Santa Monica,
California
December 1932
Irving’s head felt like a bowling ball. He groaned as he struggled to sit up.
The warmth of Norma’s hand on his spine seeped through his white silk pajamas. “You’re not going in, are you?”
“I have to.”
“But you’ve got the grippe.”
“Whatever this is, it’s not that.”
“Then what’s wrong with you?”
Christ almighty. His entire body was a bag filled with granite. He let his eyes fall shut. “Don’t know.”
“Even the great Irving Thalberg is entitled to take a day off now and then.”
“The studio Christmas party is today. They’re expecting us to be there. We can’t not show up.”
A shift in the mattress told him that Norma was crawling over to his side of the bed. She snuggled in behind, wrapping her arms around him. “How about this: I’ll do a movie-star entrance, and tell them sorry, you couldn’t make it. The Thalberg family will be represented, but you won’t have stretched yourself too thin.”
He lifted her wrist to his lips and kissed it. “I need to put in an appearance. We’ve scraped through 1932 in the black.”
“I wouldn’t call Grand Hotel, Red-Headed Woman, Smilin’ Through, and Red Dust ‘scraping by.’ We’re the only studio in town that showed a profit, mostly due to my exceedingly clever husband.”
“Which is why I must be there. The Depression isn’t going away. Next year could be an altogether different situation. We need to keep up morale.”
“That’s bound to be an interesting sight, considering the state of affairs between you and L.B.” He tried to stand, but she tugged him down. “The minions can wait an extra fifteen minutes.” She interwove her fingers with his. “You’re not invincible.”
“I never said I was.”
“Dr. Newmark told me you weighed in at a hundred twenty-two pounds last week.”
Please don’t play that card, Norma. I was shocked when I saw the scale, though I shouldn’t have been. My suits hang on me like I’m a wire clothesline.
She entwined her fingers with his. “We never did talk about Paul. Not properly. It’s not healthy to keep feelings all bottled up.”
He glanced at the clock. It was coming up to seven a.m. He should have been in and out of the shower by now.
He didn’t know why she had chosen this particular moment to bring up Paul. They still hadn’t talked about that horrible day because it was a conversation he didn’t want to have. Not now, not ever. But he’d promised himself that he would make it up to Norma, and she wasn’t going to let him get away with breaking that promise. And anyway, she was right about bottling up feelings. Maybe this was why he felt like a dish of crap left out of the icebox overnight. “How about tonight, after the party, and after we’ve put Junior to bed? You and me on the sofa?”
“I shall keep you to that.”
He kissed her lips. “I know you will.”
He stepped into the onslaught of freezing water, hoping it would expel the fog of lethargy dragging at his limbs.
The icy chill sucked the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath. He slapped his palms against the shower tiles for support and refused to move until he could feel the warm water seep through.
He looked down at his body. So pale. So thin. His hips stuck out like sun-bleached spits of land; his chest bowed in toward his spine.
I’ve seen polio victims with sturdier bodies.
The punishing cold water had done the trick. He felt slightly more alive. A little less burdened. His thoughts turned to Paul, as they had every day since that ghastly week in September.
Mayer and Strick’s storyline had sounded plausible. And maybe it wasn’t all that far from the truth.
Three days after Paul’s death, his common-law wife had drowned in the Sacramento River. Perhaps this Dorothy Millette, whom Irving had never heard of, had visited Paul, and perhaps Jean had found out. Or walked in on them. Whatever had transpired, obviously all had not been lovey-dovey on Easton Drive. And now Paul was dead and Jean’s promising career needed safeguarding from the floods of gossip and speculation that predictably followed. So Irving had gone along with the narrative that L.B. and Howard had crafted.
But then came the inquest.
Why did L.B. have to recruit that doctor? And why did the doctor agree to appear on the witness stand and swear—on a Bible, no less—that Paul had suffered from “a physical handicap that would’ve prevented a happy marriage.” Irving had heard enough improvised lines on soundstages and in screening rooms to know a carefully crafted phrase when he heard one. He had been so sickened and dispirited by the whole farce that when it had come time for him to testify, he’d only been able to mumble vague answers.
Norma’s silhouette appeared through the shower’s frosted glass. “You’re going to the studio, then?”
The thought slugged him that this was his first holiday season without Paul. The ache in his heart almost brought him to tears.
The Irish fishing village set on stage seven had been built for Marion Davies’ next film, Peg o’ My Heart. As Irving and Norma approached it, she stopped him and made a fuss over straightening a shirt cuff that didn’t need straightening. “What’s our secret sign?”
“What for?” he asked.
“To let me know you’ve had enough and we can vamoose. You’re much improved over how you were this morning, but you’re still worryingly peaky.”
A peppy version of “Jingle Bells” capered through the air.
“When I pull at my collar and adjust my cufflink, that’s your cue.”
Irving was glad to hear that he looked better, but the ache hadn’t left his body and a fog had settled over him, refusing to budge. He couldn’t let the hundreds of studio workers see him under siege like this. Plaster a smile on your face. These people want to brag to family and neighbors, ‘I shook Thalberg’s hand tonight. Yep, the man himself, and gosh he’s nice.’
A tidal wave of conviviality engulfed them. Chummy backslaps. Sociable kisses to the cheeks from secretaries and script girls. Sing-songed “Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Thalberg!” from gaffers and sound recorders whose names he should have known. They meant well, but they weren’t to know the colossal effort it took. That every greeting cost him far more than what they got out of it. But this was part of his job—to keep up morale and team spirit.
Noblesse oblige, Irving. Noblesse goddamn oblige.
A tumbler of whiskey found its way into his hand. A couple of deep sips made it easier to maintain the façade. Yes, Grand Hotel was a swell picture, wasn’t it? Red Dust sure did show the world what a dynamo duo Gable and Harlow are. Another sip and the tension in his shoulders melted a little. No, he hadn’t read the new Booth Tarkington novel yet. Why, yes, he had heard about this Anthony Adverse book everybody was talking about, but Warners had already bought the rights, so that was the end of that.
The band opened “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” with a long trumpet blast, followed by a bartender popping a champagne cork. Almost on cue, the crowd parted to reveal Mayer and the two directors he’d recently hired.
“THERE HE IS! OUR GOLDEN BOY!” Mayer’s voice was loud enough to reach the cheap seats in the Roxy Theatre. He glided toward Irving with his arms outstretched like he was goddamn Moses. “Someone get Golden Boy a refill!”
Is that how you’re going to play it? A dog-and-pony show for the benefit of the staff? You might fool them, but your stratagem is patently obvious to me. A project here, a director there, a star here, a producer there. You’re chipping away at my authority and you won’t let up until you’ve ground it to dust.
A waiter appeared at Irving’s side with a fresh glass of whiskey. He plucked it off the tray and raised it high. “A toast to each of you,” he told the gathering. “Without your effort and dedication to bring our vision to the screen, we wouldn’t have enjoyed the success we’ve had this past year. So here’s to continued prosperity.”
Mayer let the applause rise and fall. “And let me take this opportunity to officially welcome our two newest and most notable additions. Let’s give a hearty Metro reception to Mr. Mervyn LeRoy and Mr. Frank Capra!”
As the staff surrounding him let fly with another round of cheers, Irving scanned the faces until he saw his wife. She was a vision in emerald watered silk and matching earbobs. He raised his hand to his collar and twisted the pewter monogrammed cufflink.
The day after Christmas, Irving sank into the tufted love seat in his study and opened the screenplay for Tugboat Annie. It didn’t feature sleek beautiful people in the prime of their physical appeal, so it was a risky proposition—even if he cast Marie Dressler and Wallace Beery. Irving had no problem taking a chance on unconventional material, but he had to run all decisions through Mayer.
How much of a risk would it be, though? Norman Reilly Raine’s Tugboat Annie stories in The Saturday Evening Post were as popular as Dressler and Beery. As long as there was a love story, Mayer wouldn’t sink the idea. Or would he? Out of spite? Look at what he’d done to Jack Gilbert’s career.
Irving spread a tartan blanket over his legs and read the opening scene featuring two tugboats, the Narcissus and the Salamander. Annie jumps out on deck and yells across the water, “Hi Bullwinkle, you old baboon!” Cut to Terry Brennan on the bridge of his tugboat shaking his fist at her. “Annie Brennen, I’ll get even with you if it takes the rest of my natural life!”
Yes, oh, yes, Dressler and Beery would be perfect. Perhaps he could use one of Mayer’s new pets as a guarantee. If Mervyn LeRoy did I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, he could pull this off.
Irving settled in for a long read, but couldn’t focus. The Christmas party from two days ago. The look on Junior’s face when he saw the rocking horse waiting for him Christmas morning. Had Edmund Goulding done anything with his idea about a Park Avenue party-girl? That Myrna Loy actress he’d spotted at the festivities. She had potential. He should bring her in after the new year.
He rested his head on the back of the sofa. Bile curdled his stomach, leaving his mouth acrid and dry. Pushing Tugboat Annie aside, he tottered to his bar and opened a bottle of ginger ale. The bubbles freshened his tongue, but swallowing it took effort. He had to push down a second swill.
A disconcerting surge of warmth rippled across his torso. The warmth metamorphosed into discomfort, the discomfort into pain. He brought his hands to his chest and was surprised to see only his right hand there. His left arm hung limply by his side. The pain crawled to his shoulder, down his arm, to his wrist. His fingers shook like he had the palsy when he tried to make a fist.
What the hell was— “Oh, god! No, no, NO!”
He backed away from the bar. His bottle of nitroglycerin pills sat on his desk across the room. The outer edges of his consciousness shriveled and splintered. He made it to the edge of the desk, where he flattened his body against the papers and files. He managed to seize the bottle between his fingertips, but it wobbled out of his shaky grasp and toppled over the side. A shrill crash rang out as it hit the floor. Irving sank to his knees. Pills and glass shards scattered in all directions. His vision was blurring and darkening in waves. He reached for the closest pills, but they were fragments of glass. The jagged points pierced his skin. Drops of blood. So red. Trickling down his finger.
“Norma!” Her name came out a rasping hiss.
Nobody can hear me.
Nobody’s coming.
The wooden Philco radio set Norma had placed on Irving’s bedside table was tuned in to The Voice of Firestone. The New York Met’s coloratura soprano had sung an aria from The Barber of Seville, but that had been some time ago. He wasn’t sure how long. He was restless. Bored. Fidgety. Norma had moved the Philco into his bedroom to calm him—but it hadn’t.
He couldn’t even gaze out the window. Norma had drawn the curtains, admonishing, “No distractions! Doctor’s orders. Rest! Rest! Rest! That’s all you need to do.”
All he’d done was take it easy. Four days of it. Lying there. Nothing to do but listen to his heart beating.
For the first day or so, he was grateful that his heart was beating at all. That he’d managed to find a couple of nitroglycerin pills before he passed out. That Norma had heard the shattering glass.
But now it was day four and he was fed up with doing nothing.
Rest wasn’t restorative. Peace and quiet weren’t a cure. Work was the tonic. It made his nerve endings tingle. It got him out of bed in the morning and charged him with the oomph that thrust him through the day and into the night.
Lying in bed like a broken doll freed his mind to sprint. So much to do. Projects on hold. Reports unread. Budgets needing approval. The longer he was absent, the more catching up he’d have to do.
The sound of the front doorbell filled Irving’s ears. He sat up. Muffled voices drifted down the hallway. Pushing the covers away, he padded over to the window and cracked open the drapes. He recognized the Alpine-blue Cadillac coupe parked in the driveway. He’d helped one of his producers, Lawrence Weingarten, pick it out not long after Lawrence had married Irving’s sister, Sylvia.
Irving opened his bedroom door and called out, “Send him here. Immediately!”
Norma stepped into view, frowning. They stared at each other, not daring to blink, until Norma gave in.
Irving climbed back into bed. “And close the door behind you,” he told Lawrence, “in case prying ears don’t approve of us talking shop.”
Well-educated with a quiet air of authority, Lawrence hadn’t had a resounding hit yet, but that was a matter of time and the right material. He positioned a chair alongside the bed. “You’re looking . . . uh . . .”
“Like someone dug me up from Hollywood Cemetery and then dragged me through the wringer in a Chinese laundry?”
A sardonic smile. “Nobody goes through what you went through and comes out vamping like Vilma Bánky.” He toyed with the embroidered fringe of the blanket. “I hear this was a bad one.”
“If there’s such a thing as a good heart attack, I’d like to have one of those the next time around.” Irving slapped the coverlet. “Come on, spill it.”
“Spill what?”
“Anything. I am bored out of my bean, so I don’t care if you’ve come to tell me the Argentine box office for The Mask of Fu Manchu.”
The smile that Irving had hoped to see failed to materialize. “L.B. has lured Dave Selznick away from RKO.”
Irving swallowed hard. “Head of production?”
“That’s your job.”
“I’m a production head with one foot in the grave, so—”
“Listen,” Lawrence said, “nobody’s saying he’s brought Dave in to replace you. That’s not what’s happening, okay? But I did feel this was information you ought to know before you hit the deck again—whenever that is. Not that there’s any rush. We all want you to get well. L.B. included.”
“Told you that himself, did he?”
“Not in so many words, but of course he does.”
“Humor me and explain why you don’t think L.B. offered Dave my job.”
“Because the offer was only a two-year contract.”
A feeble breath leaked out of Irving. Production head contracts were seldom shorter than three years. “I bet it was generous.”
“Dave turned RKO around single-handedly, so that’s a fair assumption, I’d say.”
“And let’s not forget, he is married to L.B.’s daughter.”
Irving settled back on his raft of pillows. The Voice of Firestone was still playing. Brahms Symphony No. 4 filled the room with violins and cellos. He’d always enjoyed it, but had the lower notes always vibrated through his chest?
RKO had been sinking fast and Dave had pushed them into the black. Okay, so it was marginally, but these days, marginally was sufficient to keep the doors open. Moreover, Irving liked the guy. He was a bit too garrulous, perhaps. A little overly pushy. And was fonder of gambling than he ought to be. But he was full of pep and zest, was brave enough to take chances, and knew what he was doing.
What pierced Irving to the core was the stinking truth that lay in front of him like a dead fish.
After the first heart attack, Mayer had wailed about losing “the son I never had,” and whatever “my boy” needed to get back into shape, then that’s what they would do. What a different story this time around. Mayer had already begun to maneuver his chess pieces. And his opening gambit had been to replace the favored son, Irving, with the son-in-law, David.