“Where thine enemies have been vanquished,” Dottie intoned, “Where the brave shall live forever.”
“What the hell was that?” Lillian asked.
“A Viking funeral prayer,” Dottie said. “Or something. This is my fourth bourbon, so don’t put any money on it.”
The group stood in silence, watching their floating bonfire.
“I must admit,” Kathryn said, “there’s something satisfying about seeing that mound of excrement burn.”
Several others agreed with her, consigning Wardell to the hellhole from which he crawled.
Gwendolyn turned to her brother. “And that’s the way we do things at the Garden of Allah.”
Monty let out a long, low whistle.
“I don’t expect you to get it,” she said. “But in this town, that book has been the bane of every person with the God-given sense to know the difference between right and wrong.”
“It’s just that—well—y’all just participated in a book burning. Isn’t that what the Nazis did?”
A heavy silence fell over the group as they watched the charred rubble subside into a faintly glowing heap, then, finally, extinguish altogether.
CHAPTER 25
Marcus loved the way Oliver looked when he got up in the morning—his undershirt wrinkled and his brown hair tussled like he was a Dead End Kid. On weekend nights when Oliver slept over, they usually lolled around in bed, snoozing away their hangovers. Now that September had given way to October and the night air was growing cooler, those half-asleep, half-awake hours snuggling under the covers were among Marcus’ favorite. He looked forward to them all week.
But not that first weekend in October. When Mayer read Purvis’ The Final Day screenplay, he gave the picture top priority and decreed a February release. It was a tight schedule, but achievable, chiefly because most of the costumes and sets from previous MGM war pictures were camera-ready.
However, while Marcus thought the screenplay was good, he saw a slew of ways to make it better. He’d given nearly every waking moment to polishing the script, and with the next day’s deadline looming, had already spent several hours on his sofa smoothing out lines that still needled him.
Oliver appeared in the doorway holding the LA Times Marcus had left for him at the foot of the bed. “Looks like Hedda’s at it again.” He patted down his wayward hair. “Her whole column is about the union skirmish. Said there was rioting.”
“I know some punches were thrown, but I don’t think anyone could call it a riot.”
“She used ‘Metro-Goldwyn-Moscow’ three times.”
“That’s a record.”
“You need some peace and quiet, don’t you? Shall I go?”
Marcus looked up at Oliver and smiled. It was already eleven o’clock and he’d made little progress. “I don’t ever want you to go, but I must have this on Mayer’s desk by nine o’clock tomorrow morning, otherwise—there is no ‘otherwise.’”
Marcus returned to his script. One of its main problems had been lack of a love interest. Not that every picture had to have a pretty girl, but the hero needed some sort of character to play off to show his vulnerability and humanity. In war pictures, the hero’s army or navy buddies usually filled that role, but this guy was alone. So Marcus wrote in an Austrian kid hiding in the deserted house where the ammunition stockpile was hidden. The kid had lost his whole family in the Anschluss, so he had no love for the Nazis, but Marcus was having a hard time nailing the dialogue. The hero didn’t know much German and the kid didn’t know any English, so it was a delicately balanced pas-de-deux.
“Yoohoo!”
Arlene stood with Oliver at his front door. He waved at her but made no move to get up.
“You look like you’re real busy, but I have some news you ought to hear.”
Marcus kept his eyes on the script. “Can it wait?”
Arlene took a few steps into the room, her face twisted with ambivalence. “It’s not great news, so you won’t actually want to hear it. But forearmed is forewarned.”
Marcus threw The Final Day to one side. “Okay, out with it.”
Oliver headed into the kitchen. “I’ll put on coffee.”
When Arlene sat down beside him, the morning sun caught her light red hair. Despite everything she’d been through, she’d retained that fresh-faced look, as though her innocence about the world and the way it worked was still intact. It was refreshing to see, and always reminded him of his sister, Doris.
Arlene pressed her hands into her lap. “Actually, I have three pieces of news. The first two are noteworthy in a ‘That’s interesting to know’ sort of way. The other is less, well, we’ll get to that.”
“Tick tock, Arlene.”
“I spent yesterday going through everybody’s contracts.”
“Why?”
“Ever since these IATSE strikes and clashes started up, and with Hedda calling us Metro-Goldwyn-Moscow, Mayer has been super sensitive to the whole Pinko thing. So yesterday, the instruction came down from Mannix to review all contracts for loopholes, especially any involving language they could twist if it becomes necessary to fire someone for being a Commie, or a Socialist, or even just a possible Pinko.” She cleared her throat. “You didn’t hear it from me, but there’s a list of targeted employees.”
“Have you come to tell me I’m on it?”
“I managed to sneak a peek, and your name wasn’t there.” Marcus slumped into the sofa. “But,” she added, “it doesn’t mean you can’t be included later, so you might want to tread carefully.”
Marcus took in this news, wishing he had more time to think about it. But the script was nudging his elbow. Finish me . . . finish me . . .
“Thanks for the warning. Was there something else?”
Before Arlene could reply, there was another knock on the door. “Christ!” Marcus hauled to his feet. “What is this, Union Station?” When he opened the door, he found Kathryn in front of him, holding up a paper sack.
“I got farewell Danishes!”
“What’s the occasion?”
“I’m off to Reno tomorrow to divorce you, remember? I’ve narrowed it down to either mental cruelty or habitual drunkenness. You got a preference?” She read the dark look on his face. “Bad timing?”
The smell of fruity pastries filled his nose. “You might as well come in, you Danish-bearing, book-burning Nazi, you.”
Everybody at the divorce party knew that Monty had made a very good point about becoming the thing you hate most, but by week’s end they’d all dealt with the accusation in the same way: calling each other a book-burning Nazi at every opportunity.
Marcus arranged the Danishes on a platter while Arlene filled Kathryn in on her news. By the time everything was set out on his coffee table, Arlene was ready with her second revelation.
“While I was down in the filing room, I came across a thick folder filled with copies of the minutes from every meeting held by the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals.”
The Alliance was a group of right-wing conservatives who’d come together during the war, convinced that Hollywood was crawling with Communists determined to pervert the movies “into an instrument for the dissemination of un-American ideas.” Nobody on the left-hand end of the spectrum had taken them seriously, but they’d held fast to their belief that Hollywood was going to the dogs.
“How does this affect me?” Marcus asked.
“I noticed a frequent name among the attendees: Leonard Purvis.”
“The guy who wrote all those Westerns?” Kathryn asked.
Marcus pointed to the unfinished script, which was still calling Finish me . . . finish me . . . “His son wrote that.”
“I thought you’d want to know that the Purvis apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Arlene added. “Sonny boy was there, too.”
Since joining Marcus’ department, Anson Purvis had proven himself to be hardworking, punctual, and dependable. Although he lacked a well-developed
sense of humor, he did take Marcus’ revisions squarely on the chin. The fact that he was a member of the Motion Picture Alliance wasn’t news Marcus welcomed, but it wasn’t surprising, either. Marcus would give it some thought when he had time, but for now The Final Day was tapping its wristwatch with an impatient finger.
“Was there something else? I’ve really got to get back to work.”
Arlene stiffened. “You might want to put some Irish whiskey in that coffee.”
“Just tell me, Arlene.”
She interlaced her fingers and squeezed them together. “When I was in legal secretarial school, I made this friend. She’s a bit of a wild card, likes to drink, carry on with men. I doubted she’d ever hold a job, but she ended up at Doubleday.”
“The publisher?”
Arlene nodded. “She and I get together once in a while, just to catch up. She told me in the strictest drunken confidence that Clifford Wardell has written a sequel.”
“Jesus H. Christ! That lousy little worm!” Kathryn said.
Arlene wagged a finger. “It’s all very top-secret hush-hush, so don’t breathe a word to anyone.”
This must be the book Wardell mentioned that night outside the brothel. “Did she tell you the title?” Marcus asked. “Or what it was about?”
“It’s called Deadly Bedfellows, and apparently it’s about the head of a Hollywood movie studio writing department—”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“—who actively recruits fellow-traveler screenwriters into the Communist Party with the aim of teaching them how to incorporate the Communist message. In fact, what it’s really about is how a freelance journalist gets wind of this and foils the Commie plot.”
Marcus pushed his glasses to the top of his head and pressed his fingers to his eyes, blacking out everyone in the room. “So it’s about me.”
“It could be Quentin,” Kathryn pointed out. “He’s head of writing at Paramount. Wardell probably hates you both.”
The four of them sat in silence while Marcus cast his mind back to the night he convinced Wardell to sign over his screen rights. “This book isn’t about Quentin Luckett.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because the last time I saw Wardell, he was trying to sell me into agreeing to see Purvis. And I said to him, ‘This business sure makes for deadly bedfellows.’”
CHAPTER 26
Kathryn surveyed the dining room of the Reno hotel she’d been living in for the past two weeks. The proprietors had tried to gussy up the place with orange and yellow wallpaper, pink curtains, and fresh-cut daisies and tulips, but there was nothing as dispiriting as a restaurant of tables set for one. The Liberty Hotel, Kathryn decided, was the most depressing place in the world outside of a federal penitentiary.
She left a tip for the frowzy waitress and headed outside to thread her way through the usual throng of pedestrians along Liberty Street until she got to the post office.
Kathryn was astonished by how much work she could get done sitting alone in her hotel room with nothing to distract her. In three days, she’d banked a whole week’s worth of columns, a bunch of movie reviews, and two interviews. The clerk at the post office promised her the new airmail service would get her package to the Hollywood Reporter by the following afternoon.
She stepped out of the post office and into the cool October breeze coming off the Truckee River to face a day in which she had nothing else planned. Back home, her life was such a kaleidoscope of work, parties, premieres, and weekly radio appearances that time off with nothing to do sounded heavenly. But she’d been here for two weeks now, and more weeks stretched ahead of her like a prison sentence. She wondered how she was going to fill them.
Perhaps take in a movie? The Jolson Story was playing at the Majestic on First Street. Right before she left Los Angeles, she’d heard from one of her spies, a lighting guy at Columbia, that Larry Parks had put on a hell of a performance.
Kathryn loitered in front of the poster for a few minutes while she finished off a cigarette and worried about her radio job. Bing Crosby’s new show, Philco Radio Time, was going to debut the following week with Bob Hope as his first guest. It was bad timing for Kraft Music Hall—the show was on an enforced hiatus while Kathryn was in Reno. Kraft’s rating were strong, but would their audience desert them for this new show now that Bing was back on the air?
A shadow fell across the glass. “May I buy you a ticket?”
He sounded like one of those amorous ranch hands who spent his days off roaming the town in search of lonely women keen to experience matrimonial emancipation with the first decent stud to present himself. She wasn’t prepared, then, to find herself face to face with Nelson Hoyt.
That ironic, knowing smile of his—part wily shrewdness, part mocking indulgence—was nowhere to be seen. There had been times when it infuriated her, but now she missed it. In its place was a dour mask, all business.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I’ve been sent to escort you to the Riverside.”
The Riverside was the grandest hotel in town, geared specifically for the high-end divorce trade. Kathryn had purposefully avoided it for fear of bumping into someone she might know.
“Why? Who’s there?”
Hoyt stepped to one side and made a gallant sweep of his arm in the direction of the Riverside.
A cold shiver goosefleshed Kathryn’s skin. “I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m to take you to a meeting.” Finally he looked at her, his gray-blue eyes blank. “With Hoover.”
Kathryn looked around for eavesdroppers. “Is this about my boss and his casino? Because I can tell you right now Wilkerson doesn’t talk to me about that cockamamie project.”
“He’s applying for a loan with the Valley National Bank of Phoenix for $600,000 to keep the Flamingo from going into bankruptcy. But it’s only a drop in the ocean; he’s in far deeper than that.”
“See? That just proves there’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know.”
“Kathryn!” She saw the veneer of stoicism slip, but for only a moment. “Do you really want me to go back and report to J. Edgar Hoover that you refused?”
Kathryn fidgeted with her handbag while she weighed her options. It didn’t take long to see that she only had one.
* * *
The door to the penthouse at the Riverside Hotel was carved mahogany and featured a brass plaque announcing the Henry G. Blasdel Suite. The polished metal reflected back to her the deer-in-headlights fear in her eyes as she adjusted her blue velvet fastener hat.
Hoyt rapped on the door three times. “Whatever you do, keep calm. He’ll try and—”
“Enter!”
The door opened onto a spacious parlor done out in Victorian décor—brown and gold wallpaper in a horseshoe pattern, heavy drapes in dark aubergine with matching carpets, and a Tiffany lamp on every other table.
The director of the FBI had the face of a French bulldog with a graying hairline receding over a box-shaped head. Kathryn guessed him to be around fifty, but he wore the frown of a man ten years older. He was seated in an armchair, his eyes on a one-page report in his hand. He motioned for Kathryn to take a seat in the chair opposite him. Kathryn wondered what Hoyt was going to say out in the corridor. He’ll try and . . . what?
Eventually, Hoover let out a dissatisfied “hmm” and inserted the sheet into an unmarked folder on the coffee table. He offered his hand. She was surprised to find it soft and warm.
“Thank you for meeting with me.”
Like I had a choice. Kathryn could no longer see Hoyt in her peripheral vision. Has he left me alone? She laid her handbag on her lap and pressed her hands against the alligator skin to stop them from giving her away.
Hoover pulled a cigar from the breast pocket of his navy blue pinstripe and bit off the end. “Hoyt tells me you’re unhappy about your association with the Bureau.”
/> It was one thing to bitch and moan to Marcus and Gwendolyn within the safety of the Garden, but to admit it to Hoover himself? She nodded and gripped her purse tighter.
“Do you want to sever ties with us?”
She nodded again.
He seemed in no hurry to light his cigar, but instead threaded it in and around the fingers of his left hand. “Benjamin Siegel has been a huge thorn in our side for years, and he’s only becoming thornier. We want you to bring us as much information on him as you can procure.”
“What sort of information do you think I can get?” Her voice came out a strange blend of hoarse and squeaky.
“Your boss is close to him, and you’re close to your boss. I can see the panic in your eyes, so let me put your worries to rest. We’re not concerned with Billy Wilkerson; Siegel is the big prize. If you could furnish enough rope to swing Siegel, I’d be more than happy to cut you loose.”
Kathryn felt a noose tightening around her throat. “What kind of rope?”
“Bring us anything you can find, and let us decide if it’s rope.”
Kathryn dropped her gaze onto the gold clasp of her handbag. What does he think I am? One of his super-spy double agents? It took all the courage she had to look him in the eye, but she forced herself. “Mr. Hoover, I don’t wish to be uncooperative. Truly, I don’t. But you’re barking up the wrong tree. That Linden Holdings Company bank statement I got a hold of? That was a once-in-a-lifetime fluke.”
Hoover let out another dissatisfied “hmmm” before he returned to the folder on the table and withdrew the paper he’d been reading when she walked in. “I have here a tax bill from the IRS totaling ten thousand dollars.”
Kathryn blurted out a “ha!” before she could help it. “You don’t work for Billy Wilkerson without witnessing the consequences of neglecting your taxes. I am meticulous when it comes to submitting—”
Reds in the Beds Page 17
