Hollywood Buzz Page 2

  “What is it?” My thoughts tumbled unchecked from my lips. “The crash…You suspect it’s not an accident?”

  Her focus whisked back to me, unmistakable fire in her eyes. “There’s something fishy going on at March. Someone’s sitting on the preliminary investigation results. I want to know why.”

  “Preliminary results? You just said the crash investigator was still—”

  “I know what I said, Lewis. But I have my sources. A source. Frankie’s crash was no accident.”

  “Sabotage?”

  Miss C’s sigh was audible. “It’s a delicate situation. I can’t just rush in, make demands. But I’m not going to let this go. Frankie’s one of mine. I need someone from my camp to get up there and dig around.”

  That’s reason I was here. My stomach knotted.

  “You’re sending me to Hollywood to take over for Frankie? I’m the designated camper?”

  “It’s the perfect cover. You’ll ride herd on Novara to see that our documentary projects the proper image. Behind the scenes, you’ll be looking into the whys of Frankie’s incident.”

  “Ride herd?”

  “Precisely. I’m here for a strategy session with General Griffith. In a few hours, we’re off to Washington. Some behind-the-scenes meetings with certain members of Congress. Need to drum up support for a bill to militarize the WASP. It’s the ticket to get you gals the recognition and benefits you’re entitled to, same as other non-combat military personnel.”

  Starting the WASP program had been such a sensitive and complex ordeal that to get the service up and running quickly we’d been hired by, and were still paid by, Civil Service. So we were civilians serving under military regulations, a status Miss C despised.

  “While we’re at it, we’re going to try and get a better measure of the tide swelling against us.” She grimaced. “And, we hope, find a way to turn it back.”

  “Can we get back to finding out the whys of Frankie’s incident? To riding herd on Novara? What do you mean, exactly?”

  She lifted a perfectly groomed, disapproving eyebrow. “You’re the one with intelligence training. Behind the scenes sleuthing ought to be second nature.”

  Three months ago, in early August 1943, I’d been summoned to Office of Strategic Services (OSS) headquarters in Washington to participate in a specially designed, condensed training course. Miss C had not warmed up to sharing one of her assets.

  “Sleuthing might be second nature, but riding herd is new. Before I can do the job, I need to know what’s involved.”

  “On my way here from Indio, I stopped off in Hollywood to attend the preview of a feature film. It’s about women who fly for the military and it’s due to be released soon.”

  “Great! What’s it called?”

  “Ladies Courageous. But hold your horses. We’re not going to be recommending the picture to anyone. Ladies Outrageous is more like it! It’s sentimental, fictional trash. The women I saw on that screen couldn’t be trusted with kiddy cars, let alone airplanes. It’ll set my—our—progress back years. Think about it.”

  Her voice rose, she all but stepped on a soapbox. “The primary aim of the WASP may be to support male pilots, but here’s a chance to officially document our physical and mental capabilities. Once we show that you gals measure up to the men, the possibilities will be enormous. Opportunities for women pilots will open up across the board. In the military, maybe in the private sector, too. Ideally, we’ll get a good foothold and the doors will remain open, even after the war.”

  She was singing to the choir. Our flying stint with the military, we all knew, was temporary. It was assumed that when the war ended we would return to more traditional roles. Some women couldn’t wait. Not me. I wanted the unconventional. A postwar career. As a commercial pilot. Or, dare I dream, a pilot doubling as secret agent?

  Miss C fluttered a hand through the air. “Now this froth—this Ladies Courageous—comes along with the hackneyed message that women are motivated by their interest in men, not by their work. The movie’s no tribute, it’s a slander to our gender. An insult to my program!”

  “Who sanctioned it?”

  Miss C rolled her eyes dismissively, but I waited, eyeing her patiently. She might know all there was to know about wheeling and dealing with the brass-hats, but my education in the area was elementary, at best.

  “Look, Lewis. The movie’s bound to attract a big audience. The studio is billing it as a prestige feature. There’ll be a lot of hoopla over the big name stars involved. Loretta Young, Geraldine Fitzgerald, Diana Barrymore…they’re all in it.” She leaned back in the executive chair and rubbed her trademark lapel pin, a silver propeller set with a large rosette center diamond.

  Risking another roll of her eyes, I prodded, “How, specifically, did they manage to muck up Ladies Courageous? And who mucked it up?”

  “Some boys at Universal Pictures. A big-name, Walter Wanger, produced it. Can’t say they didn’t get some things right. Loyalty and bravery come across to a relative degree. The women even perform some intricate flying maneuvers. But then the boys wrote in a bunch of petty squabbles, some pouting, beau stealing, a few breaches of discipline and a crash or two. And, voilß! They watered down our accomplishments.”

  Miss C pounded the desk. “They’re not going to get away with it! Done right, the WASP Victory short will be the perfect countermeasure to that degrading portrayal. We’re going to stick to Novara like glue until we have a true depiction of what the WASP is doing for the war effort.” She was loaded for bear. “I’ve teed things up for you with Novara—let him know that you have the appropriate experience to assist him. And that you’re to act as my official liaison on the set.”

  The shock must have shown on my face.

  “It’s a lot of responsibility, I know,” she rushed on. “I would’ve stayed on in Hollywood myself, but General Griffith wants me in Washington. He knows the Army needs all the good pilots it can get and he’s willing to do battle in Congress to keep us. Thinks my presence might make a difference.”

  I blinked. Responsibility wasn’t what had me worried. “What experience?”

  Miss C’s eyes widened in surprise. “You mean what qualifies you to act as a consultant to Novara?”

  I nodded.

  “Your experience at Midland Aircraft, of course.”

  My mouth fell open. She was referring to what I’d done before joining the WASP. Out of college, I’d wanted to be a commercial pilot. Getting there, I knew, would not be easy. A job—any job—with an aircraft company seemed a good start. Midland Aircraft Manufacturing in Cleveland claimed “no openings,” so I went for broke, ad-libbed about the grand things that a public relations writer could do for them, talked them into it. No such position had existed at Midland before. And, luckily, I’d managed to hold on to the job until the Pentagon’s high demand for aircraft made my position redundant.

  “I made up instruction manuals and informational blurbs to sell airplanes,” I protested. “That’s not writing screenplays! I’m a pilot. I know zip about filmmaking.”

  She fortified herself with a deep breath. “Lewis, I need someone capable and trustworthy on this assignment. My source at Midland gave you good marks.” Now a smile flickered. “Your record as a cadet and pilot are impeccable as well.” Now barely a whisper. “FBI says you’re an ace operative, too. Resourceful.”

  I should have been beaming. Miss C gave out compliments like a Scotsman gave away gold coins. But if I was so resourceful, how come one of the bad guys in Detroit slipped away?

  My gaze dropped to the saddle shoes that had bonded Miss C to me. At our first meeting during WASP orientation, she’d immediately recognized the shoes. They’d once belonged to Amelia Earhart. Not one to stand on niceties, she’d asked directly where I’d gotten them. My Uncle Chance, owner of Trinkets and Treasures, a curio shop in my hometown of Chilton, Ohio, found them at a charity auction and later gave them to me. Miss C and Earhart
had been close friends before Earhart’s disappearance. A common interest, beyond flying, had been extrasensory perception. Miss C later confided that she’d even been tested for it. On July 2, 1937, when Earhart was hopelessly lost on her round-the- world attempt, Earhart’s husband, George Putnam, phoned Miss C, requesting that she use her ESP to find his wife’s downed Electra in the South Pacific. Miss C passed along the hunches that came to her, but after three days she knew that the opportunity to rescue Earhart had passed. She went to a chapel, lit a candle and said a prayer for her friend, knowing she would never use her extrasensory power again.

  At that first encounter, after I confirmed whose saddle shoes they were, I could see the longing for them in her eyes. While I would never dream of giving them up and she couldn’t begrudge my connection to them, this mutual link to Amelia created our special solidarity.

  Miss C’s search for Earhart, mine for Cardillac.

  Miss C had said she’d sworn off ESP, but here she was, reading my thoughts. “Anything new on Cardillac?”

  Miss C preferred using the escaped agent’s code name. A few weeks ago, in my debriefing after the industrial espionage assignment had ended, I’d referred to Cardillac by real name. We don’t dignify traitors with the use of their given names, she’d chided.

  Cardillac. The name sent me back so fast. Detroit, six weeks ago, a stiletto racing toward me, its needle tip slicing a line of flesh along my forearm, a searing sensation. Blackness, then light, my nemesis gone.

  Exasperated, I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  She placed a folded fist on the desk and leaned into me, her dark eyes a piercing slit. “Trust me, Lewis. You have the can-do attitude I need in Hollywood. But understand this. The WASP unit is highly vulnerable just now. We could lose the program if Hollywood isn’t straightened out. And Frankie needs our help. You’re the woman for the job.”

  She was right. You lose an airplane, you don’t quit flying. You crawl back across the tarmac, heave yourself into the next cockpit. I lost Cardillac. Other sharks swam in the sea.

  “When do I leave?”

  Miss C quickly filled me in on the background of the Culver City studio near Hollywood where I would be working with Roland Novara. Formerly the Hal Roach Movie Studio, once home of the Laurel and Hardy films and the Our Gang comedies, it was now an official Army Air Force base, known as Fort Roach. The base studio housed the First Motion Picture Unit, or FMPU, organized nearly two years ago in early 1942, when AAF had begun its tremendous expansion. Composed of Hollywood directors, editors, writers, cameramen, and other talents who’d traded tailored suits and studio overalls for AAF khakis, the unit produced training films, propaganda shorts, even full-length features to cover every phase and problem of instructing all branches of the AAF. “You’ll be in good company.”

  It got better.

  “Ronnie Reagan’s the Personnel Officer. Alan Ladd, Edmond O’Brien, Kent Smith, Van Heflin, Bill Holden, George Montgomery…” She ticked off the names on her fingers. “They’re all attached to the unit, too. Don’t look so starry-eyed. Actors of their caliber would never be assigned to work with the likes of Novara.”

  Before I could say but what about the picture with Gable, Miss C rolled her chair backwards and lifted a key ring from the middle drawer. “I pulled in a chit with the general. He’s agreed to let you drive his automobile to Hollywood. It’s yours for the duration of the assignment, in fact. It’ll come in handy getting back and forth to the base studio. Fort Roach is a few miles from where you’ll be staying.”

  My eyebrows shot up inquiringly.

  “I’ve notified my dear friends, the Dunns. They’re a lovely couple, live in Beverly Hills. They’ll be tickled pink to let you bunk with them. I’ll tell you all about them while we walk out to the general’s car.”

  She handed over the keys. “I left my Staggerwing at Clover Field in Santa Monica. You’ll be working at the studio for the most part, but you’ll need to make a few trips to March Field near Riverside. All the flying sequences for our film are being shot there. The trip is a pain, seventy miles of desert. The Staggerwing will come in handy.”

  She slapped the desktop. “Well, that covers everything. Let’s go.”

  I figured she was oversimplifying things. I had no idea to what extent.

  Chapter Two

  General Griffith’s car was a sight to behold. British racing green with chrome trim, it was Packard’s sporty roadster model, the Darrin Victoria.

  I folded down the creamy soft-top, climbed over the cut-down door, and eased into the soft leather driver’s seat. Firing up the engine made me smile. Like the general, his car had the kind of power that could make mere mortals tremble.

  Across base at my barracks, I replenished my B-4 bag: fresh khakis, clean underthings, and a dressy outfit “just in case.” Pressed for time, unsure what to do about my inadvertent arsenal, I packed my guns as well.

  A call to the hospital was last on my departure list. Miss C had said I needed to check with Frankie’s doctor before I visited. A nurse in the recovery ward, where my call was funneled, informed me that Dr. Farr would be at the hospital around noon. I could reach him then. After a little coaxing, she revealed that Frankie’s condition had stabilized and she was being moved out of the special care unit.

  Back in the Packard, I headed north up the highway, through a brown and olive blur of terrain. Less than an hour later: Culver City. I eased up on the gas pedal, momentarily transported from the commercial-industrial neighborhood around me.

  Set back from Washington Boulevard on a grassy expanse of lawn, the studio headquarters was the replica of an elongated Colonial-style mansion, complete with shutters and columns. Huge, free-standing letters stood atop its two-story portico. U.S. ARMY AIR FORCES.

  Miss C had arranged for me to meet with Roland Novara at 0900 and my base orientation was scheduled afterwards, but I was early. I punched the gas and rolled past the studio-base in search of distraction. A block further down Washington, I spied a newspaper kiosk and nosed the Packard over to the curb.

  The kiosk was nothing more than a weathered wooden hut painted a dull, chipped green, but it held an impressive array of papers and magazines. In front, a vendor dressed in baggy magenta pants and a cerise sweater vest over a turquoise shirt bustled about straightening and refilling his displays. Stoop-shouldered with flyaway white hair beneath a tweed cap, he was quick and precise, moving like a much younger person.

  I drew near and the man pivoted around fast, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. Turned out, he had only one good eye. It pitched up and down, taking me in, while the other, obviously false, stared straight ahead. I stared back, fascinated that the moving eyeball was brown, while the rigid one was icy blue.

  “It is what was available,” the vendor said.

  “Oh.” Unable to think of what else to say, I shifted my attention to the array of offerings. The November 8, 1943, editions of Los Angeles’ three dailies, the Times, Examiner, and Daily News, were displayed in racks below a waist-high counter. Stacks of Variety and The Hollywood Reporter sat on the counter above. Inside the hut, along the back wall, slatted trays held trade magazines. Photos of screen stars peeked out between the slats; mastheads stuck out above. Movie Story, Screen Romances, Film Pictorial, Silver Screen, Photoplay, Movie Mirror. An impressive inventory. But then, I’d heard MGM was just a few blocks up the street. Two studios and all the surrounding commercial buildings added up to lots of employees and potential customers.

  The vendor moved to a nearby bundle, cutting the cord with a snap. Enticed by the bright red script Hollywood superimposed at an angle across its masthead, I reached for The Hollywood Reporter. The word “propaganda” in the opening lines of W.R. Wilkerson’s TradeViews column, caught my eye. I scanned the first paragraph, then the remainder of the article.

  William Randolph Hearst, Wilkerson said, had allegedly sent an order to a film critic at one of his newspapers demanding
that he write another review of Samuel Goldwyn’s latest feature, The North Star, even though the critic had already endorsed the film. The picture, Hearst argued, presented a romanticized view of the Soviet Union. He wanted the picture labeled as “propaganda,” and he expected the critic to go along.

  Many Americans, I knew, were sensitive about our wartime alliance with Russia. But had Hearst truly ordered a staff critic to change his review? What did that say about his brand of journalism? Could subscribers ever trust what they read in his papers?

  “Young lady—”

  I jumped at the vendor’s interruption. “You look to need something more than the latest in news or gossip.” He held a sprig of freesia out to me. Behind him, a coffee can near the cigarette display held a vivid multi-colored bouquet of the fragrant flower.

  Smiling, I reached for the sprig. The vendor pulled it back. “No. The yellow it is not so good. Your uniform is the color of toast. The bloom it will appear like a blob of butter.” His gaze veered to my hair. “Topped off by orange marmalade.”

  His interesting accent and the way his one eye danced at the little joke he’d made got me laughing.

  He laughed with me. “The color not so good, but the smell, it will make you feel good the whole day through.” He fished out a deep blue blossom from the can.

  “Thank you.” I sniffed the bud. The sweet smell was like an elixir. My head felt clear again and the butterflies in my stomach had settled.

  I slipped the flower into my shirt pocket, letting it protrude at a carefree angle from under the flap. Would the bit of dash, I wondered, be a negative or positive in how Novara perceived me? Well, this was Hollywood. Why not go with the freewheeling spirit?