Twisted Boulevard Page 9

  “Or you’ll do what?”

  The question came from Leilah’s husband, Clem. The head of Warner Bros. security had spent years dealing with the sordid aspects of life in Hollywood, and he had one of those whiskey-tinged mugs to prove it. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by some hysterical dressmaker on the verge of messing her mascara.

  Gwendolyn mustered the courage to look him coolly in the eye. “Or I’ll call in a few favors of my own.” His eyes flared ever so slightly.

  She felt a tug at her elbow.

  “Come on.” It was Marcus. “We’re going.”

  She jutted out her chin like she had one last jab but thought the better of it. She let Marcus guide her through the sea of staring faces, past Eduardo and his pinched mouth and out into the moonless night. She consulted her watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock. She turned to her friends.

  “Do you think they’ll have an opening at Romanoff’s?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Thirty members of the press were already crowded into RKO’s largest soundstage when Kathryn arrived breathless and hatless. Stupid goddamned flat tire. She had no idea how to change a tire or who she could call for help, but she’d have to think about that later. For now, it was all about Howard Hughes and Robert Mitchum.

  At the end of last summer, the papers had convulsed over the news that the police arrested a movie star for marijuana use during a sting in the Hollywood Hills. Mitchum was Hollywood’s new resident bad boy, which, as Kathryn wrote in her Window on Hollywood column, is all very well until the boy perpetrates an inexcusable crime like being arrested for smoking reefer.

  The bad boy was quoted as saying, “This is the bitter end of everything.” Mitchum’s official sentence had been handed down, so the question was now: What does his boss have to say about it?

  Hughes stood at a microphone placed on the set of a seedy hotel room. To his left, a lawyer type—conservative suit, wary look in the eyes—filled Hughes’ ear with a monologue of sound legal advice. Hughes said nothing, but Kathryn could tell he was ignoring every word.

  She was gently elbowing her way around the periphery when Hughes stepped to the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a statement to make.” The chatter dropped away. “I’ve called this press conference in light of Robert Mitchum’s sentence. While I don’t personally condone the use of marijuana, nor do I indulge in it, I’d like to state publicly that I feel Mister Mitchum’s two-month sentence in the prison farm up at Castaic is excessive. He is clearly being made an example of. In my book, that’s an abuse of the law.”

  Louella Parsons called out, “But you are canceling Mitchum’s contract, aren’t you?”

  “I am not.”

  Kathryn watched the battle-ax draw back in horror.

  Since the invention of the Hollywood star system, the studios had spent untold bucketloads of cash and hours of manpower covering up the errant behavior of their stars. Years of coddling had led the stars to assume it was their God-given right to do as they pleased and damn the consequences.

  Hughes choosing not to lift a finger to help one of his biggest stars wiggle free of his barbed hook was noteworthy in itself. But refusing to cancel the contract of a convicted star heralded a new era—one in which the stars would be held accountable, but their overlords wouldn’t necessarily impose on them the same behavior the Breen Office required of their screen-bound characters.

  “The production code forbids the taking of drugs!” Louella protested.

  Hughes looked at her for the first time. “The Hays Code states, and I quote, ‘Illegal drug traffic must not be portrayed in such a way as to stimulate curiosity concerning the use of, or traffic in, such drugs.’”

  Kathryn was impressed that he had taken the time to memorize the wording verbatim.

  “So you are not firing Mitchum?” Louella asked.

  “Haven’t I already made that clear?” Hughes turned away as someone raised her hand above the heads of the crowd.

  “I have a question.”

  When Hughes located the speaker, he smiled the sort of smile Kathryn knew he reserved for pretty faces. She craned her neck to get a better view: it was that new Variety columnist she encountered on the Samson and Delilah set.

  What a difference three months made.

  Back in October, the girl looked like she’d just had her first lesson in how to apply makeup and had abandoned all hope of figuring out what to do with her hair. Evidently she’d since mastered mascara, rouge, and hot rollers. Her chignon didn’t suit her, but the attempt was admirable.

  Hughes angled his good ear toward the girl. “And you are—?”

  “Ruby Courtland, Variety.”

  Did she just tilt her shoulders back to swell her chest?

  “Your question, Miss Courtland?”

  “Is it true that your romantic pursuit of Janet Leigh has been a factor in the rumored breakdown of her marriage to Stanley Reames?”

  A studio head declaring his support for a convicted movie star is revolutionary, and she wants to know about his love life?

  Hughes’ smile widened. “Your question makes two inaccurate assumptions. That I have been pursuing Janet Leigh, and that her marriage to Mister Reames is in trouble. I can assure you that neither is the case.”

  Neither of those statements is even remotely likely to be true. If this is where journalism is headed, then God help us all.

  He turned back to the crowd. “That’s all I’m prepared to say at this time. Thank you for coming.”

  Typical Hughes. He drops a bomb, accepts a question from a rookie, and then takes a powder.

  He disappeared out a side door ahead of a phalanx of hangers-on. Kathryn withdrew to the edge of a seedy hotel set to jot down the salient points of Hughes’ shockwave. She wasn’t quite done when a shadow fell across her notepad. Expecting Ruby, it took her a moment to recognize the face smiling at her. “Ramon!”

  “I saw you in the crowd just now and thought I’d say hello.”

  Kathryn hadn’t seen Ramon Novarro since he and Marcus came to a crashing end. His skin had sagged noticeably, and gray now flecked his temples.

  “I haven’t seen you on-screen lately,” she said. “Are you a reporter now?”

  He shook his head and jutted his chin toward the set. “I have a nice role in The Big Steal. We were to commence shooting next week, but with Mitchum’s conviction, I suspect they have some rescheduling to do. A lot of the location work was to be in Mexico, and I was looking forward to seeing my family.”

  Over Ramon’s left shoulder, Ruby Courtland had netted a small coterie of admirers, all middle-aged men in suits that needed updating and libidos that needed dampening.

  That’s not what I meant by having the courage to be yourself, honey.

  “That’s the movies for you,” she said. “You can’t count on anything until it’s in the can. And even then.”

  Ramon’s smile faded. “Marcus? How is he?”

  Kathryn sighed to herself. I wish I knew.

  “You heard about his appearance in front of HUAC?”

  “I assume that’s why he left MGM?” Kathryn wondered if Ramon was thinking of his own exit. “Tell him I said hello.” He was already half turned away before he spun back. “Does he have anyone special in his life?”

  The day of the hospital encounter with Breen, Marcus landed on her doorstep pale as lard and hadn’t dare go back since. Instead, he filled his day reading his newspapers and going for his crazy runs along the beach. She nodded.

  “I am glad to hear it.” He bit into his lower lip. “I regret everything that happened. He is my one that got away.”

  “Shall I tell him that?”

  His gaze wandered across the abandoned set. “I’ll leave it up to you.”

  As Ramon dissolved into the crowd, she thought about her FBI agent with a conscience that did him no good in the long run.

  She was still skinny-dipping in her pool of self-pity when Harlan McNamara appeared, dressed in an open-necke
d shirt and loose corduroy slacks.

  “I did a layout with him once, years ago,” he said, nodding toward Ramon. “When the advertisers got wind that he was playing an Indian called Laughing Boy, they canceled the whole thing. Friend of yours?”

  “Friend of a friend.”

  A high-pitched giggle erupted out of Ruby Courtland. “Oh, stop that!” she scolded one of her admirers in a voice designed to arrest the attention of everybody in the soundstage.

  “Met the new girl in town?” Harlan asked.

  Kathryn dropped her notepad into her handbag and pulled out a pack of Chesterfields. She offered him one and they lit up. “I met her a couple of months ago on the Samson and Delilah set. She looked like she’d stepped off the bus straight from Dogpatch, begging me for advice. I suspect I’ve created a monster.”

  They chatted about Hughes’ announcement and agreed that it would give Joseph Breen sleepless nights. They shifted onto MGM’s upcoming silver jubilee until he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth like the villain in a penny dreadful. “I have some rather interesting news.”

  “Interesting news is always welcome.”

  “Naturellement, you didn’t hear this from moi, but Sheilah Graham and Max Factor have had a falling out.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Ever heard of Faith Domergue?”

  “Should I have?”

  “One of Hughes’ hopefuls. He engaged me to take some new shots of her but she was having trouble concentrating, so I took her to the Formosa for a bite. In the booth next door were these two businessman types. My ears pricked up when I heard the words ‘Factor’ and ‘Graham.’ One of them was a lawyer for Max Factor and he was telling his pal how Sheilah got greedy—or at least her lawyers did. The Max Factor people felt her demands were excessive. She wouldn’t budge so they walked away from the deal.”

  “The radio show is off?”

  “The show’s still on, but the job of host is up for grabs.”

  Kathryn gripped him by the lapels in mock menace. “You wouldn’t kid a girl, would you?” He told her he wasn’t that kind of schmuck. “Your guy at Young and Rubicam, could he get me a name?”

  “Already called him.”

  “And?”

  “They’ve drawn up a short list.”

  “How short?”

  “Six names, and two of them are here right now.” He jerked his head in Ruby’s direction.

  The girl had doubled her number of fans. She was now a crinoline away from looking like Scarlett at the barbeque.

  Kathryn flicked a shower of ash in Ruby’s direction. “She’s younger, prettier, and busting out with work-the-crowd charm. How am I supposed to compete with that?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.” He hit exactly the right tone she needed to hear. “You’ve got masses more experience. Plus, younger and prettier don’t matter in radio.”

  Ruby reached her punch line and her rapturous audience broke apart in overstuffed laughter. Harlan said he had an appointment with Hughes about a shampoo advertisement for Diana Lynn. She waved goodbye and stepped onto the hotel room set, finding a shadow to conceal herself in. For the next ten minutes, she watched Ruby wink and flirt, pout and twitter until she realized a stagehand was standing next to her.

  “Our art director tells me this set ain’t grimy enough.” He lifted a bucket of dirt. “This here’s genuine grime. I’m going to have to ask you to—”

  “Sorry to get in your way.”

  Outside, she heard Ruby call her name. It was an effort to watch the girl jiggle toward her in a too-tight skirt.

  “You seem to have caught the hang of things.”

  Ruby pulled a face. “All I did was make a fool of myself.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Your advice was to just be me, but for some reason I turned into Blanche DuBois.”

  She’d slathered on the makeup with a heavy hand, but up close, the chignon looked fine. “You’ll get there.”

  Ruby lifted one shoulder as though to say, I’m glad you think so. “I saw you talking to Harlan McNamara.”

  “You know him?”

  “Did he tell you about Max Factor’s shortlist?”

  Get a load of little Miss Finger-on-the-Pulse. Kathryn asked, “You heard?” when she really wanted to ask, How do you know that Harlan knows?

  Ruby nodded. “And I thought New York had a grapevine! It’s a dried-up old weed compared to out here. I suppose he told you we’re both on it?”

  Kathryn kept her face neutral, and simply nodded.

  “I want you to know that I wouldn’t take the job, even if they offered it to me.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  Ruby threw her arms out wide and dropped them to slap her sides. “I barely know what I’m doing! Making a fool of myself in front of those people in there makes me want to go hide under the covers. Why would I want to tempt fate by standing in front of a microphone connected to millions of people? I don’t even know why I’m on that list, but if they’re fool enough to offer me the job, I’m going to tell them they’ve made a wrong call and give it to you instead.”

  Kathryn wasn’t sure how to respond. Of course, Ruby saying she’d knock it back wasn’t the same as doing it, but the gesture was enough.

  “How about we cross that bridge if we come to it?”

  Ruby nodded in a demure sort of way that made her look like a twelve-year-old caught breaking into Mommy’s beauty case. “Can I walk you to your car?”

  Oh God. That damned tire. “I got a flat on the way over. I’m parked on Gower.”

  “Let’s find you a payphone and call the Auto Club.” Ruby took in Kathryn’s blank face. “Please tell me you’re a member.”

  “Do they let you sign up on the spot?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Marcus arrived at Oliver’s front door and shifted the extra-cheese tuna casserole from his right arm to his left. He hesitated before knocking. I used to just let myself in.

  After the incident at the hospital, Oliver told Marcus it might be best if he didn’t come again. “We’ll catch up on lost time once I’m home.” Marcus had counted the days until Oliver’s release, and was elated when news finally came mid-January that he would be discharged the following Friday.

  Marcus spent the whole of that Thursday vacuuming, dusting, and scrubbing Oliver’s apartment near the corner of Sunset and Western. He stocked the cupboards and icebox with every staple he could think of, filled a big vase with sunflowers and propped a card against it welcoming Oliver home. Call me when you get in! He left it unsigned, just in case.

  Marcus stayed home all day, and the following one, too, but no call came. By Sunday lunchtime, he could no longer restrain himself.

  A mixture of relief and disappointment welled up when Oliver answered the telephone. Yes, he’d been discharged. Yes, he was happy to be home. Yes, he noticed how nice everything looked. Yes, he got the flowers and card. Yes, goddamnit, he was going to call. Of course he was going to call, but it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet. What? It’s Sunday? What happened to Saturday?

  Looking back, that should have been the first clue. But Marcus had been so cross-eyed happy to have Oliver back that he tried to be understanding when Oliver told him that a migraine was coming on. He’d been suffering from them since the accident. He wasn’t up for visitors. He’d call when he felt better.

  Oliver took three days to call, but when he did, to Marcus’ boundless joy, he sounded like the pre-accident Oliver. The Oliver who had pursued him like nobody else. The Oliver who had helped him forget Ramon Novarro.

  In the privacy of Oliver’s apartment, their reunion was sweet and tender. He loved the sunflowers. He appreciated the full Frigidaire. He’d slept with Marcus’ note under his pillow. They touched. They kissed. They chuckled about Breen.

  The bliss lasted two hours.

  Marcus was preparing cheese and crackers as they chatted about Lucille Ball’s new radio show, My Favorite Hu
sband. Oliver hadn’t heard it yet and Marcus told him how the announcer introduced each episode by saying, “Now, let’s take a look at the Cooper family, two people who live together and like it.”

  It had long been Marcus’ fantasy that he and Oliver might one day live together at the Garden of Allah. Back when Marcus was at MGM and Oliver worked for the Breen Office, it was a pipe dream. But now that Marcus’ situation had changed, he felt they were one step closer to cohabitation. Bringing up My Favorite Husband was his way of inserting the idea into their conversation, but he didn’t get that far.

  He was arranging the crackers on a blue glass platter when Oliver screamed “DAMNIT ALL TO HELL!” Marcus’ copy of Sexual Behavior in the Human Male hit the wall by his head and tumbled to the floor.

  Oliver was disturbingly pale; his neck blotched with crimson. Marcus asked him what was wrong.

  “I can’t do this!” His eyes burned with fury. “I can’t stand it! The flowers! The crackers! The cheese! None of it!”

  This was about more than smoked Gouda. “I just wanted you to come home to a nice place, so if I overdid it—”

  Oliver started taking staccato breaths. “It’s enough to drive a guy into the loony bin!”

  “What is?” Marcus walked out of the kitchen, figuring if he could touch Oliver, it might calm him down, but it had the opposite effect.

  Oliver grabbed up his walking sticks and hobbled backward into the corner of his living room. “You have to go!”

  “Oliver, honey, I don’t—”

  “Now! Before I lose my mind! GET OUT!”

  Marcus vowed not to return until he received an apology. When Oliver called a couple of days later begging forgiveness and confessing that he didn’t know what came over him, he promised it wouldn’t happen again.

  But it did. Every time.

  Marcus would go to Oliver’s place. They’d make dinner, and later play cribbage or listen to the radio. Everything would be fine, easy and relaxed as it always had been, until events took a ninety-degree turn. A dark cloud would thunder across Oliver’s face, then a newspaper or a hat would fly across the room, or a checkerboard would be swept from the table.