ANOTHER FOR THE CHERMANS?

THREE

“Well, what should we do with her?” Ruby asked. “Start the car and close the garage door? Make it look like a suicide, you know.”

“Ruby if you understood how orange washes me out, you’d understand that prison is not an option. Tempting though it may be.”

“For heaven’s sake, you two. This garage is air-cooled. Turn on the air, open the car window and just leave her there. When she comes to she’ll barely remember a thing. She’s snookered!”

“Miss Margie, you so smart.”

We stood and watched as the door slowly descended.

I shouldn’t have taken her to Trader Vic’s. She’d already lifted two pitchers of my special Marys, had a magnum of domestic champagne, got herself all dolled-up (if you closed one eye and squinted out of the other, you could tell that she knew her way around a vanity). The Marquess was ready face Trader Vic’s, enroute to a round of shopping the stores she was still allowed in. I was given a list of places that would see her, only if they could run a secret tab, with Magnus picking up the bill. I was in charge of watching her every move, except in the dressing room, where a sales clerk stood close by, pretending to fawn. I was to keep her a minimum of 150 feet from any of Saks entrances. She’d also been taking some little blue tablets, and I don’t know what the hell they were, but she was as close to those dolls as a gal could get. If they weren’t kept so awfully close to her heart, I’d snag one.

The outfit today was nautical in spirit, circa 1967; sleeveless front zipper blouse (with brass triangle tag) in red and white vertical stripes, matching red bell bottoms and zippered red patent leather boots with a chunky heel. Faux pony-tail trailing from under a white picture brim hat with red trim. Her single bits of jewelry? A huge teal bracelet in Lucite on her left wrist, and the biggest diamond on her right finger. That was it. All the jewelry she had on. She looked like a chic Slav. I had to give her credit; she was doing her thing.

The handbag, however, was also red, and could have been going to market to trade potatoes for a pig. And she daintily carried a pair of short white gloves in the Lucite arm, so as not to cover the bijou. A mere prop. She never put them on, though she did blow her nose in one.

“I don’t now about you kids, but I need a drink!” exclaimed Marjorie, with Davis-like authority. We silently followed her into the kitchen. “You! Boy! Are you the one responsible for this dreadful state of intoxication her Majesty is in?”

“It ain’t his fault she drinks like she does,” Ruby interjected.

“Well! Answer me! Are you are you not responsible for that geriatric ingenue’s behavior? Did you pour her a drink or two?”

“Well,” I said, noose tightening at the neck. “Yes ma’am, I did.”

“Well, good, you can whip me one up! But use this.” (She handed me a huge hip flask.) “I can’t drink that crap. Ruby, what about you.”

“Ma’am, I really don’t drink this…..”

“Cut the Buffalo Shuffle, kiddo. I’ve seen you in your cups more than once. Why, I remember you at Tova’s last birthday party. God, that was a while ago.”

Ruby, without any real choice in the matter, wanted a Canadian Club and ginger, but I made her a Rob Roy (on the sweet side). She squealed with glee when glass and cherry arrived.

Marjorie and I both had martinis.

“A pitcher! Aren’t you a clever boy!” Cried Marjorie as she plucked a glass from the silver tray. Though her hands were ravaged by arthritis, her nails were impeccably done, in shiny red lacquer. “Perfect!” she declared. “As good as Harry’s Bar. Make the next one a Gibson. What did you say your name was, boy?”

“Jamie.”

“Good suffering Mother of Christ! That will never do.”

“I call him Saint Jamie.”

“How about James?”

“Too common. How many talkies have you seen with a butler named James? I shall call you….”

She looked me up and down.

“I think, hmmm. I have a dress maker over on Bundy. No, no. Definitely not. Roxbury!”
“You’ll be begging my pardon, Miss, but I prefer not to be called after a street, nor a tacky night club. How about Talmadge.”

“J’ adore! God those gals were the cat’s pyjamas. Ol’ Dutch could drink all three of us under the table.”

“Actually, I was thinking of the building on Wilshire.”

“That Norma. Prententious as hell, for a girl from the Bronx. But she married well and he built the apartment building to dwell in until some renovations had been done on the estate.” Marjorie downed the last of her drink. “Do fetch me an onion, would you Talmadge? I wonder who owns that building now.”

“Probably Donald Trump,” Ruby said, dryly.

“Touche, Miss Ruby.”

I was feeling perfectly lovely, in a Diary of a Mad Housewife way. Drinks kicking in. Doing just fine, thanks.

Marjorie Sherwood Forrest Wyatt was born on August 1, 1910 into a family whose wealth and political influence was well respected within the Circles That Matter. Her father, sole heir Hirsute Sherwood Forrest was a known drunkard, gad about, fond of rich food and Oysters Rockefeller.

Naturally, he gambled.

Marjorie’s mother, a former Zeigfeld Girl named Beatrix La Mont, was loving though absent. Frequently abroad, Beartrix (or Trixie to those closest to her), found herself embraced by café society. She danced with Royalty. She dined with thespians. Her hair was bright copper, she did a wicked imitation of Mary Pickford at parties.

“Mummy once told me that she thought Coco Chanel the nastiest bitch she’d ever met.” Marjorie sipped from the glass. “Absolutely reeked of cigarettes and garlic. Ghastly. She went to see her for a fitting. Miss Chanel had a cigarette dangling from her lips and kept barking orders like turn-left-stand-still-lift-the-arm. Mother always said she was jabbed with a pin purposely. Swore on her deathbed to never shop at Chanel. Word for word. She did sneak a reference to lesbianism in, however. #5 smells as cheap as it is, but works when mixed with vermouth.”
Ruby giggled, timidly. “I think I’m ready for another. You sure can make a drink St. Jamie.”

That’s St. Talmadge to you.

“She went to Mainbocher after that,” Marjorie continued after I returned with fortifications, “exclusively. The divorce was most unpleasant. The things they said in the papers! They tried to shield me from the brouhaha, but alas, this is the modern age.”

Of course, I knew the whole story. Trial Of The Century. Trixie’s naughty bedroom antics were fodder papers across the country. A maid testified. A yacht that was gifted upon Mrs. Sherwood Forrest was allowed as evidence. Heavily veiled, Beatrix sat calmly next to her lawyer as a parade of former suitors ascended to the witness stand. Aside from a stable boy, all were perfect gentlemen. They perceived Trixie an exotic. The Puritanical Americans would never understand.

Merde!

Tarnished and slightly bruised, Beatrix Sherwood Forrest set sail for Paris on the Ille de France, albeit poorer, but more enigmatic than ever. The trust fund payments were $4,000 per month, for life. Marjorie (away at boarding school) had a trust fund from her grandfather, Elias P. Sherwood Forrest to the tune of several million dollars. Hirsute was the executor to both trusts, and having a penchant for speculation, heavily invested the money in the booming stock market.

In 1926, a powerful man from Argyle Pictures was in the audience Miss Baxter’s Progressive Institute of Charm, to watch his daughter Mavis in that lighthearted musical romp Blossoms for Sally. The local press hailed the production a delight, and singled out Miss Marjorie Sherwood Forrest as a scene stealer. “Delicate in form, graceful in movement, Miss Sherwood Forrest gave a performance worthy of Duse. Do I hear the boards of Broadway calling?”

Well, no. Baby Duse had a speech impediment. The strange “suffering succotash” slur of Warner Brothers Cartoons. In Blossoms for Sally, Marjorie had largely paraded around in a gown of velvet, and collapsed dead early on. Her only line? “Tell Drake I love him.” Safely, no ssss sounds.

Royal Burke of Argyle pictures called Mrs. Sherwood Forrest in Paris, and asked permission to test her daughter on the screen. Trixie, seeing the obvious advantages of having a second income, agreed that a trip to New York would be acceptable.

“I was 17, a movie star, and I had everything I wanted. Trixie was on cloud nine. In my first role, I played opposite Clara Bow in For the Love of Lucretia. I was the wisecracking sidekick who perishes at the end. Some kind of social disease. I died brilliantly.”

Now, rechristened Raina Alcazar, the exotic young heiress to the Sherwood Forrest fortune, embarked on her greatest role, Salome. Shooting started at the beginning of April, 1927, and ended in May of 1928. Over budget by tens of thousands of dollars, with a cast of thousands, live tigers decorating the sets, Raina Alcazar was hailed as a rising star. She had It. But that was the silent version. As Sound Panic rocked Hollywood, the Argyle Suits decided to insert new scenes with sound, or add a track or two to the old ones. After all, Salome’s dance doesn’t need dialogue.
Marjorie’s impediment was evident onscreen. The microphone picked up each slur, and magnified it ten fold. Raina Alcazar, like so many others, was a has been, soon to be forgotten.
“I finally got a job as the stand in for that sanctimonious Dale Evans. That woman had a swear jar on the set, and wanted a quarter (which was a lot of money in those days) every time you used terse language.”

“What happened to your trusts? Trixie’s?”

“Lost it all in the crash. My trust amounted to about $50 a month, and mother’s was nearly decimated.” Marjorie sighed, “Poor poppy. He never had enough. His life was the epitome of excess. His heart was kind, though. Admittedly, he did have a selfish streak. I was so sorry when he died in that horrid prison. With murderers!”

Along the way, Mr. Jack Wyatt III came into Marjorie’s life. Jack Wyatt was a Texas oil man with a fascination for moving pictures. He spent much of his free time in Bungalow B at the Beverly Hills Hotel, ogling the starlets at the pool. There he is at Coconut Grove with Gene Teirney. Louella says that Wild Jack Wyatt is romancing Hedy Lamarr! Wildcat Jack and Hughes Best of Friends! Jack Wyatt had taken the coast by storm.

Marjorie was furious. There stood the star, holding out the “swear jar” simply because the word jackass fell from the Sherwood Forrest lips in an unguarded moment. Marjorie pulled $5.85 (“which was a lot of cuss words in those days”) out of her western blouse, thrust it in the can, and proceeded to use every filthy word she had ever heard, and, stomping on her cowboy hat repeatedly, exited, stage right.

In the shadows of Studio A, playboy Jack Wyatt III uttered, “That’s the woman I’m going to marry.”

FOUR

“Well at least she’s alive,” Ruby added, helpfully. The conversation had taken on a distinctly “three-gals-out-on-the-town-in-the-darkest-of-old-places-to-be-found (outside of the Frolic Room, and a really scary place on Western), drinking-vodka-gibsons-dissing-everyone-not-in-ear-shot-is-fair-game” tone. Edie Gourme sings plaintively (if not fervently) a ballad from the jukebox.

“If you wanna live to 149, I mean.”

We were sitting in the very back corner of the inner room at Liz and Dick’s table (their personalized brass plate above the booth read “MR AND MRS RICHARD BURTON.” The lighting illuminated Ruby’s hair, which was on loan from the Marquess’ wig collection.
“From her cousin Wanda’s Wig Warehouse in the garment district.” Marjorie snorted “This is why my Monsanto stocks soared.” Another swig. “I’ve not seen so much acrylic since the 1957 World’s Fair.”

The wig was one of many, in varying shades, trying to be authentic hues of blonde, brownette and red head. The room was dingy but immense. When Marjorie flicked the light, Ruby and I gasped.

“Well, anyway, Nana’s been fed.” Marjorie took too her drink momentarily. “What a ghastly diet.”

“Atkins?”

“No, Talmadge. The Swanson diet.

It took me a minute.

“Swanson, as in Gloria.”

“Clever boy.”

Gloria Swanson lived on strictly pre “macrobiotic” fare.

“Told Helen Hayes she was eating puss,” Marjorie said, pointing at the prime rib (with salad and bread: choice of potatoes: dressings made in house; $12:95). “I say, ‘who’s asking?’…….…….Cathy!! “ She made a wide circle above the table. A magical mystic. Cards or crystal ball. Your choice.

Cathy smiled and nodded. Her presentation was quelle fromage. She hated Marjorie, for whatever reason, and La Sherwood Forrest Wyatt was having no part of it.

They were, in short, civil.

Marjorie really hated Cathy. But she took it in stride. She was the widow Wyatt, after all. Cathy was not.

Marjorie treated Cathy like The Help. Courteous, yet cool.

People buzzed about us, chattering over the scratchy 45.

“Excuse me? Miss Birdsong?”

Ruby threw a flowing chiffon sleeve in the direction of the wide-eyed stranger and looked coyly from beneath a thatch of yellow hair. I think the style was called ‘Misty.’

“Yes this is Miss Birdsong. I am her personal assistant, Talmadge. May I be of service?.”

“Ummm, err, could I get Miss Birdsong’s autograph? My wife is a great fan.”

Marjorie pulled a felt marker from her purse, ancient eyes alight with mischief.

Ruby signed the menu, grandly handed it back, and smiled the most gracious frosty coral smile groaning “good night,” dismissively. And, molting pink ostrich feathers, handed the pen back to Marjorie, and went back to her steak. “I used to get that all the time,” she rasped.

“Marvelous performance Ruby, my dear!”

“Exquisite,” I said, astounded by Ruby’s aplomb.

“What the devil is a Birdsong,” Marjorie asked.

“Miss Margie, with all due respect, there’s no fool like an old fool,” said Ruby.

“She was a Supreme. Replaced Florence Ballard.”

“Of course. Saw them on the Sullivan Show.” She guffawed. “Whoever she was, they love her.”
As the word spread through the house, so did the empties on the table. We drank them, saluting each table as they sent rounds over.

“This is from Bob,” Cathy snarled. laying a single red rose on the white tablecloth.
Marjorie’s myopic eyes twinkled with merriment.

“Is my darling Bob still here?”

“Yeah, but he still remembers you as Miss Alcazar.”

Marjorie, flattered to be remembered by anyone in the shadow of Miss Ruby Birdsong’s brilliant glare, ignored Cathy and slid out of the banquette and, clutching the rose, strode mightily and surely through the dining room, up to the bar and planted a big wet one on the bartender. Now bear in mind that Raina Alcazar was well into her 80’s when she took this drunken jag, and she was wearing an incredibly delicate pair of strappy black step-ins with a heel so high a person could feign vertigo. Plus she was blind from cataracts and vermouth. But off she went, sprightly as a young girl, wrapped in a colorful Mexican shawl, her black peddle pushers fitting snugly across a boney butt, to greet this old friend who couldn’t see any better the she. Neither could I, come to think of it. And Ruby? Ruby is not nor ever has been one to take much to strong drink, and she sat in the booth with a wry grin, drink held aloft to her adoring public.

I staggered over to fetch Marjorie, just to see if she was OK.

I was wearing one of the Marquis’ Italian cut navy blazers with the family crest on the pocket. Gold buttons. I was stoned. I walked through the room, only bumping into one table, head held high.

“Talmadge, do meet my dear old pal, Bob.”

“Glad to meet you, kid.”

“Nice meeting you, sir.” I didn’t bother to mention the fact that there were several photos of me in the albums (marked by year) behind the bar, or that I knew this bartender quite well.

Bob poured three more. “On me. To old times.”

“To old times Bob dear.”

“Cheers.”

There was such talk of nostalgia, even I nearly wept. I loved the stories of Hollywood’s glory years, and this place was chock full of them. The days of the Coconut Grove. Jack Webb. Walter Winchell (“so sad in the end”). Even Lana Turner made a salacious cameo. Heaven, right here in tinsel town.

I was a sodden, yet still absorbent sponge.

Meanwhile, Miss Birdsong had decided to give a performance for her adoring public (whether or not she was asked is still unclear), and sauntered unaided to the jukebox like a lovely mauve cloud. It wasn’t until I heard the quarters drop in the machine, did I realize what was about to happen.

Alarmed, I stepped away.

Marjorie grabbed my arm. “This should be good.”

Ruby Birdsong outbelted Miss Gourme. She did a lascivious variation of that wretched little doggie in the window. Patti Page would be totally and completely appalled that that poodle could be sooooooooo how you say, libidinous? Patrons roared. Then, finally, after a few skiddly doo wop doobie doobies to Moon River, Miss Birdsong leaned against the jukebox, seductively slouched, then slithered down into the most appallingly unladylike heap on the sticky linoleum, and snored.