Sheri Cobb South (3 page)

Kathleen turned to Frankie. “None of us are very fond of Pauline, but she does get more work than any of us.”

“And no wonder!” Roxie cast a furtive glance back at the half-open door and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They say she gives her best performances on her back.”

“On her back?” Frankie echoed, baffled by this seeming impossibility. “But she would have to be lying—oh!” She blushed crimson at the implication.

“Not that she’s the only one, not by a long shot,” Roxie continued. “Lots of girls figure it’s the fastest way out of Central Casting and into a studio contract.”

Frankie shook her head. “Not me. I could never do such a thing!”

“Never say ‘never,’ ” cautioned Kathleen, suddenly solemn. “When the perfect role comes along, some girls figure it’s worth any price. After all, you may not get another shot at stardom. You do what you have to do, or you go home a failure.”

Or you throw yourself headfirst from the Hollywood sign, like poor Peg Entwhistle had done a few years back. Either way, Frankie couldn’t imagine any role worth such desperate measures. Still, she didn’t want to quarrel with her new friends, so she was relieved, if a bit bewildered, when Roxie steered the conversation in a new direction.

“So, have you registered with Central Casting yet?”

“I don’t think so,” Frankie said doubtfully.

Roxie laughed. “If you don’t know, then you haven’t done it.”

“Central Casting is the office the studios call when they need to hire extras,” Kathleen explained. “They’re small parts, usually non-speaking, but at least you get acting experience.”

Frankie tried hard not to let her disappointment show. “I’d hoped to get a contract with one of the big studios.”

Roxie let out a bark of somewhat bitter laughter. “Don’t we all! Unfortunately, every female in Hollywood has the same thing in mind. Working as an extra may not be glamorous, but it pays the rent. Besides, there’s always the chance you might catch the eye of someone important.”

“But—”

“It’s easy to register,” Kathleen added, apparently seeing nothing wrong with this plan for Frankie’s future. “All you have to do is go to the Central Casting office and fill out a form. If you have a recent photograph of yourself, leave it with them. If not, it’s worth the expense of having one professionally made.”

Photographs, or a lack thereof, were no problem. Mama had taken her to have her photo taken in the full-skirted white chiffon gown Frankie had worn to her debutante ball. She’d worn her grandmother’s pearl earrings, and her hair was pinned up in a sophisticated style. In fact, she’d looked every inch the Hollywood starlet she still hoped to be. But she was reluctant to add her own likeness to the hundreds of anonymous photos at Central Casting without first trying her luck at the major studios. And so the following morning, dressed in a cream-colored linen suit and armed with a map and a bus schedule, she set out to storm the citadel.

Her first stop was Columbia Pictures, where the receptionist hardly even looked at her. “We get most of our extras through Central Casting,” she said in the world-weary accents of one who had made the same speech more times than she could count. “Fill out a registration card with them, and if anything comes up, we’ll let you know.”

“Can’t I at least leave my photograph for the casting director?”

The receptionist smiled regretfully and shook her head. “I’m afraid it would only get lost in all the clutter.”

Since Frankie could see her own reflection on the surface of the pristine desk, she understood this excuse as the dismissal it was clearly intended to be. She thanked the receptionist politely—Mama’s daughter would do nothing less—but knew better than to hold her breath.

From Columbia she went to MGM and from MGM to Paramount, with no greater success. She dug a bit deeper into her purse for bus fare and ventured farther afield to Universal and Twentieth Century-Fox, but the story was always the same.

“Don’t call us,” one industry insider recommended, taking Frankie firmly by the elbow and all but frog-marching her to the door. “We’ll call you.”

Her last stop, at Monumental Pictures, proved even more fruitless than all the rest. At least at the other studios a real person had spoken to her, however unpromisingly. At Monumental, however, the reception room stood vacant, without so much as a cold coffee cup on the desk to suggest that it had ever been inhabited at all.

“Hello?” called Frankie, undaunted. “Is anyone there?”

Receiving no reply, she ventured past the desk and into the hallway. She could hear the faint sounds of voices further down the corridor, and she started in their direction, the thick carpet beneath her feet absorbing the sound of her footsteps
.
At the end of the hall was a half-open door bearing a brass nameplate reading “Arthur Cohen, Executive Producer.” As she drew nearer, the voices within began to resolve themselves into words—angry words. A previously unsuspected instinct for self-preservation warned her against announcing her presence.

“Damn it, Artie, this is the opportunity of a lifetime!”

The unseen Artie, presumably Mr. Arthur Cohen himself, gave a derisive snort. “Opportunity to go bankrupt, more like. Have you heard what the Mitchell dame and her agent are asking? A hundred grand!”

“Since when does anybody pay the asking price? Make ‘em a counter offer, and see what happens.”

“I know what’ll happen. Either they’ll turn it down, and I’m no better off than I was before, or they’ll accept it—and I’m a hell of a lot worse.”

The first speaker’s response was drowned out by a metallic ringing like a spoon against the cup. A moment later a not unpleasant odor of herbs and almonds filled the air, tickling Frankie’s nose.

“Mayer says no Civil War picture ever made a nickel,” Artie said once the stirring sound had stopped. “You think you suddenly know more about making pictures than Louis B. Mayer?”

Frankie gasped. They were talking about
Gone with the Wind
! The whole country was hoping for a film version of Margaret Mitchell’s novel, even (maybe especially) those who hadn’t yet read the thousand-page brick of a book.  Forgetting for the moment the hostility with which the issue was being debated, Frankie pictured herself in ruffled hoop skirts, lifting her tear-stained face to the camera and declaring that “Tomorrow is another day.” Then Artie’s companion spoke again, more clearly now, dragging her away from Tara and back to reality.

“—big Technicolor production, like I wanted to do with
The Virgin Queen
.”

“I keep telling you, Technicolor is nothing but a fad—and a damned expensive one at that.”

“You said the same thing ten years ago about the talkies. If it had been left up to you we’d still be making the old silent flicks.”

Artie took exception to this accusation, slamming his fist into something—the wall, perhaps, or the top of his desk. “God knows one of us has to show some restraint! ‘Technicolor,’ my Aunt Fanny! Give me a good old black and white horror flick any day. That’s what the public wants—some sweet young thing in a see-through nightie tiptoeing down the stairs with a candle in her hand—”

“And you were the master of the genre, Artie, no one’s arguing with that,” his companion assured him in conciliatory tones. “But that kind of thing is box office poison these days, thanks to the Hays Office.”

Artie’s bluntly stated opinion of the Hays Office and its censoring practices caused Frankie to clap one hand over her open mouth.

“I’m inclined to agree with you, but it looks like they’re here to stay, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Look, if you’re not happy with the way the industry is headed, maybe it’s time you got out, pursued some other interests. I’d be willing to buy you out—”

“With what?” scoffed Artie. “You don’t have a dime you didn’t make in the business.”

“And what money do
you
have that you didn’t marry?”

“You leave my wife out of this!”

“But the business—”

 “Yeah, the business—the business
I
started with two old cameras in an empty barn while you were off at some fancy-pants college getting yourself educated! No, if we break up the partnership, you’ll be the one to leave, not me. You want me out, you’ll have to kill me first.”

Frankie had heard enough. Groping for the wall with one shaking hand, she took a backward step, then another. She had almost reached the foyer when her hand struck a framed movie poster hanging on the wall, setting it swinging back and forth on its nail.

“What the hell was that?” Artie demanded
.

Frankie didn’t know if they would come after her, and didn’t wait to find out. She spun on her heel and bolted from the studio as if the devil himself were at her heels. She didn’t stop running until she reached the curb, waving wildly for an approaching taxi.

Thanks to a traffic accident at the corner of Sunset and Camden, it was almost seven o’clock by the time the taxi delivered her to the Studio Club. By that time, her panic had faded, and she felt a bit foolish for her precipitous departure. There was probably a perfectly logical, perfectly innocent explanation for the conversation she’d overheard
.
By overreacting, she had thrown away her best chance to meet someone high enough on the corporate ladder to give her a job. True, neither one of them had sounded as if he would have been in the mood to do anyone any favors, but surely she could have coaxed them round
.

Now it was too late, and all she had to show for her day’s efforts was a fifty-cent taxi fare. She felt hot, tired, and sweaty. Her suit of cream colored linen, so stylish just that morning, was now lined with creases, and what remained of the makeup she had so carefully applied that morning was now streaked and shiny. Given the way her day had gone so far, it hardly seemed surprising when she walked into the foyer of the Studio Club and saw a good-looking young man in a black tuxedo. His hair was slicked back with brilliantine, and under his arm he carried a cardboard florist’s box. Frankie’s hand rose instinctively to smooth her hair, but even as she made the unconscious gesture, she realized there was something vaguely familiar about the young man. The clothes were certainly different, and the liberal application of brilliantine made his sandy hair appear darker, but the snub nose and the faintly mocking blue eyes were the same.

“Mitch?” She took an involuntary step in his direction. “What are you doing here?”

Something about his grin, or maybe it was just his formal attire, made her feel more disheveled than ever. “Picking up my date. We’re going to the Cocoanut Grove.”

Frankie stiffened. “I don’t remember saying I’d go to the Cocoanut Grove with you!”

“I don’t remember asking you. Ah, there’s my date now!”

His gaze shifted to the staircase beyond. Turning, Frankie beheld Pauline Moore descending the stairs in a slinky black number whose plunging neckline made the most of her considerable assets. As she glided across the foyer, Frankie saw that the back of the gown dipped almost to her waist. Frankie didn’t see how anyone could possibly wear a brassiere under such a gown and suspected Pauline hadn’t tried very hard to find a way. Still, she couldn’t deny that Pauline looked every inch a movie star. Her dark hair dipped dramatically over one eye, and her penciled eyebrows and crimson lips could have come from the hand of Mr. Max Factor himself. Frankie didn’t know why Pauline had bothered; given the view from both front and back, no man in the joint would be looking at her face
,
anyway.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long,” Pauline purred.

“Even if you did, the results are worth every minute,” Mitch assured her.

“Oh, and you brought me flowers. How sweet! Will you pin them on for me?”

Frankie, unwilling witness to this process, thought it took a ridiculous length of time for him to affix the corsage to Pauline’s bosom. At last the operation was complete. Mitch took the fur wrap Pauline carried over her arm and draped it over her shoulders.

“ ‘Night, Frances,” Mitch told her. “I’d ask you to come along, but you know what they say about three being a crowd.”

Frankie raised her gloved hand to her mouth and faked a yawn. “How sweet of you to think of me!” she said in her best Pauline imitation. “But I couldn’t possibly go anywhere tonight except to the bath and then straight to bed. I’m exhausted! I just got back from a late interview with Mr. Arthur Cohen. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Monumental Pictures? But I mustn’t keep you standing here! Ta-ta, Pauline, don’t let Mitch keep you out too late. We girls need our beauty sleep, you know.”

Frankie kept smiling and waving until the door closed behind them, then collapsed onto one of the wicker chairs, reluctant to go upstairs to her room
.
She had no desire to make small talk with a roommate who was still essentially a stranger. She felt lower than she’d ever felt in all her life. Georgia was hundreds of miles away, her money was almost gone, she hadn’t yet met with a single Hollywood big shot, and now her only friend—no, make that
acquaintance
—was going out to dinner with a half-naked floozy. Oh, the glamorous life of an actress!

Chapter 3

Gentlemen’s Agreement (1947)

Directed by Elia Kazan

Starring Gregory Peck and Dorothy McGuire

If Mitch suspected Pauline Moore of having a romantic interest in him, he was disabused of this notion within half an hour of their arrival at the Cocoanut Grove. He’d been lucky enough to score a table for two at the edge of the dance floor, but after they’d glided across the floor to the orchestra’s rendition of “Begin the Beguine,” it appeared that Pauline had lost her taste for his company. He watched as she flitted about the perimeter of a boisterous table on the opposite side of the room, now laughing animatedly as a portly middle-aged man stole an arm about her waist, now sipping from a glass of something that was definitely
not
the ginger ale she’d asked Mitch to order for her.