Gwendolyn’s fingers pressed against the soft gray leather of her pocketbook as Nelson turned off Wilshire Boulevard and into the basement parking lot of the tower above the Wiltern Theatre. He pulled into the first available slot and switched off the engine. Neither of them moved.
“I really don’t want to be here,” she said, as much to the ball of resentment burning in her chest as to Nelson. “If I’d known the Wrong Door Raid was going to explode in my face, I’d never have gotten involved.”
“Don’t go hauling yourself over the coals for wanting to be a good friend. Marilyn needed you, and you were there for her.”
“I don’t blame this Kotz woman for suing them.” She wound her window down to let in the cooling spring breeze. “They smashed her front door to smithereens in the middle of the night. I hope she skins them alive. I just wish she could have found a way to do it without identifying me as a witness.”
“I guess that’s what happens when you become famous.”
Gwendolyn had been too nervous to drive herself this morning, but both Kathryn and Marcus had plans. So, when Nelson had volunteered, she’d gratefully taken him up on his offer. Now more than ever, she appreciated the calming way he had about him. He was that guy who could be counted on for a hospital dash at two in the morning, or lend twenty bucks to see you through to payday. No wonder Kathryn had fallen for him—or had never really gotten over him.
“Thanks for coming along,” she said. “You’ve probably got a million things you could be doing—”
“All of which can wait,” he assured her. “A big, fat, ugly mess has landed in your lap and you shouldn’t have to go through today’s hearing by yourself.”
A big, fat, ugly mess was exactly what had landed in Gwendolyn’s lap. Confidential’s newsflash about the Wrong Door Raid had sparked a firestorm of outrage over Sinatra and DiMaggio’s antics. Those two had allowed their unfettered narcissism to overrule common decency and had terrorized a defenseless spinster.
But once the initial barrage of negative publicity had started to wither, other scandals had displaced it in the headlines. Howard Hughes had bankrupted RKO, and some kid from Tupelo, Mississippi, had recorded a song called “Heartbreak Hotel,” which everybody was predicting would be the biggest song of 1956. Nobody cared about a busted door from eighteen months ago.
The whole mishap seemed destined to recede from the public spotlight until Florence Kotz had decided that Sinatra and DiMaggio and their gang of hangers-on ought to pay for what they did. No doubt her lawyer had told her that she was going to need witnesses. And evidently, Florence had turned on her television to watch Gentleman’s Agreement and saw on her TV screen the same woman who’d been screaming at Sinatra and DiMaggio like she was going to kick their butts all the way to Death Valley.
At least Kotz’s lawyer had been discreet about it by contacting Gwendolyn at the Garden of Allah and not at the studio. And he hadn’t alerted the media and let them know that a preliminary hearing was to be held. The slightest hint of a scandal could be enough to endanger her job. Looking back, it was funny how a simple change in makeup could have boosted her self-confidence so much. But it had, and since then, she’d grown so comfortable that the thought of losing a job she never wanted in the first place made her apprehensive.
Nelson got out of the car, rounded the hood, and opened her door. As she took his extended hand, she noticed a skinny guy in a dark gray suit step out from behind a concrete pillar.
Gwendolyn told Nelson to give her a minute.
Sinatra’s trilby hat bobbed and jiggled in his fingers.
“You’re taking an awful big chance,” she told him.
To his credit, he met her in the eye. “There’s a lot at stake.”
She thought about the photos back at her apartment. Intuition had told her to keep them hidden, so she’d only told Kathryn. “You didn’t think some scared little spinster would take you on, did you?” He shook his head wistfully. “You and Joltin’ Joe must have gagged on all that humble pie.”
Frank pouted. “He suspected Marilyn was having an affair.”
“But—”
“Yeah, I know. She’d already announced plans to divorce him. But technically, they were still married and working toward reconciling. Joe really thought that.”
“So he smashed down her front door?”
“That wasn’t the plan! Joe and me, we were supposed to stay in the car and those two private eyes, Barney and Phil, were just going to take a look around. What can I tell ya? Joe got hot under the collar. You know what us wops can be like. We can get a little nuts, especially in matters of the heart.”
“Reducing someone’s door to toothpicks is more than ‘a little nuts.’”
“Joe didn’t want a divorce. He still loves her. Not Marilyn the movie star, but Norma Jeane, the sweet girl who the public doesn’t get to see. Emotions were running high and passions got the better of us. We got carried away. C’mon! We’re only human, after all.”
Gwendolyn made a point of looking at her watch. She should’ve been in the elevator heading to the seventh floor. “Why are you here?”
“We’re gonna fix this,” Frank said. “Our lawyers are gonna make an offer. It’ll be very generous. She’ll do well out of it. I promise. But first, we’ve gotta go through this dog-and-pony show. All you need to say is that the two men you encountered outside Kotz’s apartment were strangers. You’d never seen them before and would be hard-pressed to recognize them because it was late, it was dark, the whole scene was pandemonium.”
“In other words,” Gwendolyn said, “you want me to lie.”
“More like bending the truth. Yes, you were there; yes, there was a baseball bat; yes, Florence’s door got cracked open. But it was late, and dark, and everything was a crazy blur. A year and a half later, you can’t be sure who was holding the bat.” It hadn’t escaped Gwendolyn’s notice that Frank had switched on his crooner voice. “It’s just a preliminary hearing, which means no judge. You won’t be required to take an oath, so perjury isn’t an issue. Once it’s over, our lawyers will take care of everything. It’ll all go away—including for you. I’m real sorry you got caught up in all this. Your new bosses can’t be too happy.”
“They don’t know about it. The lawyers were very prudent.”
“See? They know what they’re doing. It’s just going to be your word against hers. What do you say?”
It wouldn’t be anybody’s word against anybody else’s if the right people could see the wrath and scorn splattered across those famous Sinatra and DiMaggio mugs captured by Marcus’s old camera. Then again, there was a good argument for admitting the least amount possible and letting the whole fiasco die a natural death. Saying nothing had helped abate her awkward encounter with Titus Hurley.
“I’ll think about it,” she told him.
He smiled and let out a long breath. “If you do this for us, we’ll be in your debt.”
She turned on her heel and threw off a parting shot. “You got that right.”
The meeting room overlooked the busy Wilshire and Western corner. In the distance, Gwendolyn could make out the silhouette of the Los Angeles City Hall in downtown LA—but only just. These days, the smog obscured what had once been clear-cut vistas across the city.
The four lawyers representing Frank and Joe wore near-identical dark suits, expensive silk neckties with matching pocket squares, and intentionally bland expressions designed to give away nothing. Opposite them sat an overweight lump with a disconcerting wheeze and a face shining with perspiration.
In the elevator, Gwendolyn had decided she would help them. Joe had been desperate that night because he was still in love with Marilyn; Frank had just been trying to be a loyal pal. But now she saw how feeble Kotz’s representation was in comparison.
The lead lawyer for Sinatra and DiMaggio sat closest to Gwendolyn. “Thank you for coming in, Miss Brick. We just need you to share your recollections of the night of November fifth, 1954.”
Florence’s lawyer pounded the table. “I object.”
Sinatra’s lawyer yanked off his reading glasses. “We’re not in a courtroom.”
“There is a stenographer present and I want the record to show that I take my job seriously. My client was severely traumatized by the actions of your clients.” The guy mopped his forehead—for all the good it did. “And just because they’re famous and admired and rich, doesn’t mean they can get away with what they did. I am prepared to take this to the Supreme Court if necessary.”
Frank’s lawyer paused to let the heat of the room dissipate. “In your own words, Miss Brick, with specific reference to what happened at the Kilkea Drive apartment house.”
Gwendolyn saw what was going on here. Kotz had engaged a rinky-dink lawyer who had lucked out with a once-in-a-lifetime case that he intended to showboat all the way up the Mississippi. This cut-rate Perry Mason could torpedo Florence’s generous settlement. Boy, oh boy, had she ever picked the wrong attorney.
“It’s hard to know where to start,” she told the room. Mainly because I’m not sure I want to comply completely to Frank’s request. But I’m going to have to tell them something.
“Wherever you wish.”
Cleaving closely to Frank’s version would have been too obvious, too rehearsed. Even this ambulance chaser would have found grounds to dismiss her testimony. So she told a new version, coloring in enough details—the sound of Florence’s splintering doorway, the color of Joe’s baseball bat, and a few gems Marilyn had said that night—to give it a ring of truth.
By the time she stood to leave, she felt certain she’d made a statement that didn’t contradict Florence Kotz, Frank Sinatra, or Joe DiMaggio. Still, it was a draining experience that she was glad to put behind her.
Nelson stood in the middle of the anteroom. “How did it go?”
“As well as can be expected.”
Nelson frowned as the elevator doors slid open. They stepped inside and he pressed the button for the parking basement. “The whole time you were in there, a guy kept walking back and forth in front of the conference room. Every now and then, he’d stop at the crack between the two doors.”
“Eavesdropping?”
“He tried to make out like he wasn’t, but he should’ve tried harder.”
En route to his Skylark, he pointed to a guy in chino pants and a button-down shirt getting into a late-model Pontiac.
“Are we going to tail him?” Gwendolyn desperately needed the distraction. “Like in the movies?”
Nelson unlocked his passenger door and ran around to the driver’s side. “It’s rarely as exciting as that, but yes.” He pulled out of the parking lot and fell in behind the Pontiac. “If the situation escalates, this guy ahead of us might prove to be a person of interest.”
“It won’t,” she told him. “Frank’ll make her a go-away-quietly offer and that’ll be the end of it.”
“Is that what he told you during your tête-à-tête?”
There were already enough people involved in this debacle so she kept quiet. They crossed San Vicente Boulevard into Beverly Hills. Their mark turned onto the first side street and pulled into the parking lot of a two-story office building.
Nelson slowed down enough to note the address. “We need to go back to my office and look up our city directory.”
Gwendolyn rubbed the bridge of her nose in an attempt to ward off an encroaching headache. “I can already tell you who has an office there.”
“Who?”
“Hurley’s Girdles.”
“The guy who sponsors your show?”
“But not, I suspect, for much longer.”