City of Myths Page 8

  “You’ve spent no time with your own daughter?”

  “We had one shot at it a few years ago. It was a nice visit. I could see she was a good kid even though she was a bit unnerved by having me in her living room.”

  “Well, you are Clark Gable,” Gwendolyn chided him.

  He shot back a look that said, It’s as much a burden as a blessing. “We jawed for a while, nothing deep and meaningful, but I left thinking it was a nice start and maybe we could develop a relationship farther down the road.”

  “But it didn’t happen?”

  “It unnerved Loretta and she forbade me to see Judy again. ‘Forbade’ is too strong a word; more like ‘dissuaded.’ I didn’t put up a fight because I thought I could live with that.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “When Judy was a youngster, sure, but now that she’s becoming an adult, I want more. That’s not so bad, is it?”

  In the time that Gwendolyn had worked for Loretta Young, she’d grown to admire how much control the woman exercised over her career and her image. She was that rare Hollywood actress who actively battled against ceding all her power to a husband, agent, manager, or boss.

  Gwendolyn could see that Marilyn was trying too, but with sporadic success. She had once lamented to Gwendolyn how she lacked Loretta’s steel backbone. Gwendolyn had tried to point out that she also lacked Loretta’s thirty years dealing with men like Zanuck and Cohn. She may have missed out on A Woman’s World, but she was in there fighting. If Loretta kept her career, image, figure, and stardom under tight control, she probably kept her daughter on an equally short leash.

  “No,” Gwendolyn told Clark, “it’s not bad at all.” She thought about the lengths Kathryn was prepared to go to in order to bring about her father’s exoneration. “I think every girl deserves to know her father.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “But if Loretta’s spent twenty years keeping you two apart, I doubt she’ll be a pushover when it comes to letting you into their lives.”

  He started rubbing the palms of his hands down the tops of his legs. “I’ve never insisted on my rights as a father so I don’t know that I can start making demands.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I thought that maybe you could get us in the same room. It’d give me a chance to watch her being herself.”

  “You want me to sneak you into the costume department at Fox and hide you behind a sewing machine?”

  “No, not that. But something. I dunno.” He ran a hand over his chin. “I haven’t thought this through very well, have I?”

  Gwendolyn’s first instinct was to reach out and hold his hand, but this was Clark Gable sitting next to her, and she wasn’t sure where the lines of etiquette were drawn around a star of his stature. “The problem is that you could walk into a room the size of Gilmore Stadium and everybody would notice.”

  “I knew it was a tall order.” He thrust forward and got to his feet. “I’m sorry to have bothered you on your day off—”

  “It is a tall order,” she cut in. “But not an impossible one.”

  “You got an idea?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

  When Gwendolyn stood up, she spotted three heads silhouetted against the lace curtains pulled across her living room window and wondered how long they’d been watching.

  CHAPTER 10

  Kathryn felt the blade of the ax press against her neck as she walked into the NBC studios. It was just a hunch, but she was fairly sure she knew the cause of the tension.

  Kathryn waved to the guy behind the tobacco counter and passed through the stage door. Musicians and sound technicians went about their business, wishing her a good show as usual, but apprehension prickled her arms.

  She set her bag on the dressing-room counter and pulled out her notes to reread the joke about how two studios were premiering big movies on the same night: How to Marry a Millionaire and Calamity Jane. She said out loud, “How’s a girl supposed to choose between the charms of Fox’s bombshell and the appeal of Warners’ songbird? Wouldn’t it have been easier if they’d collaborated instead and made a movie called How to Marry Calamity Jane?”

  It had been funny when she’d written it this morning, but with this unnerving anxiety crowding the studio, she wasn’t so sure now.

  At thirty minutes till airtime, the flurry of activity intensified. A studio messenger stuck his head in the door. “Mr. Reed wants you to know that Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin have sort of arrived.”

  Kathryn pulled out her hairbrush. “Sort of?”

  The kid contorted his face. “They had a huge fight in the limo on the drive over.”

  Lewis and Martin were guest-starring on her show at the insistence of their producer, Hal Wallis. Their next movie was the first shot in color and 3-D, so it was a big deal to Paramount, but evidently not to either of the stars.

  Is that what I’ve been feeling? Lewis-and-Martin hostility?

  “Where are they now?”

  “Circling the block.”

  From what Kathryn had heard, those two fought with the heat of an atomic bomb, but once it was out of their systems, everything was fine. It was twenty minutes until show time; that ought to be enough.

  * * *

  The fight in the limo must have been a humdinger because Lewis and Martin pulled into the parking lot with only seven minutes to spare. Kathryn wasn’t entirely certain she even had guest stars for tonight’s show until she heard the cry fire along the human chain of ushers from the Vine Street corner, through the foyer, into the backstage area, and up the corridor.

  Kathryn waited in the left wings of the stage; Leo took his usual place on the right-hand side. He mouthed the word “Okay?”

  Kathryn gave him a double thumbs-up before she noticed Leo’s counterpart at Betty Crocker standing next to him.

  Kathryn had met Thurgood Pace a handful of times. He struck her as a typical corporate automaton: conservative suits, thicker around the middle than was healthy, not easily given to humor. But he recognized a beneficial promotional opportunity when he saw one, and was happy to let Leo call most of the shots.

  Leo’s taut smile gave her pause. Had they been fighting too?

  A third figure stepped out of the shadows behind Leo and Thurgood. Kathryn had met the West Coast head of NBC only once. Seeing Thurgood Pace had taken her by surprise, but the appearance of Mr. Erickson shook her down to her foundation garments.

  But she didn’t have time to worry about him. Lewis and Martin’s new movie, Money from Home, was set in the world of racetracks, mobsters, and bookies. For tonight’s appearance, Hal Wallis had conscripted the picture’s screenwriter to come up with an extended skit that hinted at the plot but gave Jerry Lewis opportunity to improvise, and Dean Martin the chance to bounce off his partner’s wild ad-libs. All Kathryn had to do was keep up—a tall order that was going to take all of her nerve.

  Lewis and Martin joined Leo, Pace, and Erickson. Kathryn watched Leo’s face as the five men shook hands—it was his everyone-play-nice face. Dean Martin nodded; Jerry Lewis did too, although with less conviction.

  From the control booth at the rear of the audience, her producer held up his index finger. It was her one-minute cue.

  Here goes nothing.

  * * *

  Nobody listening to Window on Hollywood would have imagined that Kathryn’s two guest stars had been screaming at each other on the drive to the studio. The two men hit the stage all smiles, backslaps, and larger-than-life mugging, throwing kisses and insults to the audience with even-handed dexterity.

  Kathryn walked off the stage as though she was being carried by winged angels. If only every show was like that.

  The honeyed scent of an enormous bouquet of red and white roses filled her dressing room. She searched for a card, but found nothing in the glass vase or among the blooms.

  “Terrific show, Kathryn.”

  Leo and Thurgood crowded her doorway, but nei
ther of them was smiling. They parted like curtains to reveal Mr. Erickson, whose face was parked in neutral. The three men stepped inside; Erickson closed the door behind him with a measured click.

  “What’s up, gentlemen?” She addressed all three but looked at Leo.

  Erickson was a tall man and athletically built. He showed no sign of a paunch testing the limits of his double-breasted suit, and retained a full head of hair even though he had to be north of sixty. If he smiled more, he’d almost be considered a catch by women of a certain age.

  “Miss Massey, I have some news, and I wanted you to hear it directly from me.” He interlaced his fingers. “Our two most popular radio shows, Amos ’n’ Andy and People Are Funny, are moving to television. However, Window on Hollywood will not be joining them.”

  “Bad ratings, I take it?”

  “They came in last night and your most recent show charted at thirty-seven.”

  Kathryn fell back against her makeup counter, where the rose bouquet brushed up against her back, its soft petals caressing her skin.

  “We would have been happy to continue the show if it rated above twenty-five; thirty-seven is unacceptable. Window on Hollywood has been cancelled.”

  Shows don’t last forever, she told herself. It was one thing to expect this news eventually, but it was another to hear it delivered with such indifference. God forbid he should sugarcoat it.

  She pushed herself away from the suffocating bouquet. “I appreciate you taking the time to tell me in person. I have only one question: when will my final show be?”

  “Kathryn,” Leo said with a gentleness that was clearly beyond the reach of Mister NBC, “tonight’s show was the final one.”

  “That’s it? I’m off the air? Effective immediately? And you didn’t even tell me?”

  “We decided,” Erickson said carefully, “that informing you beforehand might negatively affect your performance.”

  “I was going off the air anyway. What did it matter?”

  “Martin and Lewis’s appearance was very important for all parties concerned. NBC has entered into negotiations with Dean Martin’s management for a variety show that—”

  “A chance to say goodbye to my listeners would have been nice.”

  Kathryn itched to turn on Leo, but that scene would have to wait until after this pokerfaced windbag scurried back to his pencil sharpener.

  “Like I said Miss Massey, we felt—”

  “Thank you for the last five years. I’ll be vacating this dressing room shortly. Good night.”

  After Erickson backed out of the room, Kathryn wanted to give the dark mood time to dissipate, so she started counting backward from ten. Pace closed the door and revealed a smile filled with huge milk-fed Midwest teeth. “This is terrific!”

  Kathryn turned to Leo with a questioning look.

  “This is what we’ve been waiting for!”

  She crossed her arms. “For NBC to can my show?”

  “Your contract had nearly seven more months to go,” Leo said. “But it carried an escape clause for them to get out of it if they wished. We were hoping your ratings would crater—”

  “Jesus! With sponsors like you—”

  “We commissioned a consumer study of women working in newspapers, radio, and television. We learned there are three who are considered the quintessential American women.”

  “The first is Adelaide Hawley,” Thurgood took over. “Women know she’s an actress playing Betty Crocker, but they don’t care. We like to think it’s a testament to how well she does her job, and it suits our purposes.”

  “And the second?” Kathryn asked.

  “Betty Furness from the Westinghouse ads.”

  “Isn’t she an actress too?”

  “She is, but like Adelaide Hawley, she’s permanently linked with refrigerators in the minds of American housewives.”

  “And, by extension, is an American housewife, too.” Leo was smiling as widely as Pace now. “And guess who made the Top Three.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “We commissioned our research in the hope that you’d rank Top Ten. But Top Three? We were stunned.”

  Pace gave out a surprisingly high-pitched giggle. “You’re in the Holy Trinity of American womanhood.”

  Kathryn couldn’t help but scoff. “How the hell do I fit into all that?

  “Adelaide is viewed as the unruffled, capable housewife they wish they were, whereas Betty is associated with household products. Even though she’s an attractive actress, they wish they looked like her.”

  “So who am I?”

  “They see you as genuine and trustworthy,” Leo said. “You stand in for those women who wish they could work, but can’t. You’re the woman who made it out of the constraints of being a housewife.”

  “You’re the working woman who is too busy to bake a cake from scratch,” Pace added. “They envy that.”

  Kathryn snorted. “Not if they ever tasted my baking.” She patted Pace on the knee. “Thank God for Betty Crocker cake mixes.”

  “Even better,” Leo continued, “you’re the one whom our market relates to the most. The other two are actresses, but Kathryn Massey is who she appears to be.”

  Kathryn wondered how those housewives would feel if they knew that she was the illegitimate daughter of a convicted felon in Sing Sing.

  “That’s all well and good,” she told them, “but where does that get us?”

  “It got us an appointment with the head of advertising for Westinghouse. We presented our findings to him and he reacted the same way we did. They want in on the act.”

  “Which act is that?”

  “A whole new type of marketing. We’re combining all three women—Adelaide, Betty, and you—with all three brands—Sunbeam, Betty Crocker, and Westinghouse—in a nationwide advertising campaign. We’ll start a print blitz targeting the top ten magazines, and if that succeeds like we think it will, there will be a series of television ads in high-rating shows in the major markets. We’re talking Dragnet, Ellery Queen, Philco Television Playhouse—”

  “Our Miss Brooks, Colgate Comedy Hour—”

  “You guys aim high.”

  “We’ve been waiting for NBC to lower the boom.”

  The full impact of Window on Hollywood’s cancellation began to hit home. The NBC money had been good, but it cost a lot to be “Kathryn Massey—prominent newspaper columnist and radio star.” An extensive wardrobe; facials and manicures; twice-weekly hair appointments. And every couple of years she bought a new car and inevitably drove away in the most expensive model on the Oldsmobile lot.

  There was also something else to consider.

  Over the past month, she’d contacted FBI headquarters three times. On the first call, she’d given her name and asked to be put through to Mr. Hoover, but got the runaround. Call number two had taken her as far as the director’s office, but no farther than the receptionist who’d blocked her every attempt to be transferred up the ladder of command.

  Through sheer persistence and the ability to talk without stopping, the third call had landed her the assistant to Hoover’s right-hand man, Clyde Tolson. But that was two weeks ago and she hadn’t heard back. If she couldn’t afford Dudley Hartman’s thousand-dollar-a-week fee then, it was certainly out of the question now.

  “And lucky for you,” Kathryn told Pace, “NBC has lowered the boom you’ve been hoping for.”

  “With print ads and television in the mix, you’ll reach more people than you did with your radio show. There’s no downside!”

  Unless you’re a girl with a father convicted of selling secrets to Nazis.

  An unexpected wave of relief flushed through her. Rather than trying to get through to Hoover, maybe a better approach would be an intermediary. The ideal candidate would have access to Hoover and credibility. Kathryn could think of only one person who fit that bill, and it was the person she trusted the least—but he was highly susceptible to flattery.

  “What
do you think?” Leo’s eyes shone with hope.

  Kathryn forced a perky smile. “Sounds like you know what you’re doing.”

  “This will only work if all three of you girls participate.”

  In his most recent letter, Marcus had told Kathryn about Subway People. This was a rare opportunity for him to screw the studio who’d screwed him, so she didn’t blame him for sticking around. For his own self-respect, he had to stay and fight for what was his, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t give her last five NBC paychecks if it meant he could be here to hold her hand through all this.

  “Sounds pretty great, huh?” Leo pressed.

  Kathryn nodded. “Where do I sign?”

  CHAPTER 11

  Marcus turned up his collar against the December air as he hit the sidewalk. He groped in his jacket pockets for the last pack of Camels. If he’d known how long he was going to be in Rome, he would have asked Kathryn to throw a dozen more into the care package she’d sent over the previous month along with the Bavarian mint chocolate bars from Schwab’s, can of Barbasol shaving cream, tins of Ovaltine, and a batch of Doris’s fudge.

  Camels were available in Rome, but the ones Kathryn sent over were more satisfying—maybe it was because they’d sat on her kitchen counter at the Garden.

  He pulled the second-to-last one out of the packet and headed toward Via Tuscolana, one of the main arteries that connected the heart of the city with Cinecittà. The Camels at the corner tobacconist tended to be old and overpriced, but they’d do in a pinch. He went to light up but decided it’d be smart to hold off. If Luigi had nothing for him, he’d have to hoard these final two.

  As he drew closer to the tabaccheria, he spotted a familiar figure loitering in the doorway.

  “Hoppy!” Marcus greeted him with a Continental kiss to both cheeks. “I didn’t know you were staying around here.”

  Hoppy was pale with uncharacteristic solemnity. “I got a telegram first thing this morning. You’re walking into a trap. They’re planning to cheat you.”