Seduction of Moxie (27 page)

“If only it was that simple. Do you think Cotton would agree to represent her?”

Moxie laughed loudly, unintentionally snorting.

“And for the same reasons, neither will mine,” Violet said.

“What she really needs is an agent who will never meet her.”

“Or someone eccentric enough to appreciate her hedonistic and somewhat abrasive idiosyncrasies.”

“Or just too high to care.”

“Good thinking,” Violet said with a grin. “We don’t want to leave out the dope fiends.”

“I’m sure they make exceptional agents.”

“They can’t all be surly asses, like yours is.”

“And praise the Lord for that,” Moxie said. “I wonder if anyone staying at the Garden can help Wil.”

“You know, Peter would be more than happy to do a little entertaining for a good cause, or for a few good causes.”

“A few?”

“Sure. We can celebrate your new role, cheer up sicky-pants, and see if we can find Wil a thoroughly indiscriminate agent.” Violet was counting on her fingers.

Moxie sat back in her chair again, letting the sun warm her. “I love that you delude yourself into thinking that Peter’s parties require a reason.”

“It makes the debauchery feel more noble.”

*

Sylvia King sat in her dressing room while her hair stylist continued to work on her curls. “Jesus Christ, are you done yet, Arthur?”

“I hope so,” he said, teasing her curls with a comb. “But so far today, I’ve thought I was done three times already.”

“If you’d concentrated on making me look beautiful instead of bloated, you
would
have been done.” Sylvia glanced into the mirror and rolled her eyes. “All right, let’s just end this torture. I suppose that’s good enough.” She stood and posed for a moment in the mirror. “But come with me to the set so you can touch me up between takes.”

Arthur clutched his comb tight to his chest and nodded at her. “Yes, Miss King.” As she marched outside to the set, he submissively fell in line behind her.

Sylvia didn’t understand how this had happened to her. In all the films she had made for Pinnacle, she had never been given a picture this horrible or a role this unattractive. She was rightfully considered America’s darling, so why T. Z. had thought she was right to play a meek woman whose husband has an affair behind her back and ends up being killed by him to be with his mistress completely escaped her.

Even worse, the mistress was being played by Violet London, that brash, filthy-mouthed whore who seemed more interested in being disrespectful than really sitting down and learning from a pro how Hollywood worked. The notion that a man would choose her over Sylvia was, in a word, ludicrous. Though no matter how much she argued that point with T. Z., he didn’t seem interested in what she had to say.

A production assistant whose name escaped her approached nervously. “Sylvia, it’s about time. The director has been cursing you for the last half hour.”

“Tell him that I’ve been cursing him for the last two weeks.”

He stared at her. “Are you ready to shoot the scene?” His voice was devoid of emotion.

“Of course. As soon as I look over the script.”

The little man seemed agitated. “You mean you don’t know your lines?”

Sylvia glared back. “If you people didn’t keep changing them every day, I’d know them by now, wouldn’t I?”

He sighed and walked away, heading over to speak with the director, Leo Graham, a man known as much for his directness and intensity as for the pictures he made. Sylvia felt fairly certain that T. Z. had purposely assigned Leo to this picture to try to control her. She reached for her script and grinned to herself at how disappointed they would both be.

“Sylvia!”

She looked up to see Leo angrily striding toward her. She vowed that she would not allow him to intimidate her.

“What’s this I hear about you still not being ready to shoot the scene?”

“As I told your little minion,” she said in irritation, “I can’t learn the script when you keep changing it daily.”

“Violet has no problem with the updates,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“Please, no one would notice if she was getting it wrong. It’s not like the eye is exactly drawn to her. I would imagine that the audience won’t even realize she’s in this film.”

A muscle in his cheek began to spasm violently, and Sylvia was drawn into its freakish dance. “Look here,” he rasped, his voice lowered. “Don’t think you’re so goddamn special that I won’t have you replaced on this picture, because I damn well will if you continue to give me cause.”

She blinked once at him. “Your breath smells.”

“Don’t…fuck…with me, Sylvia,” he said malevolently. “You’re not running this set. I am.”

“Ha,” she blurted. “You wouldn’t want me to go to T. Z. about this, Leo.”

“You think he’s not aware of the problem you’ve become? If you decide to press this issue, you’ll be relegated to making the shittiest B movies ever wiped onto a piece of paper.”

“What?” Was he actually threatening her?

“You heard me. Don’t think we won’t make an example of you. Your job is to listen to the studio, not the other way around. Now, you have five minutes to get your lines down for this scene, or I’m suspending you from the production and replacing you with someone who takes her job a little more seriously. You can explain to T. Z. why you were fired.”

She was unable to speak, and Leo turned and walked back to the camera crane.

“Wow,” Arthur whispered as he adjusted Sylvia’s hair.

“Shut up,” she snapped, opening the script, then glanced across to the other side of the set. Violet was seated next to an attractive blond woman. They were laughing together, and when they stopped, the blonde kissed her index finger and pressed it to Violet’s lips intimately. Sylvia gasped as Violet kissed the woman’s finger and the two shared a rather sultry look. “Arthur!”

“Hmm?” He continued to comb.

“Who is that woman over there?”

Arthur squinted. “Where?”

“Over there with Violet London—the blonde.”

“Oh. You know, I’ve seen her on-set before, but I’ve never spoken to her. She may be a contract player.”

“Well, leave my goddamn hair alone and go find out who she is.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it. And don’t let on that I want to know. Be sneaky.”

He looked confused. “All right.”

Sylvia forced herself to look over her lines as Arthur slipped through the crew and began to chat with Violet and her admirer. He returned just as Leo was calling everyone to places.

“Well?” Sylvia asked.

“I was right,” Arthur said conspiratorially. “She
is
an actress for the studio.”

“What’s her name?”

“Genny Finklestein.”

“Good Lord.” Sylvia rose and straightened her skirt. She looked up and saw both women looking at her, smiling and waving. So much for not letting on who was asking. “Well, someone should tell her that she’ll need to change that.” She smiled to herself at the power of this newfound knowledge.

*

“Absolutely not,” Cotton spat.

Moxie crossed her arms defiantly. “Why not?”

“Because the studio will never approve, that’s why.” He nodded his thanks to Peter, who appeared and handed him a drink before disappearing back into the crowd gathered in his bungalow. “A woman cannot accompany another woman to a film premiere.”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “I would think it would cause a real buzz. Isn’t that what you’re always talking about?”

Cotton appeared irritated by this line of logic. “Buzz is having people talk about your dress, or how beautiful they think you are, not trying to imagine which one of you is the man.”

Violet huffed, indignant. “No doubt if I took
you
to the premiere as my escort, Mr. McCann, they might wonder the same thing.”

“No,” he replied, ignoring the barb. “And I’m sure T. Z. Walter would agree. Moxie’s Hollywood career is just getting started. I won’t have her labeled a lesbian. Her public needs to see her as young, glamorous, available, and profoundly heterosexual.”

Wil poked her head over Cotton’s shoulder. “Did someone call me?”

Cotton scowled. “No, I would have said gin-soaked, abusive, foul-mouthed, and sexually indiscriminate if I had been referring to you.”

Moxie turned to Violet. “He’s starting to fit right in, isn’t he?”

“It brings a tear to my eye,” Violet said.

Wil scowled. “It makes my ass twitch.”

“It does what?” Cotton asked.

“Relax,” Violet assured him. “That just means that Wil has now moved you into a category heretofore only occupied by mimes, panhandlers, and carnies.”

Wil inhaled deeply through her cigarette holder before expelling the smoke dramatically. “Don’t forget Apache dancers, darling. I can’t stand those fuckers.”

“With any luck, Mr. McCann, Wil might soon elevate you to the equivalent of, oh, say, a pimp or a pederast.” Violet took a sip of her drink.

“Or an
agent,
” Wil said, her tone rife with denunciation.

“I’m all atwitter in anticipation.”

“Cotton,” Moxie began, “what if Violet and I were sisters?”

Wil’s face contorted as though she had just smelled something rancid. “Just how small a town are you from, sister?”

“No, I mean if we
told
people we were sisters. Then we could socialize together and no one would care, like Lillian and Dorothy Gish.”

“You realize that if we want to go to the premiere together badly enough, we’ll somehow make it happen, don’t you?” Violet said casually. “I would think that if you’ve learned anything about us by now, Mr. McCann, it’s that we are not easily dissuaded.”

Cotton stroked his pencil-thin mustache with his thumb and forefinger while he considered her point. “Look, if you each take a date, a male date, then I suppose there’s no reason why you can’t go together. But you’ll need to make some kind of an effort to appear to be attracted to whichever man you bring. Walk on his arm. Pose for pictures with him.” He paused and looked directly at Moxie. “Moxie, if you wish, I will be your escort for the evening.”

Moxie looked at him blankly. “I thought I was supposed to seem attracted to my date.”

Violet laughed. “She’s got you there,
mon oncle.
”

Cotton appeared only mildly hurt. “Then let me see what I can do. I’m sure I can get you both very prominent, masculine bachelors.”

“That sounds horrible,” Violet said.

“Speak for yourself,” Wil replied, shoving Violet behind her. “I want one. Can I give you a list of what I’m looking for in a man while you’re at it?”

Cotton looked stunned. “Wealthy and breathing?”

“Oh, good.” Wil breathed in relief and patted his shoulder. “You’ve already got it. Don’t forget me, darling.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Men who don’t know me just
love
me,” Wil added.

“And speaking of men who don’t know you, did you talk to Mr. Dickover yet?” Violet asked.

“I started to, but I just couldn’t get past how funny his name is.”

“Wil, Mr. Dickover is interested in being your new agent. This is hardly the time to be so juvenile.”

“Did you know he goes by
Ace
?” Wil asked the group, clearly amused.

“Ace Dickover?” Cotton asked.

Moxie turned to Violet, biting her lower lip to keep from laughing. “You want Wil to sign a contract with
Ace Dickover
?”

Violet seemed to acquiesce. “Do you think it’s a sign?”

“A sign?” Wil asked. “It’s a fucking billboard, darling.”

Irene approached the group, looking more cheerful than she had for several days. “Hey, kids,” she said with a wave. “Can anybody vouch for that fella over there in the corner?”

Moxie peered through the crowd and saw a gangly, fair-haired man with a mustache and Vandyke beard, propped leisurely against the wall. “I don’t think I know him.”

“Me either,” Violet said. “Hey, Peter. C’mere.”

After handing out freshly mixed drinks to the two women in front of him, Peter made his way over from his bar. “Yes?”

“Do you know that guy over there?” Violet tried to gesture nonchalantly with her head.

“Who, Joe?”

“The blond fella in the pinstripe suit,” Irene explained.

Peter smiled. “Yes, that’s Joe Kilkenney. He’s a screenwriter. Not doing too badly either.”

“How’s that?” Irene asked.

“He just adapted one of his own novels for MGM. So he’s no slouch.”

Moxie spoke softly to Irene. “Why do you ask?”

“He’s a tall drink of water—the eel’s hips,” Irene replied loudly. “I just wanted to make sure he was on the up-and-up, you know? That he wasn’t just some drugstore cowboy.”

“What do you think of him now?” Violet asked.

Irene smiled. “Well, now I can go back and answer his question.”

Moxie eyed her carefully. “What question?”

“He asked me my name. I told him I’d get back to him.”

Violet’s hand moved to her mouth, perhaps to hide her amusement. “Hopefully he doesn’t think you didn’t know the answer and had to go find out.”

“You should have said Ace Dickover.” Wil snorted.

Irene laughed too. “Wil, what a horrible joke.”

“That’s what I thought. Wait until you meet him,” Wil added.

Chapter Seventeen

“Wil, are you decent?” Violet walked into Wil and Irene’s bungalow trying to make as much noise as possible, in case she unwittingly interrupted anything embarrassing. She had already learned that lesson the hard way.

“You know the answer to that question,” came a depressed murmur from Violet’s left.

“Wil?” Violet asked again, perplexed that the voice apparently had come from an empty couch.

“I’m down here.”

Violet approached the phantom voice hesitantly, relieved to see that Wil was lying behind the couch on the floor, wearing only her stockings, brassiere, and slip. “Dare I ask?”

“I was hoping
you
could tell
me.
” Wil ran her hand over her face.

Violet extended her arm and pulled Wil unceremoniously to her feet. “I need you to pull yourself together.”