All That Glitters (5 page)

The mention of our first time refocused my memory. “Atlantic City. I borrowed Mickey's heap that kept overheating, but we made it. We had a candlelight dinner then went dancing. I was the envy of every man on the dance floor. You wore a green silk dress with white pearls and a perfume I remembered on cold, lonely nights when I was gallivanting around the country as a Pinkerton.”

“You remember.” She set her head on my shoulder and hummed along to the music.

When the song ended, her lips parted slightly with a questioning smile. “Who did you take to Boston?”

“Mickey O'Brien.”

Laura chuckled. She wrapped both arms around my neck and kissed me on the mouth.

To hell with the Carvilles.

Still excitingly close, Laura glanced around the deserted pool as if to ensure we were alone then stared into my eyes. “There's something I've been meaning to ask you since we left New York.”

“What?”

Laura's voice quivered. “Jake Donovan, will you marry me?”

The question caught me completely off guard. Of course I wanted to marry her. I had wanted to marry her long before Atlantic City. I kissed her again as the French doors flew open. I let go as footsteps approached.

Todd Carville stopped beside us, reinforcing my first impressions of him. He was the kind of guy bullies loved to pick on, even in private schools. “Miss Wilson, my father would like a chat with you.”

Had we just revealed our relationship to the studio? Laura regained her composure faster than I did. “Let's not keep him waiting.”

I tried to salvage the situation. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Wilson.”

Todd studied my face. “Your lip's bleeding.”

I grabbed a handkerchief from my trouser pocket and wiped lipstick from my mouth. I wanted to go after them and help Laura explain our relationship, but then again, she was a talented actress and could no doubt explain away a smooch between old friends. I'd struggled with the Hollywood crowd. It might be best to hide out alone for a while.

As Todd led her into the ballroom, I sank down on a chair beside the pool and buried my head in my hands. I was really behind the eight ball.

I'd come to Hollywood to support Laura, and within hours, I'd made a date with her glamorous costar, nearly come to blows with one of the Carvilles, and jeopardized her career by kissing her in front of one of the studio heads. She'd have been better off if I'd stayed in New York. “Damn.”

Behind me came a low whistle. “Ring-a-ding-ding! I don't have a clue who the hell you are, but you're one lucky son of a bitch.”

I jumped to my feet and peered into the shadows. A young man stepped into the glow of the pool light, holding a red yo-yo. My sense of gloom was tempered by the kid's odd appearance. A teenager, he stood barely five feet. He wore a blue suit with matching shorts instead of pants, like an eight-year-old might wear.

“Why's that, kid?”

“You arrived with Christine Brody, driving her nifty roadster. Now Laura Wilson asked you to marry her. One night, two of Hollywood's hottest dames. You're my new hero.”

“It's not polite to listen in on other people's conversati
ons.”

With a flick of the wrist, the yo-yo dropped down the string and hovered above the floor. With another yank of the wrist, the yo-yo popped back into his hand. “I didn't hear everything, just enough to know you and Laura Wilson are hiding your relationship from the Carvilles.”

“I'd appreciate you not sharing what you heard.”

“Guess you aren't part of the movie's publicity plan, huh? Well, you can count on me. Honor and integrity are my middle names.” He stuffed the yo-yo into his pocket and thrust out his hand. “The rest is Sonny Burkheart.”

I shook his hand.

His voice changed to a surprising Brooklyn accent. “Okay, my real name's Kyle, but everyone in Hollywood knows me as Sonny. I can act, sing, dance, and would still be a star, but puberty came calling.”

“Tough break, that puberty.”

“
Midnight Wedding
is my first role in a year and a half. Two scenes, four lines, if I don't end up on the cutting-room floor.”

I couldn't help notice his smooth legs. “You shave your legs?”

“You can't imagine what my old lady makes me do for my career.”

“Career? What are you, fourteen? You should be out playing baseball.”

“I prefer tennis, squash, and chasing girls.”

I scanned the pool area to make sure we were alone. I wasn't too worried about what Sonny heard, but the Carvilles or someone from the press was a different matter. “Weren't you part of the
Our Gang
movies?”

He theatrically smacked his chest as if he'd been stabbed by a knife. He moaned. “Is this a dagger which I see before me….” He shielded his eyes with the back of one hand.

“Macbeth.”
I searched my memory. “Act two, scene one.”

“If you say so.” He pulled a pack of Chesterfields from his pocket and lit one. “You an actor, too?”

“Writer.”

“Being Shakespeare fans kind of makes us pals, so why don't you let me finish the rest of your champagne?”

I downed the drink and set the empty glass on the table beside Laura's. Although he smoked and wanted a drink of champagne, I sensed being a child star wasn't as wonderful as people might think. “How'd you get into the business?”

“Ma entered me in cute-baby contests. My face appeared in a few ads. By the time I was eight, I'd been in a dozen films. The public loved me. Over the next few years I made
The Confederate Yankee
,
Top Hat,
and then a series of Sonny movies. I was a star, but”—he clamped his eyes shut—“over
night came talking pictures, pubic hair, and worst of all…Shirley Temple. They rewrote scripts that should've been mine and offered every one to that little towhead with the cute dimples.”

“What about roles for kids your age?”

“There's only a handful of kids who can memorize lines, but every teenager wants to be in the movies. My old lady's inside trying to keep my career afloat. In
Midnight Wedding,
I play Christine Brody's kid brother. The screenplay said ten-year-old.” His voice became two octaves higher. “Gosh, mister, have you seen my dog, Pudgy?” His voice returned to normal. “What do you think? Can I still pull it off?”

“I think you're fighting a losing battle.”

Sonny tilted his head back and let out a bray of laughter. “You're a straight shooter, mister.”

“Donovan. Jake Donovan.”

“Yeah, I heard your name recently. Word is you're writing a screenplay for the Carvilles.”

Damn!
Christine had probably spread the idea of me working on
Midnight Wedding
. Before I could set the kid straight, the French doors opened and Eric Carville stepped outside with a highball in one hand.

He snarled at Sonny. “Beat it, kid.”

“Sure, Mr. Carville.” Sonny flicked the butt into the pool and disappeared like a puff of cigarette smoke.

Eric downed half the drink. “We've still got a score to settle, Donovan.”

I'd known this jerk less than twenty-four hours and I already wanted to punch him in the kisser. I might have already if Laura's career wasn't so dependent on my behavior. I unbuttoned my jacket and called his bluff. “Marquis of Queensberry rules, or Queens, New York, rules?”

“I'd like nothing better, but the old man wants a word with you.”

“Me?”

“You deaf?” Eric stepped forward and stood inches from me, the reek of gin on his breath.

I held my ground and didn't blink. “What does your father want to talk about?”

His eyes narrowed even more. “My screenplay.”

It was a struggle keeping up with Eric, who bulled his way across the ballroom. How did a rumor about my interest in working on the
Midnight Wedding
screenplay get started so quickly? The rift it caused between Eric and me might finish Laura's Hollywood career before it started.

I caught up to him in the foyer. At the foot of a winding staircase, I grabbed his arm. “I'm not interested in getting involved in any way with
Midnight Wedding.
”

Eric shook off my grip. “So why does my old man want you to mess with my screenplay?”

He did? “You tell me.”

Eric balled his fists. “You expect me to believe you didn't plant the idea with Christine Brody?”

“I certainly did not.”

Eric stood inches from my face, cheap gin overpowering me. “So now you're going to throw her under the bus.”

I never liked jerks who thought they could intimidate me. Eric was no exception. “Get out of my face.”

“You arrogant New York bastard. First you think you can teach me how to treat women, and now you're trying to get your name on
my
screenplay.” He shoved me in the chest.

Caught off guard, I stumbled backward into the ballroom, nearly colliding with a group of guests. I regained my balance and straightened my jacket. I had no intention of discussing the screenplay with Eric's father or anyone else for that matter. I also wasn't going to fight Eric Carville. I was getting out of this joint.

Eric grabbed my arm. Tendons in his neck bulged, and his breathing came in gulps. He pushed me again, and I collided with a potted plant in the corner, spilling dirt onto my polished shoes. The dance music stopped and a tray of glasses shattered to the floor.

Laura's career might rest in how I handled the confrontation. Shakespeare wrote, “The better part of
valour is discretion
.” I raised both hands and stepped back, but the wall blocked my path of retreat. “Let's not do anything we'll regret.”

The glassy-eyed drunk swung a wild right.

Boxing instincts my father taught me kicked in. I ducked and slipped the punch.

Eric's fist slammed into a brass wall sconce, denting the metal. He bellowed in pain. With the fury of a wounded animal, he charged, spit flying. Rage stifled any skills he might have had as a fighter. He threw a left that grazed my shoulder as he bull-rushed me.

I jerked away from him and socked the bum on the button, a stiff jab to his right eye. A stinging jolt shot up my arm. I shook my hand and flexed my fingers.

Sweat flew from Eric's brow as he swung again. I blocked the punch and bloodied his nose with a right cross. He staggered backward, slumped to the floor, and howled in pain. Blood and snot slid from both nostrils and dripped on his starched white shirt and tuxedo jacket.

Whatever satisfaction I felt defending myself against a bully was replaced by the rising realization that I'd probably ruined Laura's career before it even started. I offered a hand to help him up, but he ignored the gesture.

Behind me, Louella Parsons chuckled. “Oh, this is delicious.”

Sonny Burkheart skidded to a stop beside me. Eyes wide, he stared at Eric's bruised and bloodied mug. “Attaboy, Mr. Donovan.” A wide-eyed sense of wonder spread across the kid's face.

In an instant, his expression transformed to one of horror. He turned his back on me and helped Eric to his feet. “You okay, Mr. Carville?”

“Get lost, kid.” Sucking in air, Eric he shoved Sonny aside, assumed a boxer's stance, and doubled his fists, waving me forward. “Come on, pretty boy.”

I hated that term, but I wouldn't throw any more punches.

Most of the ballroom crowded around us. Eric stepped forward as his brother, Todd, bounded down the stairs. He jumped in between us, wrapped his arms around Eric, and shoved him against the wall. “Cool off, brother. I mean it.”

Someone tugged on my arm.

William Powell straightened my jacket and examined the already swollen fingers on my right hand. “I hope you didn't fracture any typing fingers.”

“Break it up!” Todd stood between Eric and me, both spindly arms extended to keep us away from each other. “Mr. Donovan, I'd like to talk upstairs.”

“He threw the first punch.” As if that excused getting into a brawl at a fancy-schmancy Hollywood party.

“I have no doubt.” Todd gestured toward the stairs. “Eric, you stay here.”

I had to at least hear Todd out, so I followed him up the stairs.

On our heels, Eric bounded after us. On the landing, I turned. Blood caked his chin and splattered the front of his tuxedo.

I backed up a few steps, determined not to renew our altercation, even if that was why Eric was following us.

“Don't you ever listen to me?” Todd tossed his brother a monogrammed handkerchief. “Go clean yourself up.”

Eric's eyes filled with tears. “This isn't over, Donovan.” He blotted his nose and ran down the hall. At the end of the hall, he entered a room and slammed the door closed with a bang as loud as a gunshot.

Todd impressed me with the way he handled his brother. I wasn't sure which man might inherit Carville Studios, but I wouldn't bet against his determination.

He led me away from the massive double doors and toward the landing. “Before we enter my father's office, I want to explain.”

“I'm sorry about punching your brother. What's his problem?”

He glanced down the hallway. “He's a different person when he drinks. Now, about my father—”

“I'm sorry about what happened, but I don't want to listen to some half-baked idea about me working on a screenplay.”

“This is important to my father. Please hear what he has to say.”

Todd's calm manner was nearly as frustrating as his brother's belligerence and childlike behavior. However, I could at least listen to the studio head. “Okay, you win.”

Todd patted his pockets. “You don't smoke, do you?”

I shook my head.

“Neither do I.” Todd unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. “Eric has a drinking problem, as you found out. Six months ago, my father suffered a heart attack. Eric quit drinking, stone-cold, and moved in to help out. He was on the wagon until my father began to question the quality of the
Midnight Wedding
screenplay.”

What kind of twit did Todd think I was? He'd just slammed the door on any possibility I might consider taking a look at the script. I'd never get tangled up with a family of powerful men who had control over Laura's future.

He let out a sigh. “I thought you should know, before you meet my father.”

“Thank you for that.”

Todd stared at my unbuttoned dinner jacket.

A nickel-sized spot of Eric's blood marred my white shirt. I buttoned the jacket, covering the stain.

“Please keep an open mind. At least hear my old man out before you say no.”

The smell of leather and the stench of cigar smoke greeted me as we entered. Hardly what I expected from a man with heart troubles. Christine, Roland, and Laura, the movie's three stars, sat on a long camel-hair couch. Did I have any chance of saving Laura's career after beating up the studio head's son?

Norman Carville, legendary Hollywood pioneer, sat behind a massive oak desk reading an L.A.
Times
. He appeared thinner than in newspaper photos I'd seen over the past few years. His steely dark eyes, however, were sharper than those of men half his age. He had a raspy voice, perhaps from shouting orders all his life, and spoke to no one in particular. “Listen to this: Roosevelt was asked about the lingering effects of the Depression. He said, ‘As long as the country has Shirley Temple, we will be all right.' ”

The old man slammed the newspaper to the desktop and rattled off a cough. He held his open palm toward a chair in front of the desk. The sun-aged skin on his hand was wrinkled like a crumpled-up paper sack, as if he'd spent much of his life outdoors rather than inside a studio.

I thanked him and sat, trying not to get too comfortable. I risked a glance at Laura, who smiled and didn't appear to know I'd bloodied Eric Carville's face. I sensed none of them did, which might be an advantage with the old man.

“Where's Eric?” he asked.

Todd ran a hand over his chin. “Freshening up.”

Norman picked up a decanter from his desk. “Scotch, Mr. Donovan?”

“Yes, thanks, Mr. Carville.” I definitely needed a drink, and all I'd had was champagne.

“Norman.” He poured a drink and set the glass in front of me. He filled another for himself and leaned back in his chair made of leather that looked as soft as a puppy's belly.

Todd snatched his father's booze. “The doctor was very clear about alcohol and cigars.”

Norman picked up a smoldering cigar from a large brass ashtray and puffed away. As the smoke curled toward the ceiling, he punched the air with the stogie. “You strike me as a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy, am I right?”

I answered with a gulp of scotch, enjoying the warmth that spread through me.

He kept the cigar in his hand. “This studio needs your help in a big way. We'd like you to review the
Midnight Wedding
screenplay and see if you can make the dialogue work better.”

Laura twisted her hands together as if trying to keep her emotions in check.

Roland stared into the corner, apparently trying to understand how this might affect him. Christine looked positively giddy.

“I'm flattered, Mr. Carville, but—”

“You're a talented writer, son. I've seen plenty in my years to know.”

“With all due respect, novel writing is different from screenplays.”

“Nonsense. Writing's writing. The differences are format. Novels, like movies, are a collection of scenes. Characters face challenges and grow or fail. The plot is propelled by conflict and dialogue, and what this script needs most is better dialogue, snappy repartee like in your books.” He pounded the desk. “It's a goddamn comedy. I want an audience to laugh out loud, not smile.”

How could I talk my way out of getting involved in Laura's movie without making things tougher for her than I already had? “I'm flattered and honored by your interest, but I think you underestimate the complexity of what you're asking a novelist to do.”

“Complexity? Who said it was easy? Look, writers are flocking to Hollywood every damn day. William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Bertolt Brecht, Dashiell Hammett, and Thomas Mann are all working on screenplays for studios.”

I risked another glance at Laura but couldn't read her expression. “But…”

Red-faced, he clenched his fist. I braced myself as he raised it to pound on his desk. He caught himself then scanned the room. “I'd like a few minutes alone with Mr. Donovan.”

The door burst open and Eric entered, knocking over a coatrack that clattered to the wood floor. “Hope I'm not too late.” He studied the faces on the couch. Ignoring me, he leaned across the desk to his father. “I get what's happening here. You can't do this! I came up with the story idea. I understand my characters better than anyone.”

“Perhaps you're too close to the script to be objective.” His grin turned into a snort of laughter. “What happened to your face? You fall down the stairs?”

“Donovan slugged me. He started it.”

“I did not!”

Laura jumped to her feet. “Jake!”

Todd and Eric talked over each other while Laura stared at me in disbelief.

Norman chuckled. “That looks like more than one punch.”

The only person in the room who mattered was Laura, but I couldn't explain to her what happened in front of everyone.

Norman slammed his palms on his desktop. “I've made my decision, now everyone out.”

Eric stuttered. “But…but…”

“I think I should stay,” Todd told his father.

“Out,
everyone
!”

As I rose to leave, Norman pointed to the chair. “Not you, Donovan.”

When everyone left, the room grew as quiet as a library. The old man pulled another glass from his desk and tossed in another shot of scotch. He leaned back and swallowed. “Let me tell you how I got my start in this business. Forty years ago, 1893, to be exact, a friend offered me a job as a cameraman. Moving pictures had become the rage, and I jumped at the chance. In those days, each film had one camera operator and a director who worked with a…ever hear of the term
scenarist
?”

That was a new one to me. I shook my head.

“The scenarist, usually a vaudeville performer experienced at slapstick, worked with the director to come up with an entertaining, usually humorous, scene or scenes. A good scenarist was more important to studios than authors. A movie didn't need a screenplay. There was no dialogue.”

“Makes sense.”

“In twenty years I went from cameraman to heading my own studio. Because of my background, I run things differently than most executives. I involve myself with each film, and although I haven't directed in years, I still stop by and offer advice.”

I considered Laura's future after the old man was gone. I pictured his two sons and tried not to let my personal feelings interfere with my thoughts. Eric, with all his flaws, at least shared his father's love for making movies. Decisions in a Todd Carville studio would be based on the almighty buck.

The old man drank half the scotch. “Talking pictures have been around longer than people realize, but most studio hotshots, including me, thought synchronized sound was a gimmick. Six years ago,
The Jazz Singer
ended that kind of talk. Overnight, studios needed actors with theatrical experience instead of mimes, and screenplays with rich characters and engaging stories. Careers crashed. Others flourished.”

The studio head grabbed his cane and struggled to his feet. He shuffled to a wall with a collection of photographs. He paused to study them. They appeared to chronicle the studio's history.