A meteor struck Hollywood on the Friday before the July fourth weekend, when Walter Winchell unveiled that the author of the best-selling roman à clef, Reds in the Beds, was Clifford Wardell, head of Paramount Pictures’ writing department. The news sent scandalized Angelenos into bars and nightclubs to cluster for endless rounds of “Have you met him? Would you ever have guessed? What will happen now?”
Marcus was relieved that the truth was out. “Now that the mystery’s been solved,” he said to Kathryn over the scotch and soda somebody conjured that weekend by the pool, “maybe we can all get back to whatever passes for normal.”
But they both knew the ripples in that particular pond had swelled too far for that. Hollywood knew that the Divine Oasis was supposed to be the Garden of Allah, that NJN was really MGM, and that their head of the writing department, a senior member of the Communist Party called Eugene Markham, was a thinly veiled Marcus Adler. “Quite honestly,” Kathryn said the night after the Winchell show, “I’m surprised Mayer and Mannix haven’t hauled you across the coals already.”
The call from Mayer’s secretary, Ida Koverman, came before Marcus had finished his first cup of coffee the morning after the long weekend. “Your presence is expected at ten. Do not be late.”
With one minute to spare, Marcus let himself into the executive reception area. Ida pressed a button on her desk and the walnut door swung open.
Long before the name Benito Mussolini took on pejorative implications, Louis B. Mayer had decorated his office all in white to replicate the dictator’s. The fact that Mayer had chosen not to renovate mystified Marcus. He braced himself as he approached Mayer and his right-hand man, Eddie Mannix. Seated with them at the round conference table were two men Marcus had never seen before.
Skipping any perfunctory shaking of hands, Mayer asked him to be seated. He waved a hand. “This is Tanner and Ritchey from Legal.” He didn’t bother to distinguish one from the other; not that it mattered. To Marcus they both looked like they’d spent too much time preparing legal briefs in the office and not enough honing their tennis volleys.
Marcus took a seat as Mayer gripped a copy of Reds in the Beds. “You read this?” he asked.
Marcus nodded.
“I was told it was trash and to not waste my time,” Mayer said. “But of course, after Winchell . . .” He flicked the pages with his pudgy fingers. “It’s trash, all right, but it’s dangerous trash.”
“It’s dangerous,” Mannix added, “because it’s believable.”
“Only to those who want to believe it,” Marcus said.
“Are you a Commie, Adler?”
Mannix had seven inches and fifty pounds on Mayer, but they had the same beady eyes, which looked at Marcus with accusatory distrust. Meanwhile, Tanner and Ritchey maintained their professionally trained neutral lawyer faces.
Marcus took his time studying each of them before he picked up the book. “Would you be asking me if it wasn’t for this three-hundred-page pile of horseshit?”
“Of course not,” Mannix said, “but since Winchell’s show on Friday, it’s become an issue we can’t just hope will go away.”
One of the lawyers cleared his throat. “Mr. Adler, we need you to answer the question.”
“Jesus Christ! This isn’t NJN and I’m not Eugene Markham.”
“Mr. Adler—”
“NO!” Marcus didn’t mean to shout, but it got his point across. “I am not, nor have I ever been a member of the Communist Party. Is that legalistically succinct enough for you?”
He wished he hadn’t been quite so terse. He needed to curry favor with these lawyers when he put a good word in for Arlene. She’d really come up with the goods for Kathryn and it was time to return the favor. “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said placatingly, “but that blasted book has made my life thorny since the day it came out.”
“How so?” Mannix asked.
“I live at the Garden of Allah.”
Four pairs of eyes stared at him, then almost as though they’d rehearsed it, they blinked together in comprehension.
“The Divine Oasis,” Mayer said, almost to himself. “I didn’t make the connection.”
“I wouldn’t say this book has pitched neighbor against neighbor, but it’s made life there less than congenial.” Marcus placed his hands on the table in preparation to stand. “But I’m sure it’ll pass. So if that’s all you require of me, I have a story conference. The Holiday in Mexico script isn’t coming together as well as it ought, so—”
“No, Adler, that isn’t all,” Mayer said. “Since Winchell’s announcement, the shit’s been hitting the fan over at Paramount. Do you know Quentin Luckett?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Did you know he’s been promoted to head up their writing department?”
“I did not.” Marcus was so pleased for his friend that it was hard not to smile. Quentin and I are now both heads of writing. And THAT calls for a long boozy celebration. Maybe the Sahara Room would be safe. Since the night of the Hermit’s Hideaway raid, Marcus, Oliver, Quentin, and Trevor had been warily avoiding each other’s company in public. “But what about Clifford Wardell?”
“Banished from the lot. For life.”
Maybe there is some justice in the world.
“We hear you know each other.” That mix of suspicion and accusation had crept back into Mannix’s voice.
“Me and Wardell?” Marcus pedaled softly. “It would be an overstatement to say ‘know each other.’”
“What would a more accurate statement be?” Tanner asked—or was it Ritchey?
Marcus took a moment to consider his response. The only sound he could hear was Ida Koverman’s typewriter clacking away in the next office. “We both attended the same cocktail party recently.”
“Thrown by—” the lawyer paused to consult his notes— “Konstantin Simonov. Who’s he?”
“The Russian consul. Also a playwright. He said he invited me because he admired my work on Free Leningrad! but Wardell and I were there so he could pitch an idea.”
Mannix snorted. “Everybody’s got an idea for a movie.”
Marcus and Simonov had corresponded a couple of times after the Russian sent him the Pavlova outline. It was a thoroughly professional piece of work, and Marcus was still waiting for a response to his offer.
Mayer and Mannix looked at the two lawyers, who nodded.
“There’s something we need you to do,” Mannix said.
This doesn’t sound good.
“We want to secure the rights to Reds in the Beds.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Marcus thundered. “It’s bad enough the book’s done so well to convince half of America that there’s a Pinko in every bed in Hollywood. Film it and that message will find its way to every corner of the country.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Mayer snapped. “Nobody said anything about making a movie out of that donkey shit.”
“You want to make sure nobody makes a movie out of it.”
“And you need to get it for us.”
Evidently, nobody in the room had heard about the brawl down in Long Beach. Marcus chose his words carefully. “I’m not the best guy for that job.” Because Clifford Wardell hates my guts with a rage that Hitler would envy.
“I put a call through to that bastard’s publisher,” Mannix said, “and they told me Wardell’s contract gives him the power to conduct all screen right negotiations.”
“I assure you,” Marcus insisted, “our best chance at scoring those rights will be if someone else does the negotiating.”
Mannix crossed his arms. “Adler,” he said, his voice low and growly, “did I give you the impression you had a choice in this matter?”
Marcus had played office politics long enough to know when to beat a hasty retreat. “I’ll do my very best.”
“You’ll do whatever it takes.”
Marcus nodded and headed for the walnut doors. He kept his eyes glued to the floor until he was in the elevator, facing a recent portrait of Mayer looking smug and detached. Marcus tapped the glass.
“If you were doing your job properly, you’d have jumped on this eight months ago when the book came out. Our chances here are somewhere between zilch and zero.”