Hollywood (58 page)

“She’ll come home.” Frederika sounded sad. “This can’t last for her—for anybody. But I can see the appeal. Imagine a place where no one cares who the new attorney general is or whether Mr. Harding is his puppet.”

“I think the attorney general might be the one politician that they’d all be interested in.”

Among the papier-mâché palm trees, there were guards—criminals, too. Even the Latin lover, Moreno, looked as if he might slit one’s throat simply for pleasure. The false jungle was a very real jungle, and Caroline could have it all, as far as Blaise was concerned. A life-size monkey doll at the base of a palm tree opposite suddenly began to blink glaring red electrical eyes.

On the Argyle Lot, now deserted at day’s end, bits and pieces of Edinburgh Castle had been re-created, and Caroline and Taylor strolled amidst their handiwork. “Well, now at least we know,” said Caroline, “what Mr. Griffith must have felt when he built Babylon.”

“Yes,” said Taylor, frowning, “and I know what his banker must have felt, too.” Although Traxler Productions footed the bill, it was Taylor who worried most about cost. So far, the production was nearly a hundred thousand dollars over its estimated budget and shooting had yet to begin.

Tim had been sardonic. “You could’ve rented all of Edinburgh for what you’re paying.” Then he had vanished into the Northwest to make the sort of film that would over-excite Caroline’s daughter and son-in-law. Thanks in part to their efforts, the film, with intercut footage of Woodrow Wilson, had been banned in most cities. Happily, as the new attorney general, Harry M. Daugherty, was not running for president, Tim might be allowed to continue at large for a while longer. To date, there had been only one scene about Taylor, which Caroline had Emma Traxlered with a nobility worthy of an Elinor Glyn heroine. Tim had most hurt her by being not jealous but mystified by her choice.

“I ride through the gate.” Caroline imagined herself on horseback, sidesaddle, a plume in her hat, the adoring Bothwell at her side. Attempts to get Barthelmess for Bothwell had failed; and an older actor was hired in order
to make Caroline look young and helpless. As for Mary’s rival, Queen Elizabeth, they had nearly secured Sarah Bernhardt, whose stage version of
Queen Elizabeth
had filled French theaters since the dawn of time. But at the last moment the Divine Sarah had decided not to put at risk her legend a second time on dangerous truth-telling film. They had then hired a distinguished actress of seventy, who was guaranteed to make Caroline look kittenish. La Glyn had, quite seriously, offered her services in the interests of Authenticity, as she was also descended from the Tudor queen, but Caroline had assured her that she was far too handsome to be a foil for plain little Emma Traxler; rather rudely, La Glyn had agreed. “If you put it like that, Madame Traxler, you are absolutely right.” To everyone’s surprise, Elinor Glyn was now not only writing but producing her own films. She had become a Hollywood success, and was praised by the
Kine Weekly
.

“We’ll do all the exteriors first,” said Taylor. He took her arm; and she was pleased, as always, when he took the physical initiative. Thus far, nothing had happened between them, and for the first time in Caroline’s life, she had developed a sudden blind panic at the thought of age. Suppose there would be, at last, someone whom she wanted—as now—who did not want her? One who preferred young girls like Minter and Normand? What could she do? The demoralizing answer was nothing.

Caroline leaned very lightly against Taylor as they walked along the battlement from which Mary would stare in vain for her lover who, unbeknownst to her, was dead. Caroline felt spontaneous tears of self-pity rush to her eyes. Mary was a role that she was going to have to work very hard
not
to act.

Together they paused on the battlement and looked across the New York street to the high fence that surrounded the lot. All work had stopped for the day, but on certain sets technicians were making last-minute—overtime!—alterations. “Do you really think Mary should meet Elizabeth in the park rather than at the prison?” This was an on-going disagreement.

“We have to get outdoors by then. We’ve got six interiors in a row. The story’s getting too claustrophobic.”

“But I like that. It’s the way Mary would feel. I mean, she
is
a prisoner.” Taylor’s profile was nearly perfect. He had had his choice of film parts for years, but after his success in
Captain Alvarez
he had chosen to direct.

“Edward says it’s always worked in the park.”

Caroline did not much care for the plump New York Englishman Edward Knoblock, who stayed on and on in Taylor’s small bungalow, very much
underfoot from Caroline’s point of view. “That is because Edward has stolen the plot from Schiller, and given him no credit.”

“Now, now.” Taylor was soothing. “Were it not for theft—tasteful theft, that is—we’d all be out of business here. Why didn’t your brother stay longer?”

“He thinks the government will stop if he’s not there to guide them. I used to be like that.”

“Don’t you miss it?”

Reflexively, Caroline counted to three to herself, the way that she had learned to do to insure the effectiveness of a close shot; then she spoke. “Yes, sometimes. This is more fun, of course. But one day I won’t be able to do it.”

“One day none of us will be able to do anything. Why anticipate?”

At that moment, they were joined by Charles Eyton, the chief of production for Famous Players–Lasky.

“Putting out the lights?” Taylor smiled.

“Don’t joke! That’s what I have to do. The waste that goes on around here!” Eyton was a very thorough practical man, much involved with everything and everyone at the studio, including outside production companies like Traxler. “Can’t wait to get started, I’ll bet,” he said, frowning at the gate to Edinburgh Castle.

Taylor anticipated him. “We’ll sell you the set, if you don’t use it until a year after our run.”

Eyton nodded, seriously. “I’ve got an Ivanhoe coming up. Same kind of castle, I guess. I mean, if you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all.” He turned to Taylor. “It’s all squared away. But tell her to grow up.”

“That’s the one thing only nature can do, Charlie. She isn’t grown up.”

Taylor drove Caroline to his place on Alvarado Street. The bungalow was part of a building complex that had evolved, as far as Caroline knew, indigenously to Hollywood. A half-dozen bungalows were built on three sides of a courtyard containing palms and a fountain. On the fourth side was sidewalk and street. The owner of the complex occupied the first bungalow and acted as a concierge and armed guard. A well-known actor and his wife, friends of Taylor’s, lived across from him. Caroline quite liked the small-town life of the arrangement despite the publicness of all the comings and goings beneath the palms. But then, for privacy, one could enter Taylor’s bungalow from Maryland Avenue at the back. Caroline had come that way several times, prepared for love; instead she had got a candle-lit dinner, served by a villainous-looking servant called Eddie Sands; then they played backgammon.

When Caroline had reciprocated, Héloise serving a candle-lit dinner with all the joy of Saint Teresa bathing a leper colony, the evening had ended, again, in backgammon. Caroline had come to hate Mary Miles Minter, who had not yet, in the actuarial sense, grown up.

“That’s the whole problem, really.” Taylor mixed Caroline a martini. Caroline drank deep. If she was to be frustrated, she might as well be numbed. “She gets these wild crushes on people …”

“On you?”

“Among others. Then she writes incriminating letters and poor Charlie Eyton has to buy them up, to keep them from blackmailers and worse.”

“Charlotte?”

Taylor nodded. “The last batch of letters were to a director, the father of her child …”

“But Charlotte knew all about that at the time.” By now, Caroline felt that she knew the passionate Charlotte intimately. Taylor had confessed to a flirtation with mother as well as daughter. So when it had become clear that Taylor was to be the second director—and great love—in Minter’s life, Charlotte had behaved like a bayou Medea. On several occasions, Minter would be locked in her room; then Charlotte’s mother would help Minter to escape and she would show up at 404 Alvarado and Taylor would then … what? Caroline wondered. He had denied having an affair with the child. But then he had also denied his long affair with Mabel Normand. To hear him tell it, he was a sort of healer—like Rasputin, Caroline had sweetly remarked. But so much healing of others had given him an ulcer.

“I can’t wait to go to Europe. Anything to get out of here,” he said, looking about the very pleasant living room. Knoblock was out to dinner, and they would dine alone and, of course, early. Fortunately, Eddie was a good cook, which made up for very little.

“Perhaps I’ll open up Saint-Cloud, or do you hate France?”

“No. No.” He smiled at her through a haze of aromatic smoke from a gold-tipped cigarette. “I’d love that, and if you were there.…”

Caroline waited, eagerly, for the declaration.

But Taylor only sighed. “The problem is, with both of them, their careers are over, and they don’t know it.”

“Poor things.” Caroline hated “both of them” with a purity that she had not suspected herself capable of. One was a world star at nineteen and a failure; the other a world star of twenty-six, and a dope-addicted crone.

“Of course, Mary doesn’t know or care. She hates the movies, hates her life …”

“Hates her mother?”

Taylor shrugged. “She says she does. But if she really did, she could always move out.”

“A child? A minor—a Mary Miles Minter Minor?” Caroline thought what a pleasure it would be to pull out, one by one, those carefully arranged golden ringlets, grown especially to replace on screen Mary Pickford’s, which, when finally cut off, brought an entire nation to despair.

“She has her grandmother.” Taylor was thoughtful. “But there’s still that contract she signed, giving Charlotte thirty percent …”

“Since,” said Caroline, bored beyond the call of any duty heretofore known to her, “tiny Minor Mary was a mere gosling at the time of the contract, it is not valid under the laws of this state. Tell her to go to court.”

“She’s still under-age. You know, she tried to kill herself, with her mother’s gun.”

Caroline’s attention if not sympathy was at last engaged. “Why—a gun?”

“Because Mary thought she was in love with someone that Charlotte wouldn’t let her see.”

“I divined that. Why,” asked Caroline, “does Charlotte have a gun?”

“Southern ladies are used to protecting themselves and their honor, from violation.” Taylor was light.

Caroline was even lighter. “In the case of Charlotte Shelby, I suggest a softly murmured ‘no’ would do the trick. Or, perhaps,” she elaborated happily, “an enthusiastic ‘yes’ might cause even the most devoted rapist to flee.”

“We must find you a comedy,” said Taylor.

“I
have
found it,” said Caroline. This was later proved after dinner. Taylor put one hand on her shoulder, as if he knew exactly how ready, indeed eager, she was. “Yes, William,” she whispered. “Yes?”

The fingers burned through the silk of her blouse. “A penny a point,” he whispered and led her to the backgammon table.

M
y God, how the money rolls in!” sang Jess, tonelessly. Try as he might he could never learn the rest of the song or, indeed, anything other than the one line of chorus that perfectly summed up his situation. In the small parlor of 1509 H Street, Ned McLean was sound asleep on the sofa. Long before midnight when the poker game had broken up, Ned had passed out; and Daugherty had telephoned Evalyn to say that Ned was being well looked after. Now Daugherty was asleep upstairs while a colored cleaning woman removed bottles and overflowing ashtrays from the stale-smelling parlor.

Jess sat at a rolltop desk, doing sums. He was, he knew, handsomely turned out in a chocolate-brown suit with a lavender vest. Had it not been for a nagging ache in the lower right quadrant of his paunch, he was in the pink of condition, both chronic diabetes and asthma at bay. Then he made the first of several telephone calls to his—their—broker Samuel Ungerleider, formerly of Columbus, Ohio. “Whaddaya know?” Jess announced. But Ungerleider
knew no more than the previous day’s stock market figures. Sam handled investment accounts for the Hardings, Daugherty, Jess and a number of other Ohioans. As Jess was involved in a complex series of speculations, he was always in need of quick cash to cover his margin calls with Sam, who was as honest as Jess was punctilious about coming up with the cash on time. “You’ll need eleven, twelve thousand by noon,” said Sam.

“You’ve got it. How’s Mr. Daugherty doing?”

“Fine. He don’t play dice like you do, Jess.”

“And the President?”

“A regular old widow woman …”

“That’s the Duchess. She won’t let him gamble on nothing.”

“Lot of money to be made …”

“You’re telling me. Let’s keep it rolling in.”

The first caller of the day arrived at seven-thirty. “Whaddaya know?” Jess sprayed the air between them but the man, a lugubrious Virginia bootlegger, seemed not to notice.