—”
“Remember how I said everybody here’s got a job? Well, mine is ejecting uncooperative audience members.”
Tinseltown Confidential Page 9
