All That Glitters (6 page)

If I gave him the benefit of the doubt, I believed half of what he said. Men like him didn't make it in this business just on vision and talent. He had climbed to the top on the shattered dreams and ruined careers of others with vision and talent. That was how a chump like Norman Carville created a movie empire.

He turned and leaned on his cane. “I'll be frank, Mr. Donovan. Carville Studios is facing a financial jam. Most of the studios are. Four have closed already this year, and Paramount recently filed for bankruptcy protection. Fox would've gone under if Shirley Temple hadn't rescued them with her damn dimples. The public's desire for talking pictures forced us to invest heavily in sound equipment and hire actors who can act and writers who understand dialogue. If that isn't enough, enforcement of the Hays Code will require fundamental changes. The next few years will see mergers and takeovers. Only a few powerful studios will survive. We want to be one of those.”

“I'm sure Miss Wilson wants to be part of your future success.”

The old man returned to the desk, easing into his leather chair. “Eric doesn't take criticism well. It's my fault. After his mother went away, the boy left in search of her. A year later, he came crawling back. He never told me whether he found her. Anyway, he was more interested in movies than before. He showed me a screenplay he wrote about a man struggling to deal with his parents' death. We made the movie, and it did quite well. He's penned more over the years, but he's never tackled a comedy until
Midnight Wedding
.”

“Your son is far more experienced than I am. What makes you think I can improve on the screenplay?”

“Dashiell Hammett. He told me you're a master at characters and dialogue. He's a big fan of you, and your writing. So am I.”

Dashiell said that?
I blew out a breath of frustration. Not only was I not qualified to work on a screenplay, if I accepted the challenge, Laura would despise my being on the set. This was her time and place to shine. I'd merely come along to support her, not to get involved in her movie!

He steepled his fingers. “You can do this. You're an expert.”

Expert? Hardly. “I'm honored, of course. You're a pioneer in this industry, but I have a deadline for the next Blackie Doyle novel.”

A red-faced frown spread. He snapped forward. “I'm through flattering you, buster.”

Buster?

Norman finished his drink. “I mentioned the Hays Code earlier. The public now expects actors' behavior to reflect the nation's morality. My studio has a responsibility to ensure its employees conduct themselves in a manner consistent with the code.”

I knew where this conversation was going and didn't like it one bit. Carville was using the code to get what he wanted.

“Laura Wilson is a beautiful young woman, a talented comedian, and a terrific singer. She possesses a sweet naïveté, a rare quality in Hollywood. If I were younger and in better health, I probably would've made a pass at her already.”

“Your support of the Hays Code only goes so far.”

He looked ready to explode.

I'd had enough confrontations for one evening. “We're engaged.”

Clearly surprised, he gripped the arms of his chair. “How convenient. When did this happen?”

Almost an hour ago, but I wouldn't tell him that. “Recently.”

“Well, of course, I can't prevent the two of you from having feelings for each other, but unless you're married, the studio can't condone you living in sin—”

“You're lecturing me about sin?”

“—as long as Laura's under contract. Have you read the morality clause, Article 15f in her contract?”

“We'll get separate rooms, we'll…”

“She already violated her contract. The two of you just shared a compartment on a train from New York.”

How did he know? I couldn't help myself. “You're a real son of a bitch!”

“Leave my mother out of this. As much as it would pain me to do so, I could call your fiancée back in and fire her on the spot. Of course, I'd explain your refusal to help got her fired.”

“You'd be forced to replace one of the leads in your movie and still be stuck with a second-rate screenplay.”

“Quite right, quite right.” He smiled. “So, you agree with my assessment of the script?”

“You fire her, your loss would be far greater than mine. I'd still have Laura.”

Carville laughed until he coughed. “Ah, love. She'd understand, of course, in the beginning, but there'd come a time when Laura's bitterness about you destroying her career would tumble out and suffocate you both. I know of which I speak.”

I despised the bastard for being right.

“Your betrothed's future is in your hands, Mr. Donovan.”

I paced the room and couldn't help chuckling. “You almost had me with your cultural overview of the history of the movies. I nearly believed you're driven by a love of movies. Your motive is strictly greed.”

“Patriotism, not greed.”

“Patriotism?”

“My motive is to make movies, to give the public what it needs in its darkest hour.” He went into another fit of coughing then wiped his mouth. He poured himself another drink, and the bottle rattled on the rim of the glass. “I'm not asking you to rewrite the screenplay, just review each scene and see what needs to be done to improve it, make it funny, damn it.”

I wasn't in a humorous mood. My only choice was to call his bluff. “I won't do it. That's final.”

Norman pressed a buzzer on his desk. “Send Miss Wilson in.”

“Wait.” I returned to the chair in front of his desk.

“Cancel that.” Carville's smug look made me want to puke. He pulled two scripts from his drawer and set them in front of me. “The one on top is a shooting schedule, scene by scene. I've placed paper clips on the ones I think are the most problematic.”

“What about Eric?”

“I'll take care of my son. After tonight, Eric won't cause you any more problems.”

I drummed my fingers on the desk next to the two screenplays. I still hadn't accepted his “
offer.”
“This is blackmail.”

Carville chuckled. “It's business, Mr. Donovan. Get used to it, or go back to New York.”

“If I agree to work on the screenplay—”

“The studio will embrace your engagement, probably hold a press conference. Better yet, we'll let someone like Louella Parsons break the story. Tell you what, when you get married, I'll even walk Laura down the aisle…if I'm still around.”

“Like hell you will. What about Article 15f?”

He pulled a document from his top desk drawer. “I've already prepared an amendment to the contract, deleting that section. You two will be free to live your lives without studio interference.”

I poured myself another drink and threw back a long swallow. Would Laura understand if I got involved in her movie? She wouldn't want me to cave in to blackmail, even if it cost her the role in
Midnight Wedding,
but I'd never risk her career.

I grabbed the two screenplays from the desk. “I'll do it.”

I emerged from Norman Carville's lair whistling a Cole Porter tune, his latest, “Anything Goes
.
” The old man, no doubt, thought he'd gotten the best of me, but I'd left the meeting with Laura's career, if not my pride and dignity, intact. Laura might be upset our careers would briefly intersect, but she'd surely appreciate how far I'd gone to help her achieve her dream of being a Hollywood star.

My whistling stopped in mid-verse. My optimism changed in an instant. Laura stood at the foot of the stairs, nervously tapping her foot. Her eyes locked on the two screenplays in my hand, and the tapping stopped. She turned her back, and her shoulders slumped.

In the corner of the foyer, she dropped onto a marble bench across from a grandfather clock that began to chime.

I had plenty of explaining to do. I reached the bottom of the stairs as the clock chimed for the eleventh time and stopped. At the entrance to the ballroom, a wide-eyed woman nudged another woman and pointed toward me, as if I'd become some kind of Tinseltown troublemaker.

Roland Harper rushed past the women and clapped me on the shoulder. “Laura Wilson owes me four bits. She bet me you wouldn't accept the old man's offer, but I've been around long enough. No one turns down Norman Carville.”

I barely paid attention as he lowered his voice. “Listen, this would be a much better film if I had a larger role. Right now I'm just a goddamn prop for Christine and Laura.”

I couldn't hold back a groan. “Would you excuse us?”

“Of course, Mr. Donovan.” He pumped my hand. “Let's get together on the set in the morning. I have plenty of ideas I think will make your job easier.”

Fabulous!
Laura's costars working me over to give them more lines, as I'd feared. I sat beside Laura, who ignored me. While I tried to figure out which transgression to apologize for first, the butler handed me my hat. “Would you like me to call you a cab, sir?”

What would he think, me arriving with Christine and leaving with Laura? Butlers had a code of honor, didn't they? “Yes, thank you, James.”

As he walked away, I reached for Laura's hand, but she snatched it back like I'd touched her with a hot poker. This would be a long wait for the cab.

Sonny entered the foyer with a well-made-up gal in her early thirties with considerable cleavage and a blue satin dress slit up the side. “Ma, this is Jake Donovan.”

I had a hard time believing the flashy dame was Sonny's mother, or the mother of any teen.

She flashed her best Emily Post greeting.”How do you do, Mr. Donovan? I'm Sonny's mother, Angie. My son's quite a fan of yours.”

“Ma!”

I rose and shook her offered hand.

“You should've seen Jake.” Sonny demonstrated my earlier pugilistic skills. “With a left jab, he popped Eric Carville with some sweet chin music. He slipped a punch and came up with a right cross that bloodied Eric's nose. Pow!” He mimicked my swing and smacked his palm with his fist.

Laura clamped her eyes shut.

“That son of a bitch had it coming,” Sonny told his mother.

“Sonny, your language, please. There's a lady present.”

Laura managed a smile. “Laura Wilson. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Burkheart.”

“Miss. Delighted, Miss Wilson. You're going to be wonderful in
Midnight Wedding
. Now, come along, Sonny. It's past your bedtime.”

“Ma!” He followed her out the door.

I sat, and Laura finally spoke up. “Eric Carville's a jerk, but would you care to explain why you had to brawl with him?”

“He…”

“He what, Jake?”

“He started it.” The words sounded childish as soon as they left my mouth.

She met the explanation with stony silence.

“May I explain about the meeting with Norman Carville?”

She tapped the two screenplays in my lap. “You don't have to say a word.”

She'd understand once she realized I only agreed in order to save her career. “He said if I agreed to help, you and I could continue…”

“Continue?” Laura's eyes widened. “Continue what?”

I glanced around at the few people within earshot and lowered my voice. “You know, living together, without the studio invoking the morals clause of your contract.”

Laura let out a moan. “So you agreed to work for the Carvilles so you could still sleep in my bed?”

“Of course not. I won't interfere with your work. You probably won't even see me. All I have to do is flesh out the dialogue, you know, punch it up.” I summoned my most charming smile. “No pun intended.”

Laura didn't laugh. “You think brawling with one of the Carvilles and agreeing to do something I'd surely resent is funny?”

The butler's presence rescued me from another icy stare. “Your cab, sir.”

On the way to the hotel, the driver glanced in the rearview mirror and attempted to strike up a conversation as cabbies did. “Bet that was some party at the Carville Estate.”

As I'd seen her do countless times when she was sore with me, Laura transformed from sullen, angry girl from Queens to the belle of the ball. She spoke with a Southern accent. “Positively delightful!”

She'd assumed the persona of Faith Chapman, her character in
Midnight Wedding
.

Laura placed a hand on the back of the front seat. “Why, they had these hors d'oeuvres with bacon wrapped around shrimp and something they called a pâté that I swear looked exactly like cat food on crackers.”

The cabbie chuckled. “What about you, sir?”

“Why, he was the
hit
of the party, weren't you, darling?” She continued to prattle on, apparently preferring to stay in character rather than brood over my behavior.

She played her part for forty minutes until we pulled into the parking lot of the Hollywood Hotel.

As she stepped out of the cab, Faith Chapman vanished. I paid the cabbie and followed Laura inside. The elevator operator stifled a yawn and asked for our floor. With the squeal of metal on metal, we rode to the third floor.

In the corridor, Laura glanced at my shirt and unbuttoned my jacket. “You have blood on your shirt.”

I inspected the damage. “It's Eric's, not mine.”

“Too bad. I was hoping you'd suffered a bit.”

“My hand is throbbing.” Inside the room, I hung the fedora on a coatrack next to the front door. I tossed the screenplays beside the Underwood. “What do you think of the suite?”

Laura thumped my chest. “How could you?”

“Punching Eric Carville or agreeing to work on the screenplay?”

“Ohh!” Laura spun, headed for the bedroom, and slammed the door behind her. The distinct click of a lock followed.

I glanced at the uncomfortable-looking couch and approached the locked door. “Now, darling.”

“Don't ‘darling' me!”

“Eric Carville is a most despicable fellow.” If she spent any time at all with him, she'd know that.

“We're in Hollywood. Of course you're going to meet despicable people. You can't go around punching them all.”

“There's more. When Christine arrived, he grabbed her and I came to her defense. Purely by accident, he banged his ear. When he saw blood, he started to cry.”

She unlocked the door—a positive sign, but she didn't open it. “Cry out?”

“I'm talking blubbering tears, like a kid.”

“So you got into two scrapes with one of my studio's executives tonight?”

“When you put it that way, it sounds bad—”

The door flew open. “Bad? Are you joking?”

“I'm sorry?”

She slammed the bedroom door and locked it again.

I wiggled the fingers of my swollen hand. At the dining table, chunks of ice floated around the unopened bottle in the champagne bucket. I set the bottle on the table, jammed my fist into the icy water, and wiggled my fingers. “Would you have preferred Eric Carville bloodied
my
nose and made me cry?”

“Yes!” Laura unlocked the door again. It opened and she tossed a pillow on the floor. She relocked the door with a loud click.

“I'm sorry about the screenplay. I understand you don't want me on the set.” The icy water began to numb my hand.

“That's the first thing you've gotten right since we left the station.” She yanked open the door, tossed a blanket on top of the pillow, and slammed the door with a bang.

A pounding on the wall came from next door. “Hey, keep it down.”

I dried my hand with a bathroom towel and returned to the locked bedroom door, speaking in a quieter and, I hoped, more soothing voice. “I can appreciate having me on the set won't be easy for you, but things won't be a walk in the park for me either. Roland Harper; the kid, Sonny; his mom; and Christine will all pressure me to cast them in a more positive light.” And when she calmed down, Laura would probably drop subtle suggestions as well.

“
Christine.
Of course you'd be on a first-name basis with a woman you're dating. Do you know she doesn't wear underwear?”

“Sure.” I realized immediately that wasn't the best answer.

The door opened. Laura, in a white hotel robe, stood with hands on her hips. “Would you care to explain?”

“William Powell mentioned it.”

“That's why you were staring at her bottom.” She slammed the door.

I wasn't winning the argument. Several minutes went by. She'd probably gone to bed. I tested the couch, five feet long. I was a tad over six. I returned to the door. “I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry? That's supposed to make everything hunky-dory?”

I lowered my voice and spoke through the door. “Speaking of William Powell, he's even more charming, handsome, and sophisticated than he is in the movies.”

Pause. “I suppose he is.”

“I didn't realize you'd met.”

“Like I said at the party, you were in Florida.”

I didn't want to know about their relationship, if they'd had a relationship, but I couldn't help myself. “Did you go out?”

“He was married.”

Her reply didn't exactly answer the question.

“Jake, don't you dare grill me about what I did or didn't do after you packed your bags and abandoned me!”

“You're right.” I'd lost the argument about Eric, the screenplay, and Christine. The last thing I needed was to add to my troubles. “You're forgetting the good news that came from the evening.”

Silence.

“In exchange for agreeing to work on the screenplay, the studio is giving its full blessing to our relationship. We don't have to pretend to be people who aren't engaged.” That had to mean something and make both our lives easier.

Silence.

We'd be able to get married any time we wanted, a consideration that closed the deal for me. “Norman Carville even offered to walk you down the aisle.”

Several minutes went by. When she spoke, her voice was filled with regret. “Maybe it was a mistake to invite you to come to California.”

Her words felt like a sock in the gut. “Don't say that.”

I stared at the closed door for several minutes then went outside and sagged into a chair on the balcony. The Hollywood sign stood on the hill overlooking the hotel. I'd reserved the Hollywood Hotel expecting the view would bring Laura inspiration and luck. She hadn't even seen it yet.

She had every right to be sore. If I'd learned one thing about women, it was that I couldn't fix problems through a closed door.

I went inside, tossed my jacket on a chair beside the dining table, and scraped the stain on my shirt with a fingernail. In the bathroom, I soaked a washcloth in the sink and blotted the bloodstain. The stain faded but didn't disappear entirely. In the morning I'd see what the hotel staff could do about it.

Work always eased my mind. At the desk, I opened the shooting schedule to the first scene marked with a paper clip. Faith Chapman was in the kitchen baking when Christine's character came in from an all-night party wearing a glamorous gown. Their argument was heated, and I even chuckled once.

The scene had potential. Christine Brody and Laura Wilson throwing food at each other would make audiences laugh more than witty repartee. Still, I couldn't bring myself to work on
Midnight Wedding
when I hadn't even started chapter two of my novel.

I rolled in a sheet of paper and pictured the scene that ended the first chapter. How did Blackie feel about the man with a bullet in his head? I flexed my fingers and began to type.

I disliked the man from the moment we met, but he didn't deserve to die that way. No one deserved a bullet to the head.

Pounding came from the wall. “Enough already!”

I stopped typing. The clock read a few minutes past one. I sat on the hard couch and removed my shoes. I tested the unforgiving cushions and curled up. I twisted my neck to fit my six-foot frame into a five-foot space.

The day had been long and difficult for Laura and me. I'd had more drinks than I was used to. I felt myself falling asleep. I'm not sure how long I slept.

“Jake.” Laura's voice startled me from sleep.

I opened my eyes and flinched.

She stood beside the couch. Her face was covered in cold cream, her hair in curlers. “I barely slept.”

I struggled to sit up, but stabbing pains shot through every joint in my body.

“I…I thought about it all. I acted like a complete fool about you and Christine. She's a manipulative vixen.” She wiped away most of the cold cream with a towel.

Christine didn't manipulate me, but I wasn't in a position to quibble. “Yes, she is.”

I tried to move and winced from the effort.

“You're right about Eric Carville. He's a despicable bully. I'm sure you had every reason to punch him in the nose.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “And the screenplay does need some help. I knew it on the train, but I figured as an actress, it'd be up to me to make Faith Chapman funny.”