City of Flickering Light

by Juliette Fay

  “Keep going.”

  “I thought that if maybe there were a ledge in the cliff, and they narrowly make their way onto that. And it’s not clear right away how or when they’ll be able to get off . . .”

  Eva nodded. “It heightens their fear and thus their emotional connection, and creates an actual—”

  “Cliffhanger.”

  Eva narrowed her eyes and shook her pen at Irene. “Don’t think for a moment you’ll be credited for coauthorship.”

  “Oh, no, I’d never—”

  Eva smiled. “I’m kidding. I mean, you’re not getting credit, but I didn’t really suspect that you’d ask.” She rooted around in the pocket of her dress. “You will accept a tip, though, because that was very helpful, and it’s above and beyond your duties.” She pulled out two dollars and held them out to Irene.

  “Miss Crown, I don’t . . .”

  “What did you eat for lunch today, Irene?” She was still holding out the money. “Please be scrupulously honest.”

  “I split a cream cheese sandwich with my friend. She’s out on the benches.”

  Eva put the two dollars into Irene’s hand. “Tomorrow you can each get your own, and it won’t have to be cream cheese. In fact, you should have enough for a pretty good dinner, too.”

  Irene slid the bills into her pocket. “Miss Crown?”

  “Eva.”

  “Eva, I have one more idea, and that’s my tip for you, for being so nice. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Of course.”

  “You have Theodora putting the letters in the wrong envelopes herself. But maybe someone offers to mail them for her. A woman who wants Lord Bracondale for herself, and she purposely switches them to ruin Theodora.”

  Eva Crown smiled. “You know you’ve made more work for yourself, don’t you? You’re going to have to retype that whole synopsis and incorporate those ideas.”

  “I was going to have to do that anyway,” said Irene. “Unless you really want to call it Behind Her Socks.”

  The next day a book waited for Irene on her typing/sewing table when she got back from lunch: How to Write Photoplays by John Emerson and Anita Loos. Inside on the frontispiece, John Emerson’s name had been crossed out with a note that said, This is all Anita’s. John is just a barnacle husband.

  The main message took Irene a little longer to fully decipher.

  Irene Van Beck, Girl with Many Ideas,

  Read this book, and get to work.

  With confidence in your future,

  Eva

  22

  Women are not in love with me but with the picture of me on the screen.

  I am merely the canvas upon which the women paint their dreams.

  Rudolph Valentino, actor, producer

  Henry was beginning to feel as rich as King Solomon himself with all the money he’d been earning on The Queen of Sheba set for the past month. Fifty dollars a week was more than he’d ever made in his young life, but also more than his father and grandfather had ever made. If they could see him now . . . Of course, he liked to think his grandfather could see him from whatever spot he’d negotiated for himself in the afterlife. As for his father, well, Henry couldn’t care less. At least that’s what he told himself. But if he was honest, and his vindictive side showed, the only thing he’d like better than waving all that money in his father’s face would be to punch the old bastard right in the kishka. Or worse.

  He’d often wondered why his mother, a kind though passive person, had ever married him. Had she been bullied into it somehow? Her own father, the only grandfather Henry ever knew, would shake his head dolefully whenever the subject of his daughter’s choice in matrimony came up. But that’s all he did. He certainly never offered theories, other than the one time he’d said, “She likes to cook; he likes to eat.” True. But what kind of explanation was that?

  Fifty dollars a week and a screen test coming up when this film wrapped. He knew that even actors who played lesser characters with only a couple of lines were making at least a hundred a week. He didn’t need to be a star. Right now all he wanted was to get out of the damned Y.

  And to get Irene out of that awful Ringa’s. Irene insisted she’d only move when a spot opened up at the Studio Club with Millie. Also, though she never said so outright, he knew she was embarrassed about the money he gave her. “A loan,” she’d always insist. “A gift,” he would insist right back. “I’m only here living a dream I hadn’t even thought of two months ago because of you, Irene. There’s no payback for that.” He took them out for dinner as often as he could so at least she’d get a break from that dreck Ringa served, but Irene drew the line there. She wouldn’t even let him take them shopping for a few decent dresses.

  On Labor Day he’d promised himself that now that he was an actual paid laborer, he would find an apartment, just a little studio, somewhere he could sleep without the sound of other men’s nightmares—or worse, happy dreams—to wake him. Something with an icebox and a couple of burners so he could make his own food, and a closet to hang his clothes. Not that he had many, but Albert had stopped being angry at him long enough to recommend a good but reasonably inexpensive men’s clothing store. Someday he might even be able to get back to having bespoke suits like his grandfather used to make for him.

  On the Tuesday after Labor Day, The Queen of Sheba only needed him in the morning, as they were beginning to shoot the bedroom scenes, and the queen’s head guard was certainly not present for those. Henry went back to the YMCA at lunchtime, scrubbed the greasepaint off, put on his best suit, and headed out, newspaper in hand to look at apartments.

  There was a place up on Argyle Avenue that looked perfect. Not too far from Olympic or from Millie at the Studio Club, and reasonably priced at seventy-five dollars a month. He could see the bright green awnings capping the long rounded windows from a block away. A home of his own. The thought made his chest swell.

  He saw the card in the window before he rang the bell, in carefully printed black letters:

  NO JEWS, DOGS, OR ACTORS.

  Henry stared at the sign. And then he turned on his heel and walked back down Argyle, tossing the newspaper into a trash bin as he passed by.

  He couldn’t decide which was harder to take, the Jew part or the actor part. As a Jew, even in New York City, there had been bigotry, of course. The Jew had been one of the world’s most preferred whipping boys for thousands of years. King Solomon seemed to do okay with his palace and kingdom, but since then, Jewish history hadn’t exactly been all latkes and mazel tovs. At least it was an oppression Henry was used to.

  He assumed the prohibition of actors centered on the variability of their work and unreliability of their paychecks. One month you were flush, the next you were bust. But it was more than that. He read the papers. They regularly reported on some aspect of the movie industry that was said to be immoral, and he’d certainly heard about the excesses of the stars. The films themselves didn’t do much to dispel such a notion.

  Wait till The Queen of Sheba premieres, he thought. Betty Blythe’s breasts will send the church matrons into paroxysms and the reporters scurrying to their typewriters.

  But for all the bad treatment and poor press that both Jews and actors had been subject to, Henry was proud he was both.

  I suppose the only thing to do now is go out and get a dog.

  Henry thought he might steel himself to look for apartments again on Saturday, but the prospect, instead of filling him with happy anticipation, now filled him with dread. How many more of those signs were out there? And how many buildings had no signs but shared the sentiment nonetheless?

  He’d gotten friendly with the other two chariot drivers over the last several weeks. He preferred Gert Turner to any of the other extras—her brashness was entertaining and belied her basic dependability. Gert wouldn’t let you down even if it were in her own best interest. Henry wasn’t sure he could say that about anyone else he’d met—Ray and Charlie, the chariot drivers, least of al
l. It wasn’t their fault; it was only that the three of them were all about the same size and general degree of tall-dark-and-handsomeness, as Gert would put it. They were in direct competition for every future roll. In fact, when Henry took a particularly hard fall once during filming, he saw the look of interest—more like veiled hope—on their faces. He was being paid twice what they were. If something happened to him, one of them might get his job.

  The handmaidens were off shooting some other scene, and it was just the three of them, waiting as usual for their next set of instructions. Ray liked to play gin and always had a deck of cards with him. Neither Charlie nor Henry liked it quite so much, so they took turns getting beaten by Ray.

  “Say, who wants to head over to the Hollywood Hotel tonight?” Ray said as he shuffled the deck, riffling it perfectly between his cupped hands.

  “For dinner?” asked Henry. As much as he felt like a rich man these days, he was still careful with his money. He had Irene and Millie to consider. An overpriced meal at a swanky hotel was not at the top of his financial priorities.

  “You can eat if you want to,” said Ray. “I just go to dance. Lots of stars, lots of beautiful not-quite-stars.”

  “I’ll go,” said Charlie, who looked at Henry.

  “Why not?” said Henry. He could use a night out. Maybe it would improve his dark mood.

  They met in the ballroom and were lucky to get in. Henry had heard it was popular, but he was unprepared, both for the crowd of people and for their identities.

  Ray nudged him and pointed with his chin. “Mae Murray.”

  “The Girl with the Bee-Stung Lips,” Charlie replied.

  “So they say. The only thing stinging them now is that martini.”

  The Hollywood Hotel was of course operating under the same Nineteenth Amendment as the rest of the country, and for all its owner, Miss Almira Hershey of chocolate fame, knew, she was complying with the letter of the law. Unfortunately for Almira—though fortunately for her guests—her eyesight was going, and she could no longer tell that patrons openly brought their own refreshments. It was particularly easy for the stars who stayed in the hotel upstairs to pour clear drinks such as vodka or gin and bring them down to the ballroom in water glasses, with Miss Hershey none the wiser.

  Charlie, Ray, and Henry sipped their smuggled drinks and continued to scan the crowd, an activity that was shared by almost everyone there.

  “Valentino,” murmured Charlie. “Must have just come down from his room.”

  “How do you know?” asked Henry.

  “He lives here. A lot of them do for a while. They like to be in the center of everything. He can make an entrance and show off his tango without even leaving the house.”

  When the band started up, Ray said, “Here we go boys, the ladies await,” and headed toward the girl with the blondest hair and reddest lipstick.

  Henry hesitated, his head spinning a little with the alcohol he rarely drank and the swirling pitch of the music.

  “You don’t dance?” asked Charlie.

  “No, I do. I guess I’m just looking for the right girl.”

  “One’s about as right as the next.” Charlie waded into the crowd.

  They danced and drank and laughed for a few hours. Ray thought he saw Gloria Swanson, but if he did, she wasn’t there long. As in cards, Ray was an enthusiastic dancer and never stayed long with his friends before he saw the next girl he wanted to foxtrot around the floor.

  Charlie was less so. Occasionally Henry caught sight of him with some girl in his arms, but Charlie never seemed to talk much, or even make eye contact.

  Shy, thought Henry. He could be a bit reticent himself.

  The crowd was just starting to thin, and Henry was finishing his last drink and thinking it was time to go when Charlie said, “There’s a place I know up the street. It’s a little quieter.”

  “What about Ray?”

  “He just left with blonde number forty-seven.”

  “I’m beat,” said Henry.

  “Just one. You should come.” Something about the way he said it sparked Henry’s flagging interest. He really was tired. Or at least he had been.

  They walked for twenty minutes or more, crossing down to Sunset and heading west, where the storefronts came fewer and farther between and the lemon trees up the hill spread their tangy scent into the night air.

  “Down there is the Garden of Alla, Nazimova’s place,” said Charlie offhandedly. “You ever hear about her parties?” Alla Nazimova was a sultry Russian actress who’d recently starred in Camille with Rudolph Valentino. She played, coincidentally or not, a sultry French courtesan who throws lavish parties.

  “I heard she has them,” said Henry. “Not what goes on there.”

  “I think it’s anything goes.”

  “But you’ve never been.”

  “Five-dollar-a-day extras don’t generally get invited.”

  “So where are we going?”

  “There’s a little . . . well it’s a sort of speakeasy nearby.”

  “Is it a speakeasy or not?” Henry was starting to wonder why he’d agreed to hike all this way, and he especially didn’t like how cagey Charlie was being.

  “It serves booze, which is currently illegal in the land of the free,” Charlie replied testily, “so I suppose it qualifies.”

  They came to the last block of storefronts on Sunset before the lemon trees took over. The stores themselves were dark, but there was a muffled tinkle of music playing somewhere nearby, and as Charlie led the way around to the alley and down a set of steps, it was as if someone took the blanket off the piano. Charlie knocked. The door opened.

  The room was dimly lit and filled with smoke, as most speakeasies were, of course, but the scent of the smoke held a slight spiciness that Henry recognized from telling jokes in the cheaper bars in Harlem and Hell’s Kitchen. Tobacco with a little marijuana thrown in.

  There were tables, but most of the patrons sat along the cushioned benches that ran around the inside of the room. There was a dance floor, but no one was dancing, and the music didn’t really invite that at the moment. A young man with longer-than-standard hair greased back from his temples played the piano, toying with it, making chords that didn’t seem quite right, but were somehow pleasing.

  “You like jazz?” asked Charlie, his eyes searching Henry’s as if this were a very important, almost personal, question.

  Henry nodded. “I do.”

  A relieved smile graced Charlie’s face, and Henry realized he’d never known Charlie to show much interest in anything until now. “Find a spot, and I’ll get us some drinks. Scotch okay?”

  Henry had had more to drink in that one night than he’d had in the previous month; he knew he should probably stop. But he liked this place; it was somehow relaxing. “Scotch is great.”

  He found a spot along the wall big enough for two, sank into the cushions, and looked around, which was when his alcohol-softened brain registered what exactly this was. There were mostly men here. The few women seemed to be either tagging along . . . or dressed somewhat mannishly. Heads leaned close to talk, but not because it was the only way to be heard; the music wasn’t that loud. At a table in front of him, two men sat in chairs that were so near to each other they were practically hip-to-hip. Under the table, one of them held the other’s hand in his lap.

  Henry’s heart started to pound.

  Why did he bring me here?! his brain screamed. He’d never shown the slightest inclination toward this type of thing.

  Charlie was suddenly there next to him, holding out his drink.

  “I’m dating Gert Turner,” Henry said quickly, trying to quiet his breath so it didn’t sound as if he’d just run here from New York.

  Charlie smiled sadly. “No, you’re not.”

  “I am.”

  “You like Gert.” Charlie’s voice was soft, soothing as he sat down on the cushions next to Henry. “But you don’t really like her. Not that way.”

  “I
do.”

  “Henry, it’s okay. The whole point of this place is you can be whatever you want. You want to like girls, that’s fine. But if you’re interested in . . . other things . . . that’s okay, too.”

  How did you know?

  Henry couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

  Charlie put the drink in his hand. “And by the way, you’re not obvious or anything, so don’t worry about that.”

  Henry brought the glass to his lips, and half the contents slipped immediately down his throat. It should have burned, but all he could feel was the pounding of his heart. In fact, he was fairly certain he was having a heart attack, which, at the moment, he welcomed. He hoped it would kill him.

  When it didn’t, he said, “How?”

  “It was your friendship with Gert actually. Everyone wants her. Ray’s been twisting himself in knots to get a date with her. But you never show any romantic interest, which is partly why she likes you so much. You’re not pawing at her like every other guy.” He smiled. “Except me, of course.”

  Fury and terror churned in Henry’s brain. Charlie should never have brought him here! Should never have assumed . . . except that he’d been right, hadn’t he? And Henry would never have admitted it otherwise. But he was here now . . . and so were all these other men . . . more than he’d ever suspected there could be. How was it possible? And none of them seemed remotely terrified. Not here, anyway.

  “You won’t tell anyone,” he pleaded.

  “Of course not!”

  “I need my job.”

  “You won’t lose your job. There are plenty of us in the pictures.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  Charlie laughed and shook his head. “You are so green.”

  “Like who?”

  “I’m not going to tell you. Just like I’m not going to tell on you. But think about it. The studios actually prefer us. We keep quiet. We hide our drunken parties and screwing in pools with people we shouldn’t.” Charlie calmly sipped his scotch. “And we don’t get the leading ladies pregnant, which happens a lot more than you’d think. A lot more.”