The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish (22 page)

Making Pictures

D
oyle
was given a few days with his mother to discuss the move to California. If she agreed, he’d pack up the apartment and fly out with her by week’s end.

Meanwhile, Floyd and Mary Mabel traveled with Hearst to Los Angeles. Hearst’s friend, Marion Davies, greeted them at the airport.

“So I’m going to be you,” she said, giving Mary Mabel a big hug. She insisted that the young woman stay in her place at Warner Brothers. “It’s sitting empty while I’m at San Simeon, and there’s a four-room trailer next door for your manager.”

Hearst had arranged a small luncheon to introduce Floyd and Mary Mabel to the Misters Warner and Berkeley. It was held at his beach house in Santa Monica. He’d wanted a relaxed get-together with Marion and her dachshunds, but Warner hijacked the agenda. As soon they’d settled into their deck chairs and the waiters had served the appetizers — shrimps, avocado and mango slices — he flashed a serious set of teeth. “Great project, W.R. Only one problem. Who’s gonna play
the girl?”

“That would be Marion,” Hearst said tightly, tossing a shrimp to one of the dogs.

Warner gave Mary Mabel a look. “You a school kid, angel cakes?”

“Till recently.”

“A virgin?”

“Of course!”

“So, no offense, Marion, but like I said, we got a problem.”

Hearst’s face went blotchy.

“Come on, Pops,” Marion said. “Jack’s pulling your leg.”

“Is that right, Jack? Are you pulling my leg?”

“Depends which one.”

Marion laughed. Hearst didn’t. He banged the table so hard the silverware clattered. “Marion’s cast!”

“Okay, okay.” Warner rolled his eyes. “And who do you want for the dead kid?”

Hearst collected himself. “I want Mayer to loan us Mickey Rooney. Or do you think
he’s
geriatric, too?”

“Not if he’s playing opposite Marion. Just kidding. Rooney’s a swell kid, swell. Providing you don’t mind having your chorus girls knocked up. By the time that friggin’ midget’s through puberty there won’t be a virgin north of La Jolla. Except, of course, for Marion.”

Hearst yanked the tablecloth off the table sending salads, glasses and cutlery flying. “This party is over!”

Mary Mabel and Floyd froze in horror. To the rest it was business as usual.

“Don’t be such a Droopy Drawers,” Marion teased.

“I think you’ve had too much ginger ale, my dear,” Hearst said, his eyes drilling holes through Warner.

Marion winked at the waiters cowering in the doorway. “We need a tidy-up out here.” She rose and whispered something in Hearst’s ear. It did the trick.

“Forgive my rudeness,” he apologized. “We’ll have our sandwiches indoors.”

They relocated to the dining room, except for the dogs who stayed to help clean up the food. The conversation switched from casting to content.

Warner got to the point. “They tell me your mom’s dead.”

“Yes,” Mary Mabel said.

“This I like. No, this I love. We can make her into an angel.”

Mary Mabel was speechless. Hearst was appalled. But talk of an angel got Busby very excited. He made a big frame with his hands. “I got it! The Miracle Maid sees visions, right? Well guess what! Her visions are production numbers! Picture it. She prays to the sound of a heavenly choir. Dissolve to a rotating staircase of clouds filled with tap-dancing angels! Chorus girls with harps and wings! Lots of mirrors. Dry ice. Strings. The camera pans up and up and up. Bingo, we’re at the Pearly Gates! Fifty, sixty choir boys flying around in silk pajamas and —”

“Busby, what the fuck are you on?” demanded Warner.

“Cloud nine!”

“Cloud moolah-moolah. Those angels of yours better have big tits.”

Busby spun around to Hearst. “It’ll make Marion the talk of the town! At the climax of her vision, she sails up to Heaven on a star. The Pearly Gates swing open, she waltzes in, and there’s God!”

“Who’s God?”

“Paul Muni. His head, anyway. It’s enormous. It beams light.” Busby gave a sly shrug. “Who am I kidding? Jack’s right. It’s too expensive.”

“How much?” Hearst’s eyes had an odd light.

“A hundred big ones.”

“No problem,” Hearst announced grandly. “For Marion, the works.”

“Great,” said Warner. “You pay for heaven, I’ll spring for the avalanche.”

“What avalanche?” Mary Mabel asked.

“The one where the kid gets killed.”

“But he died in an electrical storm at a tent revival.”

“Yeah. An electrical storm at a tent revival in the Rockies. The storm sets off an avalanche. The kid gets electrocuted and carried off in the slide. Your prayers lead to where he’s buried. Voila! His little fried frozen body gets dug up by a bunch of Indians, French fur traders, and some schmuck Mountie on a horse. You lay on hands, the kid resurrects, happy ending, roll credits.”

“That’s not how it happened.”

“It is now. This is the pictures, baby doll. You want reality, hang out at the morgue.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Warner, but if you want my co-operation I’d appreciate some respect.”

“Respect? Who the hell do you think you are? You’re not even the writer.”

“Jack, Miss McTavish, why don’t we work out the details later?” Hearst intervened.

“Sure thing,” Warner said. “Like the little detail about who’s payin’ the friggin’ bills.” He whirled around and stuck a finger in Mary Mabel’s face. “You better learn to play nice or you’ll be doing miracles up in heaven with your mama.” He glanced at his watch. “Two o’clock. Gotta scram. I have a private meeting with Miss Crawford, if you know what I mean.” As he left, he called over his shoulder, “Gimmee a shout, W.R. Marion’s cast, but have a think about de Havilland. Or maybe Deanna Durbin.” He was gone before Hearst’s plate hit the door.

There was an awkward silence. Busby took his leave.

“I’m sorry,” Hearst fumed to Mary Mabel. “Jack is Jack. I’ll deal with him. In the meantime, please know I want you to be happy. There’ll be no more talk about an avalanche.”

“Or trappers, or Mounties or tap-dancing angels. I don’t mean to be difficult. I just don’t want to be humiliated.”

“None of us do,” Marion said softly. She turned to Hearst. “You know, Pops, Jack may be right about me being wrong for the part. No, really. I’m not a spring chicken anymore.”

“Hush, hush.” Hearst took her hand and stroked it tenderly. “You will never grow old, Marion. Never. I forbid it.”

T
he next morning, the storm had blown over. Hearst called the ministry to say he’d had an inspiration. He thought there should be a part in the film for a heroic young reporter, a certain “K.O. Doyle,” to be played by Clark Gable. He hoped Mary Mabel would approve.

“Approve? You’ve made my day!”

“I have a second present for you,” he enthused. “I’ve arranged for a private bus to take you and Mr. Cruickshank on a tour of the city.”

I
t was a wonderful tour, although Mary Mabel felt odd travelling in a big bus alone with a tour guide and driver, while a waiter served her beverages and hot snacks and a masseur rubbed her neck and feet. Floyd had begged off. He said he was tired, but he smelled of hangover.

Mary Mabel returned to her dressing-room-cum-mansion in the late afternoon. To her surprise, a stretch limousine was parked in front of Floyd’s trailer. A chauffeur was standing on the curb in full livery.

Floyd sauntered out of his trailer. He had a big smile on his face. “Hey kid,” he whispered, “come see what the cat dragged home.”

Mary Mabel peeked inside. There at the table sat Miss Bentwhistle.

A
Modest Proposal

T
he
Baroness Bentwhistle of Bentwhistle had been leading the life of Riley. In a few short months she had become a fixture in the society columns of the Los Angeles dailies. Dr. Silver, Lord High Secretary and Steward of the Calendar,
pro tem
, took his responsibilities seriously, reserving her Ladyship’s time for the most exclusive of exclusive functions. Securing the Baroness, and consequent media coverage of one’s event, required considerable wooing.

The success of the Baroness had been immediate. Everyone had heard about her meetings with the banks. Preliminary auditions had been held in the sitting room of her presidential suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where the Baroness sat on a throne flanked by her Coat of Arms and Family Tree from the Heralds’ College of Westminster. Institutions sending less than their presidents were refused a hearing. Those whose presidents lacked personal pedigrees were summarily dismissed, for Miss Bentwhistle knew that the very rich were too polite to ask each other personal questions, and, in her situation, the fewer questions the better.

Local media gave full play to her selection: Wells Fargo. There were front-page photographs of the Baroness and her strongbox of jewels surrounded by the bank’s board of directors.

Wells Fargo had nearly lost out. C.E.O. Mr. John C. Wilcox III had asked that it be allowed to appraise the jewels. “What are you suggesting, young man?” the Baroness demanded of the sixty-year-old Mr. Wilcox. “If the Baron were with us, God rest his soul, I should not be forced to suffer such impertinence.”

Mr. Wilcox assured her that his request was standard practice.

The Baroness was shocked. “To think that your world is so steeped in chicanery and vice that even nobility cannot be trusted. What a sad comment on democracy. Be that as it may, while the humiliation of its clients may be standard practice at Wells Fargo, such treatment is as foreign to me as baked beans. Trust, Mr. Wilcox, is central to my relationships. It has been prized by my ancestors for over nine hundred years. Good day.”

Mr. Wilcox apologized profusely. In her case the bank would make an exception.

She refused to hear of it. “Do you honestly believe contrition can repair this breech?”

The Baroness forgave him when Mr. Wilcox amended his apology to include the complimentary use of a limousine and driver.

Following publication of the Bentwhistle/Wells Fargo entente, rumours of the jewels’ value spiralled upwards, from ten million, to fifteen, to twenty. When asked to confirm the speculation, both parties smiled discreetly. “No comment.” The stock of the jewels shot up again.

A
ll the while, Dr. Silver was an angel. The Baroness had only intended to stay at his home for a week. However, he insisted on a second and a third. Eventually, she and Mistress Dolly took up permanent residence, venturing forth as valued weekend guests at the tony getaways of the city’s elite.

Dr. Silver came along for the ride. Now that he was consort to a baroness, he was much more than a flamboyant social butterfly; he was a player. In order to keep his prize catch, he catered to her every need. He made her a new set of dentures with her name inscribed in gold on the inside of her right molars. He even arranged a milk bath. “There is nothing for the complexion like soaking in fresh milk,” the Baroness had enthused. She’d been drunk at the time. Confronted by a room-temperature tub of the stuff, she was nearly sick. She soaked for ten minutes, then insisted that the milk be rebottled and sent to a downtown soup kitchen as an act of charity. That afternoon she had to stay indoors; the flies wouldn’t keep off her.

Despite a few such misfires, life
chez
Silver was Shangri-La; a parade of occasions that offered special delight to Miss Pigeon. As a Baptist, she loved being scandalized. In fact she made a point of it. “God disapproves of dancing,” she told Miss Bentwhistle at one particular dinner dance, standing in Dr. Silver’s foyer hanging coats.

“It’s not dancing, Dolly,” the Baroness replied. “It’s choreography.”

The Mistress of the Wardrobe sniffed. “I also suspect that our host is ‘artistic.’ Dancing will do that to a man.”

“Heavenly days, my dear,” said Miss Bentwhistle, “Dr. Silver’s not artistic. Just sophisticated.”

T
he day Mary Mabel arrived in Los Angeles, the Baroness was in her housecoat enjoying a blueberry muffin. Dolly read her the announcement in the papers. The Baroness thought she was having a heart attack. It turned out to be gas.

The glory of her disguise had been that a baroness was simultaneously important and inconsequential. A star in local society, a mere extra in national life. In other words, someone who could make a splash without fear of getting wet, providing she didn’t swallow a truckload of pills or run off with a busboy.

Mary Mabel, however, had the connections and motive to blow her cover. Miss Bentwhistle considered hiding. Where? For how long? No matter the town, big fish swim in the same bowl. And it wasn’t as if the name “Bentwhistle” wouldn’t ring bells. Oh, if only she’d been born the Baroness Jones.

The Baroness called Dr. Meredith Whitehead for a house call. Dr. Whitehead was a distinguished heart specialist. To be more specific, he was an unemployed actor who’d once played the role of a distinguished heart specialist. Socialites didn’t care; he was better than the real thing. He had a winning bedside manner, a keen desire to get to the bottom of things, and a stethoscope that wouldn’t quit. The moment he walked in a room, female patients opened their mouths and said “Ah.”

Dr. Wilson’s consultation put the Baroness in a jolly mood. His acting career was proof that disaster is simply another word for opportunity. In that light, Mary Mabel’s arrival might actually be a cause for celebration. Her “eureka” moment happened as Dr. Wilson poked about in search of her prostate. She hadn’t the heart to tell him she didn’t have one: Actors are so fragile, a criticism can ruin their performance; so instead she screamed encouragement. “Oh, God! You’re almost there! Yes! Yes! A little more! Oh! Ah! Eureka! EUREKA!!!”

Years of small-town intrigue had taught Miss Bentwhistle that the surest route to security is to turn one’s enemies into dependents. Her “eureka” was a plan to dominate Mary Mabel and enrich her own finances in the bargain.

Millions in presumed collateral had enabled the Baroness to enjoy the generosity of the city’s elite. Her cash flow, however, was non-existent. Holy Redemption Ministries had the opposite problem: cash flow, but no collateral. In different ways, the Baroness and the ministry were each dependent on the goodwill of the gullible. Why not marry their strengths and eliminate their weaknesses?

Miss Bentwhistle recalled that Floyd had been an ally with respect to her Academy gala. Dr. Silver placed a call. Happily, Mary Mabel was sightseeing; Floyd was home and eager to talk.

F
loyd recognized the former headmistress the moment she stepped from her limousine. He was more amused than surprised; merchants in imagination have a talent for turning up in the unlikeliest places. He offered the Baroness a drink and congratulated her on the tragedies leading to her inheritance. “So,” he said as they clinked glasses, “what’s on your mind?”

“I want to make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

“I’m all ears.”

The Baroness inclined her head. “There’s a little radio station just outside the Hollywood Hills. WKRN. It broadcasts country music, weather reports, stockyard prices, and local obituaries. Understandably, the owners have been trying to unload it for years. It could be yours for a million.”

“What would I want with a money pit?”

“A money pit? You mean a gold mine! Sister Mary Mabel knows how to fill a collection plate. Imagine if that collection plate was passed throughout the greater Los Angeles area. Sister will star in a range of new programs. Breakfast sermonettes, lunchtime prayers for the sick, and on-air supper calls from the healed. The station will also feature hourly pitches for Sister’s Charity of the Week.”

Floyd’s mouth watered. “One problem. I don’t have a million in seed money.”

“But I do.” The Baroness beamed. “Wells Fargo will loan the money. A small portion of my jewels will serve as collateral. The repayment of principal and interest will be your responsibility, said costs and other expenditures to be deducted from your donations. You’ll have fun doing the books.” They shared a smile. “Incidentally,” she added, “as silent partner, I shall receive 50 percent of the gross.”

“The net.”

“If you insist. Providing we use my accountant.”

Floyd licked his chops. A 50/50 split. Not bad. In theory, he had the added cost of Doyle’s 15 percent, the payoff for the Metrotone newsreel. In practice, he hadn’t paid the kid a cent, and wasn’t about to start. The reporter had asked for payments every six months, but events had outpaced expectations; Hearst had handed him a syndicated column and cash for his mother. If Doyle tried to play hardball now, Floyd would rat him out as a two-bit extortionist.

So … Holy Redemption Ministries would enjoy its full 50 percent of the pie. And what a pie it promised to be. As the Good Book said: “To them that have shall be given.” Say what one might, the Lord was no Communist.

Floyd raised his glass. “Here’s to the deal.”

“You men are always in a hurry,” the Baroness purred. “WKRN is only the beginning. The promotional tool to launch the deal of the century!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dear friend,” — she placed her hand on her bosom — “I refer to the greatest sensation to hit Los Angeles since the quake. The Heavenly Dwellings!” Miss Bentwhistle proceeded to sketch her vision on the back of a napkin. “The Heavenly Dwellings will be a complex of apartment buildings extending from a central Prayer Tower, a.k.a., the WKRN transmitter. Purchasers may buy permanent residence, or a week of recreational access per year.”

As with the radio station, Wells Fargo would loan the money, the Bentwhistle jewels serving as collateral, and the ministry would repay principal and interest. The wrinkle? The ministry and the Baroness would hold joint title on the complex in trust for their purchasers, the Heavenly Dwellers.

“The faithful will be attracted by their access to Sister Mary Mabel,” the Baroness enthused. “Our little star will take her radio microphone outside at noon each day for a live laying-on of hands at the Prayer Tower. Now there’s a show worth a listen!”

The Dwellings would also be marketed to spiritually minded organizations. Churches could buy apartments as retreats for their ministers, deacons, and parishioners. National service groups could underwrite whole blocks in exchange for promotional considerations broadcast on Sister’s Charity of the Week.

Best of all, units would be sold for less than market value, even though 60 percent of all payments would be skimmed by the ministry and Baroness “in consideration of professional services rendered.” This financing would be possible thanks to the miracle of ever-expanding markets. As the Baroness explained it, down payments on apartment two would help to build apartment one; down payments on apartments three and four would help to build apartment two; and so forth.

“Sounds like a Ponzi scheme,” said Floyd.

The Baroness brushed the air with her hand. “Capitalism is a Ponzi scheme. Boom and bust, boom and bust. Has the Depression taught you nothing?”

“Yeah. The bust part. What happens when we go belly up?”

“Don’t be absurd. We’re not selling a South Seas Bubble. We’re selling L.A. real estate. Location, location, location. And our location will be next to God’s heart. Not to mention a hop, skip, and a jump to the ocean. Besides, Sister will attract the hopelessly infirm. God willing, they’ll drop dead before they hit the beach, leaving us their deposits and a mention in their wills.”

“What if they all survive?”

“In that unfortunate event, we make the Dwellings our permanent Charity of the Week. I can see the billboards. ‘Suffer the little children,’ saith the Lord. Support a Heavenly Dwelling for the sad little ragamuffins of skid row.’ Or, if you prefer, ‘Pity the sick and dying. Give them a Heavenly Dwelling till Jesus calls them home.’ As a bonus incentive, we’ll promise a lobby display of donors’ names engraved on marble scrolls headed
The Heavenly Angels
. Depending on the size of their contributions, we’ll list them as Archangels, Cherubs, or Members of the Choir.’”

Floyd grinned. “Who’d have thought a Baroness could be so crafty.”

“Nothing to it,” Miss Bentwhistle demurred. “After all, I’ve run a girls’ school.”

O
utside, Hearst’s private bus drove up. Mary Mabel had returned from sightseeing. Cruickshank went out to greet her.

Miss Bentwhistle gritted her teeth. She’d won over the producer, but Mary Mabel would be a harder sell. As the girl approached the trailer, she prepared to swallow her pride. Miss Bentwhistle hated eating crow. However, eating crow was better than eating dirt.