Twisted Boulevard Page 7

  “That’s okay.”

  “Not with Mister DeMille, it isn’t,” the assistant whispered with a grin.

  Kathryn pointed to the sprawling set. “Tell me about this?”

  “The villa of Delilah’s father. It’s where Samson turns on the Philistines after somebody throws a spear through Angela Lansbury. When Mister Westmore stops fussing with Miss Lamarr’s lipstick, you could watch us film it.”

  He offered to find Kathryn a chair, but she preferred to wander the set and absorb the atmosphere.

  Kathryn had called months ahead to arrange this interview, and it was worth the wait. By the time the invitation arrived, though, her confidence had had the stuffing punched out of it, and she arrived on set feeling uncharacteristically timid.

  It was all the fault of that damned radio show. Whether or not Harlan McNamara had gotten around to putting in a good word with Young and Rubicam became a moot point when Max Factor announced that their new show would be hosted by Sheilah Graham.

  The biggest contenders in the Hollywood gossip industry were Louella Parsons, Hedda Hopper, Kathryn Massey, and Sheilah Graham. Over the years, Louella, Hedda, and Kathryn had occasionally broken out into war, but Kathryn and Sheilah had never locked horns. Sheilah had been a regular at the Garden when she was dating Scott Fitzgerald, and she and Kathryn bumped into each other at premieres and award nights, and occasionally on studio back lots. She was always well groomed, polite, and professional.

  When Kathryn heard that Sheilah bagged the sponsorship, she’d tried to comfort herself by telling Gwendolyn and Marcus that if she didn’t get the job, then she was glad it went to Sheilah. And besides, she was still co-host of Kraft Music Hall.

  But in the intervening month, NBC canceled her show, and suddenly she was off the air altogether. For weeks she’d pictured herself striding onto the Samson and Delilah set in a flurry of congratulations for her new show. But today she arrived as just another columnist.

  She did her best to blend into the tumult of set decorators and lighting technicians until she heard, “Watch it, lady. You don’t want to catch yourself on these.”

  Kathryn had almost backed into a big trash can filled with wooden spears painted to look like metal.

  “These may not be bronze, but they can still draw blood.”

  Kathryn thanked him and inched away.

  He turned to his co-worker. “You know who I saw in the commissary? Billy Wilder.”

  “I’m surprised he’s got the energy. I heard Marlene Dietrich and Jean Arthur fought the whole time on A Foreign Affair.”

  “A Foreign Fiasco, more like. So he and Brackett are back working on a new one?”

  “Something called A Can of Beans.”

  “If that ain’t the dumbest title I ever heard.”

  The men picked up the trash can of spears and hauled it toward the set.

  Ever since Wilder made Five Graves to Cairo, Double Indemnity, and The Lost Weekend in a row, Kathryn had been a fan of his work. She didn’t think A Foreign Affair was such a fiasco. At the very least, it presented a glimpse into postwar Berlin.

  Kathryn pulled a pad and pencil from her handbag and wrote down A Can of Beans. It had to be a phony title.

  The production assistant approached her to say that Miss Lamarr could give her fifteen minutes until she was required on set.

  Kathryn assumed the actress would be holed up in her trailer, but instead found her resting on a padded board set at a thirty-degree angle. Leaning boards allowed an actress stitched into a tightly fitted gown or an actor clamped into fifty pounds of armor to comfortably relax between takes.

  Hedy laid aside her book: Postwar Advances in Electromagnetic Research. She was decked out in a two-piece costume made of a sparkling silver material. Threaded around her head like a snood were dozens of pearls culminating in an enormous crown that matched her earrings; ropes of pearls were wound around each wrist.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re about to do a close-up where George Sanders holds a ruby next to my mouth. You wouldn’t believe how long it took to match the lipstick to the ruby. And for what? One second on-screen.”

  Kathryn jutted her head toward the book. “A little light reading?”

  “I’ve already read The Naked and the Dead.”

  Kathryn smiled before she realized that the actress was being neither flippant nor ironic.

  During the war, someone told Kathryn at an exceptionally drunken cocktail party at David Selznick’s that Lamarr had helped develop radio-controlled torpedoes. Kathryn couldn’t imagine what the most gorgeous woman in American movies might know about torpedoes, and had discounted the story as one of the outrageous rumors that fed the Hollywood mill.

  Hedy Lamarr appearing in her first Technicolor picture was certainly newsworthy, but Hedy Lamarr reading Postwar Advances in Electromagnetic Research on the set of DeMille’s latest sword-and-sands epic? Kathryn knew she could sink her teeth into a story like that.

  She picked up the book. “This is what Hedy Lamarr reads in her spare time?”

  Hedy shook her head without smiling.

  Kathryn returned the book to the table. Of course not. Back to pretty Hedy in pretty Technicolor.

  “I helped write it.”

  “You what?”

  “Perhaps that’s an overstatement.” A thin smile curved Hedy’s forty-minute lips. “The authors consulted me on how to reduce the technical aspects to a level more comprehensible to the average man on the street.”

  Kathryn stared at that perfectly formed face, anticipating the moment when Hedy admitted her practical joke. But the actress maintained her Teutonic mask for so long, Kathryn felt compelled to write something down.

  Lamarr electro-mag book consult man on street

  She wasn’t even sure she would understand what that meant back at the office. When she looked up, she found Hedy smiling.

  “Are you putting me on?” Kathryn asked.

  “Not at all. But I can see the puzzlement on your face. If it would make you feel more comfortable, we can talk about these.” She shook her arm so that the string of pearls wound around her wrist five times caught the key lights.

  “Good heavens, no!” Kathryn stepped forward to create a more intimate atmosphere in the middle of the energetic movie set. “I’d heard that you were a bit of a whiz with . . . electrical . . . ” She lacked the vocabulary for such a technical conversation and was forced to finish with the insipid, “stuff.”

  She made sure she didn’t break eye contact as she returned her pad and pen to her purse. She’d learned a number of years ago that making a show of stowing away the tools of her trade signaled to a performer that their encounter was less of a formal interview and more of an off-the-cuff chat. “I want to hear about this extraordinary gift you have.”

  Hedy took a moment to consider her response. “Americans want their movie stars pretty of face, but empty of mind.”

  Rule number one for interviewing stars was to avoid contradicting them, belittling them, or tell them they’re wrong. Kathryn was starting to see that the usual rules didn’t apply to this gorgeous creature.

  “I think you’re mistaken,” Kathryn said, and waited for a reaction. None came. “When the men went off to war, American women walked into the factories and discovered they were just as smart as the guys they replaced. If they go to see Samson and Delilah knowing that behind the lovely face is a brain that could trounce the smartest man they know, they’d get an enormous kick out of it.”

  Forget American women, Kathryn thought. I need to be reminded that we can have it all—looks, brains, success, career.

  The assistant hovered beside them. “Mister DeMille will need you on set in ten.”

  Hedy nodded, then turned back to Kathryn. “Throughout my entire childhood, my mother called me an ugly weed.”

  “Were you a late bloomer?”

  She shrugged off the question. “Looking back, I can see now that Mama telling me I wasn’t attractive force
d me to develop my mind. It took me more than twenty years to figure out that was her gift.” A sly smile nudged the corners of her lips. “Perhaps we can save American girls twenty years of anguish.”

  Kathryn knew a “yes” when she heard one. “If you’re free on Sunday, we could get together and you can tell me about the real Hedy Lamarr.”

  The actress lifted her arms, indicating that she needed Kathryn’s assistance getting off the leaning board. As Kathryn pulled her upright, Hedy said, “This weekend, my children will be spending the day with their father.”

  “How about I pick up some chili from Chasen’s and come to you? One o’clock?”

  A glint of approval twinkled in Hedy’s eyes. “I like to sleep in. So let’s make it three. Excuse me, please, for now I must go and be decorative.”

  * * *

  An hour ago, Kathryn walked onto the Samson and Delilah set dreading that someone would look at her with pity, but now that she was flush with ideas, she didn’t want to leave.

  Hedy Lamarr and George Sanders took their places as Kathryn cast around for a place where she could sit and record on paper the thoughts that were tumbling out of her like gumballs. She spotted an ornate mauve velvet chaise lounge outside the half-circle of production crew and headed for it.

  She was so absorbed in filling the pages of her pad that she failed to notice someone approach her. “Excuse me, but you’re Kathryn Massey, aren’t you?”

  Kathryn looked up to see a young woman—she couldn’t have been much older than twenty-two—standing five feet away, her fingers intertwined as though in prayer, her bent elbows pushed against her sides.

  Kathryn pressed a finger to her lips. “They’re about to start rolling.”

  “Perhaps we could talk outside?”

  Kathryn would have preferred to empty the contents of her head, but the girl’s quaintly beseeching air made it hard to turn her down. The cool October air was a refreshing change from the overheated movie set.

  Now that they were in clear daylight, Kathryn could see that this pert little kid had one of those heart-shaped faces that was punctuated with a cute button nose. Her dull brown hair hung dead straight from the sides of her head, but it was nothing that a touch of coloring and some rollers couldn’t fix.

  “My name is Ruby Courtland and—oh-my-goodness-gracious-me!” she exclaimed, a little breathless. “I must confess, I’m a bit nervous meeting you!”

  “Inside that soundstage you’ve got Hedy Lamarr, Victor Mature, George Sanders, and Cecil B. DeMille, but it’s me that’s got you in a twist?”

  The girl’s eyes grew wide. “I’ve been reading your column for as long as I can remember, and I never, ever missed your radio show.” A gloved hand flew to her mouth. “When they canceled it, I was distraught!”

  “You and me both,” Kathryn said. “So tell me, Ruby, you work here at Paramount?” She had that earnestly conscientious look that studio script girls wore as they went about recording the pertinent information about each scene.

  “No!” Ruby let out a string of giggles fueled by a burst of nervous energy. “I’m a New York transplant. Been here a few weeks. Still feeling my way around town. I’m with Variety.”

  Kathryn took the girl in with a second, more serious examination. If you made some effort with your hair, and perhaps replaced that dime-store makeup, you’d be quite pretty. “In what capacity?”

  “I guess you could say I’m a junior columnist. But I like to think of myself as an apprentice Kathryn Massey.”

  “That’s really very flattering, but—”

  “May I ask for some advice?”

  The adoration on the girl’s face was downright embarrassing. “About what?”

  “I’m just starting out, so anything at all that you think might be useful. It would mean so much.”

  Kathryn thought about the woman inside who’d helped invent radio-controlled torpedoes but would only show the public her beautiful face and figure.

  “I’ve got some advice for you.” When the girl started digging into her handbag for pencil and paper, Kathryn stopped her. “Don’t think of yourself as an apprentice Kathryn Massey,” she said. “Or an apprentice anybody. Whoever Ruby Courtland is, have the courage to be that. Let everyone else in this town pretend to be somebody they’re not.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Marcus jumped into his car as soon as he got Oliver’s note. He wove in and out of the afternoon traffic, cursing everyone in his path the whole way along Sunset. He pulled into the hospital parking lot, yanked the key out of the ignition, and unfolded the slip of paper in his lap.

  It’s time we talked. Please come see me. Room 209. Visiting hours 11 to 4.

  It’s time we talked . . . and what? Decide who was to blame for the accident? Or endure Oliver taking responsibility for an accident that was both their fault?

  It was already three thirty. LA General was an enormous place. It might take him ten or fifteen minutes to find Oliver’s room. He forced himself out of the car before procrastination stole the moment away.

  The elevator doors squeaked open on the second floor. One whiff of ammonia brought him back to the last time he was in a hospital—the day Alla Nazimova died. A layer of apprehension coated his face as he stopped at the nurse’s station and asked a redhead in a starched cap for directions.

  “You must be Mister Adler.” She curled a finger to pull him closer. “Mister Trenton’s been with us for more than two months now. He’s not healing like he should.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Some people are blessed with fast-knitting bones, but even slow knitters are usually further along than him. A positive attitude is so very helpful after surviving that sort of trauma. Don’t get me wrong. Mister Trenton is recovering, but it’s taking much longer than it ought.”

  “Is that why he didn’t want to see me?”

  “He’s refused all visitors. When he asked for pen and paper I took it as a hopeful sign.” She pointed down the stark white hallway. “Second-last room on the right. See if you can cheer him up, but mind, he’ll be a bit wooly headed.”

  Marcus marched into Room 229 like Eisenhower storming Omaha Beach. “Hello there!”

  Oliver peered at him through heavily lidded eyes. “You came.” He looked as though he hadn’t been in the sun for a year. New lines were etched into the corners of his mouth and his hazel eyes had sunk deeper into his skull. Marcus was at his bedside in three strides.

  He took Oliver’s hand. It was cadaverously cold. “You didn’t have to ask me twice.” He sandwiched Oliver’s fingers between his palms to get them warm. “Your nurse tells me you’re still in pain.”

  He smiled weakly. “Pills are wonderful.”

  Marcus ran his eyes along Oliver’s legs strung up eight inches over the bed in a complicated network of ropes and slings. “Are you comfortable?”

  “Do I look it?”

  Marcus pulled a face that he hoped would make Oliver laugh. It didn’t. “I came as soon as I got your note.” Oliver slow-blinked. “I’ve been stewing for weeks over what happened.”

  Oliver turned his head toward the window, pulling his fingers from Marcus’ grasp. “My memory is kinda hazy.”

  “What do you remember?”

  A long pause. “Anger.”

  “Because you thought I was flirting with the pool boy?”

  “I remember taking the keys off you because you were too drunk to drive.”

  “You were about as drunk as I was.”

  “You’re not getting on with your life.”

  Marcus thought about what the nurse said. “Wait till you see my new car! Buick Roadmaster. It’s got a huge chrome grill, and four portholes along each side. It purrs like a kitty cat and drives like it’s floating on air. I was going to get it in black but then Kathryn spotted a yellow one.” He forced a laugh. “You can see me coming for miles! And it’s a convertible. When the sun’s out, and the top’s down—”

  “So the DeSoto was a wr
ite-off?”

  Marcus pictured his car as the tow truck dragged it out of the wrecked fountain: the hood crushed beyond repair; every window busted; three out of four tires punctured. He never did find the rear license plate. “It was time I got a new car, anyway.”

  Tears glistened in Oliver’s eyes and seeped down his cheeks. He didn’t bother to wipe them away. “I’m so sorry.”

  Marcus took his hand again. “What have you got to be sorry about?”

  “I was drunk. Angry. Too busy yelling at you to pay attention to the road.”

  “Stop this,” Marcus said soothingly. “We were drunk and angry. What happened that day was an accident, that’s all.”

  “An accident I could have avoided if—”

  “Hush.” Oliver’s hand was a little warmer, but it was shaking. “I could have done this, you could have done that—what does it matter? We survived. Okay, so you came through it somewhat worse than I did—”

  “I was reckless. And thoughtless. I deserved all this—”

  Marcus leaned forward so that their faces were almost touching. “How about we skip the finger-pointing?”

  “Stop being kind.” Oliver’s voice was so low that Marcus might not have heard it if he wasn’t so close. “I nearly killed you.”

  Marcus saw now it was a good thing Oliver had kept him at arm’s length. He could still feel the slap of water against his face, hear the sound of screeching brakes. He’d lost count of the times he’d filled Kathryn’s or Gwendolyn’s ears with the ways they could have avoided everything.

  The girls had been so patient, perched mutely on his sofa, letting him run off at the mouth as he slopped bourbon over his shirt. Looking back, it was surprising how long it took them to run out of patience.

  Gwendolyn finally turned on him the day of the earthquake. The three of them were gnawing at onion bagels when he brought up Oliver again. Suddenly she was on her feet yelling, “So you’d rather Oliver just outright slaughtered himself?”

  It was the wake-up call he needed. Of course he was glad Oliver survived. He couldn’t bear to lose the single most stabilizing influence on what had been a turbulent chapter of his life.