The Garden on Sunset Read online

  “Locked yourself out, huh?” he asked with a crooked smile.

  Gwendolyn blinked her biggest moo-moo eyes and walked into a leafy courtyard. Over to the left was a group of men dressed like New York cops who were slapping wooden batons into their palms. She strode past them into a long corridor lined with sewing rooms and make-up studios and walked through a pair of double doors at the end. Outside again, tall studio warehouses loomed on both sides of the street. A stream of young beauties caught her eye; she recognized the redheads. She followed them inside sound stage six, where nearly a hundred girls her age milled about. Nearly every one turned around when Gwendolyn walked through the door. They all looked her up and down, making the split second assessment of how much competition she represented, then went back to checking their lipstick or the seams in their stockings.

  The warehouse was sparingly lit. Large round lights forty feet overhead poured light onto the girls and made slivers of shadows. Gwendolyn headed for a shadow. She felt like she was being watched and looked around until she noticed a statuesque blonde staring right at her. Gwendolyn ducked behind a clique of girls talking about Wallace Beery, but the stranger followed her. Could this girl be onto her? Had she followed her through the side door? Gwendolyn braced herself and turned to face her stalker.

  “It’s really quite remarkable, isn’t it?” the stranger said. The girl looked just like her. “You could be my sister. Maybe even my twin.”

  They could have been separated at birth. They had the same shade of blonde hair, gently curled and shaped to bring out their large green eyes and fine cheekbones. Their chins came to the same soft point, their necks both long and slender. And, Gwendolyn noted, the girl carried the same full bosom as she did. It wasn’t able to conform to the flatness of the flapper look any more than hers could. Did she also ache for the day the flat-chested look got escorted to the door?

  She thrust her hand toward Gwendolyn. “My name is Alice Moore,” she said. “And that’s my real name, too.”

  “Gwendolyn Brick.” She shook Alice’s hand. “That’s my real name but I don’t care for it much, so I plan on changing it.”

  “To what?”

  “Right now, I’m thinking Gwendolyn Day.”

  “Gwendolyn Day,” Alice said. “I like it. I can see it up in lights.” She looked around the studio. “So, what do you think our chances are? There are some mighty pretty girls here, don’t you think?”

  Gwendolyn looked around the vast room and started to take the other girls in. The redheads were talking to a couple of homely blondes who, she decided, didn’t seem all that much to look at.

  “You want to know the scoop?” Alice whispered. She drew her head closer to Gwendolyn’s. “I’ve been told they’re going to do the usual Door A and Door B routine.”

  “A and B?”

  “Oh, you know, one of them is the good door and one of them is the bad one. ‘Bad’ meaning ‘Thanks for your time, now scram because we don’t want to see your ugly puss around here no more.’”

  “But which door is which?”

  Alice shrugged. “So, who was your talent scout? It wasn’t Cap Cooney, was it? Cap found me at the Argyle Tea Room. You been there? It’s a fun place for girls like us.”

  Gwendolyn wondered what kind of girl Alice thought she was.

  “At first I thought he was a phony. Talent scout? Uh-huh, yeah, sure you are, buddy. ’Cause, you know, getting into the studios is much easier and faster if you’ve got a talent agent going to bat for you. So when this joker lays it on me that he really is a talent agent and then mentions this dog and pony show, I realized he was on the level. I couldn’t believe my luck. So, what number did you get?”

  Gwendolyn noticed for the first time that each girl held a wooden disk. Alice held hers up; she had number fourteen.

  Five men filed through a door at the far end of the stage and made their way to a long table. Four took their seats and the fifth remained standing. He called all the girls to gather closer, but Gwendolyn held back. The man explained the rules. Easy as pie, he assured them. They’d call the numbers out at random so pay attention.

  Gwendolyn tried not to panic. She’d lost her disk? She wasn’t given a disk? Someone stole her disk? Nothing plausible came to mind.

  She fixated on the cream-colored outfit of the girl standing in front of her. It was a lovely blend of ivory and vanilla, quite calming. Gwendolyn was wondering where she could find material like that when the girl started to shudder. Her shoulders caved in and her head wobbled around like someone had loosened the screws.

  Gwendolyn touched her arm. “You okay, honey?”

  The girl turned to look at Gwendolyn. Her face was cadaver white, her upper lip slick with sweat. “I can’t do this. This is too much. I could never . . .”

  “Number fourteen!”

  Alice called out, “That’s me!” Gwendolyn watched as Alice strode back and forth in front of the casting men with the confidence of a tiger in the gazelle cage. The pale girl shook her head from side to side and started to back away.

  “Are you sure?” Gwendolyn asked the girl. “It don’t look too hard.”

  The girl shook her head. She raised her hand to reveal a disk with the number forty-two stenciled on it in black. “What should I do with this?”

  Kathryn’s high heels still hurt like hell, but Gwendolyn knew they looked swell with her daffodil dress. When she was back at her starting point at the far end of the table, the executive in the middle asked for the name of her talent scout.

  “Beau Gussington.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Door A, please.”

  Gwendolyn thanked the gentlemen for their precious time and headed toward the door marked with a large A. She pushed it open and encountered a sign that said, “Exit to street.” She froze in the doorway and stared at it for a moment, then stepped back inside and approached the nearest man. “I was to go through door B, right?”

  The guy looked at her. His face showed no sign of life. “No, sweetie. Door A.”

  Gwendolyn felt her throat go dry. Everyone was looking at her now. In a swift, smooth movement, the guy rose from his chair, collected her right arm and swept her into a dark corner of the stage. Her protest died before it reached her lips.

  “The talent agent who put you up for this, what exactly did he look like?” His smile was part condescending, part sympathetic. Gwendolyn couldn’t reply. “Did Bill Brockton give you Gussington’s name?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Honey, Beau Gussington doesn’t exist. It’s a code word we use.”

  “You boys and your code words! What are you, frustrated spies?

  The guy smiled, more condescending this time. “Beau Gussington,” he repeated. “Beau Guss. Bogus. Get it?”

  Gwendolyn closed her eyes and let out a defeated breath. “It’s the code you use to make a girl think she stands a chance, when all you really want to do is get her out of your office. Am I close?”

  When she opened her eyes, the guy was gone.

  CHAPTER 11

  Kathryn hadn’t thought anything of Gwendolyn’s invitation to go with her to some place called the Argyle Tea Room on the corner of Argyle and Hollywood Boulevard. Gwendolyn hadn’t wanted to go alone, nor did Kathryn want her sweet, trusting roommate to wander into some Hollywood joint by herself, so she agreed to come along.

  They hadn’t been inside two minutes before Kathryn figured it out. “Gwendolyn, tell me again why we’re here.”

  “I met this girl, Alice, at that Warner Brothers cattle call, and she asked me if I’d ever been here.”

  Gwendolyn studied the room a bit more. “Oh, I get it!” she exclaimed, and pointed to the wallpaper on the far wall. It was a diamond pattern of pale red and even paler pink squares with an overlapping gray stripe. “We’re on Argyle Avenue and that’s an argyle pattern on the wallpaper. Oh! And look at the lamps on the tables up there: they’ve got the exact same pattern. Ain’t that divine?!”

  Hand
some people smoked and drank from teacups at tall tables on the lower level, and two steps up, couples sat at tiny cocktail tables. A waiter with a waxed moustache and a long white apron–he could have walked straight off the set of a von Stroheim picture–carried an ornate teapot and four matching cups that Francine would have ached to own; the scent it trailed through the room confirmed Kathryn’s suspicions.

  She turned to her friend and lowered her voice. “Sweetie, this isn’t a tea room.”

  “But the sign . . .”

  “They probably do serve tea here, but did you smell the tea that waiter was carrying?”

  “Why, yes I did. Strong, wasn’t it?”

  “That wasn’t tea, honey. That was brandy.”

  Gwendolyn let out a quiet “Oh!” and pressed her fingers to her mouth. “I’ve brought us to a speakeasy!”

  “Gwendolyn? Is that you?”

  The girls turned around to find the spitting image of Gwendolyn waving at them. It was alarming. Their hair was the same shade of blonde, their eyes the same green, and the two girls stood at the same height. They grinned at each other like sisters.

  “Alice!” Gwendolyn greeted the girl.

  “I thought you said you never come here.” The girl had the smile of a wayward driver stopped by a cop.

  Gwendolyn was one of those girls who don’t need to be taught how to carry themselves or dress well, but she didn’t know it. She swore she came from the poor end of the wrong side of the tracks of the Other Hollywood, but nobody would know it from her gorgeous dresses and subtle makeup.

  Alice, on the other hand, was her opposite. She had Gwendolyn’s height, her figure, and her hairstyle, but she’d been thrown together in a hurry with the emphasis on the wrong things. Where Gwendolyn’s short blonde hair was natural, Alice’s was clearly dyed at home. Where Gwendolyn’s clothes were perfectly tailored, Alice’s dress was probably off the rack at Woolworth’s five-and-dime, dressed up with a costume brooch that only emphasized its cheapness. Even her lipstick was too much, too red.

  “Why don’t you join us?” Alice pointed to three girls clustered around a tall table on the lower floor. With their eagerly painted faces and coats just starting to fray at the sleeves, each girl sported a variation on the look that Kathryn knew well: chorus girl on the make.

  The smell of brandy hovered over the chorines like a dirigible. Alice waved Gustav over and ordered another pot of “ahem tea” for the table. When Gwendolyn asked if they had any other sort of tea, Gustav hesitated.

  “What did you have in mind?” Kathryn asked Gwendolyn.

  “I was hoping for Earl Grey,” Gwendolyn replied. Alice’s friends let out a peal of high-pitched giggles rarely heard outside of a Girl Scout meeting.

  Kathryn looked around the split-level room and saw only two sorts of people: pretty girls and older men. Oh, great. “If you have it, I’ll take some, too,” she told the waiter. On the odd occasion that Kathryn had tried brandy, she’d rather enjoyed it. But it was one thing to sip a Brandy Stinger at some party at the Garden of Allah, but buying illegal booze in a pick-up joint like this didn’t seem right.

  “Oh, Alice, no!” one of the girls exclaimed. Her babydoll voice was for the benefit of the graying bachelor within earshot. “Don’t show them that. At least not until we’ve had a go first!”

  But Alice had already started to pull a sheet of paper from her purse. “There’s enough for everybody, dearie.” She unfolded the paper and handed it to Gwendolyn. “This here is a list of the fifty most eligible bachelors in California. With their addresses.”

  “Have you heard of any of these men?” Kathryn asked.

  “Oh gosh, yes,” said Baby Doll. “At least three quarters. It’s a quality list.”

  “And it’s doing the rounds, I’m sure,” Alice added. “So we can’t be too slow off the mark. Do any of these guys appeal?”

  Kathryn examined Alice’s face as Gwendolyn read through the list. It had a veneer of casual amusement but there was a steeliness to Alice’s eyes that wasn’t too hard to miss. I get it, Kathryn thought. Gwendolyn looks just like you, only she’s classier, nicer, and more put-together than you’ll ever be, so your best course of action is to remove her from the competition altogether.

  “What do you think?” Alice pressed.

  Gwendolyn laughed. “I have no intention of getting married. My career is far more important to me.” She let out an angelic sigh. “All those silly men have been ogling me since the day I strapped on my first brassiere. But not one of them has ever stopped to ask me if I even wanted a boyfriend, let alone a husband.” She pushed the list back to Alice.

  “Oh you sweet, sweet thing,” said one of the other girls, “Nobody said anything about marrying any of these fellas!”

  With the deliberation of a cobra, Alice slid the list back. “Oh, come on, now,” she said. “Surely there’s somebody on this list that takes your fancy?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Marcus peeled off his Western Union jacket and flopped onto his bed. It had been a busy Saturday, which meant lots of tips. Nickels and dimes, mainly, but the odd quarter if the telegram he delivered bore good news. He counted out the morning’s haul; three dollars and thirty-five cents. Not bad.

  He kicked off his shoes and settled in with the L.A. Times, looking for the movie listings. He still hadn’t seen The Lights of New York, the first all-talking motion picture, and if he was going to write talking pictures, he needed to see every single one.

  An ad for the new Lon Chaney–West of Zanzibar–caught his eye. Marcus always thought of his mom when he saw Chaney’s name. He was a favorite of hers. She cried so hard at the end of Phantom of the Opera that his dad had to help her from the theater. It was one of his favorite childhood memories.

  Marcus sighed. He’d been missing his mom a lot lately. What did she think about him just up and leaving town? What had Father told her when he got home that night? Did she believe whatever story he’d invented? Did she wonder where he was and how he was doing? Three or four times he’d started a letter to her but he hadn’t finished any of them. If his father intercepted it, there might be hell to pay and that was the last thing he wanted to put his mom through.

  He forced his eyes to move further down the page.

  A large ad caught his eye. AUCTION, it said in large capital letters. Home Furnishings and Art Collection. Marcus’ eyes widened. He looked at his watch, grabbed his wallet, and flew out the door.

  Van Keuren Galleries was a stark, two-story white stucco building with large windows along the front and sides. Glorious midsummer sunlight filled a breezy mint-green gallery heavy with dark, somber furniture. A mahogany headboard was propped against a towering wardrobe inlaid with diamond-shaped panels of pewter gray quartz, its top a baroque crown of carved leaves and thorns. Next to it stood a six-foot-tall lamp with an enormous dark purple velvet shade. There were three aisles of this stuff, all of it smelling of closed-up rooms and dead flowers.

  “She sure had old-fashioned taste, didn’t she?” Kathryn asked. “Do you think she’s dead?”

  Marcus felt a prickle of sweat collect in his underarms. The ad hadn’t explained why Alla Nazimova’s personal effects were being auctioned off. At some point in the last year, he’d given up hope that he’d bump into her at a party in the Garden of Allah, or in the hotel’s restaurant. When he saw the ad, he thought, If I can’t meet her, perhaps I could buy something that belonged to her. The thought hadn’t occurred to him that she might be dead.

  “That’s a darned shame,” Gwendolyn said. She picked up a porcelain figurine of three women who were either ballerinas or nuns. Its cobalt glaze was faded but their white headdresses were still bright. “I would like to have met her. Salome was the very first picture Mama took me to. Remember how she looked in that?”

  Marcus nodded. He’d been to see Salome too, but not with his mother. She was too Pennsylvania Dutch practical to waste her weekly movie dime on something that outlandish and indulgent, even if i
t had starred the actress who came visit her sickly son. Lon Chaney was one thing, but Alla Nazimova was another.

  So he’d snuck away after church one Sunday to see it by himself. Alla was a glimmering vision in that movie, all draped clothes and striking poses. And that wig she wore — what was it? Baby roses? Marcus ran his hand along the goosebumps raised on his arm.

  He wandered down an aisle stacked with oriental rugs, silver tea services, huge sets of china and glassware, a pair of matching sideboards, an array of porcelain dancers, exotic birds, and abstract sculptures. Even Alla’s enormous Steinway was for sale. He looked back toward the bright windows at the front of the gallery. Despite the sunshine, everything had a sad, dank air. Alla’s belongings seemed like orphans, left behind and forgotten.

  At the back of the gallery, a small woman in a black velvet dress held something in her hands. It was an odd dress for July, Marcus thought, unless she was in mourning. Marcus’ shoulders drooped as he realized he must have missed Alla’s funeral. He watched the woman set something down on the piano and caught her eye as she glanced down the aisle.

  It was the woman from villa twenty-four, the one who peeked through her window, and who he saw at The Jazz Singer. She disappeared around the corner and Marcus went to see what she had been holding. It was a wooden rocking horse, ten inches high and painted in blues and reds worn away over years of handling. It reminded him of his father’s rocking horse. As far back as he could recall, it had always been there, sitting in the corner, calling Marcus for a ride. What happy hours he’d spent astride Rocky the Rocking Horse. This toy version that sat now in his hands looked just like it.

  A deep voice announced the beginning of the auction, and around twenty people assembled at the rear of the gallery. Marcus took a seat beside Kathryn and Gwendolyn and picked up his bidding paddle. He looked for the woman in velvet and found her on the far side of the room, scowling next to a woman with a thin face and a long gray braid. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back in a snug bun over the high collar of her blouse. There was much head shaking, pursing of lips, and whispered sniping back and forth between the two.