Hollywood Buzz

by Margit Liesche

  “Anyone el-th?” Myra asked politely, tipping pale amber liquid into a cup in front of Brody. “Chamomile. Good for the nerves.” Her top lip tightly cupping the prominent upper teeth, she looked pointedly at Brody.

  “No thanks,” chorused the table.

  Myra held the pot’s spout aimed at me, staring as if startled by my presence. But Sam had explained my attendance when we arrived. Perhaps if she’d fawned over him less, she might have noticed me then.

  Her gaze returned to her boss. “Th-orry to interrupt.” Brody nodded for her to continue. “Three things. Mr. Wexler from production can’t make it. Th-ays to call him soon as the meeting’s over.” Brody grunted. Myra added, “And a call came in from March Field. The colonel would like to see you tomorrow morning, 0900. I’m to call his aide back with an an-ther.”

  Brody moaned. “As if I had time to go to March.” A long sigh. “Tell him I’ll be there.”

  I was going to March Field in the morning to make preliminary arrangements for re-shooting the target towing segment. Maybe he’d like to fly over there with me. Who knew? In spending time with Brody, I might pick up a few clues on how to be more effective in my dealings with Novara.

  Brody looked at Myra. “The third thing?”

  Her protruding upper lip pulsed with the movement of her tongue underneath. She cleared her throat. “There’s been a fire on the castle set. Small. It’s out. But Sinclair would like a meeting to dith-cuth a delay.”

  A pencil snapped. I glanced over at Sam. He shifted in his chair, holding broken pencil halves in his fists, seeming perplexed by what had happened.

  “Christ!” Brody heaved another sigh. “Tell him to come on over. Slip him in this afternoon.”

  Brody took a sip of tea as Myra left, but set the cup back in its saucer the instant the door clicked shut. “Let’s wrap this up, shall we?”

  Wallace, adjusting her brooch, straightened in her chair. “Perhaps you would like to consider an adjustment I’ve been toying with…”

  Brody hunched forward on the table, biting on a fingernail. The room was a comfortable temperature, but there were tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. He pinned Wallace with his eyes, waving for her to continue.

  “It’s obvious right from the start, the girl is flirting with the German to get an advantage. She knocks him out while seducing him—say, picks up a nearby wrench and slams him on the head. She ties the German up.” Wallace’s eyes narrowed behind the thick lenses. “He’s their POW now.”

  Brody picked up the story line. “Throughout the picture, she’s an attentive nurse, devoted to the boyfriend. The boyfriend, though suffering, remains stoic. The Nazi is overpowered, but not killed, because we don’t know if his intent is evil.” Brody glanced around the table, a triumphant look on his face. He beamed warmly at Wallace. “An Allied vessel appears on the horizon. Fade out!” He looked at Chalmers. “Like the fix?”

  Chalmers shook his head slowly, with force. “Derrick, the ideas don’t send me,” he said in measured tones.

  Brody stared at him. “Let’s just accept that. It wastes time to argue, and time is what?”

  “Money, Derrick,” Chalmers replied softly. The room fell silent.

  Painfully earnest, his brow furrowed, Chalmers added, “I liked you better when you could distinguish art from business…and from feminine government influence, Derrick.” He beat the table with his knuckles. “It’s not the way I wrote it. I want my name removed from the credits.”

  Brody threw his hands up in resignation. “You know the studio will never agree.”

  Seconds ticked by in silence as he and Chalmers stared at one another impassively.

  “Let’s give it a rest for now, Russ. Miss Wallace’s views, I think, are firm.”

  “Absolutely.” Wallace panned the circle of silent faces. “Well, then, we’ve reached agreement.” Rising from her chair, she checked her watch. “And, in record time.”

  Brody stood as well. “That’s why I’m here, Wilma. You got a little problem with one of my pictures, you come see me.”

  Brody walked to his desk and consulted a large calendar. “Shooting was set to start fourteen days from now. I’ll have to do some juggling here and there.” He turned from the giant scheduler to look at Sam. “Can you get us a rewrite day after tomorrow?”

  Sam scratched the pencil eraser against the crook of his arm. “Can do.”

  Brody slapped his hand on the desktop. “That’s it. I’ll notify production we’ve got a delay.”

  Those at the table got up and moved toward the door. Brody said good-bye to Miss Wallace—she actually had a beautiful smile—then turned to Sam and me.

  “I’m flying out to March Field tomorrow morning from Santa Monica in Miss Cochran’s private plane. Orchestrating a shoot for our WASP Victory short. Would you like to come along?” I shook his hand.

  Chalmers appeared at Brody’s elbow. Ignoring me, he tugged Brody’s sleeve. “Derrick. We gotta talk.”

  Brody, startled at the urgency in his voice and perhaps taken aback at the rude interruption, glanced at Chalmers, then looked back to me. “Sorry, this will just take a moment.” Our hands were still locked together. He let go and took Chalmers’ arm, guiding him out of our earshot.

  True to Brody’s word, they huddled only for a moment.

  Chalmers shouted, “Tonight then, Derrick!” and stormed out, slamming the door.

  Brody swiped a palm over his thinning, slicked-down hair, then turned to me smiling tightly. “Count me in. Driving would cut two hours out of my day…And time, we know, is money.”

  Chapter Five

  Agog over the opulence of stately homes nestled under palm trees and tucked away in lush foliage, and wondering which legendary star lived in which houses, I nearly missed Benedict Canyon Drive, the road that led to the home of the Dunns. I cut the wheel and the green roadster climbed a steep ravine. At last, nearing a dead-end, I spotted their Beverly Hills address marker.

  Downshifting, I turned the rumbling Packard up the inclined drive. At a curve near the top, the fading sun bathed the Dunns’ California Spanish-style mansion in a burnished golden glow. I slowed to admire the scene. Tall arched windows were set into a hexagonal turret, anchoring the stucco walls of a wing protruding toward me. Above the roofline, a railed observation deck ringed an open-air cupola. The sights from up there would have to be spectacular, and I could hardly wait.

  I pressed the gas again, rounding the turret to the front of the house. The home sat on a knoll amidst terrain partly manicured, partly scrub. In the distance, similar patches of lush greenery dotted the rugged natural landscape of the surrounding hillsides. More home sites of the rich and famous, I guessed.

  A wrought-iron fence barred the front of the mansion, but the gate had been left open. I nosed the Packard through, making a slow loop around a circular gravel courtyard.

  Arches and deep overhangs covered a stone walkway that ran the length of the first floor exterior. Under the archway, the air was thick with the spicy-sweet fragrance of jasmine climbing the walls. At the front door, I smacked the heavy iron knocker against the doorplate with a solid clank.

  My first day in Hollywood had been exhausting. Following the story conference in Brody’s office, I’d headed back to Fort Roach. On my way through the steno pool to get to the desk I’d been assigned for my Movieland tour of duty, the receptionist handed me a message from Major Beacock at March Field. Assuming he was calling to finalize arrangements for my visit the next morning, I grabbed a notebook then headed out to the pay phone in the hallway. I hadn’t been issued a personal telephone, but given the open space and the nine other women working at desks around mine, the phone-booth-in-the-corridor arrangement was a blessing.

  After Beacock and I finished fine-tuning the particulars of my visit, I’d returned to my desk to review the copy of the script I’d been given for the WASP picture. Then I drove to the hospital for my scheduled visit with Fran
kie.

  On my way down the corridor to her room, a hospital volunteer, dressed in crisp salmon pink and pushing a cart of toiletries and printed materials, smiled as she passed. I entered the room I’d been told was Frankie’s, but retreated. Wrong room—nobody in there looked like Frankie.

  A nurse, tray in hand, was approaching.

  “Can I help?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for Frankie Beall.”

  The nurse pressed her lips into a line and stared a moment. The prissy look suited her austere appearance but, a half second later, her face softened sympathetically.

  “You just left her room.”

  “She wasn’t in th…” My voice trailed off.

  The nurse gave a sad, encouraging nod before brushing past me. I followed, hesitating near the doorway, watching as she set the tray upon the bedside table. She adjusted an inverted bottle on the stand beside the bed, then checked the connection point on the hand of the patient. As she worked, the nurse blocked the patient’s face from my view. I saw only a small, still form under tight white covers with an arm in a plaster cast, propped on a pillow.

  The nurse turned to the tray of medications she’d brought in. My stomach lurched as I took in the disfigured features. Definitely a woman. Her skin, swollen and yellowish to black-and-blue in hue, was spattered with dozens of tiny scabbed-over nicks. A prominent gash ran from the inside corner of one eyebrow, across the forehead, and into a section of hairline which had been shaved. Black sutures and darkened bleeding points straggled from the raised red line. Her black hair was matted, particularly around the hairline, and tufts of it had been clipped or shaved. Her lips were crusty and nearly colorless; her eyelids were closed and puffy.

  It was Frankie. I looked away. A wave of shame swept through me at my revulsion, but I didn’t want to look back.

  The nurse stepped into my line of vision again, bending to give Frankie an injection. She must have seen me from the corner of her eye. She paused, quickly returning the needle to the tray.

  “Here. Have a seat,” she offered, pulling a chair close to the bed.

  I sat. I fought to compose myself, but I still couldn’t look at Frankie. Instead, I focused on the nurse. “How’s she doing?” I whispered. “Any change? Any sign of improvement?”

  “You’re the young lady who spoke with Dr. Farr earlier, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  The nurse smoothed the skirt of her uniform. She folded her hands, resting them against the crisp fabric, thumbs twirling. “There’s been no change. She’s very weak, I’m afraid.”

  The thumb-twirling halted abruptly and her tone lightened. “I’m sure a visit from a friend is just what we need.” She adjusted the pillows and bedding.

  “No one else has stopped by?”

  The nurse walked over and picked the tray up from the table. “No.” She knitted her eyebrows. “But there have been a few calls.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nice woman…uhm, a Miss Cochran?”

  I nodded encouragingly.

  “She called twice.” The nurse thought a moment longer. “Then there was the hurried call from another woman, no name…Oh, and a fella phoned a couple of times. Didn’t leave a name either. Said he was hard to reach, but would keep in touch.”

  “Her uncle?”

  “Oh, no, dear.” The nurse clucked her tongue a few times. “Miss Beall’s uncle is overseas. They’re doing their best to get word to him, though.” She cast a sidelong glance toward the bed.

  Her gaze remained on Frankie, but I continued to avert mine. She had just smoothed the bed covering and I placed my hand on the coverlet, mindlessly brushing it, comforted by the rough texture.

  A few moments later I felt the nurse’s stare boring into the back of my neck.

  “Don’t worry,” she said in a hushed tone, “concentrate instead on helping her get better. Your presence, your voice, your touch, may help draw her out of the coma. Talk to her.”

  “About what?” I whispered, stretching out the words. I recoiled from the look she shot back. “Sorry,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

  I blinked back tears and turned, hunching forward on the edge of the bed. Nothing I’d experienced before had prepared me for what I was seeing and feeling as I took in Frankie’s helpless, broken state. I gently patted at Frankie’s side. “Sorry,” I repeated, continuing the rhythmic tapping.

  “I’ll try to reach the doctor to let him know you’re here.” The nurse squeezed my shoulder and I listened to the fading sound of her footsteps padding out of the room.

  I edged my chair to the head of the bed, fighting my emotions. This time, as I forced myself to look at Frankie, I concentrated on what was recognizable. The exercise worked. Her appearance no longer repulsed me and I began to relax a little.

  You have a chance to make a positive difference in her recovery, I told myself, cautiously touching the hair matted against the pillow. I began speaking to her. About the weather, the nice nurse, her clean room. Nervous and talking full speed, I was soon desperate for fresh material. The reason for my being in Hollywood. That was it.

  “Would you believe Miss C expects me to fill in for you? Me towing target with guys shooting live ammunition. Ha! Should be a blast…” Wrong. I forced a laugh. “Ha, ha. Hope not. But I’ve only done it once. But you…you can probably do it with your eyes closed…”

  I became acutely aware of Frankie’s swollen, tightly shut eyelids. Why couldn’t I get it right?

  Disgusted with my insensitive comments, but determined to carry on, I tried again. “To tell the truth, when Miss C asked me to come here, I wasn’t all that excited. I thought she was probably overreacting to the way our program was being projected…”

  I smiled at the unintended pun and automatically checked Frankie’s reaction. Her expression remained locked in its grim mask. The bright moment faded. I went on.

  “So, what happens? I arrive in Hollywood and meet El Roland Novara!” I waved my hand. “Isn’t he just the most obnoxious man?”

  I stood and tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve always been able to sidestep his type before. But, after seeing first-hand what he’s doing—well, Miss C was right to be concerned.” Frustrated, I sighed. “You know all that, don’t you?”

  What about trying to provoke a response? Might that work?

  “What you don’t know is that Novara wants to use the clip of you crashing in the A-24. Thinks it’s the kind of high drama a dry account of women wearing men’s uniforms and flying airplanes needs.”

  I sat and collapsed against my chair, shoulders deflated, my lips flubbering with a sound that usually came from a horse. I finished up on a bitter note. “If he does incorporate the crash into our film, our opponents could—will—jump all over it. Use it to discredit our safety record or ridicule our abilities. And we’ve come so far…”

  A snigger escaped at a sudden vision of my first and last ride with Frankie. Near the end of training at Avenger Field in Sweetwater Texas, she’d needed a copilot for a cross country. Coming down to the bay, she hauled me out of a peaceful nap and demanded I be of some use. Off we went in an AT-6 advanced trainer. It was a short trip, about two and a half hours, but it was so hot when we took off, it was summertime, the oil temperature went up and we couldn’t get above about 1,000 feet. We were roasting, so off came our shirts. It wasn’t long before I caught a flick of silver out of the corner of my eye. I looked over, there was a male pilot, and I can still see his grin and the black mustache to this day. He poured on the power and left us almost before I could nudge Frankie. But the memory of our laughter and the aerobatics she did while we got our shirts back on made the quiet form before me all the more heart wrenching.

  With a light touch, I stroked her arm, staring at the tape holding the intravenous needle to the back of her hand. “Don’t worry. I have some ideas. One, of course, is to remake the towing sequence, but well…” I lowered my voice. �
�There’s a coverup, Frankie.” I waited a heartbeat, watching her abused face, hoping for a sign that she heard me. I leaned close to her ear. “Someone sabotaged your plane and the brass is keeping it hush-hush. Do you know why, Frankie? Please tell me what you know.”

  My ramblings were getting me nowhere. I went with the other subject weighing heavy on my mind. “Don’t worry. Miss C has put me on the case. I’ll get to the bottom of this. Say…I met a friend of yours, Sam Lorenz. Derrick Brody the director, too.…”

  I glanced at Frankie’s face in the nick of time. The flutter of her eyelids was barely perceptible; the movement of her swollen and cracked lips ever so slight. In reflex, I bent in closer.

  There was a sticky clicking of her tongue trying to moisten the mouth cavity. Next, a low sound deep in her throat. A tiny droplet of blood formed on her bottom lip as her mouth worked with more and more determination. A soft moaning, then the release of faltering, incomprehensible speech.

  “…s-s-…s-s-…ah-ah-aaahh…p-p-p…s-s-mmm…m-e-e…”

  “Take your time,” I whispered.

  I remained frozen that way—ear bent to her lips—until I sensed a presence behind me. It was the nurse. She had not been able to locate Dr. Farr.

  “She talked!” The enthusiasm in my voice practically bounced off the walls. More subdued, I added, “She tried anyway.”

  Though the nurse had been upbeat about Frankie’s small breakthrough, she cautioned that she may not have been responding to what I’d been talking about—maybe only hallucinating. Still, any reaction whatsoever was considered a good sign. She encouraged me to come back and try again.

  ***

  The knocker hit the doorplate with another solid clank. My third attempt and still no one answered. I sighed, and tried the handle. Locked. Had Miss C even bothered to call her good friends, the Dunns?

  I decided to try the side wing, following the covered walkway along the face of the house, then turning onto the stone pathway at the side. The kitchen door was ajar. An exotic sweet smell spilled from the doorway, carrying conversation between a man and woman.