City of Flickering Light

by Juliette Fay

  The Harvey girl poured his coffee, and Henry decided to take it without cream for a change. Black coffee was so much more . . . tough. Businesslike. Zayde-like.

  He took a sip, burned the tip of his tongue, and nearly dropped the cup. Oberhouser politely pretended not to notice, but Henry saw the slightest crinkle around those hazel eyes.

  “So, Henry. I have a proposition for you, one which will likely make Albert steaming mad, but it can’t be helped. I’d like you to continue as an extra for the rest of the picture. Actually, as the queen’s head guard, you’d be a bit more than an extra, but as a player with no name, an extra is what you’re called. However, there’ll be more than the usual five dollars a day in it for you. Twice as much, in fact. How does that sound?”

  “Well, it sounds very nice,” said Henry, trying so hard not to laugh and slap his thigh in excitement that a little sweat broke out on his back. “But I have to ask . . . I mean, it would be foolhardy of me not to think of . . . After the filming is over—what then?”

  Oberhouser nodded. “Albert clearly needs you, and if he loses you for a month, he’s going to want to hire someone else.”

  Henry’s good spirits deflated. “It’s just that, well, I’m new here, and I need the work. I have to consider the long term.” That last line was very zayde-like. At least there was that.

  Oberhouser uncrossed his legs and leaned a little closer. Henry could smell the sharp, clean scent of his aftershave. “Eva’s very keen on you. She’s particular about who brings her stories to life, and we both felt you added a sort of gravity to the scenes you did for us yesterday.” He looked around and then chuckled to himself. “I really shouldn’t say anything at this point, and of course there are no guarantees, but as long as everything goes well during Sheba, we’d like to screen test you for a bigger role in our next picture.”

  18

  There’s a little bit of vampire instinct in every woman.

  Theda Bara, actress, writer, famous “vamp”

  At lunchtime, Irene double-stepped down the stairs and out across the studio yard. She had only twenty minutes, after all, to accomplish a great deal. First she had to track down Wally.

  He wasn’t hard to find, smoking a badly rolled cigarette and leaning up against the edge of a set made to look like a saloon. There were several other men there, too, a couple of them made up as cowboys, and one Indian with black hair to his shoulders and a colorful piece of cloth tied as a headband. It was the man from the benches, the one who hadn’t worn his costume to avoid offending anyone. He’d certainly been right about it being rather brief, revealing sinewy thighs and calves, his bare chest lean and muscular. He’d had short hair when she’d first seen him, so this was apparently a wig.

  Dan Russell. She was surprised his name came back to her so easily, considering they’d never spoken a word to each other.

  Wally was nattering away, and none of them seemed all that interested. Irene had a thought that she could walk up and punch him in that gargoyle’s smile of his, and no one would lift a finger to stop her.

  “Wally.”

  His head jerked up at the grit in her voice, and he threw his cigarette down as if he’d been caught with contraband.

  He eyed her warily. “Yeah?”

  “Can I speak to you a moment?”

  He shrugged and made no move toward her. But the others moved away, wandering off as if they’d suddenly remembered they had far better things to do. Dan Russell gave her the briefest look, his dark eyes serious, before heading off.

  “What do you want?”

  I want you to die a prolonged and painful death. “I want you to recommend Millie for a job at the studio somewhere. Get someone to hire her as an extra.”

  He spread his stance a little wider and said, “And why would I do that?”

  “Because you told her you would.”

  “I never said that, and besides, why would I help her? She left me hanging for cab fare on the edge of the goddamned ocean. You all did. I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”

  Cab fare. Every demon Irene had (and she had a few) rose up inside her, screeching behind her eyes and steaming behind her fists.

  “You know why.” Her voice sounded blackened.

  “All I know is I’m out a buck twenty-five. I’ll tell you what. You pay me back, and I’ll think about it.” He puffed out his chest like a vulture warding off other animals from its prey. “And that’s a damn good deal, I don’t mind saying. Lots of girls would pay a buck and a quarter to get hired. A lot more than that, too.”

  With that he stuck out his hand palm up.

  Irene’s eyes went wild with astonished rage. Suddenly all she could think of was causing him pain. A punch in the face wouldn’t be a tenth of the agony he’d caused Millie, but it was a start. Her fist cocked back and she couldn’t wait to see it land on that smug grin.

  “You wanna hit me?” he snarled. “Go ahead. I’ll have you thrown off the lot so fast and so far, you’ll land right back on that beach. Then I’ll smear your name to every studio in town.”

  She hesitated. She’d lose her job and that nineteen-dollar paycheck.

  In the moment it took her to consider, he turned and stalked away from her. She had wanted so badly, so badly, to hit him, or grab him by the back of his crookedly cut hair, yank him to the ground, and kick his ribs till every last one of them broke.

  But she didn’t. She couldn’t risk the consequences. And now he would never pay for what he’d done. He’d gotten off scot-free, because how could she ever exact any revenge at all? Lord knows she couldn’t tell anyone—it wasn’t something people spoke of. And if they did, it would be to cluck their tongues about how stupid Millie had been.

  She watched him walk away, and she hoped somewhere deep down, he felt bad. Maybe he didn’t have nightmares about it, as Millie certainly did—Irene had heard her crying out in her sleep. But nevertheless she hoped his actions haunted him.

  He walked up to the men he’d been smoking with before and began to talk; she could see his head moving and his hands gesturing.

  He’s bragging.

  She had to be wrong—how could anyone brag about being that cruel? About overpowering someone so much smaller and forcing her to do something that normal men would never make a woman do against her will.

  Then he hooked a thumb toward her, and she knew her instinct had been right. He was telling them how this dumb dame thought she could get something out of him because he’d had his way with her ditzy friend.

  In unison, the men glanced over at her, and the rage that filled her made her heart crash inside her chest like a train wreck and her vision blur. But she could see one thing. She saw Dan Russell walk away.

  “Powder room,” said Miss Clemente at exactly three o’clock. Every girl raised her hand, so Irene did, too. One by one they were excused to freshen up.

  Irene had spent the last two and a half hours addled by fury and typing a mistake into every fourth word. When it was her turn to go, she passed right by the powder room and hurried to Costume, hoping desperately that Henry hadn’t been called out to some distant set for repairs.

  Fortunately he was there. Unfortunately he was being summarily fired by Albert Leroux.

  “I gave you a chance when you came in here all rumpled like a vagabond! I trained you and let you have your precious lunch break, and this is my thanks?”

  “Albert, you’ve been wonderful to me—”

  “So wonderful you treat me like some worn-out shirt you toss in the rag heap! You come here straight from the station—from Obie’s personal train car, I imagine—and the first thing from your lips is that you’re leaving me for greener pastures!”

  “You have to understand—”

  “No, I most certainly do not have to understand. I don’t and I won’t!”

  Irene waited, but the conversation was going nowhere, and she wasn’t going to jeopardize her hours-old job so some strange little man could vent his spleen on Henry. An
d why was he suddenly quitting, anyway? She knocked and peeked her head in the door. “Pardon me.”

  “Irene!”

  “And who’s this?” demanded Albert.

  “A friend,” Henry answered quickly. “Is everything all right?” His back to Albert, he gave her a meaningful glare, cutting his eyes back toward the irate little tailor.

  “Well, no, it actually isn’t.” At least she was being truthful.

  He took her elbow and guided her out of the room, saying “What’s the trouble?” loud enough for Albert to hear. When they were down the hall, he let her go and grinned.

  “You saved my bacon! I thought he’d never stop.”

  “Look, I only have a few minutes, so I just wanted to let you know I’m working in the scenario typing pool, and that’s why you won’t find me out on the benches.”

  “That’s wonderful! How’d you land that? Millie will miss you something terrible. Is she out there now?”

  Irene hesitated. She would have given her right arm to unburden herself and tell Henry the whole sordid story. But there were no words for a woman to tell a man such a thing; there were barely words to tell another woman. “She’s back at Ringa’s. She wasn’t feeling herself.”

  “Well I hope she’s better by dinnertime, because I’m taking us all out. I got a job as an extra, and they might want to screen test me!”

  “Henry, that’s wonderful! I can see why Albert was losing his marbles.”

  “Albert’s always losing his marbles. Say, can Millie sew? Maybe she could take my job.”

  “I don’t think that was the type of thing she learned to do in her family.” Irene patted his arm. “I’m really so happy for you.”

  Henry’s smile was a tad sheepish, as if he’d just gotten praise from a teacher. “And I’m happy for you, too. How’d you land the typing pool?”

  “Someone I met. I sort of pried it out of him.”

  “Of course you did,” said Henry. “Smart girl!”

  Not that smart, she thought. Not smart enough to make that bastard pay. Yet.

  When Irene made it back to Ringa’s at six o’clock, Millie was dozing. Irene didn’t like this. Millie needed to pull herself together, not indulge in late afternoon naps. Besides, Henry would be waiting for them.

  “I’m tired,” said Millie. “And I’m not hungry anymore.”

  “Where did you get food? Ringa only started laying out dinner a few minutes ago.”

  “I didn’t. I was hungry for a while, and then I just wasn’t.” She pulled the blanket up to her chin. “Besides, I don’t want to see Henry.”

  Not hungry. The back of Irene’s neck prickled.

  “Why not?” she said, attempting an offhanded tone. “You adore Henry. It’ll be good for you to get out of here and be a little bit happy.”

  Millie just stared at her, an empty look that worried Irene even more.

  She tried another tack. “What have you been doing all day?”

  “Agnes came back—”

  “Agnes. She’s trouble.”

  “No, she was nice, and—”

  “Agnes was nice,” Irene scoffed.

  “She actually was for once, and—”

  “Millie, please get up. I really think you need a decent meal and to get out of this bed.”

  “I don’t want to see Henry.”

  “For goodness’ sake, why not?

  “Because he’ll know.”

  Irene sat down on the bed. “He won’t know.”

  “He might. I’m not myself.”

  “I already told him you stayed home because you weren’t feeling right.”

  “And how,” muttered Millie.

  Irene took Millie’s hand, and Millie clung to it. “Please come. Henry’s got some good news and he’ll be so disappointed if you’re not there.”

  Millie let go of her hand. “Tell him I’m sorry. And maybe tomorrow.”

  The Musso & Frank Grill, with its mahogany paneled walls and leather banquette booths, was too swank for Irene’s outfit. She told herself she’d get a new dress with her first paycheck. Or maybe she’d get Millie the dress. That would cheer her up. Then she remembered her paycheck would only cover their rent with a dollar to spare. The luxury of splitting a sandwich at lunch would have to do for a celebration.

  “Miss?” said the maître d, clearly unimpressed.

  “I’m meeting someone here.”

  “The bar is in the other room.”

  The bar. Of course. Because she didn’t look like she could afford drinks and food. Or that she could date a man who might be willing to spring for both.

  She stepped into the side room and immediately heard her name. Henry was calling her over to the gleaming wood bar. Bottles of every shape and size peeked out from behind the leaded glass cabinets behind it, and Irene wondered if she’d ever get a chance to eat somewhere so nice again.

  Henry wasn’t alone. There was a pretty blonde beside him, and Irene felt a twinge of . . . what was it? Anger? It couldn’t be jealousy. Irene didn’t have time for such a useless emotion. It was only that he’d invited some stranger to their celebration.

  “This is Gert Turner. She’s actually responsible for our being here!”

  Gert gave him a sideways look. “With all that tall-dark-and-handsome going on, it wouldn’t have taken long for them to pick you out of the crowd, with or without my help.”

  Irene liked this. It was true, of course, he was very handsome. But more than that, she liked Gert’s matter-of-fact response. She was no simpering doll.

  It was Henry’s response she didn’t like. A deep blush. Irene felt her stomach clench.

  Gert turned to Irene. “Henry says you were in vaudeville.”

  For a moment, Irene forgot she’d told Henry about that. She’d spent three long years trying not to mention it, and in a little over a month she’d given the whole story to him and to Millie. Well, not the whole story, but most of it. “Yes, years ago.”

  “Me, too. It was quite a life, wasn’t it? What was your act?”

  “Song and dance. You?”

  “We had a tumbling act, my three sisters and me.” Gert shook her head and murmured, “Quite a life.”

  “Where’s Millie?” asked Henry.

  “She’s still not feeling well.”

  “Aw, nuts. I really wanted her to be here to celebrate.” He chuckled. “Besides, I know how she loves a good meal.”

  That prickle went up Irene’s neck again. Millie, not hungry. She suddenly felt that she’d been wrong to come. She should be back at Ringa’s with Millie. That Agnes—she wasn’t nice at all. What was that business?

  But how could she just up and leave now? “So tell me all about it,” she said brightly, and Henry regaled them with how Gert had called out his name to take the place of the coughing chariot driver, Betty Blythe’s shenanigans, and coffee with Oberhouser that morning.

  “They’re paying me ten dollars a day! That’s twice what the regular extras get.” He turned suddenly to Gert. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Oh, knock it off,” said Gert. “I’m happy for you. And if you get a chance to give me a leg up, I know you will.”

  The meal was exquisite, the best Irene had had in recent memory. She had broiled lamb kidneys with bacon, not the fanciest item on the menu, but it reminded her of when her aunt would make it for a celebration. It was her uncle’s favorite meal, and they all indulged him by saying it was their favorite, too. She wished she knew if they were eating kidney and bacon now, and hoped they were. Hoped it wasn’t beans on toast.

  “Where are you living?” Gert asked her.

  “A boardinghouse run by a woman named Ringamory. Nothing special.”

  Gert stopped chewing. After a moment she said, “How’s that going?”

  “Okay, I guess. If you like tiny portions of bad food, and six girls to a room, some of them up to God knows what. How about you, where do you live?”

  Gert had a room at the Hollywood Studio Club, an enormous
old house that had been purchased by some of Hollywood’s elite actresses and studio wives to house girls in the movie industry. “They heard stories of girls living in squalor—and worse—while they’re trying to get a toe in the studio door. The YWCA runs it, so it’s not high living or anything, but it’s clean and safe, and the rent is only ten dollars and fifty cents a week. You should apply.”

  Irene had heard about it when they’d looked around for other living arrangements. It was a dollar and a half more than they were paying now, and multiplied by the two of them, three dollars a week would make them go broke even faster, so she’d decided against pursuing it. But she had a job now, and she was starting to get a very bad feeling about Ringa’s—even worse than when she’d walked in the door. Maybe safety was worth continuing to borrow a little more from Henry. “I’ll try and stop by this weekend and see if they could take us,” she said.

  Gert leveled a look at her. “Or tomorrow morning. The house director’s up early.”

  19

  I’m a very strong person. I don’t know if you know that or not, but take a look at my chin.

  Gloria Swanson, actress, producer

  Millie wasn’t awake when Irene came in that night, nor when she left the next morning. But she’d been awake for a long time in between, her thoughts roaming wildly through the solitary darkness, with Irene asleep beside her.

  She tried to call up what had made her happy, what she’d dreamed about before she’d come to this terrible town. Back in school the girls had all wanted to get married, pining for someone handsome, rich (always handsome and rich), and hopefully kind, to rescue them from the shame, poverty, and boredom of spinsterhood. But that wasn’t Millie’s goal, not remotely.

  She’d dreamed about riding her horse Calliope at breakneck speed, wind buffeting her face and limbs, thighs hugging tight to the animal’s sleek coat, feeling the impossibly powerful muscles clenching beneath her. She’d thought about exploring the sensual pleasures offered by the stable boy in the hayloft afterward, the horsey smell of him, the way his calloused hands could be so gentle. But never about walking down the aisle with him. Or anyone else.