All That Glitters (2 page)

On our trip's final morning, I awoke with Laura snuggled on my shoulder. Cuddling provided a more than satisfying solution to the small quarters. Tall palm trees sweeping past the window revealed our final destination, Los Angeles. “Darling, does your studio know about our relationship?”

She hooked her leg in mine. “I'm not even certain of our relationship.”

I planned to fix that when we arrived in Los Angeles.

Laura managed to avoid an important discussion. “When I signed the contract, you weren't in my life. You were in Florida. I thought I'd broach the subject gently.”

“You mean you're going to hide the truth about us?”

“In the beginning. Do you mind?”

I didn't like her plan one bit. We were in love. I wanted the world to know, but if Laura was going to make it in this town, I had to step aside and make sure her adjustment to Hollywood went smoothly. “Of course I don't mind.”

She climbed out of bed and kissed me. “You're the cat's meow.”

After getting dressed, I snapped the last of my luggage closed as the train whistle blew. I still wasn't comfortable keeping our feelings under wraps.

The train pulled into Union Station. The air brakes hissed and belched more steam, slowing the train. The station's familiar white Spanish architecture came into view.

Tall palms poked above the front of the building. They reminded me of everything I enjoyed about living in California during my two years as an L.A. Pinkerton—
fabulous food, warm beaches, and friendly people. The station also prompted memories of things I missed about New York—Coney Island, pizza, hot dogs, and the Yankees.

At least a dozen newshawks, with flash cameras and notepads, waited on the platform.

Laura finished dressing. The simple, comfortable clothes she'd worn on the trip were safely tucked away. She applied her familiar deep red lipstick. Makeup highlighted her dark eyes. She wore a black belt cinched around her waist, accentuating the flowered dress's broad-shouldered style. A complementary green hat, tilted to one side. She'd transformed herself into the beauty the whole nation, not just New York, would soon adore.

She finished packing with her back to the window. “Darling, are you going to be okay with…well, with the attention I might receive?”

Her Broadway fame never bothered me. With a rough childhood, an absent mother, and a drunken father who used to backhand her until Gino and Danny helped me teach him a lesson, she deserved all the adulation she had coming to her.

Ignoring the reporters, I swept my arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. I intended to enjoy every minute of her success and the attention that went with it. “I'll attend whatever parties you want me to. I'll be on the set whenever…”

“Oh, Jake.” Laura turned in my arms. “About you being on the set.”

“You don't want me around?”

She straightened my tie. “It's not that, it's just…I might be too nervous in the beginning with experienced actors and crew. You understand, don't you, darling?”

As much as I wanted to see her act in her first movie, I understood. “I promise I won't come onto the set until you invite me.”

Laura squeezed my hands. “You're making a lot of promises.”

I intended to keep every one. I set my fedora on my head and slipped a comforting arm around her waist. “Come, dear. Hollywood awaits.”

The reporters moved toward the train as it came to a stop. Laura set her hands on her hips. “Damn it, you're being protective again. I can handle the press.”

She was right, of course, but old habits were hard to break. I opened the compartment door, and she stepped into the corridor. I flagged down our favorite porter, Willie. After tipping him to carry our suitcases and retrieve the rest of our luggage, I followed Laura toward the exit.

In the doorway, the heat of the June breeze swept over me and stirred Laura's hair.

“Mr. Donovan!” the reporters shouted at once. “Do you have a statement to make?”

A reporter in back called me by my first name. “What gives, Jake?”

Me? A statement?
What had I done to merit such attention? No one recognized me on the train, so why the third degree from these guys?

Questions drowned out questions. Laura laughed, stepped aside, and nudged me down the steps. I couldn't believe they weren't here to interview her.

Bulbs flashed as I helped Laura down. She appeared as surprised as I was about the interest in me.

The reporter who called me by my first name nudged his way to the front. With his suit's coat draped over one shoulder, he wore a long-sleeve white shirt, tweed vest, and a straw hat with a red-and-black silk headband. His familiar handlebar mustache made him appear as if he was a member of a barbershop quartet.

I shook Pat Lonigan's hand. “Pat, what's this all about?”

“You kidding? The New York papers, that business with the banks and Roosevelt. They say there'll be a congressional investigation into a plot against the government. Come on, Jake, give it to me straight. What role did you play in preserving our democracy?”

Even to an old pal, and especially to a reporter, I couldn't reveal what Laura and I and a few other friends did to stop the fascist plot.

The arrival of a Broadway actress about to star in her first Hollywood picture hadn't gone as I'd expected. Determined to stay in Laura's shadow, I raised both hands. “Fellas, I'm afraid for once the New York papers got things wrong.”

The reporters laughed.

I decided to appear like a pompous, self-absorbed writer. I'd rubbed shoulders with enough to perform a reasonable imitation. “One day I may write a book about the details, but for now, I'll let the authorities take all the credit. Now if you'll excuse us.”

Most of the reporters groaned, and photographers lowered their cameras. A reporter I didn't recognize crushed his cigarette under his shoe. “You're holding out for a book deal? What a jerk.”

While they dispersed, Pat set his hat on his head. “Maybe these other putzes swallowed your baloney, but I know you too well.”

I introduced him to Laura as he followed us toward the entrance to the main building with the Spanish architecture.

“Charmed.” Pat tipped his hat then walked beside me. “I heard you'd given up your detective career, but when your name popped up in the papers about these bankers, I knew you were back on the street.”

“Jake's detective days
are
over.” Laura slipped her arm in mine.

Pat gave her the once-over. “Jake, you always did have a flashy dame on your arm.”

Laura pulled me closer. “He's given up dames, too.”

We stopped outside the terminal, and Pat shook my hand. “See you around—when you're ready to spill the beans about New York.”

As he walked away, Laura groaned. “I don't think he likes me.”

“He never liked actors.”

“He picked the wrong city to work in.”

“Pat's a crime dog. There's plenty of that.”

I felt relief after he and the rest of the reporters left. Laura deserved the welcome, but a quiet arrival would be perfect for my plans for the evening.

Willie, pushing a cart of our luggage, called out, “Mr. Donovan, where can I send your bags?”

I opened the door for Laura. “Why don't you wait in the terminal, and I'll take care of this.”

When she went inside, I grabbed the bag with her engagement ring inside. “Can you send them to the Hollywood Hotel, Willie?”

“Consider it done, sir. May I say it's been a pleasure getting to know you both?”

“Likewise.” I handed him several bills. “Best of luck with the new baby.”

He tipped the cap of his blue uniform. “And best of luck making Miss Wilson Mrs. Donovan.”

“Thanks.” I patted the bag and waved as he pushed the cart toward the platform.

Inside I scanned the crowd and spotted Laura with a group of Hollywood types who stood out from everyone else. Two men in tailored suits stood with a stunning blonde I recognized as Laura's costar, the infamous Christine Brody.

The sex symbol's silver high-heeled shoes nearly matched her shimmering platinum-blond hair. A formfitting white silk dress over a tight chassis and a glistening diamond necklace made her even flashier in person than in the movies. Although the actress drew stares from men nearby, compared to Laura's sophistica
tion, she was a run-of-the-mill pinup girl. Naughty and bawdy? Christine Brody.

I also recognized Laura's other costar, one of Hollywood's leading men and no doubt Carville Studios's highest paid actor, Roland Harper. When I lived in L.A., we had a couple of conversations before he hit it big. While he appeared in a handful of silent movies, I knew him as a carhop at the Brown Derby, but I was sure he wouldn't remember me, or if he did, he'd pretend not to. If the gossip columns got it right, these days he refused to get into a car that didn't come with a driver.

It wasn't until I moved back to New York that Harper made the leap from silent movie obscurity to leading man in talking pictures. He snagged roles with his handsome looks and sophisticated air.

Travelers stopped and stared, and several pointed to the group while a photographer circled Harper and the two gorgeous actresses. He snapped photos from various angles, complimenting them after each one.

I wasn't certain how to handle the situation. Laura hadn't seen me, so I set the bag beside a newspaper stand, bought a
Times,
and pretended to read the front page.

The photographer posed the three stars together. A man directing the shoot, no doubt a Carville Studios bigwig, was a dapper fellow in a three-piece pin-striped suit, a red carnation in his lapel, and black-and-white Italian shoes. With a Dick Tracy jaw and eyes the color of the Atlantic, everything about him screamed rich playboy, like the ones I portrayed in my novels, the kind Blackie Doyle despised.

As the photographer rearranged the actors for another group photo, the studio big shot leered at Laura's backside.

I gripped the newspaper and nearly tore the page as I peered over the top. I disliked Mr. Big Shot more with each passing moment. I reminded myself, however, that over the years Laura had handled her share of lecherous producers and directors on Broadway. Besides, as we had discussed on the train, she didn't need me to take care of her.

The photographer finally finished taking pictures.

Laura scanned the station and beckoned with a wave. “Jake, over here.”

I reluctantly joined them as Mr. Big Shot was telling a racy story. I detested him even more. When he finished, everyone laughed. Everyone but me.

Laura introduced me to her costars and saved Mr. Big Shot for last. “Jake, this is Eric Carville…C
arville Studios.”

If possible, I had even less respect for him than before. His last name might be on the side of a studio building, but the twit wrote the substandard screenplay. I understood screenwriting basics, that was it, but I could do better than his melodrama.