It was a straight shot down Sunset from the Garden of Allah to the CBS studios on the Gower Street corner. Gwendolyn could’ve even walked there if she felt inclined. But not thirty-five blocks in heels during an LA summer. Maybe during the cooler weather, she told herself. Or when my Studebaker finally gives out.
And then her Studebaker gave out. Clunk-clunk, whirl, grind, dead.
Fortunately, Chuck had spent the night at the Garden. He offered to give her a lift to the studio, stick around for the show, and then help her shop for a new car afterward. They had cruised a dozen blocks in his Cadillac before she realized he had grown oddly quiet. When she asked him if he was okay, he tried to start his sentence before abandoning it in favor of a new approach that was soon discarded too.
“Whatever it is,” she said, “just spit it out.”
“I think I should be your manager.”
She had feared that he wanted to pull his sponsorship or move to Pago Pago, so a statement like this was almost a relief—until she gave it some thought.
During the first few seasons of The Loretta Young Show, Gwendolyn had seen from the front row how the same arrangement worked with Loretta and her husband, Tom Lewis—or rather how it didn’t. Most of the time, bitter arguments had alternated with strained truces. It had been hard for Gwendolyn to watch Loretta launch herself into a successful second-act career but become too entangled in the vicissitudes of her personal life to enjoy it.
Chuck’s idea that she needed a manager was not without merit, but should they jeopardize this wondrous idyll that had taken them so many years to find? On the other hand, this was a man who did everything—from opening a Pago Pete’s in Boise to choosing his necktie—with exacting deliberation. A girl could do worse.
Gwendolyn pulled off her sunglasses and twisted in her seat. “How many reasons are on your list?”
A smidgen of a smile. “Just one.”
“It must be a doozy.”
“I’m a big believer in planning for the long haul.”
“We’re in agreement so far.”
“Your contract with Everett isn’t for an amount of time, but for a number of shows. That’s unusual, which means it’s probably more in his favor than yours. I did some calculating and at the current rate, your contract is due to run out in February. But what if he ups you from two episodes a week to three? Or five? It’s doing so well that he’s bound to renew. And when he does, you should be seeking more favorable terms. However, I suspect that you feel like you’re only one gaffe away from being given the old heave-ho.”
He was quite right. Yelling a cuss word on live television probably would have ended Brick by Brick on the spot but for two things: the deft way Chuck had handled Wesley Everett the next day, and a juicy carrot named Edith Head. She had arrived at KWOB armed with six outfits Doris Day had worn in Teacher’s Pet, and had just about drowned Everett in charm. He had quickly asked Edith if she would consider becoming a monthly regular. Being a crafty so-and-so who saw a chance to promote herself, Edith had agreed. It was a win all around, and had kicked off a summer of steadily climbing ratings.
Chuck continued, “I worry that you’ll feel as though you can’t negotiate from a position of strength. But as your manager, Everett and I can sit down, businessman to businessman.”
It certainly sounded like the intelligent course to take. He’d thought months ahead, whereas she was tottering from show to show, dreading that the next faux pas could be the last.
She thought of the time when Loretta had headed into hospital seeking treatment for overwork. Gwendolyn hadn’t been the least bit surprised. Loretta had been doing practically all the work while Tom was commandeering as much credit as he could get.
“What do you think?” Chuck asked.
Gwendolyn had been in Hollywood long enough to know that fame could twist the purest of intentions like pulled taffy. “I’ve seen this sort of scenario play out before,” she told him, “and things rarely work out well. I need some time to think it over.” Before he could reply, she changed the subject to what she should wear to the premiere of The Sweet Smell of Success.
It was the first time she’d attended one clutching an invite with her name on it. All these years, she’d tagged along as Kathryn’s guest, or Marcus’s. But now she had made it onto the guest list. She was someone people wanted to see at their glitzy shindigs. Her change in status felt mighty good. If getting a manager could raise her profile even higher, she was all for it, but was Chuck the right person for the job?
Gwendolyn was in the makeup room at KWOB when the telephone rang.
“I have some news.” There was a nervous edge to Nelson’s voice. “A friend of mine at the LAPD called this morning to give me advance information that’ll be hitting the news real soon.”
“Sounds serious.”
“A couple of months ago, two officers burst into Sinatra’s house at four in the morning to serve him with a subpoena ordering him to appear before the LA County grand jury investigating the Wrong Door Raid.”
Gwendolyn’s head suddenly felt heavier than a bowling ball. It dropped onto her chest. “Grand jury?”
Down the line she heard Nelson light up. “The case has been upgraded from burglary to conspiracy to commit malicious mischief. Breaking-and-entering charges might also apply, which gives you an idea how much Frank Sinatra, Joe DiMaggio, and Barney Ruditsky are probably staining their BVDs right now. They’ve changed their stories a whole bunch of times so they’re being threatened with perjury charges, too.”
When Gwendolyn had agreed to bend the truth about what happened that night, she had only done so because she thought that whole situation would get brushed under the rug like every other scandal since the invention of movie stars. “This could get mighty ugly, couldn’t it?”
“I’m telling you because Kathryn mentioned that you’re having Ava Gardner and Errol Flynn on your show today. Technically, Ava was Frank’s wife at the time of the Wrong Door Raid, so if she’s acting a bit nutty, you’ll know why.”
Ava Gardner and Errol Flynn had been big fish to land, and Gwendolyn would have had trouble convincing them had they not been neighbors once upon a forever ago.
“Thanks for the warning.”
Ava appeared in the doorway. “What warning?” She wore a smirk that was part tell-me-everything and part should-I-care?
Before Gwendolyn could fabricate a plausible response, Errol stepped out from behind her. “If your director is scared stiff that we might misbehave, tell him we promise to be angels.”
Ava burst out laughing. “Speaking of stiff, Errol was just reminding me about how Zanuck promised the Breen Office that we wouldn’t use the word “impotent” in our film but we did anyway. I said to Errol just now, ‘Zanuck’s fled to Europe and Breen’s retired, which leaves us holding the bag.’ Well, you can just imagine where his mind went.”
Gwendolyn blotted her lipstick. “We’re going to avoid the impotent story when we’re on live television, aren’t we?”
“If the conversation gets boring,” Errol said, “I could just yell ‘SHIT!’ at the top of my lungs. From what I’ve heard that’s okay around here.”
Gwendolyn pitched her hairbrush; it hit him in the crotch. Ava was still laughing when the floor manager knocked on the doorjamb and reminded them that it was thirty minutes to airtime.
“And welcome back,” Gwendolyn told camera one. “Next up, we have two of Hollywood’s biggest stars. They’re appearing in a new movie based on the Ernest Hemingway novel The Sun Also Rises, which arrives soon in theaters. Please welcome Ava Gardner and Errol Flynn.”
The sound guy blasted lush swashbuckler-type music as Ava and Errol made their entrance. But by the time the two of them had settled on the guest sofa, Gwendolyn could sense their camaraderie had gone awry. Ava was still all dazzling smiles and joie-de-vivre charisma. Errol, however, was a different story.
Back in the makeup room, he’d been his typical self: a rascally twinkle in the eye, a self-deprecating line poking fun at his playboy image, and that sloping don’t-take-me-seriously smile that had melted countless hearts and caused an equal number of Frederick’s of Hollywood panties to plunge ankleward.
But as he took his seat next to Ava, the twinkle had clouded to a dulled murkiness; his smile now drooped at the edges. Gwendolyn had seen this change a thousand times at the Garden: in the half hour since she’d left him in the dressing room, he had guzzled enough booze to take him from sober to sloshed.
Oh, Errol. How could you?
“The Sun Also Rises,” Gwendolyn said, looking at Ava. “Tell us what it’s about.”
“We’re part of a bunch of American and British 1920s ex-pats in Paris who set out to watch the running of the bulls in Spain.”
“So it’s based on Hemingway’s own experiences?”
“Uh-huh, which means we shot all over: Montmartre, Pamplona, Biarritz, Mexico City.”
“And quite a cast, too,” Gwendolyn said.
Errol started giggling, then caught himself. He sat up straight and pressed his lips together.
A split-second frown passed across Ava’s face; Gwendolyn hoped the camera was too far away to pick it up. “Tyrone Power, Mel Ferrer, Eddie Albert. And we were directed by Henry King, who scored big with The Song of Bernadette, David and Bathsheba, and Love is a Many-Splendored Thing.”
Errol elbowed Ava in the ribs with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “Shall we tell her about the script?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Ava’s voice took on a disturbing tremble. “The marvelous Peter Viertel wrote our script. He’s from Europe, so he was able to capture—”
“No, no, no.” Errol slid forward. “In the book, Hemingway brings up the subject of—”
“How about your costumes?” Gwendolyn intervened. “Charles LeMaire put you in a spectacular red number—”
“In Hemingway’s book, the subject of impotence comes up. Zanuck told Viertel to leave it in no matter what objections the Breen Office might have.” Errol let fly with a volley of giggles. “He told them we’d whip it out but we didn’t, so the joke’s on them!”
“Oh Errol, shush!” Ava said. “Talk like that will get us arrested.”
A honking donkey laugh belched out of him. “Well, darling, you know what they say about the family that gets arrested together.”
Ava drew back. “What does that mean?”
“Haven’t you heard about your husband? Or soon-to-be-ex? Or has the divorce gone through already? It’s hard to keep current with—”
“Get to the point.”
“So, about that red dress—”
Ava held up her hand to Gwendolyn while keeping Errol in her crosshairs. “Are you saying Frank’s been arrested?”
“That whole business about him and DiMaggio demolishing Marilyn’s door, only it was the wrong one.”
“What of it?”
“It’s now the subject of a grand jury.”
“IT’S WHAT?”
“The landlady has given testimony about how she saw someone confront Frank and Joe. This mystery woman was taking photographs as she argued with them. Rumors are rife that those photos have surfaced. If that’s true . . .” He drew a line across his throat with his thumb.
The night of the raid, Gwendolyn had been so intent on bawling out Sinatra that she’d given no thought to whether anyone had been watching. She looked at her notecards but could make out only meaningless squiggles. “Um—uh—” She glared at Errol, but he was now untying his yellow silk neckerchief from around his neck. She looked back at Ava, who was breathing rapidly through her nose as she studied the bouncing toe of her right foot.
“So, Ava,” Gwendolyn managed at last. “What’s next for you? I hear talk of a Stanley Kramer movie about the end of the world?”
Errol let out a snort. “Sounds to me like it’s the end of someone’s world.”
Gwendolyn slammed the door to her dressing room shut and pressed her fingertips to her throbbing forehead. Behind her, the door swung open again.
It was Chuck. “Have you recovered?”
“I told Errol not to say it! ‘Impotent!’ Oh my God!”
“Trust me, Errol Flynn just did you a favor.” His voice had turned honey-sweet.
“How do you figure that?”
“During the ad break, I went to see Everett.”
“I bet he was livid.”
“He was breathing into a paper bag.”
“He’s going to can me!”
“Not so fast, there, Seabiscuit. I told him to forget the impotent gag and focus instead on the Wrong Door Raid shocker. I pointed out that the public is fascinated by that raid so any news is big news, which means Brick by Brick is big news.”
Gwendolyn blinked away her tears. “So, you—fixed it?”
“I got him to see a different point of view.”
“You’re a miracle worker!”
“Remember what I said in the car? About what a manager can do for you?”
Tension drained out of Gwendolyn as though someone had pulled out her bath plug.
He sat down in her guest chair. “The mystery woman with the camera—it was you, wasn’t it?”
“How could you tell?”
“I was watching your face the whole time.”
“That raid was nearly three years ago! And I’m still dealing with the ramifications.”
“Those photos? Do they exist?”
“I should have destroyed them.”
“But now Sinatra and DiMaggio are being charged with a felony, so that would leave you open to being charged with evidence tampering.”
“So I have one option.”
“How can I help?” he asked.
“Rev your engines. We’re going to Toluca Lake.”
Outside Frank Sinatra’s house on Valley Spring Lane, a row of densely leafed trees towered ten feet over the sidewalk. Neither Gwendolyn nor Chuck had said much on the drive back to the Garden of Allah to retrieve the envelope of incriminating photos, or as they drove over the Cahuenga Pass. When he wished her “Good luck,” she nodded her thanks and stepped into the baking heat.
A broad wooden gate stretched across the driveway. She pressed the buzzer installed in one of the posts and hoped she wouldn’t hear the maid’s voice. She needed to place this envelope directly into his hands.
A voice came through the tinny speaker. “Y’ello?”
“Frank? It’s me, Gwendolyn.”
After an uncomfortably long pause, Frank appeared at the gate. He wore a blue-and-green-striped golf shirt, buttoned to the collar, and a chunky gold wristwatch that glinted in the afternoon sun. The gate squeaked open. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
She took off down the stone path, leaving him to follow.
The house was air-conditioned cool. He led her to a living room in matching pastels and contrasting florals. It reeked of “professional interior decorator” but was not the sort of room anyone relaxed in. They walked into a spacious kitchen lit on three sides by floor-to-ceiling windows.
“You want a drink?” he asked.
“I won’t be here that long.”
He let out a low whistle. “You heard the news, huh?”
“Remember that night how I was snapping photos with that camera?”
“The whole goddamned world knows about your goddamned camera.”
“I was only using it as a prop to scare you into behaving better.”
Frank crumpled backward onto a barstool at the kitchen counter. “You were faking it? Christ, you have no idea what a relief that is! With this case they’re building against us, everyone’s talking about these photos.”
Gwendolyn pulled the envelope from out of her purse and flung it on to the tiled counter. “Turns out, there was film in the camera.”
He stared at the envelope between them. “Are you here to shake me down?”
“I’m giving them to you, Frank.”
“No strings? No nothing?”
“You’ve been charged with a felony—”
“Not yet, we haven’t.”
“Destroying evidence carries a stiff penalty that I’m not prepared to risk. But if you are,” she lobbed the envelope across to him, “that’s your call.”
He emptied the contents onto the tiles. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Your conscience is your own responsibility, as is mine. Personally, I’d rather we just forget this ever happened.”
“If only.” He looked up, his eyes brimming with tears. “If you ever need a favor, no matter how big, I want you to come to me. I’ll fix it even if I have to move heaven and Earth.”
Gwendolyn was close to telling him “Never mind,” but if thirty years in Hollywood had taught her anything, it was that having one of the most well-connected people in town owing you a favor can be very handy. So instead she duplicated Ava’s enigmatic smirk from a few hours ago, told him, “I’ll see my own way out,” and sashayed back into the August heat.