Hollywood Buzz

by Margit Liesche

  I sipped coffee and watched her twirl her hair. “You put your hair up. For the audition?”

  Ilka picked up the basket, offering it to me. I took one of the light fluffy biscuits, loading on thick apple butter as she continued.

  “The War Womanpower Commission has requested that working women wear off-the-face hairdos.” Ilka grinned at the incredulous look I gave her. “It is not so strange as it sounds. Women have taken over much of the assembly line work in the war plants. Long hair hanging loose around machinery is dangerous. It can get caught.”

  I had just taken a bite of biscuit. I shuddered at my mental image and forced a swallow.

  “So the Commission wants women, especially those of us in the public arena”—she wagged her eyebrows—“this will be me, when I get the part—to wear our hair up for the duration.”

  “But, with your hair down, the long peek-a-boo bang, you’re a ringer for Veronica Lake. That would be a selling point for the director I would think…”

  Ilka jutted her chin out. “Wearing my hair up it is required. When the call come to audition, this was the instruction.”

  “Sounds dictatorial. Good thing I don’t have to decide whether or not to comply.” I smoothed my marmalade locks. Ilka’s eyes were hard above the coffee cup. “Hair style is small thing to sacrifice. In the old country, my Gypsy family have no rights. Hitler has declared them enemies of the Reich. Last night there was talk. Gypsies are being rounded up, forced to work on railroads, in factories, clear minefields—whatever is necessary to fuel Hitler’s war machine.” She stared at the cup shaking in her hands. “There are reports of death camps…massacres.”

  I had heard rumors that the Jewish people in Europe were suffering under ruthless persecution. I hadn’t known of the Gypsies’ nightmares.

  A kind of numbness settled over us. My cup was empty. I rocked it back and forth on the table. “I hope I’m not being out of line,” I began hesitantly, “but you said the other night that Gypsies are travelers by nature. Aren’t there remote places where your friends could hide…cross borders into safe countries?”

  “What safe countries?” Ilka snapped. Her gaze flicked to the window over the sink. Dawn was breaking and the sky had lightened. Her tone softened. “It was possible once. Even in 1940, before I leave, Grandmama and our tribe, we move our other supplies and…” Her eyes shifted again, this time focusing on the untouched biscuit before her. “…Things.”

  My synapses unsnarled. Ilka had not left Hungary willingly, but because things had become too dangerous. “It’s okay,” I said. “I know there’s an underground movement in Hungary. Were you and your grandmother involved?”

  “When my grandfather died, Grandmamma Roza took over the tribe. It was her idea we take on secret transport of fugitives. No one argue. We are all of one mind, wanting to slow the death machine. And we succeed, help many. Escaped prisoners, downed pilots, resistance leaders. We also move food and clothing. Information, too.”

  My gaze shifted to the OSS memo beneath the bread box. “Courier work?”

  Ilka nodded. “Allied printed materials meant for distribution, surveillance reports, war news, eyewitness accounts of soldiers and prisoners.”

  “Impressive. How’d you manage it?”

  “Beneath our Gypsy covered wagons, there is large storage bin used to hold gear for the horses, and tools. Many necessities—even human cargo—can fit in this bin.”

  “But the danger. Weren’t you frightened? Scared for your grandmother? Obviously she must have been afraid for you.”

  Ilka’s eyes narrowed. “Gypsies fear nothing. A lifetime of hate and abuse it make us hard, you see.”

  My brow furrowed. I didn’t see.

  “Gypsies have lived on the fringe of the criminal underworld always,” she added. “Fortune-telling, stealing, begging, bartering, they are elements of Gypsy culture—it is how we get by.” Ilka, sensing my unease, smiled. “Ahh, but the Gypsy ways are no longer my way. Today I am only interested in stealing bit part in small movie.”

  We laughed, eager to move beyond a further discussion of Gypsy morality. Besides, she’d made her essential point. Their culture made Gypsies naturals in underground work.

  “You’re a shoo-in for the part. How about the rest of the day? Anything else going on?”

  Ilka noticed my empty coffee cup. Lifting the pot from the hot pad on the table beside her, she began replenishing our cups. “Friday night there is fundraiser auction, sponsored by our Hungarian Federation chapter, at the Grand Hotel.” She nodded to the folded foreign language newspaper, resting on the table beside her place setting. “It is beautiful beach club, and the event it will be very special. Oh…and tonight there is the Mrs.’ monthly palm reading session. Maybe you would like to come?”

  The star-shaped mark on my palm itched, as if reminding me of my vow to steer clear of such nonsense. Of course I’d never tell Ilka how I felt.

  I gulped the final bite of my biscuit. “Sorry, can’t,” I brushed crumbs from my fingers onto my plate and pushed back my chair. “You’ve got your audition. I’ve got a director to impress, myself. May take awhile. Today’s the day I try to sway Novara to see things my way.”

  Ilka’s eyes rolled skyward. “My sessions are helpful, but not that good.”

  “The other evening, you said you don’t do prediction work.” I stood. “What do you do, exactly?”

  Ilka’s lips were pursed at the edge of her cup. She blew on the hot liquid, then took a sip. “Everyone has special talents and hidden abilities. I am guide to help people to look within to see their gifts.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said vaguely as I panned the countertops. “Did you happen to see a note from Gunnar? He was called back to the base last night, promised to leave me one when he returned. I can’t seem to find it.”

  “His car it was not in the drive when I went out for the morning newspaper.” She shrugged. “He must still be out.”

  “Hmm, well, I saw an edge of paper over there, under the bread box. It made me wonder.”

  Ilka laughed. “Gunnar, he did not write that. The Mrs., she has another project in mind.” She nodded in the direction of the counter. “My list of what I must buy.”

  “Ahhh,” I said, feeling foolish. I stood, intent on taking my dishes to the sink. Gunnar Rask. It was his fault. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything suspicious. Well, I’d uncovered a household communiqué from Della. Wait until I reported this!

  I stacked my plate on top of my bowl. “And MO? What sort of action is MO?”

  Ilka frowned looking genuinely puzzled. “MO?”

  “Below the Date, the To and From, it says, Action, then MO.”

  Laughing, Ilka stood, smoothing her apron. “MO is MOBILIZE. Sometimes it is like, if she were here, I would salute, perhaps.”

  A knock at the door. I jerked, nearly toppling my dishes. Bela Lugosi had arrived.

  Chapter Ten

  A customer clutching a Los Angeles Times was leaving the newsstand as I walked up.

  “Hello, young lady,” Gus called, dropping change into his canvas apron.

  Today’s shirt selection was a vibrant lemon yellow. With it he wore the cerise vest and the magenta slacks he’d worn before. The ensemble, as always, had the outrageous quality I enjoyed. But, while I’d come to appreciate the extra charge Gus’ clothing and company added to my mornings, today the boost wasn’t necessary. I was wound up enough already. A half-hour from now I would be pitching the changes I wanted for the WASP documentary.

  I greeted Gus, noting the Los Angeles Times rack below the shelf was already empty. A fresh stack, still secured with strapping, lay on the ground nearby. “What happened? Get a late start?”

  “Second delivery,” Gus replied, adjusting the tweed cap atop his unruly hair. “My usual supply, it was snapped up almost soon as I opened.”

  “What’s going on?” I glanced at the top paper on the bundle and read the headline and sh
outed. “The Marines won in the Solomons! Hooray! Fabulous news!”

  The victory, a final step to securing the South Pacific, was a logical reason for increased sales. But there was something else afoot. Using a penknife to cut the strapping, he offered me the top copy, bottom section up. “Like I tell you yesterday, foul play is behind the death of Derrick Brody.”

  The Marine victory in the Pacific was the Times’ lead story, but Brody’s demise was front page news as well. The prominent below-the-fold headline read: DEATH OF POPULAR MOVIE DIRECTOR UNDER INVESTIGATION; followed by the subhead: Foul Play Suspected.

  I tried to read further, but Gus wanted to talk.

  “Why bother with the version cast in print, when the one who sells the print has the latest?”

  The twinkle in his good eye was irresistible, as was the promise of an insider’s account. A juicy bit for Rask, perchance? I tucked the paper under my arm for later.

  “Like I say yesterday,” he began, “the authorities they discover something out of the ordinary. It alerted them that Brody’s death was not as it would appear at first glance.”

  “Something out of the ordinary? What?”

  Clearly relishing his tale, he began, “That evening—night before last—Brody ask the secretary to stay late to help catch up with the letter writing. At seven p.m., Russell Chalmers, he stop by for a meeting with Brody, and the secretary, she take her leave. After a stop or two along the way, the secretary, she arrive home only to discover she left at the office the coin purse which holds her house key.”

  I cleared my throat to spur him.

  Gus looked put out, but picked up the pace. “So, the secretary, she must return to the studio. She arrives to notice light shining through the crack under Brody’s office door. She raps. No answer. She knock again, louder.” Gus, raising a fist, rapped the air with his knuckles. “Then she try the door. In she goes. Brody is slumped on his desk.”

  I shrugged. “Why do you—she…they—believe it was murder?”

  Gus retorted, “Who discovers the body, how it was found, that the secretary call the doctor because she thought Brody had a heart attack—that you can read in the Times. But the later discovery of a clue at the scene…That is what suggested an investigation was in order…”

  The dangling sentences, the dramatic pause, the look on Gus’ face, all promised more. “And?”

  Gus lifted an eyebrow. “What precisely made them suspicious is being withheld until the tests of the coroner are completed.”

  Silently, I started counting to ten. I got to five. “And?”

  He had a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary smile. “Word is the tests are merely formality—for legal purposes. The investigators already know how Brody was killed…” He lowered his voice. “But they are not talking. Especially, not to the press. What they know is being used to help flush out the killer.”

  Running tests on a dead body, withholding evidence so it can be used in questioning suspects—that was all usual procedure, wasn’t it?

  “So, they have a clue that will lead to the killer, but they haven’t rounded up the suspects yet? What? A fingerprint? The weapon? A note?”

  “That, even I do not know.”

  I searched for the correct change to purchase the Times.

  As if the jingling of the coins had jingled his recall, Gus at last said something significant. “I have heard the name of someone called in for questioning.”

  “Who?”

  “Russell Chalmers.”

  That opened my eyes. Russell Chalmers had been at the story conference. He hadn’t liked the way his work had been translated to the screen, or that Brody had agreed to the changes suggested by an OWI representative. But motive for murder? Hadn’t Sam said Chalmers and Brody were friends?

  “I don’t think Chalmers did it,” I said. “He and Brody had a long-time personal and professional relationship. I met Chalmers. He seemed like a stand-up guy.”

  “This is not testimony to a man’s innocence. Besides,” he wagged his thick wiry eyebrows, “my source tells me Chalmers is about to be charged with the murder of Brody.”

  “Who’s the source?”

  He shook his head.

  In the rush to leave for Novara’s meeting, I missed getting a flower. What a shame—the dusty pink lilies on the ledge of the newsstand had looked divine.

  ***

  I swung the Packard into my usual parking space at Fort Roach. At the administration building, I took the front steps of the portico two at a time. An armed guard sat at a small table directly inside the entrance door reading a comic magazine. I glimpsed Dick Tracy in the title before the comic was whisked under the duty register conveniently positioned nearby.

  Novara’s secretary ushered me into his office directly. From behind his desk, Novara signaled with finger and thumb slightly apart to say he’d be a short while longer. As if he’d given me a choice in the matter, I acquiesced with a nod.

  While Novara discussed scheduling with the person on the other end, I grabbed the Hollywood Reporter from a nearby coffee table, sweeping its front page for news of Brody’s death. Nothing. The TradeViews column carried another searing criticism of the movie industry by Wilkerson. This time he was lambasting Hollywood and exhibitors for exploiting the greatest boom in the history of the business while shortchanging theatergoers with substandard movies. No examples were given. Would he think people got their money’s worth going to see Somewhere I’ll Find You, I wondered? It was a film of the times. And even I would admit that Clark Gable and Lana Turner were improbable as correspondents. But the love scenes between battles were certainly enjoyable. Did that mean I should feel cheated?

  A quiet knock cut short my musings. The door crept slowly open and Sam slunk in, looking worried that he was late. Grinning, I motioned my head in Novara’s direction.

  Sam, glimpsing Novara pacing at a wall calendar, receiver stuck to his ear, smiled back and wiped his hand across his brow theatrically. Automatically, stray locks of feathery hair flopped onto his forehead. His coloring, I observed with relief, was back to its normal shade of golden tan.

  “Feeling better?” I mouthed.

  Sam nodded and gave a thumbs-up.

  I continued to regard him, studying his unusual looks. Clark Gable might be appealing by popular standards, but Sam’s fine sculpted features intrigued me, too. What had Max said: He was an odd fish? Possibly my trophy catch?

  Sam, smiling self-consciously at the close scrutiny, averted his eyes. It was a mannerism he’d exhibited before and one I found refreshing compared with the brash behavior of many of the men I encountered.

  Novara hung up on his call. Cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, beret comically askew, he motioned for us to sit. Taking a deep drag, he blew a string of smoke rings in the air. “I don’t know if you’re aware of the filmmaking system here at Fort Roach, Miss Lewis, but let me explain, if I may.”

  Novara’s polite request was condescending. “When a film like your WASP documentary is ordered by the AAF Motion Picture Division in Washington, it gets ranked according to need. The assignments get doled out to the production office in keeping with the urgency factor. Once we get the job, we break the concept down into a working format. Then I assign a writer to do the script.”

  Novara sent a smarmy smile Sam’s way, but Sam kept his eyes glued to his doodling.

  Ahhh. No wonder Sam was keeping so quiet: Novara was handing down the writing assignments. Was that where he was going with this lecture? He wanted me to understand where I fit into the process?

  “We’re working with an art form. We’re seasoned professionals. Yet, ain’t it funny?” Novara waited until I looked at him again. “Here we are having this little session because someone seems to think you may have ideas for improving Sky Belles.”

  I bit the flesh on the inside of my cheek. Yeah, like changing the dopey title. I hated the frivolous slant it gave our film. But I had to prioritiz
e my battles.

  Novara paused to light a fresh cigarette off the stub of his old one. He snubbed out the old butt in an overflowing smelly ashtray. His next move was equally offensive: leaning back in his chair, he put his feet up on the desk.

  I stared openly. Shoe rationing had been in effect for almost a year. His new leather shoes were incongruous with the shabby footwear most of us wore these days. And the sleek style? Italian, I was almost certain. But how could that be? They couldn’t be producing many luxury items over there these days. Horrific battles were being fought on their soil. Italy had surrendered to the Allied forces, but we were still in a seesaw fight with the Germans, who refused to leave. Where had Novara come across the shoes? And why would he choose to wear goods produced by the Italians, who were still, for the most part, aligned with the Nazis?

  “Interference from an inexperienced outsider is the last thing I need right now. I’m under tremendous pressure here. I’ve got several important projects in the hopper. One of them with Clark Gable.”

  As if I didn’t already know.

  “The body of work I’m building here is key to my future after the war.” Smoke escaped his mouth as he spoke. “And since I intend being up there with the William Wylers and Frank Capras of the world, each and every one of the projects I turn out has got to be a winner.”

  William Wyler? Frank Capra? I knew Novara had a big ego, but c’mon. Was he nuts? Look what he’d done to our film so far.

  “Where I’m going is this…” Novara took a lazy drag. Head back, his thick lips puckered in an “O,” he exhaled one smoke ring, then another before continuing. “I have little interest or time to devote to making Sky Belles, but the directive came to me over the transom. There’s no choice. I’ll make it”—from beneath a wreath of smoke, he shot me a hard look—“and I’ll make it the way I see fit.”

  His message came across loud and clear: my role in making the WASP documentary was to stay out of his way.

  Roland Novara had just laid down the kind of challenge that always brought the best out in me. Confident and relaxed against the back of my chair, I held his look.