Reds in the Beds

by Martin Turnbull

  Marcus felt his face blanch as he climbed to his feet and followed the cop down a silent corridor into a bright room where the sergeant on duty sat at a desk raised on a platform twelve inches from the floor—just enough to intimidate.

  He had that weathered face of a foot patrolman who’d come up the ranks the hard way. He studied Marcus from behind the flinty mask of stoicism. “Adler?”

  Marcus nodded.

  “You’re free to go.”

  Marcus felt himself falling backwards and had to catch himself.

  “Did you come alone?”

  Panic fogged his brain. Is it better if I came alone? Will I incriminate them? The desk sergeant lowered a typed list of names. If they’re letting me go, will Quentin and Trevor get released, too? “Point them out. You got five seconds.”

  Marcus ran his finger down the list and stopped at Quentin Luckett and Trevor Bergin. The warden disappeared. Marcus asked if someone had posted his bail, but the sergeant didn’t budge. When the guys appeared, blinking at the bright lights, Marcus told them they were free to go. The three men left the building without a word and vaulted down the granite steps to the dark and deserted street.

  “What just happened?” Trevor asked. “Will our names be in the papers?”

  “That was the damndest thing.” Marcus glanced back at the police station. “But I’m sure as hell not going back to ask questions.”

  Trevor picked at his false beard, but Quentin slapped his hand away. “Leave that on until you get home. We need a taxi.”

  “At three in the morning?”

  “We’ll never find one,” Marcus said. “There’s an all-nighter down on Sixth. Coffee and donuts are on me.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Gwendolyn slid her needle into a pincushion and straightened out a heap of pink tulle, then held the outfit to her body as she turned to the full-length mirror to gauge her handiwork. The Pasadena matron who ordered the dress was ten years and twenty pounds past getting away with it, but Gwendolyn had used all the magic tricks in her top hat, and she was satisfied it was as good as it would ever be.

  Gwendolyn had been working in Bullocks’ couture fitting room for six weeks, surrounded by silks from Thailand, cashmere from India, and lace from France. Now that the war was over and the textile mills were spluttering back into production, the variety of materials was thrilling. She was folding the tulle into a Bullocks presentation box when Mr. Dewberry burst into the room, his hands clasped in front of him.

  “I have an important job and I want you to—”

  The door opened behind him and a tiny woman with the poise of an Amazon entered. Blunt black bangs sliced across her forehead above horn-rimmed spectacles tinted dark blue. Around her neck hung pearls the size of gumdrops. She held a knee-length suit of shantung in a striking shade of blue—cerulean was Gwendolyn’s guess, but the light in the formal yet cozy fitting room was designed to flatter the customer over the garment. Floor-to-ceiling cream draperies covered all six walls, bouncing gentle light onto the women who scrutinized their bodies in the three-part mirror across from the dressmaker’s workbench. Gwendolyn did her best to make her clients feel comfortable, even though they were usually peeled down to their combinations.

  The woman strode toward the center of the room. “Really, Herman! Couldn’t you see my hands were full?”

  Gwendolyn held her smile in place and prayed that Miss Head didn’t recognize her. The memory of that awful night at Mercedes de Acosta’s house had retreated into the mists of a half-forgotten life she no longer lived.

  “I’m sorry, Edie,” Mr. Dewberry said, taking the suit from her, “I thought you were right behind me. This is Miss Gwendolyn, our most expert seamstress.”

  Edith Head scrutinized Gwendolyn with a lightning-fast down-up-down. Gwendolyn caught a flicker of approval behind the tinted lenses as Dewberry laid the garment out on the table. It was a two-piece suit with a collarless jacket and three-quarter-length sleeves. As Gwendolyn examined the material, Dewberry scuttled out of the room.

  “I shall leave you ladies to it.”

  Gwendolyn groped awkwardly for something to talk about as the woman donned and zipped up the suit. “I’m surprised you need our services,” she said, gathering her pins.

  Head let out a surprisingly girlish laugh. “Knowing what needs to be done and knowing how to do it at the level I expect are two different beasts.”

  Gwendolyn gently prodded her customer’s arms toward the ceiling. “But you’re Edith Head!”

  “The Blue Dahlia premiere is coming up and I wanted a dress the same shade of blue they’ve used in the poster. But do you think I could find anything even close? I was complaining to Herman, and he said he had just the thing. So I asked for you.”

  Gwendolyn dropped her chalk. It bounced across the carpet and disappeared under the table. “Me?”

  “You altered a dress for Dolores Hope last week.”

  “The black sheath inlaid with pearls?” Before Gwendolyn handed it to the valet for delivery to Bob Hope’s wife, she’d made a rough pattern, which was now on her living room floor in preparation for a duplicate.

  “I commented on it and she said Bullocks Wilshire has this marvelous girl doing alterations.” Head pretended to fiddle with a gold button on her jacket. “You’re the girl Bugsy Siegel pawed when he came in drunk, aren’t you?”

  Gwendolyn closed her eyes. “You heard about that?”

  “Is it true the gun went off?” Miss Head whispered. “That must have been awful!”

  Gwendolyn had heard that Edith Head was as imperious as she looked, but the frowning woman with brows crinkled in concern wasn’t what she’d expected.

  “Not the best day I’ve ever had.” Gwendolyn went to duck behind Head but was halted by a penetrating look.

  “What are you wearing?”

  Gwendolyn was both flattered and intimidated. She was wearing a scoop-neck dress made of Egyptian cotton she’d dyed a deep teal and accented with pale crêpe around the neck and cuffs. A few months ago, she’d spent a particularly bleak night doubting that Chez Gwendolyn would ever happen, and so to help bolster her spirits, she decided to make an entire new wardrobe for herself comprised of exactly the sort of thing she dreamed of selling in her shop.

  “It’s something I made myself.”

  “So you’re capable of more than just tailoring?” Miss Head nodded appreciatively as she fingered the tassels Gwendolyn had fashioned out of leftover material and sewn into the neckline. “I could get you a job at Paramount.”

  The last thing Gwendolyn wanted was to trigger this woman’s memory of the night at de Acosta’s when someone ran her disastrous Gone with the Wind screen test for a titillated audience. She moved around to Head’s right arm and tugged at the sleeve. “Thank you, but I’m happy enough here.”

  “Happy . . . enough?” Head pursed her lips. “If I had your skill, I’d open my own salon.”

  When Gwendolyn drew back with surprise, the woman’s eyes widened behind her tinted glasses. “Dolores Hope isn’t the only one who’s mentioned you. I don’t know why, but I had a hunch.”

  “My plans are barely more than a dream, really.”

  “Don’t underestimate dreams. This whole town’s built on them. Does Herman know?”

  “Mr. Dewberry?” The chalk nearly slipped from Gwendolyn’s grasp again. “Please don’t tell him. I’d hate for him to think I’m unhappy here, after everything he’s done for me.”

  Miss Head took Gwendolyn by the chin. “Hollywood is one of the few places where an ambitious girl can fulfill her dreams, but it’s still a man’s game, and us girls must stick together. Don’t you worry about Herman.” Gwendolyn expected her to let go of her chin, but instead Miss Head squinted. “Have we met before? You look familiar.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “The Garden of Allah.”

  “Oh, so you’re part of that crowd? I imagine you know Trevor Bergin.”
Gwendolyn admitted that she did. “Would you do me a favor?”

  “If I can,” Gwendolyn said coolly.

  “There’s talk at Paramount of remaking Valentino’s The Sheik, but only if they can borrow him from MGM. I would kill to do all those flowing desert robes and belly dancer getups.” She let out a snort. “I need a change from pencil skirts and backless ball gowns.”

  “I know what his first question will be,” Gwendolyn said. “Is there a finished script yet?”

  “I’m not sure.” Miss Head shivered. “I suppose I’ll have to talk to that slimy Wardell character.”

  “Not necessarily,” Gwendolyn said. “I know someone—a friend of a friend—who works under Wardell.”

  “I’d do anything to avoid talking to that awful man.”

  “Awful doesn’t begin to cover it,” Gwendolyn said, then caught herself.

  Miss Head slipped back into her own outfit, then pulled a comb from her purse and fixed her austere bangs. “What did you mean? Awful doesn’t begin to cover what?”

  “Just that he’s despicable, from what I hear.”

  Miss Head grunted. “Or do you mean because he wrote Reds in the Beds?”

  Gwendolyn slumped. “You know about that?”

  “I do now.” She picked up her handbag and hung it in the crook of her elbow. “You didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already figured out for myself. All you did was provide confirmation.”

  Gwendolyn laid the cerulean blue suit out on the worktable, smoothing and resmoothing the fabric.

  “I need this at the studio no later than noon tomorrow,” Miss Head said, mercifully changing the subject. “I trust that won’t be a problem?”

  Gwendolyn was going to have to work all night.

  “Not at all.”

  * * *

  It was just after one in the morning when Gwendolyn heard the music, but she couldn’t quite make out the tune—just a brass section blasting out a sassy beat. She laid down her needle and thread and stepped into the empty Louis XVI Room.

  Mame kissed a buyer from out of town . . .

  It was that song from Rita Hayworth’s new movie, Gilda.

  The crystal chandeliers were dark, but four tall windows let in enough light from the streetlamps on Wilshire to allow Gwendolyn to pick her way around the mannequins and love seats. As she entered the elevator foyer, she could make out the music more clearly, and followed it.

  That kiss burned Chicago down . . .

  The only light on the floor was coming from Herman Dewberry’s office. Through the frosted glass she could make out movement. But who would dare go into Mr. Dewberry’s office without him? She crept forward.

  She cut a wide arc around display cases filled with hats and scarves and riding gloves to take cover behind a shoulder-high cabinet of black leather boots. She peeked out and looked in through Mr. Dewberry’s open office door.

  Put the blame on Mame!

  Fussy and fastidious little Mr. Dewberry was parading around his office in a floor-length ball gown! Its bateau neckline scooped across his chest from one shoulder tip to the other and cinched down into a princess bodice before sweeping out into a very full skirt that trailed the floor. But that wasn’t the problem.

  The bold print was atrocious: ivy leaves that were too large, too green, and repeated too often lay against a background of pale rose. It took a vibrant woman like Rita Hayworth or Betty Hutton to carry off something like that, not a diminutive half-pint like Herman Dewberry. Around his waist he’d tied a sash as blue as the Pacific—a pretty color, but it spoiled the whole effect.

  He was a man of impeccable taste. How could his infallible eye have failed him? She ventured another peek as Dewberry executed a pirouette, his dress swishing past the corner of his desk, and landed in her direct line of vision.

  Their eyes met. Her boss inhaled sharply. After an agonizing moment, he lifted his foot and went to kick the door shut, but his shoe caught his hem and he stumbled to the floor with a dull thud.

  Gwendolyn shot forward to help him up, but he cut her off.

  “Please don’t!” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m humiliated. You have no idea.”

  “Mr. Dewberry!” Gwendolyn chuckled, hoping to set him at ease. “I’ll see you your humiliation, and raise you a mortification that you can’t possibly hope to match.”

  He raised his eyes to meet hers, his face paler than eggshells.

  “Maybe one day I’ll tell you the story,” she said. “But for now, let’s get you off the floor.”

  He took her hand and hauled himself up, turning away from her to marshal his wits. The row of hooks down the back of his dress were unfastened, showing an expanse of lightly hairy skin that shone with perspiration.

  He mumbled, “I assumed I was alone.”

  “Miss Head needs her outfit by noon. I have to work all night.” She noticed an array of outfits spread out on his conference table, and recognized them from the display mannequins. “What are all these?”

  He began to breathe heavily through his nose. She waited for him to regain his dignity. “There is a bar I go to,” he said, pushing each word out like a rock. “It’s for gentlemen—such as—myself. You’re not expected to dress up, but the first time you do, they call it debutanting. Everyone makes a big fuss, and so . . .” He ended with a leaden sigh.

  “So you want to look your best,” Gwendolyn finished for him.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And these are your choices?”

  When he let his hands flop to his sides, she realized for the first time he was wearing opera gloves, the same shade as the sash. She crossed over to the table and waited for him to join her.

  “Well,” she started gently, “forget the white one. That’s the wrong color for you altogether.”

  “I know.” He ran his finger down the skirt. “But it’s silk.”

  “And horizontal stripes? Don’t even think of it.”

  He picked up a bright blue suit like the one she was working on for Edith Head. “I love this.”

  “And if you had Miss Head’s figure, it’d probably love you.”

  He sighed. “I figured that as soon as I tried it on. I’m surprised I didn’t rip it.”

  She faced him squarely. “Which brings us to what you’re wearing.”

  “What do you think?” He winced.

  “It’s just a little . . . too much, is all,” Gwendolyn said. “And I don’t know that opera gloves work with it.”

  “But they hide my hairy forearms. Plus, the satin feels so nice.”

  “I won’t argue with that.”

  As Gwendolyn examined her boss’ outfit, she took care to avoid meeting him in the eye.

  “Here’s what I would do,” she said. “Lose the sash. It accentuates the waist, which is the opposite of what you want. So we’ll broaden the shoulders like Adrian did for Joan Crawford.” She tapped her chin. “I do like the rose background. Very pretty. And the ivy, too, but the print is far too bold.”

  “It’s the closest I could find to what I had in my head.”

  “It shouldn’t be hard to track down that shade of pink, then we could stencil an ivy design onto it, but more subtle, like batik. Apparently the Javanese are masters at it. I’m sure we can dig up some textbook to show us how it’s done. Then I’ll draft a pattern that will camouflage your more masculine traits.”

  With the hesitance of a panicky kitten, he found the courage to look at her. “You’d make a dress? Especially for me?”

  “Mr. Dewberry,” she said quietly, “every debutant deserves to look his very best.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Kathryn’s desk sat against the western wall of the huge office that housed most of the dozens of people needed to put out the Hollywood Reporter every day. Even sitting at the edge of the room, though, gave her little respite from the flotilla of typewriters, telephones, and conversations that were constantly harpooned across the room.

  The day the cacophony became too much came late in spring
when Wallace Reed, the producer of Kraft Music Hall, called to let her know that Bing Crosby had decided not to renew his contract and would be leaving the show in four weeks’ time. Yes, that was definite. No, he didn’t know who would replace Crosby. No, he couldn’t confirm that the show would continue.

  Kathryn thanked Reed and dropped the receiver onto its cradle. She needed to think through her options, but all the clacking and jangling conspired to drown her thoughts.

  She grabbed her handbag and had almost reached reception as one of the elevator doors slid open. Ben Siegel stepped out. He wore an impeccable dark blue pinstriped suit and a homburg with a matching band.

  Kathryn ducked back inside the newsroom and pressed herself against the wall as she watched his shadow cross the linoleum and head up the corridor to Wilkerson’s office. She waited another thirty seconds, then darted into the reception area.

  Behind the desk was a sharp-eyed honey blonde named Cassandra. Until last year she’d been a waitress in a Harvey House restaurant two hundred miles outside Kansas City. She’d spent five years watching folks heading west until she decided she “oughta go see for myself what all this California fuss was about.” Within two weeks she had a job at the Reporter, and her five years’ experience of sizing people up during a forty-five-minute whistle stop left Kathryn wondering how they’d ever gotten along without her.

  Before Kathryn even opened her mouth, Cassandra popped her gum and said, “Did you know he’s been coming here twice a week? Sometimes more. Since February.”

  The last time Kathryn saw Siegel was on that TWA flight to New York back in February when Howard Hughes told her about the million-dollar loan her boss had secured from the mob. She’d managed to avoid him on that flight—mainly because her mother got drunk on whiskey sours and needed help getting off the plane. Kathryn hoped that this million bucks of mob money that Meyer Lansky had loaned to Wilkerson meant that Siegel had been carved out of the picture.