The Garden on Sunset Page 6

  “Isn’t that our mysterious neighbor?” Kathryn asked. “From twenty-four?”

  Marcus nodded. “I’d begun to think she had no friends at all.”

  “I found out her name!” Gwendolyn whispered. “I had a strange encounter with her the other day. I was down in the restaurant dining room cutting out a dress pattern and she wandered in. I looked up and she was standing there staring at me. We got to talking — or rather, I did. She didn’t say much. But then she asked me, ‘Do you have someone, a close confidante to whom you can run when life overwhelms?’ She was all frightfully serious about it. I told her, sure, I have my good friends Kathryn and Marcus. She looked relieved and said, ‘That is good. Keep them close.’ I asked her if she had someone like that, and she said, ‘Oh yes, I have Arzner.’ as though I was supposed to know who that was. Do you suppose that disapproving old biddy with the hairbun is Arzner?”

  Marcus and Kathryn shrugged. “What else did she say?”

  “That was pretty much it. She left and I went back to my sewing. A little while later, Brophy came in and I asked him who she was. Apparently her name is Mariam Leventon.”

  The auctioneer was a gentleman in his sixties who looked like he was born to play British butlers. He stepped onto a platform at the front of the gallery and commenced the auction. Tiffany lamps and Louis Quatorze tables, Turkish tapestries and oriental rugs went under the hammer one by one. The collection was extraordinary in size and scope, and fetched what seemed to Marcus handsome sums.

  Then the rocking horse appeared on the bidding table. The auctioneer described it as “an exquisite example of handicraft from the Crimea, the birthplace of Madame Nazimova, cherished by Madame herself as one of the few tokens of remembrance of her beloved father, who carved this enchanting piece for her.”

  A lump formed in Marcus’ throat. Go as high as ten dollars, he told himself. Ten dollars was a whole week’s worth of tips. It took a lot of bicycling around the often unpaved streets of Hollywood to earn that kind of money, but he’d never wanted anything so badly in his life.

  “Do I hear fifty cents?”

  Marcus raised his paddle.

  “Thank you, sir. Do I hear seventy-five cents?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw a paddle rise on the other side of the room.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Do I hear one dollar?”

  Marcus raised his paddle.

  “You’d pay a whole dollar for that?” Kathryn whispered.

  “Thank you, sir. Do I hear one dollar and fifty cents?”

  A gentleman in a brown suit a couple of rows ahead raised his paddle. Before Marcus or the woman in black velvet could raise the bid, a woman in a moss-green cape raised her paddle.

  When the bidding reached five dollars, Marcus felt Kathryn’s hand on his arm. “Five dollars is a lot to spend on a toy horse.”

  The lump in Marcus’ throat had grown to the size of a golf ball. Even if he had wanted to explain, he couldn’t have pushed the words out.

  Gwendolyn leaned in. “Not for something that belonged to Alla Nazimova, right?”

  Marcus had never told Gwendolyn about Alla coming to his sickbed; perhaps Kathryn had told her. He nodded, smiled, and raised his paddle.

  “Five dollars and fifty cents. Do I hear six dollars?”

  The man in the brown suit quit at seven dollars and the woman with the cape bailed at eight-fifty. At nine dollars, it was back to Marcus and Miss Leventon. At nine-fifty, the bid was against Marcus. His heart beat against his ribs so hard he was afraid it would break loose and bounce right out of his chest. He just had to have that horse. Marcus raised his paddle once more.

  “Nine dollars and fifty cents. Thank you, sir.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Leventon hesitated. Her friend with the braid whispered at her, barely able to contain her anger. Leventon waved her hand dismissively and shook her head in short jabs, but didn’t raise her paddle.

  Keep it down, Miss Leventon, Marcus thought. Keep your paddle right where it is.

  “Ma’am, the bid is yours. It stands at nine dollars fifty. Do I hear ten dollars?”

  Keep it down. Keep it down.

  “All right, then. Going once. Going twice.”

  Marcus’ heart lurched as he saw the woman raise her paddle.

  CHAPTER 13

  Gwendolyn and Marcus alighted from the Red Car at the corner of Hollywood and Vine and headed south.

  “Gwennie, honey, where are we going, and why is it such a mystery?”

  Gwendolyn pointed to a building just ahead.

  “The Brown Derby?” Marcus asked.

  The Brown Derby had become one of the most famous restaurants in Hollywood. Not just because radio stations broadcast to national audiences from the same corner, but also because it was a quick drive from Paramount Studios, RKO, Columbia and Warner Brothers. It was the in-place for the in-crowd, and star spotting there was already legendary.

  Marcus groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t haul me all the way here to keep you company while you stand out front waiting to be discovered.”

  “I’ve got a much better plan than that,” Gwendolyn told him. Honestly, when would people stop underestimating her? She smoothed down her new dark caramel dress. “Come on.” She led Marcus past the passel of autograph hounds gathered out front and up to the maitre d’s podium.

  “Table for two, Brick, eight o'clock.”

  The maitre d’ checked his pocket watch. “You’re twenty minutes early, but we’ll probably be able to seat you soon.”

  The restaurant looked exactly as it had in Photoplay magazine. The dining room was lined with booths that were raised slightly for improved see-and-be-seen-ing. That’s where the stars and the big guns — studio bosses, producers, directors — sat. Hangers-on positioned further down the Hollywood ladder were seated at square tables arranged in a diamond pattern in the center of the room. Gwendolyn wondered whether talent agents were high enough on the food chain to warrant a booth.

  Marcus’ blue eyes were wide with panic. “Dinner for two here can be four, maybe even five dollars. That’s more than a week’s pay. Too rich for my blood.”

  “Who said you were paying? This is my treat.”

  “You’re a girl!” Marcus spluttered. “I can’t let you pay. I’ll look like a gigolo.” He shook his head. “This is crazy. Let’s go to Al Levy’s across the street. I delivered a telegram there a few weeks ago; they do a swell dinner for seventy-five cents. Please, Gwendolyn, let’s get out of here.”

  He grabbed her by the elbow but she didn’t budge. Instead she held up three fingers and folded them down as she listed each name. “Louis B. Mayer. Cecil B. DeMille. David O. Selznick.”

  “What about them?”

  “Mayer is in the booth directly across from us. DeMille is four booths to his right. And Mr. Selznick is sitting in the corner booth to your left. He’s with his brother Myron, who is one of the most powerful talent agents in Hollywood.”

  Marcus pulled back half a step, shifting from panic to surprise. “You took all that in with a quick sweep of the room?”

  Now will he take me more seriously? Gwendolyn wondered. Now does he get that I know what I’m doing? The article she’d read in Photoplay last week was about some henna-rinsed sparrow with large eyes and no waist who was fortunate enough to be seated across from Selznick, recently moved from Paramount to head of production at RKO. By the following morning, the big-eyed sparrow was filming a screen test.

  All of a sudden, as if by a signal only dogs could hear, every woman in the restaurant put on her hat and every man pulled out his wallet. Everyone started to stand.

  “What’s happening?” Marcus asked. “Where are they all going?”

  Gwendolyn watched as Selznick strode past her without so much as a sideways glance. Several yards behind him was DeMille, equally disinterested in how lovely she looked in her caramel dress.

  “To the fights.”

  Gwendolyn turned to the tuxe
doed gentleman with a walking stick and white whiskers who was standing next to her. “What fights?”

  “Next door. The Hollywood Legion Stadium. They hold boxing matches every Friday night. It’s all the rage these days. This crowd,” he rolled his eyes in the direction of the exiting masses, “comes early so they’re out of here before eight.” Gwendolyn’s heart sank as she watched the well-heeled crowd file past her. “In ten minutes they’ll all have left, and you’ll be able to hear yourself think, thank the heavens.”

  Gwendolyn didn’t want to hear herself think. She wanted the bigwigs to watch her parade around the room. How was she to know she was competing with grown men punching each other silly?

  “Brick, party of two,” the maitre d’ called out. “I can seat you now.”

  Marcus looked at Gwendolyn with a sad smile. “Why don’t we save this for some other day?”

  Gwendolyn sighed and looked around. A few minutes ago the Brown Derby was buzzing with the most famous people in the country, and now it looked like any other joint on a slow night. She’d been preparing for this evening all week. If she went home without having dined at the Brown Derby, she’d feel like a failure.

  “No,” she replied, “we’re staying. I have a Plan B.”

  The maitre d’ led them to a booth with a view of the whole restaurant. They had barely settled in when a young waiter, who was skinnier than spaghetti, took their orders for ginger beer. Gwendolyn peeked over the top of her menu and scanned the room. Not one famous face to be seen.

  A few minutes later, the skinny waiter reappeared without their ginger beers and offered them an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to move you. A regular has just arrived, and this is his favorite booth.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s anyone famous,” Gwendolyn said ruefully, gathering her gloves and purse.

  The waiter ducked his head and whispered, “As a matter of fact, it’s Douglas Fairbanks Junior. So if you could follow me?”

  “Is he here with his new wife?”

  “Joan Crawford?” The young man smiled. “No, not tonight.”

  “Could we meet him?” Gwendolyn asked. “Surely it would be the courteous thing to do if he wants our table.”

  The waiter shook his head. “Oh, no, no, no. It’s never done that way. You simply move tables. If you catch his eye, he’ll probably nod, and you can nod back.”

  Gwendolyn shook her curls. “I’m sorry,” she peered at the etched name plate pinned to his lapel, “Ritchie from Oklahoma, but you’re going to have to go back there and tell Mr. Douglas Fairbanks Junior that if he wants our table, the polite thing to do is come over here and ask for it himself.”

  Ritchie from Oklahoma stared at Gwendolyn as though she’d just skewered him with a javelin. He leaned in. “This is supposed to have been a surprise, but Mr. Fairbanks intends to pay your check as a way of showing his gratitude.”

  Marcus shot to his feet. “That’s it,” he said, “we’re moving.”

  They settled at their new table and consulted the menu but most of it was in French. What the heck was Petite Marmite a la Française? Or Escargots Bourguignon? They decided instead to simply order the most expensive things they could see. Ritchie from Oklahoma took down their order with a hint of a good-for-you smile and disappeared.

  “So,” Marcus said, “you have a Plan B?”

  Gwendolyn flagged down a busboy and asked for a bowl of matchbooks, then reached into her purse for an ink pad and a rubber stamp. When the busboy returned, she took a matchbook off the top and whispered to Marcus, “Watch this.” She surreptitiously pressed her stamp inside the cover and gave it to Marcus.

  Ritchie appeared at the table with the escargots. “Enjoy.” When they peered into the dish they were none the wiser, but everything smelled deliciously loaded with garlic and butter. They grabbed forks and stabbed at the soft, buttery lumps.

  Marcus studied the matchbook. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

  Gwendolyn handed over the stamp she’d ordered at the stationer’s after yet another ego-crushing cattle call at Mack Sennett’s studio. “It’s my secret publicity campaign.”

  G W E N D O L Y N

  W A S

  H E R E

  She took another matchbook from the bowl and stamped it in her lap, then another. “My plan is that everywhere I go — cafés, restaurants, speakeasies — I’ll stamp the menus, the matchbooks, the coasters, the napkins, with Gwendolyn Was Here. After a while, people are going to see me pop up all over the place and they’re going to wonder, ‘Who in the great tarnation is this Gwendolyn person?’ And then perhaps they’ll meet me at a party or an audition and they’ll ask, ‘Are you that Gwendolyn we keep hearing so much about?’”

  Gwendolyn fought to keep herself from wincing as Marcus chewed his garlicky ball of something-or-other. It had sounded wonderfully clever until she said it out loud. Now she wondered if it was just a delusion dreamed up by a naïve little girl from a two-horse backwater that nobody would’ve heard of except that it shared its name with the most famous town in the country. She felt such a kinship with Marcus. Kathryn was used to the real Hollywood, but dear, sweet Marcus was from a two-horse backwater, too.

  He never talked about home but there were times when she’d catch him staring off into the distance. His face would take on such a sad, forlorn look–she’d seen the very same look at that auction when Kathryn had wondered out loud if Nazimova was dead–that Gwendolyn had to wonder if he ever suffered from homesickness. It seemed that going back home was not an option for him. As steep the uphill climb here might sometimes feel, returning home wasn’t an option for her either. There was nobody to return home to.

  “How does that sound?” she ventured.

  Marcus swallowed and said, “That would have to be the god-damndest smartest, wiliest, most ingenious scheme I think I’ve ever heard. Kudos to you, Miss Gwendolyn.”

  Gwendolyn didn’t know what a kudos was, but the smile on Marcus’ face told her that it was a good thing. She let out a breath of relief.

  “Here’s something else you can stamp,” Marcus said. He reached down to the empty chair next to him and brought up a copy of the Examiner and held out his hand. “Allow me, if you will?” He surveyed the front page and pressed the stamp against a photograph of an enormous airship.

  “Oh look!” Marcus exclaimed. “That mysterious Gwendolyn has even been seen on the Graf Zeppelin.”

  CHAPTER 14

  When Gwendolyn and Marcus told Kathryn that they were going down to Mine’s Field to watch the Graf Zeppelin land, she decided to go along. Newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst had made sure that everybody in America knew of its round-the-world voyage, and its arrival in Los Angeles dominated conversations from Beverly Hills dining rooms to the Woolworth’s lunch counter.

  Gwendolyn had concocted a plan to maneuver herself in front of the Movietone cameras that would be there. She’d read how one starlet got her break when someone at Fox had seen her on a newsreel and tracked her down. Never mind the fact that it was probably just a studio-generated publicity stunt and the girl would most likely get dropped as soon as that particular Movietone was no longer in circulation. Still, Kathryn admired Gwennie’s initiative. She wasn’t as wild about the Gwendolyn Was Here scheme as Marcus had been — it sounded like a plot out of some loopy Mabel Normand picture — but Gwennie was doing everything she could to jumpstart her career.

  Kathryn had been working for Tallulah Bankhead for eighteen months. Her fan mail job had evolved into a nebulous mélange of personal-secretary-companion-chaperone-nursemaid-bartender. She was now handling all of Ms. Bankhead’s affairs: fan mail, business transactions, appointments, the lot.

  A while back, the Garden of Allah acquired a new tenant: Robert Benchley, a genial New Yorker with an obscenely lucrative contract at Paramount. He was a big, kindhearted man and Kathryn adored him, but he swallowed bootleg on a scale Kathryn hadn’t suspected humanly possible. As with most people in
Los Angeles, the fact that Prohibition had been in place for ten years seemed to not have registered on his horizon. When he heard what Kathryn did for Tallulah, he roped her into doing the same for him. Benchley was paying her generously, but now it had been a year and a half since Kathryn had set out to become an ace reporter, and she had yet to interview for a single newspaper. The Graf Zeppelin’s arrival was the perfect subject for a sample article, so she had arrived at Mine’s Field today with a notebook and sharpened pencils. She hadn’t counted on the forty thousand people crowded around the airstrip, though. “We’re not going to get anywhere near it,” she moaned.

  They threaded their way through throngs of people for ages without making any progress toward the center. Then they heard a man’s voice call out over the din. “Gwendolyn! Oh, Gwendolyn! Over here!”

  Kathryn saw an uncommonly tall, thin young man with a jumble of brown hair that was flapping in the hot breeze. He waved and pressed toward them. “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “Is that our waiter from the Brown Derby?” Marcus said. “What was his name?”

  “Ritchie from Oklahoma?” Gwendolyn asked. “Heavens above, I do believe you’re right.”

  Ritchie stepped past a couple of geisha girls in kimonos intricately embroidered with storks. He was so tall and gangly that he reminded Kathryn of a stork himself. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for you.” His smile was as big as a dirigible.

  “How did you know we’d be down here?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “People forget waiters have ears. I heard you two talking about this, and I thought it was a grand idea. I didn’t think I’d actually see you, what with the size of this crowd and all, but here we are!”

  “This is our friend Kathryn,” Gwendolyn said.