CHAPTER 19

 

 

Kathryn stepped off the stairs leading down to the Beverly Hills Hotel pool and peered over the top of her sunglasses. Over the telephone yesterday, the guy had sounded like the smooth-talking European playboy Marcus had described, so she didn’t think she’d have to look too hard. How many barrel-chested Italian hunks could possibly be lying around in the sun?

It was only late April but the hint of early summer already heated the air. Kathryn fanned her face with her straw pocketbook as she dodged around lollygaggers with nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon than sit around a hotel pool hoping to see Burt Lancaster.

She rounded the first corner and looked down the row of cabanas lined up along the ten-foot hedge. A man stepped out from between the white-and-gold-striped canvas flaps of the last one wearing only a bathing suit and a brilliant white smile.

If anyone deserved to be described as a “barrel-chested Italian hunk,” it was Rossano Brazzi. He held out his hand. “Miss Massey, thank you so much for meeting me.”

His grip was confident, manly. “Marcus has mentioned you in his letters.”

Brazzi’s cabana contained a glass-topped coffee table and two rattan chairs. A bottle of something bubbly rested in a pewter ice bucket emblazoned with the hotel’s BHH logo.

Brazzi gestured toward the chairs. “I took a liberty to ordering refreshment.”

Kathryn read the label. “What is prosecco?”

“Our version of champagne. I could have ordered Moët et Chandon, but I’m Italiano!”

It was only through Marcus that Kathryn even knew about the stateside publicity cavalcade Fox was planning for Brazzi ahead of the Three Coins in the Fountain launch the following month. Now that she could see him for herself, she was grateful for this private meeting. Once Fox unveiled their “Europe’s New Screen Romeo,” he might not be so accessible.

He bent behind his chair and brought up a brown cardboard box tied with string. “From Signore Marcus. It is one jar of pesto sauce and one jar of pomodoro sauce made by his landlady.”

Kathryn ran her finger along the edge of the box. She missed Marcus’s laugh, his martinis, and his reassuring presence, but most of all, she missed his ability to listen. It wasn’t until he had gone to Italy for Quo Vadis that Kathryn realized how rare a commodity good listeners were in a town filled with people hell-bent on pulling focus.

And boy, did she ever need Marcus’s ears lately.

Her father’s future, reputation, and freedom were at stake. Had she made a terrible blunder by convincing Winchell to approach the FBI on her behalf? Leo remained curiously noncommittal on the subject, and Gwendolyn had said it was a risk worth taking but acknowledged that it wasn’t her taking the risk. Kathryn longed to hear Marcus’s view, but a trans-Atlantic call would be exorbitant and letters weren’t secure.

Kathryn took her first sip of prosecco. It was more bubbly than champagne, and drier, but refreshing in a cabana with no cross breeze. “Thank you for lugging this package all the way to Los Angeles.”

“It was no trouble, and I must confess: I wanted a reason to see you.”

“With this build-up Zanuck’s giving you, I’m sure our paths would have crossed.”

Brazzi knitted his fingers together. “There is somebody I want to meet.”

Kathryn didn’t need to hear any more. She already knew what was coming. The request grew more and more frequent as Marilyn Monroe’s fame reached new heights. “I’ll help if I can.”

“I would like to meet Arthur Laurents.”

Kathryn rolled the name around in her mind. “The playwright?”

“Si. United Artists will start shooting his play, The Time of the Cuckoo in Venice in July.”

Europe’s new screen Romeo had done his homework. “And you want to talk to him—why?”

“They have not cast the role of the antique storeowner, Renato de Rossi. I know they are considering Vittorio De Sica and Enzio Pinza, but I want to appeal to Signore Laurents himself. Marcus told me that you know everyone in Hollywood.”

“Did you tell him what you wanted?” Brazzi shook his head. He’d done his homework, but not enough of it. “First of all, Arthur Laurents is a New Yorker, but that doesn’t matter because his screenplay was rejected. The director is now writing it.”

“You can connect me with him?”

“David Lean lives in London.”

Brazzi’s chin dropped onto his hands. “I am not in the correct continent.”

“However . . .” She lifted his chin with a finger. “Katharine Hepburn is in Los Angeles. She hasn’t made a movie since George Cukor directed her in Pat and Mike, and that was four years ago. This movie is sort of a mini-comeback, and my guess is that she’ll have a big say in casting. It’s Hepburn you have to impress.”

“Can you introduce me to her?”

“George has been a bit of a recluse recovering from shooting A Star is Born for four months.” She was trying not to get suckered in by his pleading hangdog expression, but the guy was just so gosh-darned handsome. “I can’t promise anything.”

* * *

Perino’s on Wilshire Boulevard was the epitome of elegant European dining, as far as Angelenos were concerned. With its alabaster walls, bone ceiling, cream tablecloths, and eggshell carpet, it was saved from being bland as a vanilla milkshake by salmon upholstery and vases of roses, bright as Mercurochrome.

To Kathryn’s surprise, Cukor readily agreed to set up a lunch the following Sunday with Hepburn and suggested she invite Gwendolyn and Leo as camouflage.

Kathryn had insisted that they all arrive at a quarter of one to ensure that Brazzi, Cukor, or Hepburn weren’t kept waiting at an empty table. And thank goodness she had, because Hepburn arrived seven minutes early, leaving poor George to scurry along in her wake as she issued orders for iced water but no ice, and garlic in her mashed potatoes, even though she knew that Alexander Perino hated the stuff.

By one o’clock, they were seated at a central table, drinks ordered, and menus in hand.

“I must say, Mr. Brazzi,” Hepburn said, “your English is excellent. Do all of your countrymen possess an equally fine command of our language? I ask because I’ll be heading over there this summer. Shooting a movie, you know. My first in a while and I don’t mind telling you that I’m looking forward to it. Working is vital; otherwise, everything atrophies.”

Brazzi looked at Kathryn bleakly.

“She means ‘weakens’ or ‘wastes away.’”

“That’s right!” Hepburn thumped the table. “The gray matter, the reflexes. Good golly, it all goes if you don’t use it. So, do they?”

Brazzi beseeched Kathryn again. Do they what?

“Your fellow Italians.” Kathryn prompted. “Do they speak English as fluently as you?”

“I’m afraid they do not, Signorina Hepburn. When I was filming The Barefoot Contessa, Mister Zanuck employed someone with whom I could practice my English. Ah, but you must know him. He worked at MGM for many years.”

“Oh yes?” Hepburn mused.

Gwendolyn brought her hand to her mouth and whispered “San Simeon!” under the light minuet waltzing through the loudspeakers.

A number of years before, Marcus had scored an invitation to Hearst’s castle retreat up the Californian coast. Unfortunately, he had gotten horribly drunk and embarrassed himself in front of Hollywood’s elite, including Katharine Hepburn.

“I can recommend the Oysters Rockefeller and the Breast of Capon,” Kathryn exclaimed. “And I like the Antipasto Italiene, but perhaps Mr. Brazzi might be a better judge.”

The tactic worked, and the conversation veered away from the poor impression Marcus had made that weekend.

When Kathryn had called Brazzi to tell him the luncheon was on, she’d instructed, “Feel free to ooze the European charm, but don’t drown her in it. She’s sharp as a carving knife, but she’s still a woman. And ask her about her experiences. Actors love to talk about themselves.”

“Please tell me about filming The African Queen,” Brazzi said. “Was it very difficult?”

Hepburn’s experiences in the Belgian Congo and Uganda led to a free-ranging discussion about the rewards and potholes of international travel, unfamiliar food, foreign customs, and the uselessness of guidebooks that are more than a year old.

By the time the appetizers arrived, Brazzi had managed to bring the conversation around to Venice. He had Hepburn in the palm of his well-manicured hand as he spoke rapturously of his favorite restaurant.

“Cantina Do Spade has been open since 1448,” he enthused. “Casanova himself entertained his potential conquests there. More than five hundred years of Venetian history pours from every brick.”

“You sound like you know Venice very well.” Hepburn couldn’t pull her eyes off Brazzi long enough to look at her Consommé Bellevue.

“I visited it many times when I attended university in Florence. I am very at peace there and think of it as my second home.”

“Tell me, Mr. Brazzi—”

“Please call me Rossano.”

“If you call me Katharine.”

“I would be delighted.”

“So, Rossano, what did you study at the university of Florence?”

“I am a lawyer by training.”

“My goodness! Aren’t you a man of many talents?”

Kathryn’s eye started to wander. At places like these, she often spotted someone with someone who was married to someone else.

A striking woman entered the dining room. It wasn’t her looks that caught Kathryn’s interest—statuesque though she was; it was the way she made her entrance.

A beauty entering a prominent Hollywood restaurant like Perino’s usually paused at the doorway, radiant smile in place and bosom on display, waved to some unseen acquaintance across the room, then walked to her table with swaying hips enfolded in a dress designed to highlight every asset.

But this woman didn’t do any of that.

Her fitted suit of aubergine poplin showed her impressive measurements without drawing attention to them. Except for a silver starfish brooch on her left lapel, she eschewed the usual payload of glitter and sparkle.

Kathryn followed the woman’s progress as she trailed the maître d’ to an empty corner table without making eye contact. She sat down, pulled off her gloves, placed a drink order, and surveyed the menu with a world-weariness that made Kathryn wonder whether she was going to spend her entire lunch alone.

She didn’t have to wonder for very long.

Darryl Zanuck charged into the room, followed by a man in his late sixties, his near-bald head shining in the lights of the crystal chandeliers. After both men greeted the woman with European kisses, Zanuck snapped his fingers to attract a waiter and ordered champagne.

“Who’s the stunner?”

Hepburn’s question brought Kathryn back to the table.

“It’s Bella Darvi,” Gwendolyn said.

“That’s Michael Curtiz with them.” George raised his eyebrows at Kathryn as high as they would go.

Two plus two started adding up.

Curtiz had directed The Egyptian for Zanuck. A recent letter from Marcus had detailed Zanuck’s affair with the girl playing Nefer.

Zanuck is using Curtiz as camouflage exactly like I’m using Cukor! Kathryn tried to mask her unintentional giggle by sending it down her wine glass, but Hepburn wasn’t fooled.

“I feel like I’m the only chump who doesn’t get what’s going on here.”

“I suspect we’re seeing a romantic rendezvous,” Kathryn whispered, “and Zanuck is using Curtiz as cover. Whether or not Curtiz knows it is hard to say.”

“He would have to be very foolish to still be in the dark,” Brazzi said. When George asked him why, he replied, “Our Barefoot Contessa cinematographer, Milton, said they think they’re getting away with nobody knowing, but we all knew.”

“It’s only a matter of time before all of Hollywood does, too, if that’s how they’re going to carry on in public.” Hepburn pressed a light hand to Brazzi’s arm. “Tell me, Rossano, do you have a hotel in Venice you can recommend for me during the Summertime shoot?”

Zanuck patted down his pockets and winced when he found himself out of cigarettes. He interrupted Curtiz’s monolog to bum one, but the director merely pointed to the cigarette vending machine in the foyer. Zanuck looked around for a waiter, but every one of them was busy elsewhere. He pushed his chair away from the table in a juvenile huff and stomped out of the room.

“Excuse me,” Kathryn told the group, “but business calls.”

Zanuck didn’t see her until she slid an arm along the top of the vending machine. “That’s quite a table you’ve got there,” he said, grim as an undertaker. “I was planning to drop by when I had a chance, but I—uh—”

“—didn’t want to leave Curtiz too long with your new discovery?”

Zanuck mulled over her sly smile. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’ve come to do you a favor.”

“Why? Do you need one in return?”

“It’s more like a warning.” A pack of Camels fell to the tray at the bottom of the machine, but Zanuck left it there. “You’re fooling yourself if you think nobody knows what’s going on between you and your protégé.”

Zanuck closed his eyes as he pressed his chest against the machine.

“It was the talk of the Contessa shoot. You might want to try and be a bit discreet.”

“Thank you.” A silent nod, a guarded eye. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.”

“Why do I feel like I’m being cornered?”

“Okay, so maybe there’s one little thing.”

“Here it comes.”

Kathryn bent down and retrieved Zanuck’s pack of Camels and dropped it on the top of the machine. “It’s about Marcus Adler.”

Zanuck needed a moment to place the name. “Is he back in town?”

“No, but when he returns, he’ll need a job.”

“He’s got a great eye. Those shots he took of Rome? Exactly what we needed.”

“I meant more along the lines of a screenplay.”

Zanuck took his cigarette pack and started to turn it over in his hand. “We’ll see.”

Kathryn wasn’t sure if she was meddling where she shouldn’t, but the longer Marcus was away, the harder it would be for him to jump-start his career.

“You ever been to a place called Amagansett?” he asked.

Kathryn wasn’t sure what to make of this non-sequitur. “Never heard of it.”

“I was in New York last week. Had dinner with Winchell.”

“I bet that was fun.”

“I arrived late, which didn’t impress him. He was already three Tom Collins in.”

“Pissed and drunk?”

“He’s usually so focused and articulate, everything thought out and deliberate. But that night his conversation was scattered, like he was having trouble sticking to one idea at a time. He also mentioned someone called Pastorius.”

“Sounds like a Roman general.”

“He brought your name up several times. His whole tone was ‘I know a secret.’”

“Should I have heard of this Pastorius guy?”

Zanuck eyeballed his table. Curtiz had inched closer to Darvi. “I got the idea that you should.” He tossed his Camels into the air and caught them again. “I better get back to my table before Bella drowns in drool.”

Kathryn scooted into the ladies’ room and sat down at the last vanity. It was now over a month since Gable’s party and Kathryn hadn’t heard a word from Winchell. She wasn’t worried about it, though. She figured it took time to suck up to Hoover and convince him to gain access to FBI files. But now his silence gnawed at her.

What if he’s already tracked down my father’s file and has gone through it himself?

She dropped her lipstick into her purse, left a quarter in the tip dish for the attendant, and walked slowly back toward the dining room.

What were those names again? Agamasetts? Amagansett? Pretorius? Pasteurize? Jesus, I’ve already forgotten. I bet Winchell’s got them written down in a little notebook. I bet he’s sitting at the Stork Club right now, congratulating himself because he thinks he holds all the cards.

Katharine Hepburn’s voice cut through the air. “Oh, Rossano! You devil!”

Problem is, if Winchell’s gone and pawed through my father’s FBI file, he really does hold all the cards.