Twisted Boulevard Page 4

  “I don’t have any spare nieces lying around.”

  “But what the hell have you been doing all this time?”

  “Ever heard of taxis?”

  Between LA’s extensive streetcar network, the availability of cabs, and the readiness of her neighbors at the Garden to give her a lift, it hadn’t been difficult for Kathryn to dodge the embarrassing truth that she was a Panicky Paula behind the wheel. She knew how to drive, and she could park without scraping the curb—most of the time. But the idea of negotiating her way through LA’s increasingly congested streets made her go sweaty in places a lady wasn’t supposed to perspire. It was easier to call a cab.

  But then last week, she attended a gathering of journalists at city hall to hear the prison sentences handed down to the Hollywood Ten, who’d been convicted of contempt of Congress after six months of appeals had failed to exonerate them.

  Kathryn’s boss, Billy Wilkerson, had originally instigated the blacklisting of Communists—genuine and alleged, which were the same to him—and Kathryn felt obligated to make it known that not everybody at the Reporter felt the same way.

  When someone mentioned that two of the convicted screenwriters, Albert Maltz and director Edward Dmytryk, were only forty years old, it hit Kathryn how much they’d endured—and that she herself could scarcely work up the courage to drive across town. “You’re pathetic!” she told herself in the bathroom mirror that night, and vowed to get over her fear by her fortieth birthday.

  The next day, she had an appointment to interview Bette on her plans for the coming year. Jack Warner wanted her to do a movie called Beyond the Forest, which Bette described as “a turgid piece of shit” and was the last thing she wanted to talk about. To assuage Bette’s discomfort, Kathryn confided her revelation, and Bette promised to take her out to buy a car.

  Wilshire Oldsmobile sat behind the Wiltern Theatre, a monumental palace of Art Deco glory clad in copper-green terracotta. As it loomed on the horizon, Kathryn could feel her courage leak out of her.

  Bette broke the silence. “I get it,” she said quietly.

  “Get what?”

  “I used to be a nervous driver, too.”

  Kathryn couldn’t imagine Bette Davis being a nervous anything. “You?”

  “The week before my first lesson, I was in a car that nearly got sideswiped by some stupid old drunk. Six inches to the left and it could have been an entirely different story. Just think!” She barked out a laugh. “Norma Shearer could’ve won that year for Marie Antoinette instead of me for Jezebel. Let’s all take a moment and think about THAT!”

  Kathryn wasn’t sure if Bette was indulging her with an invented story, but it did the trick. The two of them snorted with laughter.

  “A few days later I informed my mother I didn’t want to learn how to drive, but ol’ Ruthie wouldn’t hear of it. Told me I was being ludicrous, and she was quite right.” The Oldsmobile sign appeared ahead of them. She patted Kathryn’s knee. “A month from now you’ll be wondering what all the fuss was about.”

  Bette pulled to the curb and they got out of the car. “Why don’t you wander about and see what appeals, and leave the negotiations to me.”

  Kathryn surveyed the rainbow of Oldsmobiles parked along the front of the dealership and wondered where to begin.

  Bette pointed to a two-door model in dark burgundy. “That looks nice. I’m going in to have a word with Mister Ponder. He runs things around here and I want to be sure you get the duckiest deal possible.”

  Kathryn headed for the coupe. Its steeply angled roof cut an impressive profile, but it was too over-the-hill-bachelor-hound. She liked its neighbor, a cream four-door sedan, but it was the type of car a suburban mom with a passel of brats might choose.

  She roamed the front row without spotting one that screamed, “Choose me! Drive me! Buy me!” The sun had a kick that her little straw toque offered scant protection from. The final car was called a Series 66 Club Coupe; it was an appealing shade of what the windshield sticker described as Yale Blue.

  A Max Factor ad on the other side of the street caught her eye: Lauren Bacall’s celebrated pout filled half of a billboard for Max Factor’s new line of lipsticks. Her cool composure dared passersby not to stare. Kathryn realized this was the one Bacall told her about that day she’d summoned Kathryn to Warner Bros.

  Helping Bogie craft his mea culpa for Photoplay hadn’t been too difficult. The version that made it to print had enough of Bogie’s laconic voice to convince everyone that he regretted getting caught up in politics. In private, he told Kathryn that he didn’t regret it at all; what he lamented was the way the whole nasty episode played out. But his penance achieved the desired result: the buzz for Key Largo intensified.

  What wasn’t as easy for Kathryn was deciding whether or not she ought to follow Bacall’s advice and let the Powers That Be know she was open to hosting a show for Max Factor.

  She couldn’t shake her misgivings. Her five-minute segment on Kraft Music Hall took her down a path she’d did not want to revisit. What might a whole show lead to? She hoped her procrastination would let the situation resolve itself; maybe the men at Max Factor would settle on someone else. But the weeks darted by with no announcement.

  “Sweetie,” Bette said behind her, “it helps to look at the cars.”

  “How about this one?”

  “I’m not the gal who’ll be driving it.”

  “What did the guy say?”

  Bette pursed a smug smile. “When I told him who you were, he jumped up out of his chair. But then I told him that you were a nervous shopper and that he’d only scare you away. We’ll go see him when you’ve decided which one you want to test drive.” She opened the driver door for Kathryn. “You can’t know if you like it until you get behind the wheel.”

  Kathryn got in the driver’s seat and Bette went around the other side.

  “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for.” Kathryn ran her eyes along the dashboard. “Speedometer, odometer, radio, clutch, cigarette lighter—is it missing anything?”

  Bette tsked. “Who cares about that stuff? They all put the same gizmos in different places. Think about how it makes you feel. Are you comfortable? Can you reach everything? Do you like the chrome and blue? Do you see yourself navigating Sunset in peak traffic? And more importantly, are you ever going to make that pitch to Max Factor for your own show?”

  Kathryn’s hand slipped off the steering wheel and landed on the horn, whose boom caused her to let out a high-pitched yip. “How do you know about that?”

  “I saw you looking at that billboard, and it reminded me of a party I went to at Eddie Goulding’s house. He throws the best dinner parties; you never know who’s going to show up. To my surprise, Bogie was there.”

  “Didn’t he direct you both in Dark Victory?”

  “Eddie’s a little on the louche side. Not really Humphrey’s thing. At any rate, there he was, and of course Betty too. She and I haven’t spent much time in each other’s company so I went out of my way.”

  Kathryn slid her hands around the steering wheel. “What was your verdict?”

  “There’s no bull about that girl. I liked her a lot. At any rate, we got to talking about the pros and cons of these advertising promotional deals, and Max Factor came up. She mentioned to me how she suggested you pitch the idea of them sponsoring your own show, but then never heard anything more about it.”

  Kathryn let out a quiet “Mmmm.”

  “But it’s such a fantastic opportunity!” Bette took in Kathryn’s impassive face. “Isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is.”

  “Please tell me you’re not waiting for them to approach you. If we sit around hoping the menfolk will give us what we want, we’ll be waiting till kingdom come.”

  “It’s just that . . .” Now that she had to admit it to the ballsiest woman in show business, Kathryn suddenly felt like a lily-livered namby-pamby. “It was my spot on Kraft Music Hall that led to
all that thorny business with the FBI. And now my own show?”

  Bette settled back in her seat. “Unintended consequences?”

  “That’s exactly it.”

  “Is this about turning forty?”

  “No!”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

  A pair of gray-haired ladies in sensible shoes and lace-collared dresses they’d probably been wearing since the Great Depression tottered toward Wilshire. “I’m not—I’m just—”

  “Listen, I turned forty a couple of months ago, and let me tell you, it was like getting slapped across the face with a cold, wet fish. I woke up that morning and thought to myself, Jesus Christ! Forty? How did that happen? I feel like I’m just getting going, but suddenly I’m besieged with panic. Have I made the right choices? Should I have fought harder—or maybe smarter? Why am I married to a guy I don’t like? I could barely get out of bed.”

  “Lately I find myself questioning everything I do.”

  “Trust me, I get it.” Bette pointed to the women across the street. “We’re going to be them before we know it. Do you really want to be walking around wondering, What if I hadn’t been so scared?”

  Kathryn had been warned against getting chummy with a take-no-prisoners slugger like Bette Davis. “She’ll turn on you,” they’d said. “Once you’re no longer of any use, she’ll pick a fight you can’t win, and then she’ll cut you dead.” Kathryn had kept an eye out for signs of the sunlight flashing against the guillotine blade suspended over their friendship, but she’d seen no glimmer of it.

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Would it help if you dropped my name?” Bette asked. “Tell Max Factor you’ve already lined me up as your first guest.”

  “Don’t you need to run that by Warners?”

  “It’s been years since I worried what those clowns think.”

  “But surely I can’t just call up Max Factor. ‘Hey fellas, here I am. Give me a radio show.’”

  “Don’t be a drip. Now listen, I did a lipstick campaign for them a little while back. The photographer they used, he does all the celebrity print campaigns. Max Factor, Westmore, Elizabeth Arden, Lux—he’s the top guy. Real personable, too.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “All I remember is Harly.” She strummed her fingernails on the dashboard. “I can’t rightly recall if that’s his first name or his last.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “Absolutely. But only if you promise me that you’ll leave here today behind the wheel of your own vehicle.”

  “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 7

  When the silver bell over Chez Gwendolyn’s door rang, Gwendolyn knew it was Marcus before she looked up. He’d called earlier to say he would be bringing her corned beef on rye from Greenblatt’s Deli. When she asked him what the occasion was, he replied, “Do I need one just to bring you lunch?”

  It was almost a year since he’d last worked. Socking away all that big-bucks studio money let him drift through the languid summer of 1948, but his contrived nonchalance—“I don’t care if I never go back to work!”—made her wonder if he was putting up a front.

  She slid the last of a new shipment of opera gloves into her display cabinet. “I hope you remembered the pickle.”

  “I sweet-talked Mrs. Greenblatt into an extra one. Each!” He held up a couple of glass bottles. “And Orange Crush to wash it all down.”

  They spread out their corned beef sandwiches on her workbench without worrying about crêpe Georgette or Chinese silk because she was between Licketysplitter outfits. Or, quite possibly, her Licketysplitter trade was over. Last week she’d heard a rumor about a Filipino seamstress called Cherry who was making cross-dresser outfits at half her price. She wasn’t sure if this woman really existed, but it would explain the drop-off in orders. They were her bread and butter; without them, Chez Gwendolyn might not prove feasible.

  “You’re looking tanned and trim these days,” she noted.

  “I’ve gone back to swimming. Every other day, I do a hundred laps in the pool.”

  “Without stopping?”

  “I take a break after every twenty laps.” He shook out a paper napkin and handed it to her. “On alternate days, I drive down Sunset to the ocean and walk all the way down to the pier and back.”

  “The Santa Monica Pier? But that must be—”

  “Eight or nine miles, round trip. Sometimes I run all the way there.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “It just feels good.”

  She sank her teeth into the buttery soft corned beef; it melted in her mouth. “What do you do the rest of your day?”

  “I read the L.A. Times and the New York Times cover to cover.”

  “That’s a lot to get through these days.”

  That summer, the papers were thick with the story of a spy trial at which an FBI informant submitted a secret report listing Communists and sympathizers that included John Garfield, Fredric March, and Edward G. Robinson. A California State Senate Committee started dotting lines connecting the list with some of the biggest names in Hollywood: Chaplin, Hepburn, Kelly, Peck, Sinatra, Welles.

  “You must be glad to be out of all that,” Gwendolyn commented.

  “And how!” Marcus bit into his pickle. “I don’t care if I never go back to work!”

  The declaration sounded hollow to Gwendolyn’s ear. “I never saw you as one of those people who went to work just to earn a buck.”

  “Me either.”

  “I’ve seen what you’re like when you get a sure-fire idea, or finish a script that you’ve knocked out of the ballpark. You light up like a firefly. But since you left MGM, you don’t seem—”

  “No need to worry about me, Gwennie,” he cut in. “I’m perfectly happy.”

  She didn’t want to come across like she was judging him. It was his life, after all. “I’m glad to hear that.” The bell over the front door dinged. “That’s all I—”

  “GWENDOLYN BRICK?!”

  The two of them froze.

  Marcus mouthed, “Isn’t she still in jail?”

  “Gwendolyn!” Leilah demanded from the other side of the velvet curtain. “I know you’re here!”

  Marcus squeezed Gwendolyn’s hand and mouthed, “Good luck.”

  Gwendolyn braced herself before pulling back the curtain. She hadn’t seen Leilah since the night Bugsy Siegel opened the Flamingo in Las Vegas and Hollywood stayed away. The intervening eighteen months hadn’t been kind. Her once full and fleshy face, pink with the blush of high living, was now pale and deflated like yesterday’s birthday balloon.

  Leilah marched toward Gwendolyn and dropped her purse on the counter. She’d lost at least a couple of dress sizes, too.

  “I hadn’t heard you got out,” Gwendolyn said.

  “The nightmare I’ve been through,” Leilah declared, “I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”

  “That must be a relief.”

  “I haven’t any time to lose, Gwendolyn, so I shall come straight to the point. I assume you heard Winchell’s broadcast?”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “So you know about the box?”

  “Yes.”

  Leilah crossed her arms. “I want you to tell me where it is.”

  “What makes you think I know?”

  Leilah cast her gaze down one side of Gwendolyn and up the other. “Aren’t you getting a bit long in the tooth to be playing the ingénue?” She waved her hand dismissively. “This store. It’s very swanky. It must have cost you a packet to set up, not to mention the rent. You got the money from somewhere.”

  “I sold a painting—”

  “When I heard that Lincoln Tattler died, I got my husband to put a tail on his father.”

  “You had Horton followed?”

  “I know when Linc died, Horton received Linc’s belongings. I also know that Horton delivered a box to you here at the store. Furthermore, I know that Linc drove around Los Angeles and snitched to everyone
in my files that the cards existed.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “You know more than you’re letting on!” Leilah stepped close enough for Gwendolyn to smell day-old body odor mixed with cigarette smoke and a dash of desperation.

  “Leilah, I can only imagine how difficult your time in jail was, but—”

  “You’ve got my cards and I want them!”

  The sharp corner of the counter pressed against Gwendolyn’s back. In a heady rush, she realized she had no reason to lie.

  “You know what, Leilah? You’re right. I went down to Mexico to see Linc, and he told me about your cards. And when he died, Horton came to see me with a box of Linc’s stuff. There was a photograph, some old souvenirs, a few books, his wristwatch, and a bunch of love letters. But your cards? They were not there.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “I’m just not saying what you want to hear.”

  “I know you have them!” Gobs of spit seeped from the corners of Leilah’s mouth. She pounded the glass countertop and one of the curls pinned into the nest atop her head came loose and flopped against the side of her face. “I KNOW IT! I JUST KNOW IT!”

  “I don’t have them.”

  “Then you had them and sold them to finance this place. I insist you tell me who you sold them to.”

  Gwendolyn saw that nothing good was going to come from pouring grease onto the fire wheezing in front of her. “I understand the pressure you’ve been under, but it’s started to affect your reason. I’ve told you all I know and now I must insist that you leave.”

  Leilah wagged a finger. “If I find out that you’ve been lying to me, about anything—ANYTHING!—I shall go out of my way to ruin your reputation, your business, and your entire life.”

  “Then I’ve got nothing to worry about.” Gwendolyn resisted adding However, you, on the other hand . . . “Goodbye, Leilah. And good luck.”

  LA’s most notorious madam harrumphed as she swiped up her handbag and marched away, not even bothering to shut the door behind her. Gwendolyn closed it, then leaned her head against the glass. “It’s okay,” she called out. “The coast is clear.”