The Blue Bottle Club (18 page)

"Oh, and—Adora, is it?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Just what are your intentions here in Hollywood? Ballet, perhaps? Or opera?"

"Acting," Adora said. "I want to become an actress—in the talkies."

Miss Mcllwain's hand flew to her skinny neck. "Oh, my I had no idea."

"Is this a problem?"

"Well. . . usually I only take in girls who are studying the serious arts. Actresses tend to be—you know. Unmanageable. But since your father is a minister of the gospel, I suppose I could make an exception this one time." She peered into Adora's face. "He must be a very . . .
liberal
man of the cloth, to allow you to pursue acting."

"Indeed," Adora sighed. "Very liberal."

"And he must trust you a great deal."

"Implicitly"

"Ah. I see. Well, I suppose we need devoted Christians in all venues," she murmured. "Who's to second-guess the Lord about his calling?" She gave a tight-lipped smile and backed out of the room.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Adora kicked off her shoes, flung herself on the bed, and heaved a sigh of relief.

Never mind that she found herself—at least temporarily—a ward of Miss Caroline Mcllwain, self-professed guard dog of virtue. Never mind that her room was cramped and dark and smelled a little like mildewed shoes. Never mind that she was exhausted, hungry, and utterly alone. She had made it. She was here.

The City of Sin, Miss Mcllwain had called it.

Sin be hanged. This was Los Angeles. Hollywood.

The City of Angels, Adora thought.

The City of Dreams.

Adora awoke to find the room bathed in a blue glow. The sun had set, and a rising moon came through the curtains and cast an eerie light over the bare floorboards. What had awakened her? And what time was it?

A knock sounded on the door—again, Adora realized. It was the knocking that had roused her from a very deep sleep. Her suitcase lay beside her, open but still packed, and her legs were numb from hanging off the edge of the bed.

"Come in."

The door opened, and two female figures entered. One of them carried a tray, and the other reached over to the bedside table and snapped on the reading lamp. Adora blinked and tried to focus.

"You slept through supper." The first girl, a tall blonde with a lithe figure and very large breasts, set the tray on the foot of the bed.

"We told Mother Mac you were probably exhausted from your trip, so she made an exception and let us bring a tray up." The other, a tiny slip of a thing with bright red hair, smiled at her. They looked familiar, vaguely, but Adora couldn't place them.

"Thank you," she managed, rubbing at her eyes in an attempt to wake up. "I'm starving."

The tall blonde smiled. "I'm Candace—Candace Mannheim. We met downstairs when you arrived."

"And I'm Emily Blackstone."

Adora sat up and propped against the head of the bed and took the tray in her lap. Candace moved the suitcase to the floor, and both she and Emily sat on the foot of the bed.

"Adora Archer," Adora said, eyeing the meatloaf and mashed potatoes. "Do you mind?" She gestured with her fork.

"Of course not, go right ahead." Candace smiled and motioned for her to eat. "So, where are you from? And what are you in for?"

Adora frowned. "I'm from North Carolina. Asheville."

"Ha! A Cracker!" Emily burst out. "Or is it a Southern Belle?"

"Neither, actually," Adora hedged, not knowing whether they were making fun at her expense or simply didn't know the difference. "What did you mean, what am I in for?"

"Just a little prison humor among the inmates," Candace chuckled. "What brings you to Hollywood?"

"I want to be an actress."

"You and everyone else on the planet, honey." Emily shook her head. "I've been here for six months. Candy's been here almost a year. I've gotten two callbacks, but no jobs. Candy's been in two talkies, as extras, for base pay."

"Two films?" Adora stared at Candace. "But I thought Miss Mcllwain didn't take in actresses—that she made an exception for me because my dad is a—" Adora stopped suddenly. For some reason she couldn't articulate at the moment, she didn't want these two knowing she was a preacher's daughter.

But they didn't seem to notice her hesitation. "Let us tell you something, Addie—can we call you Addie? Every girl in this house—all nineteen of us, now twenty counting you—is pounding the sidewalks looking for work. This town is full of us—we meet ourselves coming and going. All alike, all wanting the same thing—to be a star. As for Mother Mac, as long as you carry around a pair of toe shoes and do aplié now and then on the back porch, she'll convince herself that you are a 'student of the serious arts' and leave you alone."

"What's your plan?" Emily asked.

"My plan?"

"You've got to have a plan. Do you—wait, I'm afraid to ask. Do you have any contacts? Any connections with a studio ?"

Adora felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her, and she pushed her dinner aside. "No, I didn't know—"

Candace patted the blanket. "It's okay. Stick with us, kid. We know the ropes, and we'll help you get on your feet. I hope you've got a little money to tide you over."

"A couple months' worth."

"That'll get you started. Em and I work three nights a week at a club on the west side. It's pretty dismal, but the tips are good, and they're looking for more part-time help. We can get you in—eight to midnight."

"But Miss Mcllwain said the gates are locked and we're supposed to be in our rooms by—"

Candace threw back her head and laughed. "You'll learn this eventually, so you might as well hear it right up front. For every rule, kid, there's a way around it. In this case, it's a hole in the hedge and a trellis on the back wall of the house. Just make sure to leave your window unlocked."

Adora nodded.

"Now, eat up and get some rest. There's a cattle call tomorrow morning at eight. We'll come get you and we can all go together."

Adora didn't like the way these two made her feel—stupid, naive, and just a little prudish. But if she didn't ask, she'd never learn. "A cattle call?"

"For bit parts, you know, extras in a movie. You don't have to have an agent or an appointment. You just show up, and if they like your looks, you might get a job." Emily studied Adora with a scrutinizing gaze. "Good facial structure, nice cheekbones. Lips are a little full, but we can correct that with a little cosmetic deception. You're lucky, kiddo. Blonde hair and blue eyes are popular these days." She fluffed at her wild red curls. "I can't tell you how many jobs I've lost because I stand out too much."

"Cattle call, huh? And just what does that make us?" Adora smiled. Maybe she had been wrong in her initial reaction to Candace and Emily. They were trying to help, after all, and they obviously knew a great deal more than she did about the way things were done in Hollywood.

After they left, she finished off her dinner, unpacked her suitcase, and got ready for bed. Tomorrow was the big day—her first audition. Maybe by this time tomorrow night she would be writing Letitia to tell her that Adora Archer was on her way to being a star.

Or if not a star, she mused wryly, at least a legitimately employed cow.

18

WHITMAN HUSHES

July
4,
1930

A
dora blotted perspiration from her forehead and went to the other side of the pool to seek out a little shade. Candy and Em had insisted that she come, said it would be a good opportunity to "mingle with the magic-makers of Tinsel Town." But so far the only star she had seen was Rudy Vallee, playing tennis, and he was so far away she couldn't be sure it was him until she asked someone. The entire party seemed to be populated by hopefuls like herself, mostly young men and women preening for the cameras and trying desperately to get noticed.

For the fifth time that afternoon, Adora refused the drink offered to her by a white-coated waiter. Obviously no one in Hollywood had heard about Prohibition; everywhere she went, liquor flowed as freely as self-aggrandizement. To be honest, it had taken her quite some time to become inured to the sight of a woman with a cigarette in one hand and a highball in the other. And in trousers, some of them, swapping crude stories with the men as if they were born to it. If that's what it took to be a success in Hollywood, Adora despaired of ever realizing her dream.

She had lost count of the number of cattle calls she had attended in the past month and a half. Enormous, chaotic gatherings of hundreds, sometimes thousands of starry-eyed ingenues waiting to be discovered. Of those thousands, one or two lucky ones would be chosen, and more often than not their two seconds of fame would end up on the cutting room floor. The only hope for most of them was a bona fide miracle. And her father, she was certain, would say that God wasn't in the business of doling out miracles for lewd and immoral purposes.

Adora went to the bar and asked for a glass of water "on the rocks"—she had learned that much about drinking, anyway—and then turned back to survey the crowd. What would Letitia and the others think, she wondered, if they knew what Hollywood was really like? She had written letters, just as she had promised—one every week since she arrived. But one promise she had not kept. She had not been honest about the way things really were.

She hadn't lied, exactly—she had just put a positive spin on reality. Referred to the cattle calls as "auditions" and neglected to mention that there were hundreds of others "auditioning" for the same two-second spot in a crowd scene. She reported that Miss Mcllwain's boardinghouse was a nice, clean, respectable place to live, that she had made some good friends (though none who could ever take the place of her friends back home), and that she had some "promising possibilities" in the works.

The truth was, Adora's money was almost gone. Most mornings she was out of the house by six and didn't come home until well after seven, so she rarely got to take advantage of the meals she was paying for. She subsisted by sneaking coffee and sweet rolls from the tables set up for the real actors—a crime punishable by eviction from the lot if the studio ever caught her—and crashing parties like this one, where she wolfed down hors d'oeuvres and fruit salad and strawberries dipped in chocolate as if it were her last meal. As indeed it might be, if she didn't find something soon.

So far she had steadfastly avoided joining Candy and Em in their late-night carousing at the Westside Dance Club. They worked, certainly, serving the forbidden drinks and sometimes dancing with the customers. But more often than not, they came home with liquor on their breath and cigar smoke permeating their clothes, and once or twice Candy didn't come home at all. When she showed up the next day waving two fifty-dollar bills, Adora didn't dare ask what she had done to deserve that kind of tip. She knew, of course—or at least she suspected. She just wasn't ready to have her suspicions confirmed.

If nothing turned up for her in the next week or so, however, she might just have to abandon that last stronghold of morality and take the waitress's job at the Westside Club. She didn't want to; it represented some final capitulation to the seduction of Sin City. But what choice did she have? Her options were rapidly running out.

Adora felt a presence next to her and turned to see a devastatingly handsome man in a white summer suit lounging on the bar stool to her right. "Some party, isn't it?" he said languidly, his eyes running up and down as he surveyed her. He shifted his drink to his left hand and held out his right. "Whitman Hughes," he said in a low rumbling voice. "And you are—?"

"Adora—Adora Archer," she stammered. She stared at him and wondered what magazine cover he had stepped off of. Tall, at least six-two, and broad-shouldered, with wavy brown hair and dark eyes, a cleft in his chin, and a jaw that looked as if it had been chiseled from marble.

"Are—are you a movie star?" she asked stupidly. Great. Now he would think she was a complete idiot, some hick who just fell off the turnip truck.

To her surprise, however, he threw back his head and laughed heartily. "No, no," he said when he had regained his composure. "But aren't you the refreshing one? Most people in this town would drop dead in their tracks rather than say what they're really thinking."

"I'm sorry," Adora whispered.

"Don't be." He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. "I'm tired of women who play the game. You never know quite what you're getting." He extended a long brown finger and ran it tantalizingly up and down her arm. "And what, Adora Archer, is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

She took a deep breath and decided to opt for the truth—partly because he had already said he liked it, and partly because she didn't have the presence of mind to come up with a believable lie. "I'm trying to be an actress," she said frankly. "And my friends seemed to think I might meet someone here who would notice me."

"I noticed." He arched one thick eyebrow.

Adora could barely breathe, and her heart pounded painfully in her chest. She took a gulp of water and set her glass on the bar so he wouldn't see the shaking of her hand. "Mr. Hughes, I—"