August 20th, 1932 - A rail car just outside of Los Angeles, California
"C'm on, Maple, we can make it!"
"Scotty, I can't run any faster than this. I ain't the train, ya know!"
"Would you rather go and face Cribby and those papers of his? Grab my hand!" I threw my suitcase in the car and took hold of his hand. He'd already leaped onto the rail car. I clutched his big paw for dear life and climbed into the moving car.
"Sheeze," I muttered, "we shoulda gone lookin' for parts as stunt people, Scott," I told him. "I thought we were a goner." I took a look around the car as I fanned myself. It was a plain, old-fashioned wooden box. The walls were splintered in several places. Almost all the space on the floor was taken by packages of various shapes and sizes. Only the old trains came by at this time of night. I collapsed onto a packing crate and Scott settled on a sturdy cardboard box.
"That was a close one," Scott commented, as if we hadn't just barely made it on the train. "Another two minutes, and we might not have been able to make it on." He stripped off his jacket and socks and was now taking off his shoes. It was stifling hot in the car. I'd lost my hat during our wild dash for the station and the sweat on my face made my mascara run. I slipped out of my shoes and leaned against the crate.
"I can't believe those two jerks actually did that to me!" Scott suddenly burst out. He turned to me, the anger plain on his face. "I thought we had a deal! It was in ink!"
"Ya shoulda read the fine print, Scotty," I told him. "I didn't like Sperry and McGurk from the moment I laid eyes on them. Even you have more scruples than they do."
Scott shot her a look. "Thanks a lot, Maple," he said sarcastically. "That really lifted my spirits."
"Well, if you woke up at two o'clock in the morning in order to avoid facing a jail sentence, would you be in a good mood?"
That quieted him down. It was his idea to go to Hollywood in the first place, but I did agree to go with him as his partner in some big deal that would "revolutionize the fuel industry", according to Scott. The only thing it did was nearly get us tossed in the big house...
April 30th, 1932 -The Hollywood Angel, Hollywood, California
We stood together in the back of the Hollywood Angel, a low-rent burlesque theater on the fringes of the Motion Picture Capital of the World. The place was so full of smoke that you could barely see the dancers on stage and you wouldn't have been able to see their costumes if you could find your way through the haze. We had to ask directions twice in order to find the "secret" room where the Angel's owners did their business.
"Scott, I have a really bad feeling about this," I muttered as a man tried to squeeze my fanny. I managed to jump away from the wandering hand and stayed close to Scott, who was trying not to hit any of the guys who made eyes at me. Most of the customers were male with a level of breeding and brains just slightly above the apes. No, never mind, that would be insulting apes. These low-lifes would scare Frankenstein back to death.
Scott took my hand. "Don't be nervous, Holly. We're just coming here to sign the papers. We'll all be millionaires by next month!"
"That's what you said last year," I hissed. "We've been here for almost two years and all I've seen is the inside of crummy burlesque joints and speakeasies. If this deal is so revel-lotion-ary, why did it take them so long to contact us?"
"Holly, I did my best to promote that act of yours, honest. I thought those trained woodpeckers of yours were great!"
"I wish I didn't have to sell them. I was getting kinda attached to the little buggers, but I needed the money and the landlady wasn't exactly thrilled with my keeping pets, even if they were my bread and honey."
"Bread and butter."
"Yeah, that too." I shrugged. "Well, now I've gotta think up a new act." I shot him a look. "And quit trying to change the subject. We were talking about this oil deal."
"H2O Gasoline," Scott corrected me.
A giant interrupted us. He towered over both of us and made six of Scott. His big fist was the size of Scott's head, and his belly hung out about seven inches over his worn black pants. His face, head, and body were covered with coarse black hair. He wore a sweat-stained uniform - the joint was hotter than a Mae West stage show - and a smile that showed off teeth the color of the palm trees outside. I thought I saw his lips move. "You Sherwood?"
Scott gulped and held out his hand. "Uh, yeah, I'm Scott Sherwood. This is Holly Wood, my associate."
"Bosses say get you. Not lady. Lady stay here."
I grimaced. Scott tightened his grip on my hand. "Either the lady comes with me, or we leave." He glowered at us. Some dame on the stage began belting out "I Got Rhythm". She put it over with more gusto than talent. The giant gestured at us. "Sherwood and lady come."
"Hey Scotty," I whispered, "didn't he appear with Johnny Weismuller in 'Tarzan the Ape Man'?" "Well, he ain't Clark Gable, I'll tell you that," Scott joked.
We followed the man/gorilla through a beaded fringe door that lead into a hallway. The monster stopped in front of the wall at the end of the hallway. "This bosses room. You go in there. I stand here."
"A man of many words," Scott murmured, as the man/gorilla knocked on the wall which, to my surprise, creaked open. We walked into what looked like an office. Two men sat at the desks, which were filled with papers and pens and pencils and a typewriter that had about six keys missing. Both men sported cheap suits and ties and slick smiles. They looked like Laurel and Hardy - one was short and almost as big as the gorilla outside, the other was tall and slim - but I wouldn't have trusted them with a contract for Pete the Wonder Pup, much less a new gasoline formula. Something about all this smelled, and I didn't mean the stale cigarette smoke from the main room.
Scott's eyes gleamed and his smile widened. I hadn't seem him this happy since I first met him eight years ago at my papa's old vaudeville theater in Brooklyn. The taller of the two men shook both our hands. "I'm Charlie McGurk," he said in a high voice, "and this is my partner, Newton Sperry."
Newton grinned, showing one gold tooth and one crooked one. "You must be Scott Sherwood and his little woodpecker woman Holly."
"I frowned. "How didja know about my act?"
"We caught it last month but didn't get a chance to come backstage to say hello," sneered McGurk. I didn't like the way he looked at me. I wasn't even wearing a scanty outfit. In fact, I sported a relatively clean and decent suit that Scott snagged from one of his many "friends". "You and those undersized parakeets were something else." Something told me that he hadn't been looking at my woodpeckers.
Scott must not have liked the he they looked at me, either, because he insisted that we get along to the contract. Sperry picked up a yellowed piece of paper.
"All ya have to do is sign here, folks, and you'll be official partners in the business event of the century! This is the deal of a lifetime, Sherwood. This stuff is wonderful!"
I looked at the cup of dirty brown liquid on the table. "If that's it, it looks more like water mixed with dirt to me. Or the water I get from the tap in my apartment."
Scott went to inspect it, but McGurk grabbed it before he could pick it up. "I just want to make sure..."
"Would you doubt us, two innocent little saloon owners? Would we lie to you?"
Scott hesitated, but after several more minutes of Sperry and McGurk's smooth talk, he signed the document and so did I. Even so, I still felt funny about the whole thing. I felt even funnier when McGurk offered us jobs in their "esteemed est-tableish-mint", as he called it.
"We could use a body...uh, a talent like Miss Wood's in our show," he claimed. "We'd even find something for you, Sherwood."
August 19th, 1932 - Backstage at the Hollywood Angel
I didn't mean to overhear McGurk's conversation about Scott and me. We were waiting to hear more news about the H2O Formula. Scott already had several interested buyers, and I managed to chat up some of the regulars who worked in the oil fields. Scott was out at the bar, serving the guys drinks. McGurk and Sperry gave him a job as a bartender and me a stripping gig. It wasn't anywhere near some of the prettier clubs in Hollywood, but it was better than nothing. Or so I thought.
I'd just come off the stage from my big fan number. Scott clapped louder than anybody did, as usual. We created a new act just for my culpabilities. The fan and what costume I wore was made out of fake maple leaves. I dyed my hair back to red. There were too many blondes in the chorus of the Hollywood Angel and I wanted to stand out. I liked the leaves so much that I decided to call myself Maple. I'd gotten tired of bird jokes. LaMarsh was Scott's idea. He said it sounded classy.
I ran off the stage and into the dressing room with the other "Hollywood Angels", as McGurk called them, who made up the chorus line and the other acts. The room was barely big enough for my leaf fan, much less all eleven of us girls. It was as old as the rest of the place, with cracked, once-whitewashed walls and a ceiling fan overhead that gave off no cool air. The girls were chattering like a barrel of monkeys.
I reached for my costume for the next act, which was a dance number with all the girls. Well, sort of a dance number. Most of the girls weren't wonderful dancers, or wonderful anything, for that matter. "Well, if it isn't the gasoline girl," snickered Ursula Bates, a chesty dame who's faded platinum hair was already pinned up and curled under the sequined top hat. "Where's all that money you were gonna make after you sold that new formula?"
"Yeah," added Candida, a diminutive brunette. "You said that you'd be outta here and in Beverly Hills in a matter of days. It's been what, five months now? I don't see no fancy cars and diamonds yet."
"Scotty and the fellas are still getting buyers," I explained as I replenished my make up and adjusted my top hat.
"Yeah, right, and I'm Greta Garbo," said June Allmay, a tiny creature with tawny hair and a big mouth. "Believe me, sweetie, I've seen it before. Somebody's gonna doublecross somebody someday. From the way you talked, that H2O Gasoline stuff sounds like a buncha hooey."
"It might be real," said Marsha, another platinum blonde who couldn't have been more than fourteen, though she claimed to be eighteen. "I met Mr. Sherwood at the bar a few times. He seemed nice."
"That won't mean that he'll tell the truth, though," Ursula reminded me. "I flirted with him a couple of times myself. He's as much of a con man as Sperry and McGurk, but he has more heart. I've known the kind. He'll break your heart, but he won't leave you high and dry."
"Ten minutes, girls!" called the stage manager. I couldn't wait anymore. I had to talk to Sperry and McGurk. I went out to the hallway and over to the secret door. Scott was already there. He shrugged. "I got tired of waiting for something to happen. There was a lull at the bar, so I decided to talk to Sperry and McGurk and find out how they're part of the racket's been doing." I started to knock, but I heard voices and I decided to listen instead.
"Oh, yeah, we found out who's been peddling that phony H2O Gasoline around town, Mr. Menlow," Sperry said in a real innocent voice. "We hired him and his partner a few months ago. She's one of our burlesque broads and he works behind the bar." He sighed. "You just can't find good help these days."
"The man's name is Sherwood, Scott Sherwood," McGurk added. "The dame used to be Holly Wood, but now she's Maple LaMarsh. They came up to us about two years ago about this ridiculous fuel scheme. We turned them down flat, of course, but they came here from Chicago and insisted that we go along with it. He kept pushing that silly fuel on us. We knew all along it was only thick mud and water."
"Yeah, Sherwood held us at gunpoint and told us that if we didn't go along with it, we'd be deader than John Gilbert's career after the talkies came in," Sperry added. I clenched my teeth and Scott clenched his fists.
"I already have the papers that state the things you told me," Mr. Menlow said. "I just need to find them and to have you two, er, gentlemen sign them."
We gave each other frightened looks. "We gotta get out of here, Scott. That guy they're talking to is Cribby Menlow. He's the most persistent process server in the universe. He'll keep hounding us until we're both caught like hounds in a pound!"
He nodded. "Meet me at the California-Oregon Line Railway Station on the edge of LA by one o'clock. I have a buddy who's the engineer on a canned food train. I could talk him into taking us to Tacoma with him."
"Five minutes, Miss LaMarsh!" the stage manager called.
I shook my head and handed him my cane and sequined top hat. "Tell the bosses I'm giving them two week's notice. I quit." I left him spluttering and went back into the dressing room to change.
August 20th, 1932 - California-Oregon Line Railway Station Outside of Los Angeles, California
I didn't mean to be late to the meeting. It took me a while to pack up everything, and then I simply overslept. It was twelve thirty before my clock rang and I managed to get out of bed and out the door. I hadn't meant to fall asleep, but I was tired after our big discovery. And, of course, my taxi hit traffic. LA is the only city in the United States where you'll hit traffic at one in the morning.
The train was just pulling out of the station when I arrived. To my delight, Scott was still waiting for me. He grabbed my hand. "If we hurry, we can climb into that open box car. Now run!"
Two Hours Later - A rail car on it's way to Tacoma, Washington
"Maple?" Something was shaking me. I must have fallen asleep. I groaned and opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was Scott's arm and hand. The rumpled sleeve was rolled to the elbow. "I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier. I'm just mad about being doublecrossed. I should have expected it."
"I'm sorry, Scott. I was tired earlier, I guess. I hadn't expected the doublecross, either."
Scott held a can of peas in his other hand. "How 'bout some breakfast? We should be at Tacoma in a few hours." He started to open the can. "How do you like your peas?"
I smiled. "Eatable." I watched as he plopped two portions onto plates. I wasn't going to ask where the tableware came from. "Scott," I asked quietly, "why didn't you leave me when I was late for the train? We could have both gotten caught."
"Aw, Mapes, I couldn't leave you," Scott said. "You're like a kid sister to me. You're practically the best friend I have right now." He handed me a fork and looked at his watch. "Oh, would you look at the time? Let's get off the mushy stuff and on the mushy peas."
I got rhythm
I got music
I got my man
Who could ask for anything more?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
November 1st, 1940 - The Crimson Follies, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
"One, two, three, kick! One, two, three, kick! Come on, girls. The men want to see your legs, not your skirts. Once more from the top!" We all groaned. Richard Baxter was the director, choreographer, and owner of the Crimson Follies, a dime-store burlesque theater in downtown Pittsburgh. Baxter was actually proud of the place and of the fact that he'd slept with all of his chorus girls…except for me. I made it known on the first day that I wasn't going to be his toy. I'd done that enough. To my surprise, he seemed to respect that. I guess it was because I was the best singer at the Follies, and we both knew it. The last singer he had could barely carry a tune. We made a deal as part of my contract - I sang torch songs at least once a show and he kept his hands off. He claimed to prefer brunettes anyway, which was true enough. He was known for leading a different brown-haired beauty around town each week.
"Maple LaMarsh, telephone call!" exclaimed Andy Warner, the stage manager. I left the line for a moment and grabbed the phone from Andy. He leaned casually against the wall. We dated on and off, but Andy wasn't the most brilliant guy in Pittsburgh. He regarded himself as a romantic Romeo type, but it was hard to take a guy who looked like a grown-up Mickey Rooney seriously in the love department. He was kind of sweet, though, and he didn't paw me like some of my other dates. "Say, Maple, that new movie with Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant is playing down the street at the Rialto, 'The Philadelphia Story', I think it's called. Wanna go see it after the show?" he asked enthusiastically.
I ignored Andy for the moment. "Hi, Maple," said a familiar voice.
"Scotty!" I exclaimed. "What're you doing in Pittsburgh?" I hadn't seen him in more than four years, since he announced that he bought a schooner and planned to sail around the world. He sent me some letters since them, telling me of his adventures in Europe and of the sinking of his beloved boat.
"Running a radio station," Scott said.
I thought my jaw was gonna hit the floor. Andy looked at me funny. "You, running a whole station? How'd that happen?"
"It's a long story, Mapes," Scott told me. "How's the Follies?"
I rolled my eyes. "I'm thinking of quitting. Baxter just cut our wages again. He cuts our salaries one more time and we won't have a salary. The only reason half of the chorus girls get hired is because they're Baxter's latest mistress."
"Good, because we're holding auditions for a back-up organist, and I think you'd be perfect for the job. It'll be like old times at the Royale. You'll love it. The writer's a sweetheart, the receptionist is funny as heck, and the leading man and the diva have at least one loud but witty argument a day. It's not a big place, but it's not burlesque, either."
I frowned. Andy leaned closer to the phone. He liked to think that I was his "little woman" and was very protective of me. "Scotty, I haven't played the organ in years."
"Aw Mapes, it's not too hard. Just imagine that you're playing the music for your dad's skits again. As I recall, you were the best organ player in your family."
I blushed. "Papa always did call me his 'little musician'. I think he wanted me to be a concert pianist, or something like that. He wasn't thrilled the last time I wrote him and told him about my working at the Follies. He called it a waste of my talent."
"The last call is at eight o'clock. You'd have enough time to run over here and then run over to the Follies and give Baxter two weeks' notice." He gave me the address and said good-bye. I heard a gentle voice call him about sponsors as he hung up the phone.
Andy's big eyes got even bigger and much sadder. "You're quitting, Maple?"
I gulped. This was a big step for me. I didn't want to work burlesque anymore. I was tired of whistles, catcalls, and guys who thought I was some easy streetwalker. I'd had my fill of Baxter barking at us and of dimwitted child-women who got by on their looks and the way they could manipulate Baxter and anyone else. I wanted out of this business, and this offer sounded like what I had in mind. I wanted to be respected for something other than my body and my wise mouth.
Andy's persistent little voice managed to squeak through the haze in my mind. "Hey, Maple, didja hear me? I asked you if you wanted to go out tonight and see 'The Philadelphia Story'?"
"Huh? Oh," I mumbled, shaking my head to clear it, "no, Andy. I'm busy tonight. Maybe some other time." Minerva, Baxter's latest para-mor, who needed him to help her find her feather fan, distracted Andy. I went to find Baxter.
He was in his office, talking to another brunette. She looked just like all the others - small, sweet, dainty, and manipulative. She seductively flung a brown curl over her shoulder, but ruined the effect by giggling. "Could you really get me a job here, Dickie?" she breathed. "I'd appreciate it." She put her arms around his big, broad shoulders. I cleared my throat.
"Excuse me, Mr. Baxter, but I needa talk to ya." They both turned, embarrassed, to me. Baxter let the girl go.
"You go talk to Andy, Olivia. He'll show you your sheet music and cues." Olivia giggled again and he gave her a swipe on the behind as she left.
I gave him a look. "Baxter, I'm quitting. I'm tired of seeing my wages go down and my working hours go up."
Baxter grinned. "Good, because I'm firing you."
That threw me for a loop. "What?"
"I just found myself a singer who can really sing, if you know what I mean," Baxter snickered. "Olivia has the voice, the body, and the guts to make it here. She's replacing you in the solo songs."
I knew what he meant. I suspected that this was coming for a while now. Baxter didn't tolerate women who wouldn't give themselves to him. He didn't know natural talent from natural wood, which was what most of the Crimson Follies' chorus line seemed to be made out of. "I just got an offer from a radio station on Isabella Street."
Baxter snorted. "What, WENN? I know that place. It's small as heck and the money is almost as bad as here. They're an independent station that runs a couple of dramas and westerns a day on a skeleton cast and a ghost of a budget. You'll last maybe two days at the most."
"Well, at least on radio, I'll get some respect for the parts of me that people can hear, not for the parts that they can see," were the last words I ever spoke to Richard Baxter before I went to change into my street clothes.
A Few Hours Later, Radio Station WENN, Pittsburgh
I met Scott in the hallway of the tiny radio station after my audition. He grinned. "So, how did it go?"
I enveloped him in a huge hug. "I got the job! They really like what I can do!"
"I knew they would," said Scott with a smile. "What did I tell you? Piece of cake!" He put his arm around my shoulder. "You're really going to like it here, Mapes. I think you already met Betty, the writer and my assistant, of sorts. She's really something special."
I inspected my friend. He was practically glowing. "Scotty, are you interested in Betty? I've seen that happy look when you've been interested in other women."
Scott looked at his watch, as usual. "Oh, would you look at the time? C'm on, Mapes, I'm treating you to a wonderful dinner of the Buttery's best meatloaf and mashed potatoes." We happily walked off to the nearby diner together.
May 13th, 1941 - Studio A, WENN, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
We wrapped up "Two Can Live as Cheaply as One" with the usual "tune in tomorrow" and I gathered my scripts and turned to Scott. "Scotty, don't avoid me this time. Why did you come back to the station?"
He sighed. "I guess I can't hide anything from you, can I?"
"You love Betty, don't you?"
He slowly nodded. "But she's in love with a ghost."
"Victor Comstock?" He nodded again.
"It's not just that, though it's mostly that. Maple, I've never had a home before. Not a real one, anyway. Every time I found a place that felt like home, I ran from it. I ran from Dad, I ran from Aunt Agatha, I ran from you, I ran from college, I ran from every woman I ever loved. I didn't think I wanted the responsibility or the possibility of getting hurt. Well," he shrugged, "I decided that I was tired of running from people and from responsibility. I love it here. I belong here."
I smiled. "So do I, Scott." I put my hand on his shoulder. "Scott, as one of your closest friends, let me give you some advice. Give Betty some time to sort her feelings out, especially after this whole embezzlement mess. Sometimes people have a hard time deciding what's right for them."
Scott kissed me on you forehead. "Thanks, Mapes. You'll always be my best friend, no matter what happens."
I punched him lightly in the arm. "Don't get all mushy on me, now. Come on, I think Betty could use our help. I saw Pruitt's secretary in the hallway and she looked jumpier than a frog in the middle of Isabella Street. Something's going on." We walked out together. Scott went to the office to talk to Betty and I went to get a drink. Maybe he changed more than I thought...
I heard the words "Piece of cake" through the office door and then shook my head. Maybe not.
Cause it's Friendship
Just a perfect blendship
When other friendships will be forget
Ours will still be it.
The End
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