City of Flickering Light

by Juliette Fay

  And if you weren’t the marrying type, what exactly were you? A “new woman,” educated and unmarried, with enough money to comfortably make your way in the world with no man in sight? That didn’t seem to fit, either. For all her wealthy upbringing, Millie wasn’t terribly well educated, unless you counted all the different kinds of forks there were and what they were used for, depending on the meal, season, and how upper crust your guests might be. Nor did she (or Irene) have nearly enough money to qualify. Besides, she didn’t want to live a life devoid of men. She liked men. Or some of them, anyway.

  Wally on top of her flashed into her mind, as it did about every other minute it seemed, and she fought against it as she always did. But this time she tried something different. She replaced it. She thought of all the times she’d canoodled—or more—with various nice men she’d come across. She thought of the stable boy; his smell, his hands.

  And when that stopped working, she thought about heroin. Because that felt good, too.

  Very, very good.

  “You’re a grubber, you know that?” said Agnes.

  “Just one more time. I promise I won’t ask again.”

  “Even if I felt like sharing—which I don’t—I only have one, and that’s for me.”

  “But I’m in pain.”

  “You’re not in that much pain, not a day and a half later. Take an aspirin and shove off.”

  Millie didn’t know how much a vial of heroin cost, but it was more than she had, which was nothing. Irene kept all their money in her purse, which never left her side. She didn’t trust leaving it at Ringa’s. Irene was smart like that.

  Agnes had a bruise on her thigh. Millie saw it briefly when Agnes took off her dress and her slip rode up her legs for a moment. It was made up of four darker spots the size of quarters. Or big fingers.

  Millie had a similar constellation on her own leg, so she knew there was a corresponding single thumb-size mark on Agnes’s inner thigh. Agnes sat down on her bed with a thump and rooted in her purse for the little tin box.

  Millie got up and tugged on a dress as fast as she could. She needed to get away from Agnes and the tin box and the glaring reminder of her own injuries.

  She hurried along Hollywood Boulevard with a strange sense of being chased—by what she wasn’t exactly sure. Agnes and her bruises? Eventually she stopped to catch her breath outside a restaurant, and the smell of something rich and meaty curled around her. Food. It had been a long time since she’d eaten anything substantial.

  There was a trick she’d learned in Chandler’s Follies, when the half sandwich and cup of broth he’d let them have didn’t fill her stomach even to the halfway mark. She’d pretend she was going to the powder room and go out behind the diner instead. In the trash cans, she often found the remnants of a meal that some lucky son of a gun had been too full to finish.

  Millie snuck down the side street and around to the alley in back. Sure enough she found a half of a Reuben sandwich with only a bite or two taken out of it. She ate as if she had been shipwrecked for days, which in a strange way she had been. Shipwrecked on an island of pain and shame.

  She polished off the Reuben and picked carefully through the trash to find a meatball, then a wad of some sort of noodle dish. She didn’t recognize the flavors and didn’t care. There was even a whole piece of chocolate cake!

  As she licked the icing from her lips, wishing there was something to drink, she noticed a door opening down the alley. A young man in a uniform with big brass buttons and epaulets—a bellhop? No, a theater usher. He’d come out for a cigarette break.

  Millie brushed the cake crumbs from her fingers and walked over. He watched her approach, cigarette frozen in his fingers. She realized he’d been holding his breath when he suddenly exhaled a stream of smoke and then coughed until his eyes watered, all the while keeping her in his sights. She had that effect sometimes. She was used to it.

  “Hi there, fella,” she said brightly as she approached.

  “Hello, miss.” He was no more than sixteen, she guessed.

  “I’ve got a little problem, and I’m wondering if you might be able to help a girl out.”

  His eyebrows went up and he nodded.

  “I bought a ticket for the show, but the wind blew it right out of my hand!” There was no accounting for the fact that the air hung so heavy and motionless it must have been hard for birds to stay aloft. The boy nodded again, the flush in his cheeks growing bright as radishes.

  “Would it be all right if I just entered through this door, here? That way there won’t be any fuss about the ticket, and it will put everything to rights.”

  He stepped aside and held the door open for her.

  “So sweet of you,” she murmured as she passed him. “Would you like to show me to my seat?” Of course he would; he had his little flashlight out in no time.

  She snuggled down into a soft leather seat of what turned out to be the Iris Theatre. The newsreel was already rolling, a gaggle of older women in long skirts and high-neck blouses crowding around a minister. The title cards said he was railing about the debauched morals of the film industry, and Millie thought it was a pretty funny thing to show in a movie house, right before a movie.

  Soon enough, the real entertainment began. The Great Moment was about a young girl whose rich American father wanted to marry her off before she became too much like her gypsy mother. The girl was played by Gloria Swanson, who was as sultry as ever in her spangly, scant gypsy costume. With her black hair and pale blue eyes, people had sometimes commented that Millie was a ringer for the starlet.

  Gloria Swanson. She was probably only a few years older than Millie. And look at her now. Rich and glamorous and starring in just the kinds of movies the old minister and his biddies had been complaining about. An article in Photoplay magazine hinted at a rebellious lifestyle and possible assignations with her leading men.

  We’ve got that in common, too, thought Millie. Hadn’t her parents complained constantly about her rebelliousness? And there had certainly been an assignation or two.

  But the similarities stopped there. Gloria was in full control of her life, with the money and power to do as she pleased. Millie’s best meal in weeks had been from a garbage can.

  As she sat in that theater with a full belly, watching her near twin on the screen, Millie’s spirits plummeted with the thought that she might never have a better day than this.

  20

  Give me any two pages of the Bible and I’ll give you a picture.

  Cecil B. DeMille, Oscar-winning director, producer, editor

  Henry bumped along in the truck with the rest of the extras up through the Cahuenga Pass, smirking privately to himself. Hollywood prided itself in being so urbane—the latest fashions, fanciest cars, wildest parties—as if it were just a half step behind New York City. And yet here they were, just a mile or so from Hollywood Boulevard, and they might as well have been on some minor mountain in the unpopulated wilds of Wyoming.

  They were headed to the Back Ranch, as it was called by the studio. The downtown Hollywood lot was used mostly for indoor scenes or small capacity exteriors, and of course it held Olympic’s headquarters, the Scenario Department, and the like. The Back Ranch held everything else.

  The land had only recently been acquired by Olympic and was in a far more rustic state than its city counterpart. It was also vastly larger. The high brick walls in the process of being built around it were filled in by huge lengths of canvas in some places. There was a main building that acted as a business office outpost of the city lot. Nearby stood a huge open-air shelter, the roof held up by rough-cut posts, and wooden picnic tables where the extras sat in the shade awaiting their scenes.

  Henry walked slowly, keeping an eye out for Gert Turner, and soon found himself at the far side of the shelter. From there he could survey a good portion of the lot. There was a stand of pines next to a lovely (if strangely symmetrical) pond. Nearby was the facade of a quaint little village that could
be used for anything from medieval times, to a Swiss hamlet, to revolutionary Boston. It was propped up from behind by angled boards, and several of the extras lollygagged and smoked in the shade it threw. There was a city block with storefronts and a variety of vehicles: Model Ts and roadsters and delivery trucks. Farther out there was an arena that Henry thought might be for horse or car races. At the far end was a hill with trees and outcroppings, perfect for any number of western scenarios. Beyond that, who knew? Henry hoped at some point he’d get a chance to explore.

  Right in front of him was a long stage of maybe a hundred feet, cut up into five three-sided compartments, a different scene in each. Along the top lay lengths of muslin to diffuse the unrelenting California sun as it lit the scenes below. Several of the sets were in use at the moment, and he could see a woman dressed in rags rocking a baby; a fancy parlor where the smartly dressed leading man and lady were engaged in some sort of quarrel; a bootleggers’ backroom card game; and a doctor’s office where the young patient kept accidentally kicking the poor physician.

  Soon the call came to head out to the palace set, and as he climbed onto what was basically a hay cart with ten other extras, Henry found Gert.

  “Where’s your makeup?” she asked. On her lap sat a little metal box with a latch on it.

  Henry’s stomach sank. “Am I supposed to have my own? The makeup girl pasted me up in Barstow.”

  “They probably knew the tailor didn’t come with his own greasepaint.” She chuckled. “Though in Hollywood, there’d be stranger things than a man with makeup.” She patted his arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll share.”

  “Why are you so nice to me?” he teased.

  “Your uncle gave me great advice.” She affected a gruff tone. “It’s like war! A soldier helps another soldier; a vaudevillian helps another vaudevillian! Don’t make tsuris—this life is hard enough!’ ”

  Henry laughed. “Don’t make problems. Words to live by.”

  “I try. I don’t always succeed. But I try.”

  They were let out near a remarkable structure. Henry had never seen an actual Israeli king’s palace, of course, but if he had, he was sure it would look just like this. Massive stone columns (upon closer look they were cement plastered over plywood) framed an enormous wooden door that was pincushioned with large brass studs.

  Gert helped Henry spread the brown greasepaint all over his face, chest, and back as they watched Edward Oberhouser, Eva Crown, and Wilson Grimes argue about the angles and heights of the cameras, snatches of their conversations audible above the buzz of the crew and cast.

  “When we laid this all out last week, you said—”

  “Yes, but there’s a bit of a haze today, so we can’t shoot it from here if we want to—”

  “But if we don’t see his face, it will be as if he were just another extra.”

  Henry murmured to Gert, “Why don’t they just get started and see how it turns out?”

  “Oh, they will. You’ll be sick and tired of how often they do it. But they have to waste time now getting it mostly right so they don’t waste everyone’s time for days getting it mostly wrong—and waste lots of money into the bargain.”

  There were tables and a makeshift canopy for shade, and one of the extras had brought a deck of cards. Several others had brought books, and one enterprising young lady had brought her knitting. There were separate tents for Betty Blythe and Fritz Leiber, into which they quickly disappeared, and Henry wondered just how rustic the accommodations actually were when he heard a Victrola being cranked.

  Every morning, every evening, ain’t we got fun?

  Not much money, oh, but honey, ain’t we got fun?

  The rent’s unpaid, dear, and we haven’t a bus

  But smiles were made, dear, for people like us

  Not much money, thought Henry, gazing at those two well-equipped tents. Boy, is that playing in the wrong place.

  A couple of the extras got up and turkey-trotted around in the dusty encampment, and everyone laughed. Henry was more interested in the ongoing discussion-verging-on-argument continuing by the camera. He casually strolled a little closer. Eva Crown argued for shots that supported the storyline, while Wilson Grimes insisted they couldn’t get it from this or that angle. Edward Oberhouser listened carefully to each, playing King Solomon far better than Fritz Leiber in Henry’s estimation, as he conceded points to each in approximately equal measure.

  After an hour or more of discussion and repositioning of cameras from here to there and back again, the extras were called. Makeup and costumes had to be checked by the continuity clerk to make sure they all looked exactly as they had in Barstow. When every last hair was in place, both literally and cinematically, Betty Blythe and Fritz Leiber were roused from their tents, only to find that Betty had one less string of pearls around her long pale neck, and there was a scramble to find them.

  At long last everyone was ready. The queen and her entourage—Henry, the other two chariot drivers, and Gert as one of eight handmaidens—were to process up to the door and await King Solomon. When the great door opened, all would bow down to His Highness, except for the queen, who would deliver an appropriately deferential-yet-regal curtsy.

  There was a problem with the curtsy, however. At first it wasn’t deferential enough, with Betty merely tapping the toe of one foot behind the other. Then a bit too submissive, as she bowed low to the great king, breasts swinging tantalizingly into midair.

  “That works,” said Wilson, stifling a grin.

  Eva Crown threw the scenario pages into the dirt and said, “Oh, for godsake, Edward!”

  They started all over again.

  Eventually they got that shot and moved to the next: King Solomon would welcome the Queen of Sheba and escort her into his palace.

  “Ready! Camera! Action! Go!” called out Oberhouser. Then to Fritz Leiber, “You extend your arms to her . . . Cut!” Henry could feel, more than hear, a collective sigh of frustration from the extras nearest him.

  “Now, Fritz, you aren’t asking for a hug, old fellow,” called Oberhouser. “You are offering a magnanimous gesture of welcome. More regal, less chummy, all right?”

  He cued the cameras again. “Extending your arms . . . that’s it, that’s nice . . . now motion to the door, inviting her to enter . . . good, good . . . and you say something like . . . ‘I, Solomon, King of Israel, welcome you to my palace, where I shall entertain you!”

  Fritz Leiber began this speech with great dignity, intoning, “I, Solomon, King of Israel, welcome you to my palace . . . where I shall impregnate you!”

  A loud, snorting laugh burst out of Henry so quickly, he hardly knew where it came from, eliciting snickers from the other two chariot drivers. This set off a cascade of giggles among the handmaidens, and soon the whole cast and most of the crew was doubled over in fits of laughter. Wilson Grimes furrowed his brow and fiddled with his camera, but his shoulders were clearly shaking. Even Miss Crown had a hand to her mouth to cover a smile.

  Edward Oberhouser crossed his arms and waited for silence. When the last titter had dwindled, he addressed Henry. “Mr. Weiss, I intend for this film to come in on time and on budget, a difficult task if we have to waste precious minutes and film on unproductive takes.”

  Henry’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I apologize, Mr. Oberhouser. It won’t happen again.” And it didn’t, but the episode left Henry feeling bitter. Yes, he’d been the first to laugh, but everyone else except for the director could barely contain their amusement, too. Leiber’s line—and even more so, his delivery—had been legitimately funny, especially since impregnating the Queen of Sheba is exactly what King Solomon ultimately did. And how much time and film had really been wasted anyway—a minute? A foot?

  His thoughts simmered over the next hour, threatening to come to a boil once or twice, as the rest of the scenes were shot over and over, and the sun finally hit a point near the horizon that Wilson Grimes insisted that “if we shoot one more take, it’ll l
ook like an animated coal bin.”

  As the crew began to pack up the movable props and equipment and the cast prepared to leave, Oberhouser motioned Henry over. He put a hand on Henry’s shoulder and leaned in. “Thanks for taking it on the chin back there,” he murmured. “A director has to assert his authority where and when the opportunity presents itself, and I can’t exactly dress down the leading man, now can I? The fellow’s making more money than Hearst on this little flicker, and I’m not allowed to antagonize him.” He chuckled. “I think not having his precious feelings hurt may actually be written into his contract.”

  Henry felt relief wash through him. “Thanks for letting me know. I felt terrible.”

  “You seemed more angry than ashamed. I thought you might bite someone!” the director said wryly. “Which, by the way, was exactly the look I wanted for the queen’s head guard.”

  21

  If it isn’t for the writing, we’ve got nothing. Writers are the most important people in Hollywood. And we must never let them know it.

  Irving Thalberg, producer, writer, director

  When Irene got back to Ringa’s after work, Millie wasn’t there, and Irene felt a pinprick of panic. “Where’s Millie?” she demanded of the girls in their room as they got ready to go down to what passed for dinner. “Who’s seen her?”

  “Not me.”

  “I just got here.”

  “Who’s Millie?”

  Agnes, slumped against a headboard gazing out the window, didn’t answer.

  “Agnes, where’s Millie?”

  Agnes turned slowly toward Irene’s voice. “Who?”

  “For godsake, Agnes! Millie! You know her!”

  Agnes recoiled. “Don’t yell.”

  Irene huffed an aggravated sigh and tried to calm the bucking bronco in her chest. “Then answer me.”