The Garden on Sunset Page 9

  “Lawrence Grainger,” the man said, revealing teeth yellowed by too many Havanas. “What’s your name this week, toots?”

  “Gwendolyn Brick,” she replied, and wished she hadn’t. Lord, how she hated that name. She’d gone off ‘Gwendolyn Day’ and now thought ‘Gwendolyn Reed’ had a nice ring to it. But good ol’ Gwendolyn Brick kept popping out before she could stop it.

  Grainger was hunting through papers, menus and seating charts for something on his desk. “So,” he said without bothering to look up, “cigarette girl. You know what the job entails, don’cha?”

  “Selling cigars and cigarettes to patrons of the nightclub.”

  Grainger grunted and shook his head. “No, sweetheart,” he said. “The job is to sell sex.” He watched her for a response.

  Gwendolyn was startled but amused. “Really?” she smiled. “I thought that was the work of madams and pimps.”

  Grainger’s smile was genuine this time. “Sassy,” he said, nodding, “sassy is good. No, tootsie, what I mean is this: Nightclubs are in the same business Hollywood’s in. We sell glamour, fun, excitement, anticipation — all of which are just foreplay to the main event.”

  “Sex,” she repeated, now that she realized he was serious.

  “The promise of sex. You saw what that nightclub looked like out there, didn’t you? The renowned Cocoanut Grove nightclub at the glamorous Ambassador Hotel. Playground of the famously infamous and the infamously famous. Not what you were expecting, huh? Pretty awful, right? But turn off those stark overheads, and turn on the table lamps and the starlights in the ceiling, add an orchestra with a classy torch singer out front, and what have you got now?” He shimmied his hands like a minstrel. “A place reeking with the anticipation of sex.” He pulled the cigar from his drooly mouth and flicked ash into an ashtray shaped like a palm tree. “And when there’s the possibility of sex, people will hand over everything in their wallets. That’s why the cigarette girl is a real important part of what we’re selling here.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. Grainger heaved himself out of his chair and walked around his desk to park his generous behind on its edge. When he looked down at her, his three chins folded up like a concertina. She could smell his aftershave balm; it was musky and old-fashioned, and reminded her of her grandpa.

  “My last cigarette girl left because she got a contract at Universal. One of those full seven-year ones. They don’t come along every day.”

  Gwendolyn smiled. “They most certainly do not.”

  “You’d be seen by all the big kahunas in the industry.”

  “I imagine I would.”

  He cleared his throat and adjusted his egg-stained tie. “So, don’t you think that’s worth a little something?”

  Gwendolyn forced herself not to blink.

  So much for the clever speech about selling the possibility of sex and the cigarette girl’s importance to the team. It came down to I have what you want but do you want it badly enough to give me what I want? She should have seen Grainger as the lowlife sleazeball that he was, but his nifty spiel about selling sex had blindsided her. She had less than one minute to consider her options.

  Gwendolyn held the guy’s gaze and wondered if he realized that she was the type of girl who wasn’t completely above trading favors. After all, this was the nineteen twenties — women could vote now, they could smoke in public, go to college, even have a career. In other words they could behave exactly like men if they wanted. The question, Gwendolyn decided, wasn’t whether or not to consent, but if consenting was worth the reward.

  She thought about the dusty palm trees and the brandy stains on the carpet, her sprained ankle and her cozy villa, the interminable ride from Florida, her growing list of last names and her odds of making it to the silver screen. Gwendolyn adjusted her neckline and stood up. She bunched her right hand into a fist, pulled back and swiped the nightclub manager with a mean right hook, just the way her brother had taught her.

  “Hey!” Grainger cried out, covering his cheek. “That was pretty good for a dame.”

  Gwendolyn grabbed her purse and sneered at him. “Damn right it is, you big creep.”

  The putz suddenly broke into a genial smile and laughed a little. “Congrats, toots, you can relax now.”

  “Congratulations?” Gwendolyn’s heart was racing and her knuckles ached.

  “Sit down.” He gave her a nudge firm enough to land her back in the chair. “If you work here, you’ll have to handle every sort of pass mankind has ever dreamed up. The crude, the subtle, the squeezes, the sleazes — it’s a jungle out there, and you gotta be ready. You just proved that you can. You’re on the list, sweetheart.”

  “There’s a list?”

  He threw her an understanding look. “Don’t worry. None of them ever stay for long. You’ll move up fast. But hey, at least you’re on the list. Every girl I’ve put the make on who says yes, they don’t even get on the list. You did good, sugarpuss.” He picked up his cigar and jammed it back into his mouth. A pocket of drool collected at the edge of his lips. “You’re okay showing yourself out, aren’t you?”

  Gwendolyn nodded. Outside Grainger’s cluttered office, she gazed around at the papier-mâché trees and stuffed monkeys and chuckled. “I’m at the bottom of a list.”

  CHAPTER 19

  When John G. Bullock announced he was building a new department store on Wilshire Boulevard, people looked at each other over hands of gin rummy and asked who on earth was going to trek all the way down Wilshire to go shopping? All the good stores were downtown.

  When Bullock announced that he was going to face his store’s entrance toward the parking lot, people were ready to call the nut house. No street entrance? Valet parking for a department store?

  But when John G. Bullock opened his art deco temple on that half-deserted stretch of Wilshire Boulevard, people had to agree that the nutty guy had built a gorgeous building. The soaring fourteen-story tower was sheathed in copper that was already tarnishing a delightful shade of green, and the decorative panels were stunning. And wasn’t it so terribly convenient the way the parking attendant would give you a numbered card and deliver your packages to your car while you shopped?

  Kathryn Massey stood under Bullock’s porte-cochere admiring the hand-painted geometric mural named The Spirit of Transportation. It was as art deco as art deco gets: an ocean liner, the figure of Mercury, and a trio of biplanes escorting the Graf Zeppelin, all with a patina of emerald green and sky blue and sunset orange.

  She gazed up at the dirigible and thought, So, the three of us meet again.

  Kathryn had sent three sample articles to Mr. Wilkerson in the past few months, but she hadn’t heard a word from him which was disappointing because she believed they were all damn fine articles. One was about Britain’s Chancellor of the Exchequer, Winston Churchill, and his recent speech at MGM, the second was about Douglas Fairbanks Junior’s marriage to Joan Crawford, and the other covered the banning of Norma Shearer’s new movie The Trial of Mary Dugan by the stiff-necked bluenoses. She’d been to his office twice to try and talk her way into an interview, but the guy proved as slippery as soap in the rain.

  When she discovered that Robert Benchley and Wilkerson shared the same bootlegger, she learned he drove a kelly green Pontiac Landaulette with silver-white trim. Through a series of lucky coincidences enabled by the reliably soused residents of the Garden of Allah — this on-going recession hadn’t killed the Garden of Allah party for long — Kathryn learned that Billy Wilkerson took his wife to Bullock’s new store every Thursday for supper in the tea room on the top floor.

  “Are you still waiting for your automobile, ma’am?” A valet offered her one of those concerned professional smiles.

  “Oh no,” she said, “I’m waiting for a friend.”

  The attendant nodded and withdrew, leaving her to feel conspicuously out of place. The only other people lingering around the store’s porte-cochere were swells still rich enough to aff
ord the top-drawer prices at Bullock’s Wilshire.

  Kathryn glanced at her wristwatch. It was nearly six P.M.; Wilkerson and his wife were nearly half an hour late. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the attendant watching her. Perhaps she should wait inside.

  Just then, a shiny green Landaulette pulled into the parking lot. Kathryn stepped into a shaded corner and watched Mr. and Mrs. Wilkerson climb out of their car and walk into the store. She followed closely and strolled past them as Wilkerson kissed his wife by the fox furs and headed for the hat department.

  Wilkerson browsed his way through bowlers, panamas, top hats and straw boaters. When he wandered over to an ornate display of felt fedoras, Kathryn decided to make her move. Her heart rate ratcheted up a notch or two.

  A couple of skinny guys in faintly shiny suits in different shades of gray strode past her and straight for Wilkerson. They both sported the pallor of people who spent too much time indoors, which made them more than conspicuous in the rarified atmosphere of the leisure class.

  Wilkerson swung around with his back to the hat display and acknowledged them with a curt nod. Kathryn made her way around the curved display case and stood with her back pressed against a column.

  “In the market for a hat?” a shiny suit asked.

  “You know what I’m in the market for.” Wilkerson sounded terse.

  “The captain of the Montfalcone wants you to know that this meeting has no bearing on your reputation, good, bad or otherwise.”

  “Nor,” added the second suit, “does it mean he doesn’t consider you the type to welsh on your debts.”

  “That situation at the Colony Club, it was a one-time thing,” Wilkerson retorted. “A misunderstanding that got out of hand.”

  “He just needs to ensure the quality of his passengers.”

  “I get it. One bad apple and all that. So am I in?”

  “It ain’t up to us.”

  “So when will I hear?”

  “We just needed to meet ya first, is all. In person, like. Expect a telegram and due course.”

  Kathryn peered through the fedora stands to see the men’s shiny backs retreat toward the entrance. She turned to follow Wilkerson but couldn’t move. She tugged again. She reached behind her back and touched cool metal. Her coat was caught on something that wouldn’t give.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a husky European voice.

  Kathryn twisted inside her coat to look over her shoulder at a slim woman enveloped in an enormous mink coat. “You should not move,” she said. “You have become caught on a fire extinguisher. If you pull it the wrong way, you will cover all those lovely fedoras with foam.” She began to untangle Kathryn. “I have seen you at the Garden of Allah, yes?”

  “Do you live there, too?”

  The woman gave Kathryn’s coat a tug. “I like to go there when I am feeling . . . ensnared. The first time I saw you was right after the opening. You tripped over a man with hair the color of sand and a round face. He was tying his shoelaces. You collided and fell into the pool. Ah! Voila!”

  Freed from the claws of the fire extinguisher, Kathryn turned around to find Greta Garbo exactly as she looked onscreen. Her face was perfectly symmetrical, her skin as smooth and unblemished as a Swedish snowfall.

  “Oh!” Kathryn could feel herself blush. “You saw that, huh?”

  Garbo allowed herself a cool smile and shrugged. “I am a keen observer of people. I endeavor to remember everything I see. At the Garden of Allah, I am left alone to watch and witness.”

  “Well, thank you for saving me from myself.”

  Garbo shook her head. “Think nothing of it. If our positions had been reversed, I would like to think that you’d have paid me the same courtesy. But may I ask upon whom were you spying?”

  Kathryn stared at Garbo and considered the actress’ notorious wariness of the press. How would she react to Kathryn’s story of stalking someone who was about to start up a new trade newspaper? She’d probably wish she had left Kathryn hanging off the fire extinguisher.

  “I overheard some men talking about the Montfalcone,” Kathryn said. “Do you know what that is?”

  Garbo smiled her famously enigmatic smile. “It is one of those floating casinos anchored beyond the reach of the vice squad.”

  “You mean like the Rex. Have you been there? Is it classy?”

  Garbo laughed easily. “They probably think that it is. But nothing compares to Monte Carlo.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The color didn’t suit her, the shoulder pads were an inch too wide, and the cigarette tray weighed more than she’d expected, but the Cocoanut Grove had lost three girls in two weeks and telegrammed the day before New Year’s Eve. Gwendolyn showed up early.

  “How does it fit?” Grainger asked through the door. “Hopefully good, ’cause it’s the only one we got.”

  “It’s good enough,” Gwendolyn answered. The purple and emerald panels and fine gold braid wouldn’t have been her first choice, but it wasn’t awful. She emerged from the storeroom.

  Her new boss nodded his approval. “Okay, so here are the rules. Firstly: No drinking with customers. Ever. Secondly, flirting is acceptable, but only for the purposes of increasing tips. You can smile, wink, laugh, giggle and wiggle all you want, but no kissing, no dancing, and definitely no fucking. Tips are fine, but only in cash. No jewelry, no furs, no clothes, no flowers, no nothing. If I catch wind of you breaking the rules, I’ll can your ass faster than you can say ‘Chesterfields or Camels.’ Any questions?”

  “What if someone asks me for something I don’t have in my tray?”

  “If the jerk is real particular, there’s a tobacconist in the foyer. His name is Bobo. He’s got everything — and I mean everything. Bobo is your new best friend.”

  Grainger motioned to a stoic-looking guy with dark eyes and a deeply dimpled chin. “Chuck,” said Grainger, “I want you to meet Gwendolyn, our new cigarette girl.”

  Chuck did a double take. “What happened to —? Oh, the Chaplin thing?”

  “Keep an eye on this one for me, will you?” He turned to Gwendolyn. “Chuck here is our bartender. Not that the Cocoanut Grove has a bar that needs tending, you understand?” He winked. “Good luck, kiddo.”

  That night, the Cocoanut Grove looked nothing like the shabby barn she had seen a couple of months ago. Tuxedoed gentlemen and their rhinestoned dates negotiated the huge dance floor while a brunette stood in a shaft of light onstage, her white dress shimmering with crystal beads that must have weighed a ton. She sang “Button up Your Overcoat” in front of Paul Whiteman’s orchestra of nearly thirty. A few revelers hurled balled-up napkins at the stuffed monkeys in the papier mâché palm forest.

  By eight-thirty, the place was packed with hedonists determined to send out the twenties with a bang. By ten, she knew the prices of every brand of tobacco in her tray and by eleven she figured she had enough tips to buy more comfortable shoes at a place Chuck recommended. The crowd grew louder as the night wore on, but nobody made any passes, or attempted to pinch her behind. This was just a fun crowd which happened to be liberally sprinkled with some of the world’s most famous faces. She wasn’t quite prepared, however, when a burly grizzly bear of a man appeared. He cornered her, leering like a drunken Viking.

  “Havanas,” he said, breathing whiskey on her.

  Gwendolyn maintained her smile and held up the two brands she carried. “I have Old Q and Hall’s Panatela.”

  He didn’t break his stare. “Gimme six of the Old Q.” His eyes wandered over her cleavage as he extracted his wallet from his tuxedo jacket. The black satin lapel had a dime-sized stain on it and he was missing a cufflink. He pulled out a fifty dollar bill and let it flutter into her tray. “Keep the change.”

  “This is a fifty, sir. The cigars only come to nine dollars.”

  “I know what I got in my wallet,” he said, raising his voice.

  Gwendolyn felt heads turn in their direction. He took the cigars i
n one hand and opened his mouth, but Gwendolyn cut him off with a thank-you-very-very-much-sir-and-enjoy-your-cigars and pressed past him. She didn’t look back.

  The half hour leading up to midnight was busy. The more people drank, the more they smoked, and on New Year’s Eve they smoked like Prohibition for tobacco was taking effect at midnight.

  Paul Whiteman took the microphone and led the countdown to midnight. Everyone was on their feet, roaring out each second and waving paper poppers. When the clock struck midnight, the dance floor became a fountain of bright streamers, and the orchestra struck up a fast, noisy Charleston. Gwendolyn supplied the crowd with a steady stream of Chesterfields, Kools, and Camels, but she was feeling the pinch of her three-inch pumps. They showed off her legs very nicely but they were not the shoe of choice for a working girl on her feet most of the night.

  At around one-thirty, a large, spirited party made a grand entrance. On the way to their table next to the dance floor, the men plopped into the laps of the most matronly ladies around and tweaked their noses. The ladies squealed and the dancers spun around to see what the fuss was. Gwendolyn caught Harpo Marx’s eye and winked their secret wink.

  He’d moved into the Garden of Allah just before the release of The Cocoanuts, the Marx Brothers’ first picture, and had settled quite happily into life in the upstairs apartment of his villa. But his downstairs neighbor didn’t appreciate his marathon piano playing as much as Gwendolyn and Kathryn did. When Harpo played, the neighbor banged on the ceiling incessantly. Harpo’s solution was to play Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto Number One as loud as he could, over and over and over, ignoring his neighbor’s pleas to stop. In the end, the downstairs neighbor couldn’t stand it any longer and moved out. Gwendolyn was there when someone from the next villa told a triumphant Harpo that his neighbor had been Sergei Rachmaninoff himself, and that the only reason he’d complained was that Harpo played his concerto so badly. Poor Harpo was mortified and begged Gwendolyn not to mention it to anyone. She hadn’t heard a note of the piece since then but now, whenever they passed each other around the Garden, they shared a Rachmaninoff wink.