A Touch of Stardust (30 page)

The main street leading to the Culver Hotel at Washington and Culver Boulevards was dusty and hot. Such a strange, made-up town, Julie thought as they trudged toward the hotel. A faded sign hung high over the intersection, proclaiming in large red-and-black letters:
THE HEART OF SCREENLAND
. It was no idle claim. With two
major studios in this town of nine thousand people at the foot of the Baldwin Hills, the movie business was both salvation and identity. The hotel—without its rotating glamorous guests—wouldn’t have survived long.

“The
Wizard of Oz
gang finally cleared out of here. I’m told the Munchkins took their sweet time doing it,” an engineer observed as the clearly exuberant Fleming beckoned them to follow him into a bar next to the hotel—a dark, narrow room with eight high bar stools covered in worn leather, lined up in a row, facing a mirrored wall half obscured by liquor bottles. Covering the window was a blinking neon sign for Schlitz beer. About ten people, all men except for Julie, had been invited along—a couple of electricians, another assistant director—male buddies clearly used to sharing the noisy camaraderie Fleming was famous for.

The bartender greeted the group with rigorous cheer; obviously, they were good customers. Andy helped her onto a stool, looking a little sheepish.

“Okay, we should be taking some kind of healthy hike along the beach, but, damn, everybody is tired as hell,” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“I don’t begrudge you this,” she said quickly.

“We’ll stick around for just one beer.”

Julie stared at the clock above the bar. It was already four o’clock. Andy and Fleming were in a long, slurred argument about whether Cukor should get any directing credit for the movie, which Fleming rejected out of hand. And what about Sam Wood, who took over for a while when Fleming was sick? “This is my movie,” Fleming yelled at one point. The bartender turned up the radio to drown out their voices, but the two men still argued. The others had drifted over to a pinball machine, where they whooped and cheered whenever one of them won.

Julie kept a smile on her face, but her mouth was beginning to
ache. She took a few bites out of a dry hamburger Andy had ordered for her; there was no ketchup to put on it, and just a darkened mass in the bottom of a mustard jar that looked as if it had been sitting on a shelf for a very long time. People didn’t eat very often in here, the bartender confided. Sorry, lady.

“Can we go now?” she said to Andy, smiling brightly so the others wouldn’t see her as trying to be pushy.

He patted her shoulder, and kept talking. Boxing now; they were talking about some boxing match.

“Well, look at all you bastards getting drunk,” said a loud, familiar, cheerful voice. “Clark said he knew where you would be, and he’s right! Anybody up for a game of darts?”

It was Carole, standing in the doorway, with Clark right behind her. She had a bright-green turban tilted rakishly across her forehead and wore a pair of beach dungarees that most women would scorn. On Carole, they were perfect.

“I am,” Julie called out, sliding off the bar stool. She didn’t have to sit here patiently waiting until Andy remembered she was with him.

The bartender handed her a box of darts and pointed to the dartboard. Ignoring Andy’s startled glance, she joined Carole, and the two of them started a game.

“I was only planning to drop Clark off to toss a few with Fleming,” Carole murmured to Julie. “But I saw you through the door, and you looked kind of bored. Everything okay?”

Julie threw a dart, keeping her hand steady. Bull’s-eye. “Can I get a ride home with you?” she said.

Carole peered at the dartboard, impressed. “You’re either really good at this game or mad at Andy,” she said.

“Right,” Julie replied. She already felt better.

Carole threw a dart. Again a bull’s-eye. “Ready to go? Clark’s settling in, and I’ve got stuff to do,” Carole said, eyeing her husband. Clark was leaning jovially across the bar now, holding a beer, joking about Olivier’s surprise presence on the set today.

“Sure.” She was going home. Julie tried to muster some of Carole’s
lightness of being. So Andy drank too much; who in this town didn’t? She walked back to the bar and tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m leaving,” she said as casually as she could. “Big week coming up, and I’ve got things to do.”

He looked befuddled, but showed a vestige of concern. “I’ll drive you,” he said.

“No, no, I’ll go with Carole.”

“I’ll call you later.”

She felt strangely serene. “Not tonight, Andy. I’m busy.” And as she walked away, she felt some tangled threads loosening in her heart. Maybe she would be busy for longer than just tonight.

Early morning at MGM was a lazy time, a waiting time. Julie was getting used to seeing actors, cameramen, gaffers, all lounging in chairs, talking, watching the parade go by. One time she saw two women chatting together, knitting furiously, fingers flying—and realized with a start that she was looking at Rosalind Russell and Paulette Goddard, two of the stars making a film called
The Women
, which—unbelievably—had no parts for men.

It also struck her that she was hearing more radios on her trek to Room 632. Roosevelt was announcing something about a commerce treaty—who with? She didn’t catch it. The Nazis were signing a pact with Italy. There was talk of Japan; warnings of spreading war. Somebody yelled, “Turn that damn thing off; let’s hear some music!” A sudden blast of swing replaced the broadcaster’s sonorous voice.

None of the other writers was friendly. They all shot glances at the copy of the people next to them, short malevolent glares that hinted at much more than curiosity. They were probably all here on tryouts, all hoping for permanent jobs. And they were all dancing as fast as they could.

“Julie, honey …” Goldman touched her arm and guided her over to the door as the others stuffed rejected scenes into leather briefcases and packed up to leave. “I’ve got a plan for you that might help your creative juices flow faster.”

He must be saying she wasn’t performing well enough. Julie’s heart missed a beat. Okay, she cared, she cared as much as all those other would-be screenwriters in the room. “I’m willing to work on any project,” she said.

“Yeah, good.” His eyes shifted restlessly. “Almost halfway already. We need to tap into your strengths more. You’ve seemed a little flat lately.”

He was telling her she was finished; she was sure of it. Well, she wasn’t going to blow her one big chance. “I’ll do anything I have to, to give you the kind of work you want,” she said quickly.

“Hey, I’ve got a great idea.” His eyes lit up. “I’ve got a couple of movies at my place that you should see—they’re more women’s movies, anyhow. Why don’t you come over tonight? We’ll go through them, and I’m sure you’ll get some real inspiration.”

How could he be so blatant? How naïve did he think she was? Well, that was easy. He was a practical man who probably figured that, presented at the right moment of desperation, his sleazy gambit could work. She wanted to scorn this guy with his greasy nose, maybe even embarrass him—to stand up straight and say to his face, “I know what you’re after, and I’m not that kind of girl.” Corny, yes, but she could fantasize that. Yet that’s not what came out of her mouth.

“Tonight?” She stared at him, her stomach sinking. “I can’t tonight—”

“Then sometime this week.” His voice was slightly edged now. “Time is running out, honey.” He glanced at old Sammy, dozing under his chair. “Sammy would sure miss you, I can tell you that,” he said.

The streetcar home bumped and rumbled over uneven pavement. Julie stared at the rounded back of the conductor, wondering how differently he and she experienced weariness. His arms were thick and strong. But he had to grip a wheel all day and watch for people
darting across the rails in front of him. He had to swallow anger when riders snapped at him that he had missed their stop. Everybody had to contain feelings in one way or another; wasn’t that what kept civilization working? Julie sat back and closed her eyes. The deal before her was pretty plainly drawn—nothing subtle about it. She couldn’t imagine lying on a bed beneath that man. It was a dead end, this quixotic venture of hers. She couldn’t talk to Andy; Selznick had sent him to Sacramento on some money-raising errand. What could he say, anyway? And since the afternoon at the bar in Culver City, she had felt a need to hold back a little, catch her breath.

His apology the next day had been both sincere and embarrassed. “Julie, I was a total jerk, and I’m sorry,” he said. “The pressure here is getting to me, but I’m not going to let drinking run my life.”

“It’s more than the job, I think.”

He blinked, paused. Then said, “Yeah.”

“It’s your grandparents. Your brother.”

“I’m not denying it.”

That was all; he said no more. But when she reached for him and kissed the tension lines on his brow, he held her very tightly.

So who else? Frances Marion was out of town, too; no chance to talk to her. She couldn’t talk to Rose. Really, the only person she could talk to was Carole. But what could Carole do? Suggest she tell Goldman to go fuck himself? What a wonderful word “fuck” was. There was so much power in it. When Carole used it, with all her natural cheer, men froze—fearful or fascinated, it didn’t matter—just definitely stuck in the headlights. Could she do it? Maybe. But, then, did she want to walk out on screenwriting and settle on a job imitating her friend’s scrawling signature on high-gloss photos and taking them in batches to the post office? It wasn’t enough to walk the sets of Hollywood movies and dream about somehow being part of it all.

The operator rang the bell. “Your stop, lady,” he yelled.

Not tonight. “Drop me at Sunset,” she said.

He shrugged, pulled on the bell, and kept going. There were only a few people left on the streetcar—the gray, almost invisible
servants whose faces were always ordered and still, whether on duty or not. It depended on the neighborhood. Not many stayed on as far as the end of the line in Brentwood.

She walked up the hill, breathing in, calming herself down. From the outside, you couldn’t tell that Carole and Clark were poised for an exuberant, chaotic move. All the terrain looked clipped and ordered and serene.

“Movies teach you how to do that,” Carole had confided. “Create a set; who gives a shit if it’s real? Just make it good enough to believe.”

Carole opened the door. “Oh God, how did you happen to show up right now?” she said, grabbing Julie’s hand and pulling her inside the house. She wore a terry-cloth robe. Her hair was divided into rows of thick pin curls held by glistening metal clips, her face partially covered in cold cream.

“I need some advice,” Julie blurted, surprised. “What’s happened?”

“Julie, hold on to your hat. Rose has been trying to find you.”

Julie clutched the doorknob, her mind quickly spinning through a variety of catastrophes.

“No, no, not a disaster, come on in.” Carole guided her into the living room and pressed her down into a chair. “My dear,” she said solemnly, “your parents are in town. Your father had some business in San Francisco, and they decided to come here.”