Hollywood Buzz (4 page)

“Why deliberately poke a hole in your ear?” Sam asked.

My eyes swung to Sam’s face. What a disappointment. He seemed genuinely interested.

The corners of Gunnar’s mouth turned up a little. “Some brainy someone figured out that equalization of air pressure occurs through the perforation. Without the pain and distraction of pressure on the eardrum—or, worse, a mid-air rupture—they’re able to concentrate more intently on what they’re doing during a dive.”

Part of the swagger associated with Stuka pilots was their ability to withstand the inevitable blackouts caused by the intense centrifugal pressure of their steep pullouts. I hadn’t heard about the deliberate eardrum piercings, but I wasn’t surprised.

“But now the ear is bad enough to keep me stateside,” he added. “On the bright side, I discovered I could transfer what I knew behind the camera to film editing and still do my part.”

“Gunnar’s developed a knack for splicing actual footage into studio-made training sequences, Pucci,” Sam said. “He’s absolutely the best when it comes to cutting deadly realism into what otherwise might be a mind-numbing piece. What he does grabs a soldier’s attention. Helps get him to do his job right, first time.”

“No room for second-guessing when it comes to air warfare,” Gunnar added, solemnly.

I nodded in agreement. But we’d veered off track. “Your intentions regarding Frankie’s crash clip? Can we get back to that?”

“We’re doing a short training piece to demonstrate a new foam that’s come out for extinguishing fires. We need to show what the foam can do and how to use the new equipment necessary to apply it. Preparing ground crews saves lives, too, you know.”

“Uh-huh.” I was being deliberately vague. The cause might be worthy, but I wasn’t convinced our WASP reputation, or Frankie’s, wouldn’t somehow suffer as a result of his creative efforts. Who could blame me after what I’d just witnessed on the screen?

The door swooshed open and the projectionist entered the theater to speak with Novara. He waited while Novara wrapped things up with Colonel Brody.

An awkward silence hung over our threesome.

“How ’bout I give you a tour of the cutting room?” Gunnar suggested finally. “You really should see for yourself how we’ll use the crash clip. I could show you a couple of other instructional pieces that could use its boost, too.”

Just what I was afraid of. Monitoring the additional ad hoc uses they’d find for the segment would be impossible. Still, why pass up a chance, no matter how slim, to influence how it would be used?

“That’d be swell. When?”

His reply had to wait.

“Watch your flank,” Sam whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

I turned as Novara, adjusting his cravat, swaggered up to me.

“May I?” he asked, stopping nearly toe-to-toe with me.

Not bothering to wait for my reply, he lifted my chin with his fingers, angling my face this way and that. “Porcelain skin, good cheekbones, nose…hmm, bump on the bridge.” I cringed under the spray of a surprise raspberry. “And, what pray tell, happened to the hair?”

I gave Novara’s hand a firm shove.

Sam, who must have been a diplomat in another life, jumped in with introductions. “Roland, say hello to Pucci Lewis. She’s here to fill in for Frankie Beall.”

Novara looked at my pilot’s wings. “Who?”

He knew, the phony. I fought to keep my voice and tone level, matter-of-fact. “Frankie Beall. The pilot who was flying the A-24 up there on the screen.” I clenched my teeth against tagging on: The
human being
in critical condition, you insensitive louse.

“Right. Well, the timing’s piss-poor. Clark Gable’s gonna be here in just two days to do the voice-over for an OCS recruiting film. I’ve got to have a rough cut ready. We haven’t even started shooting yet. Cochran be damned. That’s my priority. You’ll have to get in line.”

I thought fast. “There must be something I can be doing in the interim. You only got a few seconds of target towing in the can, right? What about reshooting the sequence?”

I swallowed hard. It was a desperate offer. I’d only towed target once. Afterwards, I’d vowed to dodge the duty if ever asked again. But if Novara had a new segment on target towing, he wouldn’t need to use the one he had—the one with Frankie’s accident—right?

Novara’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Hmm…maybe. Film could use a few more flying scenes.”

No kidding.

Novara’s follow-on thoughts snowballed. “Cochran said you’re a ferry pilot, that right?”

I gave a wary nod. He turned to Sam. “We haven’t shot the ferrying sequence yet, eh, Sam?”

Sam nodded. Novara glanced back to me. “Okey dokey then, Lewis. Talk to the boys out at March. Set up another target towing shoot. And while you’re at it, try to finagle one of their fancy fighters or bombers, would you?”

Before I could respond, he pulled a pocket watch from a trouser pocket. “Gotta dash. We’ll get a film crew out there once you’ve got everything locked up. Keep in touch.”

A small sigh of relief escaped my lips as he headed for the door. We hadn’t locked horns, he’d been receptive to refilming the target towing segment, and I’d been given some responsibility. Not a bad start for a rube!

Quick as my optimism blossomed, it withered.

At the door, Novara turned. Eyes narrowed, he shot me an even look. “The crash segment stays.”

Sam and I stood in silence for a moment, watching the heavy door inch shut.

During the time Sam and I were engaged with Novara, Gunnar had been locked in a private confab with Colonel Brody standing a few paces away.

“Might be useful for you to meet Brody,” Sam said softly. “Want to stay an extra minute or two?”

I nodded. The wait gave me a chance to observe the colonel more closely.

Lieutenant Colonel Derrick Brody had a wiry build, and thin, dark hair that was graying and receding. His disposition seemed to work off of Gunnar’s. While he talked, the colonel, as though animated by a force of nervous energy, sliced the air with his hands and his body shifted constantly. Gunnar on the other hand remained silent, hands crossed over his midriff, his head angled toward Brody, as though using the stoic exterior and the occasional nod to deflect the tension Brody threw off.

When we were at last being formally introduced and shaking hands, I noticed that Colonel Brody had self-manicured fingernails, chewed to the quick. Brody clasped his hands behind him almost before I’d let go.

“Your boss’ husband, Floyd Odlum, is a friend of mine. Invested in one of my pictures a while back.” He rose up and down on the balls of his feet a few times. “Got another one coming up I’d like him to consider.”

Before I could formulate a reply he’d unclasped his hands and begun edging toward the door. “Well, men,” he said, his eyes darting back and forth between Gunnar and Sam, “there’s work to be done. Sam, don’t forget we’re meeting with the OWI rep this afternoon, after lunch. Wilma Wallace. She’s got ideas for improving the script.” He stuck his index finger inside his shirt collar and whisked the back of his neck. “’Fraid you’ll be doing some tinkering afterwards.”

Sam’s top lip curled in a surly manner, but if he had a notion of objecting, he dropped it. He adjusted his glasses. “’Course I’ll be there. No problem.”

“Good.” Brody placed his hand on the door.

“I have some free time this afternoon,” I interjected hastily. “Miss Cochran, uhm, Mrs.
Odlum
, would be grateful, I think, if you’d let me attend your conference. I’ve got lots to learn and the experience, I’m sure, would be ideal.” I gave him an imploring look but expected the Odlum name had already worked its magic.

The colonel’s eyes met mine for the first time since we were introduced. “Sure. Why not?”

With a shove to the door, he made his exit. Gunnar, following in his wake, assured me he’d be in touch soon regarding my editing room tour. “The flower’s a nice touch,” he said smiling at me before the door could close.

Chapter Three

Sam left the theater with me.

“You were smooth in there with Brody,” he burbled.

Sam’s buoyancy surprised me. I looked up into his face. He was staring back at me with truly flattering appreciation. My face got warm under his gaze, and I couldn’t help smiling.

“Figured it was too good an opportunity to miss. And, if I didn’t invite myself, who would?”

Sam returned the smile. “Me.
If
I’d thought of it. But good for you. I like the way you asserted yourself. Just like Frankie—” He started to smile, but this time the effort seemed too great. His expression turned suddenly glum. So glum, I nearly reached over to pat his arm.

“Where you heading now?” Sam asked.

“Base orientation.” I grimaced.

“Ugh.” Sam chuckled. “Say, how ’bout I walk over with you?”

“I have a car, but it’s parked near Stage 5. Think it’d be quicker to hoof it?” The lot, I’d noticed, was more active than when we’d entered the rushes theater earlier.

“Definitely. Things tend to heat up this time of day.”

Sam wasn’t referring to the weather, though even by Los Angeles standards it was balmy for early November. Balmy enough for the oversized doors of a nearby Quonset building to be left wide open. An invisible buzz saw screamed, seasoning the air with pine. I looked around, orienting myself and trying to determine in which direction to head.

Sam noted my momentary confusion. “Seriously, I’d like to escort you. My office is near headquarters anyway.”

At that, hand at my elbow, he began steering me along a broad street dividing the sound stages. We strolled past the Shop Building, a sprawling garage-like structure with tall doors and walls of paned glass windows. A soldier carrying a faux section of brick wall rounded the corner. We ducked sideways to avoid becoming part of the set.

Sam’s eyes filled with concern. “You all right?”

I laughed and assured him I was. “Can’t help it, but I’m half-expecting that the next corridor we take we’ll see Laurel chasing Hardy with a cream pie.”

Sam laughed and began steering me again.

“I hear Ronald Reagan is base personnel officer.”

Sam nodded. “Uh-huh, but I don’t think you’ll meet the lieutenant. At least not today. Bumped into him leaving his office earlier this morning. Off to the recording studio.”

Sam chatted it up with Reagan? I tried to sound casual. “Another Recognition picture?”

I’d seen
Recognition of the Japanese Zero Fighter,
starring Reagan, a year ago. The film had been rushed into production because the Zero and the P-40 look so much alike—practically indistinguishable at 1,000 yards—that some of our boys in the air and on the ground were shooting down their own buddies. Up until then, I’d only been exposed to uninspiring nuts and bolts training shorts. But this had been like watching a big screen feature with Reagan playing a U.S. flier who nearly downs a colleague’s plane after misidentifying it.

“Nah, Reagan’s not being cast in instructional films any more. Base commander decided he’s too famous a face.”

“Too famous? But the movie was effective. No more reports of confusion after its release.”

Sam shrugged. “I’m just a lowly scribe. And for the duration, Reagan is Fort Roach Personnel. No cushy job. Post roster’s up to nearly a thousand men. He’s still called up to do the occasional voice-over though. Like this morning.”

An Army transport truck barreled toward us. Sam, gripping my elbow, herded me to one side. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have put up with a man nudging me this way and that. While some women considered the gesture gentlemanly, I thought it patronizing. But I let it go. Other matters were pressing in on me, like my initial meeting with Novara and the growing awareness that I was operating in an industry completely foreign to me.

The truck, an Army six-by-six, roared past, its warm slipstream washing over my face. I stared. The tarp closure was open in back and two soldiers sat opposite one another on side benches. Their uniforms were that nasty field-grey color we’d all come to despise—not khaki; on their heads, the distinctive coal-scuttle helmets. What was this? Two Nazi prisoners of war being transported to some desert prison camp?

Something fired them up. They stood—displaying more of their offensive German-issue outfits, complete with belts, daggers, and tall black boots. They shook knotted fists. Angry guttural curses spewed from their ugly twisted mouths.

Shocked, I turned to Sam. He was laughing. My gaze whipped back to the truck. It was nearly out of sight, but I could see the Nazis laughing too.

“Couple of writer pals,” Sam said. “Real cut-ups. Must have been recruited as extras over at MGM. A top-secret project’s being shot on a special set over there.”

“Oh.” Feeling more than ever like Dorothy in the Land of Oz, I sighed. Did I really have what it took to turn around Novara and his perverted ideas of what we did?

Sam picked up our pace as we vectored between clapboard buildings, many with running balconies. Sam explained that the buildings had once been dressing rooms or offices in the studio’s previous life as Hal Roach Studios. Since conversion to the First Motion Picture Unit, they mostly functioned as barracks.

Sam pointed to the Writers’ Building, a tin-roof, plywood and tar-paper GI structure where he had his office. Seconds later, we paused before a two-story brick building.

“Film Editing,” he said. “Gunnar’s territory.”

A dark green Buick Roadmaster rolled to a stop across the street in front of the Music Building. The convertible top was down. The driver wore a red scarf over her dark hair. I knew immediately by the dark eyebrows and red lips who she was.

I blurted, “Judy Garland?”

“Yup. That’s her husband David Rose, the composer. Miss Garland always drops him off around this time on her way to MGM. They live off post, near George Montgomery and his wife Dinah Shore. Keep alert. Miss Shore also does the chauffeur thing now and then.”

He apologized with a wink. “I could bend your ear until it was blue, talking about the stars’ comings and goings around here. Maybe you’d like to know something unusual about the military side of FMPU?”

I would have preferred the star talk, but his boyish grin was infectious. “What?”

“Regulations require that an air base be under the command of a flying officer. Our CO is Paul Mantz, the former stunt pilot. He’s the only flying officer on the entire base.”

I chuckled. Miss C hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d called this a loose military operation.
Miss C. My dilemma with Novara.
How was I going to convince him to change our film? I decided to hit up Sam for advice.

“Those rushes with the WASP cadets…they looked like posy prima donnas on leave from their college sororities. Any tips on getting Novara to present our program in a more professional light?”

“Not really,” Sam said. “It’s his film. But don’t sweat it too much. You’ve seen the worst. We’ve got some footage of cadets marching in review on the parade grounds, and there are more classroom scenes, I think.”

Pretty dull stuff. I was getting more discouraged by the moment. “How about the segment of Frankie crashing? Any ideas on getting him to drop it?”

“Waste of time, even trying. I’ve worked with him, trust me. When he says something stays, it stays; he says it goes, it goes. Your boss Cochran’s request is a good example. She wanted a scene of cadets learning instrument flying in those tiny box-like compartments with wings that simulate flying conditions…” Sam paused, reaching for the right word.

“Link trainers,” I filled in absently.

“Yeah, link trainers. Novara rejected the request, flat out.”

The nerve! Novara wouldn’t listen to Miss C’s advice, yet she expected me to get him to take mine. The sudden burst of anger, brought on by my boss’ brazen expectations, lit a fire in my belly. Scattered vague thoughts on how I might get Novara to follow my lead began chasing through my mind. Sam’s voice drew me back before they could gel.

“Novara has a casting couch reputation,” Sam warned next, as if it weren’t obvious. “And he treats women like merchandise. But you handled him just right. Put up the hands-off sign, made sure he read it, straightaway.”

Sam stopped in his tracks and faced me, his mouth fixed in a half-smile. “What he said about your looks, don’t take it personally. Directors and studios don’t seem to get it. To them, ‘different’ means inferior. In my opinion, in pictures,
anytime
, it’s more original—and more appealing—not to be perfect.”

I accepted the observation as the compliment I thought it was meant to be. “Why, thank you, Sam.”

We’d reached the administration building with its weathered colonial façade. Before he left to go back to his office, Sam gave me directions to MGM where the meeting with Brody and the OWI representative was scheduled for that afternoon. He also said it might facilitate security matters if he accompanied me. Delighted with his willingness to help, I agreed to pick him up outside the MGM entrance.

***

On a short break during orientation, I tried the hospital and was put through to Dr. Farr.

The doctor cleared his throat. “I wish I had more positive news. Miss Beall’s condition is grave, ah, very grave indeed. She has a broken wrist, cuts and contusions—ah, those injuries are healing as expected. The coma is our main concern. That, and the internal injuries which may be numerous—and potentially serious. A visit from you will be good…” He cleared his throat again. “Ah, good for Miss Beall. It’s beneficial for comatose patients to have someone whose voice they recognize talking to them. In some cases, it’s enough to bring them out.” Dr. Farr hesitated. “We continue to hope for the best, but there’s been no response since she was transported here.”

“I have an appointment coming up that’s carved in stone. But I’ll be there this afternoon.” It was my turn to hesitate. “Ah…what’s her prognosis, long-term?”

“The next couple of days are critical. While it’s not unusual for a patient to be comatose for as long as a week after a severe head injury”—there was a pause—“the chances of emerging diminish significantly after that.”

My stomach tightened. “My gosh,” I whispered. “Frankie might not emerge…” I couldn’t seem to bring myself to try pinning him down further. I swallowed. “Shouldn’t someone, er, related be with her?”

“Miss Lewis,” Dr. Farr said firmly. “I’m telling you this because you’re needed. It seems she has no immediate family.”

“No family?”

“There is an uncle, her father’s younger brother. Efforts are underway to locate him. I’m afraid, however, getting him here will be impossible. He’s overseas, serving in the Pacific.”

Poor Frankie. All alone. In a coma. No family. “I’ll be there this afternoon.”

***

True to his word, Sam was waiting for me. He climbed in the car and a trail of tangy aftershave—Old Spice?—followed.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “
Reams
of paperwork to cut through before they’d let me escape. And no assistance from Reagan. You were right.”

Sam looked over. Errant locks of fine dark hair, though damp and lined with the marks of a fresh combing, flopped forward onto his brow. His eyes, mellow pools of brown, took me in. “Worth the wait,” he said, softly.

Blood rushed to my cheeks and I swallowed hard, at a loss for a comeback. Then, as if my drippy schoolgirl blush and sudden muteness weren’t embarrassing enough, my foot hit the accelerator with a firmer press than was necessary. Sam’s head snapped back with a jerk.

“We’ve actually got plenty of time,” he said, once he’d recovered from the abrupt start. “Meeting’s been delayed an hour. OWI rep’s running late.” He turned to me. “Bumped into my buddies doing the extra work. They introduced me to the set supervisor. We’re cleared to take a quick look. Wanna do it?”

“A top-secret filming? Sure. What’s it called?”

“Project 1699. I’ll brief you in more detail on the set.”

I braked at the guardhouse in front of the arched stucco entrance. There was no gate. The guard, acknowledging Sam with a nod, motioned us through. We passed under the METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER sign with its signature roaring lion. I felt tiny prickles of excitement dance across my shoulders as the reality of where we were took hold.

Fort Roach and MGM might be only a few blocks apart, but there was a world of difference in their appearances. Fort Roach was a bare-bones operation with tired-looking, low-lying, clapboard buildings. Personnel roaming the grounds were predominantly male, mostly in uniform. Driving into the MGM lot was like entering a bustling Technicolor metropolis. Modern stucco buildings, many newly coated in yellow paint, lined both sides of the street. Civilian men and women from all stations of studio life, clad in everything from coveralls to shimmering gowns, meandered freely along the length of the route.

I gawked openly as we inched along. Near Stage 8, I spotted a small cluster of men in AAF uniforms. “Ah-ha,” I said. “I’m no longer in Oz.”

“Ah-ha, but you are. Those ‘soldiers’ are actors.”

I slowed the Packard to a crawl, squinting to get a better look.

“They’re working on a picture about a bomber pilot who gets killed on a failed reconnaissance mission,” Sam continued. “He dies heroically, but then comes back to earth as a guardian angel to watch over a rookie pilot.”

“Th-Th-That’s Spencer Tracy in the leather jacket…” I sputtered. “Van Johnson’s next to him!”

“Uh-huh. Film’s called
A Guy Named Joe
. Tracy is the guy who gets killed, Johnson is the pilot in training. Irene Dunne plays Tracy’s bereaved girlfriend. She falls for Johnson, eventually. It’s a—a nice love story.” Sam gave me a sidelong glance, smiling when my eyes met his. “OWI likes the flick ’cause it leaves the audience with a consoling note they can carry into real life—the dead hero lives on, in memory, in heaven.”

At Stage 2, I parked the Packard. The truck that had been carrying the ersatz German soldiers sat unoccupied nearby. Cleared by the sergeant at the door, we entered a dim cavernous space. In the near distance, tall portable lights, scattered around the set, illuminated a castle and a crew of khaki-clad soldiers operating cameras and sound equipment. One man on a low stepladder held a long boom-mike pointed in the general direction of a path leading to the castle entrance. Of course, the castle was only a façade, but from a distance it looked real.