1940
As I followed Roxy down Hollywood Boulevard, I stopped to stare at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. The stunning Oriental architecture was so different from anything I’d seen in Santa Cruz. Bleachers had been set up around the entrance and had already begun to fill with people, though it was only ten in the morning. Now that I noticed, cars were parked for blocks, and tourists lined the street.
“Is there a movie premiere tonight?”
Roxy nodded, pointing to a woman with a picnic basket. “Sure is. You see her? That’s how you come prepared. And if you’re really smart, you bring blankets and pillows for when it gets chilly after the sun goes down.”
“Have you been to one?”
“A premiere? Of course.”
“Oh, I would die! Can you tell me about it?”
Roxy laughed, and then paused to light a cigarette. “For The Wizard of Oz there were people standing on rooftops, craning their necks for a glimpse of the stars. Then Judy Garland arrived, stepping out of a limo in a fabulous gown. There were fresh flowers everywhere, so the air smelled like roses. The radio announcers called out celebrity names, and the paparazzi captured it all with exploding flashbulbs.”
I closed my eyes, lost in Roxy’s description. Then I opened them, determined to experience a movie premiere too. “How magnificent it sounds.”
“Oh rats,” Roxy said, stubbing out her cigarette. “That’s our streetcar.”
I followed her as we boarded the yellow bus, then dropped a nickel into the turnstile and found a vacant seat. My heart dipped into my stomach as I thought about Charles. Was he searching for me? Was he heartbroken?
I also wondered if Evie had heard that I’d departed for Hollywood. I’d lied to her, and I felt wretched about it. I ought to have told her of my plans to divorce Charles, but it had felt too dangerous to confide in my friend. Sending a letter with my return address at the Tropicana would be too risky. Yet I longed to write to Evie, to tell her of my adventures in Hollywood. And had Ricky received my postcard by now?
I’d accepted Roxy’s offer, telling Harry I’d made a friend at the audition, and that we’d be rooming together. Harry wished me the best of luck, no questions asked. My palms began to sweat as I pictured my husband’s face, contorted with rage when he woke to an empty bed. But my heart ached. Did he miss me? Could he change?
I shivered, dispelling the thought. What was done was done. I would find a lawyer this week. I would file the divorce papers as soon as possible.
Roxy pulled the chain, and the streetcar stopped on Sunset Boulevard. The California sunshine drenched the sidewalks as if they were made of gold. I pushed Charles to the back of my mind. By golly, this was Beverly Hills!
“Oh my word,” I said, glimpsing what looked like a pink palace across acres of lush grounds. “Is that where we’re going?”
Roxy winked. “The Beverly Hills Hotel and Bungalows. It’s where the crème de la crème of society meet.”
My heels clicked against the pavement as I followed Roxy down the palm-lined footpath, trying to keep my mouth from gaping. The scent of exotic flowers filled the air. They burst from the bushes in blooms of pink and yellow. I recognized hibiscus and birds of paradise. How lovely.
When we stepped inside the hotel, I longed to twirl in circles beneath the crystal chandelier like a dancer in a film. The pink-and-mint-striped décor was opulent, yet beautifully tasteful. Watching women in dark sunglasses and stylish dresses, I wondered if they were heiresses, or perhaps starlets. I wanted to pinch myself, because it felt so much like a dream. I’d been to beautiful hotels before, but always with Charles, which meant I’d been walking on eggshells, terrified of making the wrong move. Now I was finally free to be myself.
“This way,” Roxy said, swaying her hips as we walked toward the pool and cabanas. “We’re meeting a friend of mine.”
The rectangular pool shone beneath the perfect blue sky, and the sun warmed the terra-cotta rooftop. Last night, I’d discovered Roxy’s room to be cramped, dingy and smoke filled. She’d pushed her dresses to the side of the wardrobe to make room for my things, but the gesture did little to make up for the lack of space. The Tropicana with its faded carpet and battered blinds looked like a mouse hole compared to this grand hotel.
“Who’s your friend?” I asked, trying not to stare at the tanned women wearing two-piece swimsuits and pearls. Was that Greta Garbo?
“He’s a screenwriter,” Roxy said, adjusting the white scarf tied jauntily around her neck. It perfectly complemented her curve-hugging pencil skirt. She’d let me borrow a blue sundress, which brought out the deep blue of my eyes. I’d lamented that my trunk had been stolen at a gas station, to explain why I had hardly any clothing.
Roxy led me toward the pink-and-white curtains of a poolside cabana. “Benny Bronstein. He works for one of the Big Five studios and makes lotsa dough.”
“Which studio?”
“MGM or RKO,” Roxy said, lighting a cigarette. “I can’t recall. You can ask him yourself.” She grinned. “Here we are.”
I peeked inside the cabana and gawped at the interior, the walls painted with palm fronds, and the pink couches lining the walls probably worth a fortune. A round mirror hung on the wall, adding a bit of Deco glamour to the white wicker furniture. Even the cabana was nicer than our motel room at the Tropicana.
A boyish man stood up from the couch, dressed in crisp white shorts and a polo shirt. His deep tan highlighted his blue eyes, and his thick curly hair looked as if it wished to defy the pomade he’d used to tame it.
“Roxy,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “You made it.” He turned his gaze to me, his smile bright and inviting. “And who is this gorgeous thing?”
My cheeks flushed.
“Violet,” I said, extending my hand. “Pleasure to—oh!” Without warning he pulled me in for a kiss on the cheek, as if we were already familiar with one another.
He laughed. “Don’t be shy, doll! We’re all friends here. Sit down. What can I get ya to drink? They make a killer mint julep here.”
“I’ll have a Pink Lady,” Roxy said.
“And you?” Benny asked, smiling at me.
“I’ll have what she’s having.”
Sitting on the plush couch next to Roxy, I drank in the scene as a Negro waiter in a smart blue uniform took our orders. While Benny and Roxy treated him like hired help, I smiled with genuine gratitude.
I’d been served at the Oceano many times, and I aimed to treat each employee as I would a friend, no matter his or her background. Charles didn’t like the amiable relationships I had with the cooks and waiters, many of whom were Mexican. Oftentimes, I wandered into the kitchen to return a glass or to drop the used napkins in the laundry. He found it horribly improper and had reprimanded me with the back of his hand. Often, he accused me of flirting with the staff, which was never the case.
“Violet, Benny asked you a question.”
“Oh,” I said. “I apologize. I don’t know where my head is today. What did you ask?”
He smiled. “Roxy tells me you’re new in town. Where are you from?”
“Santa Cruz.”
“So you’re a real California girl.”
“She was a beauty queen,” Roxy said. “Now she wants to be in the movies.”
I smiled at Benny. “Roxy tells me you’re a screenwriter for one of the big studios. That sounds awfully exciting.”
Benny laughed, clapping Roxy on the back. “I’m afraid she’s misled you. I work for one of the little three, not the Big Five. I write for Universal Pictures.”
“Not RKO?” Roxy asked, pouting at him. “Say, what kinda films does Universal produce?”
“Horror,” Benny said, lighting a cigarette for himself, and then lighting one for Roxy. “Frankenstein, Dracula. You smoke?”
I shook my head.
He smiled at me, putting his lighter away. “It’s not my cup of tea, but it’s a starting point. Every studio has its genre. MGM does the lavish and star-studded films like Gone with the Wind. Warner Brothers has their gangster films like Little Caesar, and Fox does historical adventure—Sherlock Holmes and all that jazz.”
A cool breeze ruffled the hem of my dress, and the waiter arrived with our drinks. I took a sip of my Pink Lady, the grenadine tart and delicious, and the gin packing a punch. The sun sparkled on the surface of the swimming pool, and I let the alcohol pleasantly soften the edges of my surroundings.
Benny leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Roxy’s a good friend of mine, and that’s why I’ll give you two gals the scoop. John Huston has a new script, and his movie is supposed to be the next big thing. The casting call is this Saturday. It’s called The Maltese Falcon. A noir detective film.”
“After Dashiell Hammett’s novel?”
“You’ve read it?”
I nodded. “I enjoy all types of fiction.”
“Beauty and brains,” Benny said, blowing smoke from his cigarette. “Have a drink with me tonight at Don the Beachcomber and I’ll invite you to a shindig at Ernst Lubitsch’s hacienda tomorrow night. He’s a respected director at MGM. I can introduce you.”
My stomach knotted. I wore no wedding ring. What if I’d given Benny the wrong impression? Yet I couldn’t think of a reason to refuse his invitation.
“Oh well, tonight I—”
“She’ll join you,” Roxy said, slurping the remainder of her Pink Lady through a straw. “And I’ll take another one of these. Say, what a gorgeous day it is!”
I tried to ignore the feel of Benny’s eyes on my bare legs as Roxy ordered me another Pink Lady. This could be my big break. Considering the grand hotel he lived in and the people he knew, Benny Bronstein was well connected. Perhaps he already had a gal, and this was simply a friendly gesture? I had to take the chance.
STEPPING OUT OF the taxicab onto Hollywood Boulevard, I looked up at the mysterious restaurant shrouded by palm fronds. A wooden sign hanging above the door clearly marked the building as Don the Beachcomber.
Setting foot inside, I felt the humid warmth that filled the room. I studied the thatched ceiling, and the glass fishing floats in nets draped from the rafters. Everything was made of wicker and wood, the entire place like something out of the South Pacific. Laughter traveled across the tables as men and women sipped drinks together.
I spotted Benny at a corner table. He smiled and waved me over. My shoulders relaxed as I took in the casual atmosphere of the restaurant. It was a bit too raucous to be romantic. This was a business meeting, nothing more.
“You made it,” Benny said, standing up to kiss me on the cheek.
I tried not to flinch. Charles always admonished me for speaking to other men. He’d demanded I quit working as a waitress at Mary’s Chicken Shack because he couldn’t stand the thought of me talking to male customers.
“Thank you,” I said, as Benny pulled out a chair for me.
“What can I get you?” he asked, handing me a drinks menu of tropical concoctions with bizarre names.
“I’m not sure,” I answered, looking it over. “What’s good here?”
“The Zombie. But watch out, it packs a punch.”
Benny smiled, his arms tanned beneath his tropical shirt. He couldn’t be a few years older than twenty. Yet he appeared so self-assured, like he had the confidence of a much older man. “Tell me about yourself. You got a fella at home?”
My mouth felt dry as cotton. “Oh, there’s not much to tell. No, I don’t have a beau at home.” The lie churned my stomach as I pictured Charles.
“Good,” Benny said, winking.
The waiter arrived with our drinks, and I couldn’t help pulling a face as I took a sip. “My goodness!”
Benny laughed. “Told you it was strong.” He took a sip, and then paused. “Have you always wanted to be an actress?”
I nodded. “I starred in a few stage productions in Santa Cruz. I love theater. In high school I couldn’t get enough of it.”
“If you want to see good theater, there’s the Hollywood Playhouse. It’s mostly older vaudeville stars, but for some who work there, it gives them a career boost.”
Once again, the queasy feeling began to agitate me. Perhaps this drink was too strong. Taking a deep breath, I tried to dispel the nausea. “I saw so many theaters downtown, I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Benny smiled. “The Iris and Vogue theaters are the favorites for studio previews. There’s also the Roxy. I’m sure you’ve seen Grauman’s—that’s for first-run showings, where you’ll find the stars. Then you’ve got the Tele-View Theater. You can watch newsreels there. An hour of current news is twenty-five cents. It used to be called the Hitching Post and show Saturday matinee westerns.”
His face grew serious. “What do you think of the war in Europe?”
“Oh, I—”
Charles berated me, told me I knew nothing of politics. But Benny waited for my answer.
“To be honest, I’m frightened. I feel there’s a very dark cloud on the horizon and it’s coming toward us. I fret for the people of England, constantly under siege by bombs.” A lump rose in my throat.
Benny reached out his hand and covered mine. I sharply drew in my breath.
“It is frightening. You’re absolutely right. There’s a storm gathering in Europe and it’s going to have a direct effect on Hollywood. Some of our best filmmakers are concerned that soon we’ll be making nothing but propaganda films.”
“Do you think America will join the war?” I asked, slowly pulling my hand away. My eyes darted about the restaurant, fearful that someone may have noticed us touching. But everyone appeared engrossed in conversation.
Benny nodded gravely. “I do. And if it happens, our best actors and Hollywood stars will likely join the war effort. And what then? The talent pool will be depleted.”
I shook my head. “The movie palaces are such a needed escape for the American people. If we don’t have laughter, then what do we have?”
Benny smiled at me. “You’re a smart cookie. You know that? Humor is absolutely essential when fighting a dictatorship. Look at the Charlie Chaplin film lampooning the Third Reich. Have you seen it?”
“I haven’t,” I said, slowly taking another sip of my drink. “Is it funny?”
“You haven’t seen The Great Dictator? It’s a hoot!” His blue eyes fixed on mine. “If it shows again, I’ll bring you along. Roxy can come too. Well, she may talk through the whole thing. But I’d like to hear what you think of it.”
I giggled. Talking with Benny felt nice, as though he were truly listening to me. How many times had I cautiously brought up a topic of concern with Charles, only for him to flip it around so that I became the problem? Whenever I tried to assert my opinion, Charles told me I was ridiculous and overreacting. Or he’d simply leave the house, like the morning of the bacon grease incident.
Benny looked at me. “It’s a tragedy what’s happening in Europe. But it’s for our gain in Hollywood. Do you know how many German artists and intellectuals have immigrated here since the outbreak of the war? The Nazis have driven out the best talent. Ernst Lubitsch, Hedy Lamarr, Salka Viertel, Billy Wilder—I could go on and on.”
I didn’t recognize all the names, but I smiled. “Hedy Lamarr is so beautiful. There’s not another face in the world like hers.”
Benny winked at me. “Yours ain’t bad either. I think Ernst Lubitsch will take a shine to you. And you’ll like him. Hell, he got Garbo to smile.”
I chuckled. Ninotchka had been promoted with the tagline “Garbo laughs!”, commenting on the departure from Greta Garbo’s serious roles. I’d found the film quite funny, and enjoyed its subtle criticism of the Soviet Union.
My stomach fluttered as I imagined shaking hands with the famous and sophisticated Hollywood director. From what I’d heard, films that received the “Lubitsch touch” made them all the more prestigious. But my butterflies scattered when an image of Charles popped unbidden into my mind.
“Say.” I carefully met Benny’s eyes. “Do you have any lawyer friends? I have a matter I’d like to discuss in private.”
Benny raised an eyebrow. “Well, that sounds rather intriguing. You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”
I put on my pageant smile. “Not at all. I’ve received an inheritance from my late grandmother, but my cousin feels she’s entitled to a larger share than I am.”
Benny laughed. It shocked me how easily lies came to me now—as if a little creativity could erase my past entirely.
“I know some lawyers,” he said. “And I’m happy to help out a gal in need. Roxy tells me you’re working as a cigarette girl with her at the Tropicana. Come with me to Ernst Lubitsch’s party tomorrow night. Between your charisma and your late grandmother’s dough, I have a feeling you won’t be selling cigarettes for much longer.”
I smiled. “I hope so. Will Roxy be joining us?”
Benny shook his head. “I can only bring one date. I’m a lowly screenwriter. It wouldn’t do to arrive with too many people.”
“I see,” I replied, though my stomach knotted at the word “date.” “It’s awfully kind of you to invite me, but won’t Roxy be put out?”
Benny’s eyes glinted. “Roxy’s had plenty of chances in this town. You’re fresh off the bus. Seize your moment. You can’t be afraid of stepping on toes.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I said, my nerves abating slightly with another sip of my drink. “Thank you. Truly.”
Benny brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. “The pleasure is all mine.”
A jolt of fear worked its way down my spine in a shiver. My eyes traveled from Benny’s mouth to the man in the fedora at the next table over. Had he been watching us? The man returned to his drink, appearing disinterested. But if he were a private investigator sent by Charles, it would be his job to appear normal.
“I’d better be going,” I said. “It’s getting late.”
“Of course,” Benny said. “I’ll call you a cab.”
As he stood up and strolled toward the bar, I glanced at the man in the fedora, only to find his table empty. I took a deep breath in and let it out. Charles couldn’t find me here. I hadn’t told Harry the name of the motel where I was staying. But suddenly the city of stars felt small—claustrophobic.
Benny returned and extended his arm to me. He grinned when I took it. “Bring a bathing suit for tomorrow night’s soiree and an evening dress. Lubitsch’s pool parties are unlike anything you’ve ever seen.”
“Indeed,” I said, the warmth of excitement pushing away the last shivery remnants of fear. “I can’t wait to see what’s in store.”